Papillon's sacks of coconuts

by Alexis Schlegel (Australia)

A leap into the unknown Philippines

Coron Island was covered in wild jungle and towering limestone hills, and conjured images from Treasure Island. Negritos lived very simply there. It stood 4km away across the Coron Straight. Longing to go there, but having no money, I resolved to copy French convict Papillon. He escaped from Devil’s Island, French Guyana on two sacks of coconuts. After drifting at sea for two days and two nights he landed in British Guyana. Marvin, a well-to-do man in the Port Coron market took me to a rubbish pile of cut coconuts in an alley. All day I put cut coconuts into two plastic sacks and stitched and bound them together. Inquisitive Filipinos would come and look. “What is that?” some asked. “Boat – I’m making a boat,” I told them. At noon a woman came, and said, “Are you hungry?” She brought me steamed rice and a saucy fish. A small girl told me that I don’t have to buy it. Later a man stood studying me for five minutes. “Tomorrow you go to Manila,” he finally said. “Is free for you.” Then towards twilight, two neighborhood officials arrived. “What is this?” “I am making a canoe.” “What is it for?” “I’m going to paddle it to Coron Island.” “Are the coconuts whole or shells only?” “Shells only.” “We had a complaint about a man in the market and were asked if he is under the influence of liquor. But when we saw you we were happy with what we saw. We leave you our good will.” The next afternoon I carried the sacks down some steps to the water. The market was on a wharf. I fastened outriggers to the sacks made from bamboo which I had cut in the town. A crowd lined the wharf to see me off. “Does anyone have tubig?” I said. “Sir,” said a lady. “Are you looking for water?” “Yes.” “I will give you water.” I sat on the steps eating rice, chicken, meat and pineapple pieces given by a woman. Another woman gave me two oranges and two apples. “Many thanks,” I said to the lady who filled my water bottles. “You’re welcome sir,” she said. “Good luck on your trip – survivor.” “I’m going,” I told the crowd. I sat on the stern, but the raft sank below the water. Only the bow remained exposed. “Oooh,” said the crowd. My face went red with embarrassment. Paddling with a bamboo pole, it took an hour to get 65m to the end of the wharf. I gazed across the open sea. Marvin stood on the wharf. Most onlookers were long gone. “Alexis!” he said, “Come back – Alexis – come back.” Scarcely had I climbed onto the wharf when two policemen were before me. “What are you doing?” they asked. “I made a raft out of sacks of coconuts to go to Coron Island. But it sank.” “Are you smuggling drugs in those coconuts?” “No.” “Someone will have to look inside the coconuts. You will have to come with us to the police station.” Another man appeared. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Al, a tour operator at Coron Gallery... If you have no money and cannot afford to hire a kayak, you should have told me. I would have borrowed you one for free. If you come to the Coron Gallery I’ll give you a Kayak.” A cherry-picker with a mechanical hand drove up. It reached into the water, picked up the water-logged raft and drove off. The policemen walked me to a paddy-wagon, and locked me up. At the police station four policeman seated before me at a desk didn’t believe my story. The interrogation became intense. “Why would you want to want to go to Coron Island on a sack of coconuts?” “For adventure.” After cross-checking my character by phone with a friend in Manila a policemen said, “The coconuts still have to be looked at.” That night I was guarded by a policeman with an AK-47. We each slept on a long wooden bench, in a long narrow room. In the morning a policeman said, “The coconuts didn’t have drugs.” I had breakfast of bread and coffee before being dropped off by ute to Coron Gallery.