El Viejo Viajero in Angeles City, PH...

Hi, y’all, welcome to the 4th episode of the ‘Viejo Viajero’ segment of my Hardie Karges YouTube channel, in which we’re visiting some local places in the Philippines. Today we’ll go to Angeles City. If Baguio is the city that America once built, then Angeles City is the city that Amerika built twice. Because this city is also known as Clark, from the previous Air Force base, as much as it is Angeles, from the previous Spanish. No, this ain’t LA, but I have heard it pronounced that way, the Spanish way, i.e. AN-hay-lays. So, the two are something of a twin city, the Clark Freeport Zone, and the city proper. And even then, that ‘city proper’ is a smattering and scattering of a healthy handful of independent towns and even more barangays thinly glued into a single metropolitan area, all independent of Clark. Or are they? Even though Angeles was once the nation’s capital, in 1899, the first year post-Spanish, I’d assume that was heavily influenced by the nearby military presence. And, if you take the bus from Baguio, you’ll get off the bus at the ‘old terminal’ at Dau, a barangay in Malabacat, which is closer to the famed Fields Avenue than Angeles itself. Yes, that’s the famous Fields Avenue, technically part of the Balibago Barangay, that stands for entertainment here in the Phils in the same way that Las Vegas stands for it in the good ‘ol USA. Or should I say “lies down for it?” because it’s no secret that this is Ground Zero for prostitution here in the same way that Pattaya does the dirty deed for Thailand. Almost everybody is in on the action. Still, that does make for some interesting bedfellows, pun intended, so, that means that Korea has carved out a little piece of the pie for itself here, and I suspect Japan the same, even if less obvious. The Chinese are ubiquitous all over Asia, of course, but they deserve their own consideration, given their historical prominence and dominance, not to mention their massive population. That means that their presence in the business community is larger than their actual population numbers would indicate, and that includes the modern-day scam centers which they specialize in these days and which they have exported to almost every country in SE Asia. They’re summarily executed for those activities in the mother country, but only deported here, and Myanmar, and Cambodia, and... you know. But for the average westerner, particularly American, Angeles—and Clark Airport—are a convenient alternative to Manila’s Aquino Airport, if your final destination is north of the Big City. Because Manila Airport is shambolic, where Angeles’ Clark Airport is more like Shangrila. That means that Manila’s airport is spread out over three disconnected smaller airports, while Clark is all to be found in only one. But, I know what you’re thinking; and the prices are the same. Cebu Pacific flies here for the same prices that they fly to Manila, and that includes international as well as domestic flight, to the best of my knowledge. So, if you’re coming down from Baguio, you can disembark at the airport and save any futher taxi fare, which would be about the same from any point in Angeles Metro area and only a few hours difference. Most of the worst traffic is in the Manila area, of course, with its 10M+ population, compared to Angeles’s cool half mil. Or you can take the bus all the way to Dau barangay from Baguio, for easiest access to the Fields Street entertainment district, also now known as ‘Red Street’; I wonder why, haha. If it’s any consolation, the Fields Street district is much calmer than Thailand’s Pattaya or almost any serious red-light district in Thailand. This ain’t Soi Cowboy or Nana, either, maybe more like Chiang Mai, with a mix of food and flesh on offer. But I prefer vegetarian. With Epstein in the news, the age of some of these girls is up to serious question. The claim could be made, of course, that the Philippines is trying to escape poverty the same way that Thailand once escaped poverty. And if that means blurring the lines of morality, then so be it. But I’m not sure about that. There are other ways to get kids off the street and into nice homes, and I don’t think prostitution is the way to do it. I prefer education, birth control and family planning. So, I spend more time walking to Koreatown and Clark Air Force Cemetery than lurking around Fields Street. They have some good malls, too, if that’s your thing, almost as Filipino as jeepneys now. They’ll keep you cool. But the real chill deal is to use Clark Airport as the jumping-off point to head north into the hills at Banaue and Sagada, where traditional culture lives on, or even Vigan, where colonial culture is king. It’s pretty nice, too, I’ll have to say. The guidebook disses and dismisses the town of Banaue itself as short on “ooh…aah” moments, but for my money I’d probably prefer it over Sagada. For one thing, it’s not so bad. For another, Sagada’s not so great. The rusty tin roofs that invite such scorn are present in both. Sagada I guess is groovier—with its reggae bars and yoghurt parlors and such—but that’s not why I’m here. Sagada also is a little pricier. Of course there’s no yogurt there in Banaue and the coffee sucks, too, so it’s a trade-off. Only the hotels gouge. How do you spell “authentic?” More importantly, though, the people in Banaue seem friendlier, downright effusive I’d say, though the people in Sagada are hardly sullen or surly. Sometimes these things are just cultural inheritances, Ingorot vs. Ifugao in this case I believe. The landscape is the big attraction after the caves, and it is nice. There are karst rock formations in addition to the wet rice paddies that are surrealistically beautiful, whether terraced or not, especially in sunlight. So the hippies and backpackers once again find a diamond in the rough and then put the word out that there’s a cool new place, and next thing you know, the leisure tourists are “discovering” it, after the backpackers have helped hone some of the rough edges and shown the locals what we white folk like. I’ve seen it over and over again. Quite a bit of the old Spanish architecture is still there in Vigan, but there’s more than that, because the old colonial culture is somehow embedded into the collective consciousness, too. They even have empanadas, albeit something of their own style. Other than that the cuisine follows themes present elsewhere in the Philippines. Maybe this is where there remain some Spanish speakers left over from the old days. Except for the “pero…pero…pero (but…but)” that punctuate modern spoken Pilipino/Tagalog, you might not know just how full of Spanish the language actually is. But like mitochondrial DNA, it’s there, floating without a nucleus down through history through the female lineage. That’s a metaphor. Spanish mostly occupies that middle level of the language that is not necessarily essential, but highly useful, the artifacts of culture, especially cuisine, but also including names dates and the hours of the day. It’s immediately obvious in the written language, albeit with some spelling changes. With cuisine, though, the original spellings tend to remain intact, more or less. So I had arrozcaldo for supper last night, good as any rice soup I’ve had anywhere in Asia or my own kitchen, and pandesal is a staple for continental-style breakfasts. Adobo is the national dish, but I’m not sure who copied whom. But that has nothing to do with the presyo dyaryo of rice. Everyone has Spanish surnamesm, though, with the possible exception of the Chinese. I guess you could get some interesting combinations there, maybe Wong-Garcia, or even Fong-Torres ... use your imagination. At one time Spanish must’ve played a role similar to that of English in the present. In fact I suspect even within my lifetime you could once have honestly said that “everyone in the Philippines knows Spanish.” But you can’t say that any more. I’ve heard tell of a group of speakers hanging on precariously somewhere in the archipelago, but I’m not sure if that’s current info. Will English eventually suffer the same fate? It probably depends on the evolution of their own national language. The more it develops as an educational medium, the less the need for English. Is edukasyon the solusyon, or would it kill the Philippines greatest asset? The Chinese are equally present in the Filipino cuisine, with such staples as sio pao and sio mai on every corner, and chau fan and lumpia in almost every restaurant. In general, though, the native culinary approach doesn’t differ much from that of up-country Thai, if not Thai restaurants abroad, meat and veggies in creative combinations over rice. They’ve even got sticky rice in very similar forms to that of the Thai. Too bad they don’t have brown rice in the restaurants. They have it in stores. Noodles play less of a role, though, as alternatives to rice. Here they always eat rice with noodles. Then there’s quail eggs, fried pork skins, coconut-based concoctions, even fried chicken skins! It all seems so familiar… everything but the temples. So, is Angeles worth it? If you have time to go to the hills, then it certainly is. Locally Koreatown isn’t much, and Clark is just a dead museum, but the tribal people are always worth checking on. Other than that, it’s mostly just an airport, with benefits.

#13 Sri Lanka and the Maldives, Chennai, Bengaluru SRI LANKA: Buddhists, Muslims, and Christians, Oh My! (and Tamils, too; they're Hindu) Maybe the nicest part of the Indian sub-continent is not India at all, but that southern neighbor composed of erstwhile immigrants, coming from both north and south, back in times erst, looking for liebensraum or maybe just a living room, or a kitchen, looking for turf or maybe just booty, and instead found bounty, like the latter-day Portuguese or maybe their nemeses doubly Dutch, twice removed, once by the Portuguese and then by the Brits, on one of their infamous booty-calls that turned out historic... A stepping stone placed by Ganesha, it is said, perched cock-eyed cattywampus off India's southern coast, like Taiwan to India's China, an afterthought to continents, and just a stone's throw across the old strait and narrow, lies the nation, Sri Lanka, by some accident of history and fate, geological and psychological, the migrations of peoples part of what it means to be human, part of what it means to be mortal part of what it means to be a creature of the dust on Planeta Tierra... They all came from India, both north and south, but I don't know but what I like it better than the mother country itself, a version of India that finally gets it right kinda sorta maybe more or less on a good day, without all the clutter and the cowsh*t, without all the badgering and the bullsh*t, a country with radio, sidewalks, grocery stores, ATM's that work, and power that doesn't go out, people eating with utensils (usually), and you can even drink the (tap) water, just like any civilized country in the world, and maybe more so than most... Southeast Asia starts here: a Buddhist country, where people smile for no special reason, are friendly for no special cause, a certain passivity nice for a change, passivity without the passion, passivity without even the prostitution, not much anyway, hell of a concept I figure: passivity as a way of life, the cradle of Buddhism, old-school Theravada, from which it spread to all of Southeast Asia—food religion script and canonical language conquering hearts where warriors rarely succeeded in claiming turf... Colombo is bigger, massive and sprawling, but Kandy is sweeter, perched up on one of the middle rungs of the highlands, centered around a lake of its own design, the better for good views, the better for the good news, that the civil war is long over, and the country is ripe for tourism, but the war never really ends here, between immigrant locals and southern Indian interlopers, bad for bizniz bad for bucks bad for banks... And then there's the accoms: I don't usually fall in love with my room, more likely to take a cheap dig at my cheap digs, but this one's the exception, ten dollars here worth a thousand to me elsewhere, for no other reason than esthetics, straight out of a Van Gogh painting, just waiting for a signature, straight out of the 1850's and the Dutch incursions, straight out of a woodworker's daydream, hardwood polished by decades and jackboots, walls of ship-lap clinker-built and whitewashed, anterooms from broad suites partitioned off for modern-day backpackers and flashpackers, characters wanted and welcomed at the Olde Empire... European women firmly but gently fellate slim-line Gauloises Blondes cigs on the upstairs balcony with pooched-out lips—no tongues—careful not to smear lipstick and hardly even a hand-job lest a rogue nicotine stain find its way on to pearly white digits (what are long fingernails for, anyway?), while their men chew on Marlboros and pose for tourist photos in cowboy boots and Stetson hats and bad-guy bad-ass looks straight out of Universal City halfway to north Hollywood on the metro red line, hundred-dollar ticket good for a year... Net-workers shoot up in the WiFi'd resto-bar down below, playing at FaceBook and drinking overpriced coffee, while men in skirts akin to kilts lungyis and sarongs do the bidding for not-so-rich foreign tourists in this enclave of accommodation, lost in space and time and the vicissitudes of trade-winds, old-fashioned backpackers with more books than bookings, maintaining the old ways, walk-in only, lost in this day and age of online everything and digital download dance moves just fill in the blanks and go... The old ways are dying but not here in Sri Lanka, even the English language is from another era likely Victorian where hotels are restaurants and hostels are dormitories and egg rolls even have egg, where gods reside in ancient ruins at Polonnaruwa and Anuradhapura and Sigiriya, beckoning tourists in waves and droves, with cameras and sport-cams, waiting for the time to be right to make their return on to the main stage, saving up money from over-priced entry fees the ultimate revenge on latter-day cash-cows wearing Bermuda shorts and push-up brassieres, Russians and Chinese and other commies first in line... SRI LANKA, part 2: In Search of a City in Search of a Beach Sunday finally comes and I haven't been to church since February 2012, in Majuro FSM, back when I figured I might be dying pick a cancer any cancer must've worked 'cause I certainly don't feel like I'm dying now never felt more alive in fact, death now on back burner status indefinite hiatus waiting for a call-back and options on future rights plus a more prominent role in the sequel, agents negotiating furiously... So I figure now's a good time, put on my best Muslim shirt—white muslin—and go look for a Christian church, Baptist is too small don't wanna' be noticed, Methodist too hot there on the sunny side of the street, so today I'm Catholic with high arches and cool temps and the canonical language mostly in English, God knowing I'm glad to be Buddhist so that I can do whatever I want as long as it hurts nobody and even quaff a brew or mount racy steed if I have a thirst and a need and fertile soil begging seed, no matter what any guy with a book or a beard has to say about it... The pubs in Kandy are for locals, sounds like a missed opportunity to me, or maybe zoning strictures, putting all the pubs on the warehouse side of town shorter walk for the stevedores I suppose, but hardly known to the tourists, buck a brew and men lining walls in various stages of consciousness or lack thereof, sometimes you just want a drink, but try to tell that to the hash dealers up by the lake getting the tourists 'what they want' as if anybody really knows what tourists want I certainly don't... Cherry blossoms are fine, but the big draw for most tourists is the Beach, and lakes won't do for that, so you have to go southbound to Galle or thereabouts, Hikkaduwa or something such, purpose-built for foreign tastes and tours, I suppose, don't really know haven't been there, where beaches are for bikinis and cocktails not Muslim mocktails or Hindu coattails and the water is pure and pristine enough to swim in... I wouldn't recommend that in Colombo north or south, Negombo or Mt. Lavinia, the beaches too close to the city to trust the water, last time I did that had to get an expensive shot and take antibiotics for a week to keep my genitals from rotting and falling off, still a beach is a beach if you just want the sand and the scenery... There's Negombo with its cheap 50's motels and the smell of rotting fruit and drying fish, or Mt. Lavinia with its murky B&B's and the smell of musty old wealth, and strangest thing of all: a railroad runs through it, so every time you try to get romantic a train whistle blows, could be new grist for the Pavlovian mill, but no matter, I don't need to get all romantic I always get lucky alone... Colombo itself is a case unto itself, monster with tentacles spreading, cut from the same Madras cloth as Kolkata, washed and left to dry under hot blazing relentless Indian sun, people breeding like mice going forth and multiplying, the ghosts of previous foreign masters left to ponder the results of their handiwork, the English and their business instincts the Dutch and their government the Portuguese and their bastard offspring, all gathered together under the flag of Christianity, the cross and the sword, the book and the word... And then there's Puttalam, Jaffna, Trincomalee, Batticaloa, and Matara, on the coast; Matale, Kegalla, Ratnapura, Badulla, and Kurunegalla in the interior; names on the map, people of the four corners all awaiting further exploration: Buddhists, Christians, Muslim, Hindus, and others all sharing the same space, 20 million in all, elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder... Sure it's congested, and the drivers are maniacs, but cool heads and cool hearts tend to prevail. A country inoculated with Buddhism will ultimately be vaccinated by Buddhism, regardless of who's on the morning loudspeaker. It's the people who make the place, mate, feels like home to me, so C U there. #Male' #Maldives: Caffeine in the Clubs, Muslims on the Beach The Maldives are a string of pearls posing as islands floating gracefully over the Indian Ocean and Arabian Sea, 1192 nuggets—1000 of them unpopulated—not simply strewn higgeldy-piggledy atoll, but arranged in a double helix and organized into garlands and necklaces and defined by water level as footprints over the ocean surface, any higher the water and they cease to exist as a landmass, demoted like Pluto by science, thereafter to live their life as a mere underwater ridge threatening ships and subs, number three on the international extinction list in fact highest point not much higher than an NBA starting center... The Maldives must sound like a dream to anyone in Central Asia: Muslims—or me—high up on the hills in the 'stans or the Kush on the steppes in the bush—cold barren steps to righteousness rewards guaranteed only in Heaven and I'd hedge my bets on that if I were you, where virgins must be bound and chained to maintain ritual purity and you need sheesha, shawarma and shish-kebabs to stay warm, curries lacking punch and pungency for lack of spices, so might as well forget them altogether, get your bellyful of gusto from a goat slowly roasting over charcoal and incense... The Maldives must have been the Islamic paradigm for paradise, pristine waters warm and wonderful, perfectly azure going to like them, gently throbbing surf and all the fish you can eat, French fries and hush-puppies optional, palms gently swaying coconuts bananas and mango for the picking, and a handsome gentle populace, smiles free and willing and a warm island welcome for the tired weary traveler, like Ibn Battutah, the Muslim Marco Polo, way back in the 1300's, he and his four local wives, not counting slaves, blogging it for the future and trying to civilize the natives, trying to get the women to wear clothes... That's no problem today boohoo many wearing full burqa head to toe, others toeing the line of holy writ with fashion scarves and pseudo-veils still others naked-faced and unafraid sucking face in parks with boyfriends just like back home, but some even wearing full burqa in the surf as custom permits if hubby requires it rules and regulations getting tougher all the time... No one would take a second glance but me and any lifeguard forced to rescue such dead textile weight from the surf, I wonder if they even remove the burqa to copulate and populate, got an eye slit up top should have a pink slit down under for those intimate moments when nothing else will do, most men in the world having never seen their wives naked in the first place, could easily fake it with silicone and lipstick who'd know the difference anyway... But the modern nation is a beachy sun-bleachy 'Muslim Lite' to be sure, for the most part, thinly veiled women allowed to ride motorbikes and move freely on road and beach, while thinly veiled Rasta-men, cigs dangling from tender lips sip caffeinated drinks in the pubs and clubs, Red Bull instead of Red Hook, the better to stay awake during prayers, yeah right, uh huh, fortunately the Rastas have other sacraments, too, I bet, the better to transmit the DNA of island culture from Caribbean to South Pacific all the way to here, God's little GMO people half-African half-Indian half-Arabian... Still though she may sell seashells in the Seychelles, he is more likely to be selling them here, managing the women by managing the money, too bad, hawking the same cheap 50's curio crap that used to be sold in a million souvenir shops, as they're still called here, from Daytona to Durban to Copacabana to Capetown to here, a guaranteed catch for lackadaisical beachcombers with fewer hairs to comb even than beaches, more tall tales to tell than true travels... Most tourists go to the fancy resorts, of course, couple hundred bucks a night and up, sipping the pricey drinks that are forbidden to locals, prices so high already no one knows the difference, but I don't do any of that, I content to be a vulcha in search of kulcha, settling for rice and noodles greased up in the same island way that passes for local in the Caribbean and Pacific, the better to weigh you down in the hot sun and steamy skies, tuna this tuna that fresh from the boat nothing Star-Kist on these starry starry nights, sorry Charlie, we want tuna that tastes good... You can circumnavigate the entire main island in an hour or so, walking at a moderate pace with time for sight-seeing, the pint-sized capital of Male' is that small, dodging motorbike maniacs, cafes and boutiques lining streets called 'magu' with a distinct nasal accent in my mind's ear, enterprises ranging from distinct downscale but trending up... One hour of walking and you're drenched must shower and start all over again, temps almost constant all day all year no more than 5c/10f variation from low to high, but the night is a different world come alive with heavy metal playing in the park, halogen and benzene, motorbikes backed out into the street like Ramadan at midnight waiting to fill and before the sun comes up... It almost reminds me of Montego or Bali planes surfing in low onto airstrip promontories, here the airstrip bigger than the big city itself and rickety ferries take you to fragile landmasses still it's all good fun and unique if not always cheap but that's all relative, isn't it? If we can't be family, then at least we can be friends, that's the island way, mon, but it's truly strange to think that some day not long from now this could all be gone, submerged, covered with water and left for future archeologists to pick up the pieces, try to make sense of it all... 2024 Fast forward a decade and I’m back in the region, but not as a tourist, or even a traveler or adventurer. I’m here as a writer, looking to get my book published in India, since it’s partially about India, as well as China and environs. It’s called ‘My Travels with Fa Hien (Fa Xian),’ and it’s for sale you-know-where. So when an Indian friend suggested that I do it there, I went for it. That meant meeting the publisher in Chennai, and then meeting my friend’s brother in Bangalore (Bangaluru), to do some map illustrations for the book. Thus began and ended my so-far only foray into the far southeast of India, so close to Sri Lanka, hence the reason for its inclusion here, as a possible trip comprising both regions. And it was a revelation, too, if only for the glimpse of India’s ‘Silicon Valley’ tech district, which is what Bangalore represents. So, if India once represented a dichotomy between the spirituality of its northern realms and the simultaneous slumminess of the same areas, then now I can add to it the lighter brighter tech feel of the far south. But Chennai is the more traditional of the two, formerly known as Madras and once famous for a certain style of plaid cloth which mad the name famous back in the nineteen sixties, right before paisley and bell bottoms gave it the old heave-ho. So, I played up that theme by staying in the venerable Broadlands guest house and dive in Trincomale before moving on to the central railway station a couple nights later. This is after I had to fight with my airport taxi at midnight because they wanted to drop me far from my guesthouse rather than navigate some narrow alleys due to road work, as if I could walk to my destination where I’d never been before—at midnight. Welcome to India. I refused to get out of the car. The area is not bad, though, and walkable to the beach, I think, if you’re so inclined. The train station is more central, though, so I tentatively made my deal with my publisher, and then moved on. But Bangalore is the brighter later envisaged by the tech industry and something of a true revelation for a country known for its Vedic roots up north and its Goa-inspired chill scene along the west coast. I stayed at Jayanagar to start, and then moved to Indiranagar for the long wait, of which both were quite nice, if Jayanagar the more techie and Indiranagar the more central. If nothing else, it’s nice to finally be somewhere in India where the WiFi always works and the temps are a tad bit cooler than the hot sweaty coast. Check it out. A flight from Chennai to Sri Lanka is only a little more than $100usd.

El Viejo Viajero Goes to Baguio City, Philippines

Baguio is the only bump in a long ride up the coast from Manila to the far reaches of north Luzon Island. I’m sure there’s a route that hugs the coast the entire way, but I wanted to stop at Baguio first, before continuing on. Manila is only 150mi/250km away from Baguio, but after a seven-hour bus ride, seems much farther. That’s because the going is so slow through town after congested town full of motorbikes and three-wheelers putt-putting around and clogging up the main road, that it’s almost impossible to travel more than 40m/60k per hour. Factor in rest stops and it’s a slow go. It’s worth it, though. I was skeptical up until the last hour that Baguio was truly a “mountain” town, but sure enough, we finally start climbing, and the scenery immediately becomes more interesting and the roadsides full of wood-carvings and furniture made from the local forests. This region is called the “Cordillera (mountain range),” sure, but without any real connection to the Spanish language other than through the past, terms are subject to change over time. It’s been noted over and again that language proceeds exactly like biological evolution, for some strange reason, some innate law that has yet to be firmly and finally articulated. Baguio’s cool, and I don’t just mean the weather, though that’s significant at this altitude of some 1400 meters, around 4500 feet. It’s a nice place also, a true garden city in every sense of the term, complete with “orchidarium,” a term I was heretofore unfamiliar with. The markets are replete with broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, beans, and all kinds of greens, a fact reflected in the local cuisine, too, with quite a few more vegetarian options than seemed readily available in Manila, or even Vigan, ironically. Baguio is the “summer capital” of the Philippines, where all the wealthy lowlanders come when the sweltering and sweat become too much to bear. It’s the kind of place that I like, too, as a traveler, a mid-size city, something like Montego Bay to Jamaica’s Kingston, big enough to allow for plenty of diversity, without being so big that it’s overwhelming and crime-ridden. Sure, there’s some petty crime, but here it’s mostly good clean fun, bars with more guitars than girls, song-and-dance shows instead of dog-and-pony shows. Long walks are the order of the day, and the scenery is nothing short of splendid. All in all, it’s pretty darn delightful. By some quirk of fate, I seem to be staying in one of the town’s leading hotels, its ads plastered all over the roadside on the way up. In fact, it’s about the only place I could book online through my normal sites, same as Vigan. This is not a situation I normally find myself in. That says something important about the reasonable prices in Philippines, and also about my desire for Wi-Fi, whenever and wherever possible. Of course, the room sucks. I can’t stay in a room without a window. Why do they do this to me, unless they want to see claw marks in plaster? That little patch of blue is my wormhole to another dimension! Okay, I guess translucent glass bricks are better than nothing, but not much. I’ve already booked a different place for the return from Vigan. And room discounting is heavy here as well as Manila, special rates by the hour, by the half day, after midnight, walk-in only, locals only, you name it. I’ve never seen anything like it. Those reasonable prices can be downright dirt cheap when you walk in unannounced. If the best hotel in town is only $40-50 to begin with, then maybe it’s as little as half that without a res. The amazing thing is that I seem to be almost the only tourist wherever I go, only Western tourist at least. Thailand—with nothing more than this on offer—has Westerners they can’t get rid of! There they’re already in the blood lines like an infection that’ll just have to run its course. So on my return to Baguio I’ve booked a room for less than thirty bucks US, with similar amenities. It can’t be any worse than the first place. I stayed there two nights, and on the second night they called at 10 p.m. and asked if I needed my room made up, 10 p.m., mind you. The predominant local folk art here, as elsewhere in the Philippines, are the colorful jeepneys—local transport—adorned and styled to taste. Smaller cities such as Vigan may be the exception, with their smaller three-wheelers similarly adorned and dominating local transport need … or that may just be Vigan. Other towns along the road tend to limit their creativity to color selection, to which they all conform within each town, so that scattered along the way there are green towns, yellow towns, pink towns, and so forth. You don’t see that every day! The kids loved it. But my big project for the return to Baguio is to continue my investigation into the culinary genome of chop suey. It’s a familiar dish in the US’s old-timey Chinese restaurants that date from the railroad era—but not the new ones—and there are various similar names and versions that I’ve seen and tried in such varied places as Chile and Indonesia. Now here it is in the Philippines, spelled the same way as the US version. Now the Philippines get most of their Chinese references straight from the source, not from the US. They don’t eat spring rolls; they eat lumpia. They don’t eat “Chinese hamburgers;” they eat sio pao. So this could be the definitive test. After hearing on TV yesterday that some Jewish guy in San Francisco invented egg fu yung, this exercise takes on renewed importance, especially since I know there’s a dish in Indonesia called fu yung hai, served on all the same menus that include cap cai. Sundays are not to be believed here, not that everyone is in church, mind you, quite the opposite. No, they’re everywhere, filling the streets and filling the parks, making the smallest stroll difficult, if you’re in a hurry. It seems everybody’s got a babe in arms, if not a couple in tow, if not a little tribe of pot-bellied poopers spread out following in wing formation like ducks on a pond. This seems like nothing so much as a nation of teenagers, learning their multiplication tables in bed at night under cover of darkness. Baguio is the city we built, we Americans, that is. So I’m staying right across from Burnham Park, which includes a lake with paddle boats and kiddie playgrounds, the whole amusement park feel. It’s been a long time since Clark Air Force base closed, of course, and longer still since the colonial days. But the American influence lives on here. I guess that’s why it took me so long to come. It was always too closely associated with America in my mind, so not exotic. Too bad that influence never crossed over to the supermarkets, which look like a Chinese Ma and Pa store got bigger without getting any better. They’re pretty shabby, and no brown rice either. That’s too bad. Otherwise, Filipino food is pretty good, and the breakfasts are the stuff of Filipino lumberjack legend. I don’t even want to know what’s in the mystery meat. My hotel left a newspaper outside my door this morning. Don’t they know I’m a backpacker? I’m not used to treatment like this. Abuse me! Insult me! Question my native intelligence or I might develop an ego complex! Or worse even still, I might lose street cred with you, my faithful readers. I don’t want that. I need you. So, when the day dawns cloudy and gray, I decide to stay another day. But I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t need any surgery, or any dental work, or computer repairs, so I get some passport photos made. They’ll come in handy. Then I go to the big new mall up the hill. They still have mall rats here! Does anyone still go to the malls in the US? It’s certainly not the paradigm that it used to be. Internet is. The rainy day depresses me, and the windowless cubicle doesn’t help. Fortunately the Net’s up at least half the time, like flickering consciousness, so that has to suffice as my little patch of blue on a day like today. Hopefully the sun will be out tomorrow, so I can get out and see some landscape. That’s my porn, and my Bible, and most everything in-between. 2026 Update This was all written thirteen years ago, and it’s interesting to see what’s changed. Answer: not much. Bottom line: there really isn’t all that much to do in Baguio City, though it’s certainly nice enough, especially its mile high perch over the lowlands. They’re fighting for their lives to keep the developers at bay, and their market free and funky, but their efforts may or may not bear fruit. So I occupy my time with brisk walks through confusing maps, with little hope of finding a pattern in it all. I did stay on the opposite side of town this time, near the bus station, so that’s totally different. For one thing, it’s far from the main business district. That makes it cheaper and in many ways better, even if more distant. Enjoy.

Hypertravel with Hardie #12: Western India

Hi all: Welcome to my Hypertravel with Hardie video series, in which we’ll travel the world through my eyes and my pictures, all of which were taken more than ten years ago, in this case. If we usually go around several countries, this time it’ll only be one, India, and only part of that one. Last time we did North India, so this time we’ll do the west. This was all originally part of one continuous trip in the year 2014, which started in Kolkata and went all across north India and Rajasthan before crossing the border from Amritsar to Lahore, Pakistan, in the far Northwest of India. I stayed in Pakistan about a week, meanwhile getting an Afghan visa, but ultimately bailing out due to a lingering cold, in the weather and in my body. I couldn’t talk. I could open my mouth and form the words, but nothing would come out. I got my Afghan visa, though, with plenty of time to enter the country, so I came back to India to weather the winter. Now I’m in Mumbai, and the weather is nice. I like west India, also, so far, at least, it quite a bit different from the North. Because, if the north of India has the high and mighty holier than thou rep for its spiritual traditions of Hinduism, Jainism, and Buddhism, along with the (Aryan) Brahmin caste that conceived them, it’s also to a large degree stuck in that glorious past, and the poverty that it sustains. But Mumbai is maybe not the best measure of that with its mafia and slums that would defy Delhi, but it will get better down the coast. For me the best analogy is that in the north you’ll rarely see a modern supermarket, but in the west, you’ll see plenty, and probably more traditional marketplaces, too, since the north has few of either, believe it or not. What Brits and others would call the CBD, Indians would call the Bazaar, i.e. market, or chowk, stalls lined chock-a-block up and down the street with no design or deliberation, just dedication. Mumbai is something of a mix of the two traditions. It starts off bad, near the airport, with a room without windows, but improves when I move into the center. I only wish that I had read Shantaram before I visited, so that I could’ve compared notes with the manuscript, but now it may be too late, since they’ve apparently black-listed me. We’ll see. I never used Lonely Planet much, and it seemed out-of-date by 2014, even, so I reverted to my transportation hub instincts, and that means the railway station, a vast improvement. From there you’ll quickly find Colaba, which includes the Leopold Cafe, dating from 1871, if you’re so inclined and well-endowed. I’m usually broke, haha, or so it seemed back then. But the weather feels good, if nothing else, and the seaside strolls always make for some smiles, so I enjoyed my stay, next stop Poona. For better or worse, Poona comes to me with excess baggage, as the home of OSHO, who I once knew as Bhagwan Sri Rajneesh back in my Oregon days in the early 80’s, when we both lived there almost simultaneously, albeit in separate neighborhoods of the state. To make a long story short: it wasn’t pretty, and many conflicts and lawsuits ensued, while Rajneesh/OSHO counted the Rolls Royces amid his spiritual splendor. They say his teachings were heavily Tantric, ahem. I’d probably prefer the term Vajrayana. When the dust cleared, Rajneesh high-tailed it out of town with that tail between his legs on a beeline for Poona, after being denied entry to twenty or so other countries. The spiritual center that he established in his five years there still exists there, and elsewhere, with an abundance of adepts long after OSHO’s departure, but not much for the average tourist, for better or worse. In fact it’s almost refreshingly boring. If he transplanted northern wisdom to western circumstance, that would seem to be embodied in the sacred cow(s), which are almost everywhere. Alas and alack, I’m not a disciple. Next stop is Goa. Goa is something of the jewel in the crown of west Indian tourism, or indeed all Indian tourism, above and beyond the spirituality and drugs of the north or the mafia, prostitution and drugs of Mumbai. Because Goa has something infinitely more powerful than all that: alcohol. Quick! Tell the Europeans! But they already know, because they are at the heart of it, the Portuguese here long before any other European foreigners. Indeed, they were not only here, but Indonesia (Timor), China (Macau), Malaysia (Malacca), Thailand (Ayutthaya), the Philippines (Cebu), Taiwan (Formosa), and elsewhere, too. And they not only had wine everywhere they went, but they had tables (mesa), and they had soap (sabao), and some variation of those words is in the native language of almost every language in the region. So, remind the locals of that every time they claim that Europeans smell bad. Goa is a strange member of the Indian group, also, without much in the way of cities, but very much in the persistence of culture. Because, while the Portuguese haven’t been gone for very long, their Europeanness still persists, and all in general harmony with the others. That means good parties, famous throughout the region. But for me, it only gets better the further south you go, because there is still a touch of inauthenticity to Goa that gives me pause, while further south there is none of that, the presence of Syrian Christians altogether a different breed, and era, than that of the Portuguese Christians. That means Kerala, domain of those India fanatics in the serious know, with beaches and cities, in addition to whatever substances you may need to put some spice on your daily omelet. The capital of Kerala is Trivunanthapuram (or something like that) better known to many of us as Trivandrum. Now the city may not mean much to anyone else, but to me it’s famous for its supermarkets, something so rare as to seem illegal up north, anywhere up north. Here they’re de rigueur. And if that fails to inspire you, then go to the beach. There are plenty of them. The first one on my list is Varkala, which may or may not be the best. The state of Kerala, way down south, is where those beach-combing backpackers-in-the-know go when Mumbai leaves them feeling cold and Goa leaves them feeling guilty. Here you're back in the 'real India', at least, both good and bad. The good is that you're actually in a foreign country, not just a tourist colony. The bad, depending on your tastes, is that alcohol once again is a precious commodity. That's no problem for me, but it is for some people. But the worst part is that the banks don't work. You never really know until you enter a country or a province whether your ATM card is going to work or not. But, no luck here. Welcome to India. Power isn’t much better, ditto the Net. The beaches here aren't bad, though; better than Goa, or what I saw there, anyway. And the cliffs are pretty spectacular. That's even something of a focus for the locus of the social scene here, along the little backpackers' 'miracle mile' that meanders along the top of the cliff. Of course, there's rarely a railing there, so caveat viator. There are temples and other sites of religious significance, this being a minor pilgrimage location and all. But the main object of adoration seems to be the sun itself, here fully tropical and without the atmospheric fogs and particulates that plague other areas of India. Here you'll go to the beach to cool off, not to warm up. Here you'll have to ritually douse yourself with cool water after every foray into the sun and humidity, three or four times a day at last count. Might as well wash your clothes at the same time, since they'll already be soaked. Next stop is Alleppey. Alleppey, aka Alapuzzha, doesn't look like much at first glance, another decrepit little city in southern India, hot and humid, funky and fuming. That viewpoint, however, ignores Alleppey's position on the edge of a vast system of inland backwaters that connect much of the region—and also underlie the region's tourist industry. There's even a ferry to neighboring villages and towns. No, the electricity grid and WiFi are no better here than in Varkala, but here you'd expect that. In Varkala, or especially Goa, it seems negligent and downright insulting to the hundreds and thousands of tourists who expect and deserve more and better. After all, many people fly in directly from Europe on pricey flights, expecting a seaside honeymoon, not a sweltering survival course. It's no big deal for me. I don't need to get all romantic with myself; I usually get lucky anyway. So Alleppey is fine—but not enough to hold me. I found a bank to take my ATM card. I got wings. C U in Kochi. Kochi's worth it, maybe not for the beach, though I don't really know, but for the historic city itself, based around the old fort and port. This was an old stronghold for the Portuguese and an entrepot for many over the centuries, including ancient Christian sects and Jews expelled from the Roman burning of the temple at Jerusalem in 70 AD. The fact that it was so easily reachable from the early Roman world even adds fuel to the fire as to whether Jesus himself might not have wintered over here in his formative years, doing something similar to what the Beatles would do some two thousand years later. Add to that reasonable prices and quality of rooms, a power grid that generally stays on and a WiFi that generally stays up, and you've got a pretty nice place to hang. I only wish I'd known sooner. But things like that are hard to predict. And I'm sure there are decent beaches to be had here, too, even if maybe not exactly surfers' paradise. It's not like I'm looking to lie in the sun on a rock somewhere. Nextstop is Kovalam. Kovalam is the kind of place that Lonely Planet writers like to disparage as having sold out to commercial interests long ago, with their chock-a-block cafes and resto--bars and boutiques a la Kuta, while noting how Varkala up the road manages to maintain its wild and rustic more authentic nature. I beg to differ. For one thing, Kovalam ain't that bad. For another thing, Varkala ain't that good. These are basically your two beach options within an hour's ride of the Keralan capital Trivandrum, aka Thiruvananthapuram. True, Kovalam is a fairly homogenized and pasteurized version of an Indian beach town, leaning toward European models and menus, with paved sidewalks and handrails to boot, all clean and neat and ready for biz. Is that such a bad thing? LP makes it sound like Kuta Beach in Bali, sprawling for miles down a previously pristine coast, serving banana pancakes in what were once temples, and drinking wine from monkey skulls. Nothing could be further from the truth. This trip is over. I’ll fly back north and continue to Afghanistan, as already reported. From there I’ll catch a flight back south to Sri Lanka and the Maldives, which will be the next episode that I’ll narrate here.