So, we’ve been getting a bit of cabin fever out here, tucked away at Tongo Point. We decide to go to Moal Boal on the pretext of securing a good cheese supply. It’s daylight when we leave to make the winding dirt track up to the main road leading to town.
We end up with a pack of Yakults and an incredible thirst for a beer. The sun is speedily setting (it starts to get dark around 17.30 everyday), so we make our way back to an old haunt by the seafront that Neil and Di had introduced to us on our last visit.
To get to this bar you must pass the fish and meat markets, still trading as the sun goes down. There are shite loads of cats skulking about in the hope off some scraps. Undoubtedly, the whole place reeks. I can’t recall the name of this bamboo bar, but what I can divulge is that you can get a large beer for pittance and watch the sun go down over the sea.
As we sit down to quench our thirst and coo over the kittens that are darting about under our table, we hear a tiny voice come out of the shadows.
“English?”
The voice speaks; hopeful.
I squint into the shadows of the bar and make out a face as small as the voice.
We nod, yes we are.
“Good.”
He sounds like a leprechaun.
“Mind if I join ya?” the voice pops up again- it’s definitely belongs to NZ or Oz or fantasy realm.
Sure, we reply; relieved to have some company after a spell of isolation (even if it means hanging out with leprechauns and kittens). He shuffles over and we both notice that he’s shorter than me (unfortunate, as this puts you in league with dwarfs and other such miniatures).
Philip tells us of his Tasmanian roots and life spent as a jockey; spanning at least 3 decades. He has the leathery look of the outdoorsy playboy- an intermittent cheeky twinkle in his already glazed eyes. He smokes incessantly as he goes on about his troubled dealings with the women in his life.
It turns out that his wife back in Oz ditched him for a younger model, taking the farm with her. This didn’t seem to faze Philip in the slightest; in fact, he seems to enjoy telling us all about it. His voice has the odd resonance of a parrot as he goes on to explain his lone appearance at the bar.
“I’m escaping,” he tells us.
“Oh?”
Yes, he’s escaping his new found Filipino family.
“Ya see: ya marry one; ya marry em all!”
Ah ha, we see. Of course we’ve had our fill of old men marrying Filipinos half their age, yet there’s something remarkably different about Philip that draws not only our curiosity but sympathy as well.
It turns out that he built his wife a big house down the road with the help of her father, a builder. Regrettably, for Philip, he’s been exiled by the entire family and made to live in a shack come restaurant come karaoke bar with his wife, the cook and helper. When we asked him why, he grunts something about an uncle with no scruples, a pedophilic German and an “angelic” Filipino teenager. Unquestionably a beautiful young daughter/niece is good currency when there are lots of filthy old rich men about- pity. Thus, Philip has been exiled out of his home and hides out in the bamboo bar, his views unheard and unadhered to.
“I had to tell em, it’s wrong!”
He chirps.
Totally gross, we agree.
After a few more beers and feeling a little tipsy, we make our excuses to leave, remembering that our precious Yakult needs refrigerating.
“Hey, I’ll give ya lift if ya want. Come and see me place. We got pork, chicken, you name it.”
Philip’s face lights up.
Stef and I look to one another and eye his stance to detect any balance/drunken issues. Well, he did used to be a jockey after all; what are a couple of pasties and a pack of Yakult to a professional?
I think the barman and punters must have had a good chuckle as we all stumble out and attempt to saddle up on Philips paltry steed.
“No, no love, you’ve gotta go at the back,” he insists “else it aint proper see, it means that your me woman”
Oopsy. So, we’ve been doing that wrong and I’ve probably been pissing off a lot of Filipino women for the last week or so.
Anyhow, we shuffle about, with me still inappropriately but defiantly in the middle. When I’m drunk, I’m stubborn. Utterly dark now, the market is dulling down for the night. We hear a distinctive cry from the slaughter house right opposite us. Before we know it Philip’s revving up, turning rather sharply on the gravel, Stef’s feet wedged under my own. We’re barely last a second before we’re all strewn out upon the floor, poor Philip breaking mine and Stef’s fall. His face looks positively frozen, eyes alight with fear; like his suddenly been whisked back to the 60’s with a huge gelding on top of him. Both Stef and I can only imagine his terror- poor bugger. We quickly help each other up. He insists that he’s ok.
We are all fine, apart from a little graze to Stefs knee, except our relationship with the whole threesome bike ride is truly over, for tonight at least. Philip promises to bring us back a relative who rides a trike, whilst I drench Stefs wound with copious amounts of anti-bac. We both burst into fits of giggles- Philip’s face was really a picture.
True to his word, a trike arrives within a few minutes and we’re whisked off, Yakults and all. I squint into the distance, just making out Philips tiny shoulders, resolutely riding. After flying past the palms and shacks, we stop at a tiny nippa bar, completely open.
Inside there’s a few tables and chairs, many Christmas decorations and a karaoke machine sitting quietly in the corner. Behind a small bar sits Philip’s wife, “Normally”. She warmly greets us and brings over a beer. We also meet Mark, a lorry driver from Southampton who’s been kipping on the floor for a week or so. Philip seems very happy to have some English company and keeps telling us so every five minutes; I gather it’s hard for him integrating into a Filipino family.
Very soon the Karaoke machine is cranked into action and Mark begins to soothe us with a beautiful rendition of “Words” by Westlife (I think). I immediately ask for the song book; not because I think I can do better, but because anything is better than bloody “Words” or whatever it’s called.
The book is crammed with every song you cannot find in the Korean Norebangs- excellent! It even has “Babooshka”. Truly, we have been blessed. Egged on by Philip I attempt to sing said song with about as much gusto as a starved flea. My squeaky wailings attract a gang of kids, their poor mystified faces gawk at the screen. I don’t think they’ve ever heard that little number (and probably will never want to again).
The night goes on and it’s toilet time. When Stef asks Philip where it is, Philip looks perplexed. He asks again-
“Where’s the dunny?”
Ah, now we’re talking.
“Oh, the dunny!” Philip giggles, “What’d ya want? A piss or a shit?”
“Er, a piss, if that’s ok?”
Philip looks sheepish. There appears to be no dunny as such.
“Well, you’ve got two choices,” he beams,” you can either go out there,” he points out to the main road, which is looking pretty lively with families all couched outside their shacks, “or go out the back in the sty.”
Ah.
Stef decides on the sty option. I eye him warily on his return. He seems to have survived just fine. I tell him I need to go too and will require his assistance if it’s to be the sty option. I get up and pass Philip on the way.
“Wad’ya need love? A piss or a shit,” he grins.
“A piss will do just fine, thanks Philip.”
“Oh, well, you need to go out there,” he says pointing out back, “here, take this,” he hands us a torch.
As we go out “back” we pass the tiny kitchen and double bed where I gather Philip and Normally sleep. We go down some very steep stairs into what I gather is the sty/dunny. Well, there’s nothing like pissing in the great outdoors, even if it is in the confines of a sty.
On our return the bar has suddenly filled with a group of young Filipino men. I watch them as they share a large San Miguel between them. This is the only way to drink beer with the locals apparently. They get stuck into the song book straight away and proceed to sing (with very cheesy mock American voices) a collection of monstrously bad pop songs.
As I hold back tears at this travesty, a very tall scarecrow of a man walks in. Philips back immediately stiffens. He brings with him a middle aged Filipino man and what must be his daughter. We are introduced; it seems like the Filipino’s are related in some way to Normally. The old scarecrow (I refer to him as such due to the grass like appearance of his very strange, possibly bleached hair) must be about sixty; he’s German but speaks English just fine.
Philip has a distinct look of disgust on his usually cheery face.
“That’s the one,” he motions to the scarecrow, who, without any shame is pretty much salivating into the young Filipino girls lap, “and to think, she’s only fourteen.”
Yikes.
“And look at her Dad- he might as well give her away!”
Philip shuffles about in his chair like a ruffled rooster. We gather this is the reason for his recent dispute with his Filipino family and consequent exile from his newly built home.
“I just can’t live with it,” he snarls, “I ave to sit here every afternoon watching that sitting here; her still in her school bloody uniform!”
Now all our backs stiffen- it’s kinda how you’d imagine feeling witnessing a beheading- utterly disturbing. The scarecrow is the closest thing we’re gonna get to Garry fucking Glitter. And as with all things grotesque and amoral, our eyes are morbidly drawn to it, unable to look away.
The girl seems perfectly happy, but I wonder if her smiles are a front, and if really, underneath it all she’s seething at her father, disgusted by the scarecrow and dreading the very moment that they’re alone together. Money isn’t everything, after all.
To make matters worse, the girl begins to sing, her age now very apparent to the entire bar.
“Voice like an angel,” Philip sighs, with a distant sadness in his eyes.
It’s all too much for us- we get Normally to call us a trike; we’re stuck out in the middle of nowhere after all.
The trike is speedy and we say goodnight to Philip and Normally, promising to visit again soon for another songfest.
Stupidly, we don’t get a price before we get into the trike and halfway down the road it seems like a rip off- we tell the driver to just drop us off at the beginning of our dirt track. He agrees, although, when we get there he looks decidedly guilty and urges us to take his ridiculous fare. We stubbornly refuse and tell him we will walk the rest of the way home, dirt track or not. We have a lighter that serves as a torch after all.
So, here we are on the dirt track, pitch black surrounded by just the palms, animals and night sky. Very soon a chill creeps up our spines as we hear the distinct snarling and growls of many, many dogs. Shit the bed- we’ve woken the dogs! We squeeze hands. No words are needed. We must not, under any circumstance, run.
They’re very close, some snarling, stalking our backs, others barking at us full throttle. I haven’t felt this scared since being robbed in London. Insanely, all I can think about is rabies. Terrified, we both know that there’s at least another 20 minute walk of this.
The growls intensify, seemingly ready to pounce.
That’s it; somehow we transcend our fear and are ready to twat anything that comes near us. In our back pack are two empty coke bottles which I hurriedly take out. One each.
This must give us more confidence and improve our stance; they seem to sense this and back off somwhat.
I love dogs, but if one of those beasts had come close they would’ve got a bottle across their snarling snouts without hesitation.
Never before have we been so relieved to be home. The knuckles on my right hand are white from gripping the coke bottle so tight. Thank goodness for recycling; I knew environmental friendliness would pay off in the end!
