Magic People, Voodoo People

Having read Christopher Hitchens' brilliant God Is Not Great, I'm finding it harder and harder to be polite to religious types we meet on the road. I ditched Catholicism over a decade ago (being a drama queen, I chose Notre Dame Cathedral as the first place I refused Communion) and my frustration with the pious has grown steadily since. Hitchens' book helped to vocalise a lot of my anger, as well as giving me a few dozen more reasons to be steadfastly atheist.
One of his most damning indictments against organised religion is the fact that it makes the lives of the poor – generally the people who buy into it the most – even more miserable. Spend time in any impoverished country in Asia and you'll see what he means: stupas and temples and churches and mosques gleam, while the tired wretched masses worship in squalor. Not only that, but they're told to fear their tyrannical gods, or the prospect of some impossible afterlife.
All the time, I think: imagine they spent even half of that time and money on trying to improve their own lot. Yet, because the poor and desperate are in such a miserable condition, they continue to believe and dedicate a considerable portion of their pittance to supporting their religious leaders. We've watched wailing Buddhists on their knees praying for better fortune, lighting incense, bribing monks and buying prayer flags. I'm betting they're no better off now.
Walking around places like the Temples of Angkor, looking at the Hindu temples later graffitied by Buddhist invaders, I could only think: what a waste of time and money for y'all. Now, all the blood and hate that was spilt in the name of their religions has proved to be nothing more notable than a busy tourist attraction. For me, the whole thing is a strange game – only winning move is not to play.
Photo: Wee Mo
It's all pretty grim, really, especially in places like the Philippines where Catholicism also tells them not to use condoms, but to spread disease and pregnancy unfettered. (Visit filthy, teeming Manila and it's hard to say which affliction does more damage.)
Since the Spanish brought it here, Catholicism has metastasised throughout the 7,107 islands. Thankfully, though, it's not totally eradicated the islanders' staunch belief in sorcery and the dark arts. Presumably, most Visayans subscribe to an ancient brand of philosophy: why trust one brand of hocus pocus and not the other? That's politics, man.
Get down into the Visayas – the central group of islands in the heart of the Philippines – and you'll find that for every fruitless cross and demented mural demanding that people fear god, there's another maniac who sincerely believes in witchcraft. And of the islands that make up Region VII, nowhere puts more faith in mumbo-jumbo than weird wee Siquijor (“Seeky-hore”).
A little over an hour from Dumaguete by boat, this tiny island has no airport, little in the way of tourism and very few people who care about either. Indeed, its tourist trade is so underdeveloped that our guide – a friendly, knowledgeable lassie with crazy teeth – was working her notice in order to swap islands for a job in a call centre. Having spent her whole life on Siquijor, the poor bastard will now spend her days locked in a windowless room in Dumaguete, listening to moronic Americans who can't work out how to reset their broadband routers. It's a shame, really, as Siquijor is one of the strangest, most brilliant places we've been since we started travelling four months ago, and if more people took the time to find that out, she wouldn't have to go to such desperate lengths.
Photo: Wee Mo
Time passes so slowly here that many of the structures built by the Spanish 300 years ago not only still stand, but are used daily. Quite amazing, really, when you consider the old church was built with coral stone and egg whites brought by peasants. (If they failed to turn up with at least two pieces of stone a day, they were flailed with the tail of a stingray. Thanks god!) Elsewhere, one story shack-shops hug the road, covered in ancient Coca Cola logos bleached to perfection.
Photo: Wee Mo
As we follow Siquijor's coast, which would take less than an hour to navigate if you gunned it, we stumble across a cockfight. (We took this as a sign that Siquijor is indeed backwards, but later found out that it's a national sport, almost as popular as boxing). Here the gods of the poor are feathered, angry motherfuckers, but at least they actually exist.
As we edge into a big barn where the scrapping takes place, it's hard not to feel a little intimidated: unsurprisingly, we're the only Whitey there and as such are the subject of much staring. For me, it feels as though I've unwittingly been transported into the body of Louis Theroux, and am now prying into a world I probably shouldn't. Without his colossal, fearless balls, though, it's quite uncomfortable.
The fight, when it happens, is brief, bloody and quite confusing. Suffice to say, chickens with knives attached to their feet can be quite a handful.
Photo: Wee Mo
Before entering the barn, I felt quite down on the whole thing, and by the time I left, I still disagreed with it quite strongly. But on the other hand, these birds are treated like royalty by their owners in the build up to the event – and receive make-shift veterinary aid afterwards. The fury inside them comes naturally, even if the scrap itself is entirely manufactured; this isn't a toothless bear trying to fend of half a dozen pit-bulls: these bad boys literally get a chance to fight for their lives, which is more than can be said for most chickens. For the poor, it's a chance to drink, gamble and be merry too. Ultimately, I don't find it anywhere as disturbing as some of the crazy, cruel shit you read about.
Photo: Wee Mo
Photo: Wee Mo
Post fight we head further north around the island, stopping at a century old nunnery and some picturesque waterfalls as we go. In every place, we are the only white folk and as such, we constantly provoke children into whispering “Americano” as we pass, before they fall into a game of daring each other to say “hello” to us.
Our last stop of the day takes us to one of the island's famous faith healers. At 85, Gung Seng, is stooped by age and has hands like crumpled paper. Yet there's no hint of a nursing home – or even retirement – for this old bird. Dabbling in the black arts is evidently not hindered by old man time.
Wee Mo sits down to seek advice and treatment for the endless, maddening insect bites with which she is afflicted. Honestly, you could place an uncovered vat of cow blood next to her and the midgies would still rather take the trouble to pierce her skin.
The witch sets about her business, blowing bubbles through a straw and into an empty jar. As she does so, moving up and down Wee Mo's leg, the water changes from clear to cloudy. Then, suddenly, a weird golden glow appears on the treatment area – it's incredible! A miracle before our very eyes!
Except it's not. These are a couple of the two dozen pictures I take while the setting sun tumbles through the window. An ethereal glow it is not, but I'm sure a hundred years ago this would have been the evidence needed to propel Gung Seng to the head of a coven... Or have her burned by superstitious Americans.
Anyway, the diagnosis for Wee Mo is that she gets bitten so much because she is paid too many compliments. This apparently makes invisible spirits jealous and they send the midgies to take their gnawing revenge. Happy to be fleeced by the old crone, we hand over a couple of quid.
Of course it's all nonsense, but I've heard worse before – mostly in church.

Next: Bohol, Cebu and Palawan Too