Part V - A detailed Account of a Bat-Cave and its Inhabitants, the unfortunate Incident of the Dog and the Trike, and a last minute Literary stab revealing Sentiments by Ameen attempting some kind of Meaning from the Holiday.
If anyone is still reading, what do you think of when someone says "bat cave"? Notions usually tend to sway towards comic book ideas, but bury those prominent associations in the flymo grass compactor of your mind, and one will realise that a bat cave is actually a cave full of bats. And shit, and other such unpleasentries. There are many things one can feel when entering someone elses lebensraum. When you go into one of those homes hosting pictures of naked men cradling babies and ornaments of teddy bears climbing over countryside stiles, usually one tends to feel shock marinated in a thick layer of revulsion. Sometimes it's facsination and horror, much like stepping into a emotionally repressed married couple's household, where cold stares now replace the warmth that was generated by touch. A bat cave is a tender and sexual marriage of the two.
The terrain to the bat cave was classic Jurassic Park territory. Tall lush greenery, small meandering paths slippery with brown/reddish clay like mud, and a threateningly dark cloud in the distance on that particular day. The entrance was foreboding, sorrounded with jagged volcanic rock, and all that we could see was darkness, soundtracked by the whooshing of either a multitude of bats or the moving sea tide at the bottom. The climb down could easily have claimed many lives - the slippery sharp rocks, the visibility narrowed to reliance on small columns of torch light from the two guides, the precariousness of barefoot climbing, as our flip-flops would surely have been our executioner.
The bat shit stank of an acrid herb or spice being slowly cooked giving off that nose rapey stench that sticks in your nose long after the source is gone, but as we were walking through shit, touching it and rubbing it over our faces, there was no complaining. Once your in the shit, you just have to go along with it. We were not intentionally rubbing shit over ourselves mind you, but inevitably your shit caked hands do touch parts of your body to the extent that once in the clear light of day, we did look like "exhausted refugees, just come through to the other side".
At the bottom were a whole host of natures undesirables; large crabs, spiders and snakes in deceiving repose, coiled tubes of blue, white and black. Some weren't so stationary, slithering off into some dark crevice. Only catching the tail end of a snake moving somewhere before it disappears is, I assure you, a rather unnerving feeling. Where the fuck did it go?
"Are these snakes poisonous" someone asked. Of course not, I thought.
"Yes." was the short response from the guide. Great. Of course. Typical. Here I am walking barefoot in the dark, with poisonous snakes. Of course the natural chain of events in life, cause and effect, would find time to place me and my new friends in this life threatening situation. Thoughts of my own retardedness was however curbed by the thrill of it all, and how we were all loving it. Well I was anyway. I'm not sure about the Finnish girl who had a panic attack when a massive spider crawled over her foot, but hey, its a risk when you do this kind of stuff. Panic attacks, stuffy and stinking cloyiness, sweat bathing your body, possible death, then the dive in the dark into the sea at the back of the bat cave. An impossibly refreshing remedy to our discomfort, one that took you into the deepest recesses of Baywatch territory, diving under rocks to reach another enclave in the water, room enough just for our heads, with the rising tide speeding things up.
The journey back, still high on the rush of fear and near death, rubbed off with playful fancy upon the drivers, who raced each other down a clear stretch of road. It was a close race, and as each trike levelled, fell back, pulled forward, we kept on taunting each other. Injury finally found its claim upon not us, of which we were probably more deserving, but instead on a dog caught under the wheels of the trike I was not in. A yelp, then a bump, as it went under. The trike stopped and everyone looked back at the dog. It got up and limped away.
On my last night I went to bed at around 6am. I had to wake up at 8am for my boat to the little airport, from there to Manila, and then from Manila to Seoul. All with the worst hangover one can find enough alcohol to conjure. I had to give a Filipino worker a wake up call for me, insistent on my missing the flight if he forgot. He didn't of course. It is part of his job I suppose to rouse late night drunks in the morning for their departure. As soon as I reached that deep unfurling and velvet blackness of comforting deep sleep, I simultaneously felt the hands of the worker rocking me awake. He was awfully respectful. Fearful of incurring my displeasure at being woken up he apologised and gave me a wide encouraging smile. Just fulfilling his orders of which I was very grateful. Did I manage to say thank you? I am not sure my mouth could perform such a taxing task. And if swinging my legs out of bed was the hardest thing to do, the rest of the days travel would not bode well. A headache that pickaxes your temples and back of head (A.K.A. The Trotsky) with a disorientation that clouds your vision and makes you literally sway and walk into walls, is not the best condition for international travel.
When knowledge of an "end" exerts its invasive presence upon a mind too rich with pleasure, an occurance of contentment can sometimes find contest with feelings of sadness. The sadness builds bit by bit, with every final thing you do on holiday (drink, massage, swim) to the physical steps made towards the trike, boat, and plane, so proudly and mockingly expectant, ready to perform the functions that your feet are so reluctant to do. And when you finally arrive home to be met with demands of a normal life, the weight of your return truly find its stride. Although in time, a reversal comes about, one that soon finds you forgetting that sharp feeling of despair when you returned. Soon this is embalmed with memories that only grow in strength, bringing with it anecdotes and thoughts so powerful they are palpable. The sadness passes, as do all emotions, and like the retreating tide we are left with fragments, small but very real, fragments from which nothing is lost, fragments from which our memories are found in, fragments strongly formed in the past from which we can use for the future, susceptible to distortion and unreliability as time wanes on, but never wavering in the comfort it provides, both in the precarious world of nostalgia and the unpredictable world of speculation for the future.
And a month on as I was munching on a ginseng boiled sweet that tasted like an old ladies cardigan, I could still feel my flip-flops in-between my toes, peculiar that in their absence I felt it stronger.
Saturday, 5 March 2011
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Boracay, Philippines, 2010/11 (Part IV)
Part IV - Pertaining to that Auspicious time when Fireworks makes claims upon the Senses. Also, how some Preach, others Steal, and generally all finds Comfort in Smoking.
Later residents come, older ones leave, the circle of life so eloquently espoused by Elton John finds an example in the departure and arrival in travel, and while some legends leave, others fill their space. A glamorous South African couple, honeymooning at the resort (hosteling for a month, or fine hoteling for a week. Fortunately the bride chose well) before emigrating to Australia. A beautiful Swedish girl, Addile, rather bemused by the drunken force of Britishry on show at the resort.
"Sweden! Wow!" I over enthusiastly crow whilst very drunk, "whats your favourite Ingmar Bergman film?" She didnt watch much of his films. Not cool. Its like a Briton not knowing Lean, a Russian - Tarkovsky, a Japanese - Mizoguchi. You know.
Inevitably there comes the annoying, the passionate and the rascist. The Finnish guy that could not stop going on about the Bible (of which I have no objection), the Chinese-American economist who constantly told of the decline of the western economies and the irrestistable rise of China and the east (of which I have no objection) and the German pilot who went off on a rant about women not deserving equal rights and how the blacks cause a lot of problems and should be limited in Germany (rather questionable sentiments).
On the 31st, the prepartaion was palpable. People slept in till late, reserving strength to welcome in the new year with diminished senses and shameful acts. The beach bums although appearing to be nonplussed by the celebrations secretly harbored antagonistic leanings to leave earlier, shower that scuzzy sea and sand feeling off tanned bodies, and smack on those liquids of aromatic sexiness. And with the bright day morphing muted into a night full of expectation, the new year loomed.
And what do we find on the night of New Years? What new threads of celebration can be weaved into an already densely knotted tradition? Fireworks that compete for diluted attention as you feebly try to focus on those around you? ("Who am I sharing this with?") The light from the bangs casting different colours upon already transformed, taught, tanned, travel worn faces, lit up now with fresh energies of joy, fuelled by Red Horse (Philippines own 6.9er) and an incomparable feeling that you are on a tiny, beautiful and tamed piece of exotic land, locked with a key only functional when the senses submit to the island's design. And that we did on New Years Night.
Later that night Alex, Chloe and I decided to make the trip to the other side of the island, to the eponymous Jungle Bar, a place famed for its wild nights and access to drugs, Alex expecting it to be as easy as finding them laid out on a table, buffet style.
"Here we have our opiates, here our hallucinogenics, acid, mushrooms. Here is a selection of Bogota's finest cocaine, and to your left, if you want to wind down after a selection of our rave pills, there is an array of western Canadas finest marijuana, the best in the world."
Didn't quite turn out like that. However what you lack in one area you make up in others. Finding out there was a preposterous charge for entrance, we snuck around the back of the club. It being a tent club residing at the back of the beach and where the jungle began, we weighed up our options. Being already heavily intoxicated we saw nothing else for it, and began taking turns ducking under the canopy, rolling along the sand to an inner boundary (a log), at which point we sprang up like agile cats smoothly hugging the log as we rolled over the top, then side stepping briskly past another tent wall, all the while tempering our excessive excitement at our ninja like skills, as we then had to nonchalently stroll towards the crowds as though we did not for a brief moment believe we were Jason Bourne.
I remember pool table sitting (relaxing), drink stealing (makes you feel aliiiiive), fear of deja-vu (weird), white shirts (idiots everywhere) and a growing confusion of where I was and how I would get back home.
Morning (early afternoon). Lapsed conversations vaguley remembered, staggered forth through raspy post-party larynxes, hampered further by excessive smoking. It was a holiday; so those that normally smoked chained smoked, the dabblers found themselves buying their own smokes when ordinarily they would take from the smokers. Even those that didn't smoke found themselves with a cigarette in their mouths, sucking new unpleasant sensations into their lungs that would forever be associated with Boracay. Surprise surprise you non smokers and your sense of restraint, now completly violated by flesh hungry, rope toting cowboys, flushed red with the joy of that sweet sweet nicotine. It was a good time to be a smoker.
Although when tonsillitis hits, as it has hit me now, with the unaccustomed wallop of an old lady's handbag on an armed robber, met with a shotgun blast to the face (don't mess with armed robbers), when it hits, smoking is the last thing one wants to think about. Marlboro cowboy, your lassoo wont work on me this week. Still, why I'm aggravating it by eating chewy sweets is again one of those questions that I don't want to answer. I can't. I won't.
Later residents come, older ones leave, the circle of life so eloquently espoused by Elton John finds an example in the departure and arrival in travel, and while some legends leave, others fill their space. A glamorous South African couple, honeymooning at the resort (hosteling for a month, or fine hoteling for a week. Fortunately the bride chose well) before emigrating to Australia. A beautiful Swedish girl, Addile, rather bemused by the drunken force of Britishry on show at the resort.
"Sweden! Wow!" I over enthusiastly crow whilst very drunk, "whats your favourite Ingmar Bergman film?" She didnt watch much of his films. Not cool. Its like a Briton not knowing Lean, a Russian - Tarkovsky, a Japanese - Mizoguchi. You know.
Inevitably there comes the annoying, the passionate and the rascist. The Finnish guy that could not stop going on about the Bible (of which I have no objection), the Chinese-American economist who constantly told of the decline of the western economies and the irrestistable rise of China and the east (of which I have no objection) and the German pilot who went off on a rant about women not deserving equal rights and how the blacks cause a lot of problems and should be limited in Germany (rather questionable sentiments).
On the 31st, the prepartaion was palpable. People slept in till late, reserving strength to welcome in the new year with diminished senses and shameful acts. The beach bums although appearing to be nonplussed by the celebrations secretly harbored antagonistic leanings to leave earlier, shower that scuzzy sea and sand feeling off tanned bodies, and smack on those liquids of aromatic sexiness. And with the bright day morphing muted into a night full of expectation, the new year loomed.
And what do we find on the night of New Years? What new threads of celebration can be weaved into an already densely knotted tradition? Fireworks that compete for diluted attention as you feebly try to focus on those around you? ("Who am I sharing this with?") The light from the bangs casting different colours upon already transformed, taught, tanned, travel worn faces, lit up now with fresh energies of joy, fuelled by Red Horse (Philippines own 6.9er) and an incomparable feeling that you are on a tiny, beautiful and tamed piece of exotic land, locked with a key only functional when the senses submit to the island's design. And that we did on New Years Night.
Later that night Alex, Chloe and I decided to make the trip to the other side of the island, to the eponymous Jungle Bar, a place famed for its wild nights and access to drugs, Alex expecting it to be as easy as finding them laid out on a table, buffet style.
"Here we have our opiates, here our hallucinogenics, acid, mushrooms. Here is a selection of Bogota's finest cocaine, and to your left, if you want to wind down after a selection of our rave pills, there is an array of western Canadas finest marijuana, the best in the world."
Didn't quite turn out like that. However what you lack in one area you make up in others. Finding out there was a preposterous charge for entrance, we snuck around the back of the club. It being a tent club residing at the back of the beach and where the jungle began, we weighed up our options. Being already heavily intoxicated we saw nothing else for it, and began taking turns ducking under the canopy, rolling along the sand to an inner boundary (a log), at which point we sprang up like agile cats smoothly hugging the log as we rolled over the top, then side stepping briskly past another tent wall, all the while tempering our excessive excitement at our ninja like skills, as we then had to nonchalently stroll towards the crowds as though we did not for a brief moment believe we were Jason Bourne.
I remember pool table sitting (relaxing), drink stealing (makes you feel aliiiiive), fear of deja-vu (weird), white shirts (idiots everywhere) and a growing confusion of where I was and how I would get back home.
Morning (early afternoon). Lapsed conversations vaguley remembered, staggered forth through raspy post-party larynxes, hampered further by excessive smoking. It was a holiday; so those that normally smoked chained smoked, the dabblers found themselves buying their own smokes when ordinarily they would take from the smokers. Even those that didn't smoke found themselves with a cigarette in their mouths, sucking new unpleasant sensations into their lungs that would forever be associated with Boracay. Surprise surprise you non smokers and your sense of restraint, now completly violated by flesh hungry, rope toting cowboys, flushed red with the joy of that sweet sweet nicotine. It was a good time to be a smoker.
Although when tonsillitis hits, as it has hit me now, with the unaccustomed wallop of an old lady's handbag on an armed robber, met with a shotgun blast to the face (don't mess with armed robbers), when it hits, smoking is the last thing one wants to think about. Marlboro cowboy, your lassoo wont work on me this week. Still, why I'm aggravating it by eating chewy sweets is again one of those questions that I don't want to answer. I can't. I won't.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
Boracay, Philippines, 2010/11 (Part III)
Part III - The Trials and Tribulations of a Search for a lost Person, showing how far Tourism has come and how wide Ameen's Fantasies can Lead him.
Chloe and Kellyn, two Seoulites, who both gave me the push to go on holiday to Boracay, impelled me also one night to drink at a quaint place called The Hobbit House. My fantasies of Middle Earth were slyly tickled, as I thought of a nice English style pub affair complete with tokens of Tolkien, prints of various fantastical lands, rustic rural furniture, and tankards frothing full of ale.
No. No. Just no.
It was silly of me to think so naively, as the nature of reality briskly asserted itself on me. Reality took the form of the novel idea of having Midgets/Dwarves/Little People (N.B. My attempt at political correctness may have served the opposite effect. Please let me know how I did.), anyway all the workers at this place were dwarves (Yes, dwarves. I'll stick with dwarves), there to serve your drinks, dance for you and take an endless supply of photos with obscenely drunk foreigners (of which I was one of them), surrounded by a disproportionate amount of cats and kittens roaming the bar. Exploitation or Capitalisation? You choose. But all I can say is that I have never been in a place that so sparked my sense of Right and Wrong so savagely and so equally.
Downside was that they didn't even dress up as hobbits. Where were the large hairy feet, eh?
The places strongest advocate was Jeff, a Massachusetts man, a ferocious smoker, who can only be described as a midgetophile. He had no qualms in enjoying a night in the company of small people. In fact I recall a terribly Pynchon-esque story he told us once where he paid a midget to spend the night in the company of his drinking buddies. Drinks all paid for. A deal any self respecting midget would jump (somewhat poorly) for. However being a popular person, the midget, finding a suitable occasion when all were not looking, ducked away through the crowds of the pub and escaped down the road, a feat fairly easy for someone blessed with short height. Now you can imagine the annoyance that Jeff felt when he discovered his hired companion pulled a fast one, and the consequent problem of searching through the crowds of Itaewon for him. Luckily enough Jeff caught sight of him
"Hey! Where are you going?" Jeff yelled.
The midget looked back and seeing nothing for it but to leg it, started running away. Jeff gave chase, but the law of physics dictate that the larger smoker is no match for a local midget, utilising the streets like a world-weary taxi driver, getting cheap thrills from taking tourists through completely unnecessary roots. Jeff lost the midget.
Anyway, I left The Hobbit House early at midnight with Kellyn, it being my first night, leaving Chloe safe with Simon, an English guy, currently based in Qatar. Simon was a guy that looked like such an Australian surfer dude, that no matter what he said or did otherwise, it was still hard to believe that he was anything other than an Ozzy.
Chloe did not turn up the next day, despite the need for her to check out with Kellyn to another resort. Evening rolled on, dragging its feet, as Kellyn grew so worried that I became affected by it and decided to help her on a quest through Boracay to find Chloe. The first port of call was the hospital, to no avail. We were met by a mild mannered, grave and kind looking Filipino lady who worked with the Tourism department.
"No sign of a blonde Canadian I'm afraid, but I'll let the office know." So we had the tourism department looking for her now.
Next was the police station, where I got a glimpse of the light blue t-shirted officers, "Pulis" on their backs and guns on their hips.
"Does this happen often?" the captain asked, staunch, broad shouldered and safe to be around.
"Weeell..." and the subsequent pause by Kellyn, gave enough of a clue to the officer of what kind of girl we were looking for. So with no luck at the station, I decided to do some detective work of my own.
I made it! Finally, I was in my element. I may not be in a suit, tie and raincoat, roaming the killing fields of northern England, but dammnit I was going fulfill my fantasy if it was the last thing I did. I started asking Simon questions about who Chloe was last seen with.
-A tall blonde, northern European looking guy.
-Where were they last?
-Summers Place.
-Did you see her leave with him?
-No, I left before they did.
-What did he seem like to you?
-Friendly.
He produced a picture on his iPhone 4, yes it appears the iPhone also helps in tracking missing people. Amazing! I gravely perused the picture rubbing my holiday hairy chin with intent. He did look friendly. There was only one thing for it. I had to go to the club, Summers Place, and question the staff. Before that we had to the police station and drop off a photo of Chloe, all the while Kellyn in tears, dark thoughts gathering in her head.
So that was the hospital, tourism department and the police, all with a lookout for Chloe.
We returned to Frendz resort, both rather subdued and worn out, a silent trapdoor threatening us with despair, only to be met by Chloe, beer in hand, smile of reassurance, and quick steps as she had to chase after a distraught Kellyn who ran away in anger, relief and disbelief. Matt, an Australian from Seoul was kind enough to start searching for the searchers the second Chloe arrived.
As we were thinking those dark thoughts that accompany such paranoid stricken cogitations, natural in their formulations, however irrational or unhelpful they are, it turned out that Chloe's half of the adventure could not have been further from such bleak possibilities. She got so drunk, she found herself on the other side of the island, on a beautiful, secluded beach, surrounded by stray kittens that I presume came from the bar. She played with kittens all day on the beach in a state of, what I can imagine, hungover stupor.
I can only assume that the iPhone 4, sensing something was wrong in the world, extended its inbuilt limb system, fully functioning arms and legs that helped it traverse the island. Defending itself from curious dogs with images of notorious cynophiles on its screen, scaling walls with its mini jet pack and refuelling itself by sticking stray Apple leads up its bum, it finally discovered Chloe on the other side of the island too besotted with the cats to form a coherent thought of her own. With close up images of the curious dogs (of which Mr. iPhone 4 cleverly took snaps of) he managed to agitate the cats into dispersal. And with promises of free minutes and extra texts, all within the manageable range of £50 per month, Chloe skipped along holding iPhone 4's extended arm, a thin, silver limb securing a connection with a blonde haired, foggy minded Nova Scotian, rapt with thoughts of intimacy with her saviour.
That's how it happened.
And if that's not a long limbed miracle for you, then we only have to wait for The King of Limbs on Saturday, Radiohead's new album, bam! announced right out of the blue like the sly sexy foxes that they are. Its a good time to be alive, what with that and the uprisings in the Middle East.
Chloe and Kellyn, two Seoulites, who both gave me the push to go on holiday to Boracay, impelled me also one night to drink at a quaint place called The Hobbit House. My fantasies of Middle Earth were slyly tickled, as I thought of a nice English style pub affair complete with tokens of Tolkien, prints of various fantastical lands, rustic rural furniture, and tankards frothing full of ale.
No. No. Just no.
It was silly of me to think so naively, as the nature of reality briskly asserted itself on me. Reality took the form of the novel idea of having Midgets/Dwarves/Little People (N.B. My attempt at political correctness may have served the opposite effect. Please let me know how I did.), anyway all the workers at this place were dwarves (Yes, dwarves. I'll stick with dwarves), there to serve your drinks, dance for you and take an endless supply of photos with obscenely drunk foreigners (of which I was one of them), surrounded by a disproportionate amount of cats and kittens roaming the bar. Exploitation or Capitalisation? You choose. But all I can say is that I have never been in a place that so sparked my sense of Right and Wrong so savagely and so equally.
Downside was that they didn't even dress up as hobbits. Where were the large hairy feet, eh?
The places strongest advocate was Jeff, a Massachusetts man, a ferocious smoker, who can only be described as a midgetophile. He had no qualms in enjoying a night in the company of small people. In fact I recall a terribly Pynchon-esque story he told us once where he paid a midget to spend the night in the company of his drinking buddies. Drinks all paid for. A deal any self respecting midget would jump (somewhat poorly) for. However being a popular person, the midget, finding a suitable occasion when all were not looking, ducked away through the crowds of the pub and escaped down the road, a feat fairly easy for someone blessed with short height. Now you can imagine the annoyance that Jeff felt when he discovered his hired companion pulled a fast one, and the consequent problem of searching through the crowds of Itaewon for him. Luckily enough Jeff caught sight of him
"Hey! Where are you going?" Jeff yelled.
The midget looked back and seeing nothing for it but to leg it, started running away. Jeff gave chase, but the law of physics dictate that the larger smoker is no match for a local midget, utilising the streets like a world-weary taxi driver, getting cheap thrills from taking tourists through completely unnecessary roots. Jeff lost the midget.
Anyway, I left The Hobbit House early at midnight with Kellyn, it being my first night, leaving Chloe safe with Simon, an English guy, currently based in Qatar. Simon was a guy that looked like such an Australian surfer dude, that no matter what he said or did otherwise, it was still hard to believe that he was anything other than an Ozzy.
Chloe did not turn up the next day, despite the need for her to check out with Kellyn to another resort. Evening rolled on, dragging its feet, as Kellyn grew so worried that I became affected by it and decided to help her on a quest through Boracay to find Chloe. The first port of call was the hospital, to no avail. We were met by a mild mannered, grave and kind looking Filipino lady who worked with the Tourism department.
"No sign of a blonde Canadian I'm afraid, but I'll let the office know." So we had the tourism department looking for her now.
Next was the police station, where I got a glimpse of the light blue t-shirted officers, "Pulis" on their backs and guns on their hips.
"Does this happen often?" the captain asked, staunch, broad shouldered and safe to be around.
"Weeell..." and the subsequent pause by Kellyn, gave enough of a clue to the officer of what kind of girl we were looking for. So with no luck at the station, I decided to do some detective work of my own.
I made it! Finally, I was in my element. I may not be in a suit, tie and raincoat, roaming the killing fields of northern England, but dammnit I was going fulfill my fantasy if it was the last thing I did. I started asking Simon questions about who Chloe was last seen with.
-A tall blonde, northern European looking guy.
-Where were they last?
-Summers Place.
-Did you see her leave with him?
-No, I left before they did.
-What did he seem like to you?
-Friendly.
He produced a picture on his iPhone 4, yes it appears the iPhone also helps in tracking missing people. Amazing! I gravely perused the picture rubbing my holiday hairy chin with intent. He did look friendly. There was only one thing for it. I had to go to the club, Summers Place, and question the staff. Before that we had to the police station and drop off a photo of Chloe, all the while Kellyn in tears, dark thoughts gathering in her head.
So that was the hospital, tourism department and the police, all with a lookout for Chloe.
We returned to Frendz resort, both rather subdued and worn out, a silent trapdoor threatening us with despair, only to be met by Chloe, beer in hand, smile of reassurance, and quick steps as she had to chase after a distraught Kellyn who ran away in anger, relief and disbelief. Matt, an Australian from Seoul was kind enough to start searching for the searchers the second Chloe arrived.
As we were thinking those dark thoughts that accompany such paranoid stricken cogitations, natural in their formulations, however irrational or unhelpful they are, it turned out that Chloe's half of the adventure could not have been further from such bleak possibilities. She got so drunk, she found herself on the other side of the island, on a beautiful, secluded beach, surrounded by stray kittens that I presume came from the bar. She played with kittens all day on the beach in a state of, what I can imagine, hungover stupor.
I can only assume that the iPhone 4, sensing something was wrong in the world, extended its inbuilt limb system, fully functioning arms and legs that helped it traverse the island. Defending itself from curious dogs with images of notorious cynophiles on its screen, scaling walls with its mini jet pack and refuelling itself by sticking stray Apple leads up its bum, it finally discovered Chloe on the other side of the island too besotted with the cats to form a coherent thought of her own. With close up images of the curious dogs (of which Mr. iPhone 4 cleverly took snaps of) he managed to agitate the cats into dispersal. And with promises of free minutes and extra texts, all within the manageable range of £50 per month, Chloe skipped along holding iPhone 4's extended arm, a thin, silver limb securing a connection with a blonde haired, foggy minded Nova Scotian, rapt with thoughts of intimacy with her saviour.
That's how it happened.
And if that's not a long limbed miracle for you, then we only have to wait for The King of Limbs on Saturday, Radiohead's new album, bam! announced right out of the blue like the sly sexy foxes that they are. Its a good time to be alive, what with that and the uprisings in the Middle East.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Boracay, Philippines, 2010/11 (Part II)
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.
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.
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?
Sunday, 7 November 2010
A Guy Called Harold
A cleaning lady that doesn't like to clean up after other people: one of life's great contradictions.
Anyway I'm not here to write about her, she clearly has issues that needs solving, and I'm not the person to help. Mainly because I am a foreigner in his mid-twenties who can't speak Korean, and she is a middle aged Korean housewife who can't speak English. Ha! Look at me, writing about her and everything. One would suspect me of harbouring some Harold and Maude-ish love for her. I think about it sometimes, but she has a high pitched whining voice, a piggish nose suiting her flat face, and a stoop accentuating her humpback. It just wouldn't work out, we're too different, from backgrounds too far apart. We would walk down the street hand in hand, and people would stare back at us, horrified by how far modern times has come, society would just laugh at us, throw our love back in our faces, turning something of joy into pain and misery. And if our personal trials of cultural disparity would not be our undoing, then the pressures of social conformity would surely break our backs. Pioneers we will not be, doomed to spend our days apart, bowed by the weakness of our wills, the strength of social appeasement forever haunting our mourning thoughts, as we watch others hand in hand, walk past, free from such torments. And we will say to ourselves, "why us?"
And you will say to yourselves, "what's this?"
And then next week will be the G20 in Seoul. "The first summit to be held in Asia", so the slogan reads. It will be quite exciting to see what happens. I'll try and head to the centre of town when it's on. A very clever place to hold the summit though, the level of political naivety here reducing the risk of large protests. Such things if they ever did happen would happen in countries where there's a sizable population of liberal youth with time on there hands to consider global injustices, and less of a money-orientated career drive. And if such out of control protesting never does happen, much to the chagrine of the media, they will no doubt find a way to make a bloody riot out of a peaceful march. Police waiting at the lines, ready to follow suit. Then the grand act it filmed, photographed, written about for the whole world to see. The images that will fall on the eyes of all will be spoken about from the mouths of few. And to these people we listen? One can only hope that the cycle is regurgitated with a touch of derision.
And we will say to ourselves, "it's all shit!"
There's too much fun to be had I suppose. Last weekend was a face-fuck in good times, a little too in your face. I mean I enjoyed myself, but no matter how much you enjoy yourself, when you're surrounded by drunk North Americans dressed in costumes ranging from Lego men to more topical bloodied-up Mexican Cartel gangsters and Federales (it seems that no social or national tragedy is out of bounds during Halloween), no matter how much you enjoy yourself there is always a relative diminishment when bombarded with such debauched revelry. By the way, since when was it acceptable to dress as the KKK now? One shouldn't have double standards, as people can dress up as Nazi officers, serial killers, terrorists and other such orchestrators of horror, but there is something still not quite right about the KKK (not "right" in the obvious sense, there was never much "right" about them to begin with), something still not quite safe about the comedy the KKK uniform can quite emit.
There's a great level of fulfilment a gaming geek can sometimes get from Halloween. Occasionally I found myself exclaiming, "you're Ling Xiaoyu!" (Tekken), "hey, you're Squall Leonhart!" (Final Fantasy VIII). Whether it was the fact that I stated the characters first names, the titles of the games, and their release dates, but the people never stuck around for too long. Still I was smiling, "I'm off home to listen to the Final Fantasy VI soundtrack now." So I got to thinking how I would dress up next year, how esoteric or mundane you can be? "Fuck Nico Bellic, I'll be his cousin Roman", or eschewing the distinctive shaggy-haired, bearded features of Peter Sutcliffe I'd adopt the inconspicious facade of a friendly country doctor. Harold Shipman certainly didn't look the part. I suppose that's what helped him be so successful.
And then I'll say to myself "can I say that?"
And then when all the protesting and partying is over we can go back to our routine again, whether that routine is part of the big machine or a wholly independent cog, we're all good. That is to say, if you believe it... and you're not Harold Shipman.
Anyway I'm not here to write about her, she clearly has issues that needs solving, and I'm not the person to help. Mainly because I am a foreigner in his mid-twenties who can't speak Korean, and she is a middle aged Korean housewife who can't speak English. Ha! Look at me, writing about her and everything. One would suspect me of harbouring some Harold and Maude-ish love for her. I think about it sometimes, but she has a high pitched whining voice, a piggish nose suiting her flat face, and a stoop accentuating her humpback. It just wouldn't work out, we're too different, from backgrounds too far apart. We would walk down the street hand in hand, and people would stare back at us, horrified by how far modern times has come, society would just laugh at us, throw our love back in our faces, turning something of joy into pain and misery. And if our personal trials of cultural disparity would not be our undoing, then the pressures of social conformity would surely break our backs. Pioneers we will not be, doomed to spend our days apart, bowed by the weakness of our wills, the strength of social appeasement forever haunting our mourning thoughts, as we watch others hand in hand, walk past, free from such torments. And we will say to ourselves, "why us?"
And you will say to yourselves, "what's this?"
And then next week will be the G20 in Seoul. "The first summit to be held in Asia", so the slogan reads. It will be quite exciting to see what happens. I'll try and head to the centre of town when it's on. A very clever place to hold the summit though, the level of political naivety here reducing the risk of large protests. Such things if they ever did happen would happen in countries where there's a sizable population of liberal youth with time on there hands to consider global injustices, and less of a money-orientated career drive. And if such out of control protesting never does happen, much to the chagrine of the media, they will no doubt find a way to make a bloody riot out of a peaceful march. Police waiting at the lines, ready to follow suit. Then the grand act it filmed, photographed, written about for the whole world to see. The images that will fall on the eyes of all will be spoken about from the mouths of few. And to these people we listen? One can only hope that the cycle is regurgitated with a touch of derision.
And we will say to ourselves, "it's all shit!"
There's too much fun to be had I suppose. Last weekend was a face-fuck in good times, a little too in your face. I mean I enjoyed myself, but no matter how much you enjoy yourself, when you're surrounded by drunk North Americans dressed in costumes ranging from Lego men to more topical bloodied-up Mexican Cartel gangsters and Federales (it seems that no social or national tragedy is out of bounds during Halloween), no matter how much you enjoy yourself there is always a relative diminishment when bombarded with such debauched revelry. By the way, since when was it acceptable to dress as the KKK now? One shouldn't have double standards, as people can dress up as Nazi officers, serial killers, terrorists and other such orchestrators of horror, but there is something still not quite right about the KKK (not "right" in the obvious sense, there was never much "right" about them to begin with), something still not quite safe about the comedy the KKK uniform can quite emit.
There's a great level of fulfilment a gaming geek can sometimes get from Halloween. Occasionally I found myself exclaiming, "you're Ling Xiaoyu!" (Tekken), "hey, you're Squall Leonhart!" (Final Fantasy VIII). Whether it was the fact that I stated the characters first names, the titles of the games, and their release dates, but the people never stuck around for too long. Still I was smiling, "I'm off home to listen to the Final Fantasy VI soundtrack now." So I got to thinking how I would dress up next year, how esoteric or mundane you can be? "Fuck Nico Bellic, I'll be his cousin Roman", or eschewing the distinctive shaggy-haired, bearded features of Peter Sutcliffe I'd adopt the inconspicious facade of a friendly country doctor. Harold Shipman certainly didn't look the part. I suppose that's what helped him be so successful.
And then I'll say to myself "can I say that?"
And then when all the protesting and partying is over we can go back to our routine again, whether that routine is part of the big machine or a wholly independent cog, we're all good. That is to say, if you believe it... and you're not Harold Shipman.
Sunday, 24 October 2010
Falling Rocks and Mountain Tops
In Korea there is little sense of personal space. Your bubble of security, zone of safety is a construct of inconvenience, a crock of shit. It has no space here, being too packed for you to be feeling annoyed if a person walks right next to you, leering upon your person, maintaining the same walking pace as you, never leaving, always there, a Korean shadow that masks your own. When I was first here I was frustrated at this, always complaining that it was I that always had to move out of the way, but then I realised I was the only one that moved out of the way because I was the only one that gave a shit. Now I mind less having an elbow thrust right in front of my face or a lady knock my arms about like limp strands of spaghetti.
Even in Seoraksan National Park, a place of such natural beauty, like Yosemite or the Lake District, that when you reach the summit you dont want to leave, and when you do pull yourself away, you regret the decision a bit, because you know that you may never be there again - even here there was no chance of solitude or serenity, as the trails were full of people. Old people keeping fit and familys dragging their small children along, yanking them up steep mountain staircases, instilling into them from an early age the popular Korean tradition of hiking.
When you enter the park you are presented with the child friendly images of a cartoon papa and baby bear, exited with the adventurous prospect of ascending the mountains. I am assuming they left the country to seek fortune in the city, then missing their roots decided to make the trip back. See once again the steep granite rock faces, burning faint gold in the evening twilight, or a straight grey in the flat morning light. The forests deep with impenetrable mystery, when flashes of light shine off the glittering streams flowing down the centuries old carved waterways. I can see why they returned.
Things take a turn for the worse though. The papa and baby bears smiles soon fade as warning signs show impressionable Korean kids the disasters of such hikes. One image portrays rocks falling on top of papa bear as he desperately attempts to protect his child from crushing. The large rock is moments above papa bears head, just before it is caved into oblivion. One can only surmise that papa bear falls back on baby bear, smothering him with a slower more traumatising death.
Another image shows baby bear perilously close to a cliff edge losing his balance. You can see the terror in his eyes as he realises that he has reached past that point in counterbalance where there is nothing for it but submission to the fates. I assume that he fell to his death. Maybe he landed on other hiking bears, who knows. However I cant help but thinking where papa bear was, leaving his baby to roam free around the mountain tops. Negligent parenting, that's what I call it. He only has himself to blame. Live with that papa bear, live with THAT! There should be another warning sign later showing papa bear drinking himself into an alcoholic stupor years later in a gas filled room back at home. Bear that in mind. Hikes can be dangerous, you see.
Even in Seoraksan National Park, a place of such natural beauty, like Yosemite or the Lake District, that when you reach the summit you dont want to leave, and when you do pull yourself away, you regret the decision a bit, because you know that you may never be there again - even here there was no chance of solitude or serenity, as the trails were full of people. Old people keeping fit and familys dragging their small children along, yanking them up steep mountain staircases, instilling into them from an early age the popular Korean tradition of hiking.
When you enter the park you are presented with the child friendly images of a cartoon papa and baby bear, exited with the adventurous prospect of ascending the mountains. I am assuming they left the country to seek fortune in the city, then missing their roots decided to make the trip back. See once again the steep granite rock faces, burning faint gold in the evening twilight, or a straight grey in the flat morning light. The forests deep with impenetrable mystery, when flashes of light shine off the glittering streams flowing down the centuries old carved waterways. I can see why they returned.
Things take a turn for the worse though. The papa and baby bears smiles soon fade as warning signs show impressionable Korean kids the disasters of such hikes. One image portrays rocks falling on top of papa bear as he desperately attempts to protect his child from crushing. The large rock is moments above papa bears head, just before it is caved into oblivion. One can only surmise that papa bear falls back on baby bear, smothering him with a slower more traumatising death.
Another image shows baby bear perilously close to a cliff edge losing his balance. You can see the terror in his eyes as he realises that he has reached past that point in counterbalance where there is nothing for it but submission to the fates. I assume that he fell to his death. Maybe he landed on other hiking bears, who knows. However I cant help but thinking where papa bear was, leaving his baby to roam free around the mountain tops. Negligent parenting, that's what I call it. He only has himself to blame. Live with that papa bear, live with THAT! There should be another warning sign later showing papa bear drinking himself into an alcoholic stupor years later in a gas filled room back at home. Bear that in mind. Hikes can be dangerous, you see.
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