Note: this trip was made at Christmas 1995. In the time since then I'm sure much has changed so it may not be a great idea to treat this as a guide. Treat it as a memoir, which - give or take some editing - is exactly what it is.Next day started with more travelling. Leaving the bulk of our luggage behind at the hotel we waded out to the large yellow bangka moored just off the beach and climbed aboard to sail to Puerto Galera where we transferred to two much smaller bangkas that were to take us to the beach on the western coast of Mindoro where our Mangyan guides would meet us and our initial two day trek would begin.
The beach, when we reached it, was a long curving strip between the ocean and the jungle. It was empty of people apart from us and the small group of Mangyans who were waiting, although further along a number of bangkas were drawn up above the high water line. There was also a small group of buildings where food and drink could be purchased. Our local man was Willy who introduced us to the tribesmen who were to be guides, cooks and general helpers for us. They all looked about nine years old although Willy told me later that the youngest one was sixteen and the oldest thirty five.
The beach, when we reached it, was a long curving strip between the ocean and the jungle. It was empty of people apart from us and the small group of Mangyans who were waiting, although further along a number of bangkas were drawn up above the high water line. There was also a small group of buildings where food and drink could be purchased. Our local man was Willy who introduced us to the tribesmen who were to be guides, cooks and general helpers for us. They all looked about nine years old although Willy told me later that the youngest one was sixteen and the oldest thirty five.
There are more than fifty thousand Mangyan tribesmen living on Mindoro which has a dense interior jungle which enables them to protect their privacy. They were formerly a coastal tribe but, a peace loving people, they retreated to the hills when other settlers came. Like most of the Indians of the Philippines they are a physically small people which enhances their innocent childlike appearance. They stood at the start of a path into the trees while Willy introduced them and we instantly forgot their names. One of them was introduced to us as being the chief of their particular sub-tribe and another was bizarrely introduced as being our coconut specialist.
When the introductions were done we started off along an easy broad path that ran into the forest roughly paralleling a river. Initially it was a pleasant stroll with the forest only sporadically thickening and with many large open areas of rice-paddies. Very occasionally the path became a little narrower and steeper and slick with mud. In a couple of places I threw my Sports Sandals down the slopes and went barefoot to get an easier purchase. Alex, our tour leader, had told us that the terrain was suitable for trainers, sandals and even flip-flops but there were a couple of places where I felt that barefoot or fully-booted were the only genuinely sensible options with nothing in between being suitable. Nevertheless when we reached the river I was thankful that I had brought the Sports Sandals with me. Although at this crossing it was only up to knee height it was still fast flowing over some sharp and slippery stones. We crossed it easily and continued along the path which was now weaving between the widely spaced coconut palms. Shortly after the river we paused for a refreshment break and discovered exactly why our 'coconut expert' was so named. He literally ran up the side of a vertical palm trunk and started to hack away at the coconuts with a machete. As they dropped like bombs to the ground the others dodged in and gathered them up. They set about topping and tailing them with their knives and offered the flesh around to eat and the holed gourds to drink from.
The milk had the watery oily consistency that coconut milk always has but the flesh was unlike any I have eaten before. The coconuts were green and barely ripe and the texture of the fruit was rather slimy. It didn't really taste of anything. While we ate, with Willy's aid as a translator, the Mangyans answered questions about their lives. We found out that the Mangyans are subdivided into the Alangan, the Batangan, the Buhid, the Hunanoo, the Iraya and the Ratagnan which are then further divided into many small tribes living separately in the jungles. They survive as mainly agricultural communities. Only the men from one of these tribes, never the women or children, ever came down to act as guides for the tourists. The village that they came from was several kilometres further into the jungle than we would be going but unencumbered by our lack of woodcraft they could get there in a few hours.
In a clearing we came to a broken down bamboo and palm structure which Alex told us would be our 'hotel' for the night. First however we had a couple more rivers to cross to get to the spot for our picnic lunch. These two crossings proved to be rather worse than the ones we had done so far, the second one necessitating wading more than waist deep through some quite rough water.
The picnic site was a small clearing on one side of a large and fairly calm pool. Downstream the water quickened as a series of boulders forced it through ever narrower channels and upstream a fierce cross current indicated the presence of rapids but here the water was almost still and ideal for swimming. After my lunch of sandwiches and a roast potato I hesitated for a while but finally decided to go for a swim. Some of the others had already gone, heading further upstream and then clambering out to climb up along the rocky bank of the rapids. I chose the easier option of simply going back and forth across the calm section. The water, though cool, was not chilling and the fact that the light drizzle that had accompanied us through the morning had become markedly sharper merely made the experience seem more vivid. Once I ventured into the faster water but the cross current was even fiercer than I had anticipated and I allowed it to push me round and back into the pool.
All too soon it was time to retrace our steps to camp. The rain had made the water even faster and we chose a different crossing place, further downstream. The water was now chest deep in places and tugged hard enough to threaten to break our perilous grip on the rocks. The sure-footed Mangyans skipped lightly across, helping us with their surprisingly strong grips and relieving us of our rucksacks which they carried effortlessly above their heads. Wherever I have been around the world the natives always make me look and feel like some great lumbering and clumsy beast that should never be let within a hundred miles of a wilderness.
At camp another group had gone on ahead and were hard at work restoring the first shelter and building a second one as this group was larger than previous ones that had used the camp. They worked with a quick efficiency. First they rammed four long bamboo corner pieces into the ground, jack-hammering them in with bare hands until they were wedged fast. To these, at about ten inches from the ground they attached four more pieces to form the edges of the floor. Further poles were laid across these forming the floor itself. A similar arrangement but with layers of palm leaves formed the roof. The whole thing was lashed together with tough and fibrous strips of bark, stretched and twisted into a kind of twine. I tried to break a piece and found that it was strong enough to resist my best efforts.
In one corner of the camp, left over from last trip, was table and benches also lashed together from pieces of bamboo. This was our dining room. The ever helpful Mangyans set about constructing a shelter around it as by now the rain had become a steady downpour. We sat around in the shelters watching the water. Thousands of fireflies, undeterred by the bad weather, filled the air with shifting spectral lights.
Another group of Mangyans was preparing our supper - goat stew and chicken soup - both animals having been despatched with the usual Eastern chain saw delicacy. It was already dark and by the time we were ready to eat the rain was lashing in at the sides of our makeshift restaurant. After dinner we chose our spots in the shelters, unrolled our sleeping bags and tried to sleep. I found myself dozing in short bursts. The rain kept on getting faster and harder and more and more of it found its way through the roof until all of us were drenched. I lay in an increasingly sodden rucksack trying not to think about the fact that, allowing for the time difference, my work's Christmas party was now in full swing.
When I did sleep I found myself plagued by a recurring dream in which I woke up and the sun was shining and everyone was laughing and getting ready for the day. Every time I dreamed it, it fooled me, and every time I awoke to a reality that was worse than when I had fallen asleep.
By the light of a torch I checked my watch. It was not yet midnight.
The milk had the watery oily consistency that coconut milk always has but the flesh was unlike any I have eaten before. The coconuts were green and barely ripe and the texture of the fruit was rather slimy. It didn't really taste of anything. While we ate, with Willy's aid as a translator, the Mangyans answered questions about their lives. We found out that the Mangyans are subdivided into the Alangan, the Batangan, the Buhid, the Hunanoo, the Iraya and the Ratagnan which are then further divided into many small tribes living separately in the jungles. They survive as mainly agricultural communities. Only the men from one of these tribes, never the women or children, ever came down to act as guides for the tourists. The village that they came from was several kilometres further into the jungle than we would be going but unencumbered by our lack of woodcraft they could get there in a few hours.
In a clearing we came to a broken down bamboo and palm structure which Alex told us would be our 'hotel' for the night. First however we had a couple more rivers to cross to get to the spot for our picnic lunch. These two crossings proved to be rather worse than the ones we had done so far, the second one necessitating wading more than waist deep through some quite rough water.
The picnic site was a small clearing on one side of a large and fairly calm pool. Downstream the water quickened as a series of boulders forced it through ever narrower channels and upstream a fierce cross current indicated the presence of rapids but here the water was almost still and ideal for swimming. After my lunch of sandwiches and a roast potato I hesitated for a while but finally decided to go for a swim. Some of the others had already gone, heading further upstream and then clambering out to climb up along the rocky bank of the rapids. I chose the easier option of simply going back and forth across the calm section. The water, though cool, was not chilling and the fact that the light drizzle that had accompanied us through the morning had become markedly sharper merely made the experience seem more vivid. Once I ventured into the faster water but the cross current was even fiercer than I had anticipated and I allowed it to push me round and back into the pool.
All too soon it was time to retrace our steps to camp. The rain had made the water even faster and we chose a different crossing place, further downstream. The water was now chest deep in places and tugged hard enough to threaten to break our perilous grip on the rocks. The sure-footed Mangyans skipped lightly across, helping us with their surprisingly strong grips and relieving us of our rucksacks which they carried effortlessly above their heads. Wherever I have been around the world the natives always make me look and feel like some great lumbering and clumsy beast that should never be let within a hundred miles of a wilderness.
At camp another group had gone on ahead and were hard at work restoring the first shelter and building a second one as this group was larger than previous ones that had used the camp. They worked with a quick efficiency. First they rammed four long bamboo corner pieces into the ground, jack-hammering them in with bare hands until they were wedged fast. To these, at about ten inches from the ground they attached four more pieces to form the edges of the floor. Further poles were laid across these forming the floor itself. A similar arrangement but with layers of palm leaves formed the roof. The whole thing was lashed together with tough and fibrous strips of bark, stretched and twisted into a kind of twine. I tried to break a piece and found that it was strong enough to resist my best efforts.
In one corner of the camp, left over from last trip, was table and benches also lashed together from pieces of bamboo. This was our dining room. The ever helpful Mangyans set about constructing a shelter around it as by now the rain had become a steady downpour. We sat around in the shelters watching the water. Thousands of fireflies, undeterred by the bad weather, filled the air with shifting spectral lights.
Another group of Mangyans was preparing our supper - goat stew and chicken soup - both animals having been despatched with the usual Eastern chain saw delicacy. It was already dark and by the time we were ready to eat the rain was lashing in at the sides of our makeshift restaurant. After dinner we chose our spots in the shelters, unrolled our sleeping bags and tried to sleep. I found myself dozing in short bursts. The rain kept on getting faster and harder and more and more of it found its way through the roof until all of us were drenched. I lay in an increasingly sodden rucksack trying not to think about the fact that, allowing for the time difference, my work's Christmas party was now in full swing.
When I did sleep I found myself plagued by a recurring dream in which I woke up and the sun was shining and everyone was laughing and getting ready for the day. Every time I dreamed it, it fooled me, and every time I awoke to a reality that was worse than when I had fallen asleep.
By the light of a torch I checked my watch. It was not yet midnight.
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