Bagoong.

  

I’m still tied up in Sopers Hole. Nothing much happening here.  Usual bunch of idle rich…people, like me I suppose, who’ve managed to screw a few million out of the system. I’ve paid for a month. Sir Julian left for Barbados. Bare-boaters come and go. Bob Dylan was here briefly. Incognito. And that pirate bloke showed up, the one with the tattoos. Harbour-master told him to piss off. The girls are definitely looking bored but that’s nothing new.

Going through the old files I see there’s lots more stuff about Manila. So at risk of boring you here’s some more. There are other things happening you know. Like what? Gay marriage, World War 3, Greek debt. No? OK then.

A lot of the Ermita bar owners had cars with chauffeurs and dwarves to open the door and stuff. I didn’t bother with any of that. Just good honest beer and pussy and loud music that was me. Give the punters what they want.

It wasn’t that I was cheap. I just didn’t like flashing it around. Never have. Oh I like having a few bob in my pocket same as the next bloke but bugger the gold chains and the chauffeur driven limos. Just gives the girls the wrong idea.

It’s all amazingly fresh in my mind. For instance I knew all the bars by heart along Del Pilar before Mayor Lim had them bulldozed. I can visualize them very clearly and I can still rattle them off.

Starting at UN Avenue let’s stroll down to Pedro Gil…St. Moritz, Black Out, Yellow Brick Road, Firehouse II, Lovebirds, Pitstop II, Black Stallion, Roller Bar, Pussycat, Pips, Bee Club, Pitstop I, Shampoo, Raymond’s Bar and Disco, Aussie Bar/Riviera, Bloomers, Australian Club, Cherries, New Bangkok, Thriller I, Roadhouse, Den Rose, Superstar, Thriller II, Brown Sugar, Bubbles, Butterfly, Rols, Polynesian Paradise, Blue Hawaii, Rosie’s Diner, Duke’s International, Hollywood, Little Caesars, 88 Olympic, Las Vegas, Chaplins.

I’ve probably missed a few but nobody’s perfect. Some cheap hotels around too if you needed a room for a few hours. Tower was only 200 pesos, hot and cold running rats in every room. Congress was even cheaper and great for short time if you didn't mind sharing the bathroom with a bunch of strangers.

I remember the layout of the place no problem but when it comes to chronology I’m fucked. Late eighties that’s all I know for sure but the order of events gets muddled.

I do recall going to see Cory Aquino speak in Rizal Park. Come to think of it I’ve still got a couple of ‘People Power’ T shirts somewhere. Collector’s items they’d be. Any offers? Cory did a good job. Everybody was very excited and Ferdinand must have known his days were numbered. There was the usual coups and counter-coups but Ramos was the real power…everybody knew it…and he gave Ferdinand and Imelda the nudge.

I remember me and Oscar commandeering a jeepney and driving out to Malacanang Palace with some of the staff. The girls said if we got there quick we could get some of Imelda’s shoes. Bloody zoo that was. People running everywhere grabbing whatever they could carry. I had my arms full of expensive junk when Oscar shouts, “Fuck the shoes Dick, follow me!!” and we’re off upstairs. Of course he’d brought his toolkit so as soon as we find the bathroom he make a beeline for the solid gold fittings. We didn’t have a lot of time. “Should have worn a Maytag outfit,” says Oscar hacking and bashing away while I tried to keep the crowds back. Some chance. There’s Filipinos climbing over each other. “Stand back,” shouts Oscar, “we’re from the UN!”

And another time I got stuck in the Camelot Hotel for a week because the corridors were full of blokes firing machine guns and throwing hand grenades. Telly still worked OK though. Very strange watching yourself get shot at from different angles. Most of the heavy fighting was out at Camp Aguinaldo on EDSA but I’ll never forget looking out the window and seeing a helicopter firing rockets at someone on the roof.

During a lull I went to the room next door to raid the mini-bar and found a couple of journos under the bed. “Welcome to the Philippines.” I said. “Is it always like this?” one bloke asked. “Only if they’ve been eating baalut.” I quipped. “Looks exciting.” said one of the journos nodding at a bloke on TV draped with a python. “That’s our Gringo,” I said, “bit of a lady’s man.” Next thing a flight of Chance-Vought Corsairs flies past on its way to bomb the barrios round Camp Aguinaldo. “Let’s go!” say the journos, grabbing their gear, and out they rush. Four of them. Only 3 came back.

Soi 4, Sukhumvit

Arthur is back in Bangkok. Alone. Dao has gone back to the village. He doesn't mind being on his own. Gives him a chance to visit some old haunts.

He’s having a pretty good day so far. He woke with a mild hangover in the Crown Hotel, took a shower without any fatal slippages and managed to get dressed without snagging any tackle. He did catch a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror at one point but it was just a glimpse…not something to linger on.

He negotiated the gauntlet of sidewalk vendors not in the least tempted by the array of porn DVDs, flick knifes, knuckle dusters, David Beckham T-shirts, mountains of Gucci luggage, and fried grasshoppers. He dropped a few baht in some beggar’s cups. Amazing Thailand indeed. Arthur is amazed that he ever found it amazing.

And now we find him on Soi 4 Sukhumvit in the Golden Bar at a table overlooking the street enjoying his first beer of the day and feeling quite pleased with himself. He needs to replace some of the liquid lost on the short journey from the Crown.

Of course his mind isn’t a total blank. He's thinking about the novel he intends to write one day. Why not? Everybody in Bangkok is writing one.

Arthur observes the other customers. The usual cross-section of Bangkok humanity.

Middle-aged farang, young Thai wife loaded with gold, couple of lukrungs (offspring of Thai/farang relationships) Yet another group of plump young Englishmen, cropped hair, football shirts….they just keep coming.

There they all are, middle-aged expats and Thai girls mostly, talking, laughing and doing all the things people do. Over the years Arthur has become quite adept at blending in. He has listened to more instantly forgettable bar room banter than he cares to remember. He can nod and chat, even guffaw, with the best of them. 

A waitress rubs herself beguilingly, or so she hopes, at Arthur’s thigh. She's wasting her time.

Arthur sees nothing attractive about the girls….unlike a large farang who has just ensconced himself at the next table. Just in from Afghanistan most likely and a man who clearly loves Thailand if the cluster of Buddhist amulets on a gold chain round his neck mean anything. He wais the girls and they move in like grinning piranhas, he buys drinks all round, the music is cranked up, the girls wave their arms above their heads, it’s party time, happy happy.

Arthur watches all this and wonders about the futility of it all. How do they keep doing the things they do? Is it all just hormones? Survival at its most elemental. His own libido seems to have taken an extended holiday wherever libidos go.

A small boy approaches with a round shiny object.  ‘10 baht,’ says the young salesman.

A moral compass probably thinks Arthur. People are always losing them round here. He declines.

A haggard looking woman with somebody’s baby dangles a Styrofoam cup in front of Arthur’s face, another small boy is doing a trick with coins, sticking them up his nostrils but Arthur is wise to that one, make eye contact and you’re lost. The third beer is kicking in, he concentrates on the street which is becoming nicely blurred.

The feeding frenzy is over, the large farang has made his selection, the other girls disperse in search of new victims.

At this point Arthur needs to make an urgent visit to the toilet. He enquires as to its location and is directed towards a small tile lined cubicle with a door that almost closes completely. It’s the squat type but he’s in no position to choose. Word soon gets around among the local mosquito population that he will be lowering his defences. Fortunately it doesn’t take long and the rest is a simple resolved with a bucket of water and a scoop.

Onwards and upwards.

You may be wondering what comes next. So am I. I've got more stories about Manila, Simon's career in television and of course good old Arthur. I've left him sitting in a bar in Bangkok thinking about the novel he will never write. I've also got a few nautical anecdotes of my own which I may or may not get round to posting.

You probably think I’m well stocked up with Veuve Clicquot and Ty Nant. Not really.  Of course I do get dehydrated like everybody else but I don’t have to drink the chlorinated effluent that passes for water in the UK these days. My drink of choice is Mountgay and Coke. So I don’t have to drink my own urine like Kevin Costner.

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