Yesterday’s group hiking adventure saw us return to Castillejos, this time to Nagsangong Falls. We make this trek once a year, and something usually goes wrong. We continued that tradition on this year’s adventure. There are upper and lower falls, but we failed to find the path to the upper portion. That’s not to say we didn’t make a climb, but the path we took wound up being a dead end. So, we settled for viewing the lower falls and then heading back. It was a 6K journey through some scenic countryside, and despite the misdirection, we had an enjoyable hike.
Heading out. Four of us for this week’s hike.Off the pavementFollowing the creek bedFalling behind after taking a pissNot much water in the creek yetAlthough these carabao found a spot they likedThe rickety bridge crossingStrong enough to hold the fat guy, though.A gathering of the locals. The dark skin indicates they are Aeta native people.The first of several water crossingsThis road wasn’t here last year. Something was going on upstream in the creek bed involving a backhoe and dump trucks. A local told us in broken English that there were harvesting boulders.More water in our wayOff the road and into…whatever in the hell that is. Strange how much difference just a few miles makes in the flora and fauna we encounter.Laundry and bath time. A little surprising because this spot is a good kilometer away from the village and I didn’t see any nearby houses.Life is hard sometimesbut you make the best of itThe washing pondMarching onwardNow what?Down to the lower falls thenAnd there they are. What were you expecting, Niagara?Feeling bamboo-zeld on the way backWaiting on the slow guys at the washing holeThis time through they were washing the dishesBack the way we cameOnce your feet are wet, it doesn’t matter anymoreWe did find a different trail back to the car which provided a nice change of sceneryAlmost suburbia-likeA death-defying treeGetting it done. The pointless climb got me breathing hard, but the rest of the hike was pleasantI’m also happy to report the carabao were friendly. And on ropes.There and back again
Wednesday is becoming my “me” day. This was exacerbated by a misunderstanding I had with Swan. So, beer o’clock came earlier than usual for me as I reflected on the situation with the help of some cold San Mig Zeros. I started at Sloppy Joe’s, went upstairs to BarCelona, then finished my evening out at the Green Room. As the beer overcame my stubbornness, I sent Swan a message, and we worked back and forth through our differences. Basically, we both felt that we had been ignored by the other. Shit happens, and you find your way back. I brought home a pizza from Sit-n-Bull as a peace offering, and all was well once again.
Sometimes, Facebook memories come with a sting. Like this one from thirteen years ago.
I loved that woman and that life. Not so much the belly, but it came back.
In today’s YouTube video, George takes us on a morning stroll through Barretto. I’m rarely out that early, and the town definitely has a different vibe about it during those hours.
And now for some humor:
I’ll probably just say, “Oh shit!”Um, I just stick my tongue out between my index and middle fingers. That seems to convey the message.I remember my Dad’s relativity lesson: “If your aunt had balls, she’d be your uncle” He was so far ahead of his time.It’s good to get lucky!
7 thoughts on “Our pride goeth before the falls”
It’s good you and your bird have made up, John, although I wouldn’t expect it to last because it’s damn-near impossible to co-exist peacefully with females. Take the ex for example. We got into an argument when she said she’d rather eat “negroid semen” than have to listen to another Uriah Heep live concert which led to us getting somewhat physical and her knocking a bottle of wine onto Morgoth the Third (my cat). By that point I knew I had to put an end to it and restrained her calmly but forcefully until she quit her banshee-like screeching (and this is the woman who has the gall to complain about David Byron’s vocals!).
After some more vodka she calms down and we sit outside and have a cigarette together. She tearfully tells me she’s sorry about the problems she’s caused and she loves me “so much”. She even offers to buy the next day’s booze, talking longingly about rum and even brandy. This is the best thing I could have asked for.
Then reality comes crashing back. She gives me a laundry list of things I have apparently been doing wrong in this relationship and how’s she been so hard done by. Everything is wrong with this relationship (which ended the last time I kicked her out btw), apparently. “The coffee and cigarettes we have every morning…it’s so fucking stupid!”
I try to redirect into the house. She’s practically shouting, and all it takes is one noise complaint to get the cops over here. She tells me to reach into the bag she brought to pull her drink out because she needs it for pain. It’s a hidden pint of vodka. I simultaneously think I shouldn’t be surprised and for fuck’s sake. I thought she might have been honest with the booze she had on her, but she’s still a deceptive drunk. “How long are you going to be drinking vodka for?” I ask, hoping she’ll resign the bottle over to me so I can take care of it properly. “You know you get crazy and things happen when you drink vodka with reckless abandon.” “It’s just for the pain, not long” she moans.
When I ask what pain, it is no surprise when she claims I broke her finger in three places. She’s always exaggerating injuries she’s constructed in her cranium. She doesn’t seem to remember (or won’t admit) hitting me first, either, never mind an apology for insulting Uriah Heep. Faking a serious injury to gain sympathy is right up her street. She holds her hand making pained, exaggerated, very likely fake, “ow” noises, when I barely twisted it all to get her to stop her incessant shrieking.
In between telling me how bad I should feel about ‘hurting’ her she returns to normal and starts bossing me around again like nothing’s changed. We go to bed together and I get what I feel like is an hour’s sleep before she wakes me up at around 2 in the morning. “Get me this”, “do that”; I climb out of bed, exhausted, to do her chores. It’s only when I’ve done it and climb back into bed she gives me a new one. “Can you get me a cigarette?” she nudges me awake. Oh my fucking God I just want to sleep. I get her a cigarette and climb back into bed, hoping to pass out soon. “Can you get me something to mix my drink with?” she nudges again. Oh. My God. She carries on like this for what I feel is all morning. Order, I get back into bed, another order, I get back into bed. I try not to voice my irritation in case it sets her off but I tell her I’ve had a long day and please, I just want to sleep. This is classic her. Drunk or sober she always tells me to do stuff like this. Instead of saying “can you get me a drink, a sandwich, and some chips?” she will ask me for one infuriating thing at a time. “Can you get me a drink?” I’ll get her a drink and sit down to get on with whatever I was doing. “Can you make me a sandwich?” I’ll make her a sandwich and sit down to get on with whatever I was doing. “Can you get me some chips?” WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST ASK ME TO GET YOU ALL OF THOSE AT ONCE!?
I give up on getting any sleep. She’s ranting. I honestly considered recording it on my phone just to upload it for proof but I’m sure that breaches some internet privacy rule. No matter what I could write I would struggle to capture just how crazy her ranting is. It’s link-surfing verbalized. Pure insanity. I don’t say anything, I can’t. She literally just voices whatever pops into her head, continually. This isn’t a conversation; it’s a monologue. She goes on about everything from her uncle owning a boat, to how modern religion is an expression of patriarchy designed to oppress women, to how she’s in pain and only needs to drink to deal with it. I stop “uh-huh”ing and “ok”ing; I just stare at the ceiling in silence as she continues talking. She stops talking to briefly ask me if I want a blowjob. I’m not in the mood and haven’t had a shower in a week; from all the fapping my dick probably looks like one of those crusted cheese logs with extra cheese. I’m doing her a favor by saying “no”. She tries forcing my shorts off. I’m kinda flattered. When she drinks she has that “drunk slut” vibe going to her and I’m more attracted to her. I get up to get a drink instead and take my time outside the bedroom until she forgets about it.
This morning was a fucking nightmare too. She’s hammering the vodka more than she was last night and promptly spews onto the pile of my dirty clothes next to the bed. She makes noises about needing to go to the store to get more booze. “For the pain.” I consider telling her I have a near-full bottle stashed away but decide against it. I’d rather drink it myself while she’s gone getting more booze to tide us over through another day.
We get in the Lyft and head to Walmart. “Two stops?” the driver asks. I’m confused, I thought we were just heading to Walmart. “Yeah, Circle K and then Walmart” the ex says. *Oh for fucks sake*. I know why we’re heading to Circle K; she wants some shooters to drink before or in Walmart. I can’t count the number of public bathrooms she’s suspiciously slunk into for a sneaky drink. We get to Circle K and she mumbles a request for me to go in for her to get some shooters. We get to Walmart. I’m conscious of the fact that she said she only wanted to buy like three drinks and then we’d be home. We end up going all around the aisles, picking up random shit. Classic her again. Aside from going grocery shopping, she can never say we’re just going to one place for one thing. We always end up picking up more shit that we don’t need. She asks for a shooter and I think she’s heading off to the bathroom to drink it when she just pops the lid in the middle of an aisle. “Are you fucking crazy!?” I hiss “go to the bathroom to drink that!”, “Why?” she shrugs, before necking her shooter in the middle of the toy aisle. I’m acutely aware at least two soccer moms see her do that. We get to the register to pay when my drunken brain realizes we haven’t picked up any booze at all. “Aren’t we here to get you something to drink?” I bend over and whisper to her. “Oh yeah, I forgot!” We end getting this six pack of Smirnoff alcopops for her and a handle of vodka for me. We get outside to walk up to the Best Buy a couple of doors down. I reflexively touch my pocket looking for a cigarette when I realize I’ve left the pack at home. Groan. She’s going to want to go back into the store to buy some when a Lyft will take us maybe 15 minutes to get back home, where we have a carton of cigarettes.
When we get home the ex makes some noises about ordering take out. Neither of us are interested in eating when drinking; she simply HAS to spend her money. Whether it’s a shopping spree at Goodwill for clothes she doesn’t need or buying groceries that will go rotten because the fridge is already full she just has to empty her bank account.
I try to suggest I make egg-drop soup for her. We bought most of the ingredients when we went to Walmart and it’s our go-to bender food; small portion, easy to digest, tasty. She won’t have any of it and orders Chinese takeout instead. I look at the menu; I’m too fucked to eat anything heavy, she should be the same way too. But she insists I get myself my own meal…then she orders one plus a starter and a side. She’ll eat maybe a quarter of that before the rest has to get binned.
She also stops drinking her alcopops and switches to my vodka. She asks me to make her a mixer and I pour in maybe two and a half shots. “This is too weak. I can’t taste the alcohol” she complains. “Fine,” I say, “I’ll mix you a proper one.” What I do is just add a drop more vodka and a Valium to it. Sometimes the only way to shut a woman up, John, is to lend them a helping hand to snoozeville. I go to the kitchen area to rustle up some old fish bones for Morgoth the Third and sneak some drinks and when I return the ex is fast asleep on the floor. I consider getting a pillow for her head which is at an awkward angle but decide to get another drink instead. Besides, who wants to rest their head on a vomit-encrusted pillow that still smells like last year’s BBQ sauce that was spilled on it?
Today come hell or high water I am sorting my Uriah Heep magazine clippings and finishing off this vodka, so let’s get things going! Cheers!
I’d written a fairly long comment, then accidentally clicked to close the tab instead of clicking “post comment.” So this new, briefer comment will have to suffice.
Question: aren’t there any gifted sign-makers in the expat community who could create signage so you can find your way up a trail to the upper falls (as well as to other landmarks)? In Korea, mountain trails are shot through with signs showing direction and distance. There are also signs marking the official summit of a mountain. I’ve seen pics on your blog of you standing next to such signs in Korea.
I’m glad you and Swan worked out your differences. The relationship road is bumpy but navigable, especially when the distaff half of the relationship is emotionally secure and stable, and not an immature, selfish, jealous, raving, money-grubbing lunatic.
We did find a different trail back to the car which provided a nice change of scenery
Spot the error! (Only visible when I point it out, and never visible the moment the error is being committed.)
re: that tree
Dramatic as a lightning bolt! and skeletal-looking, too.
Dramatic as a lightning bolt! and skeletal-looking, too.
Ha ha—spot MY error! Should be:
Dramatic as a lightning bolt! And skeletal-looking, too.
We did find a different trail back to the car, which provided a nice change of scenery
Yep, that’s right.
I’m sure someone has the skills to make direction signs, but I’ve never seen them here. Part of the reason may be that the lack of signage gives the trail a more rustic/natural feel. Another is the signs probably wouldn’t stay up long. Firewood doesn’t grow on trees, you know. Oh, wait. But seriously, the Corona Hash recently constructed some ladders to make the climb on a trail easier. A lot of time and effort was involved, but the ladders would at least benefit all who chose to make that hike. Within two weeks, someone had taken them down and stolen the materials.
“…and not an immature, selfish, jealous, raving, money-grubbing lunatic.”
I resemble that statement!
The error is pretty obvious–no comma after car. Just sloppy writing/proof reading.
Thompson, When this book you are writing is complete, may I suggest you name it “Welcome to my Nightmare”? Despite your complaints, you seem to be consistently compliant with the girlfriend’s demands. That probably says more about you than her, to be honest. Still, what would your life be without the drama? Peace and quiet would be boring. And as long as she is funding the booze, maybe it is all worthwhile. Besides, what would you have to write about if she weren’t yanking your chain? You can only say so much about the cat. Hang in there, and good luck. And go easy on those fingers of hers!
“A man who procrastinates in his choosing will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance.”
Hunter S. Thompson
It’s good you and your bird have made up, John, although I wouldn’t expect it to last because it’s damn-near impossible to co-exist peacefully with females. Take the ex for example. We got into an argument when she said she’d rather eat “negroid semen” than have to listen to another Uriah Heep live concert which led to us getting somewhat physical and her knocking a bottle of wine onto Morgoth the Third (my cat). By that point I knew I had to put an end to it and restrained her calmly but forcefully until she quit her banshee-like screeching (and this is the woman who has the gall to complain about David Byron’s vocals!).
After some more vodka she calms down and we sit outside and have a cigarette together. She tearfully tells me she’s sorry about the problems she’s caused and she loves me “so much”. She even offers to buy the next day’s booze, talking longingly about rum and even brandy. This is the best thing I could have asked for.
Then reality comes crashing back. She gives me a laundry list of things I have apparently been doing wrong in this relationship and how’s she been so hard done by. Everything is wrong with this relationship (which ended the last time I kicked her out btw), apparently. “The coffee and cigarettes we have every morning…it’s so fucking stupid!”
I try to redirect into the house. She’s practically shouting, and all it takes is one noise complaint to get the cops over here. She tells me to reach into the bag she brought to pull her drink out because she needs it for pain. It’s a hidden pint of vodka. I simultaneously think I shouldn’t be surprised and for fuck’s sake. I thought she might have been honest with the booze she had on her, but she’s still a deceptive drunk. “How long are you going to be drinking vodka for?” I ask, hoping she’ll resign the bottle over to me so I can take care of it properly. “You know you get crazy and things happen when you drink vodka with reckless abandon.” “It’s just for the pain, not long” she moans.
When I ask what pain, it is no surprise when she claims I broke her finger in three places. She’s always exaggerating injuries she’s constructed in her cranium. She doesn’t seem to remember (or won’t admit) hitting me first, either, never mind an apology for insulting Uriah Heep. Faking a serious injury to gain sympathy is right up her street. She holds her hand making pained, exaggerated, very likely fake, “ow” noises, when I barely twisted it all to get her to stop her incessant shrieking.
In between telling me how bad I should feel about ‘hurting’ her she returns to normal and starts bossing me around again like nothing’s changed. We go to bed together and I get what I feel like is an hour’s sleep before she wakes me up at around 2 in the morning. “Get me this”, “do that”; I climb out of bed, exhausted, to do her chores. It’s only when I’ve done it and climb back into bed she gives me a new one. “Can you get me a cigarette?” she nudges me awake. Oh my fucking God I just want to sleep. I get her a cigarette and climb back into bed, hoping to pass out soon. “Can you get me something to mix my drink with?” she nudges again. Oh. My God. She carries on like this for what I feel is all morning. Order, I get back into bed, another order, I get back into bed. I try not to voice my irritation in case it sets her off but I tell her I’ve had a long day and please, I just want to sleep. This is classic her. Drunk or sober she always tells me to do stuff like this. Instead of saying “can you get me a drink, a sandwich, and some chips?” she will ask me for one infuriating thing at a time. “Can you get me a drink?” I’ll get her a drink and sit down to get on with whatever I was doing. “Can you make me a sandwich?” I’ll make her a sandwich and sit down to get on with whatever I was doing. “Can you get me some chips?” WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST ASK ME TO GET YOU ALL OF THOSE AT ONCE!?
I give up on getting any sleep. She’s ranting. I honestly considered recording it on my phone just to upload it for proof but I’m sure that breaches some internet privacy rule. No matter what I could write I would struggle to capture just how crazy her ranting is. It’s link-surfing verbalized. Pure insanity. I don’t say anything, I can’t. She literally just voices whatever pops into her head, continually. This isn’t a conversation; it’s a monologue. She goes on about everything from her uncle owning a boat, to how modern religion is an expression of patriarchy designed to oppress women, to how she’s in pain and only needs to drink to deal with it. I stop “uh-huh”ing and “ok”ing; I just stare at the ceiling in silence as she continues talking. She stops talking to briefly ask me if I want a blowjob. I’m not in the mood and haven’t had a shower in a week; from all the fapping my dick probably looks like one of those crusted cheese logs with extra cheese. I’m doing her a favor by saying “no”. She tries forcing my shorts off. I’m kinda flattered. When she drinks she has that “drunk slut” vibe going to her and I’m more attracted to her. I get up to get a drink instead and take my time outside the bedroom until she forgets about it.
This morning was a fucking nightmare too. She’s hammering the vodka more than she was last night and promptly spews onto the pile of my dirty clothes next to the bed. She makes noises about needing to go to the store to get more booze. “For the pain.” I consider telling her I have a near-full bottle stashed away but decide against it. I’d rather drink it myself while she’s gone getting more booze to tide us over through another day.
We get in the Lyft and head to Walmart. “Two stops?” the driver asks. I’m confused, I thought we were just heading to Walmart. “Yeah, Circle K and then Walmart” the ex says. *Oh for fucks sake*. I know why we’re heading to Circle K; she wants some shooters to drink before or in Walmart. I can’t count the number of public bathrooms she’s suspiciously slunk into for a sneaky drink. We get to Circle K and she mumbles a request for me to go in for her to get some shooters. We get to Walmart. I’m conscious of the fact that she said she only wanted to buy like three drinks and then we’d be home. We end up going all around the aisles, picking up random shit. Classic her again. Aside from going grocery shopping, she can never say we’re just going to one place for one thing. We always end up picking up more shit that we don’t need. She asks for a shooter and I think she’s heading off to the bathroom to drink it when she just pops the lid in the middle of an aisle. “Are you fucking crazy!?” I hiss “go to the bathroom to drink that!”, “Why?” she shrugs, before necking her shooter in the middle of the toy aisle. I’m acutely aware at least two soccer moms see her do that. We get to the register to pay when my drunken brain realizes we haven’t picked up any booze at all. “Aren’t we here to get you something to drink?” I bend over and whisper to her. “Oh yeah, I forgot!” We end getting this six pack of Smirnoff alcopops for her and a handle of vodka for me. We get outside to walk up to the Best Buy a couple of doors down. I reflexively touch my pocket looking for a cigarette when I realize I’ve left the pack at home. Groan. She’s going to want to go back into the store to buy some when a Lyft will take us maybe 15 minutes to get back home, where we have a carton of cigarettes.
When we get home the ex makes some noises about ordering take out. Neither of us are interested in eating when drinking; she simply HAS to spend her money. Whether it’s a shopping spree at Goodwill for clothes she doesn’t need or buying groceries that will go rotten because the fridge is already full she just has to empty her bank account.
I try to suggest I make egg-drop soup for her. We bought most of the ingredients when we went to Walmart and it’s our go-to bender food; small portion, easy to digest, tasty. She won’t have any of it and orders Chinese takeout instead. I look at the menu; I’m too fucked to eat anything heavy, she should be the same way too. But she insists I get myself my own meal…then she orders one plus a starter and a side. She’ll eat maybe a quarter of that before the rest has to get binned.
She also stops drinking her alcopops and switches to my vodka. She asks me to make her a mixer and I pour in maybe two and a half shots. “This is too weak. I can’t taste the alcohol” she complains. “Fine,” I say, “I’ll mix you a proper one.” What I do is just add a drop more vodka and a Valium to it. Sometimes the only way to shut a woman up, John, is to lend them a helping hand to snoozeville. I go to the kitchen area to rustle up some old fish bones for Morgoth the Third and sneak some drinks and when I return the ex is fast asleep on the floor. I consider getting a pillow for her head which is at an awkward angle but decide to get another drink instead. Besides, who wants to rest their head on a vomit-encrusted pillow that still smells like last year’s BBQ sauce that was spilled on it?
Today come hell or high water I am sorting my Uriah Heep magazine clippings and finishing off this vodka, so let’s get things going! Cheers!
I’d written a fairly long comment, then accidentally clicked to close the tab instead of clicking “post comment.” So this new, briefer comment will have to suffice.
Question: aren’t there any gifted sign-makers in the expat community who could create signage so you can find your way up a trail to the upper falls (as well as to other landmarks)? In Korea, mountain trails are shot through with signs showing direction and distance. There are also signs marking the official summit of a mountain. I’ve seen pics on your blog of you standing next to such signs in Korea.
I’m glad you and Swan worked out your differences. The relationship road is bumpy but navigable, especially when the distaff half of the relationship is emotionally secure and stable, and not an immature, selfish, jealous, raving, money-grubbing lunatic.
We did find a different trail back to the car which provided a nice change of scenery
Spot the error! (Only visible when I point it out, and never visible the moment the error is being committed.)
re: that tree
Dramatic as a lightning bolt! and skeletal-looking, too.
Dramatic as a lightning bolt! and skeletal-looking, too.
Ha ha—spot MY error! Should be:
Dramatic as a lightning bolt! And skeletal-looking, too.
We did find a different trail back to the car, which provided a nice change of scenery
Yep, that’s right.
I’m sure someone has the skills to make direction signs, but I’ve never seen them here. Part of the reason may be that the lack of signage gives the trail a more rustic/natural feel. Another is the signs probably wouldn’t stay up long. Firewood doesn’t grow on trees, you know. Oh, wait. But seriously, the Corona Hash recently constructed some ladders to make the climb on a trail easier. A lot of time and effort was involved, but the ladders would at least benefit all who chose to make that hike. Within two weeks, someone had taken them down and stolen the materials.
“…and not an immature, selfish, jealous, raving, money-grubbing lunatic.”
I resemble that statement!
The error is pretty obvious–no comma after car. Just sloppy writing/proof reading.
Thompson, When this book you are writing is complete, may I suggest you name it “Welcome to my Nightmare”? Despite your complaints, you seem to be consistently compliant with the girlfriend’s demands. That probably says more about you than her, to be honest. Still, what would your life be without the drama? Peace and quiet would be boring. And as long as she is funding the booze, maybe it is all worthwhile. Besides, what would you have to write about if she weren’t yanking your chain? You can only say so much about the cat. Hang in there, and good luck. And go easy on those fingers of hers!
“A man who procrastinates in his choosing will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance.”
Hunter S. Thompson