Phi

January 28, 2010

Dauin, Negros, Philippines
27 metres

I awoke as I often did, with the sound of the many roosters’ cockle doodle doo. It was an hour before my alarm was set to go off, and I had already had a broken night’s sleep. My concentration lay on the day’s events that lay ahead. Today would be a day to remember. A day throughout which men and women would be pushed to their limits, both mentally and physically, where dreams would be made or shattered into the brink. I rose and checked my pack. I would need an extra set of clothes and a towel.

I joined my companions for an early breakfast at the table where we usually ate. Today I would have to forgo my usual pancake sandwich for a pre-made chicken adobo with white rice, as we would have to make for an early start to have any hope of scaling the massive Tison falls. The chicken adobo, though cold, had a wonderful dark glaze mixed with fried onions and whole peppercorns. The spice danced on my palette, although it was not enough to distract me from the journey ahead.

The falls rise 400 km above the sleepy town of Berengay Luoc. It is said that they were carved by the mountain god Mt. Mountaineanea, a vengeful god who ate the ropes and heads of the climbers of Tison falls. He would then build more mountains out of the bodies of those who had sacrificed themselves foolishly. The peak lay somewhere between the troposphere and the troposphere of the planet Venus. Both planets have yet to resolve the territorial dispute.

Seated to my right was Clora Sanwich, a wealthy socialite from Medicine Chapeau who was living in Malaysia with her husband Alejandro. Alejandro was a tender man who loved nothing more than to play board games.

Seated to my left was my trusty servant, Sherpa Meganha. As the rest of us discussed our plans to travel to the village of Bato, Sherpa Meganha feasted greedily on an old clubhouse sandwich. Classic Sherpa Meganha. Mike, the owner of our camp, arrived at our table, clearly still drunk from the night before, to discuss our plans. The taxi that was supposed to meet us at our scooter rental shop had just arrived at our camp to pick us up. “You tell you boss that I’m effin peed off,” he said to the driver, “And I’m hung-over.”

We mounted our scooters for the last time and drove to the city of Dumaguete, the capital of Negros Orientale. As I dismounted my TVS Rockz for the last time, I caressed his head as I said a teary goodbye. As I walked away toward the cab, I made sure not to look back as the scooter wept, tears trickling down his fender his headlight.

We took a ferry from the nearby town of Tampy 1* to Bato. Our captain, a jolly Filipino who unorthodoxly would steer the boat with his gut, bid us good luck upon our arrival. He knew what lay ahead was no easy feat.

1*Not to be confused with Tampyons.

We met our guide after a bumpy tricycle ride up the winding roads of the island of Cebu. Mario was a 34 year-old Cebuan who loved action of every kind. His tour company, Planet Action Adventure offered many different adventures, from snorkeling to somersaulting. Mario was accompanied by Eric, his son, and Justin, his great-grandson. Other thrill seekers included Sam and Katy, a couple from the U.K. and Raymond McSweeny a fun-loving Irishman that was instantly likeable. I would later find out through many meaningful conversations that Raymond was an orphan who had worked his way up in the chimney-sweeping racket and had saved up for 19 years to travel to the Philippines and climb Tison Falls. “I had just been sweeping chimneys for so long,” he said, “I thought to myself, what is the opposite of chimney? A waterfall, of course!” He clearly wanted to experience everything life had to offer. Little did we know, our lives were about to be forever changed by the furious mountain we were about to imprudently ascend, as one of us would not return.

December 28
Tison Falls, Cebu
2100 metres

“Ready for action?” asked Mario as we attached our harnesses, helmets, and PFD’s made of Styrofoam and possibly rags. Sadly, Sherpa Meganha would not get to use a harness, as there were not enough.

We began the steep climb after leapfrogging stones across a creek near a small village. Most people we passed would wish us a “Merry Christmas!” as they descended the sacred falls, bear-foot and with a 30 kilo sac of rice atop their head. After 20 minutes, my sweat was sweating sweat and my head was reeling from our rapid ascent.

“Banana power?” asked Mario. As we took a few minutes to rest high above the Jungle where we began our ascent. “It’s good for action!” The sweet solace of banana calmed my altitude-induced migraine and I was ready to continue. “Let’s. Do. This.” I said. Justin and I high-fived so hard the thunderous clap could be heard for miles.

The remainder of the steep climb was difficult-very difficult. Loose rocks made the path treacherous and the temperature soared by midday. After a grueling hour and forty minutes, we had made it to the top. As Raymond could not afford a camera, he feverishly sketched as much as he could see. “My memory ain’t what it used to be,” he said as he drew. I would later find out through my research that the inhalation of soot destroys the hippocampus, the part of the brain that forms memories and keeps your parents from dying.

Now came the hard yet exciting part: The descent. We all jumped into the river. The pale blue-green water, which may have been parasite infested, revitalized our aching bodies. We floated and chatted happily for a few minutes until we reached the first waterfall, a 30 meter repel / freefall into a deep pool below. “30 meter repel / freefall ACTION!” called Mario as he secured the ropes. 2*

2* Sherpa Meganha had been given a harness by this time as she had found one on the dead body of a climber during our ascent.

The repel down the waterfall was exhilarating to say the least. As we descended one by one, we would arrive to the end of the rope, hold on with one hand and untie our harnesses. “1, 2, 3, ACTION!” Mario would yell and each climber would shoot down into the pool 10 meters below.

The group would then float and climb through the maze of giant rocks in order to descend, observing the myriad of plants and insects en route. At one point I discovered two giant millipedes that I poked with a stick. Soon I saw that the stick was oozing a yellow liquid all over my hand that stung my sores intensely. “Go rinse off your hands!” yelled Alejandro. This advice saved my hand from certain amputation, I assume.

After our last repel and jump, we had made it to the last pool. We could look forward to a barbecue dinner of pork ribs, glazed chicken, grilled yellow fin tuna, calamari, pats of rice with Action sauce, potatoes, a garden salad and San Miguel beer. My mouth watered at the thought of all the different kinds of meat. As we emerged from the last pool, our guide counted us. “Where is RayRay?” (The name he had come up with affectionately for Raymond McSweeny). With horror I looked at the surface of the pool and saw Raymond’s helmet floating, easily recognizable by the streaks of ash and soot. Raymond was gone. We were all too wasted and hungry to look for his body. He is missing and presumed dead.

Epilogue
December 29th
Dauin, Negros
1 metre

Canyoning is awesome. You repel, jump from really high up, and flat down rivers. Is this foolish? Perhaps. But as long as there are canyons, there will be people arrogant enough to canyon the heck out of them. I will never forget Raymond McSwaney. Swenson? Samsonite! I was way off!

I shall update this internet blog.

I haven't updated this for a while so I thought I should get you caught up on what's been going on in my life. This is kind of a 3-post-in-one deal.

2 days ago

Today I ate pita!

Yesterday

Today I ate pita!

Today

I ate some pita today.