Pop your cherry

When I first bought a DSLR, my attitude was that I could make anything look good if I framed and focused it right - and out of hundreds of photos I would get a few good ones. After a few years and many a photograph taken, I slowly came to realise that not everything looks good through the lens.


I rarely tolerate imperfection nowaday (incorrect point of focus, over exposure, noise, chopped off heads, four subjects, no subject of interest etc) - because of this, unless a great photo is staring me in the face I'm unlikely to get my camera out.


Its rare that I take photographs without premeditation. Usually if I'm in the middle of some other activity, or even just chilling with friends, I find it distracting and disruptive to take my camera out, set it up with the appropriate ISO, shutter speed and aperture, let alone the multiple shot attempts to get the lighting and composition perfect. It really requires focus.


If I was to simply point and click, the images might be good memories, but I will do nothing with them until I'm 70 and want to reminisce, even then I'd be more likely to look at the excellent photos than trawl through all the average ones.


It sounds negative, but it is reality. I am still a very active photographer, but it's something I battle with constantly.


Here are some thoughts about how one can overcome this:

1. Dedicate time
Often you will find an interesting location/subject to photograph (e.g. burned down house or children playing basketball in the street), but you are not quite sure how to make it look great. Often it just takes time to wander around and try different angles until you find something that looks good - sometimes this can take 50 snaps to get the right shot - but once you do you will never regret it.


2. Pick the right time
Although the middle of the day seems like the most beautiful time to do photography, it can be the most difficult. Between 11am and 2pm is brightest and you fight with under exposed shadows and over exposed surfaces. Go on your photo jam in the morning or afternoon. Also - cloudy days offer fantastic lighting, because shadows are less prominent.


3. Be inspired
This is a tough one but here are some suggestions:

• Pop your cherry (just start taking photos and see what happens)
• Go to new locations
• Practice taking technically good photographs of boring things (fiddle with composure lighting, you might just get inspired)
• Read photography magazines and look online - find inspiration/ideas in others work
• Do a photography course, often the course will set homework which forces you to go out and have mini photo shoots
• Choose a theme (e.g. transport, culture, laughter, love etc) and take photos to express this theme
• Get a muse / mentor / partner in crime - having another person involve naturally motivates
• Take drugs… Ok I am not really endorsing or suggesting this… but you can't argue that many artists (musicians, artists, writers) have historically leaned on mind altering substances to foster creativity

I find when I go out specifically to take photographs, the first snap always takes the longest to find. But once you pop your cherry for the day, the rest flow easily.

The following are a series of "cherry poppers" I've taken since being in the Philippines:

Kids about to jump on a Jeepney just outside of Subic

Kids hanging out in a shop drinking beer in Cebu. Dudes are dudes all over the world.

A friendly cop stopped me on a routine check, and let me go with no hassles after carefully scanning my international drivers license - just outside Angeles City

At a war memorial in Tarlac, where approximately 75,000 Filipino and American troops ended their "Death March" led by the Japanese army in 1942. The march was later accounted as a Japanese war crime. For more information click this link: Bataan Death March

Beach dogs watching a beautiful sunset on Panglao Island

Men re-enacting Passion of Christ on Good Friday in Cebu

Dude riding the raddest bike I've ever seen - Makati, Manila

Flowers on Mactan Island, Cebu




Get out there and POP YOUR CHERRY!!!

The sun WILL come out tomorrow...

I arrived at the Airport at 6:30pm Friday, on a whim, hoping to hop onto the next flight to Cebu for the weekend. I had no flights, accommodation or plans… apart from renting a motorbike and two wheeling it around an island in search of paradise and a beer.

I was shit out of luck.

All flights were full, so I decided to book the early morning flight and spend the night at home.

I applied a bahala na attitude and decided to taxi back home, and return again in the morning. After waiting 30 minutes in a queue for an airport taxi I hopped in with a happy komosta ka (hello, how are you?). I said "Forrt Bonifaaceeo, Globaal Cety" in an unintentionally patronizing American accent. It turns out that the New Zealand accent just doesn't register here… and I can't manage to put on an American accent without feeling condescending

He muttered "PG… PG… bad traffic" shaking his head, and half stopped to decline my fare. I repeated my destination and he did the same thing. I assumed he was gearing up to ask me for an exorbitant fixed price, which was not uncommon, and it had started raining which usually makes traffic stop. I said I would tip him if the traffic is bad (in the same filthy accent). He lurched forth.

2 minutes later we entered an expressway and he repeated his original objection and pulled over. He pointed at his dashboard and I realized he was trying to tell me he didn't have enough LPG to sit in bad traffic all the way to Fort Bonifacio. I wish he'd told me sooner. He said "Sorry Sir, transfer… transfer different taxi".

There was no point arguing so I cut my losses and got out, not paying the flag fall of course because now I was left standing in the rain, on an expressway with no stopping areas and heavy traffic.

I waved. Nobody stopped. My arm grew sore so I started walking, hoping to get either some cover from the rain, or onto a road with better flowing traffic and more likelihood of scoring an empty taxi.

I had been having a rough time recently. The previous night I had been scammed by a guy I thought I could trust offering cheap broadband, my regular massage therapist stood me up for the 2nd time in a row, and my water had been cut off in the morning because I forgot to pay the bill. I had gone to work unclean that day, seething from my bad fortune. Personally I don't believe in luck and I had conceded that all of these circumstances were my own doing. But this… this just fucked me off.

What had I done to deserve this? Why was the universe punishing me? Was it because I carelessly littered my snickers wrapper in the office lift? Was it because I had a disgustingly untidy desk? Was it because I was a non god-botherer living in a predominantly Catholic country?

At that moment an empty Jeepney with a flaky Jesus painting on its side panel pulled over. I looked precariously at the driver, he looked at me. I didn't know where it was going, but it was certainly a much better option than standing in the rain like a drenched stray kitten.

I jumped in beside the driver and said loudly in my false American accent: "Forrt Bonifaaceeo" - expecting him to shake his head. He nodded. I repeated again to make sure he understood, and he pointed at the sign that said "Bonifacio".

Jeepney's are unique to the Philippines, and an absolute icon. After World War II American troops left millions of surplus jeeps which were given or sold to locals then stripped down and re-built to add more passenger space. It was a popular and creative way to re-establish inexpensive public transport which had been virtually destroyed during the war. Most were decorated with bright colours, religious imagery and bright chrome hood ornaments.

I have learnt that Jeepneys drive in a fixed circuit, but Jeepney stops are not always sign-posted and if you get on the wrong one, you can really go far out of your intended path.

Locals absolutely rely on them for daily transport, however the upper class tend to dislike them because they cause pollution, and can be inconsiderate drivers.

I asked how much and he said "7 pesos" (NZ 20 cents). I gave him 10 pesos because I wanted to tip him for saving me, he gave me 3 pesos back immediately without hesitation. Although he probably thought nothing of it, I was humbled by his honesty.

He drove for about 10 minutes while I smiled stupidly like I'd just lost my virginity. I was riding a Jeepney. It had taken 3 months of living here and I was 10 out of 10 stoked.

He slowed down at the entrance to another large motorway onramp and pointed out the door. He wanted me to get out… but I had no idea where. He said "Fort Bonifacio" as he pointed. I hopped out with uncertainty, fortunately it had stopped raining. I walked in the direction he pointed, hoping to see something that would indicate another place to catch a Jeepney, which is what I assumed he was telling me to do. If I was in New Zealand, this would definitely be a no walking zone. It was like spaghetti junction on LSD.

About 200m away, a man was waiting on the side of the motorway in the distance. He momentarily jumped on a Jeepney that stopped for only seconds. My heart lifted. I found a woman who directed me to the right place for the Fort Bonifacio Jeepney. I saw one loading up passengers and after confirming with a pedestrian it was the right one, I peered in the back.

It was full. I stalled, assessing if I could somehow squeeze but it seemed like I would have to crouch in the middle under a 4 foot high ceiling, or sit on the floor… should I catch the next one?

The passengers gazed at me for a moment as I stared in. It was obvious that Jeepneys don't usually piss around when they do their pick ups. One beckoned me in with an arm movement so I picked my balls off the floor and entered. A space magically appeared for me on the seat. I sat down and smiled at the other passengers with an "OMG isn't this so cool?!" look on my face. They looked away, then in my peripheral they all looked back to check out the uncommon white man on their very common transport vehicle.

A man sat beside the driver and was responsible for ushering people into seats and collecting payment. Every passenger passed their coins to the front of the bus trustingly. I asked him "how much is it to Forrt Bonifaaceeo?". He replied by saying "Where?", I replied with "Globaal Ceety"… he stared at me then continued collecting money from others. I asked him "how much?" again and he ignored me. I waited patiently albeit slightly alienated. Did he not understand where I was going? We continued driving.

After a few minutes he gruffly said "11 pesos" not making eye contact. I assumed this would be me and quickly passed him the correct change. This was probably the exact way he treated any passenger, I guess I was hoping he would realize I had never ridden a Jeepney and treat me like a 4 year old. Retrospectively I'm glad he didn't.

I sat back in my seat with my head touching the ceiling, and found myself grinning… again. I was comforted by the fact that this bus was going to my destination. Jeepneys weren't allowed to enter the small CBD, but to get a taxi home from close-by would be approximately 40 pesos. (NZ $1.30).

Since the rain had stopped, the heat had subsided, and a cool, exhaust scented breeze streamed through the open air vehicle. The driver stopped and started regularly to pick up and drop off passengers. The ride was enjoyably bumpy and the seat suitably uncomfortable that I won't forget it any time soon. This was definitely the way to get around if you didn't mind being a bit smelly upon arrival.

Through the windowless gaps high rise buildings started appearing. This was home. Global City here I come! A few stops later the money collector shoo'd me out of the Jeepney and to my joy I was at a close by shopping centre.

My lesson: don't sweat the small stuff the universe deals out, the long term game will often throw you some nice surprises and show you that you are on the right course. In my case - I was absolutely frustrated with this country, which immediately lifted once it showed me some adventure.



I am in love again.

Sheep Lovers

I was in an office lift with four middle aged Filipino men, they were all speaking to each other in their native tongue - Tagalog

As they were speaking, one person distinctly said "New Zealand" amongst other Tagalog words that I didn't understand.

My ears picked up...

Another repeated it, and said "Sheep". All of them laughed.

There was more speaking, and "New Zealand" was mentioned another 2 or 3 times, then somebody said "Nature lovers" and they all burst into laughter again.

I interjected with a cheeky grin on my face "Yes there are lots of sheep in New Zealand…"

They all laughed in embarrassment and one asked if I was a kiwi. Then went on to say how great New Zealand was… even better than Australia!
I knew the sheep joke was well known… but not that well known that middle aged Filipino bankers would crack jokes about it in the office lift. I felt a mixture of pride in my country, and embarrassment for the men that got caught joking about a country's world famous fetish for white woolly animals.

Bad Cops Bad Cops... Watcha gonna do?

He signalled at me with his right hand, in the same way that Hitler would heil and simultaneously pat a puppy's head. Only in Asia have I seen this hand signal and it distinctly means stop.

I stop with a naive smile on my face expecting he will see that I'm a potato and ignorant to whatever rule I had just broken... which was the complete truth.

I had no idea.

After pulling off my full face helmet that makes me feel like I look totally awesome, I greet him with a warm friendly smile... his automatic rifle smiled back at me. My only comfort was the over exposing 1pm sunlight and our busy location - a main street in Olangapo.

One thing to note - I was running late to get back to Angeles City by 3pm for the bus... I knew the ride was approximately 2 hours and I wasn't 100% sure exactly how to get there. I didn't have time for this.

Our dialogue played out as follows:

Me: Hello sir

Police Officer: You made a traffic violation

Me: I don't understand (curiously bemused look)

Police Officer: You failed to stop at the stop sign (points to stop sign on straight section of road - not even an intersection)

Me: Oh, I'm sorry i did not see the sign (trying to play the victim)

Police Officer: I need to write you a ticket

Me: How much for?

Police Officer: I don't know. I need to write it and you have to take it to the police station where you will pay the fine

Me: I don't know where the Police Station is though?

Police Officer: Its on the corner of blah blah street and blah blah street, or you could take it to the court house on blah blah street

Me: I don't know where that is? How will I find it? How much is the fine?

Police Officer: I don't know sir, I think 1500 pesos (NZD $50)

Me: Thats crazy!!! You can't be serious?! That is not correct, too much! (in exasperation - I knew this was way out of the ballpark, hence my reaction so he knew I wasn't going to easily be taken for a ride)

Police Officer: I don't know, you need to take the ticket to the police station

Me: Look I'm running late to catch a bus from Angeles, I don't have time to go anywhere else. Is there any other way we could do this? How about if I just paid you 200 pesos and we call it even?

Police Officer: I do not accept bribes sir. That is against the law. There is nothing you can do (spoken sternly - I actually believed him)

Me: Ok, no problem - please write me the ticket then (totally resolved to follow the legal process)

Police Officer: (begins writing ticket)

Me: (adjusts testicles... I'm a sweaty solo man on the open road)

Police Officer: Malfunction... its broken... malfunction (paces back and forth while making his walkie talkie bleep and muttering occasionally - curious behaviour)

Police Officer: I'm sorry sir, there is a problem with my radio, I cannot write you the ticket... I don't know...

Me: Ok... ummmm

Police Officer: Well.. you could just give me the fine, this time only

Me: 200 pesos?

Police Officer: Ok, but don't show anybody, wait... (walks away, continuing to bleep his walkie talkie and mutter "malfunction" repetitively)

Me: (I rifle through my wallet to get the cash, walk over to him and offer it to him)

Police Officer: No, sir I cannot accept your money. Soon, wait by your bike. Secret.

Me: (I indiscretely nod my head in an "i get it" kind of way - I walk back to my bike)

Police Officer: (after more time shaking his head and muttering "malfunction" he walks back. Seriously it was like he was auditioning for a daytime soap)

Police Officer: (hands my drivers license back in cover of the bag strapped to my bike)

Me: Thank you sir (I discretely hand him the cash with a cool, but telling smile on my face. I would make a terrible secret agent, even though that's my dream job)

Police Officer: There will be no trouble from this? You will not tell anybody?

Me: Ofcourse not

Please note: I would have been happy to follow the legal process, but in this case was given no choice. I do not support police corruption whatsoever because it is damaging to the legal system. Criminals with money do not adhere to the law and innocent people get extorted for cash.

In Asia I have seen two root causes of police corruption:

1. Low police salaries - forcing good cops to accept bribes to put food on their table
2. Top down cultural acceptance of corruption - if the Police Chief can do it, so can I.

After this transaction, the officer was extremely polite to me. He gave me very clear directions and told me to ride safely, warning me about the coming weather. He turned from a very formal officer of the law, to a friend of the citizen, or in this case - the potato.

The picture shown at the top of this post is not of the same corrupt police officer - he was the second officer that stopped me at a checkpoint outside of Angeles. He did not try to extort me for money, instead was very friendly and honest. While corruption is prevalent in many third world countries, I am optimistic that not every cop follows this devious code.

And a young Filipina waits...

I began to eavesdrop on the table next to me. It was a 40yo male Australian with two Filipino girls and a child. It was obvious that the Aussie was 'seeing' the girl that owns the child.

Based on what I can hear, the spare Filipino had a romance with the Aussie's best friend, I can only assume another Australian. His best friend is nowhere to be seen.

Her: "why didn't he come?"
Aussie: "he's been really busy, but he talked about you every single day for the last 3 months"
Her: "he is being really strange"
Aussie: "you just need to talk more, you should just have a really good talk, I'm sure that's all you need to do…"

I don't like to assume, but I'm going to let my imagination run a little wild here. My guess is that Aussie and his bestie were regular tourists in the Philippines. They are ex-navy and spent some time docked here in Subic Bay. Aussie knocked a girl up a few years back and comes back twice a year to see his daughter. Bestie has been back a few times but not as frequently. On their last trip, bestie fell in love with Aussies baby momma's bestie (confused?), and promised her the world… then disappeared from hers.

Typical.

I'm at a beach resort in Subic Bay. Its a very typical beach resort, tailored to Australians, I guess based on an "Aussie Tucker" section in the dinner menu. My room is adequate. I must have visited about 8 different (less adequate) resorts before I found this one. I had been driving my bike all day and decided to splash out on something nice, no expense spared - this is what I found for 3000 pesos (NZD $100)

- Block apartment with view onto sea… no balcony
- 90s fittings and furniture
- Mirrors in bedroom on walls and ceilings - I wouldn't be complaining, but I feel like this is wasted by the lack of non-working women to share it with. Who wants to stare at themselves while they masturbate...?

Back to sex tourism. Yes that is what we were talking about… again. I can't stop writing about this topic, its just so prevalent here and way too juicy.

Another three-set were seated at a nearby table. Male: Australian; Female: 2x Filipina. One of which is up the duff… maybe I should hit on the other one, or is an impregnated Filipina staring you in the face warning enough?

On Friday night I went out in Angeles. The official Sin City of the Philippines. As there was a lack of 'good' non prostitute bars (there were two, both of which were dead empty), I decided to spend my night girlie bar hopping. It proves to be less expensive because you don't build expectations that you will pay a girls bar fine, especially after she has spent hours trying to seduce you with no subtlety.

My strategy: one beer then leave.

A "bar fine" is the fee you pay to remove a girl from the girlie bar and do whatever you please with her for the remainder of the night. The fine is typically 1500 pesos up. Each girl wears a numbered tag colored differently depending on bar fine.

The Mama San is the pimp of the house, and somewhat annoying. I've tried all sorts of excuses, even that I'm gay, but that doesn't stop her barrage of offers - "what about her, she is very new here, and VERY young..?" I blush at the embarrassment of her seeing me inhumanely shake my head in rejection, like she is a smokey-eyed, not so fresh fish at the market.

It was at one of these bars I met Ida. Her english was very good and she wasn't too pushy in her advances, which was relieving, so I grilled her for information. She said she was 25, although she looked more 32. She was a single mother with a 10 year old son. She was sad because she had recently broken up with her English boyfriend who she had been with for 12 months. He sent her 10,000 pesos (approx. NZD #300) every month, but had recently stopped sending her money for no reason. He had told her he wasn't coming back on his planned holiday, but in fact he was currently there. In Angeles City. At another girlie bar. With another woman.

She said her rent was 7,000 pesos and the remainder of what he sent hardly covered the bills. He was controlling, suspicious and demanded that she not work in a girlie bar (where they originally met). She stopped working there, believing in their love and found a cafe job with long hours and paying a pittance.

When he stopped paying she was forced to go back to work in a girlie bar.

I can see it happening so clearly, and to any 'nice guy' that visits. You are a tourist on holiday. You meet a prostitute more beautiful than what you could get in your western country, and fall you in love with her. Anyway - if Richard Gere can do it, so can any old man… he he

Thus is life here. Since World War II this area (Angeles and Subic Bay) has been a popular rest and relaxation destination for service men, not to mention a battle ground, and strategic naval base. It is part of the culture here, part of the history.

I can't judge because each interaction and relationship is unique. I just can't help feel sorry for the women, and in some cases children, left here holding onto a false promise and not much else. This means a lot more to the young girls than it does to the older men looking for an opportunity to ejaculate, or even just a pretty girl to hold hands with..

A burning child

I got sent this SMS late one night from a Filipina friend...

"A child was burning. His father called to him and told him to jump into his arms. The burning child could not see his father because of the smoke and wouldn't jump. His father shouted JUMP! So the burning child jumped, and his father caught him. This is true faith, not knowing but jumping anyway. In the lord, put your trust - Psalms 11:1"

My response:

"Stupid idiot father. Don't you know that if you are on fire you should stop, drop and roll?"

hehehe... i guess i won't get those texts anymore

Fuck You Idiocracy

I arrived at his office dripping wet.

What I love about Manila is that it only costs NZ $3 to take a 40 minute taxi ride. What I hate about Manila is that when you arrive, the driver is not allowed to stop at your destination because it's a 'no-loading zone' - and is ushered to keep driving for another 2 kilometers by a man with a gun and a silly fluorescent jacket. Thanks for ruining my nicely pressed shirt wanker.

I arrived at Francis' office. His is the 3rd party company used to arrange my contract and all the small details like visa's, bank accounts etc. I have been in Manila approximately 6 weeks and have just had my tourist visa extended, so that I am not illegal until my work permit gets processed, which can take 1-2 months.

He has had my passport for 2 weeks now. I was getting nervous, as I couldn't travel and I had no other ID.

Sweat was running down my back - I shouldn't have worn a suit today. I'm late to meet Francis due to bad Manila traffic, and I have back to back meetings for the rest of the day… which I'm probably going to be late for.

As I arrive he came out to meet me, then asked me to wait. I am only coming in to pick up my passport so that I can go to the bank to receive my first pay cheque.

10 minutes later I start to get frustrated, we had exchanged SMS while I was in the taxi so he knew that I was coming, how long does it take to get a passport and hand it to me? A good friend once said if you don't have high expectations you don't get disappointed… but seriously I'm going to spit in somebody's face soon.

He pulls me into a meeting room and asks me to complete another two forms - because I had made minor mistakes on each. I have already completed approximately 9 forms as part of my job application - work permit, bank account, tax number, job application, skill form, visa extension and only god knows what else. Do I really have to lower my expectations further?

Yes.

After dry humping Francis' forms, I had to visit the bank to receive a large wad of pesos. To my suprise, Francis informed me that the bank is a 20 minute cab ride away. After I would have to return my passport to his office so that he can continue to process the work permit. Is this country on drugs? I'm struggling to process this. I can't go to any branch of Metrobank? I'm in the CBD surely there is one closer?

No. Of course not.

It was fucking 32 degrees, high humidity and I needed to jump in another cab - which again required me to walk two fucking kilometers away where they allow loading of stupid potatoes like me. I paced down the street swerving through the crowd of meandering Filipinos like a dorky speed walker with a carrot up my ass doing an obstacle course. I hesitated outside McDo's (McDonalds if you're a potato like me), tempted to drop in for some comfort food, but decided it would impact my critical path, and my health. My priority was getting back to the office for meetings.

After another sweaty taxi ride, I arrived at the bank, and grabbed for my passport which was placed in my back pocket. It wasn't there?!?! FUCK!!! I must have left it in the taxi! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!

Ok please excuse my language. I was reaching a low point here. I entered the bank in a panic, considering whether i should run through the traffic after the taxi which I have no recollection of, or search my person one more time. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead and landed on my nearly retired brown leather shoe.

After rifling through my laptop bag inside the bank hoping upon all hope that I had left it inside, I re-checked my pockets. Oh… oops - its in my front pocket. False alarm! I guess stress really does cloud judgement. Lucky I didn't chase the taxi down and make an idiot out of myself!

It was suddenly obvious that I needed to apply some Bahala Na (loosely translated to "come what may") attitude. I was inside the bank. I had everything I need. I was going to get my cash and go back to Francis to give him my passport. How hard could this be?

Oh wait - I forgot. I needed to give my landlord post-dated cheques for the next 10 months, before he gives me the TV that was promised by the landlord. It is part of my contract, and of all the apartments I looked at, this was one of the more lenient terms. The apartment lacked a TV when I moved in 4 weeks ago - and although I have paid 2 months rent in advance and 2 months bond, he will not give me the TV I deserve until I complete my end of the bargain. I have never met him, but I strongly dislike him. Money hungry dickhead.

The bank girl that helped me was friendly and moderately attractive, possibly a 6 out of 10. She threw a flurry of forms at me to sign. I asked the post-dated cheques and she asked me to fill in more forms. 10 minutes later she came back to me and said she was not able to give me a cheque account as I needed to have an active ATM account for at least 6 months. I let out a loud exasperated sigh that the whole bank could hear.

In vein I raised my voice "This is not good enough, I need a cheque account for my apartment - I signed a contract, I have no other options! Is there anything you can do?!?"

She said "Sorry sir, I confirmed it with my supervisor, it is our policy"

No wonder there is corruption here. It is easier to pay extra, than to follow all the overly-anal rules and procedures.

I asked to speak with her supervisor. She looked nervous. She went away and came back another 10 minutes later and gave me more forms to sign without saying anything - this time for the cheque account. I was curious - does getting upset in public work here? Throw a tantrum and you get your way? Interesting...

I left the bank with cash and a cheque book… but i had already missed my first meeting and I was concerned about my next. I decided that I would drop into KFC to grab a quick burger to eat in the cab back to Francis' office.

"Hello Sir!" Ahhh - the ever polite Filipino fast food armed security guard. Unfortunately his politeness didn't make up for the young man at the counter who asked if I minded waiting 15 minutes for a burger to be made. 15 MINUTES?! This was the icing on the cake. I considered saying "would you like me to fill out an application form?" but decided the question would be met with a confused look, and probably an apathetic apology.

I considered walking out, but my time invested in walking inside and up the stairs was worth compromising my burger thirst. I got a salad.

I jumped back in a taxi and headed to the taxi drop off spot, 2kms away from my actual destination. My plastic tasting KFC chicken salad tossed itself in my lap to the noise of the squeaky suspension. I ate it with ferocity, brooding over the events of the morning.

I escaped the taxi, power walked the 2km's to Francis' office - aware that my shirt was again soaking in stinky man fluid… for the 3rd time today. As I ran into the lift the man sitting in the corner controlling the buttons smiled genuinely and greeted me politely and remembered my floor from earlier in the morning.

I paused.

I thought to myself: he sits in that non air-conditioned lift, on that chair, day after day after day. Pressing buttons. Earning just enough to feed his family, and buy new leather work shoes every 2 years. He's 55 and will probably continue sitting in that same lift for another 20 years until he retires due to illness. I had in my bag more money than he would probably earn in 5 years, possibly 10. I could not imagine doing his numb, meaningless job for even a day.

I suddenly had a very lucid 'moment' to myself. I exited the lift with a deep breath and a broad, uncontrollable grin, and realized even with all this futile hassle over forms, visas and bank accounts - I wouldn't swap bullshit idiocratic paper work and shit sweat errands for anything. My life is fucking great and I LOVE THE PHILIPPINES!

I don't apologise for the cheesy conclusion that sounds like a forwarded mass email. Fuck you if you don't like it.

Nikon gone = Ni-gone

Please note, as of late many of the photographs in my blogs have not been my own - this is because my Nikon has been displaced.  I'm getting a new one, but am waiting for travel insurance to tic me up some mad scrills.

Please be patient, I'm relying purely on google images to complement my stories.

I want to punch you in the back of your head

Like Christmas shopping when you are rushed, time poor and feel like you want to punch somebody in the back of the head - this is how I feel daily in Manila. 

At my office they strategically placed turn-styles that require you to swipe through so they can track who comes in and out of the office.  This security feature creates a bottleneck at start, break and end of day, and one is frequently forced to walk at a deathly slow pace on approach and exit - cock blocked by a crowd of Filipino office workers.

Approaching lifts, even when a lift is about to begin its ascent, where a potato would normally sprint and throw their hand carelessly in between the lift's closing jaws, a filipino will slowly meander toward it and stare curiously as it departs… without them.

The malls here are a sea of Filipinos all shapes and sizes, packed efficiently like sardines, swimming it seems at a more than leisurely pace.

Even yesterday I was waiting for a treadmill in my apartment complex, the Filipino woman had been on it for 40 minutes shuffling her bulbous rump at about 2 kilometers per hour.

Don't they have somewhere to be? Why is there no sense of urgency here? If I spend enough time here, will I become an aimless wanderer also?  Is this a product of Bahala Na? (loosely translated to "Come what may") - a Filipino mantra, some define as laziness, others define as carefree.

What I do know is that when leaving the office to buy a coffee, I need to factor in at least an extra 5 minutes for the likely Filipino that unwittingly delays me.

Bahala Na.

Filipino Cage Fighter

So I started talking to a random Filipino guy in a bar and found out he was into MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) aka Cage Fighting.

I once dated a world champion kickboxer, and through her I had been exposed to the world of professional fighting.  To be honest when I see fighting on TV now it still gives me a boner…

The guy was big but softly spoken.  Like a teddy bear.  He was with a group of 4 girls and spoke of his one love who was living in Canada, soon to be reunited.  What a sweetheart.

I was intrigued about his sport and needed to know more.  So I asked:

"What is your base martial art?  Kickboxing, Jujitsu, Kung Fu, Karate?"

He responded calmly:

"Knife fighting"

What the?

Keys to the VIP

It was late on a Wednesday night. I had just finished work and was heading back to my gloomy hotel nestled deep in the red light district of Manila. I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the 7eleven as I had to buy some water.

As I approached the fridge I was forced to wait for a girl to finish selecting her RTDs. After getting my drink I queued at the counter behind her. To my surprise she asked for a bottle opener… in an Australian accent.

I butted in and offered to open them for her with a lighter. New Zealanders and Australians absolutely hate each other, especially if they're playing Rugby, Cricket, or just generally. It is absolutely mutual. They think we're a small Australian state, and we think they are convicts. Its nothing new. But when we are outside our own countries we tend to be tight as a velcro glove on a sheep (one for the aussies).

She turned out to be a model slash actress working in Manila. I call her 'slashie' (credit goes to Anthony), and she calls me "7eleven". She lived in the same area as the apartment I was about to move in to so we exchanged details and said goodbye.

I didn't really give her much thought, but about two weeks later on a Friday night I sent her a text to see if she wanted to meet up. She replied and asked me to come meet her at a club close by. I was with a colleague (who was absolutely blind drunk) and we ambitiously zig zagged our way there at about 3am.

She was outside with her flatmate, we greeted each other and she said she had a shoot the following morning so was heading home 'early', but offered us to look after the flattie who was going to a night club underneath the intercontinental hotel - a short taxi ride away. I looked around and found my heavily intoxicated friend wandering aimlessly as if searching for something but never finding it. I called him over and asked if he wanted to join. He muttered something nonsensical and stumbled toward a taxi - we followed and the three of us piled in the back.

Upon arrival the taxi slowed to be checked for bombs. My friend opened the door, muttered something and wandered off into the neon lit city streets. It was obviously that time for him, possibly to vomit on a street corner, hit a girlie bar and lose his money to a woman with questionable gender, or simply catch another taxi home. I decided not to pursue him. He had been here long enough to look after himself.

We got out of the cab and she ushered me past the long line of patrons waiting to pay as she screeched in Tagalog to the doorman. Free entry - YUSSS.

As we entered arms locked, she led me through the writhing nightclub. This is exactly what I'd been looking for. Manila's night life. No (or very few) prostitutes, and a LOT of westerners. A huge nightclub that shadows anything in Auckland, this was obviously the place to be. Beautiful people, many-a-potato and excellent energy. We crawled through the hectic crowd and she pulled me past a cordoned off area with a security guard.

It was here that she introduced me to a large group of diverse people. I met Roberto, a mega rich Italian property developer, Charles an American restauranteer/nightclub owner, and a gaggle of eager Filipino models thirsty for Moet and/or Patron Tequila.

Prior to leaving for Manila I had a dream. This sounds absolutely retarded but please bear with me. I was watching a LOT of Gossip Girl and had decided that while in Manila I would attempt to infiltrate the A-List. Search out the celebrities and find the high powered businessmen. My hypothesis: These people have access to more opportunity, and have more fun… and because of my ethnicity and social status, it will be much easier than in New Zealand. Call me fickle, I don't give a fuck. This was my opportunity.

After an excellent night of partying my host asked if we could catch a taxi home. I hesitantly submitted to her request. As we drove I noticed my apartment building and asked the taxi driver to drop me off. She was relatively comatose, and muttered very little English in response so I paid the fare and got out of the cab. She got out too.

Curiously I asked her where she was going… she said "I live here - where are YOU going?" We awkwardly walked for the same lift. I thought she was following me and vice versa. She pressed 16, I pressed 17. What the..?

To my surprise, slashie and her flatmate lived in my apartment building, one floor down. We are all now close friends - in the tv show sense of the word. We share DVDs, kitchen utensils and sometimes toilet paper if we are feeling intimate.

This is the beginning of a beautiful story and many exciting adventures… hopefully more to come. Watch this space for A-List exploits, corruption and scandal.

The lock out

What's the biggest difference between Philippines and Vietnam?

When you find yourself locked out of your apartment in Vietnam they stare at you with absolute disgust, shake their head then call you a stupid idiot to your face.

When you lose your keys in the Philippines they come at whatever time of the night (in my case 1:30am), let you in with a smile, then thank you when they leave.

It's highly likely that my Filipino landlord thinks I'm a stupid idiot. In this particular case (where I am at fault), I prefer the overly polite, slightly dishonest approach...

George the 52 year old bus driver from Sydney

Good Friday is not a busy day in the Philippines, especially because over 80% of Filipinos are Roman Catholic. I was in Cebu - an island south of Manila that is the nation's busiest port, and has a thriving metropolis.

That day I had walked through the township, completely dead and closed apart from a mob of locals re-playing the scene where JC carries his cross with a thorny crown and Filipino men with painted beards whipping him with tassels. It was relatively tame compared to the tradition up north in Clark where devout Catholics are actually nailed to a cross by their hands and feet.
I was meeting friends who had flown in from Malaysia, however they would be arriving quite late so I scoped the most appropriate bar to meet them. I had a choice of 4 bars: 1. Dimples 2. Pussycat 3. Gentlemen's Club 4. Viking World Bar I tried Dimples because it was closest, but as expected the girls were handsy and the bartender frowned at me when I refused to buy them drinks. The girls were very friendly but it gets tiresome saying "Hindi" which means "No" in Tagalog (now confidently correct).

This was definitely not going to work. I finished my beer and excused myself saying I needed to buy chewing gum from the Caltex across the road. I wandered across the road. Just like Manila I was followed by kids with their hands out. Mechanically I waved them away and said "hindi hindi" as politely as possible. Using the local language to reject beggars is more powerful because they quickly realize you aren't some tourist potato that will be duped by dirty faced povo kids in need.

I decided to enter the Viking World Bar as the name indicated it was the least sleazy. The bar was FULL of people… the demographic was possibly 90% Filipino women, 5% korean men, and 5% flaccid wrinkly old men. I bought a beer from the bar, trying to avoid eye contact.

In the corner of my eye, glowing like a premonition of Jesus wearing green, were two pool tables. Ahhh - this would occupy me until my friends arrived… in 2 hours time.

It was here I met George. He was a 52 year old Australian man playing pool with a twenty something prostitute. I asked him if I could put a coin on the table and he welcomed me to join him. He was jovial and cocky.

Not an attractive man, I assumed he had fought in a war due to his navy style tattoos on his arms. Most probably the Vietnam war. George was stereotypical of a sex tourist, but at the same time unique because of how casually proud he was of it. Most solo men I had seen wandering Borgos St. in Manila seemed to have a guilty look on their face. The few groups of men I had noticed, seemed more like Viking's that guzzle large handles of nondescript lager and clumsily wander around causing destruction to anything that crosses their path.
"The girls are much cheaper here in Cebu" he said holding his pool queue in one arm and lady friend in the other. She was half his size. "1700 pesos (approx. NZD $60) per night here, compared to 2500 in Manila. It's a bloody rip off there, thats why I come here".

This was George's fourth holiday in Cebu, his regular escape from a mundane life as a bus driver in Sydney, Australia. I didn't inquire as to his marital status, his wedding ring answered that burning question. I had an image in my head of George's wife at home watering the pot plants while gossiping on the phone about her next door neighbors messy front yard.

I started to consider from his perspective how he could rationalize this lifestyle. Some say it is better for your husband to cheat on you with a prostitute than a lover, at least then it is purely physical (usually). Possibly there are causal factors that trigger this need - differing libidos, unexplored sexual fantasies, or lack of physical attraction. Maybe his wife was in a wheelchair, and approved of his foray into this dark, seedy world. All speculation of course.

The girl jumped in between us and said "Sandwich!!". George laughed loudly and joked that it would be much cheaper to share the cost between us. Not knowing whether either of them were serious I turned my focus abruptly to the pool table and nervously said "who's turn is it??". Usually girls don't make me feel nervous, but potato hungry prostitutes give me the creeps.
What about the high risk of sexually transmitted disease? Being such a devout catholic country, it has only been in recent years that condoms have been readily available for purchase. Possibly he doesn't have sex with his wife at all anymore, so the risk is only his. Many working girls in the Philippines find new lives through these men. Often older caucasian men and younger Filipino woman can be seen shopping together hand in hand, sometimes even pushing a baby stroller.

Both needs are being met - the man is receiving sex and companionship, the girl is receiving her ticket to a new life where she isn't forced to sleep with dangerous, disease ridden potato men every night just to survive. Whatever George's possible argument or reasoning - I cannot judge him or the girl grinding her genitals on his leg, until I know the full circumstance that bring these two souls together in a bad way on a Good Friday.
I continued to give him shit for being a convict, and in return he hassled me for being a sheep fucker. Shortly after our pool game, he left the bar with girl in tow, and left me with a world of unanswered questions.

Saved by the Roman Catholic church

On my taxi ride from the Manila Airport to my hotel I thought it strange that the taxi driver gave me a full prostitute price break down. I was travelling alone and he had enquired as to my marital status; although I don't think that would have prevented him from his well rehearsed speech. Of course as we drew closer to the hotel he offered to take me to Burgos St (a red light district) close-by apparently.

The next evening (Sunday night) I decided to go out. My objective was to find a bar with other fellow potatoes (see term #2 on Urban Dictionary) that I could sap for local information and advice. I was drawn to a lively street with bright neon lights and 'bar noise' - this was obviously the place to be. As I entered the busy one way street, two young children of about 6 years old attached themselves to each arm and held up their free arm to me, palm up in a begging motion.

I am well versed in child beggar language and it is best to not entertain them and just proceed. Certainly not an easy ethical decision for many, but I strongly believe that giving money to these children is perpetuating the problem. If one feels torn, a good response is to buy them food and watch them eat it (commonly children will return the food to the shop for cash).

I noticed a stunning filipino girl approaching and considered whether she could be a prostitute… it didn't take long to find out. She opened me flirtatiously but politely with "hello sir, where are you going?". I responded by saying "I'm going to a bar" - its all I had. She had stopped me in my tracks and it was obvious at this point she was a "working girl".

My gut sank in the same way it does when a charity collector stops you in the mall or on the street. Out of pure politeness you listen to their speech on whaling, starving children or abused women, waiting for the opportunity to interrupt them and say you are not interested. All the while wishing you had brushed them off initially and kept walking. Her next question was "would you like some company sir?", to which I responded awkwardly "uh no, no thank you". At the same time I still had two kids pulling on either arm asking me for money. She proceeded to counter my objection with "how about a blow job sir?" while she glared hungrily at my package. In shock and disbelief I said "No!" with a pre-pubescent quiver in my voice.

At this stage I was feeling very uncomfortable. A hooker was distracting me, and two children were occupying my arms - I had become an open target. Across the street was a bar with two older white men sitting outside at separate tables staring at passing girls like lions stalking their prey. This was my escape… only slightly better than my present situation. I brushed past the hooker with children attached like monkeys. I untangled the kiddies quite forcefully saying Opo! Opo! Opo! which I had learnt from Lonelyplanet as "No" in Tagalos (the local language in Manila). A few days later I was to find out that I had yes and no mixed up… Opo actually means yes and is used when speaking respectfully to an elder. No wonder they put up such a struggle, talk about mixed messages!

Finally I reached the bar. I felt sick. Absolutely sick to my stomach. This was the first time in many years that I had experienced real culture shock. My first night in the Philippines and my heart was racing - in a bad way. The children disgusted me, the prostitutes disgusted me, and the old men sitting next to me disgusted me. I had one beer. Alone. To passers by I must have looked no better than those crusty old men on the girlie prowl. I decided to leave this place, I looked up and noticed the street sign "Burgos Street"… this is the place the taxi driver described, and it all made sense. There were no backpackers, or young people - only children begging, men selling viagra and fake watches, prostitutes of questionable gender and of course the filthy old men that feed this twisted ecosystem.

I left the bar and walked down the street in search of another bar. Again I was accosted by a gaggle of girls pulling at my arms. "Mr, Mr, where are you going?"; "Sir, massage sir?"; "I give you special egyptian blowjob sir". I dived into the closest taxi and told him to take me to a nearby mall I had heard about called Greenbelt. Usually interesting experiences like this excite me and I take all in my stride, but I felt frustrated, disgusted and dirty instead. Manila had disappointed me. I got out of the taxi and walked into the mall. Hymns were chiming in my ears as I walked into the mall area. There was a Catholic Mass in progress.

HALLELUJAH !!!

Never in my life have I been so happy to be in church. In this mall I found normal bars and restaurants, although Sunday night was a quiet night, I managed to relax and enjoy the remainder of my evening with no temptation from sin or sodom.