Sex Tourist Ch. 05

Early next morning, dressed in loose clothing, hold-all in hand, Trevor went to reception and told the staff he would be away until Monday, stepped out into the street and navigated his way to Vito Cruz station, walked up the staircase, bought a ticket, and stood in the crush on the overhead light railway as far as Doreteo Jose. There, he descended to the street and walked back a hundred yards to the Philippine Rabbit coach terminal.

Walking through the acrid air between the columns of coaches, parked with engines running facing the exit waiting to depart, he found a coach bound for Angeles/Dau and boarded. The coach was still filling, so he was able to grab a window seat. Twenty minutes later, all seats taken, the diesel engine revved noisily and the coach jerked, and lurched out into the roadway. Sitting high above the ground, he had a slightly wider perspective of the city than he had gained at ground level. Moving slowly through the congested, chaotic traffic, vehicles weaving unpredictably and without signaling in and out of lanes, he could see the effects of municipal neglect and decay. The road system had grown organically in an earlier age and lacked the capacity and organisation to carry its present traffic load, every junction now a disorderly competition for right of way.

Along the roads, each building and item of street furniture appeared in need of maintenance and deep cleaning. Mean-faced traffic-enforcers with handkerchiefs over their faces whistled and waved at drivers endeavouring to impose order, and solicited bribes from minor violators. At every choke point, flocks of street pedlars trying to eke out a precarious living hawked portable, low-value goods to the imprisoned drivers and their passengers.

Just as Trevor was beginning to wonder how long the 70 km journey would take if the coach continued to creep forward a few yards at a time, the coach passed north of Balantawak, and the traffic suddenly seemed to move continuously, albeit slowly, in the same direction. Then there was a toll gate ahead. After queuing briefly to pay the toll, the coach accelerated away on the Dau Expressway.

The environs, which had been unrelentingly urban to this point, gave way to suburban scenery, dusty green expanses appearing first, in patches between roadways and buildings, quickly expanded in size until fields appeared between paths and banks. As the traffic thinned, suburbia gave way to rural Luzon, and Trevor had his first sight of the other face of the Philippines - the tropical paradise. From his window seat on the coach, which raced aggressively along the Expressway claiming right of way over all other vehicles, passing on outside or inside as opportunity appeared, he saw the horizon retreat behind a panorama of neatly edged rice fields populated with a scattering of palm and other trees, fragile wood shelters, and muddy pools where water-buffalo cooled themselves. The earth was green, the sky blue, and the vivid colours of nature brightened the world as the grime of Manila was left behind.

In that hour on the Expressway, though frequently interrupted by urban sprawl and ribbon development, Trevor saw enough of the other Philippines, the lush, green, cultivated countryside, to wonder why any city, London, let alone Manila, could attract its residents from this natural paradise into their man-made dystopia. Eventually the coach turned off the Expressway, passed through a second tollgate, continued for a further mile, then turned into Dau bus terminal and parked up. Trevor got off, stood on the pavement and looked around. Buses and jeepneys entered and left from one end, and jeepneys and trikes clustered to the left of the entrance. He crossed the apron and walked in that direction. As he neared, a stocky Filipino in T-shirts and shorts approached him.

"Trike, Sir?"

"I want to get to the Tropicana Hotel."

The man clapped his hands and called out in Tagalog. A trike revved and sped over, coming abruptly to a halt in front of Trevor.

"Your trike, Sir."

The man helped him squeeze into the sidecar. When he was sitting safely, and as comfortably as he could manage, the man tapped on the roof and called, "Sa Tropicana." The driver executed a tight U-turn and exited onto the highway.

Soon, Trevor found himself, legs pulled back, knees up, crouched forward, peering sideways out of the trike, as it sought to weave its way through another slow moving column of traffic while the exhaust polluted air wafted through the open sidecar. The roadside businesses resembled those he had seen in Manila, but the pavement was less defined, wider, and more irregular. After several minutes, the trike was at the right of the road seeking a gap in the roadside furniture to nose through. Once through, they passed into a car park fronting some business, and immediately exited on the right, turning left into a side road, then a hundred yards further on, pulled right onto the narrow, sloped, concrete frontage of the Tropicana Hotel.

Alighting, Trevor asked the driver, "How much?"

"Up to you," mumbled the driver, looking down.

"Pardon?"

"It is up to you, Sir ... How much you like to pay," the driver repeated more clearly, still without looking at him.

Trevor examined the contents of his wallet, asked himself how much he would pay in London, and started to do a little calculation. 100 pesos would be little more than a pound, even allowing for different standards of living that seemed too little. He pulled out two 100 pesos notes, and tentatively proffered them, looking to see what reaction this evoked.

The driver accepted the notes, still without making eye contact, said, "Thank you, Sir," released his brake and rolled backwards down the slight incline, onto the highway.

It was ten in the morning, the sun was high in a blue sky, bathing the Tropicana in bright sunlight, the street bustled, but traffic was light, he could see eateries and clothes shops, and the congested highway at the bottom of the road. Trevor was elated. The warm sunshine, and the mix of relief and sense of achievement at having safely negotiated the journey made him feel good.

The guard greeted him, "Good morning, Sir," and held the door as he entered.

He introduced himself at reception, and the pretty, young receptionist asked him to fill out a registration card. He was then led upstairs by a bus-boy, who carried his hold-all and showed him his room, including how to work the air conditioning and TV. He tipped 20 pesos.

His impression of the Tropicana was that it was clean, but well used. Everything about it had the air of being worn. The light stone floors were scrubbed, but had that patina of grey that eventually cannot be removed. The paintwork was in need of refreshing and the pictures on the walls, quaint and old fashioned. When he tried the rather small, CRT-TV, the picture was noticeably curved, and the colour balance not quite right. The air-con worked, but the moving parts were loose and it seemed to whirr more than it ought. For less than £10 a night it suited him very well.

He had very little to unpack, so having played with the TV and air-con he decided that the swimming pool was the place for him. He had no towel or trunks. The receptionist directed him a short way up the road, towards a shop where he could choose from a wide range of holiday accessories.

Out of the hotel entrance, he turned right and proceeded to walk up the slightly inclined road. Besides the sort of shops and restaurants that you expect to find in any city street he noticed a concentration of nightclubs. Valentines, Top Hat, and various other names were scattered up the far side of the road. Rather fewer were on his side, until he neared a junction, where they clustered both sides of the road. He passed Bananitas, Treasure Island, Silk Stockings, Volcano, Owls Nest, and others. At a junction, to the left, he noticed a restaurant which opened onto the street, where numbers of westerners, casually dressed, obviously in holiday mood, sat drinking and eating, taking in the street scenes. He noted the name, Kokomo's, and earmarked it for his evening meal.

After three or four hundred yards the road canted left where the descending road split, and there on the other side, he saw what he was looking for. He entered the shop, and besides swimwear and towels, bought shorts and several brightly coloured T-shirts.

Walking back down, he noticed the pace had begun to pick up. Some of the clubs were opening; loud music began to emanate from them. Nearing the Tropicana, he passed The Welkome Inn. Rhythmic music throbbed within. Outside, several slender, black-haired, black-eyed Filipina girls stood with the door guard.

As he passed, they turned their attention to him, calling and beckoning, "Hello, Sir. Come inside. Happy-Hour until three. Two for one."

He smiled at them, said, "Maybe later," and passed by.

Walking up to the entrance to Tropicana, he noticed that the building itself incorporated a nightclub called Misty's. His impression was that he was in Angeles City's club-land, and that by eleven in the evening the streets would be filled with drunk, truculent youths and girls. He decided on an early night.

Twenty minutes later, in trunks and T-shirt, with a towel over his shoulder, he was making his way to the pool. As he entered the pool area, to the left under an awning, was a central bar down either side of which was a rank of stools. He slipped onto a stool to sit and overlook the pool. A couple of other westerners, engaged in desultory conversation, populated the bar. Some girls frolicked noisily in the pool; one or two guys lazed on sun loungers.

Trevor produced his key and asked what beers they had. The bar maid showed him several beers.

"Go with this, it's the nearest thing you'll get to beer here," It was one of the guys sitting across the bar, "It ain't good, but ain't bad, and it's cheap. They charge an-arm-and-a-leg for imports."

The accent was American, and the man, by his finger tips, held up a golden brown bottle, so Trevor could see the label reading San Miguel Light.

"Thanks. I'll have one of those."

"A Brit- Huh?"

"That's right. From London."

The American now directed the desultory conversation towards him.

"First time?"

"In Angeles City, Yes. I've spent a few days in Manila."

"Here for the pussy?"

Trevor started. He was 'here for the pussy', though he would have described his search for a life partner rather more delicately.

The American, seeing Trevor taken aback, expanded, "Well, if you don't know about the beer, you won't know about the girls. You're in Pussy-Ville now. Grab yourself a cold beer, and a hot babe."

The American and his companion laughed complicitly.

Suddenly, all the clubs, and the western tourists, began to take on an obvious meaning - sex-tourism - and Trevor felt it necessary to clarify the purpose of his presence.

"I'm here to take a few flying lessons; Angeles City Flying Club; maybe get a pilots' licence," he remarked, hoping his casual tone masked a cry of 'Not me, Mate.'

He eyed up his two companions. They were younger than he, by five or ten years, but wasted looking, gone to fat from too much eating and drinking, prematurely balding.

His new companion continued, "Yea, I see them micro-lights chugging through the air occasionally; noisy little fuckers; just as well they can't fly at night; a great way to spend your day. This is my fifth time here, and I still haven't worked out a good way to spend my days, so a few beers, a game of pool, and out bar-hopping, then fuck the night away. You're new to the scene here in Angeles then?"

"I've seen a lot of clubs this morning, but that's it."

"It's just starting to take off now. By six, all the bars are open, and the party goes on into the night. Check out a few bars, check out a few girls, and when you see one you take a shine to, bar-fine her out for the night."

At this point, a couple of the girls who had been in the pool came over.

"Time to work," one called as she approached.

"Sorreee. We go now," said the other.

"OK girls. Thank you. Off you go and get changed," said the American.

As the girls trooped to the changing room, Trevor's eyes followed. They were in their early twenties and their bodies, slim and tight, unlike their companions at the bar.

"From Roadhouse," said the American, "Great bar. Great girls. Had a real party in there last night. Dropped a bomb. But! Hey! What's money for? "

Trevor smiled, and nodded agreeably, not sure what he should say, unwilling to discuss liaisons with prostitutes openly in a bar.

"Attractive girls," he managed; morally neutral, and no more than a statement of an indisputable fact.

"It's like being set free in a candy store to take any goodies you want. I love this place," said the American.

The girls returned, now dried and in street clothes: high heeled shoes, figure hugging jeans, and strappy tops that revealed their delicious, honey-tan shoulders. The girls and guys hugged and kissed noisily, thanking one another for a great time. Banknotes were passed, discreetly, from the guys to the girls, and they parted, the girls pleading for the guys to come and see them again, and the guys promising, but explaining they had a prior appointment that evening.

When the brouhaha of parting faded, the American again addressed Trevor.

"You know anybody here?"

"No. I'm here alone."

"Anyway, I'm Jake, this is Evan. You're welcome to come out bar-hopping with us. We'll show you the ropes."

"I've seen this place where I plan to eat. Is it Kokomo's? I thought I'd eat there tonight."

"Kokomo's is great, we can eat there. Great place to start," said Jake.

They passed a few more pleasantries then Trevor excused himself to do a little swimming and sunbathing.

He chose a sun lounger and stripped to his trunks, noticing how white his skin looked in the intense sunlight. After swimming a few lengths of the pool his muscles were already tired from the unfamiliar exercise, and he had swallowed rather a lot of chlorinated water. Swimming was something he had not done for twenty years; he last did it with his kids. Climbing out of the pool, he lay back on the sun lounger. A waitress immediately appeared and took a drinks order. The sun was hot, and quickly he was dry. For a couple of hours he slowly revolved in the sunshine, listening to the playful noises from the swimming pool, drowsing and occasionally drifting off, and ordering beers. He could not recall when he last felt so indulged and content.

"Shit Trev. Are you using sun-block?"

It was Jake, sounding slightly alarmed.

Trevor quickly sat up, "No. Is there a problem?"

He looked down at his body. Blotchy red patches were appearing on his torso and legs.

"That's going to hurt like fuck," said Jake, "Have you got anything to put on it."

"Jesus. I'll have to buy something," said Trevor.

"I've got stuff in my room. Come on up and I'll get it for you."

As they made their way up, Jake told them the plan.

"We'll go up to Kokomo's, get a meal and sit up on the wall overlooking Fields. See if we can spot any talent on the way to work. Maybe book something in advance for tonight. The line-ups can get very picked over if you leave it too late."

In the light of Jake's kindliness, Trevor felt unable to graciously refuse the invitation.