islandhippy

I’m blogging from the poolside of the Philippines’ dodgiest hotel, located in Pasay City on Manila Bay. At the table on my left is a party of loud Russians, sporting tattoos and thick gold bracelets on their massive, hairy arms. And those are just the girls. To my right sits a couple of chain-smoking Arab guys, comfortable in their long dishdashas, with frumpy, tired-looking Filipinas on either arm.

And there’s me looking the most ridiculous of all in a sharp, pinstripe suit having just finished work. I’m in Manila ostensibly to attend the Manila Book Fair but in reality I’m here in debt-collecting mode, chasing for payment. And not until I was in the taxi, a couple of clicks from the debtor’s office did the client even acknowledge my arrival. In the end everything went smoothly and the thumbscrew and headcrusher stayed in the bag.

Back at the pool and I notice a sign on the wall next to me bearing the pool’s rules and regulations. I’m shocked to read: “Servants are not allowed in the swimming pool”. My god, this is 2008. What kind of a rule is that? How am I expected to swim without my servant? I need my servant to paddle for me and hold my bottle of San Mig Light in the water to keep it cool.

So why am I in such a weird hotel? My method of choosing hotels is to use the internet to find the nearest 5-star hotel to my work place then use Google Earth to locate the cheapest hotel next to that. On this occasion, the closest 5-star hotel to the convention centre in which I was exhibiting was the luxurious Heritage Hotel. And a quick search on Google Earth revealed not twenty yards away the Copacabana Apartment Hotel. For half the price of the Heritage. Ideal for a cheapskate like me.

When I hailed a cab at the airport and told the driver my destination he made the sign of the cross and said a quick Hail Mary; I wasn’t sure if this was due to my choice of hotel or just the traffic but either way it didn’t bode well. We rolled up at the Copacabana ‘hotel’ which was cunningly disguised as a derelict concrete apartment block and I was ushered into the lobby. I almost made an immediate U-turn for the Heritage when I saw one of Garry Glitter’s buddies ensconced in the lobby’s only armchair salivating over the young girls at the front desk. Being grossly overweight and wearing an ill-fitting wig might be seen as a hindrance when pulling a chick in Germany but probably not in Manila if you have a few pesos to spare. On the flight over I had read a bizarre article in the in-flight magazine warning people to be on the lookout for paedophiles in the Philippines. According to the writer, you should be suspicious if somebody asks you “where can I find a child for sex” or “do you know a good location for having sex with children”. No shit, Sherlock, I think that would arouse most peoples’ suspicions. Slightly more controversial was the writer’s suggestion that you should report tourists “buying excessive amounts of candy”.

Anyway, I checked into the Copacabana, was handed a key to a room on the 11th floor and hopped in the lift. Great. The lift only went as far as the 10th floor. Obviously I was booked into the penthouse suite. I climbed the final flight of stairs and opened the door to a huge room, about half the size of my apartment in Singapore. Apart from the fact the toilet didn’t flush and I was sharing the room with a giant cockroach, the room was pretty good for the price.

From my window I could see the airport to my right and down below, on the EDSA highway, what I took to be a grill house. It was called Firehouse and I guess ‘fire’ sounded like a barbecue to me at the time, hungry as I was. Not keen to risk the Copacabana’s room-service menu, I took a stroll out of the hotel and into the Firehouse to look for an early dinner. I knew something was wrong when I found myself face to crotch with fifty bikini-clad girls gyrating on a fake fire engine in the middle of the stage. Oh, that kind of firehouse. Having lived in Asia for thirteen years, nothing really shocks me, but it wasn’t quite what I was expecting. I poked my head round the door of the neighboring establishment, Pitstop, thinking perhaps people might use it as a culinary pitstop between bars. Another fifty bikini-clad girls were dancing on a giant racecar. Max Mosley will be on the next plane to Manila if he reads this blog. After poking my head round every door in the complex — well, I had to make sure, right? — I eventually found the staff canteen where I ordered a plate of rice and side dishes of pork and pork (welcome to Filipino cuisine) and watched the dainty dancers wolf down enormous mountains of rice.

Now safely back at the hotel pool with my Russian and Arab friends, I’m polishing off my tenth bottle of Manila’s finest San Miguel Light. And only now do I notice from the label on the bottle that the “Light” in San Miguel Light doesn’t refer to its alcohol content at all. I thought I was drinking low-alcohol beer but it’s actually a low-calorie beer that has an alcohol content of 5%. Duh!