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. T
he 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.
