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.

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?

A Guy Called Harold

A cleaning lady that doesn't like to clean up after other people: one of life's great contradictions.

Anyway I'm not here to write about her, she clearly has issues that needs solving, and I'm not the person to help. Mainly because I am a foreigner in his mid-twenties who can't speak Korean, and she is a middle aged Korean housewife who can't speak English. Ha! Look at me, writing about her and everything. One would suspect me of harbouring some Harold and Maude-ish love for her. I think about it sometimes, but she has a high pitched whining voice, a piggish nose suiting her flat face, and a stoop accentuating her humpback. It just wouldn't work out, we're too different, from backgrounds too far apart. We would walk down the street hand in hand, and people would stare back at us, horrified by how far modern times has come, society would just laugh at us, throw our love back in our faces, turning something of joy into pain and misery. And if our personal trials of cultural disparity would not be our undoing, then the pressures of social conformity would surely break our backs. Pioneers we will not be, doomed to spend our days apart, bowed by the weakness of our wills, the strength of social appeasement forever haunting our mourning thoughts, as we watch others hand in hand, walk past, free from such torments. And we will say to ourselves, "why us?"

And you will say to yourselves, "what's this?"

And then next week will be the G20 in Seoul. "The first summit to be held in Asia", so the slogan reads. It will be quite exciting to see what happens. I'll try and head to the centre of town when it's on. A very clever place to hold the summit though, the level of political naivety here reducing the risk of large protests. Such things if they ever did happen would happen in countries where there's a sizable population of liberal youth with time on there hands to consider global injustices, and less of a money-orientated career drive. And if such out of control protesting never does happen, much to the chagrine of the media, they will no doubt find a way to make a bloody riot out of a peaceful march. Police waiting at the lines, ready to follow suit. Then the grand act it filmed, photographed, written about for the whole world to see. The images that will fall on the eyes of all will be spoken about from the mouths of few. And to these people we listen? One can only hope that the cycle is regurgitated with a touch of derision.

And we will say to ourselves, "it's all shit!"

There's too much fun to be had I suppose. Last weekend was a face-fuck in good times, a little too in your face. I mean I enjoyed myself, but no matter how much you enjoy yourself, when you're surrounded by drunk North Americans dressed in costumes ranging from Lego men to more topical bloodied-up Mexican Cartel gangsters and Federales (it seems that no social or national tragedy is out of bounds during Halloween), no matter how much you enjoy yourself there is always a relative diminishment when bombarded with such debauched revelry. By the way, since when was it acceptable to dress as the KKK now? One shouldn't have double standards, as people can dress up as Nazi officers, serial killers, terrorists and other such orchestrators of horror, but there is something still not quite right about the KKK (not "right" in the obvious sense, there was never much "right" about them to begin with), something still not quite safe about the comedy the KKK uniform can quite emit.

There's a great level of fulfilment a gaming geek can sometimes get from Halloween. Occasionally I found myself exclaiming, "you're Ling Xiaoyu!" (Tekken), "hey, you're Squall Leonhart!" (Final Fantasy VIII). Whether it was the fact that I stated the characters first names, the titles of the games, and their release dates, but the people never stuck around for too long. Still I was smiling, "I'm off home to listen to the Final Fantasy VI soundtrack now." So I got to thinking how I would dress up next year, how esoteric or mundane you can be? "Fuck Nico Bellic, I'll be his cousin Roman", or eschewing the distinctive shaggy-haired, bearded features of Peter Sutcliffe I'd adopt the inconspicious facade of a friendly country doctor. Harold Shipman certainly didn't look the part. I suppose that's what helped him be so successful.

And then I'll say to myself "can I say that?"

And then when all the protesting and partying is over we can go back to our routine again, whether that routine is part of the big machine or a wholly independent cog, we're all good. That is to say, if you believe it... and you're not Harold Shipman.

Falling Rocks and Mountain Tops

In Korea there is little sense of personal space. Your bubble of security, zone of safety is a construct of inconvenience, a crock of shit. It has no space here, being too packed for you to be feeling annoyed if a person walks right next to you, leering upon your person, maintaining the same walking pace as you, never leaving, always there, a Korean shadow that masks your own. When I was first here I was frustrated at this, always complaining that it was I that always had to move out of the way, but then I realised I was the only one that moved out of the way because I was the only one that gave a shit. Now I mind less having an elbow thrust right in front of my face or a lady knock my arms about like limp strands of spaghetti.

Even in Seoraksan National Park, a place of such natural beauty, like Yosemite or the Lake District, that when you reach the summit you dont want to leave, and when you do pull yourself away, you regret the decision a bit, because you know that you may never be there again - even here there was no chance of solitude or serenity, as the trails were full of people. Old people keeping fit and familys dragging their small children along, yanking them up steep mountain staircases, instilling into them from an early age the popular Korean tradition of hiking.

When you enter the park you are presented with the child friendly images of a cartoon papa and baby bear, exited with the adventurous prospect of ascending the mountains. I am assuming they left the country to seek fortune in the city, then missing their roots decided to make the trip back. See once again the steep granite rock faces, burning faint gold in the evening twilight, or a straight grey in the flat morning light. The forests deep with impenetrable mystery, when flashes of light shine off the glittering streams flowing down the centuries old carved waterways. I can see why they returned.

Things take a turn for the worse though. The papa and baby bears smiles soon fade as warning signs show impressionable Korean kids the disasters of such hikes. One image portrays rocks falling on top of papa bear as he desperately attempts to protect his child from crushing. The large rock is moments above papa bears head, just before it is caved into oblivion. One can only surmise that papa bear falls back on baby bear, smothering him with a slower more traumatising death.

Another image shows baby bear perilously close to a cliff edge losing his balance. You can see the terror in his eyes as he realises that he has reached past that point in counterbalance where there is nothing for it but submission to the fates. I assume that he fell to his death. Maybe he landed on other hiking bears, who knows. However I cant help but thinking where papa bear was, leaving his baby to roam free around the mountain tops. Negligent parenting, that's what I call it. He only has himself to blame. Live with that papa bear, live with THAT! There should be another warning sign later showing papa bear drinking himself into an alcoholic stupor years later in a gas filled room back at home. Bear that in mind. Hikes can be dangerous, you see.

A Brief History of Happiness

"Hello! How are you?"
"Happy!"
Happy? Are you really? I look at the kids. Are you genuinely content with the world, because I dont believe you actually are. I think you're just saying it. It's alright if you aren't. You can tell me if your mum packed you a shit carton of milk, the standard range, and not a flavoured one, because I know that can fuck up your day. Maybe your best friend is spending too much time with another person, not fulfilling the duties of a BFF. Is it a girlfriend/boyfriend that you want? There is a couple in one of my classes, 7 year olds. I found out in class when the girl sat next to her boyfriend and said to me:
"Ameen teacher! Eric, I, together." I was shocked at first but then I realised it was normal. Kids are not idiots, they do know what more there is than friendship. I think the surprise came primarily from my distance from that age, but coming to think of it, I remembered that I had girlfriends at that age. Kisses on the cheek, holding hands, pointless walks around the school field. Then I began to remember a few girlfriends, oh my! I think I was a bit of a player when I was eight.

I remembered giving away my Stuart Pearce football coin to a girl because I liked her. What a fool. Never saw that again. And she never gave me a kiss! I've been a lot more guarded since.

What else is supposed to be ideals of happiness?
That magnificent career,
Educations purpose or consequence?
Maybe it's a partner,
As two may do what one cannot.
How about benefits,
Dependence can be comforting.
Anonymity,
No face, no place, some bliss?
What about friendship,
It seems to provide all the fun.
Some think the thought and search,
Eliots ennobling intellectual purpose.
Failing that, getting fucked,
A problem that solves a lot, given money.
Do you like recognition,
Fames fortunes finds no fault, yeah?

Happiness was invented in the early 18th Century in England. As the growth of coffee houses, prostitution, drinking and opium dens, reached an all new height, scientists at the time realised that a new emotion had to be manufactured to fit in with the hedonism of the time. A prototype was first created and tested on the willing participant, poet Alexander Pope. It failed miserably; after a half hour burst of ecstasy where he ran down Fleet Street proclaiming "I see the light!" he fell into a deep coma. Upon awakening he developed a humpback and shortened in height, and generally got a little bit more ugly. Doctors also recorded another side-effect - witty satire. It was the last thing they wanted to happen. It is believed today that Ian Hislop, the editor of Private Eye, has contracted a similar strain. This strain is commonly referred to as The Pope (aka Dunciad, Lockrape and Cock-Curll). The Pope is highly dangerous and is a big priority in modern policing.

After the Popotype Affair, scientists re-assessed the compound structure of Happiness, adding more Joy (a French invention) and a reduction of Erratic Behaviour (a disputed invention between Latvia and Estonia). The result was an overnight sensation. Revellers could now feel the correct feelings for their times. It was such a huge success that the initial pill form of Happiness had to be changed. It was pumped into all the country's water supplies, feeding the nation with an emotion that has been going strong to this day. So strong was its success that the French modified their Joy, and the rest of the world followed suit with their own version of Happiness. The German version, Glaubiestenfranggebotstung, is a particularly potent form of Happiness, one where the effects are not externally visible on the face, but doubly powerful inside.

Today with a recorded decline of fun and hedonism since the 18th century, due to growing trends of health consciousness and the invention of Reservation in 1813 and Prudishness in 1821, the strain of Happiness has been diluted to accommodate our more considerate times. However there have been anomalous peaks of Happiness, via illegal sources, in the late 19th Century symbolised by the Aesthetes, and the late 20th century represented by the Madchester scene, pioneered by New Order's seminal album Technique.

Human Aquarium

I think it's called a Fish-eye camera lens because it looks like a fish-eye. I'm not sure whether the picture of the world you get when you look through it is an actual representation of a fish's vision. If so, then fish should rule the earth. They would pretty much see everything, as the the image is a hemispherical one that warps the view/image into a circular one that draws eveything in, capturing everything on the horizon. Of course these super fish, should they exist, would be a vengeful power, enslaving the human race, using them to build the new empires of the future. These empires would consist of large domes filled with water I'm guessing. Inside these domes would be airtight human aquariums where humans are free to dance, roller-skate and eat twix bars. Human markets there will be too, with people left flapping about (yes, they will still be flapping like fish) with nothing to do but being stared at by newly evolved human-flesh hungry fish.

I speak like this because lately I have been eating a lot of freshly executed fish. I point at an eel, and minutes later it is thwoked on the head with a knife. With half its head hanging off and its body writhing in what must surely be a mixture of terror and pain, its head is imapaled on a spike, where the fish-monger proceeds to slice it open, gut it, and chop it into chunks for my culinary pleasure. The sea-life sometimes strikes back though. One day when in the sea with Joe, Luigi and Murphy, a crab pinched at Murphy's big toe.
"Aaah!" he screamed out. Turning around expecting to see a drowning girl with a speech impediment making her voice abnormally high-pitched, we were instead confronted with his shocked face, "a crab just bit me!" Immediately we were all scared, and for the next half an hour in the sea, we four grown Englishmen were panicing and hopping around like terrified children daring not to put our feet on the sea-bed, whilst metres away four Korean children were busy having too much fun to care about such problems. Murphy later claimed that the crab was "as big as a cup", but the tiny red dot on his toe proved otherwise.

Sometimes I think Seoul is like being in a huge human fish tank, a strange example of how far humans can go, whilst being observed by something much bigger or important than us. Whether that be giant fish or some God like entity, is for the reader to ponder. Seoul and its surrounding area is the second largest populous in the world and such heights cannot to reached without its strange side-effects. Despite being nothing but another bobbing head packed like humans in a steel tube, with nothing much to show for yourself but that incurable and infuriating sense of self-consciousness and a new set of mosquito bites, one still feels a part of something. The more packed in I am the less I am known, but the more defined I actually feel, as one who is fighting a losing battle between recognition and reduction to oblivion. Still we carry on to be recognised, because it is the effort that provides that important sense of fulfillment, not the target. And like a fish in that big blue, one way to be made felt is to be part of that school so large that it scares off the biggest shark.

In this case I am part of that big school, not the school I teach in, but the metaphorical group-of-fish one, however this is a human version of it. The external threat is still a giant fish however, which you could wish to use as a symbol of the threat of non-recognition, but I choose to regard it as an actual giant fish. And if you are still following me and have any idea what I am going on about, please let me know.

Photo by Luigi Marinelli

An Aside to Sir Henry Wotton

How happy he in freedom's fall
Falls flat, unchecked with common chains
Of desire's unrelenting call
Thought harmless in its restless claims.

Maybe work's so timetabled bores
Unfolds those two unpracticed wings,
Denied, now tried it gladly soars
With freedom's flight, it sadly sings.