The Weary Masses

Everywhere: masses. Many times smaller than on New Year’s Eve. But many times more sluggish. Where just a few days ago wolves danced around tap-dancing bears, now chill-out bags groan under the mass of tired bodies. To the endless repetition of this sight from bar to bar to disco, “You are not alone” booms in my head.

I, too, am infinitely tired from doing nothing. Doing nothing means bridging a five-day lull with 10 hours of work a day. In bed. As soon as I get out of bed, I get tired. We watch “Into the Wild” – Boracay is the most inappropriate place imaginable. Chris McCandless endeavoured to call a spade a spade. For the time being, my precious targets are drowning in Boracay’s 50 cm deep fish pond.

We’re going out. Charlh’s bar. Luckily Jens isn’t there today, there’s no birthday to celebrate. Reasons to celebrate are deadly here, because alcohol is needed on a significant scale just to overcome Boracay’s monotony. Nobody seems to do what they want here, only what they can, should or shouldn’t do. We drink in a binary way here. One day one, the next zero – because one still hurts so much. Today is one. The big bottle of rum for “Into the wild” is almost finished.

I always feel good after a good film – no matter how many times I’ve seen it. But even that doesn’t help today. Boracay has robbed me of the joy of travelling. I’m tired, I just want to go home, get into my own bed and see old friends. I no longer have the strength to open my eyes wide enough to see the truth. I don’t feel like calling things by their true names anymore. In the last bar, Max says that going home is not an option now. Then he counts our money and it’s clear: going home is the only solution. I take a deep breath.