14 Dec. 2010.
The house is still dark when I wake, the sort of early morning winter darkness that makes me unwilling to leave the warmth of the bed, go back to the dream world instead where I was back in Manilla, playing pool for days on end with very little sleep and a river of cold Miguel beer, a pile of tatty Phillipino Peso notes for every game I would win...
The noice of rowdy generators ringing in my ears whenever Manilla suffered from one of its notorious brown-outs, overpowering the Phillipino love songs coming out of antiquated juke boxes that would bring in hard currency if sold to European collectors but transport costs for these heavy monsters making it a non-profit affair...
The Phillipines that were once the private treasury cove for the Marcos family, leaving a impoverished and desperate population behind upon their forced departure, the rage of the common man and woman impropiating three thausend pairs of high heeled platform shoes left behind by Mrs Imelda, the Royal Lady in exile...
Their biggest hobby during their reign of personal wealth gathering, erecting an army of statues, enormous portraits cultivating a personality cult that knew no bounds...the way any dictator does...
For me the Phillipines was a place of work, dive master jobs on Boracay and Puerto Gallera, Pescador Island with its spectacular coral and reef shark population...
Sleeping in baby rooms in down and out hotels in the capital where my number one passtime was playing pool and paying rounds of San Miguel to an army of Hunting Girls while waiting for my plane to bring me back to the Rich West..."what do you hunt?", "Me hunt You"...plain and simple...
Three two month stints sufficed but in my dream world I often get confronted by an easy and sportive life in yet another third world garbage belt...
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