Fuckin oats' Ernie

Baguio City

 

My enduring memory of our night in Baguio is of Swags (by now, commonly referring to himself as "Taylor") on the dance floor of a local club, with a stage full of Filipino's, smiling and dancing away - topless - with a lady-boy. The events leading up to this 'coming of age' are unique in themselves, and perhaps after all it really was the air in Baguio City, but as always, we must start with the beginning.

 

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Party by night

Study by day

The mountain air hits you first; cool and unbelievably fresh, cleansing your soul from the smog of Manila and the sterile air conditioning of the bus. The number of people hits you second - but, not solely the number of people, but the number of young people - this was student town. Settled up in the hills, with trees all around and a main street similar to Courtenay place, it reminded me of home.

 

Within an hour of settling in to our hotel we were down the road at the local pub, which was a curious blend of the common wooden floors of an Irish pub, the moody lighting of a Chinese opium den, and the sturdy atmosphere of intellectual thought. The usual cast of characters were there - the young Thai gentleman who carried a hunting knife for protection, the boys in skirts giving you intoxicating looks, the singing labourers of the day, and the guys in the corner who don't seem that loud, but just might end up being your best friends; and of course, the young Kiwi adventurers.

 

I got talking to a chap who looked a little over 30 - Brian, I think his name was - who then introduced to his very drunk friend - Ernie. Ernie looked like the guy you never want to get stuck in a lift with. Soon enough, they were familiar with Kiwi lingo, and over a dozen or so SMB's and a round of Chivas Regal whiskey, Ernie learnt - and became infatuated with the term - Fuckin Oats'. Cheers boys - fuckin oats! And all glasses lifted.

 

Fuckin oats' Ernie led us to the next pub, an intimate downstairs affair of lazy haze and modern romance. Two live musicians played (Philippines is full of talented musicians) while the four of us drank more SMB's and ate our habitual pig face. The musician's raspy voices and stark chords softened the atmosphere of the room. They asked us where we were from. New Zealand, we said. Sure enough - along came Katchafire, Kora, and other homespun tunes. How proud we were.

 

By this time Fuckin oats' Ernie kept falling to the floor and taking out a swath of chairs and tables, stumbling around and yelling Fuckin oats! all to uproarious laughter on the floor. Crash to the floor - hilarious. What entertainment our new friend was proving to be.

 

Mind you, he possessed a perceptive mind, none to aware of the nuances of travellers in a foreign country. And, for that matter, he was the head physio at the local university - not a bad gig by any stretch.

 

We tag teamed very drunk Fuckin oats' Ernie and Brian for Archie, 26, and Simeon, 24. I learned later that Simeon is very fond of posting pictures of his finely tuned torso on the internet, and not shy of showing some skin. Archie and Simeon were brothers from up north, and seemed to find a new gear for their new Kiwi friends, who they knew were in for all sorts of trouble. Like us, they knew how to have a good time. Soon, the four of us sat in a taxi heading for a Filipino disco.

 

There were 200 people in there, and we were the only white guys. The tallest too. The signer delighted in pointing out the 'foreign guests' in the room, while we secured a VIP booth, smoked cigarillo's and drunk beer.

 

The place was a big American line dancing hall crossed with a high school disco. A ten-piece band played up front, while the plastic chairs and tables scraped across the floor on the numerous migrations to and from the dance floor. How we were in our element!

 

Archie and Simeon introduced to their friends - and one very cute Hazel - and together we partied the night away. No pretence. No agenda. No motive. Just drink, dance, smoke, and talk. As the night charged on we were feeling rather drunk, especially Simeon, who routinely declared "I'm so drunk" then wobbled around and dropped his head smack bang on the table. Hey, I guess young men everywhere like to get drunk and meet girls.

 

So, the story of Swags. As we danced, Swags caught the eye of a beautiful young lady. How smooth her skin was! How defined her figure! He shot his usual 'blue steel' look, and soon this young lady was all over him. And boy, was she aggressive. Swags could hardly get a word in. He put his arm around her, and flashed a smile.

 

When a stranger kindly whispered in his ear the orientation of the one he danced with, he high-tailed it out of there and drank a beer in three seconds.

 

Somehow, we made it back to our hotel, passing up the prospect of a visit to the seedier clubs around town. Swags was lucky, he narrowly escaped what all young men, I'm afraid, must all fall into at some point during their South East Asian travels.

 

For me, I lost myself in the pleasure of the night, and knew for a fact, that somehow, my association with Baguio would be a  long one.

 

Bustling Baguio - I will return