Tomorrow, I’m flying from Manila to Bangkok, so today I’ll catch the 9 AM outrigger boat ride to Batangas (one hour at sea), and then transfer to the Swagman Bus for a three-hour drive up to Manila.
The boat’s a jammed with people and luggage, but since most of us our Asians no one complains, not even to each other. I’m people watching, appraising this captive cross-section of the tourists who’ve been sharing Puerto Galera with me for the past week. For the more interesting ones, I invent back-stories.
Across from me are two chubby Filipina women – same body type, faces twenty years apart. Mother and daughter. Bits of gold jewelry and fancy sunglasses. Back in Manila, I imagine they pass their days watching soap operas and eating snacks, cranking the air-con and giving orders to the maid. Bouncing about their legs is a boy dressed in a basketball jersey that comes down to his knees. His sunglasses look expensive. But where’s daddy? Daddy’s with his mistress. I’m initially worried about the boy; he’s got too much energy and the only thing to do is play amidst our luggage. But his mom hands him a video game, which keeps him engaged for ten minutes before he falls asleep draped over his mother’s knees. Seems like a happy boy; things must be okay at home. Daddy’s had to work this weekend.
Two Korean guys look to be about twenty years old. They came for diving and stayed in the big Korean resort at the end of the beach. They’re affectionate towards each other in a way that would make American men their age uncomfortable. One’s writing something on the other’s hand. They’re laughing. Neither ever looks at me, even though they must notice me observing them. Based on this two-person sample, I’ve acquired a new stereotype: Korean men touch each other without embarrassment.
Across from them is another couple. He’s Western (German or Swiss, maybe), mid-fifties, black hair flecked with gray, bushy moustache, receding chin, and suntanned skin going lax about the elbows and neck. She’s perhaps twenty, Filipina, wearing no make-up (which really tones down her good looks), and is nestled into the crook of his armpit. Each stares at the horizon and neither says a word to the other for the entire trip.
When arrive in Batangas, a guy wearing a neon-orange vest hauls my suitcase off the boat. (A free service offered by the port authority, paid for by tax dollars?) He wants to be my porter for the short walk to the Swagman bus. He wants a hundred pesos to do this. He’s pushy. But my suitcase has wheels for a reason and I decline the offer. I reach for my bag, which he’s placed on his cart. He brushes my hand away, saying it’s okay, he’s got the situation under control. But I want the situation to be under my control, and while I understand that he needs money to live, and that pimpin’ ain’t easy, and that it’s mutherfucking hot out here, I can’t give in to every pressure tactic. Where would that lead me? And furthermore, the other passengers on the Swagman bus are leaving I need to stay with that group or I’ll spend an unwanted day in Batangas. The porter and I engage in a brief test of wills, me reaching for the suitcase, him pulling the cart away. But I’m determined and fast like a gazelle and I prevail. Two light skinned Filipina women (we met a minute earlier and they’re also on the Swagman bus, secretaries, probably) have turned around to watch me struggle with this guy. They might be wondering why I don’t just give in to the man’s demands. A hundred pesos. That Korean father of three over there had no problem saying yes to a hundred pesos. Look at his kids, sitting on a cart of their own, enjoying the ride. But I would rather do what I want, not what I’m pressured to do. The porter gets a ten peso coin for his troubles and to make him go away quietly. I run after the secretaries who’re quickly disappearing tinto sweating crowds.
People are shading their faces from the sun. Flies buzz about garbage. Buses belch diesel exhaust. The word squalid comes to mind.
When traveling through a country like the Philippines where economic conditions add an edge of desperation to the standard sales pitch, you must gird yourself for these many, small confrontations. Know that you, oh tourist, emit a powerful, intoxicating pheromone that hawkers cannot ignore; it will drive them into heat. The fact that you’re wearing a watch doesn’t stop that watch-hawking guy from stepping in front of you. “Accuse me Mister. You want Rolex?”
You just bought a fake Rolex from him, ten minutes ago. You hold up your wrist to prove it. You smile.
“Buy one more for your girlfriend?”
The Batangas port area is dusty and crowded. Puerto Galera has kept me removed from this reality; this is the Philippines. This is how most Filipinos might live – the luckier ones, in fact. But I am strong and do not cower from the shoving crowds and old ladies squawking in harsh tones in an incomprehensible tongue. I find the mens room, and am glad to be a man and not have to sit on anything. In fact, I hold my breath. At the door, you hand the attendant five pesos if you went “#1” and ten pesos for “#2.” There’s no water to wash your hands.
I step onto the Swagman bus and am really, really pleased that the air-con is cranked up to 11.
Several hours later, we’re in the outskirts of Manila. Jimmy, my dive instructor back in Puerto Galera, assured me that the Swagman Bus would deposit me anywhere in the city; I just had to ask. But this option is starting to seem improbable. The city’s traffic is notorious, perhaps the worst in Asia, and my whole trip only cost $12 US. Why – from what magical well of inexplicable good will – would the driver do me this huge favor for free? But Jimmy’s been in the Philippines for six years; he spoke with authority. And he’s never steered me wrong before (breathe deeply and slowly, don’t touch those black spikey things). But Jimmy’s not with me now and I’m too timid to lean over the driver’s shoulder and ask. He and the other Tagalog speakers would laugh at my request. I don’t want to look stupid or spoiled. The colonial days are over, son; we expect money, nowadays. Nothing is free.
So when we’re all let out (in front the Swagman hotel), I jump in a cab.
“City Garden Hotel. Use the meter please.”
“Okay,” the driver says, and I can’t tell if he’s chuckling because I’d just asked him to do something he was about to do, because he’s an honest guy who always use the memter.
He’s in his thirties, maybe my age. Wearing a green polo shirt. He’s not overly handsome, average looking, with hair that’s been styled like Eric Estrada when he was Ponch.
“Look,” he says as we turn a corner. I expect to see someting historic (we passed a very old-looking church on the way into town) but he’s indicating a group of Korean tourists crossing the street. The women’s legs are pale and smooth. “Very beautiful,” he says. He asks if I’d like to offer the ladies a ride.
I agree that they’re beautiful but say I’d rather just get to my accommodation. The implication here is that I’ve already had so many beautiful ladies that I’m completely satisified; there’s no more Trevor to give. Trevor needs to rest up. Ask Trevor tomorrow and he’ll definitely give those fine Korean legs a ride anywhere.
I have a room reserved at City Garden Hotel, the place where I’d stayed a week earlier. However, that’s clear across town. In this traffic, that could be an hour’s drive. My driver asks why I’m not looking for a hotel in Malate, the neighborhood we’re currently in. The harbor is just across the street, with modern sailboats moored in it. Being this close to the ocean feels good, provides fresher air, born on a light breeze. There’s a promenade where food vendors have set up under the shade of palm trees. It’s Easter Sunday and this place reminds me of southern California.
Malate, the driver adds, is close to the freeway, which will simplify getting to the airport the next morning.
But I made a booking online the night before, and that required involved a non-refundable, $5 US fee, and giving my credit card info to yet another Asian travel site. I can’t just walk away from that. Plus, think of the nice, City Garden receptionists; what did they do to deserve a cancellation? Will they even be able to fill that room? Have they been turning away desperate tourists all morning, some with toddlers in tow, because they think they’re fully booked?
After a minute’s internal debate, I announce that my mind has changed. I’ll stay in Malate and ditch the City Garden room with an apologetic phone call. My driver agrees that this is smart. I feel lucky that he’s giving me what appears to be good advice. All the more so because he’d have made more money taking me across town. He’s probably hoping to build goodwill so that he can take me to the airport tomorrow morning. I’m okay with that.
Of course, it crosses my mind that he’s looking to score a commission from a nearby hotel, some roach infested place run by his uncle. But while I’ve seen this scam in other countries, I haven’t see any signs of it here. I put that skepticism on a back burner marked: Reheat Only If New Evidence Surfaces.
The first place we try has a large, somewhat tacky front. It’s a locally managed “luxury” hotel and won’t have the polished veneer of a Dusit or Hyatt, but will be cheaper. I run into the lobby. It’s a large, dark and cool space, marble floor and pink marble columns, a long reception desk manned by a single Filipino in a blue blazer with gelled hair. Four people are waiting for his help. I get in line and glance back at the taxi driver, wondering if he’s going to take off with my luggage.
Steal my red suitcase, I think, and all you’re getting dirty laundry and cheap souvenirs. I’ve often fantasized about the bag snatcher who unzips my suitcase, empties its contents onto the floor, and curses as he realized he’s just committed a crime – risked ten years in a squalid prison high in the mountains where it’s cold at night and they don’t give a blanket – just to steal my boxer shorts and threadbare T-shirts that smell like sunblock and deodorant.
That thief will realize his mistake was assuming all us tourists are rich and that our luggage stuffed with stacks of crisp currency. The humble contents of my red suitcase will make him see that I, like him, struggle. He and I are not so different, each of us trapped in a struggle against time and the costs of living, trying to swim faster than the current, to earn a few breaths of rest.
Someone could steal my red suitcase and I’d laugh about it. But not my squash bag; it holds the valuables – camera, video camera, and laptop. It’s the Presidential vehicle in my two-car motorcade, and right now it’s still in the back seat of that cab. What was I thinking?
I’d wanted to show the taxi driver that his work on my behalf, so far, had been noted and was appreciated. We were closer than strangers now, and I didn’t implicitly mistust all Filipinos or even all Filipino cab drivers. Of course, the truth was I did mistrust him, but didn’t want to show it. Call this guilt.
Psychology is also at play here: by not appearing concerned about your things, thieves won’t imagine them being valuable in any way other than sentimentally. Call this hiding in plain site. But my body language – glancing constantly out the lobby doors – is telling anybody listening that they should steal my stuff.
I’m still waiting to speak to the receptionist as the cab slowly pulls forward and is no longer visible through the revolving doors. I leave my place in line to check that he hasn’t completely taken off. What I should do is walk back to get my bag, but then it’d be painfully obvious how I really felt about him, so I return to the line, and while I’d stepped away someone else had joined it.
I could also write down the taxi’s license number, perhaps make a show of doing so. That’d be a nearly iron-clad way to catch him, should he do a runner. I’d have to spend a few extra days in Manila – maybe a week – but it’d be worth it, just to get the call to come down to the police station, to confront the petty criminal, to read his face of regret, realizing how big a mistake it had been to cross me, that I’d had my bases covered after all, wasn’t the babe in the woods he’d taken me for.
Yet he’d just deny everything; he’s never seen me. Could I count on fairness from the cops? Would the hotel valet back up my story? And wouldn’t my laptop have already been sold to a gang of identity thieves? They’ll grep through my browser cache for credit card numbers and passwords, read aloud the rough-draft blog entries, giggle at my personal photos, and masturbate to my porn. They’ll mock my musical tastes and artistic aspirations because, as criminals, they won’t have any sentimentality or empathy.
“Can I help you sir?” says the receptionist says.
“How much are your rooms?”
He shows me a laminated card. My eyes dart to the prices just as they’ve done on thousands of menus when you don’t want he waiter to see you reading the prices column first. $120 US is cheapest room they’ve got: double what I’m looking to pay.
I jog outside and find my driver is leaning against his car, smiling at me from his green polo shirt. Nothing to worry about.
We move on to a cheaper place and I note that he’s left the meter running, which is what I’d have expected. Nothing is for free, and he should be compensatd for waiting, just as he would be were we stuck in traffic.
The receptionist at the Riviera Mansion is stunningly pretty; a beauty queen. Executive Double Rooms with hot water, cable TV, and air conditioning are 1800 pesos ($38 US). She points a burgundy fingernail at the photo in the brochure she unfolds for me; the bedsread is floral and cheery, lit by sunlight from a large window. It’ll be at least adequate. I’ll take one.
I emerge from this second hotel wearing the happy face that announces I’ve found my new home, but when I lean down to look at the taxi meter – it says 52.50 – things get ugly. He wants 100.
“Extra,” he says, “because of waiting in front of hotel.”
47.50 is the quivalent of a US dollar, exactly. (I don’t notice this coincidence until later.) Suddenly anger juices are pouring into my bloodstream. This is a matter of principle. For starters, I don’t like him scamming me just because he thinks I won’t put up a fight. But more importantly, I want to discourage this bullshit so that the next tourist doesn’t have to endure it. Put this way, I’m actually helping the Philippines project a better image on its foreign guests, and in doing so, am helping the taxi driver.
A frail woman is in front holding me, touching my forearm, clutching her small child. She wants money. She has bad timing.
“Get the police,” I say, speaking over the woman’s head. “Tell them your story.”
He laughs at this and waves a hand at the gridlocked traffic. “You see police? I see no.”
It’s true. I don’t remember seeing one police officer since arriving in the Philippines. Private security guards holding shotguns and M-16’s, yes, I’ve walked past several. But actual cops who can put you in jail: zero.
The driver calls over some guy wearing a uniform of sorts (like a baggage handler or skateboarding instructor: elbow pads, thick gloves, and a lime green polo shirt) to corroborate that, yes, an extra charge for waiting is normal. Everyone pays this.
His tone, too, is really angering me: he’s cocky and lying through his teeth; a small man practicing petty corruption. If he’d said something earlier, I might have agreed. But he kept things ambiguous in order to exploit them now. He and I are now adversaries.
I’ve got 500’s, 100’s, and 20’s in my wallet. I pull out three limp 20’s and offer them. (good thing I can almost make exact change) “Take this now or I’ll give you nothing and you can call the police.”
Note the negotiation tactic (Sadly, this counts as negotiation) I’m offering the driver a solution. Pulling out cash will often do wonders.
“Okay,” the driver says in a conciliatory tone. “Eighty pesos.”
But it’s too late to get me to agree to anything. My blood has turning it a vile green. My scalp is tingling. Shaking my head, I march into the hotel and tell the receptionist that I’d like to check in and that the police will be arriving shortly to settle a dispute I’m having with the guy outside.
She looks at me wide-eyed.
The cab driver appears and gives her his side of the story, fast and to me incomprehensible. I hear the name of the last hotel. I’m trying hard to contain my rage; in Asia, you’re supposed to remain placid; that’s what the guide book says, but I don’t see how it’ll do me any good here.
I hold my ground: repeating the offer of sixty pesos or call the police.
“Okay,” he says, as I’d expected. No idiot is going to summon the scary men with pistols and the keys to the jail.
With exaggerated finality, I slap three twenties on counter one at a time, like a poker player laying down cards, but the bills are too wrinkled to get the desired effect. I push them at the driver, and say “bye bye,” my voice loud and poisonous. He says something to me in Tagalog which probably doesn’t mean “sorry for the misunderstanding.”
My room – a Deluxe Executive – is dank and stinks of cigarettes; the gray carpet is stained; the mattress is limp; the window looks at a wall one meter awa. But the air con works and the bathroom is decent – shampoo and soap are included – and I’m planning to lie around watching movies on HBO or my laptop. All my interest in exploring Manila has been drained. The city’s most recent ambassador killed it.