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.