It seems, at first blush, like an absolutely horrible concept: a Hobbit-themed bar staffed almost entirely by little people. But it isn’t. These are the staff.

They’re also the owners, now that Jim, the Peace Corps dude who set up Hobbit House in 1973, is old enough to be contemplating what happens when he’s gone. This is him:

And this is Ali, the front of house, who’s raising five kids on his earnings here.

Pidoy, the oldest of the team, is both consultant and director at Hobbit House. “When I was young, with my disability I was never expected to work,” he told me. “Now I have a wife, and two children, both of them through college.”

And sometimes, in the developing world, it really is that simple.

The post The Friday Photo: Hobbit House appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

Yep. My son has definitely watched Dr. No one too many times.

And, it appears, Jaws too.

As he put it, “I’m not sure I’m quite equipped for midnight swims. You see, when you’re underwater, breathing with a snorkel, and it’s dark, you don’t have many senses left to remind you there’s no sharks about.”

We spent a lovely couple of days, our farewell to Manila, with Agnes and Billy, in their house in Quezon City, Manila. The hide-and-seekers were grandchildren of a friend of theirs, Carlo, who plays piano in Siem Reap.

And it was, as ever, lovely to see how children put linguistic differences aside to simply play.

And scold, of course.

Because you don’t get much more disapproving than a nine-year-old girl when a nine-year-old boy has immersed himself in a darkened swimming pool, simultaneously breaking the unwritten rules of the game and doing something terribly, terribly dangerous.

But it’s truly lovely watching three Tagalog-speaking kids who have known each other since year dot make the linguistic effort to include the English-speaking incomer. And really wonderful to see (and hear!) all four of them scampering together.

Agnes is a sculptor. Or, rather, she’s an artist who works in three dimensions (she tends to cast, not sculpt). Billy was in a band and now makes rituals. They inhabit a sprawling green compound, studded with sculptures, prayer flags and Asian art, in a part of Manila so stunningly quiet you can hear the frogs and geckos at night.

We’ve done very little. Swum a little. Worked with clay. Thanks to Agnes, Z now understands the beginnings of working with clay – kneading, dampening, firing – has made his own piece and has watched a master at work transforming plaster to a marbled sheen.

We’ve talked, we’ve read, we’ve eaten natural, healthy food. And we’ve seen tranquility, something hard to attain in any city, and super-hard in Manila. They’ll be moving soon, to a plot on the beach, or in the mountains, to build traditionally and eco-friendlily, live simply, maybe run a retreat.

Whatever it is, it will be another amazing space. And there’s plenty of bases to build that on in the Philippines.

Thanks to Vanessa David from Makati, Philippines, for creating the featured image and sharing it via via Wikimedia Commons

The post Farewell to Manila appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

12 million? 15 million? Honestly, who’s counting?

Manila long ago outgrew its natural ties to earth: the river and the Bay. Before its roadways are completed, they are already too narrow for its needs.

High-rise condos with names like Knightsbridge and Gramercy spring up cheek-by-jowl with squatter camps where families fresh from the countryside learn that, unless you’re educated, connected, local and (most often) lucky, the streets of the big city are paved with shit, not gold. Volunteer fire brigades wail down canyons of mouldering concrete to fires that can burn for days.

It’s a maze. A consumerist maze. From the delis to the junkfood to the sari sari store.

Emo ergo sum.

But if the city has a soul – and I’m not sure my own city does — I guess it flits and murmurs through the mirrored shadows of the Rizal Museum, in Fort Santiago, the old colonial core.

It took us a while to get to this. Our third visit to the city. With only a couple of days to spare before departure. But I’m glad we did.

Doctor Jose Rizal is the national hero of the Philippines. There’s a road or ten named after him in every city. His works are prescribed reading in every Filipino school. And his name’s come up throughout our time here, in conversations with gangsters and academics, with tricycle drivers and artists.

His status, I guess, is not dissimilar to Simon Bolivar in Venezuela. Although, this being the Philippines, the cult is even more extreme.

And, when I say cult, I do mean cult. Rizal died at 33. The same age, they say, as Jesus. And one of the archipelago’s more novel sects, the Rizalists, worship him alongside the original Christ.

Rizal spoke seven European languages, plus Tagalog, the dominant language of his native islands, plus two or three other Philippine dialects. He was a sculptor. Ophthalmologist. Poet. Novelist. Philosopher. Political thinker.

One of the founding fathers of Filipino independence. A member of geographical societies and archaeological societies. And, in the mélange that makes up the islands, he was a Spanish speaker of Chinese descent.

And to see the cell in which he spent his final hours, composing the farewell poem that many consider his masterwork, is genuinely moving.

Rizal was shot by firing squad in the grounds of Fort Santiago, the great colonial slab which the Spaniards set up on the curve of the Pasig River, on the remnants of an older Malay fort. As occupations turned, Spanish torture gave way to Japanese, and now the place is a shrine. Not just to Rizal. But to the Filipinos and Americans who died in the drowning cells that flooded at high tide during the Second World War.

The museum is small, but elegant. Some of his little sculptures sit, gallerised behind glass with lines from his many writings. There are reminiscences of his final days. Extracts from his biographies. Etchings, sculptures, portraits of the man.

I guess the most moving element of the story is that the revolution he died for was a revolution he never wanted. He felt it premature. Events showed it was.

But he refused to run. And, for that refusal, died. So much like a character in his novel, the Noli, that some, not just the Rizalists, believed he prefigured his own fate.

If you’re in Manila, go see it. It’s one of the most worthwhile things to see.

The post The Museum of Doctor Rizal appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

What is it?

You may well ask. For this, my friend, is an inflatable waterpark.

Occupying 5000 square metres of apple-green Astroturf in the middle of nowheresville, Luzon, EK Biki comes complete with dangling sharks, inflatable dragon slides, slightly forlorn clownfish and, weirdly, an Olympic-sized paddling pool.

All, like the giant hamster’s wheel and spinning top on which Z spent many happy minutes scrambling, entirely blow-up.

To add a further note of the bizarre, it caters entirely for non-swimmers.

How on earth did we discover this hidden treasure?

Well, there’s a sorry tale…

Saturday morning didn’t get off to the best of starts. Z’s go-karting date with a friend, tentatively arranged via email, did not materialize.

So, to make up for it, I suggested we visit the Enchanted Kingdom, a theme park 30km outside of Manila with a triple loop rollercoaster, an ATV track, karting track, log flume, a Spaceport, plus sundry other delights.

This being Manila, of course, 30 kilometres translates as three hours. Yet, after a taxi to the bus station, a bus to Santa Rosa, a walk, and a tricycle ride, we arrived at the hallowed gates of the Kingdom.

Only to find it shut.

On a Saturday.

Enchanted?

I am amazed Z didn’t cry.

I certainly felt like it.

And I’m supposed to be the adult here.

“Yes,” said the chap on the door. “It is closed for a private event. Smart communications,” he added, with a note of quiet pride that a corporation that size should have picked the Enchanted Kingdom for its annual jolly.

“Ah,” I say, looking warily at Z, now facing his second big disappointment before lunch on a Saturday. “Is there anything else to do in Santa Rosa?” I ask, trying not to sound desperate.

I guess the closest equivalent to Santa Rosa in England would be Slough (where The Office was set). Only smaller. And with more junk food and mechanics. But, of course, with much better weather and mountains in the distance.

“Yes!” says the chap, beaming. “We have a waterpark next door.”

My relief knows no bounds. I nearly hug him.

We wander off. Walk past the entrance to the waterpark (we were looking, as one does, for high towers of slides spiraling through the air). He – and he really is a lovely guy — chases after us, redirects us, escorts us to the door and explains the procedures.

I recognize the surreal vista instantly, from a photo in a listings magazine I had looked at and dismissed as clearly rubbish. Z, on the other hand, seems positively enthused.

We enter. We have no swimwear.

I purchase:

One bikini. Polka dotted.

Z’s verdict? “I think it’s nice. You look a lot less fat in that than you do in your swimsuit. I think the swimsuit does something funny to your tummy.”

One pair of swimshorts. Age 9. (My verdict? Very cute.)

Two black lurex swimming caps. (Compliant with regulations. But make us look like members of a sect on the CIA hitlist.)

One sachet of runny sunblock. $1.50, since you asked.

Two tickets.

I contemplate buying some floral shorts to wear over my swimwear, to comply with local standards of modesty. But we’ve just spent almost a whole day’s budget. Plus Z thinks I’ll regret it.

Now, to be fair to the waterpark, had it been, say 20 minutes, or 40 minutes, even, away from where we were staying, it would have been a really pleasant afternoon out. And with a staff-guest ratio of more than 1:1, queuing was certainly not an issue.

Within seconds, Z was well away. Racing down the bouncy slides. Entering the water with a vigorous splash. Rolling in the giant hamster wheels and cackling.

OK! I think. I’ll get into the spirit of this.

I join Z in the dragon pool and attempt a swim. The water is no higher, at any point, than his waist. That’s my lower thighs.

Now, I know that many working class Filipinas (and probably their menfolk too) can’t swim. But, all the same, one would think that a waterpark might contain a place where one could indulge should one wish.

Not this one…

Z invites me onto the Octopus slide and scrambles up. I note that none of the Pinay moms are sliding with their kids. Even the dads, in fact, are just hoiking them up and letting them go.

Due to the gap between the slide and the water, I require a leg-up from one of the attendants.

This is, both literally and metaphorically, bruising for both sides.

I weigh over 60 kilos. My assistant weighs, I would say, about 50 kilos. I am 5’7”. He is maybe 5’3”.

He genuflects. Offers me his knee. Not wishing to appear rude, but having a good idea of the likely outcome, I stand on it, gingerly, one of my legs on one of his.

The poor guy’s leg gives way under the unexpected weight.

I fall into the water, with a polite “ooh, silly, silly, fat, fat me” giggle, not to impute his masculinity. It being knee high, I hit the bottom. Not pleasant.

I notice Z gesturing from the top of the slide.

Assistant and I try again, and, with some really heinous wriggling, I achieve the inflatable steps. They are designed for kids. I have to force my way between the inflatable sides.

Even before I whiz off the slide at impressive speed and hit the bottom of the paddling pool with an equally impressive crunch, I am realizing that this park is not for me.

Exiting my second slide, I hit the floor feet first. Now, that hurts.

On the third, I catch a finger. That really hurts.

On inspection, all joints are working, but I take this as my final warning that sliding at velocity into knee-high water is NOT A GOOD IDEA.

We have some fun with the inflatables. Although, again, when scaling a giant wobbly model of Uranus the knowledge that the water on which it is floating won’t worry the metre measure does not induce confidence.

Z, as any child would do, swings off the side, yodeling, raised six or seven feet above the surface of the water. I yell at him to put his feet down, and explain that falling from that height into shallow water is NOT A GOOD IDEA.

Nobody else is yelling at their children. Although, to be fair, nobody else’s child has asked the attendants to bring in the most lethal inflatables the park has to offer, then swung off them at heights way above the surface.

I give up. Retreat to our personal marquee. Explain to Z why I am giving up.

“Well, I hit the bottom, too, Mum,” he says.

“I know you hit the bottom, sweetheart,” I say. “But I weigh more than twice what you do and when I hit the bottom it hurt.”

Knowing full well how pathetic it sounds, I continue, “I hurt my finger on the last one, and I’m worried I could break an ankle.”

The boy is not impressed. I don’t blame him.

I haz cheezburger. I figure I deserve it.

I push Z around the Olympic pool in the hamster’s wheel.

Eventually, we agree that we have juiced the place, and head for home. Well, Manila. Thirty kilometres and three hours away.

In the way of days that start badly, Saturday continues badly. At the bus station, we pick up a jeep for Remedios. Are dropped on Remedios Street, not Remedios Circle. Get lost (I have left our map behind). Pass cross-streets which I can’t orient on an East-West axis but to understand that they are THE WRONG WAY.

At an especially unappealing petrol station, we are picked up by a “good Samaritan” cab driver who takes us on a pricey magical mystery tour, which even I can tell is TOTALLY the wrong way.

Though, without a map, all I can do is squeak, “Quirino?! No, no, no. Why are we going from Ocampo to Quirino?! We go to Adriatico near Remedios Circle. That way!!!! You know Adriatico?! You know Remedios Circle?!” while the guy pretends not to speak English.

Note for tourists. If you don’t look Filipino, are not hailing a cab, and a driver stops for you just because you’re looking lost, he is going to screw you into next week. Just like they do in London. If you’re forrun…

We go for dinner at Zamboanga, where I have been meaning to go for a while. It specializes in seafood. I knew it for Mindanao cuisine. Z chooses to hate seafood.

It’s expensive. We are both in a vile mood. The floor show does not significantly improve it. Although Z decides he likes mussels.

At one point he utters the baleful line, “It’s a good thing neither of us is telepathic. Otherwise, you’d know what I’m thinking.”

To cut to the chase, as a single parent, single child family travelling longterm one really does have to communicate. We talk about why we are in a vile mood, and with whom.

We agree the only people we have to be cross with about our crappy day is each other, which isn’t fair on either of us. We further agree to improve matters with Toblerone and a film.

We go to the Seven-Eleven. Buy Toblerone. One large bar each: white for me, fruit and nut for him. Retreat to our hotel and watch X-Men on the laptop, with Toby the Toblerone soft toy on standby. It’s, actually, a very nice end to a rather disappointing day.

The post The Inflatable Waterpark appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

She’s seventeen, now, she says, almost eighteen, and works in, or more often, outside of, a tourist bar in downtown Manila.

Nothing slick. But nothing especially seedy. It’s sort of a tent, with some wall hangings, a few tables, a bar at the back, Poker Face on repeat on the stereo, and MJ bouncing and jiggling on the pavement in shorts, vest and hightops, with a big smile and a big, big laugh.

Your drinks cost the standard. Forty pesos for a beer, or thereabouts, twenty-odd for fizzy pop. Her Red Horse super-strongs, when she joins you at the table, cost two hundred pesos. One hundred goes to MJ, one hundred to the bar.

And on that steady stream of Red Horse, a hundred pesos a pop, MJ is keeping three adults and eight children. Four full siblings. Four half-siblings. Her dad, her stepmom and, lest we forget, herself.

And hormones don’t come cheap.

“I’m a ladyboy from the Philippines!” she’ll exclaim proudly, showing off her new breasts with their surgically perky nipples. “You didn’t know?!”

MJ’s gender is a secret she shares, as a professional intimacy, with most of the people she meets. Sometimes, like tonight, she forgets who she has leveled with already. It is no news to the tall, skinny guy from Vermont she’s been eyeing for a while…

MJ has been on my case for days – weeks, if you count our last visit to Manila – to come into her bar. And I thought it would be interesting for Z to sit and talk with someone like her.

“I’ve known who I am since I was eight years old,” MJ says. “I always wanted to play with Barbies, liked pink, liked to play with girls.”

“You never thought you were gay?” I ask. She hands Z her phone and sets him up on a game.

“No,” she says. “I’ve never thought I was gay. I’ve always been a girl.”

Her stepmother didn’t take the news too well, though her dad was one hundred per cent understanding. Of course, now that MJ’s bringing home the bacon and her dad’s too sick to pedal his pedicab, her stepmom is magically more tolerant.

“She wasn’t so kind to any of us when we were little,” MJ recalls. “She was very young. Kind of harsh. But things are better now.”

I ask about her real mother.

“My mom?” says MJ. “I haven’t seen her since I was five years old. But I’m ready to find her now. She has a lot of problems. Drugs, and alcohol. Alcohol, and drugs. But I want to go and find her now. I want to talk to her. I want to know my mom…”

It appears no one knows whether her mother is alive or dead. She disappeared into the ether, leaving five young kids behind her, over a decade ago.

MJ herself seems not averse to the odd bump of speed or possibly coke. To keep her energy levels high during those twelve hour shifts, to counteract the steady stream of Red Horse which passes her lips on a good night, to keep the flag flying high. I don’t know how many of her guests get specialized services, but I’d imagine she needs a little something to help her through that too.

“Yeah,” she says, eyes a little spacy under layers of mascara, even though it’s early. “It’s hard, you know. I work until 6am, every night, I sleep all day, in the evenings I need…” She loses her thread.

But MJ is a good Catholic girl at heart. Still lives at home. Loves the family. Helps out with the younger kids, right down to the baby: she’d like Z to spend the day with her nine-year-old sister one day.

She does tour guiding as a sideline, when she can. Would like to move into tourism or business management.

But, of course, she hasn’t finished school. She’s not even close. And here in the Philippines, you need a college degree, ideally in management, to even get an interview for a job behind the counter at McDonalds or Starbucks.

Would she like a boyfriend? To get married one day? She has the answer pat. “I’m too young right now for a boyfriend. I don’t want anything serious. I just want to have fun. And I have no sex drive now, because of the hormones.”

Gay or transgender marriage is not possible in the Philippines, she explains. Plus, she doesn’t want to complete the change. “Why not?” I ask.

“God gave me this,” she says, pointing to her crotch. “I’ll take the hormones, I’ve grown my breasts, but I won’t get rid of this.”

Gender really is something different in this Catholic country. Go figure.

The post Working Girl appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

Kilawin na lato: ceviche-style tuna with sea-grapes

A type of Caulerpa which sprouts succulent, grapey, bubbles in long tendrils like fresh green peppercorns, lato has all the translucent gorgeousness of fresh salmon roe. And it’s probably the closest a vegetarian will ever get to caviar. Even better than the Mekong riverweed, served nori-style, that we ate in Luang Prabang.

Even before you get onto the fast food trail, so many iconic Filipino dishes are just plain wrong. Take halo halo. This is a “fruit” salad, made with chunks of jelly and tapioca pearls, mixed with shaved ice, ice-cream, puffed rice, soy beans and oodles of condensed milk.

Or knockout knuckle (pata), Pampanga style. An entire pig’s leg, slow-cooked until the crackling is crispy and the meat below is succulent, fatty, deep red and falling off the bone, topped with crispy, deep-fried garlic. We ate this — along with soft-shell crabs tempura style — at Bistro Remedios in Manila, and my arteries are hardening just thinking about it.

Even the local take on the ubiquitous noodle soup is fattier than other South-East Asian versions. While beef bulalo, the silky, succulent broth made with the fat, gelatine and marrow of ox knuckle and precious little else, speaks for itself.

Anywise. Here we are on Palawan, the most westerly island of the Philippines, so close to Malaysian Borneo that James Brooke, the hyperactive Victorian adventurer who became the first “white rajah” of Sarawak after containing the head-hunting pirates who plagued the place a century and a half ago, set up a town and a watchtower, called Brooke’s Point, down South.

Last night we went to Ka Lui, in the provincial capital, Puerto Princesa, a gorgeous, half-open, bamboo and palm structure, equipped with floor cushions, and one of the island’s few destination restaurants.

It’s a simple menu. In essence, you eat one of four catches of the day with vegetables of the day, sweet potato mash or rice, preceded by soup and completed with a fruit salad. Side dishes run from stingray or eel in coconut sauce through to kilawin, the Filipino answer to Peruvian ceviche.

Z had the giant shrimps. I had the tuna steak. (Then he decided he wanted the tuna steak, so we swapped.) For greed, we ate kilawin na lato on the side: chunks of raw tuna, marinated in calamansi, vinegar, ginger, chilli, garlic and a hint of palm sugar, accompanied by washed, raw lato.

To die for. And, for once in the Philippines, not literally.

As you’d expect from an archipelago of this size, with some of the world’s finest reef, the seafood in the Philippines is pretty amazing. And freshwater fish, too. Bangus, or milk fish, a sweet, dark, toothsome freshwater fish, farmed across the nation, is the national fish, and a popular breakfast dish.

Tanigue, a member of the mackerel family with a flavour close to that of marlin, is gorgeous, whether fried, grilled, or served in kilawin or as sashimi. Tuna, blue marlin and swordfish are wonderful, too.

Chuck catch of the day together with veggies in a sour soup, and you have sinigang, which is right up there with Vietnamese canh chua in the galaxy of regional sour soups.

Still on the healthy tip, chicken tinola is not to be missed. This is a gorgeous soup-stew of chicken, green papaya, peppercorns, garlic and gallons of ginger.

Filipino cuisine is not generally big on vegetables. But there’s some standouts. Green papaya works wonders when slow-cooked: all the sweet flavour of baby courgettes but with a firm, unfibrous texture that holds well in stews.

A type of bell-pepper leaf, with a look and texture similar to young vine leaves and a flavour like a meatier, less bitter spinach, is gorgeous in sinigang, alongside chunks of young taro. Chinese mustard greens have a great tang, while bitter gourd served with shrimps and oodles of garlic is a classic side dish.

We had a salad of red eggs (brined, fermented duck eggs), tomato, onion and young rainforest ferns — the local answer to fiddleheads — in Bistro Remedios. Deep viridian green, they have a dark, chlorophyll freshness and crunchy texture that is outstanding.

And then, of course, at least in the northern islands, there is the inescapable pork. Chicharon, or pork scratchings, are sold from stalls. Pork adobo, slow-cooked in a tangy palm vinegar sauce, is a gorgeous, stand-by staple. Lechon, or thickly basted suckling pig, is a special occasion feast. Barbeque pork, caramel-sweet, succulent and crispy, served with a chilli vinegar to cut the fat and the sugar is to die for. And mechado, a tangy, scarlet stew with peppers, potatoes, pork and beef, appears in every local point-point eatery.

I always struggle with Asian desserts. The sweet, mild, subtly aromatic flavours don’t really do it for me, and so the ubiquitous ube (purple yam) goes right over my head, though the Spanish-Asian fusion leche flan, a heavier, grainier take on crème caramel, works well.

But Filipino peanut brittle, hawked on every form of public transport, in rich, dark, circular caramelised cakes, crammed with fresh-toasted dark peanuts and sprinkled with sesame seeds, is outstanding. And the tamarinds which grow like wildfire in every possible permutation of flavours are gorgeous.

Anywise. It is time for breakfast. Which will not include the lurid, tooth-hurtingly sweet breakfast sausages, longganisa, that are so mystifyingly popular here.

We are here for another month or so, so if you have recommendations of foods we should try, send them over, and we’ll do our best to eat them. Z, god bless him, tells me I have lost weight. I find this very, very hard to believe.

The post Eating the Philippines appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

To ease the parting, Z and I made like Manileños. That is, we spent the day at the mall, shopping, scoffing junk food and abusing the free aircon.

Though I guess if I were really going native, I’d have stocked up on diet potions — enriched with L-Carnitine to help burn fat! — too. Or perhaps a diet coffee to accompany my chocolate brownie? That is, a calorie-burning coffee. Not a coffee with low-fat milk.

The Philippines is a nation where Kraft Cheez Whiz can feature on the health pages of a major newspaper –- as a recommendation.

And where Kraft’s chief nutritionist for Asia can tell a hack, presumably with a straight face, that said product, though packed with calcium and undoubtedly beneficial, does not quite contain every single ingredient required for a healthy diet.

On the plus side (or plus size, for that matter), buying clothes is not as fraught with anxiety as it is in, say, Cambodia, though if we spend more than another day here I’m going to grow back into my fat trousers.

It’s a funny old place, Manila. On arrival, flying through one sunset, landing into a second, then locating our cheap hotel some time after dark, when the back streets are at their least welcoming, it provoked nothing more than a desire to leave.

But now, we’re quite attached to it. The sauna heat wraps around you like velvet. The shaven-headed security guards who stand with automatic weapons outside Starbucks, carparks, ATMs, ticket offices, you name it, feel like Dixon of Dock Green.

The ubiquitous Karaoke-TV bars, go-go joints (Guest Relations Officers wanted, 18-26, ideally 5’3” or over, birth certificate and health certificate required), the constant hubbub of condo construction, all seem as much a part of local colour as the neon gilding the skyscrapers and the crazily-named jeepneys.

And, my lord, the malls are mega! As Vegas is to hotels, so Manila is to malls. Acres upon acres of aircon retail covering block after block of the city centre, surrounded by weirdly empty streets, and packed with junk food outlets of every conceivable variety.

The Philippines was America’s only colony, and it shows.

At Robinsons, a comparatively petite landmark mall which covers four or so floors of a block or two in Malate, Granny and Grandpa treated Z to the entire Artemis Fowl series. Then we headed to Glorietta in Makati, where we said our farewells, and watched them slide down the escalator, endeavouring not to think.

We started well, with a freshly-squeezed kiwi juice. But then it all went a little Supersize Me.

Breakfast was a chocolate doughnut in Starbucks. Lunch was dim sum — read, carbs, pork and lard — from a chain stall in Glorietta. For dinner, we progressed to Robinsons and value meals at Burger King.

After Z bought a lilo with his last three weeks pocket money, we caught Liam Neeson rolling out his Jedi master schtick as Zeus, Sam Worthington modelling one of the world’s all-time worst movie accents and Ralph Fiennes (Hades) being comprehensively outclassed by Natalia Vodianova (Medusa) in Clash of the Titans.

It was a 3D screening, so popcorn and soda were included. Obviously, we ate them. My cheese-flavoured popcorn, sweet, tangy and tartrazine yellow with only the most sickly hint of dairy powder, was wrong in so many ways that it was almost right (if almost certainly illegal in the EU). And Z, who normally only likes sweet popcorn, was converted to the Filipino take on salt.

This morning, we were both distinctly liverish. And I don’t think it was the movie. After all, I sat through Troy with no significant after-effects.

I say liverish. I mean, not nauseous, exactly. Not even queasy. More bilious. Unsettled. In need of non-chemical sustenance.

I guess it’s the Tagalog equivalent of une crise de foie.

The post Mega-Malls appeared first on EscapeArtistes.