Oy Oy Oy!

Ok. From the begining, yesterday around 2pm, Sandakan, Sabah, West Malaysia.
I had expected to travel the Sandakan-Zamboanga route with a Danish friend that I met on the top of Mount Kinabalu on Christmas Day, but he opted for the 1 hour flight and didn't reserve a seat in time. I took the horrific 8 hour journey by bus over some pretty terrible roads. Our bus was reasonably comfortable, though I was seated in the very back near the toilet. For some reason the aircon vents above us spewed HOT air, a change from the more usual icy air. I had stayed up very late the night before with a group of travellers, playing pool and drinking Tigers at the nearby BB Cafe until darn near 4am. Hoped I might be able to sleep better on the bus. I never sleep on buses. It turns out that this is true regardless of how sleep-deprived I am.
Chinot, the Davao City resident who had been workign in Brunei for the past 9 months, and I arrived and searched for a hotel in the busy and character-less Sandakan, settling on the Paris Inn which featured a nice double room with shower and toilet and TV(!) for only 35RM. I didn't much like the feel that Sandakan exuded. The area in which we stayed seemed to vacate shortly after dark and all that remained were shuttered store fronts. Eerie.
We bought our one way tickets to Zamboanga, Mindanao, a little shocked to see that a recent fuel surcharge had increased the ticket price dramatically. I paid 260RM for an air con private 4 bunk room.

The next morning we took the local transit system to see Sepilok Orangutan Rehabilitation Centre a few k's out of town. The price was right at 1.70RM, but we arrived 30 minutes after the 10am feeding time - the only time to see the apes in closer contact. After coughing up 30Ringitt, Chinot and I rushed along the slippery wooden boardwalk to the feeding platform. The passing crowds did not reassure me that the Orang Utan were still there, and when we got to there we saw nothing more than a few tourists. Intent to see at least something we waited and watched for awhile until I finally spotted a juvenile off in the distance. Even from afar these little guys are amazing - so human-like. Wish there were more milling about, but one will do to satisfy my curiousity (not satisfied in Semungoh in Kuching).

We came back via bus (after discovering most tourists at Sepilok paid more than 100RM for a 'tour') and waited around until it seemed time to go to the ferry terminal. The 5pm departure was still 2hours off when we arrived to discover throngs of Filipinos waiting in a huge crowd outside the departure hall.
As it turned out, the sailing I had booked was the last of the year, and as such was loaded with illegal Filipino immigrants headed home under the safety of a Malaysian amnesty, set to expire December 31st. Since October, when the pressure was put on illegal immigrants to leave or face big trouble, hundreds of thousands of Indonesians and Filipinos have left freely. This particular boat was very heavily loaded with them. Luckily those travellers with Passports were dealt with first, so I only had to wait for an hour and a half in the massive crowd. I was the only white guy. By far the tallest. Murmurs swept through the crowd, which I met with a friendly smile and nod, which then sent more murmurs. At least they returned my smile... Malaysian immigration was no trouble at all, was chopped and discharged into the heavily fortified port area. A short bus ride took us to the boat, Lady Mary Joy, which was in fact an aging cruise ship type vessel - VERY big! old too. A Filipino immigration officer specially picked me out of the line of dark-skinned travellers and gave my passport very careful attention. A series of questions regarding my purpose of visit, where I was staying, when I was leaving, etc, was very thankfully assisted by the Tagalog speaking Chinot. Hopeing for some form of gratuity, the official was disappointed when Chinot showed him his (expired) government ID card. I was waved through. That was one obstacle completed with no real trouble. We proceeded to our cabin, a nice airconned room which turned out to be very private, indeed - Chinot and I were the sole occupants, even despite the ship being sold out.
In Malaysia, and to a lesser degree, Thailand, people stare at me, speaking quietly in their language. I usually either ignore it or attack it with an over-exhuberant smile. Since leaving Thailand I have usually been one of the only whiteguys around. On this boat I was truly the ONLY white guy. As it would turn out there was an African American retired marine and a Japanese national, but both blended into the short, dark-skinned crowd. Here I stood at least a foot higher than everyone else. EVERY pair of eyes was locked on me at some point on the trip... interesting feeling.

Initially I expected to hang out in my cabin for most of the trip, intentionally avoiding exposing myself to the crowds. As I became more comfortable with the situation I ventured out. There was no food really available, unless you were willing to queue for the better part of an hour (there were 1800 passengers on this trip). I bought Chinot and I two tins of sardines-in-tomoato-paste and we drank our left-over San Miguels. On the upper deck where we stayed there was a small open lounge; at some point in the evening the Karaoke vending machine was fixed and the fun began. For hours the machine was in use singing old American classics, Celine Dion love ballads, Christmas carols, and Tagalog favourites. I met a tonne of very interesting Filipinos who were very excited to make my aquaintence - the local celebrity, as it was. Later the small American guy waved me down and I was very relieved to find a fellow westerner; he lived in Cebu, as he had for four years before, and had done this trip several time before. We talked for awhile, he in his thick, drawling accent, me in my typically Canadian dialect. I pronounce Cebu, Seeboo, he releases it more like S'boooooo. I grew tired of his (bragging) conversations on how great sex tourism was, how cheap the Philippines is, and all the places he had visited in the world. Let's say he is very well travelled but can't remember any sights or landmarks. I headed back to my group of younger, more respectable locals.

Later I met some girls who joined our little group and eventually we were all sitting within reach of the microphone. I would have caused a great ruckuss had I mustered the courage to sing in front of the drunken crowd, but my modesty ruled - until much much later. Somehow I grabbed the microphone and began singing, though it was more like reading, a song I had never before heard. It didn't last long, and luckily the noise of the congested room drown out my squacky voice. It was late before I went back to my bunk.

This morning was a groggy one. Outside in the bright hot sun islands were visible in the distance. This would be the Sulu and Tawi Tawi islands, home to the Islamic terror group, Abu Sayyaf. We sailed swiftly onwards. These waters are still heavily pirated, and a joint Malaysian, Philippino and Indonesian military operation aimed to quell any dangerous situations. Sometime near our destination city the immigration queue began to form up in the open-air, though covered, Canteen. Chinot and I joined in, not too terribly far from the start - perhaps a few hundred ahead of us. For an uncomfortable couple of hours, even after we would dock, we stood in a massive sea of people, all waiting to get 'chopped' by the immigration stamps. As we neared the dock, and as tug boats nudged us into position, loads of rickety canoes and trimaran kayaks surrounded the vessel. Naked children, old men, breast-feeding women, and young men. Each had a boat, from which they would dive after coins thrown into the water by the waiting passengers. A very small infant was left in the boat for a few minutes while her mother dove after a 5peso coin, worth about 10cents. An elderly man unsuccessfully chased another coin, which disappeared into the deep port waters. Sadly this provided entertainment for the overheating passengers, and a meager means to earn a living my the very poorest of the locals.
The coastline of western Mindanao is fantastically beautiful. Palm trees line a white sand beach, european architecture looms in the distance. The Spanish influence is felt immediately here, until you step foot on land and are attacked by a barrage of all things American.
After what was surely 2 hours of waiting the line began moving very slowly into the Canteen. As I had a relative birds eye view I served to inform the short Chinot of the situation. Later, as we approached the entrance, an immigration official waved us through a gate on the other side of the ship. We squeezed our way through the crowd and entered the recently transformed immigration office. I discovered by the list of foreign travellers that there was one American, one Canadian, one Japanese, and perhaps a dozen Malaysians - the remaining 1750 or so passengers were Filipino, and most had only paper travel documents (instead of passports). Hesitant is the word I would use to describe immigration officials. Luckily Chinot's Tagalog served very well to prevent any difficulties. Three separate officials questioned me, finally the head official (who was playing openly with his pistol only a few minutes before seeing me) stamped and signed my visa. Relief!

I had heard rumours of extreme bribery at this port, though I realized that they had to be rumours. Alledgedly two westerners were charged a 2000RM 'tax' and when they refused to pay they were barred entry and their passports seized. Surely absurd, but they caused a bit of concern nonetheless.

Chinot and I went back to our room and collected our things before stepping foot onto land, some 24hours after we left Malaysia. The waiting crowd let out an audible gasp, and virtually every girl flirted with me as we walked by. The sex industry in the Philippines is huge, a result of the American military presence until only recently. As such, you cannot tell who is and who isn't. Avoidance is the answer...

We caught a 'tricycle', the local version of a tuk tuk featuring a motorcyle or bicycle and a sidecar. Each tricycle is decorated in very flashy chrome and bright paint jobs. Car drive on the proper side of the road here, which was strange after 3 1/2 months in left-hand-drive countries. Driving through the city, I couldn't help but feel that I was in a 50's era middle American city, ravaged by war, populated by asians. The city is tidy and attractive, signs are hand writted in the style of the 50's. Barbed wire tops crumbling cement walls. American products are everywhere here. Tshirts feature NYC, Colorado, Las Vegas, Rage Against the Machine, NBA, NFL, stars and stripes. Anything and everything American. Here, for the first time in Asia, I am seen as an american. Very interesting culture, a real mix - american pop culture, spanish influenced language, asian influences. All of a sudden the food is different, the people very different; virtually a different world from the nearby Malaysia.

I leave the 'dangerous' southern island if Mindanao tomorrow, surely to everyone's relief. Its too bad that westerners can't see this region; I've heard it's incredibly beautiful, and from what I've seen, I would very much like to stay. Off to Manila, though, to hopefully experience something very different for New Years.