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samwellmarinesociety · 3 years

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Be Still, and Know That I am Near

[I’ve also posted this on my AO3!]

As a freshman at Samwell University, Connor figured that he'd be leaving his home life behind in Arizona. However, an early morning encounter in the locker room provides him with the opportunity to grapple with his faith as well as find some sense of closure.

(A special thanks goes out to Emiliana [ @lifeofthetryhard on Tumblr] for her help with translating the Spanish. Although Connor is Mexican-American and she’s Venezuelan, her grasp of Spanish is much better than my own.)

“¿Estás seguro de sabes dónde está la pista?”

Connor pinched the bridge of his nose as he glanced up at the clock above his dorm door. “Sí, Mamá,” he answered, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice lest he be called out for using a tone. “Tengo el mapa que me dio.”

“Solo pregunto porque me preocupo de ti, mijito,” his mother reminded, still using the sickly sweet tone that she used when he was a baby. “Trajiste el-”

“Me tengo que ir, Mamá. Te quiero.”

“Te quiero, Connor.”

Putting his phone away, Connor picked his gear bag off the floor and quickly made his way out the door and down the lobby stairs. The fading summer sun was already halfway to its throne at the top of the sky, bathing Lake Quad in its brilliant golden light. Since the semester had not officially started, he could walk along the cobblestones without fear of crashing into someone.

As clichéd as it was, the photos on the official Samwell website could not compare to the beauty of the real campus. Given how the weather along the Eastern coast had been much warmer this past year, the trees were still lush with their leaves. It wasn’t nearly as warm as it would have been back in Arizona, but the feeling of the sun on his back was like a hug from an old friend.

Faber Memorial Rink was a decidedly modern building, especially in comparison to the more colonially-inspired architecture of most of the campus. It was almost intimidating in the way it loomed over the trees and shrubs that dotted its exterior. To some, sports were akin to a religion, so Connor supposed that Faber would be a cathedral. The giant windows that captured the morning light only more strongly enforced the metaphor.

“Mamá would probably have my head for talking about religion like that,” he grimaced as he entered the main hall of the rink. Still, Connor couldn’t help but compare the giant crimson banners that adorned the walls to the purple flags that his home parish would put up during Lent. Signs and symbols of what each institution held dear were woven into both. Even the Latin motto of “Penitus Potes de Fonte Sapientiae” was a reminder of the life he’d left behind at home.

Or rather, the life he was trying to leave behind.

The lights already being on in the locker room was strange, but Connor brushed it off as one of the custodians passing through earlier. The expanse of rooms that he’d toured through after officially accepting his admission offer was by no means the most extravagant he’d seen. In fact, it disgusted Connor just how much money some schools put into their sports teams while letting their libraries and lecture halls fall into squalor. It was, however, nice that he didn’t have to worry about tripping over ripped carpeting.

He paused for a moment before the trophy case. In the aforementioned light, the wood finish of the cabinet appeared to be the same shade of crimson as the Samwell crest. Connor wondered if that was an intentional choice on the commissioner’s part. Beyond the glass panes were the various trophies, plaques, and medallions that had been awarded to Samwell players of yesteryear, though the majority of them were more recently dated. The name Jack Zimmermann seemed to be part of ninety percent of all the awards- he even had one all to himself for being voted team captain three years in a row.

“I guess he really was well liked, both on and off the ice.”

Another award that caught his eye was the John Carlisle Award. “For exemplification of team spirit through enthusiasm and devotion to the game,” Connor read aloud, his eyes falling on the only recipient of the award. “Eric Bittle, 2013.”

News about Eric Bittle had spread through the college hockey channels even before Connor had decided to accept his offer to Samwell. He was just rather different compared to almost every other up and coming forward- a background in figure skating, a fondness for baking, his… general demeanour, to put it lightly. Connor supposed it was noble in its own way for Eric to stick to his ways rather than try to change his personality for the sake of a sport. As long as Eric was good on the ice, he didn’t really care about what the guy did in his spare time.

Hockey wasn’t what Connor pictured himself doing after graduating- part of it was the lack of privacy associated with professional sports. Even if he didn’t do post-game interviews or speak to reporters, his whole identity would be up for the world to speculate about. That was the sort of perpetual attention that he couldn’t stand.

As he came out of his labyrinth of thoughts, he became aware of a repetitive sort of sound that couldn’t be attributed to the sound of the water pipes up above. Grabbing his bag, Connor tried to move towards the locker room as quietly as he could. Fear wasn’t something that ran in his blood- not fear of noises anyways.

Connor stopped just by the doorway. His grip tightened around the handle of his bag, as though he could swing it in self-defense. Most days, he paid more attention to his legs than his upper body. One of the upperclassmen- Chowder, he thinks their name was- had mentioned something about Coaches Murray and Hall being strict about workout regimens. That was the kind of infringement that Connor didn’t quite appreciate, though he understood why it’d be important. With bated breath, he whirled around and nearly stumbled into the locker room.

“Hello, Connor!”

“Tony?” he replied in surprise before quickly correcting himself. “I mean, Tango?” The nickname culture was still something he was trying to get used to. Prior to coming to Samwell, he had simply gone by Connor or, more rarely, ‘Con.’ The others on the team, however, were insistent on giving him a new nickname; he’d be damned if it was something silly like ‘Whiskers’ or even ‘Whiskey.’

“I don’t even like the taste of whiskey.”

“You’re on the floor.”

Tango’s eyebrows shot up as though he were surprised by this observation. “I was pretty much done anyways!” he answered as he got back on his feet. “Did you want some privacy? My stall’s over there anyways; I just like the airflow from the vent here and-”

“Hold on.” Connor sliced his hand through the air, his lips tight as he tried to keep his expression neutral. “Done with what, exactly?” It was only then he noticed that Tango had something in his hand that was also looped around his wrist.

With that, Tango simply opened up his fisted hand to reveal a rosary, its glassy blue beads refracting the overhead light. “Praying- I try to get a decade or two in before practices.” When Connor didn’t immediately respond, he started to explain. “Oh, it’s a rosary- Catholics use it to pray and we count along the beads, but we start here with the crucifix-”

“I know what a rosary is, Tango,” Connor quickly interjected before he got a Sunday school crash course. “I was just, I don’t know, surprised, I guess. To see you, you know…” He gestured at the part of the locker room floor where the other man was just kneeling.

To his surprise, Tango didn’t seem quite upset by his rather abrupt response. Instead, he simply ran his fingers over the beads before looking back up at Connor. “I didn’t scare you, did I? I’m just used to being the first one in a locker room since my dad was responsible for maintaining the rink back home.”

“No… Look, can I ask you something that’s probably a bit personal?”

“Of course! What is it?”

Connor sighed as he looked up at the vent Tango had mentioned earlier. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he began, a sentence starter that was rarely, if ever, followed by an easy question. “Why here, why now? You could always go into Boston on Sunday.”

As the words left Connor’s lips, there was an aching at the back of his mind. He knew exactly why Tango would be praying the rosary. It was as if he couldn’t believe himself- the truth sounded like an utter lie when he said it.

Doubt, he had been told all his life, could not coexist with faith. In fact, it was the absence of faith. Connor wondered if the priests back home just had a script to follow when it came to quelling uncertainties about the hows and whys of Catholicism.

“You know in your heart that the teaching is clear.

Faith in the Father has led your soul here.

Bear up the cross, let the Church be your spine.

Don’t question too much,

And you’ll get along fine.”

Eighteen years of being told to follow, obey, and believe had caused Connor to falter in all three aspects. Actually, scratch that- it was easy to follow. Perhaps too easy at times. He went to Mass every Sunday because his whole family went- one had to be on their deathbed to miss out. Knowing his family, they’d even wheel him in and park said bed in the aisle during the Mass.

Obeying was similar in most respects. Connor knew the rules and why his family insisted they follow them. That was the difference, really- to obey was to intentionally follow, to be mindful of why the rules are what they are. Funnily enough, he had to look into the history of the Church’s customs to understand their context. The priest at his home parish always glossed over those in favour of condemning the ways of the world in his homilies.

To believe… that was the hardest part of his faith. Catholicism, like so much of life, was full of self-contradictions. Having existed for over two millennia, such was inevitable. Yet rather than try to reconcile the conflicting doctrines, the faithful were expected to accept it all as God’s will.

“What good is it to blindly accept it and believe? Do you really have faith if you don’t know who or what you’re putting your faith in? Not that I could ever ask that out loud- those would be grounds for excommunication. Or worse, rejection from my family.”

It seemed that Tango was also deep in thought because it was only now that he gave an answer. “I know I could pray at church, but why not make use of my free time right now?” He gestured to the still, empty locker room. “Everyone’s got their pregame rituals, their ways to clear their minds. Mine just happens to be prayer.”

“How can you believe in something that doesn’t make sense, in something that condemns people for things they can’t control?” Connor could feel a hauntingly familiar tightening in his chest and his throat. To keep his hands from shaking, he balled them up into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The thoughts bouncing around his head were no longer under his tight mental control- it was as if Connor was now feeling everything he’d been bottling up for so long all at once. “It doesn’t fucking make sense!”

Tango, by virtue of him being, well, Tango, was probably preparing to ask a question. So Connor steeled himself in preparation so that he wouldn’t end up lashing out at his teammate. His own questions about their apparent shared faith were already volatile enough, so he wouldn’t be surprised if Tango was offended by his language and gave him the cold shoulder from now on.

Yet, instead, Tango took Connor’s hand and just gave it a gentle squeeze. “I know it doesn’t make sense- if the Church couldn’t figure it out after two thousand years, they probably never will.” He looked up to meet Connor’s eyes. “There’s not a lot I’m sure about, Connor. But I know that praying helps calm me down. That and going to Mass are just things my family has always done- so I guess it’s like bringing a part of home with me?”

“Part of home,” Connor echoed as he reached into his bag and pulled out the rosary his Mamá had packed into his belongings before he left Arizona. The dark green glass of the beads were almost black in the shadow of his fingers, but the medal of St. Sebastian at its center seemed to sparkle nonetheless. “Jesus, I- wait, no, shouldn’t have said that. I just- I haven’t really prayed this in so long. Most of the time, I just followed my family when they moved their fingers.”

Tango’s eyes went wide as he looked at the rosary in Connor’s hand. “Woah, did you get that for your first communion too?”

“Uh… probably?

“Me too! Unless this was my confirmation rosary… or maybe it was my graduation rosary? What is it with relatives and giving rosaries as presents?”

Connor shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re telling me- my abuela gets everyone in the family a rosary every Christmas, Easter, and September 8th. Somehow, she hasn’t bought any duplicates so far.”

“My aunt makes them with string and those plastic beads little kids use to make art- like this!” Tango gestured to a bead lizard that was hanging off the side of his own hockey bag. “I can’t even imagine how long it takes her to make them for all of my cousins…”

Instead of using the extra time on their hands to get changed, Connor and Tango ended up sitting together in the former’s stall, just talking about their families and lives before Samwell. For Tango, it seemed that praying the rosary was less about delving into his connection with God, but rather, about keeping his connection with his family.

If Connor were a philosophy or theology major, he’d be tempted to say that those things were one and the same.

As Bitty called everyone out to the ice to begin practice, Connor took one last look at his rosary, now hanging from a hook in his stall. Even if he wasn’t any closer to understanding the faith he’d been raised in, he at least had a friend to take this journey with.

⁂

Sundays, according to Bitty, were generally free days for the Samwell Men’s Hockey team unless they made it to the playoffs. So the following week, Connor met Tango in the South Quad early in the morning before heading into the suburbs around the university. He was thankful for the rows of trees that lined the campus sidewalks- it was always gross to sweat through his dress shirt.

Mass at the parish of Our Lady of the Incarnation didn’t start until 11:00 AM, so after they sat in one of the pews, Tango pulled down the kneeler. With a nod from his new friend, Connor fished into his pocket and took out the beads his mother had packed in his belongings.

“Go for it, Whiskey.”

His rosary, once a foreign, almost unnerving memento, now felt intimately familiar in his hand. He pulled out a small paper from his other pocket and began to read it, the pewter crucifix held reverently between his thumb and pointer finger.

“En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo. Amén. Creo en Dios, Padre todopoderoso, creador del cielo y de la tierra…”

#omg check please #connor whisk #Tony tangredi #whiskey x tango #my writing

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chiseler · 5 years

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McVouty!

I first heard Slim Gaillard in a cramped little new and used punk rock record store just off South Street in Philadelphia in the mid-‘80s. You wouldn’t normally be expecting the spiked and leathered clerk in a place like that to be playing ’postwar jazz, but Gaillard was a different kind of finger-popping jazzbo, as singular a groovy beatnik punk rock wildman as they come.

Bulee “Slim” Gaillard’s early life, as he describes it, was as storied, fantastical, even mythical as Salvador Dali’s or an early 20th century boy’s adventure novel. Given official records are sparse, it’s just better and somehow more fitting to simply take him at his word. It only makes sense, really, and helps explain as well as anything how he became what he did.

The motormouthed madcap hepcat bebop comedy genius behind 1938’s “Flat Foot Floogie (with a Floy Floy),” a performer whose unexpected slips into rapid-fire Spanish, Arabic and Yiddish can at first sound like skilled mimicry, a kind of scatting Sid Caesar, was born in Cuba in 1916 to an Afro-Cuban mother and a German Jewish father. His father was a steamship steward who sometimes brought the young Gaillard along on ocean voyages to show him a bit of the world. But after a stop in Crete in 1928, the ship somehow sailed on half an hour earlier than scheduled, leaving the 12-year-old Gaillard behind. Completely alone and speaking only Spanish at the time, out of simple necessity he picked up enough Greek to get by for the next couple years. He also occasionally hopped aboard passing ships to visit the Middle East, where he likewise learned some Arabic and became enamored with the people, the music and the culture. Then at 16, deciding it was about time he returned home to see his parents again, he booked passage on a ship he thought was headed for Havana.

Only problem was, the boat skipped Havana, sailing north to New York. Gaillard didn’t disembark there, instead staying aboard as the ship made it’s way through the St. Lawrence before docking in Detroit. Considering he spoke no English, Detroit seemed much more amenable, he would note years later, mostly on account of it’s large immigrant population. With so many Greeks, Arabs and Hispanics vying for work in the auto plants, he was at least able to find people with whom he could communicate, and was taken in by an Armenian family. He picked up English as quickly as he picked up the others, though, and started working odd jobs. Among the odder, there in the midst of Prohibition, was a stint with the notorious Purple Gang, for whom he made deliveries in a hearse carrying a coffin filled with bootleg whiskey. After witnessing too much violence, the preternaturally gentle Gaillard realized it wasn’t the life for him, and took the advice of a tough local beat cop (who also happened to be black) who warned him to get away from the gangs, get out of the neighborhood, and do something with himself. For a black teenager in Detroit in the 1930s, his escape routes were limited. He could go into boxing, or go into music. He tried his hand at boxing for a bit, then decided maybe music was the preferable route.

Gaillard started taking night classes, and after some backstage encouragement from Duke Ellington himself, eventually learned to play guitar, sax, vibraphone, piano and drums. In the mid-30s he moved to New York, having decided he wanted to be a professional entertainer.

Since work as a professional musician was hard to come by, he became what he called a professional amateur, making the rounds of the amateur nights at the local clubs, changing his act as he did to avoid recognition. Sometimes he’d be a dancer, others a pianist, still others a sax player. Simple fact was he could get paid $15 a night on the amateur stages, which was better than a lot of professionals were getting paid. The trick, though, was he couldn’t be too good, If he was too good, they’d never let him play amateur night. So he always had to drop in a few intentional flat notes to cover himself.

Although he was an excellent musician who could play everything from boogie woogie to bebop to Big Band to Afro-Cuban to American standards to children’s songs and classical, Gaillard will never be remembered for his playing. Despite having so many languages at his disposal (the list had since come to include Armenian, German and Yiddish), Gaillard found there were still ideas and concepts beyond what any of them could express. To rectify this he began inventing his own vocabulary, centered around the adjectival verb “vout” (and it’s variations vouty, McVoutm McVouty, etc.) and the suffixes o-reenee, o-roonee, and o-rootee. They were fluid in both usage and meaning, and could be dropped in pretty much anywhere in conversation. By the time he teamed with bassist Slam Stewart and the pair began recording as the musical comedy team Slim and Slam in the late ‘30s, Gaillard had started writing his own songs in the new language he had christened, yes, Vout-O-Reenee. Beyong that, the pair was a master of the dueling jive comic scat, playing off each other and riffing on everything from La boheme and “Jingle Bells” to chicken clucks and food references. Gotta say, Gaillard wrote an unusual number of songs about food—avocados, chili, fried chicken, ice cream, matzoh balls, bagels, peanuts, and whatever else came to mind when he was hungry. He also wrote songs about motorcycles, cement mixers, and mass communication.

Slim and Slam first came to the public’s attention when Benny Goodman performed their song “Flat Foot Floogie (with a Floy Floy) on the radio in late 1937. The song was an overnight sensation, and when Slim and Slam recorded their own bersion shortly thereafter, it reached number two on the Billboard charts. A copy of the song was even included in a time capsule buried at the 1939 New York World’s Fair. The capsule is scheduled to be reopened in the year 6939, and you have to wonder what whoever or whatever finds it will make of what kind of people we were.

Other outlandishly catchy novelty hits like “Cement Mixer (Put-Ti Put-Ti)” and “McVouty” soon followed. The pair’s between-song banter, marked by non-sequiturs, bad jokes, and Gaillard’s new language made them radio favorites. In 1941 they appeared as themselves in the appropriately wild and accidentally postmodern Hellzapoppin’, and performed in a handful of other films in the early ’40s.. Gaillard’s facility for languages, accents and crazy sound effects also earned him occasional voice work on animated Warner Brothers shorts from the era.

In 1943 Gaillard was drafted into the Army Air Corps, trained as a pilot, and flew a B-25 on bombing missions over Europe, which is something worth pausing to think about for a moment. After his plane was struck by anti-aircraft fire in 1944 and Gaillard was hospitalized for months with an arm full of shrapnel, he was discharged. He resumed his musical career, solo this time, recording jams with the likes of Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker and releasing his majestic four-part “Groove Juice Symphony.”

Gaillard was tall and rail thin with a pencil mustache, a groovy, mellow, and utterly unpredictable hepcat’s hepcat, and was deeply respected within the jazz community. While playing a stint at a little club in San Francisco in the late ‘40s, he met Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady, whom he says hun out at the club eight nights a week. They became good friends, Gaillard being impressed by their deep understanding and love of the music. Kerouac would later immortalize Gaillard by famously recounting the meeting in On the Road. (It’s also interesting to note that during a 1968 episode of William Buckley’s Firing Line, a very drunken Kerouac interrupted the discussion about the hippie movement with an impromptu rendition of “Flat Foot Floogie.”)

By the late 1950s, however, the music scene had started to change, rock’n’roll was coming to dominate the airwaves, the jazz clubs which had lined Manhattan’s 52nd Street were shutting down, and Gaillard was starting to feel like he no longer belonged. It’s unclear if the 1957 release of Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti” had anything to do with this perception. The song was of course a massive hit and is today considered a fundamental, defining classic of early rock’n’roll. True to form, Little Richard refused to acknowledge the song (down to the “Tutti Frutti-o-roottee” chorus) was simply a bowdlerized version of Slim and Slam’s 1938 hit of the same name. Little Richard fans insist up and down they were two completely different and unrelated songs since the Slim and Slam version was about ice cream not girls, but when the singer himself notes his original title was “Tutti Frutti McVouty,” well, there you go.

Gaillard insisted he had nothing against the new music, but it simply wasn’t his scene, so by the end of the decade he stopped recording, stopped performing, dropped out and started looking for something else to do.

For an entertainer of his range, ability and goofy charisma, the choice seemed easy, and he picked up and moved to California. Although often cast as musicians who bore an uncanny resemblance to Slim Gaillard, over the next two decades he would appear opposite Bobby Darin and Stella Stevens in John Cassavetes 1961 feature Too Late Blues and in the 1958 Harlem Globetrotters movie Go, Man, Go! He had guest spots on Marcus Welby, M.D., Charlie’s Angels and Medical Center. He played Sam, the baseball expert in Roots: The Next Generation, and Raymond Burr’s butler in Love’s Savage Fury. Although he claims he was one of the gorillas in 1968’s Planet of the Apes, I honestly can find no verification of this, no matter how much I want to believe it.

After a dinner with Dizzy Gillespie around 1980, Gaillard decided to return to his one true calling. He signed on for a number of jazz festivals throughout Europe, and started work on a couple new albums. Also at Dizzy’s recommendation, Gaillard picked up again in 1983 and moved to London, where the atmosphere was much more welcoming for American jazz greats than it was in the States.

As if to prove a point, shortly after his arrival, Gaillard was approached by the BBC, which produced a remarkable four-part, four-hour documentary about his life and career. Slim Gaillard Civilization allowed Gaillard to tell his own story, combining archive footage with clips from recent performances, conversations between Gaillard and old friends, candid shots of a family get-together in California (his daughter Jan was married to Marvin Gaye), a few impromptu songs, and even some dramatic recreations of scenes from his childhood. Gaillard’s slow, gentle and simple poetic narration leaves his tale sounding like a children’s bedtime story, which is the overall form the documentary takes.

He was a little slower, a little more, yes, mellow, and the manic energy of half-a decade earlier had ebbed a bit. A new recording of “How High the Moon?” seemed staid and over-rehearsed, even a little bored compared with the unpredictable and mad anarchic ad-libbing of his original 1947 recording, but remains uniquely his own. More than anything, there was a new and unexpected air of melancholy about the 68-year-old, much of it focused on a scene from his childhood. As he was leaving Cuba with his father for what would be the last time, Gaillard had been instructed not to look back, because he would see his mother standing there on the dock and want to go home. He did as he was told, never once thinking he would never see her again. After being abandoned in Crete, he never saw either of his parents again.

Gaillard died in 1991 at age 75, and is mostly remembered today as a novelty act, a kind of clown prince of jazz, but he’d led a singularly American life for someone who didn’t speak English until he was 16, and remains one of the most unique, eccentric, and insanely talented musical entertainers the country’s produced.

O-Roonee.

Jim Knipfel

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armando-ramon-defense-squad · 5 years

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OK HI I don't mean to be rude or anything, but im trying to write some fics about the ramon brothers coming back to life and all that, and I've gotten some crap about mt fics and I was wondering if you could help me understand Armando and Dante because Google isn't helping. (Sorry)

Of course! My only problem is that I don’t know what it is you’re having trouble with, so I don’t really know how to help you. I can give you a general rundown of their characters and their specific “quirks”, though, and if you like I can elaborate on certain points or answer more specific questions.

Dante is headstrong, but more importantly he’s self-destructive. How you want to show that is up to you. He doesn’t have a full-time job and any jobs he’s had are fairly low paying, which he’s secretly stressed about. He cares very deeply about both of his brothers, but he distances himself from Cisco somewhat by not talking about Armando because he feels like it was his fault that he died, since he was too afraid to save Cisco from the boom tube that Armando was able to rescue him from-the one that sucked him in and ‘killed’ him. Despite this, he would do anything for him, including potentially die to save his life. Dante has PTSD but he doesn’t seem to have any coping mechanisms outside of treasuring and carrying everywhere the soccer ball he had when Armando died, and visiting Armando’s memorial gives him flashbacks to what happened, though he seems to not care since it’s a place that used to make him and Cisco feel better when they were kids. It’s an extreme comfort object for him even if those words aren’t actually used. Dante also mishears a lot of words or forgets certain words and substitutes similar-sounding ones in (in English, not in Spanish, where he doesn’t seem to have the same problem). He wears mostly the same clothes every day, particularly the same shirt. He also admires a lot of superheroes! Cisco gets him Stargirl’s autograph and potentially others, and either him or Cisco has a big poster of the Flash hanging up in their room.

Armando has more wiggle room. What we know for sure is that he was a star football player at a high school in Detroit nicknamed “Rupture”, and was about to graduate (with lots of talent scouts clamoring for his attention) when Darkseid invaded and a boom tube opened, sucking his younger brother Cisco in (the event that gave Cisco powers). Armando pulled Cisco free but was pulled in himself, just as a Parademon came out and stabbed him. Armando was pulled into the breach, tossed through a dozen dimensions before he crashed in an unnamed one near/in the city of Piradell, close to death. Mordeth (mother of Cyn(n)thia Mordeth (the girl whose codename is a slur. Please don’t use it) and wife of Quell Mordeth/Breacher) found him and turned him into Rupture (it can be assumed he picked the name himself), and Armando, abused and gaslit by her, became her weapon of mass destruction. He has the same powers as Cisco, just advanced to their highest degree, so he can do things Cisco can’t (maybe yet, maybe not ever) like fly. Cisco managed to break him free of the brainwashing and he killed his “Mistress”, opting to stay in Piradell’s dimension and continue to fight the woman who had abused him (as well as abusing her daughter and husband). His heart is good, he’s a very kind person who was forced to commit atrocities, and while he generally doesn’t show many signs of PTSD it can be assumed he has it just like his brothers do.

I hope this helps! If it doesn’t, feel free to ask clarifying questions.

#dante ramon #armando ramon #cisco ramon #long post #bambis-baby

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addedperspective2 · 6 years

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Reza Ghoochannejhad – The violinist who understands seven languages Reza scored the only Iranian goal in the World Cup 2014. Besides football, the forward is known for his skills with the violin and for languages; he speaks English, Dutch, Persian and French. Additionally he has a good understanding of German, Italian and Portuguese.

He played in the youth national team of the Netherlands and, at the age of 21, he wanted to leave football to study law. He was convinced by Marc Overmars, the winger that played in Barcelona, to stick to football. He wants to finish his studies when he retires from football. “The people who know me know that there is something more than football for me,” he says, while scornfully disdaining social networks. “They are not real”.

His sister-in-law is Sareh Bayat, a famous Iranian actress who participated in the 2012 Oscar-winning film “Nader and Simín, a separation”. After Iran’s win against Morocco with an own goal by Bouhaddouz, he took a moment to console his opponent on Instagram:

“I don’t know you personally but in life, sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Don’t let this own goal bring you down. We are all professional sportsmen and this is a part of football. I am so happy and proud of my team and my country, but wanted to wish you also all the best in your career. Reza”.

Iranian, Egyptian, Brazilian and Spanish fans supporting their teams in St. Petersburg, Russia on the eve of the tournament (photo Mona Hoobehfekr, ISNA)

Iranian fans supporting their team in St. Petersburg, Russia on the eve of the tournament (photo Borna Ghasemi, ISNA)

Iranian fans supporting their team in St. Petersburg, Russia on the eve of the tournament (photo Mona Hoobehfekr, ISNA)

Iranian fans supporting their team in St. Petersburg, Russia on the eve of the tournament (photo Borna Ghasemi, ISNA)

Iranian fans at Kazan Arena before Iran vs Spain (photo Borna Ghasemi)

Iranian fans in Kazan Arena, Russia supporting their team during Iran vs Spain (photo Alex Livesey, Getty Images Europe)

Iranian fans in Kazan Arena, Russia supporting their team during Iran vs Spain (photo Borna Ghasemi, ISNA)

Iranian fans in Kazan Arena, Russia supporting their team during Iran vs Spain (photo Richard Heathcote, Getty Images Europe)

Iranian fans in St. Petersburg Stadium, Russia supporting their team during Morocco vs Iran (photo Borna Ghasemi, ISNA)

Iranian fans in St. Petersburg Stadium, Russia supporting their team during Morocco vs Iran (photo Alex Livesey, Getty Images Europe)

Iranian fans in St. Petersburg Stadium, Russia supporting their team during Morocco vs Iran (photo Richard Heathcote, Getty Images Europe)

Iranian fans watching Morocco vs. Iran in St. Petersburg, Russia (photo Borna Ghasemi, ISNA)

Iranian players celebrate their victory by throwing head coach Carlos Queiroz in the air after their match against Morocco in St. Petersburg Stadium, Russia (photo credit Mohammadreza Abbasi, MEHR)

Iranian players celebrating their victory after their match against Morocco in St. Petersburg Stadium, Russia (photo credit Mohammadreza Abbasi, MEHR)

Iranian players celebrating their victory in the locker room after their match against Morocco in St. Petersburg Stadium, Russia (photo credit FIFAWorldCupIRN, twitter.com)

Iranian players (from left to right) Amir Abedzadeh, Saman Ghoddos and Sardar Azmoun before boarding their flight to Russia (photo credit saman.ghoddos, instagram.com)

Iranian players Milad Mohammadi and Masoud Shojaei during their training camp in Turkey before the World Cup (photo miladmohammadi.official, instagram.com)

Iranian players during their training camp in Istanbul, Turkey before the World Cup (photo credit alirezajb_official, instagram.com)

Iranian players during their training camp in Russia before the World Cup (photo credit sardar_azmoun, instagram.com)

Iranian team on their way to Kazan for their match against Spain (photo credit teammellifootball, instagram.com)

Sardar Azmoun – The Iranian “Messi” Sardar, 23 years old, is compared to the crack of Barça due to his ability. A comparison that, however, the striker of Rubin Kazan rejects immediately. “I do not know why they say I’m the new Messi, my game has nothing to do, maybe it’s because we use the same boots,” he says. Azmoun was born in Gonbad-e Kavus to a family of Turkmen origin from Iran’s Sunni minority. He started his career in Sepahan FC (Isfahan, Iran). As top scorer in the league and for the national team he is the favorite of the masses beloved by the fans and his team members. He is addicted to social networks. When he was younger, he was summoned by the Iranian sub-15 volleyball team due to his height (1.86 meters) and the conditions inherited from his father, a former player. He is also passionate about horses.

Alireza Jahanbakhsh – The child that fell in love with football at the world cup Alireza Jahanbakhsh is Iran’s biggest threat in attack. The winger of AZ Alkmaar is 2017-18 Eredivise’s top scorer. He scored 21 goals and also distributed 12 assists! “It’s not bad to play as a winger” he says. Neither for a child who, until 12, preferred gymnastics, handball and indoor football over football. Jahanbakhsh, who got hooked on football watching the 1998 World Cup, grew up admiring Iranian winger Mahdavikia, but now he adores Cristiano Ronaldo: “He’s my role model, I always try to learn from him.” His determination and work are exemplary. He is simply the best in the world.”

Milad Mohammadi – The twin nicknamed Road Runner Milad Mohammadi is a fullback/left winger that plays for Akhmat Grozny in Chechnya. He has a twin brother, Mehrdad, who plays for Sepahan FC. Fans nicknamed Milad “Mig-Mig”, as in the cartoon The Coyote and the Road Runner, due to his speed.

Saeid Ezatolahi – The Persian Pogba with a short stop in Atlético 21-year-old central midfielder Saeid Ezatolahi is the youngest member of the squad in Russia. He wrote Iranian football history as the youngest player to score with the national team. Son of a trainer, he was nicknamed the Persian Pogba and at the end of the summer of 2014, with 17, he signed for Atlético de Madrid for four years. He played in the quarterfinals of the UEFA Youth League. “He was a very polite and respectful player. Always wondering about all the tactical aspects to learn as much as possible. He even asked to stay longer to do specific workouts sometimes”, recalls Armando de la Morena, the coach he had in Spain. During the April 2015 transfer window Ezatolahi trained with Cholo Simeone at Cerro del Espino. In July 2015 he transferred to Russia’s Rostov.

Masoud – Or how to overcome four serious injuries Masoud Shojaei is best known in Spain because he played for Osasuna and Las Palmas. In Pamplona he learned, what it meant to play under pressure in football’s top competitions, with all eyes right on top of him. He had four surgeries after a broken metatarsal during the 2011-2012 season. It took him 16 months to recover, six of them on crutches. After having problems with the regime, he is now back as captain of the Iran squad.

Ghoddos – The Iranian, who came out of the cold of… Sweden Saman Ghoddos (24 years old) was born in Malmö, Sweden and he received his Iranian nationality last year. He neither knew until then the majority of those who are now his teammates. The match against Spain was his tenth game defending Iran. The midfielder/forward is the son of Iranian immigrants, who never forgot their roots – celebrating Nowruz and Chahar Shanbeh Suri in Sweden. He played two friendlies with the Swedish national team, scoring once. Ghoddos plays in Östersunds FC. Arsenal’s coach Arsene Wenger praised him after a Europa League match: “Technically and tactically, I was impressed by him”. Ghoddos club did not want to sell him this winter to Celta de Vigo.

Dejagah – Boateng’s friend and owner of a restaurant Ashkan Dejagah, midfielder of Nottingham Forest since January, sees Kevin Prince Boateng as his brother. The German-born Ghanaian midfielder wished him luck on Instagram in the first game. In January he opened a sushi restaurant in Berlin. He represented Germany at youth levels, where he met Neuer, Höwedes, Khedira, Özil … before playing in Wolfsburg and Fulham. He has Berlin and Tehran tattooed on each of his arms along with the legend “Never forget where you come from”.

Morteza Pouraliganji – Teammate of Xavi Hernández in Al Saad Morteza Pouraliganji is, with only 26 years, the head of Iran’s defense. He plays in Al Saad of Qatar, Xavi’s team, where he arrived two years ago despite the offers he had from Europe and China. The Spanish midfielder was the great idol of his youth.

Alireza Beiranvand – From sleeping rough to the World Cup with Iran Alireza Beiranvand was a shepherd in the mountainous region of Lorestan, in the northwest of the country. “My father didn’t like football at all and asked me to work,” Alireza told the Guardian. “He even tore my clothes and gloves and I played with bare hands several times.” He used all his money for a trip to Tehran, where he slept in the in the streets at the beginning. He had several jobs to supplement his income, including working at a car wash where, at 1,93m (6ft 4in) tall, he specialised in cleaning SUVs. He also worked in a dressmaking factory and a pizza shop before making his breakthrough in football. The 25-year-old plays now for Tehran-based club Persepolis.

Playing as a kid “Dal Paran”, a game that involves throwing stones long distances, enabled him to throw the ball much further than many other goalkeepers. His 70-meter assist in the Iranian football league caught the eyes of foreign media and made him famous abroad in 2014. In 2015 Alireza finally became Iran’s first-choice goalkeeper and, with 12 clean sheets in qualifying, he helped Team Melli, as Iran’s team is called at home, cruise to Russia 2018. “I suffered many difficulties to make my dreams come true but I have no intention of forgetting them because they made me the person I am now,” he said.

Carlos Queiroz – Iran’s Portuguese coach Carlos Queiroz, former trainer at Real Madrid and assistant trainer at Manchester United under Sir Alex Ferguson, […] had worked wonders to get Iran to Brazil. Iran was Asia’s seventh-ranked team when he took over in 2011 and 54th in the world. Within three years Iran was the first ranked team in Asia. For Russia 2018, Iran didn’t lose a single one of their ten games in qualifying and conceded only twice. Sanctions have bit hard:

“We struggle to travel, to have training camps, to bring opponents, to buy equipment. Even buying shirts is a challenge, but these challenges helped me fall in love with Iran. These difficulties become a source of inspiration to the people, it makes them more united, to fight for their country. These boys deserve a smile from the rest of the world.”

Sanctions also meant Nike pulled out of their deal to supply the Iran team with boots one week ahead of the World Cup, forcing players to play with unfamiliar equipment.

“My message for international football is very simple: let us play. Our players deserve that opportunity. Don’t let sanctions create this stigma. Don’t let this go against the spirit of the game. We have football players who love the game”.

“[…] I’ve never, in all my career, seen players deliver so much after receiving so little as I have with these Iran Boys“.

“Tell me one national team which goes to the World Cup without enough friendly games [Greece recently cancelled a friendly, Kosovo then also declined to step in], or by using a 60-metre training pitch?”

Queiroz didn’t expect to be in charge of Iran for seven years. “Football has given me the privilege to go to many places in the world, to see the United States, Japan, Africa or Europe,” he says. “And people ask me about Iran because they’re curious. I tell them that I see exactly the same as in any other country I’ve been to – people who laugh and cry, who dance, who sing. You see mums carrying their kids to school in the morning. You see people complaining about the traffic. Football teaches you how much human beings have in common that have nothing to do with any politics or regimes.”

Football is huge in Iran – the national team regularly drew sell-out crowds of 78,000 in qualifying. “Iran is a football country,” says Queiroz. “Football is in the DNA of the people. Iran is not a fake football country, one which needs to create or imagine fantasy solutions to promote the game. But our players need support and the politics should be left out of the game.” And his young players in Russia? “They have a right to enjoy Russia, to have fun,” he says. “They’ve earned it.”

List of players called up for the 2018 FIFA World Cup (jersey number in parentheses): Goalkeepers: Ali Beiravand (1), Rashid Mazaheri (12), Amir Abedzadeh (22) Defenders: Ehsan Hajsafi (3), Rouzbeh Cheshmi (4), Milad Mohammadi (5), Morteza Pouraliganji (8), Mohammad Reza Khanzadeh (13), Pejman Montazeri (15), Majid Hosseini (19), Ramin Rezaeian (23) Midfielders: Mehdi Torabi (2), Saeid Ezatolahi (6), Masoud Shojaei (7), Omid Ebrahimi (9), Vahid Amiri (11) Forwards: Karim Ansarifard (10), Saman Ghoddos (14), Reza Ghoochannejhad (16), Mehdi Taremi (17), Alireza Jahanbakhsh (18), Sardar Azmoun (20), Ashkan Dejagah (21) Head coach: Carlos Queiroz

Sources: MARCA (this source was loose translated to English from an interview with Iranian sports journalist Alireza Moharami in Spanish), The Guardian, BBC, GQ Magazine, ESPN, FIFA, GOAL, ISNA 1, ISNA 2, ISNA 3, ISNA 4, MEHR, Zimbio, instagram @alirezajb_official, instagram @miladmohammadi.official, instagram @saman.ghoddos, instagram @sardar_azmoun, instagram @rgucci16, instagram @teammellifootball, twitter @FIFAWorldCupIRN

FIFA World Cup 2018: Iran’s team and fans in Russia (Photos) Reza Ghoochannejhad - The violinist who understands seven languages Reza scored the only Iranian goal in the World Cup 2014.

#FIFA #football #International #Iran #Photos #soccer #sports #world cup

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dustedmagazine · 6 years

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Jennifer Kelly: Riffing on the margins

Every year, picking favorites seems more like an exercise in futility. You listen to a small subset of the available music, because it’s what people send you, it’s what comes on when you tune into WFMU, it’s what your friends write about or post on Now Playing, etc. and no human being can listen to everything or even a good portion of it. Then because of the way you’re wired and what you eat and who you know and a thousand other essentially random factors, you like what you like out of that small subset. I, personally, have never felt more out of the mainstream or less influential than this year. (Not that I was ever very on the pulse of what’s popular, but still…)

So anyway, with that caveat, music was as important as ever in my life, and maybe more so, because of the continual flood of unbelievable, awful, comically evil events on the world stage. We somehow seem to have elected Voldemort as president, a sex-abusing, corrupt, traitorous idiot, who will not shut up even for an instant, despite having a vocabulary of approximately 20 words. So turn it up, drown it out, take it away…the music remained very good this year, even when nothing else did.

It was a year when Michael Chapman made one of his best records ever, 50 years into his career, and backed by a brash young collection of guitar slingers and new jack folk dudes – two of whom (Steve Gunn and James Elkington) came out with their own excellent records as well. It was a year when a fractious, not entirely comfortable collaboration between West African traditionalists and French punk rockers pretty much owned my stereo, when Mark Lanegan guested on a haunting album by Tinawaren and also turned in his own soul-stirring rock album. I might have listened to less straight up guitar banging this year than usual, but if you have to pick a couple, you could do a lot worse than Xeta’s Husker Du-ish The Tower or feedtime’s back-from-the-hiatus Gas. More fantastic albums from Protomartyr and the Sleaford Mods, not surprising, but welcome anyway, and the wonderfully mordant, rueful and very Irish outing from Seamus Fogarty, which no one else seemed to pick up on, but I loved.

My two favorite songs this year will not appear on anyone else’s songs of the year lists, but whatever, next time you’re feeling wistful, check out Jack Cooper’s “Memphis, Lancashire” or hone in on the mesmerizing instrumental break (that’s Chicago free-jazz cellist Tomeka Reid) on James Elkington’s “Wading the Vapors.” I could also listen to Lanegan’s “Emperor” any day, all day, despite or maybe because it kinda reminds of Iggy’s “The Passenger.”

Reissues feel a little like cheating, because who the hell would reissue them if they weren’t already great, but still, a few of them measurably enhanced my life. I spent months on Cherry Red’s Fall singles collection and another very happy week or so talking about them with my Dusted pals. And discovering Jackie Shane — both for the quality of the music and the amazing story of her life — was unquestionably a highlight of this fall.

So with that, and out of the three hundred or so new albums that I listened to this year at least a couple times, and the maybe 100 that I played on repeat enough to have much of an opinion, here are the ones that moved me the most.

Michael Chapman — 50 (Paradise of Bachelors)

50 by Michael Chapman

I said in Blurt: Now in his 70s, Chapman sings with some authority about all the things you give up for a life in music – a settled abode (“Sometimes You Just Drive”), a late-model vehicle (“Spanish Incident”), a working relationship (“Falling from Grace”) and cold hard wherewithal (“Money Troubles”). And yet, surrounded by younger and contemporary peers, in a translucent mesh of jangling, tangling guitar/bass/banjo tones, he makes a case for the difficult path he’s chosen. “You know I don’t scare easy… but I do get scared,” he rasps on the superlative “That Time of the Night” (last heard covered by Lucinda Williams on the Oh Michael What Have You Done? tribute album and before that on 2008’s Time Past and Passing). The lilt in the line pulls the tune out of the darkness, the massed guitars and hushed group vocals bring shivering into the light.

Group Doueh & Cheveu — Dakhla Sahara Session (Born Bad)

From my Dusted review: This is not the kind of collaboration where you have to untangle who does what. The focus shifts from one band to another within the space of the song, and each comes out of the fray more or less as he or she went in. Cheveu’s members make no attempt to bend to the West African aesthetic, and Group Doueh plays from their rep book right over whatever punk mayhem Cheveu has put on offer. There’s a great deal of tension in these tunes, as two very different sets of musicians block out space for themselves. And yet, it’s a wonderful thing, feistier and more belligerent than most cross-cultural meetings. “Tout Droit,” the CD’s most exhilarating cut, sets up a rousing, shout-chanted Cheveu chorus, punctuated by grunts and “huhs,” then cuts it to ribbons with ravaging flourishes of guitar, ebullient forays of singing. The two bands are doing entirely different things, at the same exact time, and it works like a motherfucker.

Mark Lanegan Band — Gargoyle (Heavenly)

I celebrated my long-term affair with Mark Lanegan’s voice in this review at Dusted: Mark Lanegan can sound like a voice from the crypt, his hollowed out, deep-black whisper almost too low to hear properly, a whisper like Leonard Cohen if he’d recently been to hell, a whisper that could frighten children into eating their vegetables. In Gargoyle, though, he uses this whisper sparingly; the hairs on my arm rise to it just once, during “Nocturne” and for the rest of the time, the one-time Screaming Trees’ front man sticks to melody. Gargoyle is a singing record, a tuneful record, a densely, headily arranged record that surrounds Lanegan’s gothic reveries in soft glowing light. There’s almost no negative space in these ten songs. All are filled, end to end, with enveloping textures and sustained sounds.

Xetas — The Tower (12XU)

The Tower by XETAS

Hail, hail, rock and roll, say I in Dusted. Xetas, out of Austin, make an unholy racket, a noisy, feedback blurred firehose spray of sound that does not quite obscure a tendency towards tunefulness. The hooks bristle with barbed wire abrasion, putting this band more in line with Hüsker Dü than the Wipers, but they’re in there, glinting out of a cyclone of broken glass and diesel smoke. So, also, a kind of positivity radiates intermittently through the rage and turmoil of this band’s attack. The Tower, Xetas’ second, vibrates with the brash, brave defiance of 99%-ers who have been beaten down, but aren’t quite finished yet.

Jack Cooper — Sandgrown (Trouble in Mind)

Sandgrown by Jack Cooper

Bill Meyer and I both wanted to cover this one, and then we each did a “no, you go ahead” kind of thing and neither one of us ended up reviewing it for Dusted, but I wrote about it for Blurt thusly: These shimmering songs are full of ellipses, the spaces between guitar notes clouded over with wistful nostalgia for Jack Cooper’s lost seaside childhood. Cooper has gotten a fair amount of ink lately for his quietly subversive, acoustic dueling guitar duo Ultimate Painting (with Veronica Falls’ James Hoare), also rather luminously introspective, but Sandgrown is more personal, with the smell of salt air, the sting of sea breezes, the sharp sense of loss and change running through every track.

Sleaford Mods — English Tapas (Rough Trade)

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Back into the Sleaford Mods fold with this one, the words again appearing in Dusted: Key Markets and the follow-up EP T.C.R., to me, sounded a little thin, as if the concept of Sleaford Mods, whatever it was, had already been fully explored, the meat pried out, the beginnings of self-parody creeping in. English Tapas reverses this trend. It returns to the sly humor, the hypnotic barking aggression, the occasional whiffs of wistful tune-ish-ness slipped in between robotic beats of Divide and Exit and maybe does it one better.

James Elkington—Wintres Woma (Paradise of Bachelors)

Wintres Woma by James Elkington

I listened between the lines at Dusted: James Elkington, once of Zincs and now the go-to guitar guy for any number of indie icons (but most prominently, Jeff Tweedy and Richard Thompson), has an effortless skill in this latest solo album, the kind of picking prowess that dissolves like smoke into mood and atmosphere. He is a very good player, a lovely relaxed singer (in the vein of Bert Jansch) and an eccentric writer, whose songs borrow liberally from British folk tradition, but veer into unexpected directions. But if you want to know what’s mesmerizing about this slow burning beauty of an album, listen to the intervals, where Elkington dreams jazz-inflected fever reveries with a set of musicians that includes bassist Nick Macri, drummer Tim Daisy, and, most remarkably, violinist Macie Stewart and improv-jazz cellist Tomeka Reid.

Seamus Fogarty—The Curious Hand (Domino)

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I fell in love with this album the first time I heard the line in “Mexico” about getting reamed out by the boss for a smoke break. I also reviewed an album that doesn’t really exist (it was revised between promo and release) at Dusted: Seamus Fogarty makes shaggy songs, rumpled as if they’d been slept in rough, and plaintive at their core but with a shrugging, wry, what-are-ya-gonna-do sense of humor. Though mostly acoustic, leaning heavily on strummed guitar with some lovely melancholy fiddle, viola and maybe cello for accents, his songs also incorporate electronics and evocative field recordings.

Protomartyr—Relatives in Descent (Domino)

Relatives In Descent by Protomartyr

Four great albums in a row, who else is doing this? My Dusted review: Protomartyr ruminates on the nature of knowing in its fourth full-length album, tangling knotty intellectual conundrums over an obliterating roar. Backed again by a Detroit post-punk freight-train clamor — Greg Ahee on guitar, drummer Alex Leonard, bassist Scott Davidson — Joe Casey, the band’s rumple-suited, bile-spitting nerve center, finds a free-associative space for rant-poems about consciousness, memory, free will and the refracted shards of current events.

Feedtime—Gas (In the Red)

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Naturally, I root for the old guys, again from Dusted: You might expect some throat clearing, some tentative beginnings, in a band that had taken off the previous generation, but no, from the opener, “Any Good Thing,” you hear the same noisy slide-bent guitar riffs, the same rough and furious rhythms, the same growling, monster-voiced vocal attack as ever. feedtime might have gone out for a pack of cigarettes, slipped back in casually and ramped up to eleven.

Loved these, too.

Julie Byrne—Not Even Happiness (BaDaBing)

Jaimie Branch — Fly or Die (International Anthem)

Joseph Childress—Rebirths (Empty Cellar)

Heron Oblivion—The Chapel (self-release)

Tinariwen—Elwan (Anti-)

Stef Chura — Messes (Urinal Cake)

Feral Ohms—S-T (Silver Current)

Pere Ubu—20 Years in a Montana Missile Silo (Cherry Red)

Upper Wilds—Upper Wilds (Thrill Jockey)

Melkbelly—Nothing Valley (Wax Nine)

Kelley Stoltz — Que Aura (Castle Face)

The Clientele—The Age of Miracles (Merge)

Algiers — The Underside of Power (Matador)

Avey Tare — Eucalyptus (Domino)

Golden Boys—Better than Good Times (12XU)

Gunn-Truscinski Duo—Bay Head (Three-Lobed)

Contributors—ST (Monofonus Press)

Mark Eitzel—Hey Mr. Ferryman (Merge)

Reissues/Comps

The Fall—A Sides and B Sides (Cherry Red)

Jackie Shane—Any Other Way (Numero Group)

V/A—Ote Maloya (Strut)

I really like books, too, so here are my favorite reads from last year as well.

George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo

Hamid Moshin, Exit West

The Sixth Extinction, Elizabeth Kolbert

Celeste Ng, Little Fires Everywhere

An American Sickness, Elizabeth Rosenthal

Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City, Desmond Matthew

#yearend 2017 #jennifer kelly #michael chapman #group doueh #cheveu #mark lanegan #xetas #jack cooper #sleaford mods #james elkington #seamus fogarty #protomartyr #feedtime #the fall #jackie shane

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chriscoleman · 7 years

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Philippines Trip Report

Pangulasian Island and Manila Spirits

November 9th, 2017 - November 20th, 2017

Chris Coleman & Julia Donald

Julia and I took a trip to the Philippines for beach vacation and Ultimate frisbee tournament. The first half was spent at a eco-luxury resort in Bacuit Bay, El Nido, Palawan. Then we flew to the capital city for Manila Spirits tournament with a group of players from Seattle.

Vacation for our family starts with laying out a big pile of food for the cats and taking Skye to the doggy hotel. This trip was the same, although our longest time away from the buggers. I ate sushi dinner as Julia attended her Project Management Professional course at University of Washington. Flight at 11pm on November 9th after Julia bought face lotion at duty free (from two Filipino ladies).

13 hours later we landed in Taipei, Taiwan at 5am on November 11th. We lost a full day to the time zone change. Meals served on the plane was a new experience for me, which weren’t half bad. Dumplings, soup, and cold oolong tea in Taiwan airport were way better. Plus we got to see the Hello Kitty terminal early in the morning.

9am flight to Manila, Philippines was an easy 3 hours. Once we landed we took a taxi to Terminal 3 since walking between terminals at Ninoy Aquino International Airport is not possible. The buildings are not connected and the shuttle system is horrendous. Everyone leaves the buildings to try to take yellow taxis, but we struggled to find anything but white taxis (even though signs and the internet warned us that the white taxis were not recommended). Wings is a hostel/hotel that we reserved in T3, to rest during our layover. We decided to explore the city a bit before our nap/flight. After dropping our bags we went to the Mall of Asia in downtown Manila. Unfortunately we got swindled by our taxi driver and were forced to pay 1800 Philippine Pesos ($35 USD) for the ride which should have cost 250 ($5). The first lesson we learned in negotiations while riding white cabs. However the conversation with the taxi driver was almost worth the $30 upcharge… He was stoked to talk about American mass shootings, holding up two hands while driving and going Bang Bang Bang. Telling us about their own recent mass shooting at a casino. Plus some political talks comparing their president Duterte and Trump - both “strong” men. Julia realized this might be one country we don’t have to apologize for Trump.

Cultural shock hit when we entered the mall. They had armed security at each entrance, metal detectors and bag checks and pat-downs. Each individual shop also had their own white shirt armed security, continuing the strong show of force.

There were many American chains and your basic department store offerings. It was impressive because of the size. We almost stopped for an ice skate, but didn’t want to risk an injury at the very beginning of our trip. Ensaymada pastry at Starbucks was a treat, a delicious Filipino bread flavored with grated cheese and sprinkled with sugar. The best part of the mall trip was seeing the Christmas decorations and hearing the Christmas music. They are already in full holiday swing and it was fabulous. We later learned that Christmas starts on Sept1 in the Philippines. A common saying is “Christmas is coming”. Dinner at Manam restaurant initiated us to Filipino cuisine - Crispy Sisig and Watermelon Sinigang. We finished the trip with a walk outside along the boardwalk. They were preparing for fireworks later in the evening and we sat on the wall overlooking Manila Bay on the far side of the Pacific Ocean.

The ASEAN Summit was happening in Manila during our trip. World leaders came together to talk about Southeast Asian nations regional issues. The security throughout the city was tight, we even saw hundreds of police officers doing a ‘dry-run’ of the parade route as we went between the mall and airport. We missed them shutting down the streets for their test by a couple hours and returned to the hostel. Trump was in attendance for the summit, although we were lucky to be away from the capitol when he was in town.

Nap at Wings until our 6am flight out of Terminal 4. The showers were a treat and we felt refreshed as we entered our last leg of travel to reach our first destination. Taxi driver talked about Duterte/Trump again - telling us that his life is much better with Duterte in power. The 10pm curfew allows him to sleep at night, keeping the drunks out of the street. We kept our political opinions out of the conversation, it was good to hear local perspective on a radical president.

Flight to El Nido, Palawan was 1 hour. A small turboprop plane out of a cramped waiting area. Once we landed - resort staff took care of us right away. They handled our baggage and shuttled us to a lounge with drinks/snacks. We waited maybe 20 minutes next to Lio beach as they loaded our luggage onto the boat via wooden bridge. This was our first introduction to outriggers with their bamboo pole arms stretched out at their sides for stability. Raul called the boat a big turtle. Regardless it was fast while we departed the small El Nido airport. The transfer took about 30 minutes to get us onto Pangulasian Island. We talked to Raul, our favorite guide, about excursion options before arrival.

42 villas on the island, otherwise no houses or people outside the resort. The crew on the island stayed in a house behind the main restaurant and lobby. We learned later that the main building had been built on top of a cave where the water monitor lizards lived, including a big one called Godzilla who was probably 5 feet big. We never saw Godzilla but we kept an eye out for him. Our home for the next 4 nights was Villa #22. On the way to the villa on our “buggy” we saw our first and only macaque monkeys at the resort during the trip. We were instructed not to look directly at them or smile at them because they can get aggressive,. However they are so cute that is all you want to do. The room was luxurious with a huge bathroom, strong air conditioning, private balcony, and ocean views. As we were introduced to our room, we were also introduced to several Filipino english peculiarities, including the ever present honorific "M'amSir". Having grown up in the South, Julia was not sure how this concatenation had never occurred to any of the southerners she knew as it would have undoubtedly saved them much time in their daily salutations. Endless coconut cookies in the mini-bar was one of the best amenities.

We planned out our trip on a piece of scrap paper. No real itinerary before this, but once in the room and aware of our options we wanted to optimize our time in paradise. We went to the activity director with this plan:

Day 1 - sunset hike

Day 2 - 7am snorkel, 3pm Island tour

Day 3 - 8am Lagoon tour

Day 4 - ???

Day 5 - 2pm boat, 5pm flight

Lunch at the pool after seeing our first small/baby Monitor Lizard. Julia had Rellenong - squid stuffed with pork, which introduced us to the Filipino comfort fusion of Asian, seafood, and Spanish food, plus foamy fruit drinks. Then into the water for our first snorkel of the trip. We saw a blue spotted stingray the size of a dinner plate as we were entering the water. Lots of coral right away and tons of fish all around. We were amazed at the amount of life right off the shore of our villa, the reef was alive! Huge blue clams and blue starfish were highlights, then we saw ‘Nemo’ (clownfish) in a home of sea anemone. We quickly learned that the overprotective dad fish are not just a thing of movies as the clownfish tried to chase us away from their anemone homes. Once they started trying to attack you, it was best to swim away so they didn’t leave any eggs defenseless and ready for another fish’s dinner.

Sunset hike was a serious physical task. Hiking up about 500 feet, counted in 1800 steps, to a lookout tower in the center of the island. The steps were counted out with signs every 200 steps. Raul bounded up the mountain with the speed of a mountain goat and the ease of a man who has only worn flip flops (aka “slippers”) while traversing the jungle his whole life. Took us 30 minutes. We were rewarded with 360 degree views and a breathtaking sunset surrounded by islands of all sizes. We hiked with 2 guys - Nunu and Brunu from Portugal and our guide Raul. Early dinner at 6:30, where we were asked by the entire staff how our sunset hike was. We quickly learned that everyone on the island always knew what activities we were up to at all times. Bed by 9pm, which became a regular thing for all of vacation.

7am snorkel tour at our ‘home reef’ on Sunday morning. A resort boat took us to the west end of the island, about a 3 minute ride. Shallow coral as our guide directed us towards the best spots for seeing baby blacktip reef sharks, as they apparently like to stay in 2-3 foot deep sections of the reef. Almost immediately we saw blacktip reef sharks. About 2-3 feet long, nothing scary but still swimming with sharks. Brunu spotted a BIG shark - quickly alerting us, but it turned out to be the second group of snorkelers from our resort.. HaHa

Breakfast buffet at the main restaurant was massive. Options for all nations… American (pancakes, and bacon), European (fruit and pastries), Asian (rice and grilled meat), plus local Filipino dishes like fish, longganisa, and jackfruit.

A kayak tour around the island was settled upon after much debate. The wind was blowing and I was nervous the adventure would not be easy. It ended up being a wonderful decision all around. The boats were easy to launch from the beach next to our villa. We immediately tested upwind and downwind paddling - discovering we could easily handle the conditions. Paddling clockwise around the .2 square mile island took us 1 hour. The side opposite the villa is completely deserted, with multiple beautiful beaches. A small black monkey was relaxing on one, scurrying back into the woods as we floated by. There were also tons of crabs on the rocks, that also scurried away as we got close.

Back in the room Julia read on the balcony while I soaked up the AC + WiFi until our 3pm tour. Island Hopping is a 3 hour tour via outrigger style boat - called pump boat or paraw boat. There were about 10 other couples on the trip although the boat didn’t feel cramped at all. The crew of the boat frequently navigated the length of the boat by walking on the bamboo outrigger support structures, leaving the middle of the boat where we were sitting wide open. Luckily we weren’t required to wear the big red life vests, so I ditched mine immediately.

The first stop on the tour was called Cathedral Caves, about 25 minutes away. Pictures only as our boat was too big to enter the cave. The second stop was Cudugnon Cave another 25 minute ride. We were greeted by two dogs when we landed on shore. Then we walked along the water to a small entrance which we crawled through. It opened up to a huge room which legend says is a Neolithic burial place. We squeezed our way into the cave and marveled at how it opened up to 40 foot ceilings once we were through the entry. The light shone in a way that was impossible for us to capture on film. It was beautiful. Our 3rd stop was Snake Island, named for the S shaped sandbar that connected the island to mainland Palawan. After securing the anchor we walked the sandbar to a shack in the water. A bar on the sandbar, wonderful! No cash, and no bartenders today, so we just looked around and shuffled back and forth on the 2-3 foot deep sandbar, hoping our feet were alerting any stingrays to swim away and not sting us out of self defense.. Another 10 minute boat ride and we were back at Pangulasian Island resort - home.

We stopped at the pool for a sunset swim. Ordered coconut’s and Julia drank them both. After cleaning up I called for a buggy to take us to dinner. At 6:30pm no one was there, it wasn’t until later in the trip that we learned that the restaurant didn’t open until 7pm - they were just too nice to tell us to leave. Again puzzled where everyone else was, we dove into the exquisite menu, amazed at the quality and selection for being on a remote island where everything is ferried in by outrigger. Two orders of bread, shrimp gyro, and a huge seafood paella was a killer meal. Then a stomach settling beach walk home and we were in bed by 9pm.

Monday sunrise at 5:30am was beautiful from bed. It was raining as Julia scanned for wildlife from the balcony. She spotted 3 big Monitor Lizards coming out of the water, plus a baby blacktip reef shark maybe about 1 foot long trolling the shallows in front of our villa.

Breakfast was another big buffet in preparation for our Lagoon Tour at 8am.

The tour was filled with 22 people including our guides, driver, and security. Gold was the main guide - who I found out is also an ultimate player and planning to attend Manila Spirits tournament. Small world in the ultimate community! The group was: 2 Hawaiian couples Alan/Jira and Russell/Joy, dad from Manila and his 3 daughters, an old French couple, family of 4 with a 10 year old boy and 5 year old girl, and a young Asian couple on their phones the whole time. At this time we were beginning to get to know all the other fellow occupants of the island.

1st stop was Big Lagoon, 20 minutes from home. Pictures only as our boat drifted into the lagoon while the guides gave a history / science lesson. We learned about the limestone cliffs and how they were eroded over time by the salt. This was one region in the Philippines that was not part of the ring of Fire and was safe from earthquakes and volcanoes by its place in the middle of a tectonic plate.

2nd stop was Small Lagoon, 5 minutes away. The rain picked up again but it was warm and it didn’t bother us. There were already 5 or so outrigger boats in the ‘parking area’ leading into the lagoon. Some of the outriggers were from other resorts (including other El Nido properties at Maniloc or Lagen islands) and the others were from “town” a El Nido proper, and were part of the tor packages A, B, C, etc. all looked good, but the tour options had little grills on the back that were cooking excellent looking if slightly fire safety concerning food. We dropped anchor in the tight quarters and waited for our kayaks to arrive. Another group was using them and 1 by 1 they finished so our crew could jump in. Julia and I took the last boat, quickly catching up to the group with fast strokes. Through a hole not much bigger than our kayak we entered the lagoon. Walls were dripping with rain into the clear blue brackish water. A quick swim finished our adventure - then into the boat for a final stop.

3rd stop was Miniloc Resort - also owned by El Nido and on the same island as the lagoons. It was set in a cove in the middle of limestone cliffs. The resort was beautiful but it seemed to lack the beautiful beach that we had at Pangulasian. We were affirmed we made the correct resort choice by a couple of the other travelers on the boat, although that is comparing two especially Fantasia options. The reef just off their shore is home to a school of Jackfish, about 4 feet long - big things! They feed them daily so they zoom around near the dock - one nearly jumping over me as I snorkeled by. A Sergeant Major fish with yellow and black stripes bit Julia’s elbow as we explored the reef. I didn't believe Julia and went in to follow up - it bit my hand. Nothing more than a tiny scrape - but that bugger was really defending his territory well, good for him. Sweet tea on the boat home was a perfect ending. We were back before noon.

Ice cream and fruity drinks for lunch told us we were truly on vacation. Any time more than 3 drinks are in front of 1 person - it’s vacation!

Julia took an afternoon snorkel while I rested in the air conditioning. She saw another stingray and more Nemo fish. Then we relaxed in bath robes until dinner time. Julia even won the daily debate of buggy vs. walk - this time only because the buggy service was busy. We spotlighted crabs using the headlamps I brought from home as we walked on the beach to dinner. Large hand sized white crabs dove into their well dug holes in the sand, while hermit crabs just collapsed inside their mobile homes. Our Hawaiian friends came over during dinner to extend an invitation on their private boat tour tomorrow with their lady friends. We quickly deliberated and decided to say yes.

Tuesday the 14th began with thunder and lightning. We ate breakfast as it stormed all around us. Extra banana jam on my pancakes to make up for the nasty weather.

The tour started at 10am with Gold as our guide. Alan/Jira and Russell/Joy were a bit late, but excited to get going. Secret Beach was the first destination. A hole in the side of a steep wall. At high tide you have to dive and hold your breath 5 seconds to get in. We all practiced holding our breath and confirming what kind of 5 seconds were we talking about? One mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi, or 1, 2, 3. In retrospect, the "mississippi" might have added to the confusion in our clarification attempts. It was low tide so Julia swam straight in, but I still dove. A sandy beach inside was magical, completely closed off from the outside. Unfortunately this is where Julia’s camera decided to die - however we later discovered it was simply a dead battery.

Hidden Beach was the second destination. First we stopped for a quick snorkel just around the corner. A reef on the edge of a 100 foot dropoff. Colorful coral and tons of fish - so amazing to see with our butts in the air. The beach was hidden behind a shallow entrance. We waded through ankle deep water to find another sandy shore tucked away on Matinloc Island. The other 2 boats of tourists were just leaving so we got the whole place to ourselves. Only other person there was a local in a canoe selling coconuts and ice cold beer - how perfect!! Julia ate the soft meat out of the coconut after drinking the water. The salesman even cut a ‘spoon’ out of the coconut shell for her to scoop it out with - genius. My San Miguel beer hit the spot in the midday sun. All of us got coconuts or beer for 400 PHP (8 USD). A good deal.

Lunch at Entalula Island was welcomed at 1pm. El Nido owns/manages a section of beach here with the softest sand of the entire trip. They served us lunch of rice, shrimp, sashimi, fruit, and cold drinks. We only had to sign our room numbers and the bill was taken care of. I could get used to this. When checking out later, we saw all of the receipts where we had signed our room number earlier in the vacation. The stamps for our postcards. The lunch at Entalula. The magnet for our fridge. Imagining them gathering all of these receipts for calculation via outrigger or buggy was humorous.

2 more quick stops at the Cudugnon Cave and Snake Island we had been to previously. We skipped going inside the cave this time. Walked the beach trying to pet the dog and talk to the little girl - neither were successful. Then we waieded in the water and chatted with Russell, learning about his insurance business and life on Maui. Snake Island bar was open this time and we didn’t forget the cash. Bought more beers and coconuts (we learned here our first Tagalog word - Buko - which means coconut) before heading back home.

The private boat tour with the Hawaiians was our favorite adventure during our time on Pangulasian Island resort. We were out almost 7 hours, explored 5 islands, and saw hundreds of fish with new friends. I sure hope we run into these guys again on another vacation!

Black butterflies greeted us at sunset daily. We watched a dark blue / almost black Great-Billed heron hunt on the ocean shore as the mosquitoes began to bite. We also learned about alpha monkeys. Once they became aggressive (stealing clothes off balconies or food from the buffet) an Ecologist would fly out from Manila, the monkey would be darted and wake up on a secluded island. 1 alpha per island, no mates. This has happened 5 times in the past 20 years - meaning that there are 5 islands out there with mad/lonely monkeys on them. The guides told us 1 adopted a cat from a nearby village as his friend, petting it and guarding it. This was the monkey banished to the Sandbar island. We had been warned during our visit not to pet the cat, and it made more sense knowing about it's monkey protector. Hilarious / Sad.

Manila plans were discussed over a dinner of Kare-Kare (oxtail and tripe in peanut sauce) and butter chicken. Super sleepy after this heavy meal. Bed by 8pm, but not before committing to our buggy driver for a 5am sunrise hike.

Wednesday the 15th Julia actually made the 5am sunrise hike. I slept. The guide asked where "Sir Donald" was and she replied, in bed. They discussed ecology on the way up and politics on the way down - a well balanced agenda. This was the first, but not last, person Julia met that was critical of Duterte and the drug war. The guide was especially concerned with the corruption of the cops and the extrajudicial killings. When they discussed the drug wars in both countries, quickly Julia grasped that although the US drug war incarcerates the most people in the world - our drug war isn't killing political opponents in their houses and planting drugs to cover it up. Neither is good, but there is always worse. The guide was worried about the future as all of the political opponents to Duterte were being silenced, and no one knew what would happen at the end of his remaining five years of term.

6:30am I began to pack, reluctantly. Paused at 7am to take the guided snorkel of the home reef again. We saw no sharks but did traverse the entire length of the resort reef - West to East. Almost an hour snorkel with 2 other guys (Australia and UK). We got to see 2 smallish green sea turtles and another stingray. Rinsed off at the dive shop and turned in my fins.

All our new friends were at breakfast. After 5 days it felt like we knew everyone. Catching up with what each other did the previous day and our plans going forward. Many of us were leaving together today so we’d have one last chance to shake hands before island time was over. I stopped at the pool after breakfast while Julia took 1 last snorkel. In true to vacation form, the last snorkel continued a trend we had started on other vacations where halfway through it started raining. When Julia came out, she and Brunu and Nunu (Portuguese guys) all finished at the same time and had a good laugh about "Snorkeling in the rain".

Lunch by the pool, then to the reception desk for checkout at 2pm. Signed the bill for 30,000 Philippines pesos and bought final momentos. Loaded the boat and we were off to the airport. Waiting room for El Nido resort guests was a treat - with drinks, sweets (red bean cakes and cassava cake), and air conditioning.

**Note - Sleep No More is an immersive play based on Shakespeare’s Macbeth and Hitchcock's movie “Rebecca" that Brunu/Nunu told us about. Look into this next time we visit NYC.

Landed in Manila, fetched baggage, and hailed a yellow cab (metered). Only problem is that the driver took us to the wrong hotel. Hotel Manila is WAY nicer than we booked. Felt wrong from the moment we pulled up. German Shepherds working security, ladies in long ballroom dresses, chandeliers, over-the-top Christmas decorations, the whole package... Thankfully the six bell boys on duty were nice (or bored) enough to carry our baggage and arrange our cab. Driver was way more experienced - getting us to Luneta Hotel on the other side of Rizal Park. This is the first time we were explained it was probably not a good idea for us to try walking in the city at night.

Luneta Hotel is 99 years old. Lovingly restored in a beautiful combination of art deco and French renaissance architecture, we felt at home in our room for 1 night. We ate Crispy Pata for dinner at the hotel restaurant. The waiter explained all the ways we could tear into the beautifully twice cooked & deep fried pig legs / pig knuckles. "The tendons are the best". We noted how much easier it was in the Philippines to eat the peripheral / organ meats, and how much we had been enjoying it. In house made ice cream was a treat - especially the Jasmine flavor which was the national flower.

Thursday the 16th was a walking tour. Out the front door of our hotel was Rizal Park. Named after Jose Rizal - a Filipino nationalist who advocated political reform for the colony under Spanish rule. We visited the monument for his execution along with other historical sites in the area. Rizal is the national hero, a true renaissance man who wrote books and poetry, made paintings and carvings, and explored the sciences as a Polymath. His execution jump-started the successful Philippine revolution. Unfortunately, right after the success of the revolution and the creation of an independent Philippine government, the Spanish promptly lost the Spanish/American war. During the peace negotiation between Spain and America, Spain sold Guam, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines to the US for $20 million. The Philippines sent their best minds to the US to advocate for their self-rule, but the US failed to grant them their own sovereignty they had fought so hard for. Another war- the Philippine/American war - ended 2 million Filipino lives and settled the question for another 40 years of American rule. It was only after the atrocities of WW2 that the US granted the Philippines their independence on July 4, 1946. Families laid on space blankets in the shade as we walked the park, visiting the Chinese Garden.

Intramuros, a historic walled city inside Manila, was the next walking destination. First we stopped at Starbucks to download maps and assemble a plan. Once Julia made the map her phone background we were on the move again. San Agustin Church was our first major stop. A massive Spanish monastery built in 1607. Now a museum detailing the complete religious, economic, and legal colonization of the Philippines, detailing trade routes and gold mining along with the life of monks in the 1600’s. The Spanish were completely successful in their religious conquest, having converted everyone we met or saw into a devout Catholic. Then more churches and old buildings. Fort Santiago was our last stop inside the walled city. Built by Spanish conquistadors in 1571, then upgraded repeatedly until 1730’s. The American flag was raised here in 1898, who drained the moat to make a golf course. During World War II the fort was captured by the Japanese army and use as a killing ground for hundreds of prisoners - especially during the Japanese massacre of civilians during the liberation of Manila. 200k civilians (including lots of religious leaders) died in mass shootings during this last month of urban fighting. Intramuros and the rest of the city was gutted.

Back in 2017 - an Uber driver picked us up and took us to lunch. Dong Bei Dumpling house in Manila’s Chinatown district. A hole in the wall, that was recommended on every corner of the internet, was kinda scary getting to as our taxi driver took us directly through a slum on the edge of the river and the intramodal shipyard. It all paid off when we were served. One of the best meals of our entire vacation - stuffed pancakes, pork dumplings, and xiao long bao. Then we met our 9 year old friend Jarred outside. His dad runs a shop next to the restaurant and he wanted to talk as we waited for our ride. A very nice boy who had to run back to his dad to get English answers for our questions. Then we became Facebook friends - it was official.

Quiapo Market was our last tourist spot of the day. An open-air market selling everything from fruits to pirated CDs. We walked the hundreds of small booths looking for a fitbit replacement for the one I accidentally swam with in Palawan. We were able to find speakers, phone cases, watches, ‘nike’ shoes, bike parts, herbal “birth control” (it is a very Catholic country), 10 min massage, day-old chicks … but no fitbit. After an hour we escaped without spending a dollar.

Jasmine tea back at Luneta Hotel per the waiter's recommendations as we picked up our bags and then an hour Uber ride, with a sleepy driver, to our AirBnB in Alabang. This house was rented by our ultimate team for the long weekend. Just 2 kilometers from the fields in a secured neighborhood. We actually had to fight through the security gate our first time through, trying to prove we actually belonged there.

The house was huge, as were all the ones around us. 10+ beds upstairs, 2 on the main floor, and ours downstairs. There were also 2 house staff and 1 driver staying with us full time. The owners moved to California last year and use the house rarely. The staff are their personal helpers of the family for the entire lifetime of their children - Julia was lucky to get some time to discuss this further with one of their helpers and learn more about this aspect of the culture.

Team dinner was a ‘Boodle Fight’ - a traditional meal served on banana leaves and eaten with hands. Ours was packed with pork, shrimp, octopus, corn, and rice. I sat next to Summer who was allergic to shellfish - but she was able to avoid death with Epi-Pen on standby.

Friday the 17th began at 6:30am with Shawn cooking eggs, bacon, and sausage. The first van to the fields left at 7:45am, with Alan our driver. Ange and Steph were already there with a spot reserved for us under a canopy on the edge of the fields. Each team had their own section blocked off - which proved critical during rain and sun all weekend.

Manila Spirits ultimate tournament is in it’s 14th year. 40 teams from around the world come together for a fun weekend of competition. It’s a co-ed tournament, playing with 4 men + 3 women or 4 women + 3 men. 60 minute games played to 13 points. Our team - Just Saiyan - was 19 boys and girls, the only team from the United States. Ranked 29th out of 40 teams. I looked for Gold and was able to find 5:30 Palawan team, but he was not with them.

Right off the bat ‘For Old Times Sake’ beat us 6-10 first game. They had the Tournament Director on their squad and were all around highly spirited. An excellent introduction to Manila ultimate. It was a tight match all the way to the end, then near a questionably timed soft/hard cap they ran away with it. Finished with a Spirit Circle and hip hip hooray X 3.

The rain started as we walked back to the canopy. HARD rain that flooded our shelter. Everyone hung their bags on the canopy poles and embraced the storm. The fields were soggy but it slowed by the time our second match began.

‘Love Parade’ beat us 3-13 in the second game. Clearly a dominate team, having won the previous year. We didn’t even make it to the 50 minute soft cap. Ouch!

We beat USO third game 13-8 on a sloppy muddy field. They were young, one player only 17 years old. After our victory we taught them the street fighter spirit game, which ended up being a long 30 minute game, happily played in the sideline shade.

Back at the house we washed clothes and hung everything to dry. Ice bath for the feet was sweet, I almost made it a full minute. The team cooked hot dogs for dinner - which were found to be individually wrapped after grilling for 10 minutes. Why?!?

Julia and I chose to go out for dinner to catch up with each other since we spent the day separated.

Julia went to Pagsanjan Falls (a whitewater gorge once used as a set in "Apocalypse Now" movie), about 3 hours southeast of Alabang. Alan, our driver, helped her find the proper bus after he dropped us off at the fields. Then a motorcycle driver picked her up from the bus station and took her the rest of the way to the falls. 2 guides navigated her up and down the river and underneath a waterfall in a dugout canoe and bamboo raft. “Shooting the rapids” is the tourist activity in the area and there is a rotation system for tour guides - nearly 3,000 villages have "canoeing numbers" assigned and about 1 every 10 days they are able to guide. It is one of the major methods of income in the town and I was reminded "Christmas is coming". The guides paddled and jumped in and out of the canoe to drag it over and between rocks, and pushed off of the gorge walls when necessary for upstream momentum. Julia's concept of whitewater canoeing was greatly expanded from her Outward Bound expedition days, as she never considered anything other than paddling as a method for propulsion. Apparently feet is another acceptable and common option. Good to know. Things put into perspective, Julia enjoyed the trip thoroughly. Then the moto driver, Romeo, picked her back up and took her to 2 other random spots in the area with waterfalls, local boys swimming, and a lake at the top of the mountain overlooking Laguna Bay. Beautiful rural areas with farmers, cows, pigs, sheep, goats, and subsistence gardening. she would have never found without his local knowledge. Aware that things could be risky, everything paid off wonderfully with Julia feeling very welcomed by the friendly people in the provinces.

Buko (coconut) pie for dessert. Julia got it during the bus ride home. As the bus rides were long and direct, they never stopped for food but rather let vendors come onto the bus for short rides. Roasted/steamed corn was a common treat, in addition to Balut, Empanadas, and nuts - all usually for 20 PHP.

Saturday the 18th was day 2 of the Spirits tournament. First game at 8am vs. ‘Sentinels’. We beat them 13-6 after Shawn’s hucks warmed up. Ange and Steph, our Filipino teammates who encouraged/organized this trip from the start, forgot their cleats at home. During our long 4 hour break they ran home and brought back Halo-Halo icy desserts that were sugary delicious. We relaxed in chairs from another team (which oddly they were mad about - come on team Vicious be reasonable) bought swag, drank smoothies, and watch games. 1pm was our second and last game of the day - which we ended up losing. ‘Breakfast Club’ was an old school team from Manila. They looked easy to beat but we just couldn’t shake our problems. They also called a bunch of questionable catches/fouls that really took the steam out of our high spirited squad. 6-10 was the final score, bummer.

Reviewed the day with Julia over dinner at Neil's Kitchen - a hip Filipino-fusion restaurant in Westgate Filinvest. We had three amazing plates of food, but the one I remember most was their concept of Dinuguan - a black liver and blood pudding dish complete with pork belly and rice. So rich and the best liver dish Julia has ever eaten. She went back to Manila city and visited 2 museums. National Museum of Fine Arts and National Museum of Anthropology. The art museum was beautiful and intense - the long history of the Philippines being colonized by Spain and America showed through in their religious art featuring Jesus and their modernist art featuring the journey from WW2 through the post-colonial years of independence. The Anthropology museum showed a sunken Spanish galleon which had just been excavated and explained a large part of that period of history. Lunch at Seaside Dampa - a seafood market where you buy anything from crab to lobster to shark to clams to tiger prawns and more - then across the street a restaurant will cook it for you. She had tiger prawns and a crab next to a family singing Videoke, a popular pastime in Asia.

Tournament part was Saturday night, which I decided to skip. It didn’t start until 9pm. I’m an old man. Asleep by 9:30.

Sunday was the final day of the tournament. We changed canopy locations to a central spot next to the first aid station (team Vicious ‘kindly’ asked us to move). Half the team was hungover, which gave confidence to the young and spry Sentinel opponent. They underestimated our experience playing hungover. We dominated from the first throw. I think they scored 3 points total, keeping spirit high the whole time. They did our ‘charge up’ cheer with us after the game - it was loud and awesome. The shitty part of this strong start was our teammate got injured. I threw a terrible pass over Amanda’s head, Ryan attempted to clean up the garbage. Feet got tangled as they approached the sideline - sending Ryan hard onto his elbow. Medics on the field said it was sprained (or torn ligament), he was out for the rest of the day. Felt terrible because it happened on my bad throw. Hopefully now that we are back in the US he can see a doctor and get healed quickly.

Game 2 was vs. White Propaganda. It was extremely hot with no sideline shade. Saiyan players were dropping out left and right. I was playing double points by the end of the game. Normally we were in pods of 3, rotating every point so that each person would play 1 of 3 points. Needless to say - we lost. Lots of simple drops added to the frustration, we totally could have beat this team. They were a fast squad, ready to move the disc quickly against any zone we tried to put on. The final score was 6-10.

Steph came back after the game with all our box lunches (so we didn’t have to stand in line with tickets waiting in the sun). Thanks Steph! Rice, pork, fish, and cookies were necessary to keep the engine rolling. I couldn’t seem to drink enough water all weekend - but the shade brakes helped encourage hydration.

Final game was vs. Stacked Stats, a team of players representing 15 countries. Fun group from the very start. We were never in the lead - they easily won 6-13. I was just happy to have survived a hot/humid tournament in Manila, my first international competition.

Finished the tournament with a box full of beers from the vendors. 24 San Mig Light’s while the team sat on the sideline watching the championship match - Boracay Bandits vs. Mulatto. Bandits were #1 and Just Saiyan ended up #32. Not too shabby.

Julia returned from Taal Heritage Town about 7pm. Alan was just asking about her status since it was getting dark, he had helped her get to the bus again and was worried she made it back easily. Taal is a popular tourist destination because it has a volcano in the middle of a big lake. Most people visit and hike to the top of the mountain volcano in the middle of Taal lake. Julia chose a different route - to visit the town and see their history. A wedding at the largest basilica in Asia, restored houses of Filipino Revolutionaries, market with dresses, halo halo, bikers, and a trike ride filled her day.

Ice cream passed around the dinner table on a Lazy Susan was the perfect capstone to a exhausting 3 days of ultimate. Our team was fun and already talking about what exotic tournament to try next year…Hopu Ka Lewa in Hawaii???

Monday the 20th was travel day. Alan began taking people to the airport at 9am. We relaxed and talked to the house staff, Delaney and Daisy, until 11am. They told us about Tagalog bananas and the backstory for the home owners. Alan stopped at the South Supermarket so we could pick up final ube treats for Julia’s coworkers. Then dropped our bags at EVA airline counter. We still had 5 hours until our flight so we got a taxi to the Mall of Asia to waste time again. Ryan was with us too. Lunch at Manam restaurant again, where we talked to a girl heading to New Zealand for a friends wedding. A quick walk along Manila Bay and we headed back to the airport (only to wait in line for an hour to check-in + customs).

16 hours of flying later, we landed 30 minutes before we took off. Monday was a weird day for us. Tuesday it’s back to work while fighting jet lag. The good news is that Thursday is Thanksgiving!

**Tagalog is a hard language to pick up for me. I learned zero words the almost 2 weeks we were in the Philippines. This is all I semi-learned after repeated instruction by various Filipino’s.

hindi = no

oo = yes

mahal kita = I love you

Buko = coconut

Overall the Philippines were a beautiful and adventurous string of islands. We look forward to going back to visit many more beaches (and tournaments) plus more off the beaten path international travel! We picked up a cookbook for one of our few souvenirs so more Filipino food in our future.

Now it’s time to throw the ball for this dog… she needs love!

Cheers,

-Chris Coleman

#philippines #elnido #pangulasian #manila #manilaspirits

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tatooine92 · 7 years

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MEA: From the Ground Up - Part 4

Fandom: Mass Effect Andromeda Pairing: Amanda Ryder x Reyes Vidal Rating: T Previous Parts: 1: https://tatooine92.tumblr.com/post/159231311635/mea-from-the-ground-up-part-1 2: https://tatooine92.tumblr.com/post/159234117740/mea-from-the-ground-up-part-2 3: https://tatooine92.tumblr.com/post/159424302975/mea-from-the-ground-up-part-3 Spoilers?: Depends on your definition of spoiler. It’s set post-game. Summary: After having a bad day fighting leftover kett, Mandy has to stay bedridden. Of course, this gives her a great chance to catch up on emails...

Mandy woke safe and warm in the Tempest's medbay, awakened by the soft chirping of medical equipment and the sharp bluish light in the room. Dr. T'Perro stood nearby, reviewing Mandy's charts.

"My professional recommendation is that we buy you a padded suit," Lexi said without looking up.

"I've gotta find me a new doctor," Mandy snorted. "Maybe one who opens with 'Why hello, Pathfinder, I'm glad you're alive because I worked really hard to keep you that way.'"

"If you don't like my bedside manner, stop ending up in my medbay," Lexi retorted, her lips curving in a smirk. "Nevertheless, I'm glad you're awake."

She came over to check Mandy's vitals, shining her penlight into Mandy's eyes to check her pupils. Mandy groaned as green spots danced across her vision where the light had been.

"How long was I out?" she asked.

"Two days. Long enough to start your recovery. You're not mission-ready for a while, though."

Mandy tried to sit up, but Lexi pressed her shoulder back into the bed.

"I have to get back out there," Mandy insisted. "There's an entire kett stronghold--"

"Good morning, Pathfinder," SAM interrupted. "Regarding the stronghold, in your absence, Lieutenant Harper and Jaal have contacted the Collective's forces for backup."

"They what?!"

Mandy swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Pain lanced down her side and her head spun, but she was still upright before Lexi could stop her.

"Get them in here. We are not taking help from... from him."

"Amanda, please," Lexi said. "You're not ready for this level of excitement. And you are definitely not ready to be back out in the field, so you really need all the help--"

"Not from--" Mandy forced herself to take deep breaths and lower her voice. "Not from Reyes. I--I don't think I can see him ever again, Lexi."

"I understand. Believe me, I do. But you need to remember he was there to face the Archon's forces because he was only told you needed his help. Consider that."

Mandy was silent as Lexi checked her over for any injuries sustained or worsened during her sudden movement. Mandy exhaled, her shoulders shuddering. She slowly lay back down on the medbay bed as Lexi adjusted it to be more upright. This was stupid, Mandy thought. She needed to be out there, doing her goddamn job, not lounging around in medbay because she was too stupid to stay in cover and, you know, not die. She had come to hate feeling useless, and being taken out by one Ascendant after she had fought the Archon's entire army embarrassed her as much as it rendered her useless.

Cora and Jaal arrived momentarily. Cora had her serious, furrowed-brow leadership face on; Mandy wasn't sure what Jaal's expression was, but it seemed apologetic.

"Pathfinder," Cora said, "we can explain."

"Please and thanks," Mandy snarked.

"Ultimately it was Jaal's idea--hell, Jaal, you're an adult. You tell her."

"I observed you have had some... difficulties with your bondmate," Jaal replied, "which Vetra confirmed when I asked. So, I wanted to give you an opportunity to work out your differences."

"First off, he is not my bondmate; second, calling him to save my ass is not how you get us to kiss and make up!" Mandy sighed, massaging her forehead. "Jaal, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not angara. I don't just... deal with things out in the open."

"Respectfully, Ryder, you should."

"I'm gonna agree with him on this one," Cora added. "You're wound up over Reyes. The whole crew feels it, so it's affecting us too. We can't be at our best if you aren't."

"...so you called him in to help take out the kett because you want me less stressed? You know you could have called the Resistance for backup and just set me and Reyes up on a blind date or something."

"I am a firm believer in efficiency," Jaal said. There was mischief in his smile.

"You guys are the worst," Mandy sighed. She shook her head. "Fine, okay. When is his team inbound?"

"They got to Prodromos yesterday," Cora said. "We're meeting them in half an hour to go for round two with the kett."

"I should be there," Mandy grumbled. She saw Cora about to protest and held up a hand. "I know, I can't be, but I should be. You're my team. That colony is basically my baby. I should be there."

"We will win in your name," Jaal promised with a firm nod. "As long as you promise to settle your differences with him."

"...I promise we'll come to an understanding. But I can't promise he won't get punched. Or shot."

"Just don't mess up the ship," Cora said, "or Kallo and Gil will both kill you."

"Point taken. Shoot the boyfriend outside."

"Have you considered talking?" Jaal said before Cora guided him back out of the medbay to prep for their mission.

Mandy sighed deeply as her friends left. Lexi crossed the medbay to her side again, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"I have a few files on conflict resolution," she said gently. "Should I forward them to you?"

"No, it's okay. Jaal's right--I need to deal with it. This whole thing has taken up rent-free residency in my brain, and that's not healthy for me or the team."

"Have I ever told you how proud I am of your blossoming self-awareness?"

"Aww. Thanks, Mom."

Lexi snorted softly and left Mandy alone to rest up while she tended to her other duties and paperwork. Mandy leaned back against the bed again, lifting her omni-tool. As soon as it lit up, she saw a plethora of new email notifications--all from Reyes. Oh, hell.

"Fine, fine, let's see what you have to say this time," she sighed, opening the oldest one.

My dear Amanda,

They tell me you have gone off to do wonderful Pathfinder-y things, but I wanted to tell you, the sunset on Meridian was magnificent tonight. You missed it. The next time you're here, perhaps we could watch one together.

Yours, Reyes

Good and short, Mandy thought. Still... sweet.

She archived the message and went to the next.

Amanda, my darling,

When was the last time you had a delicious homemade meal? Now that things are beginning to settle, at least here, I would like very much to woo you with my cooking. Well, woo you with someone else's cooking. I am definitely going to pay someone. I think if you ate my cooking, you would abandon our shaky little relationship altogether. I would not make a good house-husband. But for you, I would try.

Yours, Reyes

Well, shit. Mandy couldn’t tell if he was just too smooth or if... She read the email again. Why would he send that if he didn’t mean it?

"Hey, Lexi?" she called.

"Yes?"

"...Reyes has been sending me love letters."

Lexi lifted her head from her work. "Oh?"

"Yeah. The scary part is... I think he means it."

"Why does that frighten you?" Lexi turned fully toward Mandy, her chin cupped lightly in her palm. Mandy swallowed hard. Great, okay, therapeutic let’s-talk-it-out time.

"Because..." For you, I would try. "Because I'm used to being angry about people leaving me. Dad was always distant, and I was angry at him for that. Then he died and I was furious again. I think I spent my whole life wanting to be loved, and now..."

"Now that someone's trying, you push them away?"

Mandy nodded, tears burning her eyes. She didn’t expect the sudden surge of emotion that tightened her throat.

"I think so," she choked. "Have I always done this? To everyone?"

"You've never been anything but the sweetest friend to me and the others," Lexi soothed, crossing to her side and bringing tissues with her. "Perhaps Reyes is just the first one to breach your shields. It can be terrifying to be so open with someone."

"How can he feel that way about me when he doesn't really know me?" Mandy dabbed her eyes with the tissues, but that didn't stop the tears. "Why would he ever..."

"Perhaps that's something you should ask him." Lexi glanced at Mandy's omni-tool and saw the remaining notifications. "Or perhaps he has written it out for you. If you want to reach an understanding, then hearing all he has to say might be a good start."

Lexi rubbed Mandy's shoulder before slipping out both to take a coffee break and to give Mandy some time to read her emails alone. Mandy kept dabbing at her eyes, but the tears kept rolling. What if he meant it? Meant all of it? Oh God. What if he loved her? What if she still wanted him to, wanted to feel his arms around her, pulling her close to sway to the gentle serenading of a Milky Way piano? She opened the next email, tissue clenched in her hand and finger shaking.

The next email was an audio recording rather than a message. Confused, she hit play.

"Amanda! Darling! Light of my life!" Reyes' voice crooned. "I have written you a song! Or rather, I am writing you a song. Right now. I was beginning to regret bringing my guitar to Andromeda with me, but not anymore. Here, I've written most of the words. I will send you a translation later."

Mandy giggled weakly and wiped away the tears as the recorded Reyes strummed a guitar, practicing a few chords. Then he began a soft melody, Spanish in influence and rather well played. Mandy's heart couldn't help a little flutter. Damn her weakness for men with musical gifts. He wasn't a concert guitarist, but he clearly knew his way around the frets.

Reyes was a much better player than songwriter, though. It wasn't that he had a bad singing voice--it was just ordinary, a plain baritone--it was that he was clearly making up the lyrics as he went. And also Mandy didn't speak a lick of Spanish. She got a couple words, mi amor and, unless she was mistaken, gracias, but other than that, she was clueless. He would sing about half a line, pause, strum thoughtfully, and then continue.

"Ah, dammit," he paused abruptly. "That won't rhyme at all."

He picked up with another rhyme, but there was an audible grimace, as if he had chosen a poor word in pursuit of a complete rhyme. Mandy giggled again, suppressing a loud laugh and trying not to wrench her healing ribs. Yeah, the melody was definitely better than the actual song. He clearly hadn't written a thing down beforehand, especially when he tweaked the wrong string and hit a sour note. The recording sighed deeply.

"Perhaps I will not send you a translation after all," his voice said. "I need to revise this. But I wanted to share. After all, I am told that all the best women cause men to break into song. I could not ask for a more wonderful muse, even if I am a terrible musician and a worse lover. I will try. Just for you."

Mandy smiled faintly as she archived the recording. It was a sweet gesture, that was for sure. And she could safely say that no one had ever tried to serenade her before. She had the strangest feeling that if he were here, she’d ask him to keep working on that song just so she could sit and listen to him, to be content with the knowledge that he was right there, leaned back in a chair, singing to her. Her chest warmed with the thought that someone thought her worth a song.

She checked her notifications--one last message, dated two days ago. She drew as deep a breath as she could manage and opened it.

Mi estrella,

I have sent you lighthearted emails to buy myself time to think this one through. You know by now that I am terrible with deep feelings, or at least with expressing them. If I were not, I would have written you back all those weeks ago.

If I have not said it already, I'm sorry. Actually, I will say it again and again until you're sick of hearing it and you finally tell me to shut up. I was so frightened to let you into my life that I shut you out entirely.

Have I said all this already? Never mind. It's worth repeating.

I saw your feelings for me, and I ran the opposite direction because you saw me without all my code names and schemes and I was terrified. Never mind that I looked at you and it was like truly waking up in this galaxy, not just being thawed. Do you remember the smell of the air after it would rain on Earth? How it was hard to take a deep breath because it smelled so strange, but it was so fresh and pure and wonderful that you couldn't help it? That was how I fell in love with you.

I love you, Amanda Ryder. When I think of you, I see you smiling at me with the Kadara sunset making your hair glow like amber. I think of your arms around me, and I cling to whatever made you default to kissing me as a distraction. I think of the scent of your skin and the taste of your lips, of the way you would consume my entire world just by walking into Tartarus.

If I have lost all that because of my own fear and carelessness with your heart, then I beg your mercy. If I cannot have you, at least let me have your forgiveness. Stay my execution, because losing you would be death enough.

I am not used to pouring myself out like this. If you could see me, you would know I am shaking just typing the words. But your team called me to say you were badly injured today. I am more afraid of losing you to death than I am of breaking down my own barriers to give you everything I have.

I have had my failures and shortcomings. I am not as good a man as I should be, but I am better than I was. I know this isn't enough to heal the rift between us, but perhaps it is a good footbridge.

You have consumed me, body and soul.

Yes, I have watched a romance vid. Or two. Please do not let it get around.

Yours, utterly and completely, Reyes

All hope of stifling her tears to protect her ribs evaporated as the tears from earlier rushed back. Mandy sobbed, not quite with abandon but nowhere near as careful as her previous giggles. Oh my God. He loves me. He loves me, he loves me. Of course, he could still have been lying. But it would take a mountebank even more devious than Reyes to go to all this trouble of convincing someone of his love, only to rip it away again. This was more of the same delicate vulnerability that he had shown that night on the docks.

I wanted to be someone.

You're someone to me.

He had been. Maybe he could be again. There were a lot of maybes, and there was a lot of hurt, but he was right. This was a footbridge.

"SAM," Mandy wept softly. "Call Lexi back. I may need her to fix me up again. And... and call Reyes. Tell him I want to see him when he gets back."

"At once. Should I tell him anything else?"

Mandy drew a shuddering breath as she archived the message.

"Tell him he's a crappy singer."

#steph writes #fanfic #mass effect andromeda #me:a #amanda ryder #reyes vidal #f!ryder x reyes

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pharaohfontain · 4 years

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This I leave for you my readers to decide, read till the end and make up your mind, the corona virus is a pandemic that is claiming many lives but if we should analyze the steps our so called governments are taking to “Protect” it’s citizens, many actions raise red flags once juxtaposed to the book of revelation in the bible.

Are we looking at the end of days? Is this the time of the infamous tribulation? Have the four horsemen of the apocalypse begun their ride?

Now more than ever in history there is greater possibility for the entire world to be subjugated under a one world rule and one world system.

For an anti-christ to exist it is indeed necessary for the entire world to be merged into one government, one currency, one mindset and of cause one leadership.

For the longest time the governments of the world has worked very hard to make sure that they prep the world for this scenario, hence movement were created through which every country of the world MUST belong or be isolated and sanctioned.

The UNITED NATIONS is a body that was created as a module to what the new world order is to be, the UNITED NATIONS has pushed every form of wicked agenda known to man and have pretended to be defenders of the peace while their true motives remain depopulation and eugenics through UN AGENDA 21 now AGENDA 2030, one world currency, one world government and one world religion.

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Through the UNITED NATIONS the elites and power players of our world have taken steps to achieve this world government, only through which something like a one world leader can exist. They have worked tirelessly and I must admit, the wise men and women, sages, mages, prophets and people of power who fight on the side of the common man have been finally checkmated and we can only behold the dawn of a new age, the New World Order.

You must be wondering, how does this concern the corona virus?

Since the corona virus there have been many deaths but there has also been a visible global police state and a rising emphasis by our banks to stop using cash and only use online payment systems. As this virus we will realize that every country, every citizen will give up more and more of their rights by what the government will term “necessary measures to combat the virus”.

If you want to control people in this day and age, control the cash, this can not be possible in the short term without the factor and threat of the corona virus. Once they are able to get majority of our transactions online, the implementation of a one world currency will merely be a change in sign and all our banks who take orders from the “WORLD BANK” will have no choice than to concur with orders given.

I am in Ghana, these are text messages from banks taking measures to ensure that financial transactions be mostly online:

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This effort to avoid cash will be something that will be hammered across Africa as we are the only place where implementing a cashless economy is impossible in the short term. With the factor of the corona virus getting people to go cashless will only rely on how much you can put the fear of the pandemic in the masses.

People should remember that physical cash may be the only power the commoner has against the tyranny of a corrupt government, should we all place our finances into a digital structure, whoever controls that structure controls our lives. Our finances can then be turn off automatically if barely have opinions that goes against the motion of those in power, we have seen the corruption across Africa, we MUST NEVER ALLOW A PURELY DIGITAL ECONOMY, tyranny will be the order of the day and with such power under the thumb of the world leader who will be the antichrist, I hope you see how easy it will be for him or her to subjugate the masses of the world.

A STRANGE FACT ABOUT CORONAVIRUS and its NUMERICAL SYMBOLOGY

Oscarine Mbikulu

I was surfing the web when I came across a post on instagram from this very intelligent Congolese sister Oscarine Mbikulu @tataoscapro on Instagram, she created a post in which she calculated the numerical meaning of the word CORONA, I was intrigued but in this section I will take it a bit further, even beyond numeral equivalence.

Before I take it further I below is a numerical equivalence of corona virus:

Now what does the word CORONA mean? Corona simply means the Spanish word for crown.

From what we know in the bible, the beast with seven heads in the bible that represents the antichrist, is a beast that is noted for the amount of crowns that it had on its heads. Is it a coincidence that Corona can be turned easily into 666 in numeric equivalence or english gematria? Is it also a coincidence that we have both 666 and Crown in the same word? What are the odds?

With all that has been said and how they easily go hand in hand, we are to take this as just another conspiracy theory or are we as human beings to sit up and understand that the ground is being pulled from beneath us.

One thing I can not tell for sure is if this is the end of the world, No one can establish such a fact for sure but what I know is that if we sit silent and blindly trust these people in power they will lead us to a world where freedom of all kinds, privacy and even the ability to address yourself as an individual is lost.

God won’t do for men what men can do for ourselves, if we allow ourselves to be locked in this horrific brave new world scenario, we will have to by ourselves fight and lose too many to be free of the tyranny as well.

There is still hope, come together and decide your fates now.

Referenced Articles:

Coronavirus: Was the deadly plague predicted by the Bible?

The United Nations wants a one-world government in less than twelve years.

Secretary-General’s remarks at the World Government Summit with Q&A.

United Nations Proposes New “Global Currency”

One-World Church Expected This Year

CORONA VIRUS = 666, ANTI-CHRIST & NEW WORLD ORDER; FACT OR FICTION? This I leave for you my readers to decide, read till the end and make up your mind, the corona virus is a pandemic that is claiming many lives but if we should analyze the steps our so called governments are taking to "Protect" it's citizens, many actions raise red flags once juxtaposed to the book of revelation in the bible.

#antichrist #Corona Virus #Covid19 #end game #UN

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mosmindmanifested · 5 years

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The Illuminati!?!?!?!?

What has now become a ubiqutous meme, 'The Illuminati' is a term used to describe an international and underground group of super-villians bent on world domination and human enslavement. They are famously associated with world political leaders, famous music artists, bankers and other members of society with high levels of authority, power, or influence. The Illuminati has become a blanket term, encompassing all possible secret societies, or potential for clandestine groups of individuals with ill intent for the public at large. I am here today declare myself one of the 'crazy' conspiracy theorist that buys in to the potential of such a movement being true. One thing I like to do when assesing a conspiracy theory, is to try to understand the motivations behind its possible existence. As Henry Kissinger, famous war criminal and Machiavellian political leader under the Nixon administration would say: 'Power is the greatest aphrodisiac'. Control over others has been a prominent theme since the dawn of human civilization. Any great empire that has ever existed has had a expedient slave caste that was tasked to labour, servitude and, at times, complete subjection to the will of the ruling hegemon. The most egregious example that has been branded into the consciousness of the masses through hollywood influence is... you guessed it... the trans-atlantic slave trade; where West African merchants willing offered there Spanish commerce associates, the bodies and minds of their fellow West Africans. However, at the height of the industrial age, men like Edwards Bernays (nephew of Sigmund Freud and father of the Public Relations firm), and Joseph Goebbells (head of Nazi propoganda), with their keen understanding of human psychology, came to the stunning understanding that human beings yeild more productivity when they willingly engage in an action as opposed to when they are force. These wizards then went to work on using media to manipulate the masses and to manufacture the consent of an otherwise civilized public, to engage in the most anti-social behaviour. Stop and think about it for a moment. How on earth did Nazism become a thing? The easy and completely foolish assumption is to lump all of them into the category of 'evil', and dismiss their actions as a by-product of that evil. Many of these 'evil' Nazi's were regular people in their past lives; fathers, teachers, statesmen, brothers, artists, pillars of their communities. This is testament to the power of mass psychology and propoganda. It is no wonder that many of the key minds behind the Nazi movement were extradited to the United States where they were granted asylum. Someone must have been admiring the artistry behind the movement. Spaning fron the mid 1950s to late 60s, research into mass psychology and mind control continued in the very nation I call home, Canada. At the university of McGill, under the guise of a CIA intelligence project, subjects were given undisclosed amount of LSD6 and were subject to various trials that were aimed at creating a heightened suggestive state, and creating a docile mind-controlled being. This project was known MK-ULTRA. Its alumni include a famous test subject, Theodore J. Kaczynski 'The Unibomber', a domestic terrorist who would mail deliver pipe bombs to unsuspecting U.S. citizens. Intelligence agencies seem to have a keen interest on controlling the human mind and subjegating the human body. But why? What exactly do they have in store for us? Attaining higher profit margins is a zero sum game, and when you've already accumulated billions, what drives the insatiable lust to continue? What is the end game of an intelligence agency who wants to strip away autonomy of its citizens? Here is where things get weird. This is where I lose my faithfully rational audience that is unwilling to entertain the possibility of what I am about to say. I do not ask you to suspend your disbelief, and if at any moment, what I am about to say sounds too outlandish to entertain, feel free to stop reading at any moment. You see, I do not think the controlling elite is being motivated by rational means. I do not believe the Nazi regieme, or the communist movements figure headed by Mao and Stalin (120 million plus estimated deaths between them), was motivated by political gain or power. I believe there is an ontological battle going on, one that supercedes human wants, desires and ambitions. The battle between being and non-being. The battle between life and death. Darkness and light. Good and evil. Heaven and hell. You see, these underground groups are death cults. They venerate human degradation, strife, hardship, toil, death, war, self-destruction, and everything antithetical to human life and prosperity. They create 'agents of chaos' by self-replication. Through ritual abuse and trauma of the young, they are able to fashion the minds of their offspring to harbour and propogate this malevolent ethos. It was done to them when they were young. Media hints at this. How many stories have you heard of psychopathic serial killers and mass murders who faced traumatic upbringings. Of course, this does not suffice for a justification for their actions, but it truly represents and possible explaination. Trauma is cyclical. Hurt people hurt people, and through a program of traumatic abuse, new generations of degenerate and maladapted youth enter society. Look at the Jeffrey Epstein situation that has overrun the media right now, a powerful financial player who procured under-aged youth to be sex slaves for his wealthy business and political friends. On further examination on the island he would fly his clients out to, you notice some peculiar landmarks: a temple, underground tunnel systems, etc. Members of this death cult are obssesed with youth. They recognize an innocence and potentiality in them that they themselves were stripped of, and in an acts of pathological envy, go to unspeakable measures to make sure that these children are as malleable to their influence as possible. Members of this death cult are motivated by theological motives. It is not uncanny for these people to organize around specific dates and times to conduct elaborate rituals in service of pagan dieities. (For a dramatic rendition of this depravity, I suggest you watch visionary director Stanley Kubricks swan song 'Eyes Wide Shut', fittingly titled might I add). They claim to communicate with off world intelligences that collaborate in their organized efforts to influence mass culture and the global society at large. I suggest you youtube 'cremation of care' ceremony. They are the enemies of humanity in human form. A snake eating its own tail; devouring those that they depend upon. I house the opinion that their fractured mental states, as a result of meticulous abusive efforts from parents or gaurdians, completely destroys their sense of self, and like in the case of the clinical narcissist, they function through performative emotion and expression. But what if a regular folk, not brought up in such nightmarish circumstances, wanted to participate in such a system, and reap the rewards of being a part of it? In comes ritual intiation. You must sell your soul. You must go on record committing the worst crime possible, to the most innocent victim possible, so that you are now bound to a state of obedience and secrecy. We all have heard of absurd gang/mafia rituals that initates have to perform to gain the trust and respect of their fellow members. These include but are not limited to: killing a rival gang member, killing an innocent civilian, cannibalism, acts of sadism, sexual abuse of another, being sexually abused by senior members and the list goes on. The same principal applies here. If you want to be a part of this network, you're going to have to make some sacrifices. I wish this type of activity was just in movies, but movies, as dramatic as they may be, have to take their influence from somewhere. What might be more disturbing, is just how commonplace this behaviour is. It is not isolated to a specific political or economic class, it is not bound to only certain countries and geographical locations. I can garuntee you, anywhere there are humans living in large cities, this network is alive and ready. So why aren't we aware of this? Why does the common pedestrian not house this information? Because ignorance is bliss. To become aware of such a grim reality would shatter whatever worldview you hold dear. The pain, the confusion, and the terror that such an insight would bring could not be withstood by most, and in an attempt to protect ourselves from such discomfort, we will do whatever it takes to guard our worldview, even if it is completely in contrast to reality. To know the truth would mean you would have you would have to entertain the possibility of being wrong. Can your fragile ego handle that? To know the truth would entail a modicum of responsibility. How will you live your life in the wake of this information? I do not blame you for being unaware. How can I? Had it not been for my unique experiences and encounters, I would not be subject to such information. But I can blame you for shutting it out. I can blame you for your lack of curiosity, your inability to entertain alternative possibilties, and your coward attempts at maintaining the status quo. Wake the fuck up. Look around you. Something is going on. There is a world out there that parallels our day-to-day activities, and whether you're conscious of it or not, it is playing a part in shaping the world you participate day-in and day-out. Namaste

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travelworldnetwork · 5 years

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By Emma Cooke

1 February 2019

The buildings of Playa d’en Bossa and San Antonio were boarded up, but as we cruised down Ibiza’s pine tree-lined roads in a 1960s Mustang, it didn’t feel like the off-season. Caroline Lilliehook, co-owner of the car and of Mustang Adventures, Ibiza’s first vintage Mustang car-rental business, was in the driver’s seat and we were on our way to discover rock ‘n’ roll in the sleepy, rolling hills of the island. Or rather, unearth it. “Rock ‘n’ roll is how the music scene got going in the first place on Ibiza,” Lilliehook said. “But most people have forgotten that.”

Ibiza has long been an island for the outcast and non-conforming, from a diaspora of creatives first fleeing Francisco Franco’s Spain in 1936, to hippies throughout the ‘60s chasing the magnetic vibrations of Es Vedra island. Intrigued by how this history transformed into Europe’s wildest party scene, I’d badgered Lilliehook for stories over a tapas lunch. Just how did Ibiza become the go-to place for partygoers, I wondered? It turned out the answer is rock ‘n’ roll. “But you’ll have to go to Pikes Hotel to find out more,” she said. “That’s where it started.”

View image of Ibiza has long been an island for the outcast and non-conforming (Credit: Credit: Emma Cooke)

You may also be interested in: • The oldest song in the world • The world’s secret club of explorers • Where head-banging meets tradition

Ibiza’s history is littered with rock-star stories: German singer-songwriter Nina Hagen married here in 1987 in a punk wedding that lasted two days. In 1977, Eric Clapton was rumoured to have almost died in a shipwreck as he was arriving here on his boat with George Harrison. But everything always seems to lead back to Pikes – the hotel nestled in the hills overlooking San Antonio where Wham! recorded their Club Tropicana video; that hosted Freddie Mercury’s infamous 41st birthday party; and where Mercury stayed prior to his iconic Ku Club performance with Montserrat Caballé, the famous Spanish opera singer. Legend has it the performance rehearsal was held there, though, like much of the decade, the details are fuzzy.

The hotel takes its name from Tony Pike, a British-born Australian, former Navy sailor and international playboy who came to Ibiza in 1978 post a 48-hour party. On the recommendation of a friend, Pike boarded a Spanish ferry, got off in Ibiza – and decided to stay. A listing for a 500-year-old finca (estate) near San Antonio soon caught his eye; the name was Can Pep Toniet, meaning ‘the property of little Tony’. Who could resist such obvious fate?

Rock ‘n’ roll is how the music scene got going in the first place on Ibiza

Essentially derelict, with no water, electricity or sanitation, over the next few years Pike built his five-room hotel from the ground up, using a jackhammer to put in the infamous pool and illegally tapping into a government generator for electricity.

As the 1980s began, Ibiza was in the throes of its first flush of tourism. Pacha, Amnesia and Club Ku had opened, and rumours of Ibiza’s uncrowded beaches and rolling hills had spread quickly on the breeze. The former capital of the hippie movement was on the cusp of change. For Pike, that change came in 1983, when Simon Napier-Bell, the manager of Wham!, decided to shoot the group’s new single ‘Club Tropicana’ at the hotel. The video saw Pike making a cameo as a bartender, George Michael floating in the pool, and the cementing of both Ibiza and Pikes Hotel as the party destination to be. For a whole decade, you couldn’t say ‘hedonism’ on Ibiza without including Pikes Hotel in the same breath.

‎Andy McKay and Dawn Hindle, the current owners of Pikes, agree: “There’s not a rock ‘n’ roll hotel in the world that couldn’t say that Pikes competes with them for the top spot.”

View image of For a whole decade, you couldn’t say ‘hedonism’ on Ibiza without including Pikes Hotel in the same breath (Credit: Credit: Emma Cooke)

The pair has been running the hotel for eight years since the legendary Tony Pike passed on the baton to them. Originally, they came to the island in 1994 to set up the fiercely popular Manumission club nights that defined Ibiza’s party scene throughout the ‘90s, ending in 2009. “We knew Tony from back then,” they explained.

“But as we got into the millennium, DJ and club culture was just so boring and the music wasn’t changing. I felt like we were treading water as an industry,” McKay said. So in 2005 they launched Ibiza Rocks, a series of live concerts featuring artists like Kasabian, Arctic Monkeys and The Prodigy, bringing a rush of live acts back to the island for the first time in years.

“Suddenly we were bringing a lot of international bands to the island and a lot of them wanted hotels – we didn’t want to lose the atmosphere we were creating by putting them in some faceless hotel.

“Pikes’ legacy was built around how all the artists used to stay there, and we suddenly went, ‘wait a minute, if we’re bringing all the talent and all the rock stars back, shouldn’t we just rent it?’.”

View image of Pikes Hotel became the go-to spot for rock ‘n’ roll legends like Freddie Mercury and Wham! (Credit: Credit: Emma Cooke)

They cut a deal, and five years later, they bought it. Now, the hotel does its history proud, complete with a flamingo-pink tennis court and decor that includes beds on the front lawns. They’ve even transformed the main suite back into the social area it originally was – although now it’s a tiny, vibrant nightclub rather than an ‘80s restaurant and bar.

“We wanted it to be the best hotel in the world if you’re a rock star,” said McKay. “It was about returning the hotel to the glory of what it was.”

While McKay and Hindle have been reinvigorating Pikes, Ibizan local and hotelier, Diego Calvo has been expanding that spirit across the rest of the island. With slicked-back hair and a private collection of vintage cars, Calvo seems to be the modern-day answer to Pike. “Since I was 17, I’ve been dedicated to two passions: the hotel industry and rock ‘n’ roll,” he said. “The things that have influenced my life have also influenced the hotels: ‘80s movies; Route 66 roadside motels; the art deco architecture from South Beach Miami; classic cars. I want to take my hotels to another level, so they’re not just places to sleep in but also spaces to socialise in, places where things happen.”

View image of Since the 1970s, Ibiza has been known for its music and party scene (Credit: Credit: Everynight Images/Alamy)

He’s also well aware of the island’s free spirit: his parents moved here during Franco’s reign, and he grew up in ‘70s Ibiza.

Nowhere is this more evident than in Dorado, one of Calvo’s five Ibizan hotels. A fantasy of teal and white that’s set on the seemingly endless Playa d’en Bossa coastline, it’s entirely themed around the history of rock ‘n’ roll. Each of the hotel’s 14 suites is dedicated to a gold-certified record. As we walked into the Bob Dylan Suite, Blowin’ in the Wind automatically started up on a vinyl player, and a glance in the bathroom turned up retro microphones for showerheads. “Marky Ramone, the Ramones drummer, stayed at Dorado two years ago, and of course, he had to stay in the suite of his good friend Debbie Harry,” Calvo name-dropped.

Ibiza was a live music island long before it was a dance-music island

Just as McKay and Hindle started in the party scene, so does Calvo come from a music background. The same year the pair were setting up Ibiza Rocks, Calvo was launching his own party and promotion business, Rock Nights, focusing on rock ‘n’ roll parties held in small, grassroots venues. All three champion live music, and all three agree it’s forgotten – but far from gone.

“There’s a huge live-music heritage on this island, whether that’s Pink Floyd or Jimi Hendrix,” McKay said. “The idea that it’s just a dance music island is a bit ridiculous. Ibiza was a live music island long before it was a dance-music island. But when dance music broke America, that brought a massive surge for all things electronic. By the mid-2000s, Ibiza had really, really forgotten live music.”

View image of Andy McKay and Dawn Hindle have kept the Pikes Hotel’s music legacy alive with their Ibiza Rocks live concerts (Credit: Credit: Everynight Images/Alamy)

This has been helped along by the surprising fact that, technically, live music has been illegal in parts of the island for some time. Ibizan law states noise limiters must be placed on all sound equipment, something that is difficult to do on live instruments. In early 2018, further legislation added that music must not exceed 65 decibels, a move that brought Ibizan DJs into the firing range, too.

“Musicians could only play through a venue’s PA system resulting in ridiculously low decibel levels,” Calvo said. However, after demonstrations throughout 2018, the law has been recently changed to allow live performance between 13:00 and 23:00. Ibizan rock ‘n’ roll, it seems, is just about ready to be remembered again.

“Ibiza has been invaded over the years by this VIP, global culture and it’s become a very big place in a sort of ubiquitous way that’s not specific to Ibiza. We’re now beginning to see that levelling out and declining, and you are finding different kinds of Ibiza experiences are just exploding. The rock ‘n’ roll spirit of Ibiza is getting stronger again,” McKay enthused.

View image of According to McKay and Hindle, the rock ‘n’ roll attitude is what keeps music scenes like Ibiza’s alive (Credit: Credit: Emma Cooke)

And indeed, clubbing doesn’t have the cache it once had, both on Ibiza and across Europe. Just ask Club 18-30, Thomas Cook’s notorious clubbing package holidays, who found that out last year when the brand was retired. But this doesn’t mean Ibiza’s party is over. Rather, in the face of a growing backlash against mass tourism, partying on Ibiza seems to be reinventing itself again; directing its energy into different channels as old ones close.

For McKay and Hindle this comes close to being a creed: “We don’t follow the money, we follow the energy. There’s usually a moment in this kind of work where the money keeps going up but the energy disappears. When the energy goes, we switch. Too many people on this island forget that the energy is what’s important. In many ways, we’re chasing rock ‘n’ roll. The rock ‘n’ roll attitude is what keeps scenes alive.”

As for the now-84-year-old ‘Tony’, the man who started it all? Grab a drink at Pikes next time you’re in Ibiza and maybe you’ll find him next to you at the bar. “He’s still regularly here too late and up too long,” McKay grinned.

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BBC Travel – Adventure Experience

#Discover - Experience

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changspain · 7 years

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Going out, but not out out

Barcelona beach is long and picturesque, looking along its boardwalk the hordes of lounging bodies are framed by grand red mountains at one end and a huge glass hotel at the other. We walked towards the enormous hotel and guessed how much a penthouse room would cost for one night and what perks you would get. As we were all financially stricken the conversation soon moved to what self-deprecating act we would perform for one night of luxury – a recurring topic of conversation throughout our trip was how much of our dignity we would lose for what gain and it turns out I would do essentially anything for £50. We passed a volleyball court and were too nervous to ask to play but justified our decision by stating that the players weren’t to our standard. At the hotel, which had a huge W on it like Wayne Towers, we turned and headed back along the boardwalk to find a spot to sit and swim. We passed a nude part of the beach and looked at the naked Spaniards with curiosity and a sort of respect. I do not know whether the section of the beach with the most nude people was the nude part or they just naturally gravitated to each other. Walking by was like watching an episode of Naked Attraction[1], there was a huge range of body shapes particularly between two men – one was stacked and had a massive dick and the other was slightly podgy and had what I can only describe as a child’s penis. I didn’t point this out to the others because saying that somebody has a small penis is the hallmark of somebody who has a small penis themselves. We bought some cheap beers at a corner store and settled on a patch of bare beach next to two American college students and an extremely fit topless woman, in our defence we didn’t notice her until we had sat down. Seamus had bought a 40oz and had probably poured away a quarter “for the dead homies” before we actually sat down but at 30 cents a litre the homies can have it. We drank and listened to the two American college students call over a random girl and start chirpsing her. Slowly their conversation became dominated by the hotter American and the random woman as the podgy ginger American stared solemnly into the blue waves, wondering where all the time went. The main American had an interesting flirting technique – he asked questions in with such rapid speed the woman barely had time to answer like he was on a speed dating evening and another random girl would appear any second. Also, because the questions shot out at such quantity they were often vacuous and nonsensical, he asked “Do you like travelling?” which seemed pretty fucking obvious considering she was on holiday in Barcelona. This was followed by “What is your favourite sangria?” which I didn’t hear the answer to as our own random woman sat down opposite to us stating she was tired. I thought perhaps the whole beach was a mass speed dating session and I perked up ready to ask my own meaningless questions. Unfortunately, it became clear she was only trying to sell a bar crawl to us. Me and JUGB became bored and laid back as Ivy took the brunt of the sales pitch, she caught our attention when she said that it was 4 euros more expensive for boys than for women – it made complete sense but was still entertaining for us to take an ultra-liberal stance against the apparent sexism. She clearly believed she may have had 5 prospective punters as she panicked slightly as her sales pitch was being blown wide open by these irrational tourists. She fell back on some stereotype about her being Russian or something but we had become bored by her again. Me and JUGB got up and went to the sea and dove into the temperate, salty Mediterranean. A rogue volleyball smashed me in the head and out into the sea, I swam out further to get it and I found out I couldn’t swim to save my life, I looked back at the 20m to shore and thought I may need JUGB to rescue me which I’m sure wasn’t far off a few girls’ fantasy but for me would have been highly embarrassing. I made it back but probably looked like a floundering spider struggling to not fall down the plughole of a shower.[2] I dragged my body out the sea then back to where Ivy, Luke and Seamus were sat, saleswoman of the year had left but was soon replaced by another offering a different deal but we sent them away. Behind us some Dutch 30 year olds had started kicking a ball around and I went to join. The game was very lawless and I gradually worked out we had to vaguely keep the ball in the air in the most inefficient way possible, any sort of safe touch was frowned upon but smashing it in the air was applauded. I was instantly named Crouchy due to my lanky pale physique, apparently this is still good chat in Holland. The game was to a relatively high standard and I got chatting to one of players and found out he was an Arsenal fan which didn’t sit well with me I was a Spurs fan, I told him this expecting some more 4/10 banter but he replied saying he also loved Spurs. Luke called me away from the game and I left more bemused about football than I had ever been before. We walked down the boardwalk back to a Metro station with plans to get bottles of sangria and smash the clubs.

We picked up some Don Simon for such an unbelievable price the store owner may as well thrown in his eldest daughter as well. Our particular hostel did not allow drinking inside its walls[3] so we ran into the room to get changed and grab some more money. The male half of the Spanish shaggers was still in bed and I doubted he had moved at all that day – his life of lying in bed and waiting for his girlfriend to come back and have sex seemed pretty cooshti but I didn’t have time to throw him some quizzical looks as we had sangria to attend to. We drank the sangria in double cupped plastic beakers with heaps of ice in the street whilst listening to the weirdest songs I could find on Ivy’s iPhone[4]. We then headed for a cheap tapas bar the receptionist at the hostel had recommended us, I had developed an imaginary narrative where the reception girls were all intensely in love with me simply because they told us not to buy a tourist bus ticket because it was a rip off, in my eyes that translated to true love. Due to this relationship, I was confident she had sent us to the best tapas bar in Barcelona, but it turned out it was maybe 50m down the road and she was simply trying to get rid of me. We had to queue for a table but sat at the bar and had some beers. One thing that I’m sure annoys every English person in Spain is the way they pour beer, essentially with massive head. It would be acceptable if the head remained but it always instantly dissipated leaving a tear evoking gap at the top of the beer like a ghost has swigged a bit and evaporated. This phenomenon is especially frustrating to me and JUGB who both work or have worked in pubs.[5] Me, Luke and Seamus all ordered the vegan hamburgers whereas Ivy and JUGB ordered a highly eclectic mix of tapas. Our hamburgers came and were decent for the price we paid but weren’t anything to write home about, however 3 sangrias deep and 3 more beers on top we couldn’t have cared less. Meanwhile, JUGB and Ivy had received some delicious patatas bravas (that I also promptly ordered after tasting theirs) then a single croquette that looked awfully lonely on an empty plate – they romantically split it. There was then a long, increasingly anxious wait for the rest of their food and 30 minutes into this wait they asked where the rest was, the waitress stared at them blankly and explained the kitchen was shut. Panic ensued and the kitchen whipped up some sort of spicy pork dish but on closer inspection we found it to be entirely fat and inedible, JUGB offered the theory that perhaps that’s how the Spanish liked it – but we all knew they had just thrown whatever was in the bin onto a spicy bowl of tomato. I prodded the gelatinous blob and turned to see Seamus asleep in his chair, clutching his tote bag – a portrait that would very much become a theme of the trip.

We sent Seamus on his way home and headed towards the clubbing area of Barcelona that was perhaps a 30 minute walk. Ivy and Luke were craving some fags and insisted on stopping at every corner shop and asking if they had any, I didn’t understand why they wanted some pre-emptively or why no shops actually stocked them. They darted off part way down an avenue and sourced one, probably out of a bin or man in a drench coat. As we reached the clubbing district we were inundated with offers of ice cold beer for a euro by man clutching packs of Estrella. I thought that if we were here another night we could have played a drinking game which consisted of shotgunning every beer that is offered to you – even if you didn’t drink anything previously you probably wouldn’t make it to a club which in my books is the criteria of a successful night. I ushered every salesman away because I wasn’t really drinking and for a euro the beers were a rip off when you could spit on the face of a supermarket employee in exchange for a bottle of premium beer elsewhere. I had received a tip from a friend that a fun, cheap night out was Jamboree and this was consistent with other suggestions we received from various locals so our first port of call was Jamboree. We arrived and were greeted by large neon red letters and a dark entrance shrouded in velour curtains and burgundy rope barrier, I thought for a moment that this had all been a stitch up and Jamboree was an exceptionally boisterous strip club. This thought was quickly destroyed when I spied the customary conceited ticket girl sat on her throne of bureaucracy. I am yet to find anybody more unreasonable than the attractive girls sat at the entrances of clubs, I rarely remember the ticketing girls exist as they lie in the liminal space between the gutter-thug bouncer and the void of the dancefloor but whenever I attempt to communicate with them I am treated to a glare that very effectively conveys the phrase: “I’m stamping you with this random logo, or you’re fucking off. Either way - I don’t give a shit.”. The other part of my tip was that Jamboree was free but the bouncer quickly explained it wasn’t. I don’t know whether it had been free when my friend went or whether she had got in free because her and her four friends were all fit[6] – I heavily suspect the latter. We stepped out the queue and back into the clubbing plaza.[7] Me and Luke had made an ultimatum on the way down that if the club cost any money we would go home, but something between JUGB’s bubbly attitude and Luke shotgunning a beer in competition with Ivy persuaded us that 5 euros entry was a reasonable offer. I was the most sober and therefore the most unwilling to go in but I am sure there is some sort of mathematical coefficient between amount drunk and accuracy of value assessment, in the daytime offer me a 1kg of chips smothered in cheese for £3 and I’d probably rather blow my brains out but the same deal 27 beers deep and I’ll snap your hand off – clearly to JUGB and Ivy 5 euros was the deal of the century.

We re-joined the queue and I had to face the smug smile as the same bouncer we had previously turned away in disgust to. I then had to depart with a crisp 5 euro note that was snaffled up by the girl on the till, I have seen more personality in a Tesco self-service checkout machine than that girl had but at the same time she had probably seen more original chat from a brick wall than I possessed. We headed downstairs and to the dancefloor, it was maybe half full and I vividly recalled the moment the ticket girl snatched my money out my hand and felt a grave misjustice had occurred. I couldn’t decide whether a snide Trip Advisor review or a letter to the Industrial Tribunal of Fair Transactions was the best course of action but JUGB interrupted this thought saying that he was going to the bar for a drink. On the main dancefloor was a couple erotically grinding on each other, who I had to check were not the couple from the hostel, and three drunk Australian girls. There were also the regular rogue men who had stumbled out of some bar crawl, enticed by the femme fatale from the beach earlier, and had found themselves in a club playing music 10 years too modern for them. I began my standard ironic dancing routine of whipping and performing ridiculously large, yet careful foot and arm movements. This was relatively well received by my fellow clubbers and the Australian girls curiously watched me from afar, this attention vanished when me and Luke started taking pictures with a large fake Hennessy logo located near some seating. The music was mainly popular R&B but not the good kind and the DJ separated the Drake that wasn’t Drake with the J-Dilla horn that constantly tricked me into thinking he was about to play something from Donuts, I thought ‘Last Donut of the Night’ would be a fittingly melancholic song to the motley crew I saw before me. Gradually, the club filled up but our neighbours on the dancefloor remained the same except for the introduction of a camp Asian man who kept crouching very low and cocking his head to one side and cupping his ear whilst pointing at women, I didn’t understand what it meant but his fans fucking loved it. Me and Luke went to the bar to get some water, I accepted they probably wouldn’t give us a free glass because we weren’t absolutely smashed but it was worth a go. I stood next to a 40 year old Spanish man who kept pushing into me then smirking and staring at me when I looked at him, I thought about carefully explaining to him how ridiculous it was for him to be here in excruciating and depressing detail but ended up saying: “Y’alright there mate?”. He didn’t answer. He became less verbose when his girlfriend/wife came over and dragged him out the queue for some sort of telling off – perhaps I was the lame one and he was operating on several levels of irony higher than me. The bar staff predictably refused us our water and we headed upstairs to find Ivy and JUGB. I hadn’t realised there was an upstairs and preferred its atmosphere, mainly there was no couple rubbing alongside my leg – I got enough of that at my hostel. We danced on a raised stage for a bit then went back downstairs then decided it was time to leave, it was about 3am but the club was still filling up but we were all shattered. On the walk home we waved away 138 beer sellers and several taco sellers. The tacos were tempting but after seeing the fourth man selling the exact same tacos I became more interested in the wholesaler who had a monopoly on the drunk taco market than the potential of buying an actual taco.

When we arrived back at the hostel I sat down on a chair in the communal room to check my messages and drink some water. JUGB came out of our shared room instantly and told me a woman was now sleeping in his bed. It later turned out to be an Algerian woman who had introduced herself earlier that day and I firmly stand by the opinion that she wanted JUGB to join her, the other idea was that she had moved beds to escape the noises of the Spanish couple. Me and JUGB went to the reception and explained the situation to the young guy behind the desk. He said: “This is impossible, you need a bed to sleep in.”, he had hit the nail on the head but his attitude very much implied that this was JUGBs fault – I later told JUGB to be less alluring. The receptionist stormed to our room, slammed on the lights, luckily the Spanish couple weren’t having sex for once, and located him another bed. I too found a different bed, one further away from the Spaniards and fell asleep researching the best way to drive to our campsite tomorrow.

[1] I don’t know where this is a popular reference or an obscure one. Basically, it was a show on Channel4 where you stare at naked people – would recommend.

[2] This often occurs in my shower at home because I never notice them hanging around near the taps. I’m forced to watch helplessly as they battle with the inevitable, I tend to step out the shower before I start developing a metaphor between the spider’s battle and my life.

[3] I know, not a fucking hostel is it.

[4] Wu-Tang Clan and Danny Brown didn’t match the mood of a quiet medieval Spanish street, but neither did our unapologetic English street-drinking.

[5] I have seen someone hung for pouring a bad pint.

[6] Shouts out Mady Dean.

[7] Very much NOT its official name.