Sweet consciousness reaffirms itself at a beachfront tiki bar called Nigi Nigis. I'm sitting in a rattan armchair next to Anna amidst a lively crowd entranced by a stoned Rastafilipino strumming his electric guitar while a waifish female lead tambourine player belts out the Summer of '69 with panache.
At least I think it was Summer of '69. All the neighboring beach bars have their abundance of musical acts popping, with local talent cranking out '70s and '80s hits galore. Bend your ear to your left and it's "Tommy used to work on the dock". To the right an Arnel Pineda impersonator belts out "Any way you want it that's the way you need it". Add in a "Take On Me", "Never Gonna Give You Up" and a "With Or Without You" booming from surrounding bars, and the competing tempos and rhythms morph into one big bowl of cacophonic sound soup. So while our musical group plays with relish on their makeshift stage, the surrounding shredding, soloing, and wild contra tempos make every theatrical gesticulation comically out of sync.
Anna fidgets with her pinky rings and wipes her brow. "Just like you said, the island that never sleeps."
I did? "Yeah, uh, where's uh … Traci?"
Chaos under the big top as a canvas pergola from the bar next door blows over, trapping revelers like a shoal of drunken mackerel.
"She tapped out three bars ago. Remember that rat under the floorboards when she went to the loo?" Anna swivels her gaze towards the bar. "Oh, dear."
A fierce argument between Jon and a badly sunburned Herman Bierfahrter, still clad in cheetah-print plum smugglers. Savage gestures before Jon yells "Piss off!" then saunters towards us with a false smile, drinks in hands.
"What's the ruckus?" Anna's restrained look screams disapproval.
"Nothin', dear." Jon grins, offers her a quick peck on the cheek, then wheels to me. The clang of ice cubes against glass. "Here ya' go, Long Island iced tea. Just what da doctah ordered."
He did? That's it. No more drinking ... starting tomorrow.
Honking from behind. We rubberneck to four twenty-something hombres in matching orange polo shirts crammed in the back of a Toyota pickup idling in first gear. One of the passengers yells into a plastic megaphone but all that comes out is garbled squawking.
"What the hell is that?"
Jon shakes his head. "Dunno. Somethin' 'bout the typhoon."
The crowd of gawkers holler and toast the mighty Boracay Coast Guard as it ambles past the disarrayed masses spilling drinks while struggling to wrench the pergola up.
Polite applause. Summer of '69 ends while five more songs play in the background. The lead singer takes a seat and grabs a water bottle. After a hit off his "cigarette," the Rastafilipino plucks his guitar with an empty Red Horse beer bottle. Unsteady notes coalesce into a familiar lilt. Led Zeppelin's Swan Song.
"Oh, good Lord." Anna sees the social disaster first.
In front of the crashing waves, a questionably young Filipina in a zebra-striped bikini and sheer cover wrap twerks as if she's Clara in an X-rated Nutcracker, then liplocks a shirtless old fart whose love handles droop like a flesh-toned jello mold when he hands her a mimosa.
Growing audience murmurs compel the drummer to sneak backward glances at the lewd sideshow.
The old fart looks over at the audience and gives a thumbs-up.
Oh, dear god in pickled herring heaven, it's Björn.
"I know that guy."
Anna shoots me a glare, then wipes her clammy brow with a paper napkin.
My voice hits a high twang. "Ah, only from the plane ride over. He's Swedish or Norwegian or something. Works in critical cheeses. Gouda mostly."
The dancing queen swigs her mimosa, then performs an impressive forward split to a round of lusty catcalls. She smiles, then pulls down her bikini top, exposing her perfectly tapered nipples as if to say, See. No tan lines.
Poor Ludmilla.
Anna leans towards Jon. "This place is a bit more decadent than I remember."
Jon swishes his brandy snifter with a wry smirk. "Yeah, ain't it great?"
Jewelry and bracelets clang as Anna peels herself off the chair and shuffles away. After a thoughtful sip of brandy, Jon collects his words. "Uh, she's had a splittin' headache all day."
My stomach roils, ominously. "Ahhhh, uh, hey, where's the bathroom?"
"Ya' alright?"
"I'm fine." Just tell me before I puke.
Jon livens up. "Ya' speak French, right?"
I do? "Uh … "
"Ya said so to dat girl at Cocomangas. 'Membah?"
"Uh, oh yeah. Cocomangas. Sí, uh, … oui." Cut the bullshit.
He lifts his drink glass and points with unclipped pinky finger. "Aller jusqu'au bout. Prendre à gauche. Monte a l'étage. Vous êtes là."
Crap. Pitch perfect accent but good God that was fast. A quick nod and a blank smile. "Uh, oui. Oui. Oui."