Part II - Where Ameen resorts to a listless list listing the Resorts residents, risking the Displeasure of many People by not Including them; also Containing snatches of poorly remembered Dialogue and the resultant Fallout of the Resort's Bug
We have gecko's that cluster together in threes near the lights that cast hazy yellows upon white plastic chairs. Four tables forced togther makes what is generally the scene of much of the activity at Frendz. Its the evening now, which is why the lights are on, and the already yellowing veneer of aging white plastic makes for secondary thoughts of recline, were one not on holiday mode. Not washing your hair, not shaving, teeth brushing that does not quite fulfil the three-times-a-day quota. Dirty chairs hardly matter anymore. The air strong with puffs of Tanduray, the Filipino rum, that diffuses such natural scents as the trees and the flowers and fruits they bear. Stringy wisps of cigarette smoke rising in still air. The British have hijacked the iPod and more ethereal lines are being drawn on tonight's tracing paper, so flimsy we all feel, as Burial is on, and the thick Austrian voice of the owner explains the hair threatening nature of Filipino bureacracy to newcomers. He is bald.
There was Alex, from Nottingham, mad as me for Chris Morris and a little crazier for humourous Japanese porn. Many nights began with Chris Morris and ended with Japanese porn, like the fatal throws of a failed comedian, a sex starved Japanophile, attempting some closure upon a life thrown away to cheap business cards, novelty audio cards, and 100% plastic playing cards. It's got to be done once in your life, like stealing traffic cones. Alex's feet were so worn from travelling Asia that black stuff started growing on it. I think when black stuff starts to grow, then something's not quite right. Im no brain-bolstered duck quack, but I know a case of "shit feet" when I see it.
Alex made it.
Then there was Tim, a Sydney man, really easy to get along with, very nice, like all those from Australia and Nottingham. Possessing the finest hair east of the Ganges and a smile to equal. His hair was as black as Beria's heart and as thick as those that chose to cross him (those seeking a non Soviet history related simile are looking in the wrong place). He was the person that introduced me to the Warsaw Convention, not to be confused with the Warsaw Pact. I ate a good burger with him once, whereupon he demonstrated the truly sick ability of guzzling down a 1/2 pounder in minutes, taste buds forced into unequivocal redundancy, a recession of the tongue, but my! what a boom the stomach must have gone through!
Tim did not make it; he was tragically caught on the last night.
Pawel a Polish-Canadian, currently residing in Taipei, also possessed one of those infectious smiles, along with one of those infectious infections. Unfortunately it made him primarily unable to come out drinking, barring New Year's Eve of course. He fuelled himself with Gatorade, Powerade and many other variatals of the "..ades" drinks category. He was frequently the victim of "poomerges", a tactfull reduction of the phrase "poo emergency". He also had to go "bippity-bop" a lot, ie take a shit.
Needless to say Pawel weakened constitution made him an easy victim.
Mac, a student from Vancouver, currently in Singapore. He had a classic west coast vibe about him, laid back and bold, full of classic lines and cool phrases, "tight" being my particular favourite. Always seen in his blue swimming trunks and white wife beater, he had the most iconic look of the bunch, only to better it one night by wearing a white silk kimono. Such is the natural progression from day to night clothing. There was not one day where he did not take a massage.
"Where did you go?" I asked
"Got a massage."
"Of course."
"Yo dude, it was so sick."
Alex, Mac and I had the pleasure of getting incredibly mashed one night and then get a Swedish massage. There was a lot of bum rubbing involved. Brilliant!
Mac was part of a student collective from all over the nationality-ridden world that inevitably find themselves in the metropolitan glam-plex of Singapore, port-heavy and architecturally bold. Dan a well spoken English guy who didn't mind my need to shout out "DAN" in mock Partridgesque fashion was a frequent Frendz visitor.
Mac made it.
A gay San Franciscan, Joseph, was a big player in this vague group, a teller of great stories, a born entertainer. Stories of intoxication and sex people. One anecdote ended with a classic shimmying-down-the-hotel-drainpipe-escape episode. Needless to say the story involved gay Dutch Men, locked doors, sex toys and mouth gags. To what other story elements results in such desparate behaviour?
He claimed his complete homosexuality but we knew better. He ladded it up with the rest of us over the fine forms floating down the beach, bums and boobs mockingly cradled in bikinis too small to pretend at modesty. Granted, one may love the breasts and fear the vagina, but we were sure Joseph needed to go back in the closet ... then come back out again.
Joseph fell victim to the bug.
The longest resident for over a month was Ash, a red headed Maidstone boy. He was like the non-local local, informing all newcomers of the things to see and do. The places to drink, dance, fuck. He stayed there for so long that he ended up staying in some nights watching the television series Rome with his viewing partner Pawel.
"Hey! Come here, this guy is fucking his sister!" and like miraculaously healed paraplegics we turned into running men, eager to have our incest vicariously fulfilled.
Ash fell to the bug.
Scot, short for Scottish, half the word Scotland, was the name of a man hailing from the land of Scots, Scotland (not to be confused with a country populated by people called Scot). His bald head was the first to be fucked by the sun. His body dutifully followed. On my last last I mistook the constant Tequilas, Sambucas and B52s he bought for me as generosity, realising (just in time) by the end of the night that it was purely a ploy of his to get me in trouble with a lady-boy. On his first night he left his jeans and iPhone on the beach as he went for a night-swim. When he returned they were gone.
"My first fucking night!"
"Was it the new iPhone?" I asked.
"Yeah!"
"Shit! Coz if it was the last one, that would have been alright. But the new iPhone! Shit!"
I mean of all the things to get nicked; British passport, your bank card with pin number, a first edition of Proust's Swann's Way, a locket of hair from your recently departed lover (claimed tragically by swine flu) - the iPhone 4, the single-handed saviour of the worlds economy, redeemer of safety and security in a politically destabilising world, is surely the last thing one would have wanted to get stolen.
Fuck Scot falling ill to the resorts bug, I want to know how he survives without an iPhone 4!
Now back to this antithetical little peninsular. The North has not waged war on the South, good. The South has waged a successful mission against pirates, good. And the whole of the east is preparing itself for the Chinese Lunar New Year, good. But I am gloveless, I repeat, I am gloveless.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Boracay, Philippines, 2010/11 (Part I)
In which Ameen starts his Journey and Blog on the wrong Foot, with ill Preparation and even iller attempts at Classicism, respectively.
When you turn up to the point of your departure and discover to travel drained mind that you are at the wrong aiport. When you are too ashamed to divulge your error to the information lady. You act naturally. "This is not Gimpo Airport right?" When her kind face confirms your mistakes. When you dread missing your flight and remain stuck in ice-locked spasm country, bound to suffer the turmoils of your own stupidity. When you arrive at correct airport to discover that buying a one way ticket is not as exotic as it sounds. When you have to fork out more money for a return ticket bought silly style at the airport, knowing that any further down the path of ridiculosity, you may just end up a dried husk of hastily rolled bread lying untouched upon the dish of a discerning food critic, a useless bum of bread. When this happens, you know that it must end up as a retina scorching holiday. And so it was.
This was on Boxing Day, otherwise known as the day after Christmas, or the 26th.
The destination was Boracay, an island in The Philippines. One of those islands that you see but can't quite accept the notion of its existence; until you arrive there. I had the pleasure of arriving there at dawn, in a small jet (the kind of jet that has exposed blades cutting any notion of comfort years of boeing flights created) smelling of old and buzzing loudly. To my left, outside the plane window I saw the skies. They were messy. Truculently heaped together with greek god-like pettiness. What was it I was seeing? Cirrocumulus, Altocumulus, Stratocumulus, possibly clear sky, or even distorted renditions of earth or sea? The knowledge of a climatologist was sorely needed. Many shades of grey, but with no clues as to what was what. That's alright though, for only the rosy fingered dawn can clarify such obfuscation. However this dawn was far from rosy fingered. Its onset was sharp and straight as the gold line of the rising sun, faint at first, grew in size, torching the earth. As the light cut in half the worlds, revealing its form, I envied the easy assumptions one makes in the pre-dawn mask of an unintelligable world. Gone now, for a while at least. Enough time for me to settle down.
The island was elegant in its beauty despite its growing tourism and business. There are still stretches of quiet beach and coves with innocently sharp rock faces, cradling coarser grained sands and roughly built restaurant shacks that can be reached by the many boat tours. White beach, the main stretch, was the centre of most of the holidays debauchery. Grabbing strong beers from the shops to drink on the beach or in the local reggae bar at night. Being grabbed by the cock by lady-boy prostitutes that sneak a kiss, hands and jaws too big to just ignore. Spilling out of a club half cut, only to find yourself staring at the ocean, wading out, calming your feet with cool water, relieving yourself, then finding yourself somehow on your back looking up at the stars that eluded you in Seoul.
I can't say I really delved into the cuisine of The Philippines. I frequently had a Filipino breakfast, but the only vaguely Filipino thing about it was a red meat, sweet in taste and chewy in texture, called Tisino. The rest of the breakfast was eggs and rice, two things that could not be more generically Asian if you tried. There is a Filipino treat that's basically an egg with the largely developed fetus of the bird inside, resplendent with wings and feathers. Unfortunately I did not get to taste this egg, but that's alright, for next week I will be supping on the beating heart of a freshly spiked baby chipmunk. Maybe I will look into its eye when I feast on the heart. Will it be asking for mercy? Mercy that I will not extol? There is also, in The Philippines, the deep-fried entrails of pig intestines, served in crisp (chip) form, called, and I spell this in capitals because the name clearly deserves it, CHICHARON BALAKLAK! You can't say it without sounding like a white middle-class south Londoner trying to be a little bit ghetto, wanting just a little bit of drugs from his dirty street drug dealer.
The resort I stayed at, Frendz, is a locally famed hostel, pulling all those with means into its hedonistic hub, being a sucubus of homely form, with wood frames, overstretched wi-fi and pool-table felt, sucking you dry of money and ambition, as some nights were spent largely in the communal area, surrounded by Thai dance music and stray westerners with backpacks full of dirty clothes and Macbooks, hash and DSLRs, swimming gear and iPods. It was here that I met many legends (strange that one place can host so many) so many great people from around the world, each with stories to tell and take.
Along with the good spirits, a bug was also being fostered at the resort, that was carried through some unknown means (probably water, so in a way its carrier could be vaguely fathomed). It struck many of the visitors, like a slinky that lost its coil and believed its saviour lay in the half functioning stomachs of travellers. Of the bugs success or failure, I shall note in the last sentence of each character summary.
But before I embark upon a list of the characters at the resort, I shall use this moment to take a pause in the blog and wrap up the first part by telling you that I am currently in cold sub-zero Seoul. The ice has claimed me twice now, with my usual cat-like agility failing me. The extremely cold temperature does weird things to your nostril hairs. No matter how many times you twitch your nose it still feels very uncomfortable, as though each hair has decided to strike up a disagreeable personality of its own which is deliberately antagonistic to the other hairs. I wish they would just get along as they did before, you know, live together in harmony. I'm also trying to get used to wearing long-johns. Where's yours?
When you turn up to the point of your departure and discover to travel drained mind that you are at the wrong aiport. When you are too ashamed to divulge your error to the information lady. You act naturally. "This is not Gimpo Airport right?" When her kind face confirms your mistakes. When you dread missing your flight and remain stuck in ice-locked spasm country, bound to suffer the turmoils of your own stupidity. When you arrive at correct airport to discover that buying a one way ticket is not as exotic as it sounds. When you have to fork out more money for a return ticket bought silly style at the airport, knowing that any further down the path of ridiculosity, you may just end up a dried husk of hastily rolled bread lying untouched upon the dish of a discerning food critic, a useless bum of bread. When this happens, you know that it must end up as a retina scorching holiday. And so it was.
This was on Boxing Day, otherwise known as the day after Christmas, or the 26th.
The destination was Boracay, an island in The Philippines. One of those islands that you see but can't quite accept the notion of its existence; until you arrive there. I had the pleasure of arriving there at dawn, in a small jet (the kind of jet that has exposed blades cutting any notion of comfort years of boeing flights created) smelling of old and buzzing loudly. To my left, outside the plane window I saw the skies. They were messy. Truculently heaped together with greek god-like pettiness. What was it I was seeing? Cirrocumulus, Altocumulus, Stratocumulus, possibly clear sky, or even distorted renditions of earth or sea? The knowledge of a climatologist was sorely needed. Many shades of grey, but with no clues as to what was what. That's alright though, for only the rosy fingered dawn can clarify such obfuscation. However this dawn was far from rosy fingered. Its onset was sharp and straight as the gold line of the rising sun, faint at first, grew in size, torching the earth. As the light cut in half the worlds, revealing its form, I envied the easy assumptions one makes in the pre-dawn mask of an unintelligable world. Gone now, for a while at least. Enough time for me to settle down.
The island was elegant in its beauty despite its growing tourism and business. There are still stretches of quiet beach and coves with innocently sharp rock faces, cradling coarser grained sands and roughly built restaurant shacks that can be reached by the many boat tours. White beach, the main stretch, was the centre of most of the holidays debauchery. Grabbing strong beers from the shops to drink on the beach or in the local reggae bar at night. Being grabbed by the cock by lady-boy prostitutes that sneak a kiss, hands and jaws too big to just ignore. Spilling out of a club half cut, only to find yourself staring at the ocean, wading out, calming your feet with cool water, relieving yourself, then finding yourself somehow on your back looking up at the stars that eluded you in Seoul.
I can't say I really delved into the cuisine of The Philippines. I frequently had a Filipino breakfast, but the only vaguely Filipino thing about it was a red meat, sweet in taste and chewy in texture, called Tisino. The rest of the breakfast was eggs and rice, two things that could not be more generically Asian if you tried. There is a Filipino treat that's basically an egg with the largely developed fetus of the bird inside, resplendent with wings and feathers. Unfortunately I did not get to taste this egg, but that's alright, for next week I will be supping on the beating heart of a freshly spiked baby chipmunk. Maybe I will look into its eye when I feast on the heart. Will it be asking for mercy? Mercy that I will not extol? There is also, in The Philippines, the deep-fried entrails of pig intestines, served in crisp (chip) form, called, and I spell this in capitals because the name clearly deserves it, CHICHARON BALAKLAK! You can't say it without sounding like a white middle-class south Londoner trying to be a little bit ghetto, wanting just a little bit of drugs from his dirty street drug dealer.
The resort I stayed at, Frendz, is a locally famed hostel, pulling all those with means into its hedonistic hub, being a sucubus of homely form, with wood frames, overstretched wi-fi and pool-table felt, sucking you dry of money and ambition, as some nights were spent largely in the communal area, surrounded by Thai dance music and stray westerners with backpacks full of dirty clothes and Macbooks, hash and DSLRs, swimming gear and iPods. It was here that I met many legends (strange that one place can host so many) so many great people from around the world, each with stories to tell and take.
Along with the good spirits, a bug was also being fostered at the resort, that was carried through some unknown means (probably water, so in a way its carrier could be vaguely fathomed). It struck many of the visitors, like a slinky that lost its coil and believed its saviour lay in the half functioning stomachs of travellers. Of the bugs success or failure, I shall note in the last sentence of each character summary.
But before I embark upon a list of the characters at the resort, I shall use this moment to take a pause in the blog and wrap up the first part by telling you that I am currently in cold sub-zero Seoul. The ice has claimed me twice now, with my usual cat-like agility failing me. The extremely cold temperature does weird things to your nostril hairs. No matter how many times you twitch your nose it still feels very uncomfortable, as though each hair has decided to strike up a disagreeable personality of its own which is deliberately antagonistic to the other hairs. I wish they would just get along as they did before, you know, live together in harmony. I'm also trying to get used to wearing long-johns. Where's yours?
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