<<<BACKI’ve found the cure for jetlag. It took 14 hours, three
planes and a sweaty night in a beach bungalow. But at 8.30am local time, juddering
along on the front of an outrigger, my feet dangling either side of the bows,
spray kicking in my eyes, I felt wired - even if it was 1am back home.
Closer to China than the rest of South East Asia, the Philippines is harder
to get to than say Thailand or Vietnam. You need to fly via Hong Kong, the
Middle East or Amsterdam; so it takes a bit of effort. But that’s part
of the reason for going. There are hardly any other travellers there. If you’ve
tired of teenagers with neck charms, and internet cafes on every street corner,
it could be just what you’re looking for. Palawan province, a bundle
of islands an hour’s flight south west of the crazy capital Manila, is
perfect for some real exploration. It’s like Thailand 20 years ago. Gorgeous,
hawker-free beaches, genuinely friendly locals, cheap-as-chips seafood and
fantastic diving.
Even at 8.30am the sun was hot. My white northern European skin felt like a
huge solar panel soaking up its energy. We sped on between islands and pearl
fields; flying fish frolicked in front of the bows. Despite the howl of the
outrigger’s engine there was a sense of tranquillity. And I was about
to swap the noisy surge of boat for the regular hush and spurt of air beneath
the glassy surface of the sea. Palawan is the main island in the province,
but I started my trip among a cluster of islands called the Calamianes. Their
tiny coves seemed the perfect hiding place for a fleet of Japanese warships
during the Second World War. Unfortunately for the Japanese the Americans got
wind of them and sank the lot. There are over 15 wrecks buried beneath the
waters offering some of the most varied wreck diving anywhere. The Kogyo Mara
is an old freighter lying on its side in 25 metres of water. It had been a
while since I’d dived and I was nervous as I tugged on my wetsuit. Thomas,
my German diving instructor, was a man of few words. It didn’t help matters
that I managed to put my foot through the sleeve of the wetsuit. Getting it
back out was not easy.
After I’d got over a bout of hyperventilating, which Thomas politely
ignored, he led me slowly down the long rope from the marker buoy on the surface.
As the undersea world swallowed me, my anxieties abated. Huge grouper fish
looked on impassively as we finned along the rusty fuselage. Bright bat and
banana fish flitted around the clumps of lunar coral that clung to the rusty
decks. The anti-aircraft guns on the foredeck were clearly visible. A swim-through
into the bridge and out the other side gave us a glimpse of the gaping hole
into the hold where a bomb had torn the heart out of the ship and sent it to
its watery resting place.
I dived again that afternoon. But not in the sea. Nearby Coron Island has a
hidden lake. You scramble over craggy volcanic chunks of rock with your tank
on your back, fins in hand. It’s hard work. Deep blue on the surface,
Barracuda Lake looks like the ultimate secret swimming hole. We flopped into
the water and rested after the climb. Then we slowly descended. Suddenly my
wetsuit began to warm up. And no, I hadn’t had a bladder malfunction.
At first it was like being in a hot tub, delightful. Then the heat rose and
became uncomfortable. My vision went blurry. My facemask wasn’t steamed
up but I could hardly see a thing. The water was treacly, clinging to me like
Ghostbuster ectoplasm. Strange streaks of darker liquid sat in layers around
me.
Just as the heat seemed unbearable, my feet hit chilly water. It was the strangest
sensation. A seam of hot thick volcanic water sits down here at about 20 metres
and you can swim along with your legs in the heat and your head in the cool.
Thomas showed me a cave that disappeared into blackness. Somewhere out there
was the sea. The theory goes that small fish get through from the sea, but
can’t find their way back. Most die in the muggy waters. But some survive
and grow unfeasibly large. Somewhere in those warm murky waters lives the giant
barracuda of Barracuda Lake. Well that’s the legend. I’m glad Thomas
told me once we returned to the sunshine on the surface.
It might be paradise now, but native tribes still practiced headhunting and
sorcery on Palawan until a few decades ago. These days many of the tribes,
have become Westernised, but not all. The stories the locals told seemed a
touch far fetched. The Tau Batu are cave dwellers. They hold tinned sardines
in great reverence, as a sign of wealth. They use the tomato sauce as conditioner
for their hair. The Ba’tak feast on worms and are fearsome warriors.
I set out with Josep, my guide, to meet the Ba’tak, armed with a large
bag of chocolate, cigarettes and coffee in the hope that they’d give
me a friendly welcome.
Read the full interview in the current issue of RedHanded.
FAR OUT
PHILIPPINES
Jeremy Head keeps his shirt on in remote Palawan