Sibuyan Babble Skull

Sibuiyan is an island completely off the beaten track. In the middle of the Visayas, but difficult to reach. It has always been like this. Cut off from all other parts of the Philippines during the last ice age, there are many endemic species here today. Some are hard to find, others are unmissable. Today I am writing about one of these life forms: the Sibuyan Soder-Schedl.

He talks rubbish all day long, without exception. We met the first representative of this species the day before in the Romblon Deli. We didn’t ask for his opinion. He told us anyway. Of course, we were completely wrong with ours. On the ferry the next morning, he makes it quite clear again. I mime seasickness to escape the torrent of his words.

Delighted with our successful self-rescue, we drive to our first accommodation in Magdivan full of new vigour. There’s another Soder-Schedl squatting there, a real beauty. Through the thicket of a houseplant, I spot him sitting at the feeding trough before he can launch his characteristic acoustic rubbish attack. Max still has something to learn. Never ask Soder-Schedl anything, and certainly never answer him!

Too late! Soder-Schedl immediately thinks he’s now integrated into something like mutually stimulating communication. Far from it! Why? Let me try a few snippets of “conversation”. Soder-Schedl: “There are a lot of failed existences from Germany walking around here on Sibuyan. They just think ‘I’ll be fine’, but it’s not that simple. I’ve done my homework and brought enough money with me. I don’t like the other Germans.”. Me: “Ah yes?”.

Soder-Schädel: “Cigarettes are much cheaper here than at home.” I light my second fag in silence. Soder-Schädel: “You can’t compare the streets here with the Germans.”. Me: “I see…”. He: “Climbing Mount Guinting-Guinting is very strenuous. But you can see five other islands from the summit. [20 more valuable tips] But I’ve never been up there myself.” Really funny, this Soder-Schedl. What happens when you pull his ear?

Sibuyan Soder-Schedl’s biggest handicap, however, is his complete inability to interpret any body language or conspicuously terse answers. Worse still: their absence goads him like the bull on the bandillo’s neck. Soder-Schedl: “I stay away from fiestas, because people like to get beaten to death here. Even if you run over a child while drunk, the police prefer not to do anything. They say ‘Look, the family is poor and has lots of children’. Then you just pay 900 euros and that’s that.”

Soder-Schedl was a mercenary in Rhodesia? I don’t care! I’ll shut him up here and now with my bare hands! Who would ever have thought that acoustic rubbish could be so contaminating? Save the planet! I stalk Sibuyan Soder-Schedl from behind, the wind of his worthless words is favourable, my hands are already almost on his mouth … when the phone of the Filipino at the table rings. Our bikes are here. Let’s get out of here!

On open roads without acoustic rubbish, you can breathe much more freely despite the dust. From an acoustic point of view, our bikes are more like flaks on wheels – but no matter how loud they rattle, they purr wonderfully quietly after Sibuyan Soder’s skull. We ride into the jungle before Mount Guinting-Guinting. At the end of the extremely slippery clay track is a visitor centre built with subsidies in 1999. It is completely empty and falling into disrepair. The last entry in the visitors’ book is from 2008.

One of the most difficult mountain tours in the Philippines starts from here. Mount Guinting-Guinting is just 2050 metres high – but the climb is tough. We follow the path for just two kilometres through the jungle. It has been raining for days. Mud, puddles, rivers, lianas, jungle, steam, straddle-jump-step over mud channels. After an hour, I’ve had enough. We haven’t even reached the first real ascent yet. We only find the way back because Max has photographed every one of the 20 junctions that look exactly the same.

Further south along the east coast. A big Fiesta. My engine sputters. A parade. My engine stutters worse. Pampa. My engine stalls. Max drives on, I turn round. The engine starts to stutter more and more, until at some point it won’t start at all. I pump out the petrol tank, a Filipino suspects water as an extender. The new petrol gets me another kilometre further, but then, despite pushing, nothing works. I’m 30 kilometres of gravel road away from my bed. In the sweat of my brow, I curse loudly at Sibuyan Soder-Schedl, the landlady’s husband.