Monday, July 19, 2004
Fat Boys and Food
The next day, I went up into the hills with Gerald to take his Great Dane for a walk. It was a pleasant enough hike Ð and the Great Dane lolloped amiably along with us. What could be more English? Well OK, it was about 35 degrees and like a steam bath, but there was, nonetheless, a sort of Britishness to it. But the walk did reaffirm my feeling that living all by yourself on an island turns you kind of weird. Plus, Gerald drew so many unfavourable comparisons with the UK that I had to wonder who he was trying to convince that life in the Philippines was better, me or him. Then every now and then, he would tell me how dreadful the Philippines are. This time, round I think he was dwelling on the education system and the diet. I have no idea about the former, but he certainly has a point about the latter.
After the walk, we met GeraldÕs nephew, living proof of both the education system and the foodÕs failings. He was over at GeraldÕs to be taught some remedial maths. Oh, and he was 5Õ4Ó and weighed over 250 lbs, not far off twice my weight. He would be able to get into college if he could pass his maths and prove he didnÕt have a heart condition on lard-related diabetes. He was wearing a T-shirt bigging up Jesus.
Over lunch, Gerald offered to help me tour the island the following day, but I made some rather lame excuse. He was a nice enough guy, but conversation was becoming a bit of a one way thing and I was feeling a little smothered. So I made some rather lame excuse and headed back to my resort with its single sex tourist and his astonishing handlebar moustache.
That evening, I ate up in the capital, Boca, one of the most spectacularly poor meals IÕve ever eaten. It was like English service station food from the 1970s, a pizza which was effectively a cracker with a thin smear of ketchup on it and topped with cubist veg and a desultory sprinkling of cheese. It was the kind of thing food writers would probably describe as inedible, but of course it was no such thing. Spending any length of time in the Philippines quickly makes you realise that there are few things that you actually cannot eat, just plenty of very bland food. Indeed, the only memorable thing about the meal was that it was served by an unsmiling transsexual. You didnÕt get many of them at English service stations in the 1970s.
Tiger TV
Later that night, I shared some beers with the sex tourist, his sex tour guide, the hotel owner and the cook while we watched a documentary about people who keep tigers. This is a subject that bears some scrutiny. For who among us has not nursed strange fantasies about having a pet tiger? And then watched these fantasies evaporate the second they start going out with girls. But for some people Ð most of them American, apparently Ð these dreams never go away. And, eventually they own their own tiger.
IÕm not quite sure what the lesson from all this is. Perhaps itÕs that America is the land where dreams come true. A more accurate reading of this would be that America is also the land where complete cretins can see their dreams come true. Certainly watching people proudly show off the scar, where Rambo tore out their spleen while playing would suggest that some dreams are better off fulfilled. At the end of the docu, I opined that those who owned tigers deserved to get eaten, but the sex tourist gave a nonchalant shrug of his handlebar. I think he was considering scoring himself a tiger.
The next day, I decided to do the grand tour of Marinduque, starting with the sulphur springs which, the night before, had been roundly dissed by Herr Handlebar. And while it is true that they werenÕt exactly Bath Spa, they were authentically fartily sulphurous and clearly good for your skin as they made you smell like an off egg for days.
From there, I headed across a range of mountains, where, apparently the PLA are active. This was done in on a tricycle, which really didnÕt enjoy the experience much. We bounced over a felty range, about the height of the Scottish highlands and down into a nothingy little town with a nice beach. But that was it, so I headed on, having decided that the local restaurants were too revolting for even my stomach. Next up was Santa Cruz, the islandÕs second town. There I scored a borderline edible meal for 57 pence. Before picking up another Jeepeney to take me to the islandÕs famous caves.
Snakes, Bats and Golden Showers
I was dropped off in the middle of nowhere and told to head towards a biggish shack. The place had a kind of tropical Steven king vibe about it, but when I got there a man was cooking scrambled eggs, which, in a novel twist, he was scrambling with pig fat. I declined his eggy offer. Was I here to see the caves he asked? Yes I said. Another man appeared: he would be my guide. That was that.
We set off through steamy jungle, first to the bones cave. This was no great shakes. It wasÉduhÉa cave full of human bones, most in an advanced state of decay. I have to say the only thing that impressed me was that one of the guideÕs dogs had a gnaw on a human femur. Sort of gross, but the bone was a couple of centuries old and, really, if youÕve seen a dog eat a human foot (see early India entries) itÕs really no big deal.
Next up was the python cave. Now, this was a bit more like it. After descending through down a load of slippery, muddy rocks into a dank, jungly hole, a pretty descent that had me on my arse several times, I landed on a dry sandy floor. The cave was pretty much a standard issue cavern, with the odd bat flying out. And then I saw them. There were half a dozen alcoves in the cave wall and each held a fat, supine python. Indeed to enter the cave, you had to make sure the alpha python who occupied the largest inclusion, over the entrance was asleep. Inside was more of the same, but the best thing was when we exited. By then the python had woken, roused, perhaps by the stream of bats which were now exiting the cave. Then it drooped down and casually, lazily plucked a bat out of the air. Just like that.
The python was a pretty hard act to follow and although the final cave, the bat cave didnÕt surpass it, it equalled it in a curiously memorable kind of way. Bats may be thought of as kind of cute in certain circles, evil and spooky in others, and even rather tasty (see Indonesia). But I just think of them as smelly. If youÕve ever gone into a bat cave, youÕll notice that the whole place absolutely honks of bat poo-poo, or, more properly guano. But in fact, guano is not the problemÉ
ÔMake sure you have a hat onÕ said my guide as we entered the cave. I didnÕt. Why the hell would I want to wear a hat in a cave. As I entered, I marvelled at what was undeniably a marvellous sight. Within the bat cave was a flock or swarm or whatever it is bats come in, swirling around the ceiling. There were probably a couple of thousand, all making squeaky little bat shrieks. And then I got the answer to my question. I could feel dozens of small drops of moisture on my face and head. What could it be? Condensation from the cave roof. Then I caught a whiff of it Ð curiouslyÉammoniated. Oh dear, one of lifeÕs lessons. You should always wear a hat in a bat cave because otherwise youÕll receive a golden shower of epic proportions.
1 comments
The next day, I went up into the hills with Gerald to take his Great Dane for a walk. It was a pleasant enough hike Ð and the Great Dane lolloped amiably along with us. What could be more English? Well OK, it was about 35 degrees and like a steam bath, but there was, nonetheless, a sort of Britishness to it. But the walk did reaffirm my feeling that living all by yourself on an island turns you kind of weird. Plus, Gerald drew so many unfavourable comparisons with the UK that I had to wonder who he was trying to convince that life in the Philippines was better, me or him. Then every now and then, he would tell me how dreadful the Philippines are. This time, round I think he was dwelling on the education system and the diet. I have no idea about the former, but he certainly has a point about the latter.
After the walk, we met GeraldÕs nephew, living proof of both the education system and the foodÕs failings. He was over at GeraldÕs to be taught some remedial maths. Oh, and he was 5Õ4Ó and weighed over 250 lbs, not far off twice my weight. He would be able to get into college if he could pass his maths and prove he didnÕt have a heart condition on lard-related diabetes. He was wearing a T-shirt bigging up Jesus.
Over lunch, Gerald offered to help me tour the island the following day, but I made some rather lame excuse. He was a nice enough guy, but conversation was becoming a bit of a one way thing and I was feeling a little smothered. So I made some rather lame excuse and headed back to my resort with its single sex tourist and his astonishing handlebar moustache.
That evening, I ate up in the capital, Boca, one of the most spectacularly poor meals IÕve ever eaten. It was like English service station food from the 1970s, a pizza which was effectively a cracker with a thin smear of ketchup on it and topped with cubist veg and a desultory sprinkling of cheese. It was the kind of thing food writers would probably describe as inedible, but of course it was no such thing. Spending any length of time in the Philippines quickly makes you realise that there are few things that you actually cannot eat, just plenty of very bland food. Indeed, the only memorable thing about the meal was that it was served by an unsmiling transsexual. You didnÕt get many of them at English service stations in the 1970s.
Tiger TV
Later that night, I shared some beers with the sex tourist, his sex tour guide, the hotel owner and the cook while we watched a documentary about people who keep tigers. This is a subject that bears some scrutiny. For who among us has not nursed strange fantasies about having a pet tiger? And then watched these fantasies evaporate the second they start going out with girls. But for some people Ð most of them American, apparently Ð these dreams never go away. And, eventually they own their own tiger.
IÕm not quite sure what the lesson from all this is. Perhaps itÕs that America is the land where dreams come true. A more accurate reading of this would be that America is also the land where complete cretins can see their dreams come true. Certainly watching people proudly show off the scar, where Rambo tore out their spleen while playing would suggest that some dreams are better off fulfilled. At the end of the docu, I opined that those who owned tigers deserved to get eaten, but the sex tourist gave a nonchalant shrug of his handlebar. I think he was considering scoring himself a tiger.
The next day, I decided to do the grand tour of Marinduque, starting with the sulphur springs which, the night before, had been roundly dissed by Herr Handlebar. And while it is true that they werenÕt exactly Bath Spa, they were authentically fartily sulphurous and clearly good for your skin as they made you smell like an off egg for days.
From there, I headed across a range of mountains, where, apparently the PLA are active. This was done in on a tricycle, which really didnÕt enjoy the experience much. We bounced over a felty range, about the height of the Scottish highlands and down into a nothingy little town with a nice beach. But that was it, so I headed on, having decided that the local restaurants were too revolting for even my stomach. Next up was Santa Cruz, the islandÕs second town. There I scored a borderline edible meal for 57 pence. Before picking up another Jeepeney to take me to the islandÕs famous caves.
Snakes, Bats and Golden Showers
I was dropped off in the middle of nowhere and told to head towards a biggish shack. The place had a kind of tropical Steven king vibe about it, but when I got there a man was cooking scrambled eggs, which, in a novel twist, he was scrambling with pig fat. I declined his eggy offer. Was I here to see the caves he asked? Yes I said. Another man appeared: he would be my guide. That was that.
We set off through steamy jungle, first to the bones cave. This was no great shakes. It wasÉduhÉa cave full of human bones, most in an advanced state of decay. I have to say the only thing that impressed me was that one of the guideÕs dogs had a gnaw on a human femur. Sort of gross, but the bone was a couple of centuries old and, really, if youÕve seen a dog eat a human foot (see early India entries) itÕs really no big deal.
Next up was the python cave. Now, this was a bit more like it. After descending through down a load of slippery, muddy rocks into a dank, jungly hole, a pretty descent that had me on my arse several times, I landed on a dry sandy floor. The cave was pretty much a standard issue cavern, with the odd bat flying out. And then I saw them. There were half a dozen alcoves in the cave wall and each held a fat, supine python. Indeed to enter the cave, you had to make sure the alpha python who occupied the largest inclusion, over the entrance was asleep. Inside was more of the same, but the best thing was when we exited. By then the python had woken, roused, perhaps by the stream of bats which were now exiting the cave. Then it drooped down and casually, lazily plucked a bat out of the air. Just like that.
The python was a pretty hard act to follow and although the final cave, the bat cave didnÕt surpass it, it equalled it in a curiously memorable kind of way. Bats may be thought of as kind of cute in certain circles, evil and spooky in others, and even rather tasty (see Indonesia). But I just think of them as smelly. If youÕve ever gone into a bat cave, youÕll notice that the whole place absolutely honks of bat poo-poo, or, more properly guano. But in fact, guano is not the problemÉ
ÔMake sure you have a hat onÕ said my guide as we entered the cave. I didnÕt. Why the hell would I want to wear a hat in a cave. As I entered, I marvelled at what was undeniably a marvellous sight. Within the bat cave was a flock or swarm or whatever it is bats come in, swirling around the ceiling. There were probably a couple of thousand, all making squeaky little bat shrieks. And then I got the answer to my question. I could feel dozens of small drops of moisture on my face and head. What could it be? Condensation from the cave roof. Then I caught a whiff of it Ð curiouslyÉammoniated. Oh dear, one of lifeÕs lessons. You should always wear a hat in a bat cave because otherwise youÕll receive a golden shower of epic proportions.
1 Comments:
travelling again! those student loans sure go a long way, don't they?
By Anonymous, at 3:02 PM
