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Ferragamo retrospective, Shanghai 2008, originally uploaded by 160507.

It never really gets dark in Shanghai. The night sky is awash in the glow of a million electric lights—11pm looks like early dawn or dusk, depending on how much you’ve indulged in the city’s famous party scene. With an annual growth rate in double-digits since 1992, Shanghai can afford to leave the lights on. In the daytime there’s another indicator of progress: Dust. The construction boom of the last decade—bridges, tunnels, flyovers, expressways, subways, international airport, deep water port, office buildings—has covered the city in a fine layer of concrete dust. Brand-new Bentleys and Aston-Martins drive by with dusty roofs. Five thousand families and a bridge were relocated to make a site for Expo 2010, now under construction.

Shanghai in Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star.

In the early days of globalization, before Amazon and Google, we acquired our books on trips or relied on friends abroad to get them for us. To personally step inside Swindon was to have a bookgasm. Peter Greenaway saw the connection between bookstores and sex and used Swindon (or a bookshop that looked like it) as the location of his pretentious movie The Pillow Book, now remembered mostly for Ewan MacGregor’s naughty bits.

I hadn’t been to HK in years, and as luck would have it my hotel is three blocks from Swindon. From outside the bookshop looks the same, surrounded by retailers on Lock Road. Inside it seems smaller, or maybe it just looms large in the memory. Near the door is a table full of current bestsellers. It’s when you go to the shelves that you see where the years have taken their toll. Most of the books are old, the pages turning brown. These were probably the same books I didn’t buy the last time I was here. And despite having older titles in stock, they did not have a single one of John Le Carre’s Smiley books. Nor did they have John Burdett’s new Bangkok novels. The store itself has a slightly shabby air. It has been beaten by the megastore chains and the Internet, but it continues to exist like a beacon to the brain.

In our younger and more vulnerable days, the nearest outpost of civilization to Manila was Swindon bookstore in Hong Kong, a temple where you could inhale the scent of printer’s ink on new paper and get your brain high. First time I ever went to HK thirteen years ago, Jedi master sent me on a quest.

- To Swindon go you must.

- Where is that exactly?

- The street name I forget, but to that department store near it is.

- Um, Hong Kong is full of department stores.

- Ah! Joan Crawford it is.

- Mommy Dearest? Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?

- Talking about what are you?

- You said Joan Crawford.

- Padawan not listening. Lane Crawford I meant.

When my shoulder bag emerged from the X-ray machine the tech said, “What have you got in there, books?” Apparently carrying books is suspicious behavior. No wonder people have always feared me; I thought it was the misaligned eyebrows (one permanently higher). In fact I am carrying corrosive material: I’m rereading The Best Of Saki on this trip.

PAL 318 to Hong Kong was rocked by turbulence for most of the flight. I passed on the lunch and had the salad and a glass of wine, which due to the buffeting of the plane settled in my esophagus. Hong Kong cloudy, scattered rainstorms, cooler than I’d expected. Heavy floods in the past week–just found out that in HK they have a storm signal number 8. The taxi drivers all seem to be auditioning for Formula One, or else they fear that the cab will explode if they drive under 50.

I’m in Room 910 of the Marco Polo Hotel, which is literally in a mall. The hotel’s old but well-maintained, and walking distance to the new bookstores Ted my Jedi master told me about. In true Jedi fashion he couldn’t remember the names of the bookstores, the streets they’re on, or the buildings they’re in. But this has never been a problem for those on a quest for books.

Pattaya drag show, originally uploaded by 160507.

In Pattaya we took in a show at El Alcazar, a theatre featuring transvestite performers. The show was sold-out, the audience composed mainly of Indian and Russian tourists. The revue was brisk and professional—elaborate sets including a replica of a museum, fabulous costumes, and attractive performers. The choreography was on the conservative side, and as for the “girls”, they might as well have been natural-born females—very demure and lady-like. Not campy. The overall effect was not comic or racy, but genteel. Three performers lipsynched to “Dreamgirls”. In Manila, this would be a prelude to a duel in which each performer attempts the funniest, most outrageous version of “And I am Telling You I’m Not Going”. In Pattaya it is the show itself. El Alcazar sticks with impersonation; in Manila the showgirls are not merely playing, say, Diana Ross, but making fun of her, of themselves, and of the audience.

Then again, Manila is more postmodern than most cities.

Thailand. What’s not to like? in Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star.

Bangkok 2, originally uploaded by 160507.

From the Suan Lum night market in Bangkok, 160 baht (about 220 pesos). I didn’t haggle. Dammit why are their graphic tees wittier and cheaper than the stuff sold in  Manila? Why is Thailand clean? Why are their roads wide and smooth? Why does Bangkok work? And why, when you return to Manila and emerge at the airport, do you immediately feel a depression coming on?

Guga reading Bangkok Haunts in a Bangkok hotel, originally uploaded by 160507.

My old boss Teddy Boy taught me that the best way to prepare for a trip to a city you don’t know is to read a detective novel or mystery set there: at the very least you get an idea of its topography. Hence Michael Dibdin for Venice and other Italian cities, Andrea Camilleri for Sicily, Georges Simenon for Paris and other French cities, and Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind for Barcelona. Arthur Conan Doyle for London, that’s elementary. For Bangkok I read John Burdett’s Bangkok Haunts, the third of his much-praised series in which the protagonist is half-Thai, half-American policeman Sonchai Jitpleecheep. (I couldn’t find the two earlier books in Manila stores, but I just got the first, Bangkok 8, at Bangkok airport.)

The Thai Buddhist background gives Jitpleecheep and his co-workers a different perspective on crime and human nature. At the start of Bangkok Haunts, a pathologist explains to an American FBI agent why the woman in a snuff movie did not seem terrified at her impending death. Later Sonchai patiently tells the same agent why his partner on the police force, who is not gay, is about to get a sex-change operation. Bangkok Haunts is Brilliant and Riveting, Dark and Sleazy. Let’s just say it won’t reinforce your cheerful view of human nature. Maybe I shouldn’t have read it right before my first trip to Bangkok, but it made the experience more intense.

The book describes something called “the elephant game”, a nasty form of execution used by the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. The executioners make a bamboo cage in the shape of a large ball, and put the condemned man in it. Then they bring in an elephant and encourage it to play football. The elephant starts kicking the ball, and when it gets annoyed–elephants are irritable–it starts whacking the cage with its trunk. Then it gets bored. Humans are quite fragile.

So I arrive in Bangkok and practically the first thing I see is an elephant.

I’m in Room 1826 at the Amari Watergate on Petchburi Road in Bangkok, a 5-star hotel surrounded by shopping malls, furnished with a huge bed, a flatscreen TV, and a bathtub with three rubber duckies. Very nice, but I have a strange feeling I’m being bugged so I whisper “I am not a crook” into the orchids, which are everywhere.

As luck would have it, nearly all the Muppets are in Bangkok for work-related stuff. I just missed Bert, but Ernie and I met up last night and Cookie Monster and Telly are arriving on Friday. At 11 all the hotel restaurants were closed except for Henry Bean’s American Bar and Grill, where Ernie had to explain what an extra-thick milkshake is, but they got it right.

A band took the stage, and the big shock was that it was not Pinoy. Their first song was Achy Breaky Heart, and I immediately had the urge to confess that I ordered the wiretaps. The male vocalist pronounced it “Eight-chee breaky heart”. The female vocalist was from what we call the Teena Marie school of singing: she skips most of the consonants. For example, the Alicia Keys song If I Ain’t Got You goes like this: “Sapeeyowaaneeooh/Baaahdowannaeeeaaooooh”. The male vocalist sang a song that sounded oddly familiar, but as he stressed odd syllables, only towards the end did I recognize it as something by R.E.M.

The one advantage of having been an American colony: Our cover bands could rule the bars of the world. (As Ernie put it, “Kayang-kaya yan nung banda sa Binalot.”) Or even take over established bands–look at Journey. I shall add this to my plan for World Domination.

When I arrived from Bacolod last night I skipped dinner, and then at brunch I just had a salad. I don’t like vegetables, I’m a devout meatatarian, but after 36 hours in Bacolod I need some blandness. Mike was right. Before I left I asked him what Bacolod was like. He said, “Lafang. It’s all eating, eating, eating. You sit down to an enormous lunch, and halfway through, your companions are already discussing what you should have for dinner.”

I gave a talk at the La Sallian campus writers’ conference. I asked some participants why the term for La Salle student was changed from “La Sallite” to “La Sallian”. They said all their schools worldwide use the latter.  Thanks to my very generous hosts, the staff of the Spectrum, esp. the editor whose head I lopped off because he called before 8am.

After mass consumption of sweets I am now piaya (in different flavors). And napoleones. And barquillos. I didn’t even go near the dulce gatas, and I’m not into self-denial.

P.S. Sign in a beauty salon in Silay City, near El Ideal bakery: Haircut and blu dry, P40.

Shanghai, originally uploaded by 160507.

I was hoping for a leisurely excursion—a speech here, a contract-signing there, handshakes and photo-ops, maybe a dinner—and then on to the real attractions of the trip: sightseeing and shopping in Shanghai. In short, one of those Junkets we keep hearing about.

Unfortunately for me, it turned out to be Work.

The flight was delayed twice—for half an hour in Manila, then another half-hour due to the air traffic over Shanghai Pudong airport. At 1650H we emerged in the brand-new terminal 2 at Pudong—a vast, marmoreal building that had officially begun operations just that morning. Fifteen minutes later, having cleared Immigration, we stood by the carousel awaiting our luggage. The Undersecretary was wheeling a humongous square suitcase.

“What have you got in there, an altar?” laughed the Secretary of Tourism, Joseph Durano. The Secretary is a very neat young man with extremely clear skin. He looks like he graduated from college yesterday.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” replied the Undersecretary of Tourism, Eduardo Jarque. The Undersecretary is a career official who joined the Department thirty years ago, when it was first organized. “Seriously, it’s more practical. With a small suitcase, the sleeve of your barong gets segmented into four.” The humongous suitcase turned out to be an excellent idea: the Tourism officials were expected at a reception at the JC Mandarin at 1830H. There was simply no time for ironing.

Emotional Weather Report, today in the Philippine Star.

Aquarium, Tai King shop, originally uploaded by 160507.

There was some confusion as to the location of the Shanghai Museum of Sex and Sex Health. One guidebook gave an address in the city; another said it had been moved to the suburbs. Then a reliable authority said it was back in Shanghai, and was accessible through the Bund Underground Tourist Tunnel. He had recently escorted visitors from Manila to the museum and they were delighted to find the perfect pasalubong in the museum gift shop: vibrating cockrings.

En route to the museum, I thought of a little experiment. I texted three friends—one hetero female, one hetero male, and one gay male—the same message: “Do you want a vibrating cockring from the Shanghai Sex Museum?” In aid of research I should point out that women comprise approximately 5 percent of my immediate circle of friends, men 10 percent (none of them below the age of 40), and gay men 85 percent. (Sometimes days pass before I speak to a heterosexual.)

My three friends replied almost instantly. (Note: I hang out with people who text in complete sentences. That is why we get along.)

Woman: Thanks for the wonderful offer, but as there is no man on the horizon, that would be like a barn without a horse.
Man: Kind of you. . .but no thanks. . .
Gay guy: Yes!!!

This is why gay men are happier than the rest of us. Said gift item was so popular, the museum shop ran out of supplies before we got there.

How to prevent people leaving.JPG, originally uploaded by 160507.

It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these complaint epics, so while it was happening half of me was homicidally annoyed while the other half was oddly amused and nostalgic. 

I sent a text message to my contact saying I was on my way to the airport. It remained in the outbox. I sent it again. Still no go. Then the screen of my phone hanged. The battery indicator was at 75 percent. The phone wouldn’t reset, so I removed the battery then put it back in. When I turned the phone back on, the batter level was zero! For the first time in history, my trusty phone had died on me. I imagined my contact trying to reach me, and everyone leaving before I got there.

We arrived at the airport exactly as the delegation was going through the first security check. Passport and ticket safely in hand, I made it to the plane without further incident.

The flight was delayed for half an hour. I didn’t notice, having fallen asleep within minutes of taking my seat (It’s a gift). I woke up for lunch, then went back to sleep and regained consciousness when we were supposed to be landing. The plane circled the airport for the next half-hour—air traffic was heavy at the new Pudong airport terminal which had opened just that morning.

So we arrived in Shanghai at 1650, not 1550. We were expected at a reception at 1830. I figured one hour, 40 minutes gave me enough time to get to the hotel, check in, get changed, and walk to the reception a block away. I did not know about Shanghai traffic. It was like Manila at 6pm, except that it was cold and the roads are vast. For two hours we were wedged between trucks, buses, and cars going to the city. We passed an industrial area, gray and desolate. By the time the lights of Shanghai poked me in the eye, it was 1830.

We were booked at Baolong, a boutique hotel on Nanyang Road. I think it’s supposed to look like a traditional Chinese home; I couldn’t ask the front desk clerks because we had no common language. Next baffler: finding my room. The key said 8526, but the elevator only went up to the fifth floor. Turns out everyone’s room number started in 8; my actual room was 526.

I had no time to even look at my room; I threw on a coat and hurried to the dinner. Two hours later I realized one of my earrings was gone. A favorite, too—a ball of wire I’d found in a Seoul night market. It may have blown away in a strong wind, or gotten snagged on my muffler. Either way it was gone forever.

Round midnight I got back to the hotel and took a shower. The bathroom floor flooded. Afterwards I opened the laptop our host had lent me so I could check my email. Couldn’t connect to the Internet. Figured I could at least charge my iPod (my treacherous phone was already charging), so I plugged it into the USB port. The iPod’s screen promptly hanged. Clearly my gadgets were staging a rebellion. It wouldn’t unlock, refused to reset, and the light wouldn’t go out. I went to bed worried that I’d wiped out my entire music library, but in the morning when the battery had drained the iPod was fine.

That was my first night in Shanghai. Oh and as I was writing that last sentence, Murphy sent me a PS: the pen leaked on my hand. Aaargh.