The Amerikan

My friend Maria and I went Puerto Princesa, Palawan to deliver a box of Vietnamese language text books in 1985, and at the time I had a twisted vision that the island was a barren waste, decimated by loggers who failed to practice conservation efforts. I never realized how beautiful it was. After a week at Duchess Inn near the refugee camp, we wanted to see more. We didn't just want to leave the island and head back to the hustle that Manila is. We spent a day at White Beach and another two in the camp, just communicating with the friendly Vietnamese people.
After a week Maria and I were still looking for adventure, and the front desk girl at Duchess Inn, our home for the week, had told us about Tanabag. So Maria and I decided to go. After packing our backpacks and paying the bill, we sat down at the Inn for one last breakfast. The menu was the same: French bread baked at the camp, and honey, and fried eggs and coffee. The eggs were a deep yellow and tasted different from those back home. The honey and the bread melted in your mouth.
"I've always heard about the Batac Tribe of Palawan," Maria said, as she attempted to break the silence. "Huh?" I said as I savored my breakfast. "Yeah, I'd like to see this tribe too. I heard they move from place to place and take their house with them," I said. "Now where is it that we catch the jeep?" Maria got the directions from the front desk girl and after, we stopped at the palengke to get bottled water and fresh batteries for my Mag-Lite. Tanabag was a good two hours drive from Puerto Princesa, and I figured with stops along the way, we'd arrive around 3:30 p.m. We made reservations ahead of time, and because we were traveling light, we were able to load up on extra water and junkfoodstuffs.

The jeepney was pretty ragged looking, and it definitely had seen some better days. It was a rusting hulk with no tail lights and bald tires. A front fender was missing and the back seats were torn to pieces. The driver, an overweight man in his late 20s was busy adding oil to the engine as his charge collected the fares. It didn't concern me that the jeep was filled to capacity because I got used to the way they fill jeeps back in Manila. But when I began to see people climbing atop the jeep and on the front bonnet, I couldn't help but wonder how we were going to manage on this two hour ride. There must have been 22 people in and on the jeep, along with various bags, crates of live chickens, bushels of bok choy. Two 100 pound blocks of ice wrapped in burlap and sprinkled with sawdust were lashed to the back of the jeep, on each side of the entranceway. The jeep was fully loaded.

Unlike the jeeps of Manila, this jeep was sparsely decorated. The only paint on it was that of the familiar PAL logo and signage, and it was small. But it was the only thing visible, because the rest of the jeep was tin metal. It had no mirrors of any kind. And no radio.

As we left, the man at the jeep station looked and started to shake his head at the driver. The driver had done it again. He managed to squeeze as many and as much cargo and people as his jeep could hold, maximizing his trip for maximum cash.
At the first stop, two people got off, but three more got on, so I figured we were in for something. A thrifty jeepney driver and an old, rusty pile of shit of a jeep. Just as we were about to leave the outskirts of Puerto Princesa, the left rear tire blew out and we hobbled to a stop. I looked at my Casio. We were exactly eight minutes into our trip. I stared in awe as I counted 16 people climb off the roof of the jeep. The driver pulled off one of his two spare tires, which also were bald and replaced the flat. We were running again in about twenty minutes. It was humid and dusty, and it was hot.

The road leading out of the city was semi-paved with gravel and sand. It was hard packed from all the vehicles it has accommodated over the years. It was a surprisingly smooth ride for such primitive construction. No asphalt, no cement, no lane markers. Just dirt and gravel. As we passed, I looked at the ocean and the opposing jungle. On one side, it was blue and sparse and empty. Palm trees beckoned out toward the sea, and an occasional Nipa hut dotted the landscape. On the other side loomed a thick mass of greenery. Vegetation, tall trees, dense bush, and high mountains. A cool wind blew off the rain forest toward the sea. It was refreshing and smelled real clean. Pure oxygen.

An hour into the trip we got our second flat tire. It was very hot. We were turning a corner when a loud "pop" disabled the jeep once again. The jeep started listing to one side and the driver pulled under some coconut trees. Again everybody got out. The woman who was sitting atop the wheel well when the first blow out occurred was sitting in the same spot, and as she got out she was complaining that the driver should get new tires. "Maybe it's not my tires, but it's your bad luck," Totoy, the driver said. "I think you've put a curse on my jeep. You've been sitting atop the only tire that has blown out, and the tires are all bald," the driver said as he wrenched on the spare. "Ano, spellmaker ba ?"

"Don't blame me for you being so cheap. It's not me that is causing the delays, it's this piece of shit jeep. It's cursed with PAL," the woman laughed as she squatted on the side of the road and lit up a cigarette. She seemed one hundred years old, but she still had her wits about her. And she smoked her cigarette with the cherry in her mouth. Insane.
The sun was really doing a number on us. People were getting irritated. Totoy mumbled something to himself as he wrenched the second spare off the fender. His stomach, which obviously had downed many San Miguels in its day, hung a few inches outside his shirt as he worked the tire off. The crack of his ass shone as he worked the flat off the axle. He was grunting, somewhat like a pig as he fought with the tire, getting a handle on it as he sat in the dirty, dusty road.

A scorpion scampered by, and Totoy, with a deft agility that seemed incapable from such an overweight man, expertly threw the lug wrench at it, smashing its head. The tail was stinging the hot metal, and the scorpion slowly stopped its movement. Retrieving the wrench, Totoy was boasting like he was some ace shot. "Magaling iyon!," Totoy said as he cleaned the wrench with an oily rag he retrieved from his back pocket. "It never fails, my shot is always on the mark," Totoy said as he began tightening the lug nuts. "Yeah, right pare, but how come you don't have any children yet, your shot isn't so good, Walang heirs naman, sino ang inherit ang jeep ba? This piece of shit you call a jeep?" laughed his charge, a short, dark, ugly man with no front teeth. "Pu tang ina, get out and walk, ano ayo ang jeep ko? get out and walk you little shit," Totoy said as he chased his charge around the jeep. I looked down at the scorpion, looking for signs of life. Big black ants had already swarmed over it and were devouring it, feasting on an enemy. The voracity of the feasting ants was unparalleled, except for maybe a feeding frenzy of sharks I saw on the Discovery Channel. My how nature works. I looked up toward the sun. It was blazing, and I was hoping for relief, anything but this cursed heat.

"I'm thirsty, John," Maria said as we sat in the jeep. "Let's get some cokes," she said as we waited inside the jeep. It started to really bake in the jeep, and the people still in it made the smell very pungent. I jumped out of the jeep and walked over to the sari-sari store across the road and bought two Sprites and a double bag of Chippys. Little to snack on but better than sitting and baking in the back of the jeep.

The driver was finishing up on the tire when another jeepney stopped. This jeep had chrome all over the place, and the rims were shiny too. The driver was wearing a pair of vintage WWII goggles and a scarf, but no shirt. His muscles rippled as he pulled himself out of his seat and into the street at Totoy's feet. The driver looked at the jeepney and started to laugh. "Totoy, Ano ka, cutting corners again? Why don't you invest in some Sime Darbys? You won't be getting flats every weekend you come out here," the driver said as Totoy finished the job and leaned on the fender, wiping the sweat off his face and neck. "Ano pare, let me borrow your spare?" I need it just in case, I've got no more spares. "Ano Totoy, you got 500 pesos I could hold until I get it back?" "And when are you going to learn not to take ice on a day trip?" The driver said as he fondled a nearly empty and very wet ice bag. "Ice is gone," the driver said as he wrenched the spare off his fender and gave it to Totoy. "And don't be late," "And next time leave Waling in the market. She's bad luck," he laughed as Waling, the woman who sat on the wheel which was always getting flat, threw a rotted tomato at him as he accelerated the jeep past us. "Sigue make fun, I'm sitting in the front now, no more in the back," she said as she gathered her stuff and kicked a guy out of his seat and took his place. Nine kms down the road, the front tire blew out.

Sometime around 7 p.m., we arrived in Tanabag. Surprisingly, there weren't any mosquitoes, and the horizon was brilliant. Stars were literally lighting up the sky. It was a full moon, and the reflection off the calm China Sea was striking. I thanked the driver and we got off. Our two hour ride took nearly six hours. I was so dusty and dehydrated. It was a very long day. "Come on Johnny boy, lets get settled so we can wash up. I feel so, ano ba, so icky naman." Maria quipped as she tied her hair up.

We went to the office. A rusty Coleman lantern lit the way. Two women and a man were sitting on the bamboo rail on the porch, playing pusoy and drinking beer. "Ako ang reservations dito," Maria said as she settled down on the bench next to the younger girl. "Ano ang pangalan, miss?" "de La Cruz" Maria said as we went through the formalities. "Ah yes, Mr. John de La Cruz and guest," Sophie, as she introduced herself, said as she had us sign the guest log. I stared at her as she spoke, eyeing her body and her lips. She was a very hearty young woman, about 22. Big legs and calfs on a stout torso. Her body seemed very strong, and built, not like a Manila waif, but a woman of the province, a provinciana. "How long will you be staying Mr. de La Cruz?" Sophie asked as she poured me some fresh mango juice. "The fourth and fifth Nipa hut are open, you can have whichever one you prefer," she said as we gulped the sweet nectar that mango juice is. "The one at the end looks good, and we'll be here for a few days, at least until Sunday," I said as we finished the merienda and started to walk toward the last Nipa hut "If you need fresh water sir, go ahead and ask Ferdie he will go to the market for only twenty pesos. The water here is not potable, so I advise you to get bottled water if you don't already have some. It's OK to take a bath in though," she said as she walked us to the Nipa hut. Have a good night and don't worry, its very safe here in Tanabag."

After unpacking, Maria took a nap, and I, a bit tired from the trip, but also eager to check out the waves, went for a walk on the beach. The stars were so many and so far, it looked as if I was looking through a wide angle lens. They went all the way to the horizon. I saw no lights, no airplane trails, nothing. Just a deep black void filled with little shining specs of light. The Nipa huts were situated on a point, and to the left of the structures was a pond with palm trees and brush growing in the water and on a little mound in the middle. It was probably fed by a freshwater spring, and fed saltwater at high tide. The beach was rocky with smooth sand scattered in between and little strips of bamboo jutted out in a circular formation. The air smelled of salt, and the breeze, a bit nippy. As I walked, I thought of the rest of our god forsaken civilization. Of the wars over oil, over territory, over religion. And on this edge, this edge of Palawan, looking out to sea, I couldn't give a flying fuck. Because here, nothing mattered. Just a vast sea.

Here I'm told not to drink the water because it's not potable, but this brackish water that comes out of the shower head, this rusty smelling gift of life is safe to shower in. Back off the edge, I take the water for granted. I won't drink it out of a garden hose in my town, but that water is even cleaner than the water coming out of the shower heads here. But its the price I pay for this slice of life, this cosm of the world that many people will never see. Life moves slow here. News is a week, 10 days old before it gets here, if it ever gets here. I smell the jungle, see the stars, hear the ocean lap at the land as I walk the edge of it, and feel the force of life. These people, these Filipinos, they have nothing, as we see from the West. They have no cars, no VCRs, no compact discs, no answering machines, no dust busters, no ballet class, no credit cards, no auto repair, no microwaves, no alarms, no hair dryer, no bills, no insurance, no savings, no sense of the future. They live for today, because they know that tomorrow is not guaranteed. They, without the possessions we deem essential, they live without, and live their lives as if its the last day of their life. Nothing is ever a problem. Its too simple.

"Hey Johnny boy wake up! get your ass up!" Maria said as she snapped me with a wet towel. "Let's get breakfast before the window shuts on us." I forgot that out here, there is no refrigeration, and the only way to get any food is to have Ferdie take a jeep back to the local market to get fresh vegetables and anything else we want to eat for breakfast. It was only 7 a.m., but the sun was already working up its fury in the tropics. I opened the window and looked out. Again I saw the ocean. It looked even more surreal than last night. "Unreal, I thought as I peered out into the vast and mighty South China Sea. It was like a lake, but I knew the China Sea was very deceptive and if you weren't careful, it would swallow you and never give you up. The water was a clear green, like Squirt, and very calm. The lapping that put me to sleep last night still sounded, like clockwork.

We were at the farthest reaches of the coast. Already the nik-niks, little black sand flies, were biting at my legs, and as I continued to slap at them, Sophie walked up and sprayed me with a thick oil. "It's coconut oil. They can't bite through the layer of oil, and besides that, if they land they're doomed anyway, so keep spraying," she said as she wiped the oil onto my shoulders and arms. She gave us the bottle filled with the milky-white liquid, and Maria took over. As she wiped my back and neck down with the oil, Maria gave me a little primer about Palawan and the history that she knew of it. The essence of the oil brought back memories of the beaches back home in Huntington. The oil smelled just like a bar of white Sex Wax. "Coconut oil?" I asked as Maria finished lathering herself to a gleen. "Yeah, at least it isn't toxic chemicals like Black Flag di ba? Grabe, spraying chemicals on your skin like that. Simple coconut oil. No warning labels about do not inhale or ingest or use near flame. Just pure oil that mother nature intended to be a natural remedy against the nik-nik. "I heard the nik-nik is more terrible than the mosquito," Maria said as she put on a pair of Ray Bans. "I heard they suck your blood and when once gorged, they suck more until they are overflowing out of their little insect mouths," Maria said, adjusting the Ray Bans on her nose. "And if you let them bite you at first, you'll be regretting it for weeks." I didn't know whether to believe her or not. I chose not to, and later paid the price. Nothing in this world comes without a price.

We went to the main hut where breakfast was being served. Our first morning in Tanabag, and the stress of Manila was slowly emanating from my body...and my mind. We sat at a long table that seated about 10-15 people. With the exception of a group of three Americans and one Pinoy, the table was empty.
"So, with the exception of the Vietnam War, the Philippines has not really engaged in any significant military action after W.W.II. Perhaps our country can teach your country a lesson in the strategies of world relations." He was an American. Probably in his early thirties. He was wearing one of those baduy polyester Hawaiian-type shirts only Americans would wear. Probably bought it in Baclaran. He was about 5'9" and his brown hair was receding well above his forehead. Bathed in some cheap musk oil. A total asshole just by the way he smelled.

Although I caught only the tail end of what was probably a meaningless discussion on the aspects of American military power in the Asian area of the Pacific Rim, I knew the guy was a total all American, think he's a do gooder, brainwashed right wing, we had to destroy the city in order to save it, American.
"Actooaly I believe that Da Pilapines was in......"Its actually Gaspar, acktully, just like it sounds," the American said to his Pinoy paré. "It's not actooaly. Don't destroy the one good thing we gave your country. Learn how to speak English correctly. And it's the fillapeens, not Pilapeens. Fi Fi Fillapeens, Got it? "Yes Dick, Fillapeens," Gaspar said as he dejectedly avoided eye contact at me, as I was getting teed at this American. I couldn't help it but I had to intercede.

"Excuse me sir," I said in my most believable Manila-Boy accent. "But I couldn't help but overhear you making an attempt to correct your friend's use of the English language. May I make a suggestion as well?" Maria looked at me and mouthed "Don't do this." I continued. I was pissed. Even though I was an American just like this guy, Dick, was, I was also a Filipino, and I wasn't going to stand for this guy's ignorance. "Sir do you know where you are?" I asked, continuing to fake my accent. "Yes of course, we are in the Philippine Islands, discovered by Magellen in 1492, controlled by Spain for 400 years and won from Spain by the USA in 1898. This is the Philippines. Village of Tanabag. On the South China Sea. On the island of Palawan, capital Puerto Princesa." Dick did his homework but he just didn't get it. "Your facts are good Dick, can I call you Dick?" I said as my accent became thicker, as if it took on a life of its own. "Let me ask you very simply, do you know where you are?" Dick was beginning to get a bit annoyed at my seeming prodding of his intelligence. He was smart, but his instant arrogance for all things American just pissed me off. "Yes," Dick said, "We are in The Philippines." Very simply he answered my question with a bit of consternation. "Very good," I said as I prepared my roast. Maria was getting nervous, and I assured her from under the table I had everything under control. Gaspar was getting fidgety as well, and very angry by the cold looks he was directing to me. "And in this country called the Republic of the Philippines, what kind of people live here, in this island nation of some 7,107 islands?" Dick seemed confused, and angry that such a pest as I would challenge his seeming knowledge of the country. "The people of the Philippine Islands are called Filipinos, primarily of Malay and indigenous stock, with a smattering of Chinese, European, American, and Middle Eastern extract. Being in such a strategic location as the Philippine Islands are, brings a diaspora of peoples to these islands," Dick said. "You're right, Dick," I said, "But Filipinos mostly live in the Philippines. Not Americans. As a matter a fact, there are some 58 million Pinoys in these islands, and it is very likely that 57.9 million of those Pinoys have never been to the United States, let alone another country. So it seems," I said as I began to state my position, "that the Filipino use for your English is basically meaningless. I mean, you said that we get a whole consortium of peoples coming to this country, so may I ask, how would Gaspar react if the next group he brought to this little beach were from England, the birth place of the English lingo? Or from Australia or Ireland, or India, or all the other English speaking countries in this world? Why push your corrections on him. To me, his English is fine. To other Pinoys, it is fine, but to you, why do you have to humiliate him, belittle him in front of his fellow countrymen? I mean we are in the Philippines man, and as long as we are on this rock, we will speak English however we want to. I was pissed and Maria started to ask me to apologize to Dick. "I'm trying to do Gaspar a favor with his English," I don't need some sermon from some snot nose college boy from Manila. We give you guys much concessions and you people don't appreciate anything we give you. We give you a hell of a lot and you should thank us for doing so," Dick said as he looked at me as if he demanded me to apologize to him for insulting him, his country, and his language. "Yeah right," I said as I lost the my "accent." Do you even know what the Framers of the US Constitution were aiming for as they wrote that document? Well, they were looking for a way to secure freedom for the people of the country, to ensure that no one man or political party would have total control of the country. Let me tell you something Dick," I said as I stood facing him on the other side of the table.

"Your dollars cannot buy democracy in this country. It can't buy peace and it can't buy freedom. Wake up Dick, this country is hardly modeled after the USA. You people tried, but as in Vietnam, your country has failed miserably to ensure democracy in this country. You think that Marcos is an anti-communist? He's pulled a fast one on your country. Take a look around. He controls everything in this country. Let me ask you something, how come he is still in power? In the American system, power changes hands every four years, eight if the current president wins a second term. Marcos has been in power for 20 years. Twenty years. With your money. Your country's taxpayer dollars. Marcos is a tough cookie. You supply him with the guns and gold, he buys his goons, and enforces his iron will on us. And the US continues to support him. Why? Because of two reasons. Clark Air and Subic Naval. Your "assurances" that peace remains in the region." Dick was red and angry and drunk. Early morning and already drunk. Gaspar was pissed as well and was very offended by me getting in his friends face. "Ano ka, Pare, let's just leave it alone and forget this morning," Gaspar pleaded as he lit a cigarette. "Di ba le na lang, Ang sirah American yoon," Gaspar said as he looked on at Dick. I looked at him and asked him how he could take this guy's carabao shit, how he could handle getting his English corrected for every little "mistake" he made while speaking. "He pays me in dollars, I don't want to bite the hand that feeds me and feeds me well," Gaspar echoed. I couldn't argue with that. "I've just one more thing to say Gaspar, and we're outta here. "Oh Yeah, uh Dick, I forgot to tell you one last thing. Your country's presence here in the region to ensure stability can't even ensure stability in the very country that is playing host to your military machine." As I got up to leave, I shoved the man a fresh beer.

Maria, who was silent through most of the whole argument, looked at me with disgust and took off toward the beach. Ominous clouds began forming off the coast, and the change in the wind indicated rain. She was sitting on a piece of driftwood on the beach. When I reached her, she buried her face between her knees. She was crying. "Maria, what is it?" I asked as I tried to console her. "Get away from me!" she sobbed as I grabbed her and embraced her. "What's wrong Maria, what is it?" I couldn't figure.

"You just don't get it, do you Johnny-boy. You don't have a clue," she said as I wiped the tears from her eyes. I was trying to understand, but, as I recycled the events of the morning, I couldn't see where I could have possibly gone wrong. "Gosh Johnny-boy, you're just like that man, you are as American as him!" Maria said as she again let the river of tears flow down her cheeks. "Sheesh, even though you're Pinoy on the outside, you are as American as the idiots in Subic. We don't have what your country has. We don't have money, we don't have a democratic style of government, we don't have free education, and we don't have freeways crisscrossing the land, let alone the cars," Maria said as she composed herself. "You want to know what we do have? We've got crime, we've got poverty, we've got corruption, we've got pollution, we've got high birth rate, we've got no morals, we have no standards, we have 'love hotels', we have racism and discrimination, we have disease, we have starving children everywhere. Everywhere you go in this country, you can find children everywhere, scraping for food, surviving any which way they can. We are survivors Johnny-boy. We often times marry, not because of romance or love, but for survival. We may despise the man and his family we have married into, but we do it to survive. It's just like our marriage to your country. We may not like every condition your country puts on us when we receive your country's financial aid, but we do it to survive, just like the hookers you see on the streets in the city. We have no real culture. Our culture has been prostituted Johnny-boy. Our culture is John Wayne movies, Dynasty, and all those other American TV shows we watch.
Here, if you don't have it, you'll never get it, unless you prostitute yourself by marrying some man for his money. In America, anybody can climb the mountain, and when they reach the top, it's always golden," she said as I noticed a different Maria from the hardened one of the last couple of nights. She left me at the beach, wondering.

That night we walked on the beach. I sensed Maria also wanted to leave the country. I could feel her sense of despair. I held her there for a long time. She cried and cried, and held me tight. It felt good to be held and it felt good just to receive this human communication. I kissed her on the forehead as we looked out to sea. It was a calm night, and the waves were gently lapping against the shore. It was quiet the rest of the night, and as we walked back to our Nipa hut, we held hands and hugged, and talked and laughed. It seemed that Maria was happy to have let all her frustrations out, and I was happy to receive them into my mind. I never really understood the situation from a Pinay point of view, but Maria, with all her pride and dignity of being a woman, in this country no less, opened up a whole new realm of thought to me. She taught through explanation, and though she offered no conclusions, she did leave the door open a bit.

Palawan plane ride

(Dunkin Donuts) The aswang- With two women in Palawan and the aswang and how hot it was that night. Nipa Hut on the mud flat Passion can turn you into its slave

Tuesday night Gabriela, Maria and I went to Dunkin Donuts on Pasay Rd. in Makati. Gabriela and I were craving chocolate donuts, but we didn't have any Pesos handy. So we called Maria. Maria, being of a somewhat affluent mother, always had some money on hand. "Ano ka, you only call me cause you don't have money?" Maria said as we talked to her on the phone. "Sigue, come pick me up. I want to get out of the house anyway," she quipped as Gabriela and I high fived our apparent fix. It was past midnight. It is said that Manila is very dangerous at night, and being a foreigner or balikbayan it was doubly dangerous. Or so they say. The ride to Maria's was a bumpy one, especially in a VW bug with bald tires. Gabriela had sold the bug to her roommate, but since she was out of town, we pretty much had free use of it. As we went through San Antonio Village, I noticed that the night life was pretty much still happening, kids playing in the street, grown men playing chess, even some teens shooting hoops.

We got to Maria's at 1 a.m. Dunkin's was another ten minutes from Maria's place. "Hoy, pare, What's up duude?!" Maria said as I met her at her gate. "We need you Maria," I said as we gave each other a customary hug and kiss on the cheek. "You ready for our trip to Palawan?" I said as I lifted the front seat so she could squeeze in the back. "I've got a ton of books for the Vietnamese refugee camp on Palawan." "It would be lovely to have you," I said as I played like I was deeply interested in her."Bastos talaga " Maria said as she blocked my pseudo advances toward her. "You Americans can think you can score with any Filipina, let me tell you something Johnny boy, not with me, no way," Maria said in her best Olongapo girl accent. "If you ain't a Navy, you ain't gonna get me," she said as we laughed in the car.

It made me wonder, that little scenario we pulled in the back of the VW. Here was a sophisticated Manila girl, talking shit on her fellow Filipina, but it was something that wasn't really funny, but it made me think just the same. I was an American, yet I was a Filipino. The Americans had maintained a presence in the Philippines since 1898, when they defeated Spain, and later, Emilio Aguinaldo in the Philippine American War. The Americans have maintained US military installations in the Philippines ever since, William Howard Taft couldn't even find the islands on a map. I read somewhere that the Olongapo girl, or at least what is perceived as the Olongapo girl, is a Filipina prostitute, who goes with and often marries Americans to get out of the country. Some however don't really want to leave the country, but rather, enjoy just plain getting fucked, with whomever and wherever they can get it. They are supposedly largely uneducated, and speak English with a high degree of unsophistication. Their intonations are usually high pitched, and their grasp of the American English language is limited to how the servicemen speak, usually down at the gutter level. A Manila version of the Olongapo girl, the Mabini girl, can be found in Mabini, near the U.S. Embassy on Roxas Blvd. But obviously they were trying to improve their lot, and I couldn't find fault in that.
We got to Dunkin Donuts without incident, sans a cigarette vendor who ran off with my 5 peso bill. About three Dunkin Donut employees were outside the store, on strike. They had a banner across the sidewalk and were trying to solicit donations from passersby. "Kumusta ka ang pangalan kay Jesus DeLeon, nag we welga kami para sa mataas na sweldo namin ," Jesus said as I got out of the VW. "Please don't cross the picket line," he pleaded as we all got out to go into the store. "It just makes things harder for us."

When Gabriela started to explain what was going on, Jesus overheard and walked over, and explained to me in very proficient English what they were trying to accomplish. "You from the States?" Jesus asked as we shook hands. "California" I said as I lit up a blue seal. "I haven't been here since 1986, and I am just hanging out," I said as I held Maria's arm. "Why you on strike?" "We're on strike because these fucking intsik owners won't raise our salaries by a measly 25 pesos a day. 25 pesos, that's about $1.25 in dollars. What's your minimum wage in the States? $4.00 an hour $5.00 an hour? An hour's worth of your wages is a whole days of our wages. We make about $5 a day. That's one meal for one person at McDonalds. " Can you imagine, they don't even want to raise us 25 pesos a day. That's one donut."

I could understand his plight, and it made me think hard about working and money and the whole trip. This guy was a college graduate, and he's frying donuts for a living. I shuddered the thought. We crossed the line regardless. Once inside the store, the remaining employees were eager to help us. I ordered a chocolate donut and a ham and cheese croissant. Maria ordered the same thing. Gabriela just got two chocolate donuts. As we left the store, I gave Jesus 20 pesos for his efforts and to soothe my conscience. The donut was good but the croissant was a little greasy, and the ham seemed a little peculiar. But I was hungry and ate the whole thing. Only later would I find that crossing the strike line at Dunkin Donuts a mistake.
The rest of the night was uneventful. We listened to the radio and kicked back with Jazz FM. We packed our bags because we were leaving for Palawan at 7 a.m. It was somewhat difficult to coax the two girls to take the trip with me, but when I offered to pay for the tickets, they were eager to accompany me. It was all for good cause anyway.

Friday morning was a little hectic. As I called the taxi and prepared our supplies, the women were busy taking a bath and fixing their bags. We left for Manila Domestic at 8:30 in hopes of arriving by 10 am. We hit traffic on Buendia. The boulevard was thick with jeepneys, taxis, and busses. The air, a dusty dirty blanket of black soot. A mestizo in a shiny new Mercedes was not letting us merge into the left turn lane onto Baltao St. I was getting peeved, coming from the freeways and highways of Southern California, I looked at the driver and gave him the "What's up!?" look of inconsideration. He looked back and flipped me off. The universal language of fuck off. It sends the message so simple, yet so elegantly. The taxi driver laughed and made his own turn lane out of the number one lane. "Watch this" the driver said as he effectively cut in front of the Mercedes. The taxi driver laughed as he explained the driving finesse of the Philippine wealthy. "Because they have the money, and because they live in Forbes Park or Dasmariñas village, or even Ayala Alabang, they think they own the road," Gaspar said. "And you know something, I think they do." "The only way for the rest of us to redeem ourselves is on the street. Us taxi drivers, it explains why some of us drive like we do. Others, the mechanics, they get them when the rich bring their cars in for service. And still others, like the car nappers, they just rob them of their cars. But it really doesn't faze the rich too much, because they have millions."

We finally arrived at Manila Domestic Airport just after 10 a.m. It was much smaller than Ninoy Aquino International, and there wasn't a crowd of people waiting outside the gate. The lobby was cleaner and looked better maintained. We got our boarding passes from the PAL ticket agent. "Thank you Mr. Virata," the agent said as he took our check-in bags. he didn't pay any attention to the beautiful woman that were accompanying me on the plane, and for this, he received two strikes. He was strikingly tall for a Filipino, about 6 ft 3 inches. He was very well groomed and nattily dressed. His face was finely chiseled, with high cheek bones and a prominent nose, and a strong chin. But there was something about him that struck me as peculiar. I couldn't figure it out until we were in flight.

The trip to Palawan took about an hour. It was the first time I flew to outer islands in the Philippines and I absolutely loved the view from the 737. I always loved the view of the islands from the plane. I could differentiate from the deep and shallow parts of the ocean. The waters were a very light green around the dozens of islands I could see from the plane, and then dropped off to a very dark blue. Sometimes a reef stretched from one island to another, with only a very narrow strip of blue separating them. All separate islands, yet all related. The islands themselves were a thick mass of green, with an occasional brown patch of road snaking through brush. From above, the islands seem at peace, everything together and in sync.
I truly wondered what God was thinking when he created the island chain that is called the Philippines. Because he created a beautiful country. It only seems that the people fucked everything up.

Pablo, the checker at the counter was now the flight attendant. As he served coffee and soda, I noticed that he was very effeminate as he placed the napkin and poured the soda in the clear, plastic cup. He was very delicate as he passed the snacks out, and he was especially gentle with the manongs on the plane.

"Mr. Virata, would you care for anything to drink?" he asked me as he folded my table out. "Yes I would like a Sarsi and a 7up," I said as I put my headphones on and watched him move. Gabriela looked at Maria and were whispering about something, and laughed. I didn't pay them any mind, because they were always making chismis, and because I couldn't understand Tagalog, they would say, "too bad, bummer man," their favorite expression. Pablo looked and acted like the guy who cut my hair in Makati, and I realized the peculiar thing about him was that he was gay as well. He was very good looking, and he smiled a lot. His job suited him well. He did his job well. Women in the States would drool over Pablo.

"Tita, did you drop the Ralph Lauren or what?" Gabriela turned to Maria as she lit up a cigarette. Being in somewhat cramped corners amplified everything around you, and the strong scent of perfume, especially when it is poured on, like the woman in the seat behind us poured it on, can make you feel uneasy in the nose and throat, and in the head as well. The smell was overwhelming, and Gabriela, being sensitive to all things unnatural, like anti-perspirant, lipstick, and makeup and perfume, was really getting worked over real good from the woman in the seat behind us.

She was an overweight older lady wearing a tight, loud, minidress and black pumps. Her flabs were hanging out of the dress. Her jewelry, faux gold and piled on. Her face was distorted through all the makeup, and her perfume, well it was on so strong it made Gabriela want to puke. The woman in the seat behind us, she was a typical traveling Filipina. She was probably a "green card holder," and was returning from the U.S., because only in the U.S. does an ugly Filipina wear so much in excess, in excess to the point that everything, from the faux jewelry, to the black pumps, to the makeup, to the cheap perfume, can be found in any major magazine that advertises ladies cheap health and beauty products. She had a fake Louis Vuitton handbag, and long fake fingernails, and she was reading Cosmopolitan, the magazine for fake women with fake tits. She was the essence of the unstylish Filipina. A recent returnee that buys not out of necessity, but out of the fact that her friends in her barkada purchased the same junk when they had gone abroad. She, the type that would go far out into the desert of California, halfway to Las Vegas, just to shop at the Polo Shop, just because that is where her friends went when they came to the States. She, the type that would buy desert property in Las Vegas if her friends did, just to gain the acceptance of her peers, the same peers who talk behind her back about her philandering husband, or her daughter who has had multiple abortions, or her son, who is always high on Shabu. She, the type who is caught up in the act of catching up, but will never catch up nor will she be the one who sets the standards of the Filipina mind. The material mind that sometimes pervades the Filipina mind. Just to impress the "friends" at the country club or at the mahjong table. She, the woman in the seat behind us.

"Excuse me miss, do you think you can put your seatback forward so I can have a little room to move out of my seat, its very uncomfortable for me and you reclining your seatback has made it more so for me," The woman in the seat behind us said as she moved about, trying to position her bulging body into the minuscule seat. Her movements caused our row of seats to move a little more than a normal plane ride would move a seat.

"I'm sorry miss, but I cannot move my seat upright because it would cause me discomfort. I'm sorry," Gabriela said as she whispered something to the fact as to how this woman had the nerve.
"Miss, I'm asking you nicely, do you think you can move your seatback upright so I can move about a bit, It's very hard for me to position my reading light, and I want to read my magazines," the woman in the seat behind us said as she continued to pursue her goal of getting her way. It was getting a bit interesting, and I wanted to see which of these two very different Filipina women would prevail in getting what they wanted. I was rooting for Gabriela, but the woman in the seat behind us was very persistent. "You know if you were my daughter, I would have taught you some respect for your elders," the woman in the seat behind us said a matter of factly as she finally settled into her seat, a full 15 minutes into what was a one hour flight. "So what, are you saying my parents didn't teach me manners?" Gabriela said as she stood up preparing to get into a verbal confrontation with the woman in the seat behind us.
"Speak for yourself, Puta. have you looked in a mirror lately?" I mean just look at your pathetic self. Look at that bag, and those baduy shoes, where did you go shopping, Baclaran for those shoes? and what about that ugly face, who does your makeup? and where did you get that dress, K Mart?" At this time Pablo came about and tried to break up the verbal abuse. "Excuse me girls, but we are on a plane here and you both need to be considerate of others. Please, miss, and ma'am, let's stop this now," Pablo said as he maneuvered behind me to give him space to move Gabriela's seatback forward. "This is just twenty more minutes flight and soon we'll be on the ground so please, lets work to be considerate of the others flying today." At this point, Pablo got some reinforcements in a stunning flight attendant and the purser. "Diyos ko naman!, ang hirap hirap talaga," Gabriela fumed as she reluctantly settled back into her seat. Pablo had given the woman in the seat behind us what she wanted, and although she was so gaudy and baduy, Pablo was right in doing so.

Ewa of Threes and the Green Sea Turtle

We went to Hawaii for two weeks in August, four days on Kauai and the rest in Manoa Valley, where our family home is. Kauai was a bit to much for me, and as usual, I got dizzy for the first few days and was basically useless. Yes, like riding a bus, I got sick driving the POS rental car as well as driving up to Koke'e, which is all winding roads like Baguio or Big Bear.

Anyway, Kauai is a bit too rural for me and the island is too full of tourists for my taste. Oahu was another story. Jeremy and I paddled out at Ala Moana Bowls and caught some pretty good waves on the first day, while the rest of the surf sessions were at Waiks. As for the surfing, I surfed threes for the most part all the time and decided to just paddle right past Queens and Canoes. While we lived on Oahu, I tended to avoid paddling out to Threes,as it was just too far of a paddle. but on this trip, it became my new favorite wave (Bowls will always be my favorite, but for Waiks, Threes is it). Everytime I surfed it I caught my share of waves, but it was the last night of our vacation that I really caught it good. Around 4:30pm I paddled out to an already crowded lineup at Threes, and having just an 8-oh while everyone else was riding a 9 oh or bigger, I wasn't able to catch much, not to mention the haole surfers who just dropped in, as well as the Tandem Haole kook who didn't know how to share waves, taking off on everything on his tandem board. I just got sick of it. I noticed there was a little right peeler right off the Sheraton Waikiki Hotel, which was about a 30 meter paddle toward Bowls, Ewa side. I decided what the heck, there is no one on it, and I might get lucky. How did I. I proceeded to surf that spot, all by myself for about 2 1/2 hours, catching all the waves I wanted to catch. After a particularly good ride, I then just thought to myself, Why did I leave this beautiful place? I then asked for a sign from God, asking how I can get back to Hawaii. And at that moment, a Hawaiian Green Sea Turtle surfaced right next to me, and as it dived down, a set rolled through, of which I proceeded to catch three waves in a row. At this time it was past 8pm and dark, so I started the long paddle back to shore, praying that a bad sign, like a shark, didn't pop up. So, Jeremy came up with the notion that the three waves equals three more years until we move back.

I can't wait. Next time it will be for good.

Survivor

If you watch the "reality" show, Survivor, my cousin Brad Virata will be on it this season. I can't tell you the outcome of the show or I would have to kill you, but watch it if you like. personally, I would like to see an epsiode of Survivor whereby the cast is dropped off in the middle of Baghdad and given directions to find the WMD and then make their way to Kuwait, but that is another thing.