Friday, 3 April 2009

The Malapascua Gang

Last night a smiling Filipino man encouraged me as I stroked his cock.

But more on that later. There's not a lot goes on in Malapascua. You can walk around the island in a few hours, and there are few bars save for the ones on the beach. These and the resorts were all moved back from the shoreline a few years ago, to improve the look of the place. Only one escaped the 30 metre ruling: the massive blue-painted eyesore belonging to the Mayor. Funny, that.

I'd been eating at a place called Ging Ging's, near to my bungalow (which was, incidentally, the nicest I've had since Thailand). The food there is great, which was a nice change. I'd got chatting to a Canadian called Dan, a fell in his 40s from Bristol called Chip, and their companions Elayne and John from Primrose Hill, London. Chip was hilarious...he'd been tagging along with John and Elayne for months, no idea of where he was or was going, and starting drinking at 10am every day. He even had a ten minute Power Nap on bar stool one afternoon, woke up and finished his beer. Amazingly amusing fellow. I'd love to get him travelling with The Colonel and film it, I think we'd have a cult TV show on our hands....Mr Chips And The Colonel Go Bonkers In Asia.

There was a Fiesta on the island one weekend. Cockfighting, Ladyboy Beauty Pageant...the lot. They call it Miss Gay here, though. Canadian Dave was selected to be a judge. I didn't stick around for it, though. The music they were playing at the Fiesta was killing me, the worst type of R&B imaginable and some dodgy Filipino love songs. Chip wandered off alone with a big bottle of Red Horse beer and fell asleep under a tree. John's night was cut short after he fell down a 10' deep hole while looking for him...he emerged back into the lights of the party covered in a foul-smelling muck. Luckily it didn't appear to be human excrement. Small mercies.

I passed one evening with Elayne and Chip in a tiny local bar. Tanduay Rum, Red Horse and San Miguel being a lethal combination. As is my wont when drunk, it was time to play with animals. There were four puppies the size of a fist, and myself and Elayne had one each to pet. Then I saw the cock. There were lots of these on the island, in preparation for the fighting, which is something of a national sport. I decided I wanted to play with that, too. It seemed quite happy to let me stroke it, only pecking my hands a couple of times. The owner was amused. Cockfighting seems a bit brutal; the birds have a razor attached to one leg. But when these bastards have been crowing outside your bungalow at intervals of 30 seconds from 3am, you lose sympathy. What happened to doing it at the break of dawn? Where's the sense of tradition?

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