When I first arrived to the Philippines, the place was a little rough around the edges. The slums of Manila were teaming with loud music, pick pockets, beggars, and hustlers. They were colorful communities with multi pigment motor vehicles called Jeepneys and rusty abodes made of god knows what materials. After getting into the taxi cab the driver pumped up the radio which was playing the Villagers, Billy Joel, and Styx.
Life was complicated here under the hot tropical sun in the South Pacific. These islands had been occupied by numerous foreign powers including Spain, Britain, Japan, and the United States. Such dramatic shifts in imperial history had rendered the local population passive and relaxed. The streets of Manila were dotted with vagrants and impoverished families and the city's transportation system was packed with sweaty bodies stuck together like cement, but the people were happy and brimming with tolerance over any situation. I had come to a nation where everyone adopted the mantra "the Dude abides."
My hostel was located on the forth floor of a steamy apartment building overlooking the bay across from the US Consulate. The attendants were a bit slow. They answered my questions with a persona similar to Pedro's from Napoleon Dynamite; aloof and with ambiguity. After talking with my absent minded cab driver and these two clowns, I wondered if the entire country was high, wrapped up in some perpetual mental haze from the suns rays and the odd oder that permeated from the Jeepneys that filled the streets. That night I wandered down Rizal Park, named after Filipino revolutionary Jose Rizal who had been executed there. While wandering through the park grounds I pondered about what Rizal would think of the current status of his people, with so many people impoverished while former presidents are imprisoned for laundering money and consenting to bribes. Would he be satisfied with the fruits of independence?
The next day I took a bike tour around the old Spanish city and garrison of Intramurals. Never before had I seen an Asian city that had been so defined by its colonial past. Shanghai's Bund has been over powered by the modern corporate majesty of Pudong across the river. Saigon's French heritage was nearly noticeable. Even Hong Kong doesn't appear to have much colonial architecture, and its beautiful skyline seemed to be of an almost Asian Western hybrid style. Manila on the other hand was like a Spanish or Latin American town, full of Romanesque style Catholic Cathedrals, guards adorning Spanish uniforms, and a fort that snaked through much of the city center. Spanish would've been more useful than Chinese here.
The people themselves had adapted some Mediterranean elements into Filipino culture. Everyone I talked to in the Philippines was a Catholic, although the southern islands (which Idid not visit) are predominately Muslim. Everyone was wearing flip flops, and it was common to see people sleeping in the streets taking all day siestas. After exploring the old Spanish garrisons, I went across the street to China town, only to find that all the businesses were closed and everyone was outside relaxing in the sun. I turned the corner at an old church to find numerous peddle and motor vehicles decorated with plastic dolls adorning Catholic attire. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. An Aztec sacrifice perhaps? Or maybe some twisted form of Carnival were everyone would feast on sexual pleasures and tequila worms. I would soon find out.
As I reached the river side a man in a blue shirt next to one of these infant arks on wheels waved to me and I waved back. Struck by curiosity I walked over and said hello and asked if I could take picture of the shrine. He responded with a passive affirmative and as I showed my face to the people inside, they immediately became fascinated. Apparently a westerner had not wandered into this slum before to talk with people, and they pounced on the chance for a unique experience, as did I. The blue shirted fellow named Michael offered me a drink and I accepted. Then an older gentleman named Jonas asked me if I liked to dance salsa. Having experience in Latin dancing, I joined in the salsa fest, later showing off my Rumba, Tango, and Russians. After this my new friends and I began to drink an endless flow of Red Horse ale that sedated my mind and energized my body. During this state of madness I was invited to join my new friends in the Santo Ninos festival, the Catholic celebration of the Holy Child. In my mad state of hedonism I agreed.
We were driven back to the old church where black ash was put on my face. All around me were crazy vehicles covered in the baby dolls with numerous colors and noises from fireworks, drums, and excited children. It was a cross between Marti Gra and Gasparilla, a noisy mess of celebratory Catholics and community cheer. The beer kept flowing, and the noise became more blurry. I made it back to my hostel looking like a chimney sweep stumbling up the stairs like a bewildered stegosaurs that just lost a battle with a T Rex. My head hit hard by alcohol and Filipino hospitality. These people are crazy, I thought. Cant give these bastards an inch or they'll walk a mile, despite the fact that they use the metric system. Never before had I seen an Asian culture so laid back and Epicurean. Salsa, catholic festivals, what next Taco Bell(I actually ended up finding one)?
The people in Manila were hospitable, friendly, and outrageously fun. While I have met plenty of hospitable Chinese people, and experienced the madness of unpredictability in Chinese society, I had never experienced anything quite like this, and Im sure that Japan and Korea would be alien to such customs. I jokingly say to myself now that the Philippines is the first Latin American country I have visited.
After a few days I set out for my next destination, Puerto Galera on the tropical island of Mindoro. To get there, I had to take a bus to the port city of Batangas. On the way I gazed at the passing scenery of rural Philippines, a deep blue sky looking over sprawling green hills and palm trees waving in a soft breeze. During this pleasant ride through the provinces I asked myself, are there any ugly places in this country? Everything was clear and pristine, even the slums were beautiful in their own right. The country is intoxicating. But I hadn't seen anything yet.
After a brief shuffle with my luggage through Batangas port, I set sail for Puerto Galera on a bright yellow banana like vessel. A Yellow Submarine fit for Ringo Starr. During this one hour cruse across the narrow straight, I listened to Gorillaz Plastic Beach album, getting lost in the azure waters and staring at factories far away on the distant islands. Everything became more linear, more centered, more leveled, and less real. Sooner than I thought we arrived to the small seaside town of Sabang, a beach bum community with multicolored bungalows, diver shops, Aussie bars, and a tacky castle that served as the town's Tropicana Hotel.
Coming onto the island with my big red suitcase, I attracted numerous motorbike taxi drivers asking where I wanted to go. I told one of them Tuna Joe Hostel and he knew the place, so I hopped on for a ride with a small fee. The motorbike sped through the streets of Sabang and straight into the rich tropical jungles of the Puerto Galera peninsula. Swerving and shifting through narrow roads that penetrated the jungle like a slip and slide. My hostel was located in a small community of natives alongside a rocky beach littered with coconut husks and dead coral. Just 10 feet off the shore were psychedelic coral reefs that contained a metropolis of marine species. The peninsula was surrounded by them. That evening the sunset produced an orange and purple glow that complimented the rich dark silhouettes of jungle foliage.
I soon realized the dangers of these islands. It was going to be hard, perhaps impossible to leave them. Several veterans of this spiderweb of intoxication that surrounded these islands could be seen at the bars, old men mostly from Australia and England, drinking away their final years. Their primary forms of recreation included boating, diving, and fucking the local whores. I heard the same story over and over again, an old man got tired with his wife who no longer pleased him sexually so he divorced her and left to the Philippines to have a few young girlfriends he could call upon. The bastards were coming for one thing, to get lost and stay lost. Like the coral layers of rock that formed the shoreline, these pigs just washed up on shore and stuck to it, becoming part of the environment, and loosing themselves in the process. It was a temptation I myself crossed eyes with, an evil temptation that smelled like the morning after a night that imbibed a few too many Singapore slings. The pearl sands of White Beach, the cool breeze from Mount Malisimbo, the alien environments of the coral gardens, the crystal waters of Tamara Falls, they all were singing the songs of a foul Siren enticing you to make your stay permanent.
The people were as pleasant as their environment. About 40% of the people on the island were small children. It was common to meet families with 5 children or more, with about 4 girls and the young anticipated prince that would carry on the family name. Along with the little tikes were the dogs. Dogs wandered on the beaches everywhere, and since it was too expensive to get them fixed, the flea bags just kept multiplying. In fact, the owner of my hostel, who had 5 dogs said she had to kill the mother because she kept having too many litters. Outside my room I after saw a couple of men, sailors mostly, enjoying a game of cards or Majong with a side of gambling. They called me over a few times to join them in conversation and drink, a sweet and silky substance which was far more enjoyable than the Baijiu I am used to in China. As we sat and chatted, the bottle would make its way around the table leaving it's effects in a more saturated manner following each round. The people here lived simple lives under the blue skies, swaying palm trees, and piles of cement blocks they called home. Despite the simplicity and lack of opportunity to progress, I was envious of them.
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