Simba was a jackass

To fill us with wonder, they tell us that we are made of stardust. When we gaze upon the infinite vastness of the starry sky, we look not only upon the light of fiery suns as they were billions of years past, but also upon our distant cousins, whom the universe birthed in one spectacular explosion of abhorrence against singular nothingness.

To fill us with peace at the prospect of oblivion, they tell us that we are eternally preserved in the endless cycle of matter—that we are born, that we live, that we die, and that we eventually are returned to the earth as the fecal matter of brainless, invertebrates, only to give life anew to the very food stuffs that will nurture our posterity.

To fill us with happy resignation for the fate which none of us can evade, they tell us that for everything there is a time—a season for peace, a season for war, a day to celebrate new life, and a day to mourn its passing. Some preach that there is a plan for us all, and others tell us that we simply must make the best lemonade we can with the ingredients at hand. Many, even tell us that it is not the end, and that souls, much like the dust ejected from stars so long ago, are perpetually preserved, to be judged, loved, or exiled from paradise by an omnipotent puppet-master as befitting the quality of our lemonade.

But today, they said nothing, as I bathed the man who used to wipe my shit-stained ass when I was too young and too clumsy and too spoiled to be trusted for the task. Today, I brushed his rust-stained dentures, washed his oil-caked gray hair, and soaped his wrinkled back—the man who well into retirement, boasted a head of full black hair and always seemed well groomed, even when restricted to the blandness of Mao-suits; who once, hurling fish-bombs and firing a red ribboned mauser, ambushed Imperial Japanese supply ships; who, after enduring years of political exile and sporadic imprisonment remained vigorous enough to raise a parent-less three year old (albeit with the help of my grandmother, a small army of aunts, and a nanny whom he seduced).

Today, I have watched the wheel of life turn and I can find no wonder, peace, or happy resignation. Today, I want to scream throat-tearing curses at the stars and tell them to keep their fucking little recycling program, for it is about inviting and wondrous as a bucket full of worm shit and I'm starting to hate lemonade.

Long winded discourse on the impermenance of wealth and the permenance of poverty.

Having been notified by several you of my negligence of this little soapbox, I suppose it's time to update it or risk losing the readership that I so tenuously maintain.

The last week has been quite eventful and I'm afraid that this shall be a long, disjointed, and likely tedious entry. I shall therefore endeavor to keep you awake by posting a plethora of pretty pictures, hoping that a few dashes of color would keep you partially engaged.

So where to begin? Well, when we last left our hero, he was attempting to find solace from the world's troubles underneath the fingers of a dexterous young masseuse. This attempt at escapism succeeded, but alas, its effects were short-lived.

Within a day of the last episode, our protagonist received a visitor from across the ocean—a comrade from the former job here for a conference; armed with an intrepid spirit and a companion, our hero soon went-exploring. First, was an attempt at culture—visiting the “Cultural Center of the Philippines,” an ambitious box-like monstrosity built by the megalomaniacal wife of a dictator. Rather than a jewel of Philippine culture, it turned out to be a largely empty theater dotted by occasional pieces of bad art and a couple of museum displays that a small rural town could be proud of. (Blogger's note: paintings are of the Marcos couple depicting themselves as Filipino Adam and Eve; paintings housed in the presidential palace)

Disappointed by visions of high culture unfulfilled, the gallant pair departed for Chinatown, situated on the picturesque Pasig riverfront. The town was once the center of trade and commerce, supposedly the “Wallstreet of Manila.” Its fortunes waned after the Second World War and now is little more than a generic slum dotted by occasional Chinese signs, gaudy faux Chinese architecture, and rotting reminders that glories and prosperity past.

The explorers visited a beautiful church preparing for a wedding then weaved and elbowed their way through crowds of sweaty shoppers to end up in a crowded mall filled with endless booths of cheap glossy goods—probably more inviting for its heavenly air-conditioning than the quality of shopping. The pair drew some attention from the teeming throngs for the comrade was a six foot tall blond Aryan who looked tailored-made for the propaganda posters of the Third Reich (no, this is not a reflection of his political views, for he is hanging around our yellow midget of a hero after all). Despite the attention in what the pair later found out to be this notoriously bad part of town that even locals avoid, they departed the area without incident. Thus, alas, there are no heroic actions against muggers or valiant rescues of damsels to conclude this episode. Instead, there are just some pictures to demonstrate the constant contrast of Manila—beautiful visions of other worlds surrounded by the fetid odors of human excrement and a shanty town of children sleeping on cardboard, next to a river that doubles as an open sewer. Having contemplated once again the unfairness of the world, the pair took a taxi back to the a the more “civilized” part of town, enjoyed a luxurious lunch, and retreated to the comforts of their spotless air conditioned hotel rooms with quietly whimpered complaints about the tropical heat.

*Fade to black, roll credits*

The rest of the week was largely filled by the aforementioned conference. The substance was unremarkable but it was as always marked by the endlessly remarkable hospitality of our hosts. We must have eaten five or six courses a day of local delicacies and delights, gained several inches to our already substantial girth, and became kindred-spirits with the Patrician Romans who had to visit the purgatorium after their endless excess.

I shall not bore you with a bite by bite recreation of my menu, which included among other things Balut and crickets. Instead, here are some pictures of a street party I attended. It was supposed to be a mass action in protest of the House of Representative’s attempt to force through constitutional reform before the next election in 2010. While reform is necessary, the timing, so soon before the election as well as its attempts to bypass the Senate, led many to believe that the motives behind these political machinations are not entirely noble. I went expecting to find militant crowds shouting down the establishment. Instead, it seemed little more than a party with drums, flags, endless street vendors, and bad music. The spirit was so non-militant, that chirpy ballroom music (perhaps chosen for irony since the constitutional reform is locally called ‘cha-cha’) filled the down time between speakers. So much for visions of revolution.

The last event of note of the week was a field trip to Correigador on Philippine Independence Day to cap-off the conference. Correigador is an island some 40 KM off the coast in Manila Bay and guarded the entrance to the harbor since the day of Spanish rule. It was also the last stronghold of American and Filipino defenders during those first desperate days of war against Japan. The ride out was rough and I found myself almost seeking a bag to empty my breakfast into but the storm soon cleared

and we had a lovely day of sun and breeze. The island was charming—filled with the ruins of war, endless greenery, and absent the constant smog and stench of the city. I’ve talked

overlong already so I shall return to my usual laziness. Enjoy the pictures of this place of endless contrast.

The white (or yellow or something) man's burden...

I've now been in this new setting for a full week so figured I should write something or my patented lazyinerticapathy would most likely prevent me from writing here ever again. I seem to have gotten used to gargantuanwaytoobigosity (I'm too lazy to use the thesaurus tonight) of my apartment and more or less settled into a routine—wake naturally in the morning before my alarm goes off (unnatural, I know), kill a few zombies as I wait for the minutes to tick away, then meander up to partake of the free breakfast—usually some savories followed by fruit (mum would be sooo proud...) and a small bit of sweets. Then, it's off to work, through moderately bad traffic that magically seems so much less frustrating when I don't have to drive.

Work itself seems to be 90% waiting punctuated by 10% headlesschickedness. Perhaps it's a concession to all the waiting involved (though most likely just forgetful IT guys) but there are actually

movies and games on my computers—a definite departure from standard practice back home. With all the waiting I'm likely to do, I foresee myself getting quite good at solitaire or pinball in the next year...

As for the 10% of work? It will be full of frustrations. What I can accomplish is almost entirely dependent on the generosity of others. I can only pass along what others give me and I'm not sure I like that loss of control. But what can I really do? I am a guest in their house—I can't bug them for stuff, and to be honest, folks back home probably wouldn't want to hear me bug them much either. On the bright side though, my greatest fears of having an office without air-conditioning have been found baseless and my new digs are quite conducive to cool and quiet siestas.

Last night, I had to play diplomat and socialize. My hosts held a welcome/farewell dinner for me and my predecessor at one of those swanky restaurants where the main course is served in portions smaller than my palm. It was several hours of nodding politely, laughing at the right times, and answering the same question in the same way a dozen times, to half a dozen different people. The food was of course excellent, with decent wine, a lovely salad (escargot, lobster salad), a main course, and even some desert--I was surprised by a cake in honor of my upcoming anniversary of becoming older (my hosts seem quite obsessed with any excuse to celebrate and sing). All of that added up to a middling price for a meal back home but here, it was enough to feed dozens.

At some point or another, you've all heard me bitch about this but I don't think I'd ever quite get used to being driven through slums to munch on a gourmet dinner. So what will I do with those tinges of guilt? I know I'm too decadent, selfish, and self-obsessed to give up my carnal pleasures and too cynical to crusade against injustice, so I'll probably just settle for some useless half-assed measure like picking cheaper dishes next time...and contributing to the lower economy by getting one of those $7 hour-long massages.

Journey of a thousand steps begins with at least a few stumbles

Anyone who knows me likely knows that I do not too often win any accolades for my grace or organizational aptitude. It's probably no surprise then that my year-long journey to the Philippines came within minutes of a minor disaster. It took longer than expected to clear my apartment of three years of accumulated junk and by the time I got to the airport, the gate was within minutes of being shut. I made it through despite the ticketing agent's initial belief that the gate was already restricted. What good is life without a little bit of excitement eh? I do probably owe some sacrifices to the Lords of the Jetstream though.

Considering my usual flare for procrastination and forgetfulness, I suppose my preparations for the trip could have gone worse. I only spilled one box of stuff in the garage, managed to pack most of my toiletries (razors, floss, etc.) deep into my storage, and neglected to return a few things to my landlady and ISP. Still, any trip that begins without me losing my passport or being stuck overnight at an airport is probably a victory.

The trip itself went smoothly--without delay or too many screaming kids, and with an empty seat next to me during the longer-leg of the journey. As for the Philippines itself? There's a sense of unreality about it all. It still doesn't seem quite real yet that I'm going to spend an entire year in a foreign country, doing a job that's rather foreign to me, and living a lifestyle that I'm quite unaccustomed to.

My apartment is obscenely large...to the point of inconvenience. In a country of shanty towns where families of dozens can squeeze into a couple of rooms, I have to walk 26 paces (yes, I was bored enough to count) from my bedroom to the door, and have four bathrooms, two bedrooms, and a "maid area" to be inhabited by me, myself, and my lonesome. Even with my propensity towards messiness, it'd be quite a challenge for me to damage this place too much.

There's little else of great excitement right now to report as I struggle to leap through the bureaucratic prerequisites necessary before I can actually start working. I'm sure as the year progresses, this page will be filled with the my usual complaints about the world's fucktardness, prophecies of gloom and doom, and endless expositions on alienation and my seperation from the masses of humanity flowing around me. For now, I can just say that life ain't too bad when all I'm complaining about is having an apartment large enough to do laps in.