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.I was the first to rise next morning, shortly before dawn, having spent a restless night. I sat alone out on the empty balcony watching through the still heavy rain as dawn spread slowly like a bright stain across the grey sky. It was a peaceful and reflective hour and by the time other people had started to move about I felt calm and content. As everyone emerged from their beds and looked unhappily at the weather I found myself in a ridiculously cheerful and hearty mood which seemed set to last all day. We ate a simple breakfast and set out for the walk.
The day's walking was tricky. In dry conditions it would have been simple and straightforward but the conditions were anything but dry. We climbed up the steep terracing by walking along the stone walls that edged the paddies. The pattern was constant. On one side of us was a six inch drop into a foot of cold and muddy water. On the other was a drop of twenty to thirty feet into similarly cold and muddy water. In between was our path, the top of what amounted to a dry stone wall about six inches wide and made slick and dangerous by the rain. Sal suggested that the walk, officially graded as easy to moderate, should be reclassified as moderate to suicidal.
Finally, after an especially tricky section we reached Cambulo which is a sizeable town with a large school, its own clinic, several churches, several 'guest houses' and a village square. There was also a western woman there, a missionary who - Alex told us - disapproved of tourists. The fact that she behaved as if we were invisible even though we were next door to her seemed to bear this out.
The day's walking was tricky. In dry conditions it would have been simple and straightforward but the conditions were anything but dry. We climbed up the steep terracing by walking along the stone walls that edged the paddies. The pattern was constant. On one side of us was a six inch drop into a foot of cold and muddy water. On the other was a drop of twenty to thirty feet into similarly cold and muddy water. In between was our path, the top of what amounted to a dry stone wall about six inches wide and made slick and dangerous by the rain. Sal suggested that the walk, officially graded as easy to moderate, should be reclassified as moderate to suicidal.
Finally, after an especially tricky section we reached Cambulo which is a sizeable town with a large school, its own clinic, several churches, several 'guest houses' and a village square. There was also a western woman there, a missionary who - Alex told us - disapproved of tourists. The fact that she behaved as if we were invisible even though we were next door to her seemed to bear this out.
I took a walk around the village determined not to let the weather defeat me. At the school a spirited, if damp, volleyball game was going on watched by half the village. The town square was an open area surrounded by bamboo benches in a kind of parody of an English Country Village. In this weather there was no-one sitting there. After half an hour of poking around I went back to our 'hotel', dug out some slightly drier clothing and went down for a drink.
As in Batad our accommodation was split between two village houses. The 'dining room', such as it was, was in ours. It was a cramped space - not quite big enough for all of us - necessitating a rapid deepening of friendships as we struggled to fit onto the benches.
Before dinner had arrived a group of schoolchildren did. These stood outside performing a kind of Jive Bunny medley of Christmas Carols, endlessly and effortlessly running one into another until our resolve cracked and we paid up. Later I examined one of their school book 'song sheets'. Everything was written down exactly as they had performed it, a single continuous blending of Mary's Boy Child, Good King Wenceslas, We Wish You A Merry Christmas, Silent Night and so on including, bizarrely, Christmas Time In Cambulo.
As in Batad our accommodation was split between two village houses. The 'dining room', such as it was, was in ours. It was a cramped space - not quite big enough for all of us - necessitating a rapid deepening of friendships as we struggled to fit onto the benches.
Before dinner had arrived a group of schoolchildren did. These stood outside performing a kind of Jive Bunny medley of Christmas Carols, endlessly and effortlessly running one into another until our resolve cracked and we paid up. Later I examined one of their school book 'song sheets'. Everything was written down exactly as they had performed it, a single continuous blending of Mary's Boy Child, Good King Wenceslas, We Wish You A Merry Christmas, Silent Night and so on including, bizarrely, Christmas Time In Cambulo.
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