THE UNEMPLOYED 3: A Consultant in Kuala Lumpur

it was the wet biryani

a virtual account unlocked for the seeker's liberation of a hostaged last pay as PR 527 poured two cans of beer into a bento box of half-burnt kretek butts  

but online check-in won't budge from a confusing arrival procedure to manage five paid sessions at the Ramada Hotel

and review the Bangkok framework

that was the red shirt

daylight for a night tour 

royal guards throw bolts of wet shoes at a spire and the minaret while the rain waltzed with the twin towers to warm a cold haram dinner in Bukit Bintang

 beer, kaoliang and whiskey

a duel of fish skin and roasted chicken in honor of a departing keisatsu who traded a salted egg shrimp for the mountie's poached fish and a Sarawak love song 

Hanuman is not a beer

she is a proud uncovered breast herding monkeys from Batu Caves into guardians of the Putra Mosque who cover Chinese tourists with the Prime Minister's maroon robes 

a Saturday night fever

it was the masked lady who absorbed all the pheromones in PR 528 for a white lady in the bus who summoned the virus to Baloc with a case of Red Horse on a Sunday night...

THE UNEMPLOYED 2: A Houseband in Bakal 2

The Ironman versus The Waterboy

frozen kappukan, a mummified bluefin tuna, two ancient gurami fused by ice

they melted like beer in the ricefields, like dead heroes after breaking the fast

a duel of software updates for draft application requirements

The Chef is The Dishwasher and The Sweeper

nucleared pinangat, pinapaitan boiled twice, kinilaw embalmed in soy sauce

recycled like a contract for Kuala Lumpur, like an updated CV and Cover Letter

juggling funds for an aircon replacement and credit card payment

The Laundryman and The Marketman

withered amaranth crushed,green brandy canned twice, a job advert goes live

morals and dogma from the checkerboard floor, tales of coitus on a Sunday night

seven portraits of a Phantom Biker in a canvass of creamy tofu and pasta

THE UNEMPLOYED 1: A Volunteer in Bangkok

What I will miss are the paydays
so I settled power and credit card bills with the last one

leaving just enough for a facilitation in Bangkok

   

before the Leaver gets paid, before the KL budget is received, before the lotto jackpot is won

after fixing a leak and a broken gentlemen's agreement. 

There was PITX and failed registrations

the distracting massage parlors in Huai Khwang

but I came for the guilds and homesters at The Palazzo 

for the smoked pork ribs, for the fried crispy pork, for the grilled pork neck

without compensation, with love, and with thanks.

Two more Amaranth shirts disposed

those that wafted of kretek with hints of Hong Thong

like sleep twice crushed by an Old Hag

salt crusted like broiled fish, savory like pork and noodles, tangy like grilled beef 

and the love story of Marx and Lenin. 

The crowd work but I did not shop

the garments are not mine and should be trashed
for a fee of 1,200 baht, for the price of $128

for a glass of tarty white wine, for a shot of spicy whiskey, for three cans of smoky beer

for a bus seat in Pasay's Friday rush hour.

The Shinobi slept before midnight

fridge ransacked, Saturday deleted, and I am free

fifteen good years and one more left for the Grim Reaper  

Red Horse cold as ice, wine red as Chilean blood, kinilaw bitter as goat bile

we will live long and prosper.

THE CITY OF DIAMONDS (and Desserts)

Diamonds are forever but glasses are made from the sands of Cha-am Beach where the squid was fried, the fish steamed, and the crab was flaked and caked as the sun rises from the Gulf of Thailand to fill a chilled mug that formed from a ladle of melted quartz with its liquid golden rays. 

We are diamonds, we sparkle in our own right, we came to Phetchaburi, we plotted the future from the past, and we have desserts for snacks.

The Village 

But before that, I got chased by a pack of dogs as I pursue the monks of Wat Sai Yoi to ask them where will I find pure carbon, and if pizza or Thai food will be more appropriate for the morning alms. 

I should have stopped for a street breakfast, purred like Garfield, ride a horse in the beach or got boosted with a dose of Red Bull but the fried fish head from the seafood barbecue was potent enough to instigate a Bollywood dance showdown until almost midnight.

The Fish Port

I disposed two more Amaranth shirts in a gated high-end resort enclave that would have cost a pouch of 24-carat diamonds to build before the pungent smell of the sea and rotting fish pulled me through narrow alleys into the oracle of Suvannamaccha. 

"Line up your bike in a rocky beach front and a San Phra Phum" said the golden fish, "then visit a kalae house and pose with a boat at the fish landing so you will remember the Thai omelette, gai pad krapow and the beer tower you had for dinner" added the mermaid. 

The Mangrove

On our last day, the oracle revealed the Front Hall to the hidden mangrove forest park where a floating wooden bridge ferry bikers and hikers to the canal lighthouse where blue fishing boats that are all named "Jenny" are moored.

In exchange, we have to ride our bikes through the loose sands of the beach into the temple, to the fish landing, past the crematorium, behind a blue garbage truck, and through quaint neigborhoods to a final dessert of mango and sticky rice.

Convent Road, Yaowarat and Bakal 2

Back in Bangkok, I waited patiently for a crispy pork stall to set up in the streets of Silom, walked out of a street diner in Yaowarat for snubbing my order for fresh oysters then took the train to Phetchaburi, not for the city of diamonds and dessert but for the train to Suvarnabhumi to wash not just my feet but have my first ever airport shower that is costumary for Maundy Thursday.

Good Friday caught me in a red-eye flight to Manila and the bus to Bakal 2, to a feast of reheated leftover food for the only day of the year when mass is not celebrated until Black Saturday and the Harrowing of Hell, the redemption of Globe Rewards, and the resurrection of Easter Sunday which is the last day of my 6th employment contract with Oxfam...  

THE LAST MEETINGS

The pigs have spoken: get roasted or die!

They did both anyway by being skewered on steel pipes then grilled along the sidewalks of La Loma, their tender meat and crispy skin hewn for breakfast at Ping Ping's Restaurant while miles of chitlins were deep fried as deadly snacks of Ryan's Chicharon Bituka and Bulaklak for the last weekly team meetings.    

I shared what could be my last reports.

"A draft declaration on promoting a care economy was submitted to the ASEAN Secretariat in the form of a concept note for the 7th ASEAN IB Forum with final recommendations for the CSO regional forum on JET just before an ambulant feast of tinumis, kalderetang kambing, adobong bibe and tasteless catered food was unleashed by the jueteng lady on St. Joseph's day."

I did what I was requested to do.

"A virtual panel on building spaces for social dialogue on the rights of informal workers in ASEAN discussed an invitation to moderate the ASEAN advocacy training in Bangkok in my personal capacity before undergoing oral prophylaxis for the secret college crush I met at Jollibee where the lead singer of "Luha" watched me sip Australian wine."  

A post-April ToR was also emailed to me after settling St. Joseph's liquor debts with the remaining pieces of broken krupok from Brunei, as crisp as the $100 bill for an upcoming trip to Phetchaburi that was tucked in a 10-kilogram rice pack for Bulan, proceedings that preceded a grave tour of dead presidents+ to atone for snubbing my new Scottish Rites barong tagalog. 

Banawe's Tzu Chi Temple and Wow Toy Museum don't exist on weekends but Ma Mon Luk's original mami and siopao as well as the Maki House's maki-mi are on sale, enough to expose Mario's Caesar salad as an overhyped pile of dressed romaine lettuce and croutuns that is thankfully not included in the outdoor menu of The Village Bar in Phetchaburi.

It will be our first post-pandemic Advocacy and Campaigns Team meeting and my last but it seems that I've got to keep my company email and computer for the monent because I am the Lord of the Trails who disposed Amaranth shirts at hotels and airports... 

THE FIRST INTERVIEW

"What's up?" I was asked.

"A monumental ASEAN declaration will liberate the slaves of unpaid care and domestic work, a breakthrough MOU will propel a just energy transition, and economic justice will be evaluated and shall prevail" I courageously responded.

"So what's going on?" was the follow up question.

"I was examined and interviewed virtually but an unexpected call from Islamabad told me that a waiver from New Delhi will ensure support for Vientiane in lieu of the Climate Justice Manager in Manila" I explained pessimistically.

I was next quizzed why the Thursday Group have to convene on Wednesday and Saturday, how a platter of tokwa't baboy turned out to be more tofu that was reheated as pork adobo for bingo night, and my intention on taking the bus via Aliaga instead of attending NS4's mini-reunion in Cabanatuan. 

That's because there were no meetings on Thursday is what I told them, which is market day for an empty icebox that finally got my dirty motorbike washed while updating three nearly dormant bank acounts and securing an appointment for a dental prophylaxis.

Furthermore, I don't like crowds so we moved to a table where the MILF of Bakal 2 left her scent and had our own Barangay Night with a can of luncheon meat that tasted like red onions because four biking days is almost good as a week of exploring a brand new trail... 

JALAN SABANG

The reasons why I lobbied to stay at Mercure Jakarta Sabang are to:

• claim a repaired watch and trade a bag of oversized red onions for a TV remote control in Ortigas;
• soothe a loose bowel with a Nagi Izakaya ramen brunch and high ball, a dose of Mabuhay Lounge wine and a measure of PAGGS Premium Lounge beer;
• dispose two oversized underwears and four unwanted shirts;
• splurge on Lamongan's sate kambing and Restoran Garuda's padang spread.

Such are the perks of my impending departure --- to be feted by an all-women plane crew to a first ride in an electric taxi and not lose a phone, to be able to meet with Melbourne from the backseat of a Bluebird, ACE a lunch of ayam bakar and convene the PMT at a hidden sanctuary for Italian junk food.    

But there's a short list so I wonder if the durian at Jalan Sabang will taste the same in Bangkok after the Ides of March, or if the feeler for a possible role as the 4th Beatle will pay for the beer tower at Penny Lane.

It will be open season once St. Benjamin passes through with nothing confirmed by the ASEAN Secretariat until the last day so in the last hour, we crawled through Jalan Sabang then swam in a savory bowl of hot noodle-less bakso from East Java, gorged on three shapes of tasteless pempek from Sumatra, and had a mini PMU meeting over 10 skewers of delectable sate kambing from the only street stall that serves cold Bintang beer.

Maybe that's why I forgot that there's a TV remote in the hotel safety deposit box that I was suppose to bring home to Bakal 2 and perhaps the reason why the beer got warm at Garuda Lounge and the wine from PR 536 tasted like vinegar, not enough to fuel my daily grind of at least 20 kilometers for the last two days of the week...

THE WISDOM OF A SECOND SUBMISSION

In the East hangs "G", the wisdom behind the first Saturday meetings that led to Morocco's proclamation of its 3rd installation rites in San Nicolas a month after the 17th of such ceremony was held for the opening of Maria Montessori's first school in Baloc.

Those were my two submissions to 8 episodes on the reception of dignitaries, a farce show of pomp and ceremony for those who pretend to be very reverent like Benedict XVI's resigned crossed keys that unlocked a second submission on St. Hilary's feast day. 

Preceding these are the stories from Kathmandu that were narrated as a delayed flight booking in Phnom Penh and the complexity of reserving rooms at Mercure Sabang in Jakarta, the chase for a travel insurance in Manila while closing a BDO Visa card, a derby of kalderetang bibe with beef pares over off-loaded Boy Bawang packs and a possible post-March consultancy arrangement, and the month's Masonic Education about the proposed retreat in Rayong.  

There were no meetings on Friday as "Oplan Walang Hanggang Pangalan" was initiated by the wizards of Hogwarts in a dismantled train track to celebrate birthdays and got drunk on purloined whiskey, coagulating kinilaw na bangus, fibrous lumpiang shanghai and slushy tiim na manok.

And soon, the eco-farm will rise in Korokan that will be linked by an electric jeepney to the upscale commecial complex in Bakal 3 which will be fronted by a real estate development company that will build cute sustainable houses for those who were liberated from the jaws of death.

At least that is the Phantom Biker's daydream...