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The propeller airplane veered right to complete its half circle turn ahead of landing. The sky, like a carved summer grapefruit revealed its crimson flesh to the island below. Like a painter’s palette the colours continued to interchange from ruby red to sapphire to a warmer saffron. This would be the last sunset I see. 

Forestalling getting struck by the unforgiving East Asian winter (and later the Korean Martial law crisis), I left behind my wooly hat, snood, and pair of gloves and flew to Palawan, Philippines, an archipelago of 7,000 islands. A poorly advertised six hour minivan death transfer later, I arrived to El Nido. East Asia had provided a solitary traveller’s experience. Groups were uncommon and the demographic of traveller were older, timid, and more introverted. Having stepped into my new hostel accommodation for only a few minutes, I could instantly see the tide had changed. Groups. Groups all around. My fears. Vociferous boys, topless at all hours to expose their similarly crimson red burns, and t-shirts oddly wrapped around their foreheads like a beaver-scout who’s outgrown his peers but refuses to advance to higher education. I sat there sweating profusely in my olive green linen shirt pondering how I could too wrap this around my head so someone would speak to me, when suddenly two British girls approached me. 

“You’re the boy in our room.”

“I am, indeed.”

“It’s my birthday.” “It’s her birthday.”

“Oh, I see. Forgive me for not seeing the big badge on your chest! Happy birthday.”

“Would you like to come for dinner with us, it is my birthday?”

A welcoming and kind gesture, I offered my gratitude for inviting me out for dinner. We agreed to reconvene in the lobby in 10 minutes. However, during this period I was engulfed with contemplation. I’d met the girls for a mere two minutes, but I had a feeling to decline the invitation for dinner. I cursed myself for always being the cynic and I descended down the stairs to meet them at the lobby.

The chosen dinner venue was a Japanese restaurant. Oh, to be back with culture, order and respect. The British girls burst through the restaurant door. The inviting ambience is pierced with a “it’s my birthday can we have free shots”. Goodness, we had not even asked for a table yet. Where are your manners, young ladies. The prolonged pronunciation of the final syllable of birthday caused several tables to turn around and frown. Appearing incredibly mortified, I ushered the girls to a table. Over the course of the meal, in which I sat there chagrined for every portion of it, it became quick for me to observe that these weren’t any girls, these were Woooo! Girls. For those who have not seen the US sitcom How I Met Your Mother, a Woooo! girl employ’s a ‘Woo” or similar, which translates to hiding sad secrets beneath their demeanour, in this case, an ex-boyfriend and desire for love. The strange dinner became even stranger when uninvitingly I was asked to see topless photos alongside happy birthday messages from ex-boyfriends. I declined to both, to the shock of these amorous girls. Culture is a funny thing. It’s the customary beliefs, the social forms of one’s society. It does not take long to speak to people around the world to hear they are not often fond of British people. And why? Because they don’t adapt, nor respect other cultures. I’d like to think I am one (of the many) exceptions to the case. An example being, in Japan I’d wait tolerantly for the pedestrian crossing to turn green, even on a side street in the middle of the night. I know back home, a boy waiting for the green light, would give my friend Hugh’s girlfriend the ‘ick’, but being in another country, it’s important to respect their cultures, regardless of your personal perspective or fears of being a walking ‘ick’. Now, not satisfied with their free drink on arrival, the girls pestered and hounded for more free drinks, waving the birthday badge in the air to authoritatively signal their prerogative. The Japanese staff apologised and politely reminded the two, that they had already received a free drink. This wasn’t enough. Oh, no. The birthday girl forced her way to behind the bar and begun to pour herself drinks, leaving the staff stood aghast. At this very moment, I planted my payment on the table, bowed to the staff, and left the restaurant without saying goodbye to the girls. I returned to my room and drew back the curtains to my bed. Maybe being a cynic isn’t that bad after all, I thought. I wouldn’t have endured such a torrid evening. As I quizzed my personality traits, the dormitory door bellowed with fist bangs. I didn’t dare move. Eventually, the culprit realised the unlocked door could be opened without an enclosed fist, and in clambered the two girls. Obnoxious and with no self-awareness, and suggesting some enmity between the pair, tears were shed over ex-boyfriends on birthday nights. A brief apology to having awoken the rest of the room up, and later a short memory leading to a continual of the vocal cries. Whilst I was particularly unbothered by this act, I was startled into fear by the next wail. 

“Where’s RAVI. He SAID he would come for one drink with us.”

I shuddered. Do not move. I needed to brush my teeth but if I was to remain in this bed for the long haul to help avoid the pair, so be it. I decided to watch Scorsese’s Goodfellas as a moment of respite until the two moved on. Realising after an hour and a dozen Joe Pesci murders later that they had not moved, my arm slowly dipped outside of my curtain, grasping the drawstrings of my toiletries bag, and steadily returned to my bed, where the dental task could be completed. British people abroad.

Things returned to normality the next day when a female friend, who had left Pimlico for the first ever time, accidentally walked into my massage room, ripping apart the curtain extravagantly, leaving a muddled and semi-naked me to utter “but, but, but you aren’t my masseuse”. This was followed by a 3-day boat expedition with dysfunctional snorkelling equipment causing suffocation and panic, and long-distance swims from anchored boats to overnight camps on the islands equating to the length of the English Channel. At one stage, the wooden catamaran style boat crashed into the coral. The boat was stuck. Whilst everyone’s fears contagiously spread, I struggled to think of an actor with a defined enough six pack to play me in a Filipino Titanic. Fears were quashed at the realisation we were stuck in about one metered depth of water, about 30 metres from the shore. But it was enough time for me to let it be known, do not let it be Timothy Chamalet. The boat trip had been gutsy and venturous, and I had made a new best friend. His name was Danish best friend Alex. Upon departing the boat we said our emotional sad goodbye, until Danish best friend Alex asked where I was going to next. Siargao, I said. “Me too” Danish best friend Alex pretended, as he booked an egregiously expensive flight. And then the news flooded in. Siargao hit with power outage. No power expected for one month. 

It seemed like Danish best friend Alex and I had got this all wrong. Siargao was a tiny island, with its own tropical climate, and we were arriving during rainy season, in contrast to the rest of the archipelago. It seemed unwise to go, but flights paid had been expensive, and as an area frequently hit by power outages, many businesses on the island had back up generators. We figured it would be copacetic, and nervously continued our voyage to Siargao. 

We arrived, praying our hostel had a back up generator. To our delight they did. It lasted one hour. Despite our initial disappointment, exasperated from sleeping in island huts the past 3 days, the convivial atmosphere provided by the staff made us forget about such things electrical. It was manageable, at first, it seemed. 

Siargao was a surfer’s paradise. Free living, party living, hell, even reckless no helmets living. I was out of place. On my first day a fellow guest approached me following his day’s escapades. 

“Hahahaha heyyyy dude! Are you here for THE surf? How gnarly were those waves today at Cloud 9.”

Not wishing to be a recluse on this island, I responded to prompt a bond, and not to put out our newly born flickering flame of a friendship. 

“Yes, no, absolutely. Great day for it!”

A still look back at me. Say something, something more, surfy.

“Um.. fucking shoot the curl, hang ten, dude.”

“ALRIIIGHTYYY hahahahahahaha.”

My gleeful roommate fist pumped me then sprinted up to the room. Phew. The mask has worked for now. 

The next day the realities of a power outage were further understood, and I learned it was more than just phone chargers that were unavailable. The hostel’s water supply was electrical. Suddenly, there were no working showers, nor functioning flushes. The solution, was a bucket, filled with distilled water, alongside a cup. This would be the apparatus to shower, and flush. The shower room had no lights, and you were to carry a torch into the room with you, before pouring a bucket over your head. The simple thrills of island living I thought. My enthusiasm lasted no more than 3 days. It was by the 3rd day, the torch gave up on the shower ordeal just as I did, and as I poured the bucket over my head in the pitch black, I fell into a deep state of contemplation. My sensitive skin was being wrecked by the lack of clean and reliable water. And everything, everything, smelt of piss.

I left the shower feeling irascible. God forbid anyone who got into my way. I took a left turn to reach my room, and in the corner, precariously waiting, jumped the surfer boy.

“Hahahaha heyyyyyyyy dude. How was THE surf today bro? In the morning on the east side it was kinda nish but-“

“Hold on, I’m going to stop you there. I don’t surf. So, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

A bewildered look back to me. 

“You, you don’t surf?”

Stand firm. 

“I DON’T surf.”

As though Aeolous, the Greek controller of winds had cursed his face to change from a beamed smile to a despaired frown, he marched off, and no word was to be spoken between us again. 

Fond of analogies, I tried to break down this situation. I liked Sudoku. So much, in fact I would undertake several puzzles a day. I imagined I was on a puzzle island, and each day, I would venture to several areas and complete puzzles. I would arrive back at the hostel at the end of each day. 

“Wow! Some great puzzles out there today. I did some real difficult Sudoku ones that required the X-Wing strategy. Which ones did you do today?”

“Haha nice! Sorry, but I don’t really do sudoku, or puzzles. I just relaxed and had a nice time.”

“You don’t, DO sudoku? Why are you on this island. It’s a PUZZLE island. What else is there to do? I can’t believe you don’t do sudoku. Everyone on this island does sudoku. You are so weird.”

Whilst I could then understand the fury against me for my reluctance to embrace this surfing culture, fortunately, I wasn’t alone. My three Norwegian cheerleaders had perfected their tongue out, thumb out, pinky out hand shake. You could always rely on Scandinavians for their directness and honesty. 

I’d enjoyed the Philippines and also the locals, though their obsession with 2010’s pop music was slightly irritating. The likes of Bruno Mars, Miley Cyrus and Maroon 5 were often on repeat, all day, every day, at every venue. I had however found the islands I’d visited washed with Western culture. For the first time this trip, I felt a lack of adventure and less stimulation, and ultimately felt like I had stopped learning. So, I said an early goodbye to the beach parties and woke-fruit-bowl brunch menus (yes I just called a breakfast menu woke, but they refused to cook me an omelette because I missed the breakfast cut-off time by 15 minutes!!!), and I arbitrarily left for Malaysia. Where I then got sick, for multiple days.