Travel Wrong: After Dark, or: A Little Too Loosey-Goosey/BORACAY

Our plane lands in Caticlan, from where we take a trike to the port, as in where the boats be. After a ridiculous exercise in ticket buying involving three different windows, an environmental fee AND a port tax, Jordan and I are ready for Boracay.

Don't fuck me on this, Charon

The boat does its boat thing transporting us across water to our destination, and we then immediately head to White Beach, where Jordan has a friend waiting for him. First we find a nice guesthouse called La Bella Casa, and I find out that Jordan is a fucking mad dog haggler. He busts out the well-honed tactic of loudly and angrily comparing everything to cheaper rooms in Palawan, and has no problem quickly talking the proprietor down from 1000 pesos to 700. That's for a decent room with a TV, aircon, hot water, and laughable yet existent wifi. Even towels and shampoo! I'm struck by what a novice I've been.

We walk to find his friend, but stop on the way for Jonah's Shakes, which I remember seeing lauded on Wikitravel. You know how new parents are always going on about how having a kid is the greatest thing in the world, and their lives in retrospect now seemed so empty and pointless? Those idiots have never had one of these avocado banana shakes. Move over, miracle of life.

It's as cathartically satisfying as...having all three starter pokemon (have I finally found you, core audience?)

Ubiquitous touts mill about the beach eager to bother you about scuba/snorkel/sail trips, but in a strange twist many of these guys don't even speak English. Still, the island is immediately identifiable as an international vacation destination.

It isn't shit.

Sure, Boracay has beaches of perfect white sand being gently molested by clear, emerald waters, just as all those business execs are gently molesting their mistresses on top of that lovely, lovely sand. However, what all those tourist photos take great pains to leave out are the hotels and concrete boardwalk that start maybe ten feet away from the surf. In fact, most of the beach we're staying on (the popular one, I'm later told but can instantly surmise) is literally walled off by tents along the boardwalk, housing expensive beach-side bars and restaurants and Filipino cover bands. After all, what better way to enjoy your expensive beach vacation than by seeing the beach through a layer of dark, insect-and-tout-repelling fabric?

Just a few feet behind me from here, actually.

We locate Jordan's friend Ian at the Astoria Resort, because Ian has infinite quantities of money and intends to spend it. Staying with him is his girlfriend who has never traveled outside of Australia, and both of them are immensely impressed when they find out that I actually eat street food while traveling. Makes me wish it was 100 years ago, where by virtue of simply having traveled a bit I could get invited to rich peoples' dinner parties as a guest of honor. I could also wear a safari hat unironically, which is somehow desirable to me.

Jordan tells his friend about my less-than-stellar experience in Perth and resulting view of Australia, and Ian is simply appalled. They vow to rectify my view of Aussies and by extension redeem their homeland. Then we eat some bolognese at the Astoria restaurant and drink beer. They both say "Out of control!" a lot, but they really are lovely people.

Ian begins the festivities by buying a bucket of beer on the boardwalk, which seems to be the hip thing to do, and we sit down to watch some live music at a bar called Bom Bom.

Despite my general stance on jam bands and their collective stain on the human experience, I must say the Bom Bom folk are good fun. They even have me on stage to sing and drum a little with them, which I suppose was a cunning way of making me part of the problem. Once we're a good few beers deep, one of us starts chatting up some Russian girls sitting close by. By chance, this is the day I'm wearing my one shirt with a nonsensical joke in Cyrillic on it, which turns out to be a crackerjack icebreaker.

The singer from the band invites us all to to come back tomorrow night to continue jamming, to which everyone seems amenable. Around this point Ian leaves with his girlfriend, and Jordan and I in turn leave with our new Russian friends, Jenny and Anya. Jenny speaks great English and is naturally the more talkative of the two, while Anya's English is about on the same level as my Russian. It's a step up from my French, but not by much. However, I'm more far more taken with Anya, enticed by her big adorably chubby cheeks and enticingly impish smile, whereas Jenny sports more stereotypical hard, Slavic features, and eyes that whisper "If this party were to somehow devolve into a bleak fight for survival, you will lose to me." My shallowness is mightily satisfied that Jordan takes the interest in Jenny, and that Anya actually seems to find me attractive, if not interesting. It's possible she is nodding along and laughing at my jokes in a "pretending you are invested in a conversation in French spoken by French people" kind of way, but Sister, I invented that game. It don't bother me none: see previous sentence, esp. with regards to "attraction", i.e. hers in this guy (author gestures to himself).

After a spell of walking along the beach, we lose track of Jordan and Jenny, which Anya and I use as a convenient excuse to more or less collapse where we're standing onto the sand and make out. I attempt to use my mastery of the Russian language to sweet talk her (sweet talking being a thing I've seen in films and understand to be what a normal man does in these situations), but the words for "beautiful" and "red" are kind of similar, and I have a tendency to mix them up. In hindsight, I almost certainly said "You are red, you are red" over and over while getting sand in her hair. Regardless, she rolls with it, due either to my amazing Russian skills, politeness, or some very specific Cold War fetish.

Unfortunately, I can't remember how to get back to my guesthouse, and Anya says Jenny has her key. By now I've drank approximately one thousand beers, so you may be less shocked and appalled that my response is to mentally shrug and sort of wonder if we can't just do it in the sand. Turns out, the popular beach is still quite popular at nighttime, and accidental perverts keep walking by with flashlights and gawking. After my mouth has sufficiently filled with sand and I'm spitting out grit, I make up my mind to find the goddamn Bella Guesthouse, I can't actually remember the name of the guesthouse at this point, but I refuse to let that deter me. I do remember Jonah's, the shake shack beyond mortal description, and I know it's somewhere close by.

I WILL FIND YOU

Through some sort of sexy miracle, and because this island just isn't that big, I succeed in finding Bella. I knock, since Jordan has the key, and I'm answered by him in a towel and Jenny further inside, also in a towel. He looks ashamed, and Jenny looks...like a stoic Russian. Visible emotional range isn't a strong aspect of their culture. Oh I totally forgot to mention! Jordan has a girlfriend. That probably has something to do with the shame. Bummer for him. Jenny gives Anya their room key, and we are on our way to Sexylvania, Population: Hopefully Me and This Girl That Is Real.

We settle in on the bed, and she turns on the TV. Awww yeah. It's some international MTV station, and Lady Gaga plays followed by some Korean music videos. Not ideal, but I'll go with it. It's definitely time for business. I begin kissing her on her lips and face, and she responds in kind. Yeahhh, you know what I'm talking 'bout. Without getting too crass and making this blog unsuitable for younger readers, it's lucky she has condoms, and it turns out language barriers are no match for a girl who knows what she wants, doing it-wise. She is as applaudable as she is terrifying. After a couple of turns at bat that get a little darker than I generally prefer my lovemaking, especially when soundtracked by an unending cacophony of way-too-cheerful K-Pop, I'm spent both physically and emotionally. I stay the night. She hogs the only sheet.

The morning is a little awkward, as I try to be a gentleman and invite Anya to breakfast, but she doesn't understand. She does say she'll be at Bom Bom tonight, so I tell her I'll see her then. Once I exit, I feel like the cock of the damn walk, happier than a poor kid with a Lunchables. As I briefly mentioned before, I had read on an awful travel-themed pick-up artist blog that you are virtually guaranteed to get laid in Boracay, so sleazy credit where sleazy credit is due. I'm sorry my blog doesn't have any international pick-up tips that you might find in someone else's travel guide, but I can guarantee far fewer typos.

After half-strutting, half-staggering back to Bella Casa, I'm a little surprised to find that Jenny is still in the room with Jordan, but she leaves while I shower. Jordan informs me that last night she started giving him a blowjob, but he had her stop when he felt too guilty. He really is a lovely guy. He makes me promise not to tell Ian, which hadn't even occurred to me. At least he's broken up about it, which is why I changed everyone's names, although it occurs to me that anyone looking on this blog for cheating clues now knows as well. My bad.

After his wits have been gathered, Jordan and I walk down to Casa del Sol in D*Mall. Not a small island stretch of tiny family-owned shops like you'd think, but a spotless hive of upper-class stores and restaurants criss-crossed with paved cement streets. Picture lots of old bald men sucking on shrimp tails, forever. I enjoy a big hearty American breakfast that does my stomach no favors. We can't find Ian, so we swim in the ocean for a stretch, because I haven't been sunburnt in awhile and am way past overdue.

Who needs skin, really

When Ian still hasn't shown up, we head to the Astoria ourselves, but he isn't in his room and the desk doesn't know anything. We decide to swim in his hotel's pool while we wait. It's the least we can do.

We are good friends.

After a break for lunch at a nearby sigis joint, and Ian still yet to appear, Jordan and I exeunt back to our room and have us a little siesta.

Nothing like boiling hot, salty meat to stay cool on a warm tropical day.

blah blah running caramel flan joke i really like it OK

I mostly catch up on TV shows on my netbook waiting for Jordan to wake up, before drifting off myself. When I come to, I snatch my watch from the nightstand, hoping it isn't already past 8. Not quite: according to the watch, 2 in the freaking morning. Whoops.

Jordan's still sleeping, and I feel awful about wasting a night and not seeing anyone, so I decide to go out for some drinks. Maybe the girls will still be around, who knows. I walk the length of the beach while enjoying a few beers, and by the time I've strolled back it's now 4 am and everything is closed. Still, those 6.9% Red Horse beers have already done their job, and during my drunken meandering I'm struck with the bitter realization that my trip is almost over. Despite, well, everything that's happened to me, I would like nothing more than to spend another week or two here and get drunk with nice people and even have uncomfortably violent sex with strangers. Stupid finite amount of money. Stupid good friend getting married. Stupid life!

Once I've got back into town I'm immediately propositioned by a multitudinous horde of ladyboy hustlers, which eases the pain of having to leave somewhat. With nothing else to do and no one but pushy hookers to talk to, I lie by the beach and just listen to music. Turns out mosquitoes don't give two shits about existential crises, and my feet end up covered in angry, whine-silencing bites.

One bite for every tired platitude.

Jordan wakes up shortly after I go to bed, close to 6 am. I sleep for about 4 hours, and when I awake I can't see any of his things, and am forced to assume he simply ditched me in the night. So much for that Aussie hospitality. But wait! He comes back at 10:30, whereupon seeing me still in bed gives ME shit about sleeping too much. He tells me that he and Ian will be at Cafe del Sol in an hour, and if anything goes wrong we can still rendezvous there at 1 pm. Relieved that I'm not completely alone in this world, I shower and get to D*Mall at 11:40. I'm only ten minutes late, but neither Jordan nor Ian are there. Still, we have the rendezvous! I wait until 1:30 pm. They never show.

I read Murakami for awhile in a morose funk, drink more than a few rum and cokes at a happy hour somewhere, and generally wonder how the fuck I'm supposed to feel about Australians now.

You're making it hard to enjoy a good funk, Boracay.

Sunset hits while I'm nursing a beer and some Travel Lasagna, which is what I've decided to call the Italian cuisine that is everywhere in Southeast Asia and almost never any good, yet you eat it fortnightly because traveling sometimes demands that lizard brain dopamine injection that Italian food dutifully provides. Sunsets here will seriously put a damper on any attempts to feel sorry for yourself. I mean for fuck's sake, I just got laid and here I am pouting like a dummy. Time to go be a dude that is fun-lovin' rather than mope-lovin' again.

FINE, I guess I'll go and explore the night's limitless possibilities and enjoy the wonder of being young and alive. GOD.

On my nighttime stroll back through town, I'm joined by a couple of local coquettes who I assume to be on the clock, as it were. Lucky for them, I popped a couple Xanax with my drinks so I'm feeling loosey-goosey, and much more amenable to answering their questions and participating in this little farce. Yes, I'm American, thank you for thinking that I am a Handsome Man, however I must inform you that I am also a Poor Man, with nary a cent of your land's currency to my name. To which one of the girls curiously replies that it'll be free, whatever "it" is. Interesting.

I say I don't believe her; she insists Really, free. She isn't offended that I brought up money, and I'm pretty sure I didn't misread the situation because what the hell else could this be, so I have to ask..."Why?" After all, I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy. She says that she had an American boyfriend once, and she likes me. She's known me for a couple of minutes now, so it's very possible. Damn my animal charisma. She hands me her cell phone as some sort of collateral, which you don't tend to hear about in love at first sight-type situations. I feel like even with her friend playing backup, she should be more wary of me; after all, prostitutes are like beads- you have to string them along if you want to make jewelry out of their bodies.

Still curious about exactly what the fuck is going on, I follow her down an alley, the other girl behind me. I am getting increasingly ready to fight off a pack of Filipino thieves should they emerge from the darkness, but instead our fearless leader stops to have a conversation with her friend in Tagalog, probably about just how hard it is to get laid these days; you can't even give your pink pita pocket (TM) away to some assholes. Hell, you even give them your cell phone and they still don't trust you!

Her friend breaks off from their huddle to report to me that my paramour's place is very far, but we can get a room at the hotel in this alley. I had previously told them I didn't have a room of my own, which could be why that option isn't brought up. Damn my keen survival instincts. Sensing my hesitation, my would-be lover starts kissing and licking my neck, while I stand there kind of awkwardly and wonder about the possibility of neck-transmitted STDs. Sorry lady, I'm not falling for your game, if indeed there is one oh god I hope I'm not being dumb. I try to leave the alley, but she won't let go of my hand, so I'm forced to drag her behind me like a sexy anchor. I knew it! These two had some friends waiting in that hotel and they were totally going to rob me or worse!

Then I realize that I still have her phone, and that's probably why she's latched on, and instantly feel bad about the whole thing. I sheepishly hand it back, and book it out of there back to Bom Bom and comfortable familiarity.

Trying to repeat a fun night always works, right? Pretty sure that's what people say.

After watching for a bit and remembering that I still hate tourist-pandering cover bands, I move on, and almost immediately run into the Russians. I apologize for not seeing them last night, but Anya doesn't understand and Jenny doesn't care. The atmosphere has definitely cooled since our separate nights of passion and light adultery.

They're heading back to Bom Bom, and since I don't have any better ideas I figure fuck it, I can suffer through Bob Marley covers for at least a few minutes. The band actually recognizes me and invites me on stage again for a song. I struggle unpracticed through a couple acoustic guitar covers which seem to impress the girls. Once the band's wrapped up, the bassist (who I immediately assume is cool because he plays Mario riffs when bored) suggests we all go somewhere. By now I've had a few more drinks plus a couple Jager bombs with the girls, but I'm not feeling too drunk. That lasagna might have had supernatural properties. Unfortunately, feeling far more sober than everyone else is putting me off my rhythm, or rather confronting me with the fact that I've never had rhythm, and am stepping unrhythmically further away from ever having it.

We go to a club and dance, but the bassist is somehow making a play for both girls, until he's joined by a friend who immediately zeroes in on Anya. Even worse, she's either into him, or beyond the point of discrimination. I've never been the aggressive "that's my woman!" type, so I switch gears and dance for a bit with Jenny. Anya keeps disappearing for reasons which would probably hurt my ego were I to dwell on them too much, and now this damn bassist has cut in between Jenny and me and jumps right into a well-rehearsed move routine. I thought you were cool, man. Mario would never do this to Luigi. He does this oh-so-annoying bit where he takes a looong drag of her cigarette and kisses her, which come to think of it might not be a "bit" so much as just having the confidence of a semi-professional musician and choosing to kiss her. I hate him, and am starting to hate the whole concept of sex and courtship. Still, it's my last night, I'm alone, and I've got nothing else to do. It probably wouldn't hurt for me to practice a little of my own confidence, and roll with some competition. I promise myself that good or bad, I'm going to see this through. I'm really gonna give this pick-up thing a shot.

Jenny starts to legitimately worry about Anya's absence, until we finally find her down at the beach. Elated, Jenny suggests we go swimming, so the five of us strip down to our underwear, leave our shit on the beach, and run into the surf. The water is full of phosphorescence, even more luminous than Maya Bay. The bassist's friend takes off, which provides the bassist himself the opportunity to start intertwining with Anya further out under the waves. Urgh. Still, that leaves me and Jenny by ourselves, floating in this balmy, magically lit current. I probably won't get a better chance than this to try my luck. Seizing the moment, I lean in for the kiss. Round One, FIGHT.

And...Cheek block! FATALITY.

Maybe she didn't notice I was making a move? And turning her head at just the right time was an accident? And then she didn't say or do anything afterwards because despite her white-hot lust, society won't let her express her sexuality? Clearly drunker than I know, I remain embarrassingly optimistic as we get out of the water and march on together to another bar. Anya continues to make out with the bassist, which doesn't make me feel great and inspires unkind thoughts, but then some of us were being lampreyed by a maybe-hooker just a couple hours ago. Stones and glass houses. A pretty Filipina smiles at me from across the bar, but I abstain from changing my course. I told myself I was going to see this thing through, and I am a man of conviction, even when it's for a wrongheaded, inconsequential drunken idea I only shared with myself. Perhaps even moreso in that case. Of course I'm making a mistake, but that seems to be my pick-up style: Foolish and riddled with catastrophe.

As the bar closes Anya leaves with the bassist as was written, while Jenny and I find a spot further down the beach to watch a disappointing, cloudy sunrise. Still, a sunrise is a sunrise, right? After some gentle conversation, I try to kiss her one last time. Once again I receive The Cheek. "Just friends," she says, turning away.

I ask why. She replies, "Because you fuck my friend." Well, I had to ask. I sit there in silence on my cold rock, feeling more uncomfortable than when the tip of your manhood brushes the inside of a toilet bowl. I succeeded in following the night through, and this seems about right for what I could expect. She's right. I fucked her friend, and consequently became insane with power, such that I delusionally thought finishing out the pair would be smooth sailing.

I bet they actually have very smooth sailing around here.

Perhaps to lighten the mood, she starts going on about how she doesn't "normally act like this", and "what happens on vacation stays on vacation"; a sentiment which my typing now seems to heavily disagree with. You might think this would be the time to throw in the towel and call it a night, or hours and hours ago when common sense dictated. Instead, instead!, glutton for punishment that I am and still drunk, I try my luck one last time with a few compliments, and the admission that I'm leaving today, so you know, last chance and all. Though it must have taken stupendous willpower, she remains unfazed and uninterested. Yeah, I don't think I would've convinced me, either.

I walk her back to her place, where we hug goodbye. Once safely in bed at Bella Casa, I treat myself to a moment of reflection. Tonight was not a good look for me, and should time travel become an option I would elect to not repeat it. Once you've tested the waters and found them cold, stop testing the goddamn waters. Especially don't then keep coming on to the waters like the world's saddest sack, unless you're going to write about it later for some weird form of catharsis. End of reflection.

Hey Boss, Looking For Girl?/ANGELES

I fly into the Philippines budget flight hub of Angeles, with the intention of making my tired way to Boracay, knowing two things: Boracay is a beautiful island of perfect white beaches where it is impossible to not get laid, and Angeles is a disgusting sex tourist-ridden cesspit where it is also impossible to not get laid (but grosser). I'm psyched.

And reportedly no bird flu. Now I know three things.

I exchange for some pesos at the airport and get a taxi into Angeles city proper. A friend of Malcolm's back at the Singapore Flyer recommended I stay at the Marlim Mansion hotel, which at 30 bucks a night is far more than I usually spring for, but it definitely buys a nice room.

Fewer bloodstains than I've become accustomed to, definitely.

I browse the internet with junkie abandon till about 4 am, when sleep finally overcomes my hunger for webcomic updates. Around noon I check out, but with no plans for the day I hang out in the lobby for another couple hours, no idea where to go or what to do. Finally I suck it up and take my backpack to wander the streets like a fucking renegade.

Luckily, there was nearby accommodation with a wide variety of sleeping options. Here is one example with a classy and convenient menu of pricing choices.

First item on the agenda: find another room so I can immediately put my backpack back down again. I look around for one of the cleaner pay-by-the-hour motels, or at least the one with the nicest hourly-sex-pricing sign outside, and check in. You can probably imagine what depraved excuse for shelter such an establishment might offer, and I gotta say, you'd be wrong. The digs weren't too shab-a-dabs for 800 pesos. Also, 800 pesos (close to 20 bucks a night) is about the cheapest I can find, probably because sex tourists tend to have more money than dirty backpacker scum.

There's even a weird seafoam chaise lounge for your classier perverts.

These pay-as-you-go fuckbunkers definitely get a bad rap. You could absolutely describe this room as "habitable". And if that wasn't enough, there was a lightbox on the wall that clearly spelled out the laws of the land, a powerful final barrier to keep out all the riffraff:

Where's the last place you stayed that had a chambermaid? Bet it wasn't pay-by-the-hour!

Once I'm fully checked in to my rape-hovel, I stop in at a Japanese restaurant to get a fruit shake. The guy making my shake says I look like the lead guitarist of Linkin Park, which is a statement I still don't entirely know how to take. Is he ugly? I hope he isn't ugly. I literally cannot bring myself to care about Linkin Park enough to look up him up. What a heady conversation starter. I chat with the shake artist and his female coworker about the area, and ask where they like to hang out, but they seem to only judge nightlife by how beautiful the girls are. That's too narrow of a metric, guys. According to these two, the girls in Angeles are the hottest in all the Philippines, because they come here to make that money. In their words, Boracay can suck it. The girl coworker goes on to say that she'd also be out there in the clubs raking in that sweet sex worker cash, if only she was hot enough. My heart goes out.

On a different note, check out Curry Steve's for truly "authentic" Indian cuisine

Once I've had enough of reassuring a girl that she could absolutely be a hooker if she wanted to, the world is her oyster, I exit back into the dusty concrete eyesore of Angeles' Balibago district. Everything is squat gray buildings boxed up next to each other, stitched through with low power lines and on every surface boasting the usual tourist fare in Tagalog, English, and Korean. Always Korean. That's new.

There's a hum of electricity and desperation in the air, or maybe my mind's still stuck on that last conversation. Just so's I feel a little better about being in the Filipino Mos Eisley, I decide to take in a little culture. Turns out there's a cemetery where you can see a marker dedicated to...the Bataan Death March, which passed along here during World War II.

Is "passed along" a somber enough turn of phrase? It doesn't feel right.

Sorry.

Maybe that's enough culture for now. There's a park nearby, so I spend sunset there watching Filipino flair bartenders practice their bottle tricks.

This city can't be that great, because I am far from alone.

With the fall of night comes decisions. How far am I gonna take this town? I mean, I'm here, so I might as well dip a toe in, and see what pond life pokes its head out. But do I actually want to, as the French say, pay for sex? I'm not exactly the Mayor of Morals Town, but I do draw a line. Although that line has always been drawn mostly 'cause I've always been a real-life pauper without prospects. Let's just be open to destiny.

Be nice, destiny.

I find a sleazy looking bar called The Margarita Station, which is actually pretty nice, unfortunately. No go-go girls, just a lot of normal-ish people and commendable drink prices.

BOOO

Since I don't know anyone, and no one is actively making an effort to talk to me, I drink a fair share and watch TV shows on my mp3 player. Destiny's playing it a little slow tonight. There's a cocktail on the menu called a Stinger, which I order because Bukowski girls always drink it. It's god-awful dog swill. Whoever decided cognac needed creme de menthe should be drowned and then shot. It's going to come as a surprise to myself and probably my audience that I don't vomit later tonight, considering I followed that success story with a Tanduay Ice, the Filipino version of a Bacardi Breezer. Why? Destiny, and also I don't remember. Probably misread the menu. Now that I'm loaded with enough confidence-juice to make something happen, I chat up the bartender about the sitch'. Turns out, he hates all the Koreans in town. Apparently this is where they all come to vacation, and go absolutely fucking nuts. According to my barman, they're loud, unruly, and spit everywhere. Which, yeah, but I guess even more so than in Korea. Whoa.

Beyond that, no directions or advice. Just antipathy towards Koreans.

Time to plunge in: Fields Avenue, the official Walking Street. Many Southeast Asian tourist towns will have a Walking Street, but few come close to this. Here is where the bawdy neon lights of the city are, a profligate signal flare of excitement and low culture coiled into the urban sprawl. Go-go girls and their unimpressed madames line both sides of the road, offering endless variations on the same venal spiel. Eagerly salivating over them are a depressing number of older white gentlemen and what I assume are the Korean businessmen I was warned against. The Koreans seem to have the edge in numbers. There are local men too, every other one a tout asking if I want a trike ride or cheap cigarettes or knock-off sunglasses or fake viagra or stolen electronics. They all call me "boss". After Singapore, it feels like home. I walk a lap up and down the street, psyching myself up to bite the proverbial bullet and explore one of these dens of sin.

My first go-go bar of the night will turn out to be representative of many: bored, uncoordinated bikini girls sharing raised stages that zig and zag through the bar, languorously dancing repetitive "routines" that only serve to remind you that dancing is not their true profession. It's little more than a haphazardly neon-trimmed dive bar that happens to have a few poles that the girls use more for support than any kind of eroticism. The money seems to have gone entirely to the outside decor (which the competition ensures is fantastically eye-catching indeed), with little to spare for the cavernous space inside. The audience is predictably made up of overweight and middle-aged white guys or loud Korean businessmen, all swilling double-price beers. Considering I am almost none of those things, I turn out to be very popular with the ladies. I'll say it, it's a bit of a shock.

Not that they have much to talk about; in between the not so subtle hints that they're available for take-away, every girl I talk to simply rants about further crimes of the Korean people, A middle-aged Swiss man strikes up a conversation with me, perhaps out of loneliness, but it's a welcome change. I can't make out a lot of what he says over the terrible sound system, but he doesn't seem like a predator. Still, probably wouldn't except any massage lessons from him just yet. When I finish my drink, he asks if I'd like for him to show me his favorite bars along the strip. When in (the fall of) Rome!

It isn't long before some Koreans behaving poorly make themselves known. At one bar there's a real specimen videotaping the girls with this massive IMAX-sized rig and trying to feel up their legs. The girls are too...professional, I guess, to tell him off, instead just looking away, obviously uncomfortable, and occasionally brushing off his roaming hand. Finally one gal has had enough and gets right up in his face and shouts until he scurries off like the licentious rodent he is. My Swiss libertine picks up the check, as he's been doing all night, and off we go to the next one.

I'm getting trashed on all these free San Migs (side note: not a bad beer for a shitty cheap lager), on top of the 5 or 6 drinks from earlier in the night, but the Swissman is very calm and casual when he points out a girl to me he fancies, and calls her over. They negotiate for a spell, and just like that we have a new addition to our happy group. He asks if there's any girl I'd like, and I ruefully lay out how paying for it just isn't my bag. I make sure, however, that he knows what a great guy I think he is, and how cool and judgement-free I am with his whole scene, man. He leaves to party with his new gal pal, and I leave to find more bars to drink more beers. My mind disappears with my friends, and all I remember is stumbling somnambulant through door after garishly decorated door, dressed up like temples and jungles and saloons and vintage nightclubs, finding each one the same inside and stumbling out again. In my hypnagogic state the bars and the girls all blend into one another in a horrible panorama of beer and butts and bad Koreans, yet despite my best efforts to override my programming with drink I manage to stay single to the end. Oh well.

Amazingly, I make it back without difficulty to my love hotel room that will remain absent of love. It almost feels like I'm being selfish, just using it for boring old sleep. I noticed that even the premium hotels in the area offer hourly pricing as well. They know their demographic. I wanted to see Angeles, and I feel sated.

After waking in worse shape than usual, I go through the alcoholic's morning ritual of making sure all my stuff is still with me, and check out.

Other than some mystery thigh bruises, all good in Jamiesburg.

After a trike ride to the bus terminal, I'm having trouble finding the bus to the Manila airport. A local is kind enough to show me, and then wang enough to ask for a tip. I stiff him, because Never Back...nope, doesn't really work here. The bus shows Con Air during the ride, which is terrible for a hangover, modern classic though it may be.

After the bus another taxi, where I'm charged another fare that I'm sure is unreasonable but haven't been in-country long enough to be sure. I am so tired of learning new price standards and currency exchange rates, and trying to remember to not let everyone take advantage of my rotating buffet of inebriation, apathy, white guilt, comparative wealth, and attempted cultural sensitivity (which can reliably be interchanged with flat-out ignorance). I'm also tired of saying I'm tired of things. Pick up your balls and get on with it, dude.

At the airport gate I grab a Cinnabon, which unlike Con Air is amazing for my hangover, and is always a good life decision. Unfortunately, we're not in America, so it's not nearly as frosting-drenched and gross and delicious. Still, it passes the time and fills the hole in my life where sex and companionship should be.

Cinnabon: Distracting you from the depressing realities of the modern condition since 1985 

Despite my state last night I somehow bought an expensive plane ticket to Caticlan, from where Boracay can be reached. I have no plan beyond that, which is just as well when I meet an Aussie on the plane, also traveling alone. We arrange to find a place together. His name's Jordan, he seems nice, and right now that's enough for me.

Aw, airplane friend

More Like Singa-BORE (Sorry, Spoiler)/JAKARTA - SINGAPORE

Coming from East Timor, I have a layover in Indonesia for a night and a day. That girl in Brunei says Jakarta's the place to be, so let's give it a once-over. Unfortunately for her and all her countrymen, I've got a bad case of the grumps.

First I have to transfer at Denpasar airport in Bali, where they make me pick up my baggage to carry through. On top of that they won't let me check it for some reason, so off I go carrying my hulking backpack through no less than 3 security checkpoints. Why they have so many is a mystery, as one security officer doesn't even look up from her texting as my stuff goes through the metal detector. 

However, at the last security point my bag does get stopped. After all this baggage and security nonsense I'm running very late for my flight, which paradoxically makes me less inclined to be cooperative. The gentleman in charge has me put the backpack through again, and sure enough stops it once more. The culprit: my tiny Leatherman Micra, which normally is safely stowed in my checked luggage. They point its shape out to me on the x-ray and ask if I recognize it. I'm late and getting pissed off, so I claim ignorance. If you G-Men want my adorable little multitool, you're going to have to work for it.

After putting my pack through yet again, the man finally starts rummaging through the pockets. The thing is, I haven't hidden it; the Leatherman is simply floating around in the front pocket, but for some reason this guy never thinks to try the zipper staring him in the face. They run the bag through 2 more times, each time pulling out more of my stuff from the main pouch and setting it aside, and each time neglecting that front pocket. Finally, an announcement from my airline starts calling for people to board for Jakarta. I swear loud and desperate enough for the security guy to hear, and at last he relents. Defeated, he zips my shit back up, Leatherman untouched. That's right System, I win. I should do a little terrorism just to spite you. But I won't, because that's a serious issue with a lot of facets and I shouldn't joke about it so flippantly.

Now I'm at maximum-grump, plus my mp3 player won't charge so for the whole flight I'm left to just read Bukowski and practice my misanthropy. When we touch down, a little girl is in the aisle next to me, with tears in her eyes for some unknown reason. Good, I think, misanthropically.

I wait for the bus downtown to Blok M, backpacker central. The bus is full 3 times in a row as it comes by, and when I do finally manage to get on I ride it too far, missing my stop. I pay for a motorcycle to take me the rest of the way, and meet a couple Norwegian girls wielding a Lonely Planet and looking for a place to stay. They let me tag along, and together we find a place that has a couple rooms left for $13 apiece. I consider asking them if they want to split a big room with me and save money, but after they make a comment about how the completely fine accommodations at this hotel are the worst they've ever stayed in, it's apparent they're not ready to go full Into the Wild just yet.

A glimpse into the heart of darkness, apparently.

I unload my backpack, collapse onto the bed and try to think positive, but it's no use. I'm tired of it. The same pregnant dogs and cats everywhere, the same small talk locals make while trying to rip you off, the same broken glass on top of the walls. Everyone thinking I'm rich because I'm white, and the guilty sense of entitlement when I think anything negative ever. The constant irritation of getting in a taxi and not being able to trust the company, the meter, or the driver who never seems to know their city's own goddamn landmarks. I'm tired of not having had a solid bowel movement in 4 months. Tired of all these old geezers growing out their disgusting mole hairs. Tired of having to assume anyone who talks to me after sundown is a prostitute. The blood-stained towels and sheets. The lizards on the walls. And is it just me, or do all their cell phone ringtones sound like the theme to The Deer Hunter? I'm just so tired. And there's that sense of guilt flooding in. It's all just a vacation, really. Get over yourself. At least the weather's nice. It's not like the sun is our constant enemy.

There's a group of backpackers from all over Europe drinking outside the hotel, so I join them for a few beers. A couple French guys break off for dinner, and ask if I'd like to join. I say sure. For some reason I tell them they don't have to speak English on my account, because I'm kind of drunk and I've seen Amelie a couple times, so I'm basically fluent in their mother tongue. We eat. After an hour, it turns out that I in fact do not speak, nor understand, the French language. I pretend this is not the case for a good hour before we adjourn back to the hotel. More beers in pretend-and-nod-along-French, then bed. Is this a vacation? Is this how my brain wants me to relax? It doesn't feel like it.

With the rising sun comes a renewed sense of drive and optimism, but then a renewed sense of ennui to cancel that right the fuck out. I don't particularly want to go anywhere, so I stay in past checkout watching stand-up comedy on my netbook and then walk to a pancake joint.

They put cheese all over my pancake. I don't know if this is a specific recipe or a cultural thing or maybe something more widespread and this is actually how old traditional classic pancakes are supposed to be, and I don't care. Just Stop.

I buy a new toothbrush so I can feel productive (not at the pancake place, that'd be weird), and when I return to the hotel the guy very rightly points out that it's past checkout, so I need to pay more. Unfortunately for him, he's speaking to the Emperor of Frowns right now, so I'm gonna feel compelled to make that way more difficult than you ever wanted this business transaction to be. Never Back Down, son.

In the end, he's trying to charge me for a whole extra night, even though he's got a sign that says it's supposed to be 50% for overstaying. So I win, with him reinforcing the sort of shady shit that put me in this mood. And all I needed to do to avoid this was check out and take my backpack to the pancake house in the first place, since that's pretty much all I did with my day. Whoops.

I get a taxi to the airport, which takes a long time to show up, and then an even longer time to get to the terminal. Jakarta traffic is slower than a sloth riding a turtle in a world made of molasses, and yes I am basing that off my experience of one day. The long ride gives me some time to observe and reflect, and most importantly judge, my Jakarta experience. The city seems halfway on the sleaze scale between Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur, and maybe deserves a second look. Putting down my Grump Goggles for a second, the city seems like it's got a unique life of its own, and the people so far have mostly been lovely. In fact, in just my brief time I received multiple CouchSurfing messages from Indonesian strangers asking if I wanted to hang out or chat, just like Puspita back in East Timor. Of course, in between the time of me going there and then writing this I've seen the documentary The Act of Killing, so...let's just say they've got some shit to work out.

Just like Tiger Air has to work out this huge line! Ha ha! Preferably through smarter organization, and not genocide.

The plane is delayed, and then delayed again after we board. At this point, I'm feeling worse for my CoushSurfing host in Singapore, Malcolm, who is presumably waiting up for me.

Singapore has the longest airport-based slide in the world. I don't have any context for this.

The plane gets into Singapore around midnight, then baggage takes another half hour to come out. Trains have long stopped running, so I find a pay phone to call Malcolm, who very reasonably suggests I get a taxi. This very reasonable taxi to Bedok ends up costing 25 bucks, which in my current delicate state sounds goddamn insane. I flip my frigging lid on this guy, convinced the meter was running fast or somesuch, but he keeps very reasonably pointing to a sign in his cab that says night-time rides cost an extra 50 percent. I'm so mad, I storm off forgetting my bag in the trunk until the driver I just cussed out reminds me, forcing me into the awkward position of continuing to frown and act as if him giving me my bags is a further inconvenience that he is using to spite me.

Malcolm, who I later find out had been waiting over an hour for me at the train station until it closed, lets me into the apartment he shares with his family. He's lovely, they're lovely, blah blah blah. Nice people, what's their deal. Really, I'm extremely gracious to him for opening his home to me. Time for a chill pill. Nay - a chill suppository. A chill IV drip. Need to stop trying to fight random service industry workers. Civilization is what I need, and the price of that taxi definitely smacked of civilization.

The morning brings riches indeed. Malcolm has taken me to a hawker food court.

It may not look like it, but that picture is why people should come to Singapore: the food scene will blow your tits off. I try "Singapore pad thai" as Malcolm calls it, and he gets chicken fried rice. Both are obscenely good.

This plate of greasy slop is better than your last dozen meals combined.

My enthusiasm must be written all over my face, because Malcolm comments with a smile, "We'll probably be eating most of your time here!" He tells me about how the government cracked down on the old style of food cart, moving them all into these food malls where they must also secure licenses and face further competition to up their game. I can't speak as to what their food traditions were before, but they're blowing me away now. Something about the confluence of Chinese, Southeast Asian, and Indian immigrants in Singapore has made this country extremely racist (did I not mention that?), and extremely open to delicious fusion recipes.

We finish the meal with some coffees (I'm sorry, "kopi"), served hyper-sweetened with condensed milk like in Vietnam. Malcolm informs me in the future to make sure to order "Kopi C" or "Kopi O", as these are less sweetened versions for dainty Western palates like mine. Apparently Singaporeans take their coffee pretty seriously, with an entire lexicon to match. Malcolm also picks up a soya milk with tapioca pearls, which is whatever. Can't really go wrong there.

So after we eat, we- alright, I tried to put this off as long as I could. There's nothing to fucking do in Singapore. Remember when I said 3 paragraphs ago that people should come to Singapore for the food? That is literally the only reason anyone should ever come to Singapore. Don't get me wrong, the food will make you want to call your parents for the first time in years to thank them for that one act of lovemaking that led to this meal, but Singapore ain't got nothing else going on. When Malcolm said we'd be eating most of our time here, he was making the best and only itinerary possible.

William Gibson has conveniently already summed this position up in his landmark Wired article Disneyland with The Death Penalty. While Gibson needn't have been so alarmist (I gleefully point out every bit of illegal gum stuck to the sidewalks, to which Malcolm less gleefully muses how he has to hear about the fucking gum from every foreigner he hosts), he wasn't wrong. All culture in the city/country seems to have been replaced by shopping malls. When I ask Malcolm what he recommends we do after our meal, he replies, "I guess we can see a movie?"

Which we do. We go to a mall and see Green Lantern with Ryan Reynolds, a movie which is not very good, no sir. Then he suggests we go swimming (Malcolm, not Ryan Reynolds), which we do, at the most eerily pristine swimming center I have ever seen:

Stanley Kubrick's The Shining II: Fun in the Sun!

And it's nice. Just like the mall was nice. Nice like your grandmother's couch that she won't take the plastic off of because you aren't to be trusted. Too nice. Disturbingly nice. Why are you so crazy about your couch, Grandma. Are you gonna fuck that couch? Did...did you see someone fucking a couch once, and vowed never again? Does this metaphor still work for the government? Stop thinking, just eat your damn impeccable food:

After what must have been our fifth meal together, I split off from Malcolm towards downtown. As a guy who's been known to finish a cocktail or two in his time, there's one last thing I'm interested in from this country: the Raffles Hotel, home to the original Singapore Sling. Also, it's 10:30 and this is all I have time for if I want to make it back to Malcolm's before the trains stop.

Why won't you be more cyberpunk, damn you! You have such potential!

Finding the famed Long Bar at Raffles is easy enough, just follow the scores of other tourists coming to have exactly one drink and leave.

I mean, who can bear staying a second longer in a dump like this.

What I find surprising is how old-school they've kept the place: while they no longer have quasi-slaves to fan you, they do have a mechanical setup with old timey-fans to provide the same experience. The bar's also got boxes of salted peanuts, of which it is both acceptable and expected to toss their shells on the floor, to be swept up by modern quasi-slaves. That's right, I went there SOCIETY. You can buy their peanuts at the hotel gift shop for extortionate prices afterwards, if that's the kind of person you've decided you want to be in your life.

Classy, with an emphasis on the assy.

The bar isn't anywhere near capacity, so I'm served fairly quickly. There's no sense to beat around the bush. He knows why I'm here, I know why I'm here. As I once said and then turned into a multi-billion dollar clothing empire, "No Fear".

"A Singapore Sling?" I purr. The bartender nods his head. "Of course, sir." Respect. Obsequience. Not what I normally receive from the kind of drinking establishments I frequent back home. I watch this guy in hungry anticipation, eager to see a master at work. What brands of brandy do they use? Are they the historical brands, or have they moved on? His technique was simpler: Grab a jug from a pre-stocked mini-fridge beneath the bar, slop the pre-mixed pink tipple into a highball glass, and top with pre-assembled garnish.

I see that jug, you goddamn monster.

He then promptly brings the receipt.

For everyone who is anti-illiterate (thus can't parse photos but instead can only read formatted text), the receipt was for an inhumane 30 dollars and 60 cents. Which, okay, might've been in Singapore Dollars so actually a little over 20 dollars USD, but that's still more than I would probably pay for a car. Probably, I don't really drive.

Admit it, this photo kind of makes you want to sit next to an old globe and say disdainful things about the colonies, followed by a long puff on your cigar and a furtive glance at the coat boy who meets your eyes with knowing interest, but you musn't ever let anyone know for such things are forbidden, why else did you come halfway around the world if not to escape the pain of these thoughts...

After eating way more salty nuts than I maybe should have just to make some sort of point, I return to Malcolm's not as a conquering hero, but...as a guy who had a drink that cost more than he thought it would and it tasted okay, but not worth anywhere near that, and at least if it tasted terrible there'd be more of a story from it. I think Camus once wrote something along those lines.

I manage to sneak a peek at the Singapore Flyer on the way back to Malcolm's, mostly so I can claim to have seen all of Singapore's sights before I leave this snooze-cruise. Back at my temporary digs I'm psyched to see that my download of the Game of Thrones finale has finished. I'm pretty sure that's the most exciting thing going on in this country, and I'm super chuffed that it was from an illegal torrent. Suck it, you gum-fearing fascists.

I wake up to find my computer has crashed, and Windows won't start. That hurts right in the hubris. Why I still bother with this thing...Oh right, I have a problem specific to my generation and I shall use that to deny all personal responsibility for my techno-priorities. After a shower, Malcolm takes me for a breakfast of kaya toast and eggs, which instantly becomes my new favorite breakfast. Runny eggs on kinda-sweet toast just presses all my weirdo taste buttons. Malcolm isn't finished though, no sir. That's followed by Laksa, a delicious spicy noodle soup, Which itself is then followed by a curry puff, the curry perfectly spiced and the pastry just the right kind of flaky. Bless you, couch host angel. My gastrointestinal tract may weep disgusting tears, but my heart sings.

I would later find that you can get kaya toast in a lot of Southeast Asian restaurants once you recognize it on the menus. Treat yourself.

Laksa and a curry puff, duh.

I do. I really do.

To prove Singapore isn't all delicious food and sterile nothingness everywhere else, Malcolm shows me this street of kind of interesting German architecture. Indeed, it's kinda interesting, although it looks as fake and empty as everything else in this city-state.

Singapore: It's great if you don't enjoy much in life!

It being my last day, I pack up my things, but Malcolm surprises me with a stop at the Singapore Flyer, where he happens to tend bar. Apparently, he wants me rate his Singapore Sling against that of the vaunted Raffles.

This is the Flyer. I decided against riding it because I always feel like the bigger the Ferris Wheel the more I should ride it, but then the longer it takes to get off the damn thing once I remember how fucking boring they are.

It's a nice bar though.

It's good! Pretty much the same thing I'd say, but the Raffles didn't exactly set a high bar for themselves with that whole pre-made jug business. His is a bit sweeter, but the Raffles one has a more boozy kick that I prefer. On the other hand, Malcolm's is also 10 bucks cheaper for more or less the same thing.

Winner.

Should I have spent a day's wages trying two of these mostly-similar not-really-great cocktails? Not like there's much else to do here!

Except for whatever this space cocoon I could see from the window is. You could probably do something in there, like hang out with Pauly Shore or foil an X-Files plot or something.

Malcolm and I take some pictures to commemorate our time together, which was incidentally the only time I was enjoying the country so I was happy to oblige.

He's a good 'un, this guy.

Apparently the Singapore airport is supposed to be some hot shit, but instead of enjoying the amenities I end up spending my whole time at the airport using the wifi and trying to get Windows on my netbook working again. I must've made quite the deal about this, because Malcolm wrote me a CouchSurfing comment in which he wished me a safe trip, and my computer a speedy recovery. What the fuck is wrong with me. I eat a McFlurry and get to the gate with 10 mins to spare, which is not intended to be related to the previous sentence, it is simply a timeline of events.

I've finished my Bukowski book, so I'm in a singular mood when I find that my mp3 player has run out of my battery, and I've put my other book in my checked baggage. Nothing to do but sketch drawings of some lady across the aisle like a fucking creeper and write in my stupid journal. I'm ready for the SE Asia backpacker trappings again. I can't take another mall, and I need to be thinking about something more interesting than how disappointing Lost was, and I can't believe I drained my mp3 player watching a water-cooler show years after it ended. Singapore has a lot of malls, honestly incredible food, and nothing else. Caning is still a punishment, if that's a draw for you. It does have Malcolm, which is something for sure, but I need that old uncertainty back, the dirt, the noise, the bad tattoos of a country bitterly reliant on drunk and disorderly foreigners. I need a life that's slightly to the left. Bring back the chaos and let it reign.

To that end, where am I headed now? Why, the city of Angeles in the Philippines, famed sex tourism destination according to some blogs I swear I read after I had already bought my ticket because that's where Air Asia flies out of. Now there's a town that I bet's gonna have some gum on their streets.