Travelling on the small islands is difficult, but also valuable. A jeep takes us to the highway three kilometres away. After a while, a jeepney comes along and takes us to San Augustin in the north of Tablas, two hours away. The crossing to Romblon with the big bangka is another tough one. Even a Filipina gets seasick – the equivalent of a fish drowning in the water.

I remember my first trip across the open sea on the bangka. I was really scared after all the horror stories I’d heard. Now fatalism sets in, coupled with the knowledge that I can swim further than most of the other passengers. Or rather, that I can swim at all. My head rocks calmly in the swell. (more…)

Before five in the morning, Chris and I set off on our bikes to the harbour on the other side of Carabao. Breakfast and a shower are cancelled and I don’t sleep for more than four hours. One clear advantage: Sir Tanduhay’s hangover doesn’t catch up with me at this travelling speed. I cycle over wet mountains in the dark. It has been raining heavily for most of the night.

The big bangka leaves over an hour late because the tide is very low today. The first of the three departing bangkas promptly hits the reef – fortunately without any consequences. The swell is very rough at over two metres. Plastic tarpaulins are lowered. They do a makeshift job of keeping the water out, but the swell also increases the chances of seasickness. (more…)

Carabao seems to exist solely to supply Boracay. Carabao is the island of the serfs. Everything is brought to Boracay. Labour and live cows on bangkas. Mangoes, pineapples, bananas, rice. You can’t even buy fish on this island full of fishermen. What remains here is a big nothing. Nothing is much better than Boracay.

There is hardly anything to eat, but what little there is tastes better. Even if you don’t have a choice: it’s still much freer. Carabao is conspicuously deserted during the day. But after their ten-hour shifts on Boracay, the residents are happy to have visitors. The internet is on its last legs, but the few minutes are put to good use. (more…)

I’m almost happy when it rains for a day. I can hardly keep up with the work, the kiting is good but also quite flat and always followed by exhausting nights. We go to at least three good concerts a day. A drink in the bars on White Beach often costs more than a full bottle of rum plus ice and a cup in the expensive supermarket. I no longer count the money, otherwise I would have to shout all the time.

What I miss most are adventures and stories. Everything here is 100% planned, reliable and runs with the grey monotony of clockwork. The best story I’ve heard in a week on Boracay is the one about the Ukrainian woman whose flatmate locks her out of her room two nights in a row. There are better stories. (more…)

I go up to the northern tip of Boracay for a day with a Ukrainian woman. Puka Beach is described as a deserted beach. Compared to White Beach, the 200 people there are hardly noticeable. The strong shorebreak sweeps away quite a few bathers. I set up the kite, but the wind is taking a break today. Me too. I realise that in the last seven weeks I’ve only just lain on the beach once.

In the evening, David and Miri arrive from Bohol via Cebu. We celebrate his birthday properly with a barbecue and a few gin and tonics in a bar with good live music. Boracay eats away at my stamina. I’m tired all the time and quickly feel tired when I go out in the evening. Again today. Somehow I always just survive in places like this. I live in other places. (more…)

I’m glad to have good people around me at the turn of the year. New Year’s Eve on Boracay is an absolute madhouse. Being alone in the desert is okay, but in places like this it’s deadly. We meet up in a small restaurant. My thanks for the company is a large bottle of rum. It’s quickly empty and the beach is packed. For three and a half kilometres, tens of thousands of people celebrate to a gigantic fireworks display.

Filipinos only live in the now. Except on New Year’s Eve. The fireworks start long before midnight, and the crowds make that necessary. Night is day, smoking is forbidden on the beach and the sound is the same everywhere. We walk back and forth for a long time until we arrive at a good spot. Everything is good and nothing is perfect. Then I open my ears and listen to a story. (more…)

Boracay is one of the holiest places in the world for kiters. On my Hajj, I fasted, prayed, cursed, suffered and sinned. When I created the Google map for the trip two months ago, I called it “The Grand Philippines Kite Odyssey”. I only now realise how accurate that was. 5000 km on bike, trike, jeepney, bus, ferry, on foot and on a plane: I could hardly kite.

There were many trials and adventures. The rest was lugging 40kg of luggage through burning sun, rain and dirt as well as numerous rip-off manoeuvres with weird comments (dead people cost extra). Advantage: much better workout than kiting itself. Disadvantage: lack of joie de vivre. My pilgrimage is now over. I arrive in the kitesurfing mecca of Boracay. (more…)

At six o’clock in the morning, I set off on the first rolling freezer north to Roxas, 200 kilometres away. According to the forecast, there might just be enough wind for a bit of kitesurfing on Baybay Beach. The small, expensive room at the Baia Beach Resort is right on the beach. I am the only guest. The kitchen offers nothing but ham toast and rusty Coke bottles.

The wind is blowing at just ten knots. I set up anyway and do a couple of horny downwind runs in the sideonshore wind. I don’t think anyone has kited here yet. The kids come running in from far and wide. There’s not enough wind. But the kids are having a blast while they simulate kiting with the bar, board and my seat harness over their entire upper bodies. (more…)

At night, I fall into a kind of religious delusion. First I feel a tingling all over my body, then itching, then burning. I switch on the light. Stigmata on my arms and legs? Wow! The higher power is signalling to me. It says: “Move on!”. In this case, it’s a whole colony of ants that have been ordered to take over my bed by biting me numerous times.

Around one o’clock, I analyse the implications of the sign while smoking – and then demand a new room. What I get is a new bed sheet, two broom wipers across the room and the advice to move to the other bed. Philippine ants are quite localised. Apparently correct. The other bed remains mine until the morning. (more…)

For days I have been trying to get permission and a guide from the national park authorities to climb the 2500 metre high volcano Mount Canlaon in northern Negros. Harold directs me to Marissa directs me to Jim directs me to Julie and Angelo. 20 text messages don’t get me one step further. I leave without permission. On the bus, a resident of the last town before the volcano tells me: I have to go to the capital Bacolod first.

The Ceres bus there is overcrowded. A six-hour journey with a 15 cm lack of seat width and 10 cm less legroom is exhausting. I stand up and hit my head hard on the sharp end of the too-low handrail. A laceration. I spend the last 100 kilometres half hanging out of the door on the stairs – at least upright. (more…)

Filipinos love cockfighting. The English term “cock fight” is even more appropriate because it really is a comparison of cocks. Whoever stands the longest wins, and even Viagra doesn’t help the opponent. Today I’m unexpectedly supposed to see my first cock fight. I share a habal-habal with my mate Vanisi from Bologna and drive to the remote Sugar Beach.

The journey to Sugar Beach is not easy. 15 kilometres of road from Sipalay, at the end of the dirt track you take a paddle boat across a tidal river, go through a village and onto the coastal cliffs to the next bay. Sugar Beach is said to be one of the most beautiful beaches in the Philippines. And it unexpectedly looks like one. (more…)

You don’t choose the right time, just like you don’t choose the right place. Combining the two simply means luck. In the afternoon, tables are set up on the beach. Children come, more and more. In the evening, two huge suckling pigs are brought in a solemn procession on a spit. I think I admired one of them the day before yesterday during the jungle trekking.

The table is set. The sea is roaring, candles are burning, the palm trees are twinkling. Thunderstorms flash far out to sea. The village youth dance the Macarena and the musicians play incredibly weird music. The whole village has gathered for the feast, over 200 people. All related to the 35 employees of the Artistic Diving Resort. Christmas in the Philippines. (more…)

Every major island in the Philippines is divided into two halves, Oriental and Occidental. This gives the inhabitants the feeling of living on their own continent. When travelling on the large islands by motorbike, it often feels even bigger.

In Sipalay’s largest shop, they hold out a box of cornflakes to me when I ask for muesli bars for the hike. The only ATM doesn’t take my card and I have hardly any money left. Motorbikes are hard to come by and more expensive than anywhere else. Only after some time as a passenger on a pedal bike do I find a cheap motorbike to hire. (more…)

The Artistic Diving Resort six kilometres south of Sipalay is a real hit. There is a cheap backpacker room, but everything else is quite upmarket. Pool bar with a view of the sea – and really good music. Coconut palms and a white beach. A small village nearby. There are only holidaymakers here, and only couples. Travelling alone is difficult.

I have to see something, I’m just not a pool potato. On the beach to the south. A huge staircase leads up into the nothingness of an urbanisation that has never been started. After three kilometres, the path ends. A small path leads into the jungle. I think about it for a moment: no shirt, no water, midday heat. Then I set off. Bad decision. (more…)

Filipinos like to drink rum. Lots of rum. So they need a lot of sugar cane. Much of it is grown in the coastal plains north of Dumaguete on Negros. I hire a Cross machine and head north. Endless green seas of sugar cane. Ancient lorries loaded five metres high with sugar cane drive him to the distilleries. On the empty return journey, they look like upturned whale skeletons on wheels.

The whole thing reminds me brutally of the northern Dominican Republic near Puerto Plata. The Philippinos have even copied the narrow-gauge railway. The road is halfway in order after Typhoon Washi. But some bridges are missing and there are some completely overloaded detours. Muddy mattresses hang outside the houses to dry. (more…)

Apo Island is one of the best diving areas in the Philippines. Giant manta rays, large sea turtles, thriving reefs. I have to go, of course. Harolds Mansion organises relatively cheap diving trips itself. After a four-day typhoon break, there are nine divers with me today. I already know half of them from other places. Harolds Mansion is a real backpacker centre.

We arrive after an hour’s crossing with a boom alarm on the bow. The first dive is down to 28 metres. Thick coral forests, steep walls, 1000 fish. The turtles and giant manta rays seem to have been blown away by the typhoon. I dive with two Pekingese. Both breathe much better than I do. I hate being back on top after 30 minutes with 120 bar residual pressure. Today will be different. (more…)

36 hours after the storm, the ferries are running again – and are well booked. Giant islands of driftwood float in the sea. A thick tree trunk invites our old ferry to sink a round of ships. The ferry wins. We get across to Negros, Dumaguete, for just 20% of the Ocean Jet fare. The ship that capsized outside the harbour was not here when we passed through four days ago. Even the Phlippinos are staring like lemmings.

Harold’s Mansion Hostel, in the centre of the university town of Dumaguete. Finally a place with travellers again. They all have stories and are looking for adventure. No tourists. The rooms are clean and cheap, breakfast is free and the WiFi blazes through the air at a breathtaking 100kB/s by Philippine standards. I am happy. (more…)

Nothing is on time in the Philippines. Not even tropical storms of the second-highest category. In the evening, I sit frustrated on the beach with a large glass of rum and look out at the raging sea. It’s pitch dark and the tropical storm with winds of well over 30 knots has finally arrived. The ice cubes are melting in my glass.

The night is hard. The storm gets even stronger. It tears violently at the anchoring of the roof of my hut. The power goes out. Leaves, twigs and coconuts hail down on the roof. “Fear Island” still haunts my mind. This would be the perfect weather for a little mass murder. In the morning, contrary to expectations, I’m still alive thanks to the torch, but I’ve hardly slept at all. (more…)

In the last 38 days, I have been on 23 islands covering an area of 1200 by 800 kilometres. I’ve been waiting just as long for wind, currently on the sleepy island of Siquijor. Red and blue starfish, nice cheap accommodation right on the beach, nice people. A tropical storm is approaching, forecast 9 Beaufort. All ferry traffic is cancelled for at least 100 km. It brings downpours, but hardly any wind.

This really is the toughest test of all time. I have a lot of patience. I rarely complain about the fact that I’ve dragged 22kg of my 40kg of luggage with me for nothing. I keep myself busy: with work, people, motorbikes, diving. Just travelling. But that’s enough now. Even all my work is done because there’s never any wind. That’s more than I have to put up with. (more…)