But we were there to dive; it’s what were came for; it’s what we paid for. And like the Tubbataha Reef, there were innumerable sites to dive within reach of Batangas; there were even more beyond Maricaban Island, but those were beyond easy reach. We did all our diving from outriggers, so where we dove had to be within relatively easy reach. They weren’t especially swift, but what they lacked in speed they made up for with the taste of authenticity. They brought the age-old tradition of pearl diving to mind. That was sweet. It certainly added character to the trip after a week aboard the Svetlana, although I must say that the Svetlana had that in abundance.
But unlike the Tubbataha Reef, our being so close to human habitation brought us face to face with an abundance of free floating trash. Flotsam. Jetsam. I won’t say it was everywhere, but its occurrence was regular enough to warrant our being given net bags to clip onto out belts to collect what we could where we found it. Noting news reports of reefs of garbage three times the size of France informs me that our efforts were negligible, at best.
Were that the only difference: we also experienced free reign fishing, and when I say fishing, I mean harvesting using explosives. We’d be drifting on the current at sixty feet when we’d hear a distant thump. That rattled me. I knew what that sound was, even if the others didn’t. I’m a miner; I know the sound of a shot fired when I hear it even if it’s muffled by water. Not so the others; they were oblivious, then. But not for long; Kim asked the Master what it was when we surfaced. I think she wished she hadn’t, because it proved not to be an isolated occurrence. We were less satisfied by the comment that the fishermen weren’t likely to drop their sticks of powder overboard within sight of other boats than we should have been, I think. Sometimes the thump was less distant than we’d have liked it to be. Thankfully, those distant thumps were less common than the plastic we were collecting.
The current was stronger, too, being pressed between two sizable landmasses. We didn’t fight it, we used it. And if we missed something we wanted a closer look at, so be it, we missed it. There was no going back. But we took heart, we were sure to drift past something equally spectacular.
Our time on Luzon was more labour intensive, too. We man-hauled our gear to the outriggers, we man-hauled our gear back from the outriggers. I was okay with that. I was used to manual labour and was itching for any such activity. And it was fun travelling in the outriggers. I got a kick out of the eyes painted on the hulls that led the way, their touch of anomalous pagan dichotomy amid the flood of Christianity everywhere, the brilliant white bodies, the brightly painted trim. I just got tired of nudibranchs and crinoids. Bill adored them. Bill never tired of them. They were infinitely varied, infinitely colourful. But after so many countless minutes waiting for him while he got the perfect shot of each had taken its toll.
Bill had taken his toll. He was sullen and taciturn. He barked orders as though he were in charge of the tour, when he was just a client, just like the rest of us. Okay, maybe not Jenny, but she wasn’t in charge either, there to audit the tour, the accommodations, the value for our buck. Bill demanded quiet, Bill demanded privacy, Bill demanded. He wasn’t the only one. A few others had joined us for our second week, others who, travelling together, hadn’t felt the need to join our little threesome in our nightly discourse. Fuck ‘em, I thought.
We sat out long after our late dinner, lingering over a bottle of wine, talking about books and movies, out home towns and our pasts, our respective travels. We tried to keep it down. But sound carries at night. But I suppose wine can jack up the volume a little, too. What can I say? We were on vacation.
Bill hushed us.
The girls hushed. But I’d had enough of bossy Bill.
“Excuse me?” I projected up to their room just above us.
“We’re trying to get some sleep,” he said.
“It’s nine o’clock,” I said.
“We’re diving tomorrow,” he said.
“Me, too,” I reminded him.
“Just keep it down,” his unseen self demanded of us.
“You ought to keep it down, too,” I said.
He had no comeback. He retreated back into his room, taking his complaints with him. I was referring to his fairly robust braying rut before supper. Jenny, Kim and I were in the common area, gin and tonics before us, novels in hand, light snacks of tropical fruit hollowed out, their husks discarded but not yet cleared away, legs crooked over armrests, soaking in the surf as it rolled in, watching the first of that night’s moths flutter about the overhead lamp, dropping into and never again rising from the bowl of water in the centre of the table. We were listening to Bill and Ursula’s headboard tapping and then hammering the bamboo walls. Jenny began giggling. Which set the rest of us into fits. We applauded Bills final release, bursting out into laughter. Were they embarrassed? I don’t know. I don’t care. Fuck ‘em. They might as well have done their deed in full view for all the quiet and privacy that bamboo afforded us. Which wasn’t much. I burst in on Kim mid shower when it became impossible to hold my water anymore. One could just as easily walk in on someone getting changed. It happened. It’s not like there were any doors.
Jenny, Kim and I wanted to have fun. We wanted to get out into Anilao to get a feel for the culture. So we did. We went to the market, we went into the shops. I was astonished how much pirated stuff was out there. And the price was not the price. Some people love that. Some people love to haggle. I’d never been comfortable with it. I was never that good at it. Jenny and Kim came to my rescue.
On returning, we saw a pavilion being erected. I asked our Filipino guide what was going on. She said that they were setting up for a dance being held that night.
“Can we go?” I asked.
Sure, she said, anyone could go.
I asked the girls if they wanted to go. They did. We asked the others at our digs. They did not. They were tired. They wanted to go to bed. Fine, I thought, go to bed. They did. We didn’t.
We went. We were the only white people there. Everyone was fascinated by us. We danced. The locals wanted to dance with us, too. But Holy Mack, it was hot. It was humid. We needed to sit down and catch our breath. The locals made room for us. They brought us water, water in a clear plastic bag cinched at the top. But what to do with it. Did they have a cup? They thought that funnier than I’d intended. I was shown how they punctured a small hole in the bag and drank from it like it was a wineskin.
The disk jockey had stopped playing music and had ventured out onto the stage with a microphone, addressing the crowd. I was okay with the break.
The happy faces around us gestured for us to be back on our feet. I begged off, happy to rest a few moments more. They insisted. They corralled us, took us by the hands and brought us to our feet. Come with us, they said.
So, we did. We were brought on stage.
Jesus, what have I got myself into, I thought.
The disc jockey shoved the microphone in our faces, and asked us to introduce ourselves. We did.
He said something else, something I didn’t catch.
He shoved the microphone in my face again.
“Am I to sing?” I asked.
Everyone laughed.
