Costa Rica Travel Surf Expat blog for Norm Schriever

Your January 2019 Postcard from Norm: Surviving the Judd Reid Fight Camp

1/25/2019

Sorry that my postcard is a little late this month, but I just got back from a trip to Thailand where I spent three memorable weeks. But instead of lounging by the pool, sightseeing at the Buddhist temples, and drinking beer bars all night like most tourists to the Kingdom of Siam, I had one singular agenda on my trip:

Survive the Judd Reid Fight Camp.

In fact, this was my third time attending the annual Kyokushin Karate camp hosted by the legendary martial artist (and one of my best friends), Australian Judd Reid, as well as Sensei Dean Booth.

I met Judd – or, Shihan Reid as I respectfully refer to him throughout the camp – through a serious of fortuitous circumstances starting in 2014. One of my best traveling buddies from Melbourne, Clint G da Monsta, introduced me to an interesting cat named Anton Cavka who had just produced a unique martial arts documentary and was looking to promote it.

I was writing for the Huffington Post at the time and happened to be visiting Phnom Penh, Cambodia at the same time as Cavka, so we met at 7 am at an end-of-the-world bar called The Pickled Parrot, and got along famously from there.

That’s when I first heard of Judd Reid and his successful undertaking of the 100-man fight, or real-life kumite, as he was only the 19th person in history to do so.

Soon, I met Judd in Thailand, became buds, trained (and drank a few beers) together, and I even helped him co-write a book about his early training in Japan and the 100-man fight, entitled The Young Lions.

Tragically, Anton passed away before the book was finished, so when Shihan Reid was nice enough to invite me to his first karate fight camp in Thailand in 2015, I said “yes” even though I was in piss-poor shape and had never practiced Kyokushin Karate before.

Since then, I’ve aimed to go every year (I wanted to do it last year and actually was in Thailand for the camp, but the alien tapeworm that took over my insides had other plans), silently dedicating my effort to Anton’s memory, thinking of him often as we train.

This year, I thought I was in better shape going in, starting my training months earlier at Apex Krav Maga and SoulCraft Jiu-Jitsu back in Connecticut when I visited the States. I ramped up my workouts through December when I returned to Manila, knowing the magnitude of what I was about to undertake all too well.

But with no dojo to workout in or even a training partner, I considered hiring a Filipino just to help toughen me up for the camp.

Job Opening:
Looking for someone to punch me in the stomach and kick me in the legs repeatedly.
Must be clean, discreet, and single (no wedding rings when you punch me.) Southpaws need not apply.
Three days a week is ideal; job will pay by the bruise or until I yell the safe word, which is “MORE."

Instead, I found a small local gym called The Fight Factory where they put me through rounds of pad work and smacked me around a bit, as well as sprinting up a hill near my condo.

However, as usual, I was completely humbled by the camp, although I escaped without a significant injury this time – a minor miracle. (A torn Achilles, broken ribs, dislocated elbow, broken fingers, and a lot of bruises to my pride were the casualties of past camps!)

The camp is “only” six days but there are three workout sessions per day, each one cumulatively harder thanks to your exhaustion, lack of sleep (I barely slept four hours a night because everything hurt and my adrenaline wouldn’t subside, even when I desperately needed rest), mounting injuries, and such.

The whole purpose is to completely shock your body, forcing you far out of your comfort zone, all while ramping up the intensity to an 11 on a scale of 1-10.

You can either be comfortable or you can grow - but not both.

Around day two, my mind already screamed “NO MORE!” as a litany of self-doubts and excuses came calling. How could I possibly survive the entire camp, I wondered before every single session?

While the other athletes in the camp had a considerable edge in skill, technique, and the ability to withstand blows since they all trained regularly at their Kyokushin dojos back home, I did possess a few distinct advantages.

Most of them had to travel extremely long distances from places like Canada, Europe, and Australia, so they were coping with jet lag, the time change, and a new climate, while Southeast Asia was already “home” to me.

I also came prepared, purchasing a little coffee maker for my hotel room and fortified with packs of Red Bull, oatmeal, almonds, and Tylenol to keep my tired old bones going.

However, I had to keep working during the camp, which means I awoke at 4 am every morning to send emails and write blogs before heading downstairs for the first workout at about 5:30 am, or “O-dark-thirty” as they say in the military.

The first session started promptly at 5:45 am, everyone half-asleep and stretching in the pitch black on the hotel's back lawn, dressed black Muay Thai-style shorts, black camp t-shirts, and sneakers (ok, “runners” or “trainers” for the rest of you!)

After a quick shower, we convened downstairs for breakfast, as we ate every meal together, Uchi Deshi (live-in student) style. Once “brekkie” was over, that only left us about 90 minutes or less for the next session.

But the next training session came up way too fast, as we met at 1030 am in a hotel conference room that was cordoned off and converted into a fully functioning dojo for us. There were rubberized mats spread across the floor, mitts, pads, and kick shields lined up, banners with traditional Japanese writing, and posters with quotes by the martial art’s legendary founder, Sosai Masutatsu Oyama.

We wore our crisp white gi's for that second session, which usually entailed lessons on technique, punch and kick combinations solo and with a partner, and a mashup of pushups, sit-ups, squats, jumping jacks, and burpees in between. We even enjoyed forays into wrestling, jiu-jitsu, street self-defense, and full speed jumping break falls, as Shihan Reid pays little consideration to labels and definitions within the martial arts, instead promoting whatever is most effective.

After another group gathering for lunch, we had the longest break of the day – about three hours – before the final afternoon session at 4 pm.

The training started in the dojo, where we work on drills as a group or with partners before lining up to spar every other member of the camp.

I used that time productively, dancing around like a boxer as I tried not to get killed, blocking the occasional kick with my head and absorbing a ridiculous amount of punishment to my legs (my shins still smart a week and a half later!).

The late afternoon sessions often ended up on the beach, where we had some of the hardest training of the day. It was well worth the pain and perseverance when we slowed down to practice katas, then knelt in formation along the edge of where the waves lapped the sand, focusing in a meditative state as the sun fell towards the horizon before us.

At dinner, I tried my best to sit up straight without keeling over with fatigue. A good meal always helped, and I enjoyed the comraderie as we joked around, exchanged snippets of our lives back home, and “took the piss” out of the others’ nationalities and dialects.

For instance, we hotly debated the word thong (the word for flip flops in Australia) and which side of the road was "correct" to drive on. But as the sole U.S. representative, I was thoroughly outnumbered, and took it as a huge complimnt when I heard comments such as, “You’re the first American I've met that I actually like!”

After dinner, we might head across the street for a massage or to visit the laundry, but most spare moments were spent trying to rest up for the next morning, when we did it all over again.

Each session lasted an hour and a half to two hours and resulted in us drenched in sweat, soaked in sea water, covered head to toe in sand, grass, or dirt, and sometimes even splattered with a little blood.

But we were always smiling ear to ear, enlivened that we’d survived one more spirited day training at the toughest karate camp in the world.

-Norm :-)

***
A lot of my friends are into martial arts, fitness enthusiasts, or know of Judd Reid by now. So, in next month's postcard, I'll break down the nuts and bolts of the actual physical activity and training we engaged in over the course of the camp, as well as the elemental nature, discipline, and honor of Kyokushin Karate, which has definitely changed my life for the better.

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Goodbye and Diyos mamahes, Batanes.

12/18/2018

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Eventually, I made it off the island of Batanes.

Of course I did, since I’m writing this to you now, several months later from my safe and comfy confines on the mainland in Manila.

But that wasn’t always a foregone conclusion – at least, in my mind.

Yet, almost a week after arriving and being stranded by not one but two typhoons, I would hop on a sturdy twin-propeller airplane and pray with the rest of the passengers as the clouds rushed to overtake the morning sun. It was a brief respite, the only time it hadn’t been too windy and rainy for airplanes to take off or land.

Each morning, the hordes of stranded travelers would start queuing up at the airport at 4 am, waiting for the doors to open so we could jockey for a spot on the first flight out at 10am.

And each morning, they were canceled as the crowd, exhausted, disheveled, and increasingly concerned, letting out a collective groan when the loudspeaker announced the bad news. Some people cried. After a while, they were all familiar faces, just wearing different dirty laundry, placing their bags in line instead of standing so they could go sit somewhere comfortable or try to sleep.

They knew that their chances of being stranded there through "The Big One" were increasing dramatically every day. Aside from the smaller typhoon that had hit the island a few days before, a super typhoon was rolling in – one that was supposed to be the worst of the year and bring catastrophic damage to Batanes.

I’d grumble as I shuffled back outside, too, grabbing the same trike driver to my same hotel, where they handed me the key to my same room. The hotel was still empty except for one other couple, and I found the personal effects I meant to leave behind waiting for me, neatly lined up by the understanding staff.

I wasn’t playing around anymore, and proactively booked four flights over the next four days just in case one of them managed to get out. To pass the time, I walked around the main town of Basco in the rain – just a dot on a map itself – and bought pizza for the nice gals working at the hotel, who taught me to say thank you in their indigenous Ivatan language – “Diyos mamahes,” or “Thank you God.”

As the plane lifted off, banking dramatically to avoid the steep mountains overlooking Basco and head out over the vast and windswept sea that separated Batanes from the mainland, the passengers cheered, prayed, and hugged each other. I closed my eyes, the rattle of the propellers comforting, feeling the sun on my face as I recalled one of the best moments of my life I’d just experienced on the island…

“Where to next?” I asked my driver, hoping he would say that we were turning back. I was more than a little concerned, as the wind had to be approaching 50 mph and the rain fell even harder.

Out this far, I didn’t see anyone except a smattering of local inhabitants. Most (sane) tourists were comfortably bunkered down in their hotels in Basco, staying indoors as they watched news reports that were growing increasingly dire. A Super Typhoon rushed towards the island on a certain collision course.

That sounded like the perfect day to go on a tour of the island to me, as I’d rather face the elements that spend another day in my Spartan hotel room watching my clothes not dry.

But this had quickly escalated past “uncomfortable yet adventurous” to “Whoa, sh*t just got real."

I could even sense the urgency of my guide, as the road was abandoned past the village, with only open highway along the coastline as we raced against the storm…

"We go into the mountains now," he answered, kick-starting the motorcycle, eager to get rolling before I was even entirely on board. I realized that he wasn't going to cancel our tour no matter what conditions we faced, as he was desperate for the $18 fee since it was the rainy season and there were few tourists.

Before I could voice my reservation that we should err on the side of caution and assure him that I was happy to pay-in-full, only five minutes outside of the village, we ran into a bigger problem.

Grrrrrcrackkkkkkhoooshhhhhhh...there was a sound like none other I'd ever heard, as if an epic thunderclap rang out from beneath the hillside to our left.

I turned to look at a wall of earth rushing down at us.

Of all the things I worry about while traveling and living abroad – Dengue and Malaria, robbers and kidnappers, hurricanes and cold-hearted temptresses, I’d never even considered a landslide.

But there it was, clicking in my mind within a split second as a river of mud, rock, earth, and water dislodged from the slope, snapping trees and shrubs with hardly a crackle and picking up bowling ball-sized boulders as it channeled at us.

It came fast. There was no time to do anything, even as I saw it and registered what was going on. The only reaction my driver had was to hit the brakes – which was the right move since it was barreling right towards us.

And then, it hit, sprawling across the highway that had been pristine a split second earlier, slowed only by a stone wall standing on the far side, smashing the stones and mortar in two like it was a toothpick, and then settled. It was quiet.

The landslide had enveloped us and our trike, too, so most of the wheels were submerged in earth. But we had mercifully avoided the worst of it, as my trusty driver's reaction to hit the brakes kept us out of the main funnel. Only five feet more, and the part that crushed a stone wall in two would have slammed into us directly.

I realized then that my GoPro was still on for some of it, but the few images that were salvageable don't come near to doing it justice.

We looked at each other in stunned amazement, and that split second felt like 10 minutes. My memory of the next few minutes is blurred, but I do remember stepping out of the trike, first with one flip flop that got sucked into the mud, and then, barefoot with my other step.

Taking cues from my driver, I realized that we weren’t out of harm’s way yet. In fact, we were smack dab in the path of calamity, with our trike rendered incapacitated wheels-deep in mud and the hillside loosened to the point where a second washout was highly likely.

Without saying a word, we both hopped to action, jumping out and rocking the trike back and forth until the wheels were cleared so we could spin it around and half carry/half wheel it back a few feet, where only shallow mud and stones littered the highway's surface. From there, we could easily roll it a few feet more, wipe our brows, and take in the scene.

Still in shock but resplendent that we’d escaped unharmed, we made our way back to the hamlet only a few minutes away, as the road forward was now impassable.

I was slightly relieved that we'd both agreed upon canceling the rest of the tour, as we’d be much safer back in Basco. Heading back through the hamlet, we barely slowed long enough to tell a few passersby's what happened and warn them that the road ahead was out.

Ten minutes outside of town in the other direction, we stopped abruptly behind a truck and another motorcyclist. I craned my neck only to see that another landslide had covered the road in a thick layer of mud and rocks.

Several motorists on the other side of the landslide fifty feet away shrugged and turned around, while others sat there and tried to calculate if there was a way to get through. There wasn’t.

This was the only road back to Basco – to safety from the screaming wind and driving rain, but we were forced to turn back towards the hamlet, boxed in between two landslides.

Luckily, my driver, who was soaked to the bone and shivering like a puppy dog by now since he probably weighed all of 130 lbs., knew someone in that community who might help us, his Uncle Joey. We came upon a storefront on the main road with a balcony and apartment overtop, and he called out.

A well-built, smiling man in his late 20s came out and after hearing our story in rapid-fire Ivatan, eagerly brought us up to his apartment, where he brought out two dry shirts and cups of coffee.

Thanking him profusely, I squeezed into the too-small shirt and muzzled the mug of hot coffee to warm up my hands, giving my windbreaker to the driver.

Uncle Joey was born and raised right there but had made it over to Saudi Arabia for a few years to work construction, which allowed him to build this store and apartment for his family when he returned, as well as start his own little construction company.

The three of us watched as police and local service workers clamored back and forth with trucks and shovels.

“It will only be about half an hour before they clear the road, so you can go back,” Uncle Joey said. After the coffee was done, he even brought out beers (at 11 am in the middle of a typhoon) to keep spirits up and provide liquid courage for our eventual journey.

Boy did he like to talk, and we basically exchanged life stories in that half hour…and then hour…and then hour-and-a-half wait.

I must admit that I was a little impatient, as if I relied on the local sense of timing and urgency, we would be content just to sit there and chat and drink beers all night.

But every time someone came back to the hamlet, on a bicycle, motorbike, or just a farmer pulling his cow by a rope so that he could keep it in his house during the storm, they said the same thing: the road was not clear.

There was no way I wanted to spend the night there in that hamlet to ride out the storm, so I talked them into venturing out from our dry (if not warm) shelter and figuring something else out. My driver would leave his trike here in the hamlet, which he could pick up the next day or whenever it was possible again - the trike was just too wide and clumsy to navigate the narrow and muddy conditions. Instead, Uncle Joey would drive us on his much sturdier motorcycle with off-road tires.

Taking me first, Uncle Joey drove to the second landslide we'd encountered on the way back to Basco. However, not only was it not clear yet, but it didn't even look like it had been touched.

To his credit, he came up with an ingenious – yet risky – strategy. One by one, he’d drive us to the edge of this landslide.

From there, I’d have to get off and walk across on foot. On the other side, I’d look for a motorcycle, car, or truck that was turning back towards Basco and hitch a ride with them. Although the plan sounded a little indefinite, it was better than sitting and waiting all day (and probably night) in the hamlet.

I got off the bike, thanked Uncle Joey for his hospitality, took off my flip flops and started making my way across the landslide. It was treacherous going since the mud was two feet deep in places and you sank right in, stepping on rocks and sharp sticks as you went. But my biggest concern was that the eroded hillside spilled more of its contents onto the same pile, which could be a serious problem or even deadly if I was stuck in the middle of it.

I tried to double-time it across the landslide but there was only one speed, and rushing just made me fall, so it took me a few minutes to cross, adrenaline pumping and covered in mud when I reached the other side.

Joey was headed back to get the driver, so I looked for a motorist I could hitch a ride with but saw none. I started walking.

I had the coastal highway completely to myself, and soon I found out why; after walking for only fifteen minutes or so, I came across another landslide.

Again, I took off my flip flops and braced myself and double-timed it across before more debris might rumble off the hillside at me. There must have been several landslides along the snaking 20km or so coastal road to Basco because I didn’t see one car, bike, or person along the way now.

I didn’t even know if my driver and Joey were coming back, or if they decided to wait it out. I just knew that safety was ahead in Basco, and I better get there quick as the sky continued to darken and spiral in a preternatural fury.

Resigned now that I might have to walk most of the way to town, I took off my flip flops for good this time, put them in my waterproof SCUBA dive bag slung across my shoulder, tightened the drawstring on my shorts, and started running.

The rain whipped my eyes, stinging them nearly shut. Pebbles, sticks, and wind-swept debris scuffed my feet with each step.

The drone footage of my consciousness zoomed in, and then out.

I was lost.

On a small, exposed island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and South China Sea, about as far across the world as you can go without falling off and disappearing.

No idea where to go except in one direction following that road.

Not one single person around me.

Running in the middle of a typhoon, soaking wet and barefoot along the yellow line in the middle of a vast highway,

Dancing armies of palm trees and muddy green hills on one side of me,

The ocean boiling violently on the other; a giant’s teapot forgotten on the stove, threatening to swallow the island and every insignificant soul upon it.

But there was no fear; only exaltation, like a man struck twice by lightning wakes up every morning after.

I was no longer cold, but every hair on my body stood up. I’m no runner, but each time I met the pavement, I sprung back up, surprised by the surge of energy that coursed through my body.

I saw it all so clearly. The gears of time slowed until there was only that moment.

There was only one more step; one more breath.

I was alive.
ALIVE!

I left out a wolf howl from deep within me and quickened my pace, still, breathing in the chaos and exhaling calm, the closest thing to nirvana I’ve ever known.

It didn’t last long enough.

Although I was determined to hoof it back to Basco if needed, after climbing through mudslides and running on the abandoned highway only for about half an hour, a motorbike came up behind me. It was my friends – Uncle Joey and the driver – who greeted me warmly, as the path was cleared enough for them to navigate through.

It still was an adventure getting “home” to Basco that day, with lots of hitchhiking, paying a few coins for trikes and jeepneys to take us as far as they could, waiting outside bars and local shacks as they readied themselves, passing harrowing roads littered with boulders and cascaded with dangerous waterfalls, and plenty of shivering.

But, eventually, I did make it back, and a lukewarm shower, a change of clothes, and a hot meal never felt so good. And I'll carry with me always the feeling I had on that road that day – and the ultimate lesson I learned in Batanes; that even in this day and age, there are still places on this earth where you can be wild and free.

“Diyos mamahes,” Batanes.

Norm :-)

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Your November 2018 Postcard from Norm: Introducing Lifted International.

11/11/2018

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This month, I wanted to share a new endeavor that’s near and dear to my heart: Lifted International.

A few years back, I was hanging with some good friends at a music festival called Outside Lands in California when we got into a deep conversation. We all realized that we were blessed and doing well, but really wanted to give back in some way to make it all mean something.

We each had several distinct advantages, but also limitations. For instance, one of my friends, the CEO of a music technology company, had money to donate, but little time to vet charities and make sure his funds were going to good use.

Another buddy had professional experience managing non-profit organizations, and our wonderful friend from South Africa was a whiz with growing small businesses, as well as adding a unique cultural (and female!) perspective to the group.

We recruited one of my childhood homies who was already active in philanthropy on a high level and had a certain celebrity, and our Lifted team was complete.

Oh, and me? I guess I added an intimate knowledge of the communities we were aiming to help, since I lived in impoverished countries such as Nicaragua, Cambodia, the Philippines, etc. and traveled extensively. I was to be the “boots on the ground,” so to speak.

As we started the long and arduous process of forming a non-profit (there are A LOT of hoops to jump through!), we had to clarify our vision.

Who would we try to help with Lifted? And what was the best way to really make a difference in the world?

We wrestled with this decision.

After all, there are SO many causes that need our attention. Do we work to eradicate homelessness? Crusade against domestic abuse? Find a cure for cancer? Or, is our environment the most pressing need of all?

Furthermore, do we give $100 to one charity or $1 to 100 charities?

And is it really rational to “help those at home first?” instead of strangers on the other side of the world, or is that just small-minded, provincial thinking?

Drawing on personal experience, reading numerous biographies of great men and women, and doing copious research into the nature and function of philanthropic aid, a common theme emerged:

The best way to help any society is by empowering its women.

Furthermore, all research pointed to the fact that providing education for children, and especially girls, was the #1 most effective way of improving the conditions of any community.

Get poor and at-risk girls in school – and keep them there – and the positive changes that ensure are simply magical.

Just look at Malala Yousafzai, the 15-year-old Pakistani girl who was forbidden by the Taliban to attend school but defied them. She was shot point blank in the face but still wouldn’t relinquish her chance at an education, and went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize and become a global inspiration.

We now had out mission: to empower impoverished youth worldwide.

Intrinsic in that key word – ‘empower,’ education was first and foremost.

But, in desperately poor countries and areas, it’s not as simple as paying for a child to go to school. In many cases, the family resists the idea wholeheartedly, since you are taking a pair of hands out of the workforce when kids go to school, and every penny is needed every day just to feed them.

Furthermore, most schools aren’t really free worldwide, as they have to pay for books, supplies, uniforms, transportation, some food while they are at school, and even sometimes have to bribe the teachers just so they’ll show up!

So, we have to take a wholistic approach to getting these kids in school, including family and community awareness and support and a whole lot of logistics.

Therefore, we added to Lifted’s mission that we’d work to foster the conditions necessary for safe, happy, and healthy childhoods that lead to positive and productive adults, enlivening communities.

We certainly felt like we were now on the right path, but how would Lifted be different? How would it be better and more effective than the innumerable charities that were already in existence?

After all, I’ve seen a whole lot of shady non-profits out there that pocket an obscene amount of money only to see the majority of it doled out for CEO and employee salaries, fancy offices, and 5-star “business” trips.

Even when you donate to legitimate, well-established charities (which shall remain nameless), only 90, 70, or 50% of your funds actually go to the people and cause you’re trying to help. The rest goes to administrative, operational, and marketing costs.

But, with Lifted International, 100% of your donations go directly to the children and communities we're helping – every time!

We can do that because we keep our overhead extremely low and pay all of our administrative, marketing, and operation costs out of our own pockets.

Once the ink was dry and Lifted International was officially a 501c3 non-profit, we also took our time choosing the first projects we’d undertake.

Saving the world is a lot more complex than you must think, and simply throwing money at people without structure and accountability is not a formula for long term life-changing transformations.

We’re also not interested in “ego projects,” as I call them, where charities will undergo flashy yet impractical and unsustainable missions just to get their name plastered on a school or a well and the great photo ops it presents.

The great news is that Lifted has found some great programs and people to invest in.

We help Makara, a gifted and hard-working girl who lives at the CIO Orphanage in Cambodia go to school, girls rescued from sex trafficking and taught job skills at the wonderful Connecting Hands Café, and sponsor five children living in the slums of Manila, where their father wakes up at 3 am to work as a trash collector just so they can get an education.

Today, I welcome you to meet a few of these folks, and find out some more about Lifted International.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you; for reading this; for caring; and, if you deem us worthy, for offering your support.

-Norm.

Liftedint.org

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Your October 2018 postcard from Norm: Batanes reveals her true nature

10/26/2018

6 Comments

Last month, I started sharing my experience in Batanes with you, the furthest northern island in the Philippines archipelago of 7,500 islands. In fact, the wild, rugged, and gaspingly beautiful Batanes is so far isolated out where the South China Sea meets the Pacific that it’s only 120 miles from Taiwan – closer to that nation than its own capital city of Manila.

My postcard for September was littered with photos of rolling green hills, impossibly blue skies, and sun-flecked seas. However, you won’t be seeing much sunshine in this month’s postcard.

That’s because after my very first afternoon touring the northern portion of the island after touching down, the weather turned abruptly. I woke up Saturday morning and went out onto the back balcony of my lodge, which overlooked the ocean, and was met by ominous gray skies, stirring winds, and stinging rain. Suddenly, Batanes was far more inhospitable.

The sunshine was the anomaly, not the rain, I found out after speaking with the two pleasant staff who served my breakfast in no hurry at all. In fact, the monsoon season wraps from about late May or June all the way through to January or so, leaving only a precious few months for bright sun.

The island is perpetually battered by storms and bad weather, and the hearty and steadfast folk who live there can only survive by forming a fragile connection with the soil, the seas, and each other.

Until recently, just about every Ivatan (the island’s indigenous inhabitants) made a living as a fisherman or a farmer, as the volcanic soil is particularly fertile for growing garlic, various sweet potatoes, and a dark green fern for greens, as well as grazing cattle.

The sea offered endless abundance, their canoes coming back mid-morning with so many massive fish, their hulls dipped with the weight.

That’s changed over the years, as the backbreaking work and extreme risk make life as a fisherman less appealing. These days, the youth aren’t eager to learn the traditional “Kalusan” work songs, chanted in the fields or while rowing, as well as how to tie a knot or how to track and net schools of flying fish. When they are old enough, the young adults usually leave for the mainland cities and never come back.
Tourism has become a better source of income for the locals and Ivatans over the past decade.

It dawned on me…so THAT’S why I found such cheap airline tickets to Batanes, as I only paid 7,000 Pesos roundtrip when they normally went for 10-18k each way. And THAT’S why I hadn’t seen any other patrons in my lodge, which probably had thirty rooms. I looked around…I was the only one sitting in the basement restaurant.

“How many people are staying here?” I asked the waitress, who also doubled as the front desk clerk, and the night watchman, when she emerged from the kitchen, singing.

“Right now?” she scanned the empty restaurant. “Two. Just you and another nice couple from Manila.”

Uh oh.

“We’re supposed to get a big group coming in on Wednesday’s plane, but I don’t know if they’ll come in because of the typhoon.”

She took my plate of pancake crumbs, still humming her tune.

“Ty…did you say typhoon? There’s a typhoon?”

“Yes, we have a low-pressure system coming in,” she said looking up at the lone television playing weather reports from the mainland.

“When is it supposed to hit?” I asked, the pancakes suddenly like lead in my stomach.

“Which one?”

“The typhoon,” I answered.

“Yes, which one?”

“Wait, there’s more than one?!”

Indeed, I found out that there were not one but two typhoons rolling into, over and through Batanes, a smaller one the next day... and a big one later that week.

The rest of that day, I decided to take advantage of the incessant rain and relax in my room, getting some work done and watching movies. Maybe it would get sunny later that afternoon?

It didn't, so I did go out to walk around, exploring the seaside hamlet that passed as the biggest community on the island, containing around 8,000 of the 18,000 total residents. I even navigated the sharp rocky beach and took a swim that afternoon before chowing down on a huge dish of fresh seafood curry at the best restaurant I could find in town, which was located at their lone gas station.

Sunday morning, despite my high hopes, it was raining even harder. The endless horizon wasn’t even visible anymore, as a slate gray wall of rain blew sideways across the ocean, slamming into the town.

I made a decision sitting at breakfast, where I was still the only one since all of the flights into Batanes had been canceled: the show must go on. The rain would probably never stop while I was there, and I was going crazy of boredom sitting in my room watching my clothes dry.

So, I arranged a tour that day to go see the southern portion of the island, since I had already traveled around the north on my first (sunny) day.

The hotel staff and tour guide didn’t pause to question my decision, of course, since the storm was just a typical day for them. The driver, too, really needed the 1,000 Pesos – or $18 for the day-long tour, as that may have been all he earned for a week, or a month.

But, instead of the shelter of a comfy van like the bigger hotels offered (and the richer tourists hired), we would embark on our soggy and windblown adventure on a trike, which is a motorcycle with a little sitting cage as its sidecar, totally open and exposed to the elements.

I didn't even try to put on rain gear because I knew it would do no good, wearing board shorts, flip-flops (they call them "Canellas") and a basketball jersey under my windbreaker.

The driver, a skinny native with bad naval tattoos who looked to be around 50 but I found out was 35, was even more ill-prepared, wearing jeans, a cotton tank top, a fake gold chain and sunglasses beneath his weathered baseball cap.

We set out into the squall along the main coastal highway, which was nearly empty. Within minutes, we were both soaked to the skin, and gave up on trying to stay dry as the rain pushed our trike off course.

There were a few locals on the road, as no simple storm would stop them. But they did look at me curiously, as there were no other tourists to be seen. Our first stop was the Mahato Port, which is an inlet inside a man-made seawall constructed to provide shelter from storms to passing boats.

The view was so bizarre and beautiful, it was surreal. Where the hell was I?! It looked like a portion of the Great Wall of China had been wedged between two sheer cliffs, cutting off the angry waves that would have easily carried us out to a grave at sea if not for the barrier. We lowered our heads and traversed a path that led along the cliff face, up the sea wall, and onto the rolling hills overlooking the port, where the wind was really picking up. With an elevated glimpse far up the coastline, I could see no signs of life save for a lone lighthouse in the distance.

We continued on with some urgency now, as our journey into the storm seemed untenable – to me, at least. But it wasn’t a long ride to the site of the oldest structure on the islands, a stone hut made out of limestone and crushed coral with a cogon grass thatched roof.

The roof had been replaced many times, of course, but the hut was built in 1877, just referred to as the “House of Estrella” or the “House of Dakay” after Jose “Dakay” Estrella, the man who inherited it from family.

While you may think that 1877 isn’t so impressive as the oldest building in Batanes, keep in mind that the island is continuously hammered by storms and even typhoons of near-Biblical proportions, like Typhoon Meranti (known as ‘Ferdie' locally) in 2016 that nearly wiped the island off the map, or an 8.3-magnitude earthquake in 1918 that leveled just about every structure on the island – except this one stone hut.

Our next stop was the Honesty Café, which I was excited to visit. I’d heard of this unique little coffee shop, where patrons came in and served themselves to coffee, tea, and baked goods, leaving their payment in a cash box, working on the honor system.

The Honesty Café was started by a local school teacher, Elena Castaño-Gabilo, who set up this little café decade earlier when she retired. However, soon after opening it, she was pulled away when helping on her family’s farm became the priority.

But Elena didn't want to shut down her new café, so she prepared coffee and food and left it on the table before she left for work every day. Along with the unmonitored sustenance, she placed a sign, simply asking anyone who wandered in to please be honest with their payment. She’d come back at noon to check on the place, only to find that the café not only wasn’t robbed, but the cash box was full.

The thought of a store that works on the honor system isn’t so far-fetched when you consider that she lived in a tiny community of a couple hundred people where everyone knew each other. Likewise, Ivatan society is exceptionally egalitarian, emphasizing the respect of nature and each other. Elders are highly revered, and discrimination based on race, skin color, or even sexual orientation is virtually nonexistent. Everyone working in concert with each other and the land, and symbols such as thunderbolts, waves, the sun, wind, and earthquakes are powerful talismans in their artwork.

So, the Honesty Café grew in popularity over the years, and when tourists caught wind of such a place, it took on a new (and highly profitable) life of its own. We all want to live in a world where such a place still exists!

When I visited the simple limestone structure, the café had become a favorite for visitors, and the original owner’s grandchildren poked their heads in to sweep up and restock the coffee. But it was still an honor system for paying, even though there were plenty of signs offering gentle reminders to do the right thing like, “The Lord is my security guard” and “This store is too small for dishonest people.”

After my water-logged driver and warmed up with a hot cup of instant coffee and a few cookies, I even went behind the counter and washed and dried our dishes before we headed back out, overpaying into the cash box just because I love the concept so much.

Our two-person caravan carried on as the road led us to an even more remote part of the island, the storm picking up in intensity around us. Soon, we reached Itbud, a cluster of houses so small that it’s classified as a “populated place,” not even a village. Officially, Itbud now is home to 482 residents, a huge jump from 2010, when there were only 463 people living there.

They were all making preparations, busy carrying rope or plywood back and forth along the road, leading their cows to shelter, and stocking up on provisions. Even their one school was let out early when the church bell rang.

The flock of wild kids, still dressed in their uniforms, ran gleefully to the bridge that spanned a river that led from the hills to the sea. They lined up, standing on their tiptoes to look over the railing, entertained by the rising waters as their concerned parents called them back, only to be ignored.

I walked over and checked it out, too, and already the river was a bull rush of churning brown water, mud, branches, and anything else it picked up along the way, including the parts of a few houses, as the water was frighteningly close to overflowing its channel and submerging a few structures already, if not the entire bridge. This was just after a couple day’s worth of rain, I reminded myself.

“Where to next?” I asked my driver, hoping he would say that we were turning back. I was more than a little concerned at this point, as the wind had to be approaching 50 mph and the rain kept fell even harder, improbably.

“We go into the mountains now,” he answered, kick-starting the motorcycle, eager to get rolling before I was even fully on board. I realized that he wasn’t going to cancel our tour no matter what conditions we faced, as he was desperate for the $18 fee, although just a pittance to me.

Before I could voice my reservation that we should err on the side of caution and assure him that I was happy to pay in full, only five minutes outside of the village along the two-lane main road, we ran into a bigger problem.

With a mighty rumble, the hillside dislodged, and a wall of mud and water came rushing down at us.

-Norm :-)

P.S. I'll tell ya all about it next month!

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Your September 2018 Postcard from Norm: Breathtaking Batanes

9/16/2018

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I’d often heard about it, but no one I knew had actually been there. It was spoken of like some secret mystical place, even though it’s still part of the Philippines.

Batanes.

The furthest north of all the Philippines islands, when you stand on the coast of Batanes, every one of the archipelago’s 7,500 islands are at your back!

It’s also so isolated, mercilessly sitting in the middle of the China Sea where it meets the endless Pacific,that it’s closer to Taiwan than the mainland of its own country.

The rare photos were nothing short of spectacular, too, revealing rolling green hills that were so bright they were almost neon, and stern blue seas that were less playful than the clear turquoise waters you see in most of the country’s shores, and iconic landmarks like a volcano, a lone lighthouse standing sentry on its shore, and the ruins of a cobblestoned church.

Batanes looks like you took the Scottish coast, mixed it with Nova Scotia, and sprinkled in some Lake Tahoe in Northern California – all in the tropical Philippines.

So, I was ecstatic when I found a special on flights there this early September, as plane tickets to get to Batanes’ lone airport are usually ridiculously expensive. (It escaped my attention that I was flying there in the middle of the typhoon season, and that’s why tickets were so cheap!)

Flying on a twin prop Bombardier, the aircraft rumbling and shaking as it rambled through the cloud fields as big as small cities on our way true north, I felt like my progress was being tracked on an old map like in an Indiana Jones film.

But putting this bird on the ground would prove no easy task, as the pilot had to pass the island, pull a sharp 180 and swoop down and then, drop in quickly once he cleared the dormant green volcano and touch down on a short runway, not unlike landing on an aircraft carrier. But even with the jarring, slam-the-brakes 2G landing, I had to let out a laugh. I was finally in Batanes.

It was brilliant from the moment I descended the stairs from the trusty old Bombardier, with blooming red flowers and the volcanos stern green peek greeting us.

I had arranged a stay at the Batanes Seaside Resort – a place I took a gander on based on the photos on the booking site, and a smiling local woman was waiting for me with a single name written on her sign: Sir Norm Schriever.

She welcomed me, and we walked outside, where we got in a van and drove the approximately five blocks and two minutes to the hotel. As the driver helped me with my bag, the woman got out quickly and ran inside.

When I walked into the lobby, she was slipping behind the front desk just in time to say “Welcome to the Batanes Seaside Resort.”
She was the hotel’s only employee at the time!

I was tired from a super early wakeup call and traveling, so all I wanted to do was take a siesta. But the weather was so nice I thought it would be a waste not to take advantage of the afternoon, so I asked them to book a trike (a motorcycle taxi with a sidecar) tour of the north part of the island.

It's a good thing that I did because the rest of my stay in Batanes it was rainy and storming!

That first afternoon, the underpowered trike chugged up the hills and along the weaving coastline, stopping at several scenic vantage points (I won’t try to describe them – the photos will say it all!)

Some of the highlights included the Japanese or Dipnaysupuan Tunnels.

When WWII first broke out in the Asian theater, Japan quickly invaded Batanes to take advantage of its strategic location. The local villagers and fisherman offered no resistance, and the Japanese troops forced men, women, and children to dig a series of tunnels into a hillside overlooking the ocean and countryside. The tunnels were meant to serve as a lookout for invading troops by air or by sea, and also as a bunker for the Emperor's forces to hide out if necessary. There were five exits and entrances in the hill, and several interior chambers including a stone stairway down to a natural water reservoir.

We also visited Cafe du Tukon, which sat nestled in one of the prettiest landscapes I've ever seen, reminiscent of the Italian countryside. But the café and its impeccably manicured gardens and meandering paths are not just for show, as they highlight the cultural heritage of the Ivatan, the indigenous islands that have lived in harmony with the sometimes inhospitable land and sea for centuries.

Aside from the breathtaking vistas, the café operates as a farm-to-fork local cooperative for farmers and fishermen, as well as artists and other local merchants.

I would have returned to that café daily, but the local proprietor's daughter, Polly, told me that they were closing down for a few days for team building exercises, a common practice in the Philippines to both reward employees and foster trust and cooperation among them.

At one point, our trike stuttered, coughed and quit - right on the steepest part of the hill. I got out and tried to help by pushing, but it wasn't just a matter of our underpowered motorcycle but also the fact that my driver had forgotten to fill up his gas tank. Oops.

Towards the end of the afternoon, as the sun dropped to the vast horizon and the shadows grew long on the hills of Batanes, turning them from emerald green to black, our last stop was the Light House of Basco, one of three such guideposts for seafarers crossing the endless Pacific or stormy South China Sea.

I climbed the 66-foot circular staircases to the top, where I had a magnificent view of the surrounding Naidi Hills, the town of Basco, a few preserved Ivatan stone dwellings, and, of course, the sea.

So, I jogged up the incline in flip flops, arriving at the top panting, sweaty, dirty, and thoroughly happy. Luckily, all of the drivers know each other and help one another, and he transferred some fuel from another trike into a Coke bottle, and then we walked it back down to our stranded motorcycle and were soon on our way.

My second day there, I woke up to starkly different weather, with gray skies, stinging winds and rain. I took the day to catch up on work but also managed to venture out and explore the town of Basco, strolling with no particular destination in mind, turning down smaller and smaller side streets, and smiling and saying hello to the enthusiastic locals while snapping photos of the mundane elements of their daily lives, which were remarkable to me.

For instance, I learned that Basco (which is home to 8,000 of the island’s total 18,000 residents!) has the only gas station on the entire island of Batanes, a Petron with two pumps. That gas station is such a famous landmark that it's also home to the best restaurant in town (in my humble and limited opinion). There, I could dine on freshly caught seafood and even lobster for strangely low prices, while all other foodstuffs that had to be imported from the mainland were more pricey.

Some of Basco's infrastructure was uncharacteristically pristine, like the park and municipal buildings in the center of the town proper, or the Science High School, which was decorated with all the pomp and circumstance you'd expect at a top-flight Philippines university.

There was also very little litter (a big problem across the country and anywhere in Southeast Asia), clearly marked and organized recycling centers spread about, colorful public service announcements painted on rocks or signs hung on trees, and a trim, fit police force that carried no guns.

I stopped to snap a photo of a yellow and black marker that read simply “K 0000 BO,” as Bosco was the exact latitudinal starting point of the entire Philippines.

But there was also evidence of a more rustic existence, like the fact that there was no Wi-Fi. Like, on the whole island. Incredibly, the entire population communicates with the mainland and the outside world only through their cell phones.

At first, I panicked when they told me that since I have to work daily online. But my worst fears of being fired unilaterally were assuaged when they helped me buy a local SIM card and sign up for cell service, which functioned slowly but adequately as a hotspot for my computer – as long as the weather was good.

A few of the homes were extraordinary, in so much as you can take sturdy concrete shells designed to withstand the harshest weather and erosion and dress them up to like an English country manor. But most of the inhabitants of Bosco lived in simple and useful little abodes, with wooden or even metal shutters ready to be drawn against the elements. However, the starkness of their purpose didn't stop the residents from decorating and painting them whimsically, with colorful murals, flowering vines or gardens, and sunny décor.

The church in town was adorned with blue and white bunting that flapped in the breeze, and most people bought their goods from sari-sari stores (sort of like tiny neighborhood bodegas) that were so small and tightly packed that I had to squeeze through sideways so not to knock over a rack of eggs or shelf of rum bottles.

While the yard dogs barked fiercely as I approached, the people of Bosco were almost universally smiling, loved to chit-chat, and even invited me over to try some of their food.

The only one who wasn't agreeable when I walked by were two fisherman's' sons, who chopped massive dorado, amberjack, and flying fish on a wooden stand by the road, pulled so recently from the ocean that the fish’s eyes still looked startled by their newfound predicament.

No, this two fisherman kin never broke their stern frown and squinting eyes when I walked by, and only nodded disapprovingly when I said hi.

Maybe they knew something the rest of us didn’t and, like the fish that were now headless, they knew the stakes. A storm was coming.

And it was a big one.

-Norm :-)

***
Stay tuned for part two of this postcard about Batanes next month.

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Your August 2018 postcard from Norm: What’s so special about Thailand?

8/9/2018

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As I write this, I'm currently staying in Thailand for a month, not a vacation but still an enjoyable respite from life in the Philippines. In fact, the best of Thailand perfectly complements what the Philippines is lacking, and vice versa. I could see myself spending a few months here every year.

But it’s not my first rodeo in Thailand (so to speak). I came to the Kingdom of Siam way back in 1999 as I backpacked around the world with a friend. Thailand had a lot of backpackers and intrepid travelers but was far less commercial then. I was able to attend the last Full Moon Party before the Millennium, don a tuxedo and celebrate the coming of 2000 in Bangkok, exploring the small, virtually unknown mountain city of Chang Mai, and visited the island of Phuket about four years before the epic tsunami nearly wiped it off the map.

Since then, I’ve been back to Thailand many times, attending my good friend Judd Reid’s karate fight camps (and living to tell about it), hanging with my main man, Scotty P, who now lives here, and properly introduced to the island of Koh Samui by my Aussie mate, Clint G.

Through it all, my appreciation of Thailand has grown to respect and, dare I even say it, love.

While I don’t foresee ever calling the country home (but who knows?), here are 15 things that make Thailand so special:

1. Surprisingly clean, orderly, and everything works
“It’s like I’m in Beverly Hills!”

That’s what I say to my friends who live in Thailand every time I arrive there, as it appears like a remarkably clean, orderly, and well-run society. While they remind me that there is some pollution (and a whole lot of corruption), for me, it is dazzlingly first-class.

Everything works. Everything is simple to get or use. The infrastructure is great. And any convenience you could need steps away.

Then again, I’m usually coming from the stunningly chaotic and disorderly Philippines when I arrive in Thailand these days, but it’s still nice to be in my (poor man’s) Beverly Hills.

2. The food!
No country on the entire planet has better food than Thailand. In fact, the grub here is so tasty, healthy, abundant, and inexpensive that it boggles the mind. You can find endless great places to eat at the ubiquitous shops, kiosks, stalls, markets, and carts that you don’t even need to step foot into a proper restaurant to get amazing Thai food. Fish, seafood, vegetables, soups, noodles, rice, curries, and fresh fruit are all a part of the daily diet in Thailand, so your body will love you for it.

There is also so much tradition and etiquette that goes with Thai meal times that it almost takes on a ritual-like reverence. In fact, they say that Thai people take so much pride in their cooking that they choose to open up their own eatery instead of patronizing someone else’s!

Just be careful because the food can also be insanely spicy, so ask for “nitnoy” (a small amount) spicy or food good for a “farang” (foreigner).

3. Muay Thai
Muay Thai, or the art of eight deadly limbs (punches, kicks, elbows, and knees - times two), may be the national sport in Thailand, but it's more of a religion than an athletic endeavor. That's understandable when you consider that the origins of Muay Thai were around 1238 AD when elite warriors used it to protect from invasion during the Sukhothai Era.

It’s also a big business, with Muay Thai training centers and gyms just about everywhere. Many of them are simple, homemade operations with an open-air ring and some tires and bags to kick right in someone's backyard, but others are internationally renowned fighter factories. Foreigners may find it a tad ruthless, as they start training poor kids from a young age, where they sleep right on the mats at the gym, and aspiring pros often have 100 amateur fights before the age of 18.

But you can still take in a night of live Muay Thai fights at the heralded Lumpinee Stadium or the newer mecca, Rajadamnern Stadium in Bangkok, or in just about every other island or small town.

I’ve even managed to train with one of the all-time greats in Muay Thai, Sakmongkol Sithchuchok, who won eight various championships during his career. After our hour together, he gave me some words of wisdom that I carry with me always. The Muay Thai legend leaned over and told me, “You – no good Muay Thai.”

4. Definitely not Third World
Did you know that Thailand is the only country in Southeast Asia that has never once been invaded and conquered during its history? It’s true, as the Kingdom of Siam (its former name) was never even colonized by Europeans, in times when Vietnam, Cambodia, Indonesia, Laos, etc. were all referred to as Indochina.

It makes for a fascinating case study in the detriment of Colonialism because, now, Thailand is certainly not a Third World (or ‘Developing' in polite society) nation. It has one of the fastest growing economies in Asia thanks to manufacturing that accounts for two-thirds of its GDP, and it ranks as the wealthiest nation in South East Asia.

The Thais are not only better educated, have a higher standard of living, and enjoy stronger cultural sovereignty than their Southeast Asian neighbors, but they also display fierce independence and pride.

5. Language
The Thai language is sharp, spirited chatter to the Western ear – almost cartoonish in its inflections and exaggerations. It’s also incredibly difficult to learn, with 4 consonant symbols and 15 vowel symbols that combine with 28 vowel symbols and four tone diacritics, plus a “ka” for women and a “Khrub” for men. Whoa!

Some common sayings include “Sa-wat dee” (hello). Khop khun (thank you), Chok dee (cheers), and som nah na (it serves you right!)

But, for English speakers, there’s also a hilariously juvenile side to the Thai language, with names like Phuket, Bangkok, and billboards proclaiming that you should drink a beverage called “Si Min.” I’m not joking!

6. Buddhism
Buddhism is the predominant religion in Thailand. One of the things I love about Buddhism is that it’s more than just a spiritual practice, but a way of living your life, and there is no competition or conflict with other religions. Practicing Buddhism is also by no means confined to religious days and places of worship (although there are breathtakingly gorgeous and grand Wats – or temples – just about everywhere). Instead, Thais integrate Buddhist rituals and rights into their every day, such as putting out small alters of incense, fruit, coins, and other offerings, greeting each other with the traditional Buddhist “Wai” with two hands to the chest and a slight bow, and a civility and patience that is surprisingly prevalent in their society.

7. Known for Royalty
Up until 2016 when he passed at the age of 92, Thailand’s King, Bhumibol Adulyadej was the longest standing leader in the entire world, symbolically ruling Thailand’s constitutional monarchy since 1946. But more than just another autocrat, the King (who was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1927) was (and still is) revered for his good deeds, progressive reforms, and genuine care for his Thai people. In fact, every single restaurant, business establishments, and most homes keep a framed portrait of the King out of respect.

His son, a notorious playboy and jet-setter, has taken over as the King of Thailand, and while he’s royalty and doing a serviceable job, it’s just not the same.

8. And frequent coups d'état (revolutions)!
But the King is nowhere near all-powerful in Thailand, as he's one of three pillars along with the other branches of government, the parliament, and the military. That system is fascinating because it's effective but certainly not stable, as there are revolts, rumblings, and outright coups every few years as all three sides jockey for position, forming alliances of two that allow them to take over the country. In fact, Thailand has seen 13 successful coups and 7 attempts to overthrow the government since 1932, or an average of one revolution every 4.3 years!

The last one was in 2014, when the Thai military seized power, creating a military junta that’s ruled ever since. Thankfully, they are usually without large-scale bloodshed (relatively) and more of an inconvenience for travelers and expats than an outright danger. But present-day Thailand has been criticized by human rights groups agencies and internal protestors for its police state that suppresses dissenting political views, criticism of the regime, and lese majeste (speaking poorly of the royal family). They even monitor and police online forums. (Gulp.)

9. Modernity
Thailand is surprisingly modern, civilized, and sophisticated, so those who are expecting an impoverished Banana Republic nation are quickly corrected. There is a firm Thai middle class who drive nice cars, live in new houses in well-planned communities, and conduct business. (In fact, Thais are incredibly entrepreneurial, and from local street vendors to huge multinational corporations, Thailand is definitely open for business!). Drive through Bangkok, and you'll see far more digital billboards, high-rise luxury condos, and international banks than you do slums and signs of poverty.

Even Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport is stunningly next-century, as you can see in this photo and read in this review I wrote for AllWorld.com.

10. Great healthcare
One thing I love about Thailand is the medical care, which is first rate and astonishingly affordable. I've had a host of injuries and maladies treated at hospitals in Thailand (thanks to Judd Reid's fight camp and food poisoning from bad Filipino grub!), and their facilities are sparkling clean, efficiently run, and it seems like three people are working for every patient! That's given rise to a whole lot of expats from the U.S. and many other countries who want to retire to Thailand in part because of the excellent medical care, or who just come for medical vacations, or medi-cations, a fast-rising sector.

For instance, last time I was here in March, I visited the hospital at least a dozen times, seeing plenty of specialists and getting every test known to man (including CAT scans, MRIs, etc.) as they tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with me (thanks again, Philippines food). The total cost for all of that was about $3,000 – which would have easily been $30,000 or way more in the U.S.!

11. The prices
I’m frugal, pennywise, thrifty, and every other adjective you can describe to say that someone hates to unnecessarily part with their money. To put it another way, I’m cheap. So, I fully appreciate when a country offers a lot of value for a reasonable price, and that's definitely Thailand. Between the healthy, clean, and abundant food that's moderately priced, to the good deals on hotels (but better deals on long-term stay condos), medical care and transportation, I can live like a King in Thailand for about $50 a day (roughly 1,600 Thai Baht). I even find Thailand more affordable for better quality and value than traveling in the Philippines, where I currently live.

12. The nightlife is loco!
“What the hell did I just see?” That’s a common utterance in one of Thailand’s notorious nightlife districts. From the capital city, Bangkok, to the tourist island of Phuket, the Full Moon Party in Koh Phangan (island), the Sin City of Pattaya, and more, the nightlife, bar scene, and seedy elements are as crazy as you'll find anywhere in the world – and immensely entertaining.

It’s also puzzling for a country that is so conservative and traditional in many other facets of law and society, but, like most things, the paradox can probably be attributed to profit.

But one country-wide celebration that I love that’s fun for the whole family is the water festival of Songkran.

Here’s a good write-up (if I do say so, myself) on Songkran.

13. Multi-culturalism
Despite being one of the most homogenous nations in the world, both ethnically and religiously, Thailand is a hotbed of multiculturalism.

Thanks to thriving centuries-old trade to its religious inclusion, ease of opening and doing business, and a high standard of living, people from all over the world come to Thailand to work and live. Most cities have an Arab Quarter or area (where I first stayed in Bangkok in 1999), and you’ll see endless Russians, Europeans, English, Australians, Israelis, more and more Africans, and others walking around every day.

It all blends seamlessly, with Thais at the top of the pecking order and everyone else left to figure it out.

14. Real estate…and other vices
Want to hear something interesting? The Thais have their own version of Las Vegas or Amsterdam, a seaside city called Pattaya only 90 kilometers from Bangkok. While it’s got a less-than-favorable reputation for its Walking Street red light district, the city has actually exploded as a place for couples and families from all over the world to come for vacation. The real estate market in Pattaya is SO hot, they can't construct these towering, glamorous condominium projects fast enough. One is being built right on top of the other, over and over with hundreds of thousands of units for sale.

However, I’d estimate that only about 10-20% of them are ever occupied. Instead of making its money through other vices, Pattaya’s real purpose is as a giant washing machine – laundering foreign money through Thai real estate. People who don't trust their own nation's banks, want to stay off of their government's radar, embezzle funds, make money in narcotics, or just want to benefit from stable foreign currencies can all effortlessly dump their cash into legitimate real estate investments in Thailand.

That’s fine with me, as it drives down prices to the point that I can stay at a gorgeous one-bedroom condo with a pool like a tropical paradise for a whopping price of…about $15 a night.

15. Island hopping and natural beauty
Can you believe that we’ve gone all the way down this list about Thailand without even mentioning the islands and natural beauty yet? Of course, that’s what most travelers best known Thailand for, and you’ve seen the jaw-droppingly gorgeous views of islands, rock formations, and jungle islands in this tropical paradise. Some of the nicest islands in Thailand include Koh (Koh just means ‘island’ in Thai) Samui, which I’ve visited at least once every year thanks to my Aussie Mate, Clint G, Koh Phi Phi, Koh Phanang, Koh Tao, and the aforementioned Koh Phanang.

It’s not just the islands and the geography that’s so impressive, as Thailand boasts plenty of tropical flora and fauna.

That includes world-class scuba diving, wild monkey islands, tiger farms (although many of them aren’t run well responsibly), and elephant sanctuaries that rescue these majestic animals and give them a healthy and happy place to live. These elephants are ecstatic to have visitors, and you can even bathe and play with them in the river (but not ride them).

-Norm :-)

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Your July 2018 Postcard from Norm - taking you to the forbidden island of Boracay.

7/10/2018

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The first thing I noticed was the quiet.

The island was silent. Still. Peaceful. Like I had found it in 1999 when I stumbled upon Boracay Island while backpacking around the world.

Since then, the diminutive island in the central Philippines has become one of the most popular tourist destinations in the region, with more than 2 million visitors last year.

Ranked as one of the best islands in the world by the New York Times Travel, Condé Nast Traveler, and many more, it’s since become a hotbed of commercial chatter, with music blasting, excited gaggles of language, and verbal assaults from solicitors trying to get you to sign up for a sunset cruise.

This is Boracay.

Or, this was Boracay, I should say, because it’s now eerily silent. Instead of tourists and touts, sun worshippers and solicitors, I could hear birds chirping in the palm trees, children’s laughter a kilometer down the beach, and dogs barking as they played gleefully. Ocean waves.

It was both a reminder of what the island used to be and how bizarre a situation it finds itself.

I know what you’re thinking: the island is closed to all tourists, so how the hell could a white boy from the U.S. slip through? Thanks to my humble gig writing a weekly column for the Dumaguete MetroPost newspaper here, I was able to score a media pass to access the island during the closure.

I can assure you that this was no vacation, as the island resembles little of the Boracay we’ve come to know and love.

After walking the entire span of White Beach and back again, I estimated that about 95% of the businesses are closed; boarded up, blacked out, cordoned off. Where there used to be a red velvet rope in front of a bustling nightclub, barbed wire is now strung.

A lot more are quasi-open, their rolling metal doors halfway rolled up, a glimpse of a few plastic chairs and cautious Filipino voices emerging from the darkness within.

There are also signs that, after only 45 days or so, the jungle is reclaiming what mankind took. Flower beds and once-trimmed landscaping are growing wild, the sand paths grow narrower as the brush encroaches, and a tree branch pushes through the tin roof of an abandoned building.

When my guide and I make it all the way down to the more private and secluded Diniwid Beach, I check in on one of Boracay's most iconic spots, Spider House.

It's hard to even describe Spider House, as it's a series of caves and openings built into the sharp rocks of a cliff, expanded into a home by a British family in the 1980s and later into a unique hotel. With a restaurant and bar on a wooden deck built into the rocks, where you could jump right down into the turquoise ocean below, Spider House was special.

But now, it’s dark and gloomy, a big iron gate chained and padlocked closed, with dust and cobwebs accumulating. When I call out, a surprised security guard comes down the rock stairs and tells me that Spider House is closed – and won’t be reopening, as the government is seizing the property for building code violations.

The luxury resort on the steep hillside next to Spider House is still completely burnt out and smoke-stained from a ravaging fire months ago, but never rebuilt.

On the long hike back to the more-popular White Beach area, we run into a lifeguard who I became friends with when I worked there in 2013. He’s one of only two lifeguards left on the whole 3-mile beach, like the piano player who wouldn’t leave his post as the Titanic went down.

Yet they're busier than ever, thanks to the fact that more locals (who may not be able to swim) are hitting the ocean, as well as a head-scratchingly confusing beach safety coding system that no one understands and everyone ignores.

A security guard with a shotgun stands watch over a graveyard of mattresses, freshly scrubbed and laid out in the sun to dry – finally their chance to do so since the hotel has no patrons.

In town, totems of a rushed departure remain, like a note on a broken store window that says, “Looking for a cook who can move to Palawan.”

To me, it all had a Lord of the Flies vibe; the iconic 1960s book in which civilization breaks down and is reconstructed in a more primal manner when a group of boarding school kids become stranded on a remote tropical island.

But the construction on Boracay is more literal. Everywhere you turn, there is work ongoing, like the whole island has been ripped open and disemboweled. Most of D-Mall’s walkway is gutted, with an oddly-small new sewer pipe running the span.

On the main road, backhoes and trucks sit unattended, blocking traffic. Cavernous ditches are cordoned off with yellow tape. Water fills in puddles and pools on the road, splashing mud on beleaguered pedestrians and moto drivers queued up to squeeze through.

“Did it rain today?” I ask my trike driver. “Wala rain,” he says - no rain.

Our trike moon-buggies through the rubble of half-felled buildings, piles of cinder blocks, and sagging electric lines. This is how Boracay looked the morning after Typhoon Yolanda, I recall, as I lived there in 2013.

“Half a road is better than no road,” my trike driver comments, sensing my consternation.

It’s also quite conspicuous that very few people seem to be working. It’s as if all of these projects were started with gusto the first week when government inspectors and media were watching, but then abandoned.

That's a scary proposition, especially since Boracay was nearly 20 percent through the expected six-month closure (when I was there to visit.) Very quickly, there was talk of delays, and that was even before 26 illegal sewage pipes were discovered on White Beach.

Despite the visible lack of progress, the Department of Environment announced that they’re targeting October 26, 2018 for the island’s reopening to tourism. The DOE also reiterated that only businesses that have proved compliant with the new government regulations will reopen, which now stands at only 90 out of 296 registered establishments on the island, according to Environment Secretary Roy Cimatu.

Regardless of the fine print, the light is at the end of the tunnel for Boracay’s closure, so we should be happy that everything will soon be back to normal, right?

Before the confetti falls and the band starts playing, I think it’s important to recognize the many lives that have been irrevocably altered since the Philippines’ most popular tourist destination hung a Closed sign. Unfortunately, the shutdown caused a significant human impact, with many honest, hard-working Filipinos working and living on the island the collateral damage.

“After the first week, there were thousands of people leaving the island,” says Hayden Fernando, a respected tour guide who lives in Caticlan with his family. “The ferry ports and bus stations were crazy, with people carrying boxes and bags and even their bedrolls – everything they owned. Some were crying. It looked like something from a war; like refugees.”

With their livelihood disappearing virtually overnight, possibly tens of thousands of workers took planes, boats, and a whole lot of buses. They fled to Manila or Cebu, where they're still trying to get jobs in call centers; to Siargao or El Nido, hoping to get new jobs in these tourist hot-spots; or, just home to the province where they could be with family and hope to get by.

The remaining locals are desperate for government relief to come, some resorting to fishing for dinner and climbing trees for fruit. The Palawan Pawnshops and Western Unions are lined with people hoping for a remittance from family or friends. Despite lining up in the hot sun upon every feint rumor of a job, six months may as well be an eternity since most were just barely scraping by before the closure.

The sudden draught of income is also tearing families apart, as husbands are forced to go to Iloilo or Cebu to look for work, and children are held out of school because there’s no money for a uniform or books.

The closure also recalibrated the local economy in unexpected ways. For instance, prices on staples, canned goods, and gasoline have actually gone way up since the shutdown. I even noticed a significant breakdown in services, as I waited for half an hour at the airport to get a trike, since few drivers are bothering to show up (and I don’t blame them.)

It's exceedingly hard just to get to Boracay, as both Cebu Pacific and Philippines Air have suspended all flights to Caticlan and most to Kalibo. I actually had to travel to Manila, first, from Dumaguete, and then take the single remaining flight on Air Asia to Caticlan.

It’s hard to find a silver lining as stomachs growl and candles are lit when there’s no money for the electric bill, but I did see something uplifting: the locals have the island to themselves again.

Slowly but surely, unburdened from armies of tourists, lofty prices, and the constraints of 12-hour work days, the island’s residents are coming out to play again, like Boracay of yesteryear.

“The first few days, when there were soldiers and police and TV cameras, the locals mostly stayed away,” says Fernando. “But people started emerging more each day.”

The beach is now spotted with local children, gleefully playing tag in knee-deep waters, bicycle riders cruising down the sand, and spirited games of ultimate frisbee and volleyball.

Laundry is hung to dry on a tree, in front of a hotel that used to cost 12,000 Pesos per night (about $250). At sunset, the small number of people left congregate on the beach in front of the reggae bar to celebrate, like survivors of a zombie apocalypse.

At the iconic Nigi Nigi Nu Noos, an open-air bar that I remember from my first visit in 1999, a band plays that evening, and I count more people on stage than sitting in the entire crowd.

When I climb the steps to Real Coffee Shop, my favorite place there for years, I startle the staff, as they’re not used to foreigners wandering in. They’re playing cards, and the loser gets their face written on in black marker. There’s laughter all around when I ask to take a photo of the lady who’s obviously losing, judging by the scribble all around her big smile.

THIS is Boracay.

This is the spirit of the island I’ve come to know and love.

And THESE are the people who won’t give up, despite the hunger and hard times knocking on their door.

All they have to do now is survive, one day at a time, together.

-Norm :-)

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The human impact of the Boracay Island closure.

7/7/2018

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Last week, we saw some welcome news when it comes to Boracay, as the Department of Environment announced that they’re targeting October 26, 2018 for the island’s reopening to tourism.

(For those of you who don't know, the island was shut down to all tourism and non-residents earlier this year in an unprecedented move to rectify environmental issues with sewage in its waters.)

The DOE also reiterated that only businesses that have proved compliant with the new government regulations will reopen, which now stands at only 90 out of 296 registered establishments on the island, according to Environment Secretary Roy Cimatu.

Regardless of the fine print, the light is at the end of the tunnel for Boracay’s closure, so we should be happy that everything will soon be back to normal, right?

Before the confetti falls and the band starts playing, I think it’s important to recognize the many lives that have been irrevocably altered since the Philippines’ most popular tourist destination hung a Closed sign. Unfortunately, the shutdown caused a significant human impact, with many honest, hard-working Filipinos working and living on the island the collateral damage.

I saw it with my own eyes; heard the stories first hand when I was there recently, covering the shutdown for the Metro Post.

“After the first week, there were thousands of people leaving the island,” says Hayden Fernando, a respected tour guide who lives in Caticlan with his family. “The ferry ports and bus stations were crazy, with people carrying boxes and bags and even their bedrolls – everything they owned. Some were crying. It looked like something from a war; like refugees.”

With their livelihood disappearing virtually overnight, possibly tens of thousands of workers took planes, boats, and a whole lot of buses for Manila or Cebu, where they’re trying to get jobs in call centers; to Siargao or El Nido, hoping to get new jobs in these tourist hot-spots; or, just home to the province where they could be with family and hope to get by

Do you remember the last time you were staying and playing on Boracay? Chances are, the nice, smiling young man or woman who took your order, checked you into your hotel, or took you scuba diving is probably long gone.

The remaining locals are desperate for government relief to come, some resorting to fishing for dinner and climbing trees for fruit. The Palawan Pawnshops and Western Unions are lined with people hoping for a remittance from family or friends.

Despite forming queues in the hot sun upon every feint rumor of a job, six months may as well be an eternity since most were just barely scraping by before the closure.

The sudden draught of income is also tearing families apart, as husbands are forced to go to Iloilo or Cebu to look for work, and children are held out of school because there’s no money for a uniform or books.

The closure also recalibrated the local economy in unexpected ways. For instance, prices on staples, canned goods, and gasoline have actually gone way up since the shutdown. I even noticed a significant breakdown in services, as I waited for half an hour at the airport to get a trike, since few drivers are bothering to show up (and I don’t blame them.)

It’s exceedingly hard just to get to Boracay, as both Cebu Pacfic and Philippines Air have suspended all flights to Caticlan and most to Kalibo. I actually had to travel to Manila, first, from Dumaguete, and then take the single remaining flight on Air Asia to Caticlan.

It’s hard to find a silver lining as stomachs growl and candles are lit when there’s no money for the electric bill, but I did see something uplifting: the locals have the island to themselves again.

Slowly but surely, unburdened from armies of tourists, lofty prices, and the constraints of 12-hour work days, the island’s residents are coming out to play again, like Boracay of yesteryear.

“The first few days, when there were soldiers and police and TV cameras, the locals mostly stayed away,” says Fernando. “But people started emerging more each day.”

The beach is now spotted with local children, gleefully playing tag in knee-deep waters, bicycle riders cruising down the sand, and spirited games of frisbee and volleyball. Laundry is hung to dry on a tree, in front of a hotel that used to cost $12,000 Pesos per night. At sunset, the small number of people left congregate on the beach in front of the reggae bar to celebrate, like survivors of a zombie apocalypse.

At the iconic Nigi Nigi Nu Noos, a band plays, and I count more people on stage than sitting in the bar. When I climb the steps to Real Coffee Shop, my favorite place there for years, I startle the staff, as they’re not used to foreigners wandering in. They’re playing cards, and the loser gets their face written on in black marker.

There’s laughter all around when I ask to take a photo of the lady who’s obviously losing, judging by the scribble all around her big smile.

THIS is Boracay. This is the spirit of the island I’ve come to know and used to love. And THESE are the people who won’t give up, despite hunger and hard times knocking on their door.

All they have to do now is survive, one day at a time, together.

-Norm :-)

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Why John Lennon and the Beatles wanted to "drop an H-Bomb" on the Philippines.

6/19/2018

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Each year, millions of foreigners touch down in the Philippines. The vast majority have a great time, enjoying her beaches, islands, and warm hospitality. However, every once and a while, visitors have a less than glowing experience. Sometimes, it can turn downright awful - or even dangerous.

That was a case when a notable group came to the Philippine back in 1966, only to draw the ire of the nation and barely escape intact.

The visitors were young men from Liverpool, England who were in a band called “The Beatles” and this is their story.

The Beatles landed in Manila on July 6, 1966 in the midst of the Marcos regime, booked to play two concerts at Rizal Memorial Stadium as part of their world tour. Accustomed to VIP pampering, they were instead bullied into a car by airport authorities to go handle their visas, forced to leave their luggage on the tarmac.

“I hated the Philippines. We arrived there with thousands upon thousands of kids, with hundreds upon hundreds of policemen – and it was a little dodgy,”said drummer Ringo Star later.

The band members were escorted by the military to a press conference and then sequestered on a yacht in Manila Harbor, where they were told they couldn’t leave for 24 hours until the day of the show. They also weren’t prepared for the heat, humidity, squalor and abject chaos of the Philippines.

“It was really humid, it was Mosquito City, and we were all sweating and frightened. We had a whole row of cops with guns lining the deck around this cabin that we were in on the boat” said George Harrison.

The Beatles were not only worried about the “menacing military fellas” around them and their boorish treatment but concerned that the small pharmacy of narcotics in their suitcases had been discovered (they hadn’t.) But, things went from bad to worse when the greatest band in the world snubbed the First Lady, Imelda Marcos.

The First Lady had sent an invite to the band to join her at the Presidential Palace at 11 am the morning of their show, and then again for a luncheon at 3 pm. However, it seems that Paul, John, Ringo, and the rest of the band never got word of that invite. Their promoter, Ramon Ramos, didn’t pass on the invite to the band’s manager since he was worried they’d decline, in part because the band was slated to start their concert only an hour later, at 4pm.

However, it was big news to everyone else in Manila the next morning.

The Manila Sunday Times, local TV stations, and radio shows covered the snub of the First Lady in detail. The band’s manager, Brian Epstein, quickly scrambled to do some damage control, filming an apology for Chanel 5 in which he explained that the band hadn’t known about the invites. But it never aired, as the state-controlled media blacked out the broadcast.

Of course, Imelda Marcos was used to being treated with reverence and exaltation, not being stood up so rudely, and especially after she planned a grand 200-guest party just for the Beatle’s visit. There would be consequences to the Beatles’ bad etiquette, for certain.

First, the security detail that had been guarding the band suddenly walked away. After news of the no-show was disseminated by the media, the hotel where the band stayed was also surrounded by irate fans. Growing concerned for their safety, the band members hustled to leave the hotel, only to get yelled at by a line-up of angry staff, who cursed them out in Tagalog and English.

When the Beatles arrived at Manila International Airport, they found even more vicious demonstrators ready to antagonize them. As the Beatles made their way into the terminal, the situation turned violent, with the angry mob pushing, grabbing, and spitting on the band members and their entourage, even beating their road manager and a few others.

The only way the band escaped into the airport unharmed was by mixing in with a group of Filipino monks and nuns who happened to be walking in, too. Finally, the frantic band was able to check in and board their flight.

“When we got on the plane, we were all kissing the seats,” said Paul McCartney.

However, their adventure in the Philippines wasn’t over quite yet. The Beatles were waiting for the plane to take off when the door opened, and military police and officials boarded. They escorted the band’s managers off, who were scared they were going to be thrown in jail or even executed.

But it was just one last shakedown to see the Beatles off. The managers were forced to surrender all of the proceeds from the concert the night before to the tax authorities, leading John Lennon to later remark about the Philippines, “If we go back, it will be with an H-bomb. I won’t even fly over the place.”

-Norm :-)

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The UK's Best Cultural Events

6/18/2018

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When you visit a new destination, there are a few different ways to try to get to know it. You can go sightseeing and hit the top landmarks; you can explore aimlessly, with the hopes of finding a few hidden gem destinations that might not have been in the guide books; you can ask locals what they might recommend you do if you don’t want to be just another tourist. Any of these can give you a different sort of angle on the same place, and if you can fit in a little bit of each of them, you’ll have done well for yourself.

But if you really want to get a feel for the culture of a destination, you might want to try to do it via events. From sporting events to festivals, these kinds of things often showcase a lot of local tradition, and also invite the local people to act in the most natural (and fun-loving) way.

Naturally, if you’re looking to get to know the UK, you won’t be able to hit all of these events in one go. But if the idea of event-centric cultural exploration appeals, it’s certainly worth planning around one or two of them.

The Grand National

Really you could pick from three major horse racing events in the UK here: The Cheltenham Festival, the Grand National, and the Royal Ascot. But the Grand National may pack the best combination of good weather and festivity. Held every April near Liverpool, it’s a multi-day event at which spectators dress up (in traditionally gaudy-but-stylish horse racing attire), have a few drinks, and often place a few bets before enjoying the races. There’s just something quintessentially British about the whole affair.

RHS Chelsea Flower Show

A flower show might not sound like much, but the Chelsea area of London makes quite a big deal out of it. This year, for instance, 10 show gardens and 16 smaller gardens are on the menu. This is not a loud event or an over-the-top festival or anything like that, but it’s a nice chance to spend time out and about in London with a crowd of people enjoying the simple beauty of well-arranged garden. Sometimes, the queen even attends!

Summer Solstice

The Summer Solstice is effectively just the longest day (and shortest night) of the year, and is celebrated by different people in different ways all over the world. The UK has a particularly interesting Summer Solstice celebration, however, taking place at the famous monument of Stonehenge. Basically, there are certain places where you can stand at Stonehenge and see a particularly spectacular sunrise through the stones themselves, and over time this has led to the area becoming something of a pilgrimage destination for the northern solstice. The atmosphere is almost like that of a concert, with crowds of people hanging out, sipping beverages, lounging on picnic blankets, etc. - but there’s a spiritual element to it all.

Glastonbury Festival

The UK, as you might imagine, is home to dozens of different music and arts festivals, which are really the pinnacle of what we’d consider “cultural events.” But none can beat the Glastonbury Festival in Somerset. It’s a five-day series of performances, revolving largely around music but also including theatre, comedy, dance, and even circus shows. It’s one of those events that seems to get bigger and better every year, and it draws a huge crowd of locals and tourists alike.

Wimbledon

Wimbledon is the oldest and most prestigious tennis event in the world, according to one guide looking ahead to this summer’s tournament. This means that it effectively transcends its sport, such that while it’s primarily a tennis tournament, it has over time become a great deal more. This is for many one of the most undeniably delightful London experiences - an event full to bursting with tradition and history, where everyone is friendly, excited, and consciously thrilled to be there.

Belfast International Arts Festival

Many people forget to include Northern Ireland when talking about UK events, which is a shame because there’s a lot going on, particularly in Belfast. This particular festival is more or less just what it sounds like, featuring performing and visual art, dance, music, and more. It’s less of a giant get together than, say, Glastonbury, but it’s a very authentic occasion that will expose you to the passion that a place like Belfast has for the arts in general.

Bonfire Night

If you study your historical upstarts or you’re a fan of the film V For Vendetta, you probably know about Guy Fawkes, who famously tried to blow up the House of Lords in London in 1605. Bonfire Night essentially celebrates this semi-mythologized occasion with general revelry, often surrounding bonfires, torches, and/or fireworks displays. There are a lot of Bonfire Night celebrations around the UK, so this isn’t a single centralized event, but attending any one of them gives you a chance to partake in a specifically British holiday of sorts.

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Your January 2019 Postcard from Norm: Surviving the Judd Reid Fight Camp

Goodbye and Diyos mamahes, Batanes.

Your November 2018 Postcard from Norm: Introducing Lifted International.

Your October 2018 postcard from Norm: Batanes reveals her true nature

Your September 2018 Postcard from Norm: Breathtaking Batanes

Your August 2018 postcard from Norm: What’s so special about Thailand?

Your July 2018 Postcard from Norm - taking you to the forbidden island of Boracay.

The human impact of the Boracay Island closure.

Why John Lennon and the Beatles wanted to "drop an H-Bomb" on the Philippines.

The UK's Best Cultural Events

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