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?
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