At the start of 2018 we travelled around three countries in South-East Asia, one of which was the Philippines. We discovered that throughout all the many islands, they have a distinctively Filipino way of living. That manner inspired Lucas to write this short ode to our orange scooter, and all the towns that it led us through.
El diario de una moto naranja.
[English version below]
Recuerdo estar manejando mi moto con Ella atrás mío, pasando por pequeños pueblos escondidos en la selva de palmeras, siempre bordeando la playa y el interminable océano pacifico. Eran ranchos de estructura deplorable pero sorprendentemente acogedores: tres paredes de paja y un techo a medio cerrar, en una pequeña parcela para cosechar su propio arroz, un chancho atado a un árbol y un gallo enjaulado como su posesión mas preciada. No vaya a ser que se escape, el gallo pelea cada domingo. Por este luchador se apuesta y se gana. Y si pierde se come. De una forma u otra es el que alimenta a la familia. En filipinas el gallo es el hombre de la casa.
Al costado del rancho esta la otra rama de la economía familiar: el estante con botellas de coca cola llenas de un liquido amarillo o verde para que los viajeros alimenten sus motos. Y si, si la comida de los humanos no es muy sana en ese pais, las motos no van a ser la excepción. Los chicos son los encargados de atender a la gente, cargar la gasolina y cobrar. La madre vende agua, chocomucho (hay que probarlo, es muy muy bueno) y frituras de chancho. Si, chancho frito. O tal vez perro. Uno nunca sabe que esta comiendo en Asia, solo hay que confiar y tragar. La mujer también cosecha el arroz e, imagino, hace todas las tareas domesticas. En fin, trabaja. El hombre duerme con la remera a medio sacar, con la panza al aire, en una hamaca a la sombra.
The Diary of an Orange Moto.
I remember driving my motorbike, with Ella behind me, passing through tiny towns. Hidden within the jungle of palm trees, these towns almost always lay, daringly beside the never-ending Pacific Ocean. Mazes of brown small wooden shacks, seemingly weak but surprisingly durable against the harsh elements of the sea. Next to the maze of houses lie individual rice paddocks, a huge and overfed pig and a rooster attached to a tree. He is the prize possession of the house; he cannot be allowed to escape, as he must fight every Sunday. He must win. To be a rooster in the Philippines is a tough life, as in one way or another he is responsible for feeding the family. In the Philippines, the rooster is the man of the house.
Next to each home, stands many Coca Cola bottles filled with dubious coloured liquid. This is the other form of family finance, petrol. If the food of the people is not particularly clean here, neither is that of the motorbikes. Nevertheless, this fluorescent liquid will get you everywhere you need to go, and further. In the Philippines, no one could be stuck for gas. The children fill your bike with petrol, which the mother sells water and snacks from their kiosk on the side. Every house has one, they sell everything from chocomucho – a must-try in the Philippines – to fried pork – not a must-try in my opinion, but as with always in Asia you have to have confidence and a good gut to get you through. You never know, you may be pleasantly surprised.
The women of the Philippines seem to do everything, from harvesting the rice, to organising the house and any small businesses within. Whilst the men may be found sleeping, with their shirts up, belly out, on a hammock in the shade.
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