When the all-girl Korean band Wondergirls released there
soon-to-be pop classic Nobody in
2009, somehow I doubt they’d envisage it would become a pole dancing anthem.
Just like marvelling at the Borobudur Temples in Java, watching
the sun rise over Borneo at the top of Mt Kinabalu or midnight skinny dipping
with a bunch female Canadian exchange students, satisfying my morbid curiosity
of the go-go bar phenomenon of the Philippines was on my to-do list for this
sultry archipelago.
Did I not notice the subtle hints of what was to come upon
arrival? The seemingly ubiquitous pleasantry of “Hello Sirrr, may I know your
nationaliteeeeeee?” or something more sinister than the friendly banter amongst
foreigners regarding Rufi-coladas, STD burgers or chilli sauce ingeniously used
in more ways than one.
There’s always something stimulating about doing something
naughty. The giddiness, the sweaty palms or the underlying guilt the conscience
envelops us with. Would curiosity finally kill the cat? As this adventurous
(yet arguably stupid) traveller was soon running out of lives, the blinding
light that flashed before my eyes held a confronting epiphany: Is the how I
would want to use my last life? Have I taken it too far this time?
That blinding flash of light was the headlights of my taxi.
Angeles, sin city itself, an enclave, an industry stemming
from the nearby former US army base in Clark. Two things automatically stood
when one enters: the abundance of flashing neon lights and the strangely
comforting yet sickening ease of which one is made to feel that all of this all
of this was socially acceptable. Bar-hopping in a place like this could be an
indicator of one’s voracious libido but for this traveller it was more about peeling
away the superficial layers. And yes I can see the smirk on your face whilst
reading this.
Most would be under the impression that ‘One for you and one
for me’ would be the polite way to go when ordering drinks. As it turns out it
was more like one for me, and one for you and
each of your friends. Considering her one
was three times the price of my one, it wasn’t long before I had to
defibrillate my wallet that went into cardiac arrest. In the midst of financial
CPR I am taken aback by the sudden flurry of women racing to the stage with
adolescent excitement as their favourite song is played. What was this
mysterious song? Laced with foreign vocals and a catchy beat, it had an inexplicable
effect on these women, transporting them into a world of melodic ecstasy with
synchronised hip thrusts, hand claps and seductive finger nods.
Defibrillator aside, I was transfixed on obtaining this
mysterious super-power, harnessing it to achieve complete and utter world
domination. I closed my eyes and began to internalise the forces that be,
channelling the powers towards my inner sanctum I uttered with quiet authority:
By the powers of Grey Skull, I am He-Man!
Fail.
As the night wore on, invariably clichés would emerge. The
bar-girls were all poor rural girls forced to work in this industry to support
their family and all the men were twice divorced Westerners who had become
disenchanted with life back home. Like every Yin there was a Yang, however this
marriage of two needs created moral napalm. Not that it mattered to either
party.
Sitting there, quietly observing my surroundings I’d admit
that Sheryl Crow got it all wrong as it was clear that Bill or Billy or Mac or
buddy was finally having a day of fun. The twice divorced aging westerner with
a girlfriend under each arm, accompanied by free flowing liquor had a grin so
wide that Satan himself would be envious of.
Ironically, it’s not always the high life for these
born-again hedonists. Periodically, an insignificant reference to a foreigner
gone missing, kidnapped and/or murdered pops up in the local newspaper. Men who
have become addicted to the glitz and glamour that their foreign currency could
buy, gone broke by their lavish spending, artificial friendships and the
overwhelming fear of having to address the gaping hole in their lives that drew
them there in the first place. Men who have essentially become victim to the
system they foolishly thought they owned. Seems like Sheryl Crow did get it
right from the beginning after all.
Hit it!
This ain't no disco
And it ain't no country club either,
This is Angeles City...
But seriously, who on Earth ends a journal with the opening lines
of a song anyway?
