Don't you just love Christmas shopping? It's so relaxing and easy. You can even bypass the hassle of reaching over and grabbing your card holder (I don’t do wallets) from the table, because with your details saved on the website you needn’t tap in the numbers. I remember the early part of the century where I had to look at my card, carefully finger my way through the digits to make sure the they were all correct and matched up with my orginal bank details. God the inconvenience! Such barbaric times! Then after all the number tapping, you had to go through an endless amount of confirmation pages. Confirming. Confirming the confirmation. Confirm that your confirmation confirm was authentic. Then just to be sure, confirm that you can confirm. Do you know the meaning of confirm? Can you spell confirm? Can you confirm these random swirly numbers and digits? No? Well try these ones instead. (Maybe if you make the fucking things legible, then I can confirm). Are you sure you want to confirm the confirmation of the the confirmation, verified my the squiggly letter code, of the confirmation? If not, then we urge you to re-assess your last couple of hours. Of course I want to fucking confirm!
But now, how we have progressed. A long way we have come. I can now buy with one click! One click. This is not new, it's been around a while, and for that I am glad. I would hate to think that something so practical and efficient should be held away from the public, so that it couldn't shape the minds of children to come. Makes me want to make babies, just so I can share with them the joy. I couldn’t give two Christmas-dinner-smelling shits whether it's too easy to spend money on things you don’t actually want, or if it's easier for hackers to take your personal bank details. I have made that choice to use the function and have my details saved for one glorious reason. Convenience. And when people start questioning such ease, it angers me that people are regressing to a baser for of atavism. We live in a a world where risk comes in many forms, and to exaggerate the fear of online security is only another way of spiking doubt into apprehensive minds. We all know. How hard has it been for us to encourage our elders to shop online, only to be confronted by stupid horror stories of how a hacker took your details to buy fat-people body suits. Or something like that.
And for those that claim that it encourages needless spending and purchasing mistakes? Well that’s just silliness. If you ened up spending all your money, or buying things you don’t want, you only have yourself to blame. I have no sympathy for people that rely on convenience to the point of debilitation. Just imagine a sales assistant repeating to you constantly if you were sure you wanted to buy a thing you wanted. You'd end up braining them really hard. I mean, it would be sickly satisfying stuff; easily done in a DIY shop. But even if you were in a soft toy shop, you'd find a way. You'd eventually shove the stuffed meerkat teddy, you wanted to buy for your two-year-old nephew, down the person's throat so hard that as the person turned blue and slowly died with bloodshot eyes of terrified bewilderment, the meerkat's head would diligently poke up out of the dead persons mouth, asking:
“Are you sure you wanted to do that?”
Human laziness has been such a fertile ground for creativity, born out of our need for convenience. It's how we are evolved, there's no need fighting it. That’s why we have corner shops (aptly named convenience stores in America!) Oh wait. Come to think of it, corner shops are dangerous. They breed angry, capped youths with dirty trainers and dirtier mouths who shout out racial slurs at old ladies. We should start closing them down. Trains too! They're dangerous. They kill teenage youths and old ladies alike. The former because of their daring stupidity playing chicken on the tracks with their mates, and the latter because of their slowness in getting away from the tracks when the barriers come down. End result – two stratas of society carelessly culled. We should have far fewer trains. One-click internet shopping! Your stolen money could be used to fund the next series of The Inside Lives of Britain's Masterchef Quarterfinalists. We really should limit that.
However, with every advance there is always a setback, and trust the banks to find a way to bring it all down. I recently had forced upon me a security number generating pad from my bank that you need now to access your online bank details. I always thought online banking was a nice step forward for banks. A good move. It takes a lot for me to say that, because I hate banks with a passion that equals the hatred of penguins towards BBC wildlife cameramen who get in their way. And then what do the banks do? They take all the convenience away, in the re-upholstered and hideous new form of the the word “security”. I mean it's all too easy to rip on banks. They're evil, we all know that, well at least I know that. I see the truth you see. It's an uncanny gift of mine, bestowed upon me through my hatred of the indirectness and obfuscation of banks. But the banks new move makes the machinations of Mao merely misguided mischief. Instead of simply accessing and easily performing banking transactions, now I have a new set of numbers and confirmations to contend with, ones that don’t even result in the payoff of things bought. The only thing that is bought is another slice of misery. HSBC - Horrible Shitty Banking Crap . I would rather have convenience at the risk of having all my money stolen, than have to carry cards, keys, numbers and patience, all in the name of security.
Tuesday 6 December 2011
Saturday 20 August 2011
The Confused and Damned
I find myself in Brighton now. It's small and the people are scruffy. It's very different to Seoul. I have found a place where the wealthy enjoy to dress like bums. The worst kind of wealth. Wealth that robs garments of poverty from the poor is one of the worst kinds of things. I dont know who is who anymore! It's very confusing to not be able to have the safety of traditional class boundaries to base your prejudices on. Not that I am saying these Brightonians are breaking any boundaries. They are whitewashing an ever increasing fence made of stupid antique bric-a-brac stores and staffordshire bull terriers, with misunderstood liberalism and petty green codes as a cover for their vices. The rest are alright though. Peoples faces here have a reddish hue and thickened texture to it, a susceptibility to the coastal exposure and summer sun. And what with the smoking and drugs I have seen many wrinkled ones here.
Luckily we have a mix of people here. More often than not you will here the loud wails of Spanish and Italian teenagers who understand only that more noise = more fun. I am glad they are having a good time, bring 'em on! Without them I wouldn't have a job. Strangely enough some of my Spanish students dislike their own kind though, wishing a curtailment of Spanish human importation.
"There is too many Spanish people." Laura (pronounced Lowra) says.
"There are too many Spanish people", I correct.
"Yeah, everywhere."
"No. I was correcting you, you should have said there are."
"Yeah, they are everywhere."
"No, you... are, for more than one person."
"Yes, many more Spanish persons than one." She looks at me like I'm stupid. Maybe I am, I think. I decide to give up.
"So homework!" I announce.
"Ah! Why do you hate us so much Teacher Ameen!" Manuel, a Spaniard from Granada, says.
"Because I was badly beaten as a child. And the Spanish are too lazy, you need to do some work."
Entrepreneurial inclinations possessed me at the famous gay pride festival in Brighton; so with 40 packets of Saudi's finest Marlboros, fierce intent, eyes to read the street and ears to hear the buzz of the fuzz, I crossed the paths of eastern European hard-men loitering at the bus stop (drunken and altogether less ambitious versions of Nico Bellic), young Spanish girls thrilled to shout some more, pilled up men with rainbows on their faces and people like myself trying to get a cheap deal on cigarettes for their girlfriends - all the while ducking and diving from the drunks that wanted to try on my trilby.
Two guys did cause your humble blogger some distress as they tried to take my hat and glasses from me.
"Go away! Leave me alone!"
"What! It's the least you can do. We gave you some money." One chap slurred.
"For fucking cigarettes... which you have!"
"Yeah but you still have my money." he replied. I was desparately trying to claw a pathway to his logic, but the clever fuck kept on eluding me with his stupidity.
"What!?" I said, at which point he lunged at me. I managed to duck and swerve. The good old duck 'n swerve, a maneuver that has stood me in good stead in my old childhood fighting days, where I threw not punches but exhibitions in nimbleness. As I ran away I looked behind me at the guys who were now not following me, already tired of teasing me.
"You're lucky I don't tweet!" I shouted. This time it was his turn to look at me with confusion, clearly trying to decipher the threat behind my words.
"But I do blog" I thought to myself, "I do blog."
Inconvenience has been my karmic return. The monster under my bed deems it necessary to attack me with tiny scratches. I wake up with a new one all the time. Yesterdays was particularly visible, a thin scratch right across the tip of my nose.
"Playful beast, wont you harness your mischievous ways," I wonder. "Your power knows no bounds, and instead of planting wicked thoughts into my mind whilst dreaming, like making me think that rap music is the cause of social unrest or thinking it is somehow alright to point and stare at a girl you like on the street (ah, you may have done that one) - instead of inflicting a disability upon me, like fat hair/small follicles, you find it amusing to cast confusion upon me, as every morning in the mirror I see the footprints of your fingernails.
It's little consolation that the night terrors I never receive are only the shattered forms of half desired nightmarish adventures that may, in their thrilling capacity, force me to sometime focus and write down the ideas I have. But maybe shoving my face full of puffs of salty nothingness, only to suffer the intestinal pangs of undigested kernels, will help. I doubt somewhat, as the very kernels in my head remain dormant, undigested, eager to agonise a mind that finds little relief in its shared plight as my stomach.
I know! The monster needs to eat my head like a popcorn! Just pop it into it's head, like that. Just like that! Scratch me no more you vile fiend of taunting persuasion. Finish me off, so that I too may fulfil a dream that in your now troubled stomach, becomes a nightmare for us all!
Luckily we have a mix of people here. More often than not you will here the loud wails of Spanish and Italian teenagers who understand only that more noise = more fun. I am glad they are having a good time, bring 'em on! Without them I wouldn't have a job. Strangely enough some of my Spanish students dislike their own kind though, wishing a curtailment of Spanish human importation.
"There is too many Spanish people." Laura (pronounced Lowra) says.
"There are too many Spanish people", I correct.
"Yeah, everywhere."
"No. I was correcting you, you should have said there are."
"Yeah, they are everywhere."
"No, you... are, for more than one person."
"Yes, many more Spanish persons than one." She looks at me like I'm stupid. Maybe I am, I think. I decide to give up.
"So homework!" I announce.
"Ah! Why do you hate us so much Teacher Ameen!" Manuel, a Spaniard from Granada, says.
"Because I was badly beaten as a child. And the Spanish are too lazy, you need to do some work."
Entrepreneurial inclinations possessed me at the famous gay pride festival in Brighton; so with 40 packets of Saudi's finest Marlboros, fierce intent, eyes to read the street and ears to hear the buzz of the fuzz, I crossed the paths of eastern European hard-men loitering at the bus stop (drunken and altogether less ambitious versions of Nico Bellic), young Spanish girls thrilled to shout some more, pilled up men with rainbows on their faces and people like myself trying to get a cheap deal on cigarettes for their girlfriends - all the while ducking and diving from the drunks that wanted to try on my trilby.
Two guys did cause your humble blogger some distress as they tried to take my hat and glasses from me.
"Go away! Leave me alone!"
"What! It's the least you can do. We gave you some money." One chap slurred.
"For fucking cigarettes... which you have!"
"Yeah but you still have my money." he replied. I was desparately trying to claw a pathway to his logic, but the clever fuck kept on eluding me with his stupidity.
"What!?" I said, at which point he lunged at me. I managed to duck and swerve. The good old duck 'n swerve, a maneuver that has stood me in good stead in my old childhood fighting days, where I threw not punches but exhibitions in nimbleness. As I ran away I looked behind me at the guys who were now not following me, already tired of teasing me.
"You're lucky I don't tweet!" I shouted. This time it was his turn to look at me with confusion, clearly trying to decipher the threat behind my words.
"But I do blog" I thought to myself, "I do blog."
Inconvenience has been my karmic return. The monster under my bed deems it necessary to attack me with tiny scratches. I wake up with a new one all the time. Yesterdays was particularly visible, a thin scratch right across the tip of my nose.
"Playful beast, wont you harness your mischievous ways," I wonder. "Your power knows no bounds, and instead of planting wicked thoughts into my mind whilst dreaming, like making me think that rap music is the cause of social unrest or thinking it is somehow alright to point and stare at a girl you like on the street (ah, you may have done that one) - instead of inflicting a disability upon me, like fat hair/small follicles, you find it amusing to cast confusion upon me, as every morning in the mirror I see the footprints of your fingernails.
It's little consolation that the night terrors I never receive are only the shattered forms of half desired nightmarish adventures that may, in their thrilling capacity, force me to sometime focus and write down the ideas I have. But maybe shoving my face full of puffs of salty nothingness, only to suffer the intestinal pangs of undigested kernels, will help. I doubt somewhat, as the very kernels in my head remain dormant, undigested, eager to agonise a mind that finds little relief in its shared plight as my stomach.
I know! The monster needs to eat my head like a popcorn! Just pop it into it's head, like that. Just like that! Scratch me no more you vile fiend of taunting persuasion. Finish me off, so that I too may fulfil a dream that in your now troubled stomach, becomes a nightmare for us all!
Friday 29 April 2011
Plunging the Depths
Last night I became a man. 26 years of nurturing, education, love, and encouragement has successfully led me to this moment, and it was beautiful! Last night I attempted to fix a blocked pipe on my own. I didn’t fix it of course; such miracles cannot possibly fall out of the womb without cosmic repercussions. But I did however take a thorough look, and even went so far as to taking apart a pipe. In all honesty, I think I did more damage than repair, but what is important here is that I tried! I went on a plumbological voyage, and boy did I discover!
What you all will be interested to know is that there actually exists a world past that black hole, the plug hole. It is not a majestic world, and there is little grace and finesse to it. It is a tough world, a dark one, full of aqua related perils. It is dirty and squalid, requiring a firm mind and stomach. It takes a strong man, willing and brave to discover this world, and fully prepared he should be. Doffing all unnecessary clothing (such things are an encumbrance in this world) I squatted in my pants and plunged behind the ceramic front cover (technical term I might add) to assess the piping situation.
When ones hands is not accustomed to the rigour of manual labour, it is easy to cut and fray such tender skin, but such is the sacrifice a man must make on such a voyage, and what I lacked in actual physical practice in labour and conquest I certainly made up for with a knowledge in the Classics. Homer and Virgil themselves would be humbled at the sight.
I pushed up my glasses and squinted into the darkness that was more a reflection on my sudden atavism.
The situation was grim and my hands alone could not conquer this savage environment. I had to fashion tools, thus increasing my manliness. From the clothes rack I forced out one of the poles with a strength I never knew I possessed; but it is at times like this that you learn new things about yourself. For this was as much a journey of self-discovery as simply fixing a blocked pipe.
With this long stick thingy I rammed it down the hole and immediately felt the resistance I was expecting. But it was hard, stubborn and reluctant to easily yield to my efforts. And so I met my foe, and like with many foes I could not see its face. Its elusiveness pressed a more fervent image on my mind. But I would not give in, I was in too deep, and backing out now would only bring shame upon me and my family. I forced down again, harder.
Like the seppuku-ed bowels of a disgraced samurai in a violent 70s Japanese action film, the splash was loud.
And like a child that kicked his friend’s balls who was trying to steal his skipping rope, only to discover that he had had testicle surgery a few days before, I felt I had gone too far.
Squatting again with more emergency I discovered that I had in fact forced apart the pipe by shoving against it with my stick, with all the accumulated water in the basin splashing onto the bathroom floor. What I thought was my enemy was merely the apparatus in this new world, and like a new-world coloniser what I believed was the block in my path to a restored world order was actually the new environment. And I was violating it. Should I have just let it be? At nights I ask myself that question a lot.
But through hasty violations, one can also learn. And With this newly freed pipe part new realms of piping knowledge revealed itself to me. I affixed it again to its right place, yet everything was not quite in its right place. I was a changed man. I had been to that place that we only hear of in legendary plumbing bawdy talk. I had marched past that place seen only in the ass-crack of a bending plumber, plumb plunging, and experienced myself the watery world of this misunderstood land.
And when the actual plumber comes around to fix what I had undeniably broke, I can be treated like a deserved equal as we swap stories of our piping voyages. I too can share with him a bond deeper than any pipe may wish to plunge.
What you all will be interested to know is that there actually exists a world past that black hole, the plug hole. It is not a majestic world, and there is little grace and finesse to it. It is a tough world, a dark one, full of aqua related perils. It is dirty and squalid, requiring a firm mind and stomach. It takes a strong man, willing and brave to discover this world, and fully prepared he should be. Doffing all unnecessary clothing (such things are an encumbrance in this world) I squatted in my pants and plunged behind the ceramic front cover (technical term I might add) to assess the piping situation.
When ones hands is not accustomed to the rigour of manual labour, it is easy to cut and fray such tender skin, but such is the sacrifice a man must make on such a voyage, and what I lacked in actual physical practice in labour and conquest I certainly made up for with a knowledge in the Classics. Homer and Virgil themselves would be humbled at the sight.
I pushed up my glasses and squinted into the darkness that was more a reflection on my sudden atavism.
The situation was grim and my hands alone could not conquer this savage environment. I had to fashion tools, thus increasing my manliness. From the clothes rack I forced out one of the poles with a strength I never knew I possessed; but it is at times like this that you learn new things about yourself. For this was as much a journey of self-discovery as simply fixing a blocked pipe.
With this long stick thingy I rammed it down the hole and immediately felt the resistance I was expecting. But it was hard, stubborn and reluctant to easily yield to my efforts. And so I met my foe, and like with many foes I could not see its face. Its elusiveness pressed a more fervent image on my mind. But I would not give in, I was in too deep, and backing out now would only bring shame upon me and my family. I forced down again, harder.
Like the seppuku-ed bowels of a disgraced samurai in a violent 70s Japanese action film, the splash was loud.
And like a child that kicked his friend’s balls who was trying to steal his skipping rope, only to discover that he had had testicle surgery a few days before, I felt I had gone too far.
Squatting again with more emergency I discovered that I had in fact forced apart the pipe by shoving against it with my stick, with all the accumulated water in the basin splashing onto the bathroom floor. What I thought was my enemy was merely the apparatus in this new world, and like a new-world coloniser what I believed was the block in my path to a restored world order was actually the new environment. And I was violating it. Should I have just let it be? At nights I ask myself that question a lot.
But through hasty violations, one can also learn. And With this newly freed pipe part new realms of piping knowledge revealed itself to me. I affixed it again to its right place, yet everything was not quite in its right place. I was a changed man. I had been to that place that we only hear of in legendary plumbing bawdy talk. I had marched past that place seen only in the ass-crack of a bending plumber, plumb plunging, and experienced myself the watery world of this misunderstood land.
And when the actual plumber comes around to fix what I had undeniably broke, I can be treated like a deserved equal as we swap stories of our piping voyages. I too can share with him a bond deeper than any pipe may wish to plunge.
Monday 11 April 2011
Yellow Malaise
Like the hoary scales of a bourgeois flapjack, the yellow dust penetrates and wrecks the lungs' capacity to breath. Shallow and raspy, is the breath, with a sore throat as rough as the words of an outspoken atheist and as red as Gorky's pen, which in all probability was just plain black.
I was a chocolate biscuit once, violated by a crooked teethed cockney boy, dipping me too much in sugary tea, and even then my sense of deterioration was not as strong as now.
All in all, I've not been feeling too well lately. My acid is playing havoc with my oesophagus and unknown bumps and bruises are distorting the topography of my arms. I hate it when that happens. Got a yellow bruise that taunts me with words of Zionism. Should have got a mask, and look like a proper Korean. Can't see the yellow dust though! Is it real? Maybe its just a ploy to scare the people into correct behaviour. What would that be I wonder? Understand the bus drivers point of view? Knowing how many pretzels or nuts to consume at the pub? Eat your greens, and other colours too? But be sure to use a tootpick, and stab out those stubborn seeds of organics. Bastards.
It rained the other day, only a little bit mind. Took my white and black polka dotted umbrella to work for appearances sake. Show my Korean colleagues that I may not be a user, but at least I possess. The bosses at the front door gasped in disbelief, gesturing for me to use my umbrella as I walked past to the side entrance. I gestured back, “it's only a little bit of rain, I'm alright.” When I left with some colleagues after work, I walked out from the shelter with my neglected umbrella by my side, when I heard an uproar behind me.
“Ameen, your umbrella!” For fucks sake, I thought to myself. It's a little bit of rain. You're being silly. Like sausages that think they're frankfurters, because of their sketchy and rushed inner-city education. Inner city sausages. It's a sad state of affairs.
“It's only a little bit of rain.”
“No! The rain is radioactive. It's from Japan!” How come it's not green then? Can't be that radioactive. Turns out it wasn't that strong, hence the lack of green on this front.
Ah! Fukushima. I put up my umbrella this time. Faint thoughts, quietly depressing, for that place that can't quite seem to catch a break. Airborne particles, painted as threats, but in reality only tokens of deserts in the west and radiation in the east. Come here to meet and broker new ideas of air quality.
I ate lot of red the other day, you know, apples, strawberries. Ate a whole box of strawberries, and boy did my farts declare new artistic directions of potency. The kind of farts that builds dynasties and topples empires, founds charities and cracks down on organised crime with newly researched online techniques, all the while entertaining friends with words of decadent witticisms. All these and more were my farts capable of that night.
Being ill at work can turn me into a thoroughly temperamental bastard sometimes. A kid shows me that he has ink on his hand.
“Ameen Teacher! Blue! Blue!”
“Yeah yeah, I know, blue. But you're not going to the bathroom. That's life you know, people get blue on their hands.”
One book with pictures of China in it of course has a picture of Mao in it, to my displeasure.
“And here Chairman Mao, one of the greatest mass murderers of all time, still revered and idolised. Sickening.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.
“No, thats not how you spell me Hyeon. It's M, E. Like the disorder.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.
Needless to say I am tiring of the lack of appreciation for my jokes. The kids are too busy with their colouring and bogeys to let my jokes thrive. Why cant they let them live?
First summery-feeling day popped up its yellow energetic head last Sunday, and I took some time with friends to lie in a park, with all the crouton-like accompaniments; shit beer, shit sandwiches, music from an iPhone, saying “Anyong” to cute Korean children that walk to us, drawn towards the vocals of Damon Albarn telling us how boys like girls and visa versa.
That sunny day helped out on the whole eastern front of my health. Stalingrad is gradually being retaken, but the western front's not been opened yet! Lazy fucking allies. Maybe the vitamin C tablet I got will help out in the west. Huge orange lozenges of latent tenderness, unclear of it's directives (not sure if they are having any affect on me) , yet certain of it's destination (stuck halfway down my acidic oesophagus). I can also get some pro-biotic drinks every day. In Korea they are sold by yellow clad ladies with be-fridged motorised carts and hats with brims. These yellow petals of femininity provide the nation with their necessary supply of pro-biotic yogurt drinks. And who the fuck am I to refuse them! I don’t, I just drink.
I was a chocolate biscuit once, violated by a crooked teethed cockney boy, dipping me too much in sugary tea, and even then my sense of deterioration was not as strong as now.
All in all, I've not been feeling too well lately. My acid is playing havoc with my oesophagus and unknown bumps and bruises are distorting the topography of my arms. I hate it when that happens. Got a yellow bruise that taunts me with words of Zionism. Should have got a mask, and look like a proper Korean. Can't see the yellow dust though! Is it real? Maybe its just a ploy to scare the people into correct behaviour. What would that be I wonder? Understand the bus drivers point of view? Knowing how many pretzels or nuts to consume at the pub? Eat your greens, and other colours too? But be sure to use a tootpick, and stab out those stubborn seeds of organics. Bastards.
It rained the other day, only a little bit mind. Took my white and black polka dotted umbrella to work for appearances sake. Show my Korean colleagues that I may not be a user, but at least I possess. The bosses at the front door gasped in disbelief, gesturing for me to use my umbrella as I walked past to the side entrance. I gestured back, “it's only a little bit of rain, I'm alright.” When I left with some colleagues after work, I walked out from the shelter with my neglected umbrella by my side, when I heard an uproar behind me.
“Ameen, your umbrella!” For fucks sake, I thought to myself. It's a little bit of rain. You're being silly. Like sausages that think they're frankfurters, because of their sketchy and rushed inner-city education. Inner city sausages. It's a sad state of affairs.
“It's only a little bit of rain.”
“No! The rain is radioactive. It's from Japan!” How come it's not green then? Can't be that radioactive. Turns out it wasn't that strong, hence the lack of green on this front.
Ah! Fukushima. I put up my umbrella this time. Faint thoughts, quietly depressing, for that place that can't quite seem to catch a break. Airborne particles, painted as threats, but in reality only tokens of deserts in the west and radiation in the east. Come here to meet and broker new ideas of air quality.
I ate lot of red the other day, you know, apples, strawberries. Ate a whole box of strawberries, and boy did my farts declare new artistic directions of potency. The kind of farts that builds dynasties and topples empires, founds charities and cracks down on organised crime with newly researched online techniques, all the while entertaining friends with words of decadent witticisms. All these and more were my farts capable of that night.
Being ill at work can turn me into a thoroughly temperamental bastard sometimes. A kid shows me that he has ink on his hand.
“Ameen Teacher! Blue! Blue!”
“Yeah yeah, I know, blue. But you're not going to the bathroom. That's life you know, people get blue on their hands.”
One book with pictures of China in it of course has a picture of Mao in it, to my displeasure.
“And here Chairman Mao, one of the greatest mass murderers of all time, still revered and idolised. Sickening.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.
“No, thats not how you spell me Hyeon. It's M, E. Like the disorder.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.
Needless to say I am tiring of the lack of appreciation for my jokes. The kids are too busy with their colouring and bogeys to let my jokes thrive. Why cant they let them live?
First summery-feeling day popped up its yellow energetic head last Sunday, and I took some time with friends to lie in a park, with all the crouton-like accompaniments; shit beer, shit sandwiches, music from an iPhone, saying “Anyong” to cute Korean children that walk to us, drawn towards the vocals of Damon Albarn telling us how boys like girls and visa versa.
That sunny day helped out on the whole eastern front of my health. Stalingrad is gradually being retaken, but the western front's not been opened yet! Lazy fucking allies. Maybe the vitamin C tablet I got will help out in the west. Huge orange lozenges of latent tenderness, unclear of it's directives (not sure if they are having any affect on me) , yet certain of it's destination (stuck halfway down my acidic oesophagus). I can also get some pro-biotic drinks every day. In Korea they are sold by yellow clad ladies with be-fridged motorised carts and hats with brims. These yellow petals of femininity provide the nation with their necessary supply of pro-biotic yogurt drinks. And who the fuck am I to refuse them! I don’t, I just drink.
Saturday 5 March 2011
Boracay, Philippines, 2010/11 (Part V)
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.
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.
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?
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