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.
Tuesday 22 February 2011
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.
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