A burning child

I got sent this SMS late one night from a Filipina friend...

"A child was burning. His father called to him and told him to jump into his arms. The burning child could not see his father because of the smoke and wouldn't jump. His father shouted JUMP! So the burning child jumped, and his father caught him. This is true faith, not knowing but jumping anyway. In the lord, put your trust - Psalms 11:1"

My response:

"Stupid idiot father. Don't you know that if you are on fire you should stop, drop and roll?"

hehehe... i guess i won't get those texts anymore

Fuck You Idiocracy

I arrived at his office dripping wet.

What I love about Manila is that it only costs NZ $3 to take a 40 minute taxi ride. What I hate about Manila is that when you arrive, the driver is not allowed to stop at your destination because it's a 'no-loading zone' - and is ushered to keep driving for another 2 kilometers by a man with a gun and a silly fluorescent jacket. Thanks for ruining my nicely pressed shirt wanker.

I arrived at Francis' office. His is the 3rd party company used to arrange my contract and all the small details like visa's, bank accounts etc. I have been in Manila approximately 6 weeks and have just had my tourist visa extended, so that I am not illegal until my work permit gets processed, which can take 1-2 months.

He has had my passport for 2 weeks now. I was getting nervous, as I couldn't travel and I had no other ID.

Sweat was running down my back - I shouldn't have worn a suit today. I'm late to meet Francis due to bad Manila traffic, and I have back to back meetings for the rest of the day… which I'm probably going to be late for.

As I arrive he came out to meet me, then asked me to wait. I am only coming in to pick up my passport so that I can go to the bank to receive my first pay cheque.

10 minutes later I start to get frustrated, we had exchanged SMS while I was in the taxi so he knew that I was coming, how long does it take to get a passport and hand it to me? A good friend once said if you don't have high expectations you don't get disappointed… but seriously I'm going to spit in somebody's face soon.

He pulls me into a meeting room and asks me to complete another two forms - because I had made minor mistakes on each. I have already completed approximately 9 forms as part of my job application - work permit, bank account, tax number, job application, skill form, visa extension and only god knows what else. Do I really have to lower my expectations further?

Yes.

After dry humping Francis' forms, I had to visit the bank to receive a large wad of pesos. To my suprise, Francis informed me that the bank is a 20 minute cab ride away. After I would have to return my passport to his office so that he can continue to process the work permit. Is this country on drugs? I'm struggling to process this. I can't go to any branch of Metrobank? I'm in the CBD surely there is one closer?

No. Of course not.

It was fucking 32 degrees, high humidity and I needed to jump in another cab - which again required me to walk two fucking kilometers away where they allow loading of stupid potatoes like me. I paced down the street swerving through the crowd of meandering Filipinos like a dorky speed walker with a carrot up my ass doing an obstacle course. I hesitated outside McDo's (McDonalds if you're a potato like me), tempted to drop in for some comfort food, but decided it would impact my critical path, and my health. My priority was getting back to the office for meetings.

After another sweaty taxi ride, I arrived at the bank, and grabbed for my passport which was placed in my back pocket. It wasn't there?!?! FUCK!!! I must have left it in the taxi! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!

Ok please excuse my language. I was reaching a low point here. I entered the bank in a panic, considering whether i should run through the traffic after the taxi which I have no recollection of, or search my person one more time. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead and landed on my nearly retired brown leather shoe.

After rifling through my laptop bag inside the bank hoping upon all hope that I had left it inside, I re-checked my pockets. Oh… oops - its in my front pocket. False alarm! I guess stress really does cloud judgement. Lucky I didn't chase the taxi down and make an idiot out of myself!

It was suddenly obvious that I needed to apply some Bahala Na (loosely translated to "come what may") attitude. I was inside the bank. I had everything I need. I was going to get my cash and go back to Francis to give him my passport. How hard could this be?

Oh wait - I forgot. I needed to give my landlord post-dated cheques for the next 10 months, before he gives me the TV that was promised by the landlord. It is part of my contract, and of all the apartments I looked at, this was one of the more lenient terms. The apartment lacked a TV when I moved in 4 weeks ago - and although I have paid 2 months rent in advance and 2 months bond, he will not give me the TV I deserve until I complete my end of the bargain. I have never met him, but I strongly dislike him. Money hungry dickhead.

The bank girl that helped me was friendly and moderately attractive, possibly a 6 out of 10. She threw a flurry of forms at me to sign. I asked the post-dated cheques and she asked me to fill in more forms. 10 minutes later she came back to me and said she was not able to give me a cheque account as I needed to have an active ATM account for at least 6 months. I let out a loud exasperated sigh that the whole bank could hear.

In vein I raised my voice "This is not good enough, I need a cheque account for my apartment - I signed a contract, I have no other options! Is there anything you can do?!?"

She said "Sorry sir, I confirmed it with my supervisor, it is our policy"

No wonder there is corruption here. It is easier to pay extra, than to follow all the overly-anal rules and procedures.

I asked to speak with her supervisor. She looked nervous. She went away and came back another 10 minutes later and gave me more forms to sign without saying anything - this time for the cheque account. I was curious - does getting upset in public work here? Throw a tantrum and you get your way? Interesting...

I left the bank with cash and a cheque book… but i had already missed my first meeting and I was concerned about my next. I decided that I would drop into KFC to grab a quick burger to eat in the cab back to Francis' office.

"Hello Sir!" Ahhh - the ever polite Filipino fast food armed security guard. Unfortunately his politeness didn't make up for the young man at the counter who asked if I minded waiting 15 minutes for a burger to be made. 15 MINUTES?! This was the icing on the cake. I considered saying "would you like me to fill out an application form?" but decided the question would be met with a confused look, and probably an apathetic apology.

I considered walking out, but my time invested in walking inside and up the stairs was worth compromising my burger thirst. I got a salad.

I jumped back in a taxi and headed to the taxi drop off spot, 2kms away from my actual destination. My plastic tasting KFC chicken salad tossed itself in my lap to the noise of the squeaky suspension. I ate it with ferocity, brooding over the events of the morning.

I escaped the taxi, power walked the 2km's to Francis' office - aware that my shirt was again soaking in stinky man fluid… for the 3rd time today. As I ran into the lift the man sitting in the corner controlling the buttons smiled genuinely and greeted me politely and remembered my floor from earlier in the morning.

I paused.

I thought to myself: he sits in that non air-conditioned lift, on that chair, day after day after day. Pressing buttons. Earning just enough to feed his family, and buy new leather work shoes every 2 years. He's 55 and will probably continue sitting in that same lift for another 20 years until he retires due to illness. I had in my bag more money than he would probably earn in 5 years, possibly 10. I could not imagine doing his numb, meaningless job for even a day.

I suddenly had a very lucid 'moment' to myself. I exited the lift with a deep breath and a broad, uncontrollable grin, and realized even with all this futile hassle over forms, visas and bank accounts - I wouldn't swap bullshit idiocratic paper work and shit sweat errands for anything. My life is fucking great and I LOVE THE PHILIPPINES!

I don't apologise for the cheesy conclusion that sounds like a forwarded mass email. Fuck you if you don't like it.

Nikon gone = Ni-gone

Please note, as of late many of the photographs in my blogs have not been my own - this is because my Nikon has been displaced.  I'm getting a new one, but am waiting for travel insurance to tic me up some mad scrills.

Please be patient, I'm relying purely on google images to complement my stories.

I want to punch you in the back of your head

Like Christmas shopping when you are rushed, time poor and feel like you want to punch somebody in the back of the head - this is how I feel daily in Manila. 

At my office they strategically placed turn-styles that require you to swipe through so they can track who comes in and out of the office.  This security feature creates a bottleneck at start, break and end of day, and one is frequently forced to walk at a deathly slow pace on approach and exit - cock blocked by a crowd of Filipino office workers.

Approaching lifts, even when a lift is about to begin its ascent, where a potato would normally sprint and throw their hand carelessly in between the lift's closing jaws, a filipino will slowly meander toward it and stare curiously as it departs… without them.

The malls here are a sea of Filipinos all shapes and sizes, packed efficiently like sardines, swimming it seems at a more than leisurely pace.

Even yesterday I was waiting for a treadmill in my apartment complex, the Filipino woman had been on it for 40 minutes shuffling her bulbous rump at about 2 kilometers per hour.

Don't they have somewhere to be? Why is there no sense of urgency here? If I spend enough time here, will I become an aimless wanderer also?  Is this a product of Bahala Na? (loosely translated to "Come what may") - a Filipino mantra, some define as laziness, others define as carefree.

What I do know is that when leaving the office to buy a coffee, I need to factor in at least an extra 5 minutes for the likely Filipino that unwittingly delays me.

Bahala Na.

Filipino Cage Fighter

So I started talking to a random Filipino guy in a bar and found out he was into MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) aka Cage Fighting.

I once dated a world champion kickboxer, and through her I had been exposed to the world of professional fighting.  To be honest when I see fighting on TV now it still gives me a boner…

The guy was big but softly spoken.  Like a teddy bear.  He was with a group of 4 girls and spoke of his one love who was living in Canada, soon to be reunited.  What a sweetheart.

I was intrigued about his sport and needed to know more.  So I asked:

"What is your base martial art?  Kickboxing, Jujitsu, Kung Fu, Karate?"

He responded calmly:

"Knife fighting"

What the?

Keys to the VIP

It was late on a Wednesday night. I had just finished work and was heading back to my gloomy hotel nestled deep in the red light district of Manila. I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the 7eleven as I had to buy some water.

As I approached the fridge I was forced to wait for a girl to finish selecting her RTDs. After getting my drink I queued at the counter behind her. To my surprise she asked for a bottle opener… in an Australian accent.

I butted in and offered to open them for her with a lighter. New Zealanders and Australians absolutely hate each other, especially if they're playing Rugby, Cricket, or just generally. It is absolutely mutual. They think we're a small Australian state, and we think they are convicts. Its nothing new. But when we are outside our own countries we tend to be tight as a velcro glove on a sheep (one for the aussies).

She turned out to be a model slash actress working in Manila. I call her 'slashie' (credit goes to Anthony), and she calls me "7eleven". She lived in the same area as the apartment I was about to move in to so we exchanged details and said goodbye.

I didn't really give her much thought, but about two weeks later on a Friday night I sent her a text to see if she wanted to meet up. She replied and asked me to come meet her at a club close by. I was with a colleague (who was absolutely blind drunk) and we ambitiously zig zagged our way there at about 3am.

She was outside with her flatmate, we greeted each other and she said she had a shoot the following morning so was heading home 'early', but offered us to look after the flattie who was going to a night club underneath the intercontinental hotel - a short taxi ride away. I looked around and found my heavily intoxicated friend wandering aimlessly as if searching for something but never finding it. I called him over and asked if he wanted to join. He muttered something nonsensical and stumbled toward a taxi - we followed and the three of us piled in the back.

Upon arrival the taxi slowed to be checked for bombs. My friend opened the door, muttered something and wandered off into the neon lit city streets. It was obviously that time for him, possibly to vomit on a street corner, hit a girlie bar and lose his money to a woman with questionable gender, or simply catch another taxi home. I decided not to pursue him. He had been here long enough to look after himself.

We got out of the cab and she ushered me past the long line of patrons waiting to pay as she screeched in Tagalog to the doorman. Free entry - YUSSS.

As we entered arms locked, she led me through the writhing nightclub. This is exactly what I'd been looking for. Manila's night life. No (or very few) prostitutes, and a LOT of westerners. A huge nightclub that shadows anything in Auckland, this was obviously the place to be. Beautiful people, many-a-potato and excellent energy. We crawled through the hectic crowd and she pulled me past a cordoned off area with a security guard.

It was here that she introduced me to a large group of diverse people. I met Roberto, a mega rich Italian property developer, Charles an American restauranteer/nightclub owner, and a gaggle of eager Filipino models thirsty for Moet and/or Patron Tequila.

Prior to leaving for Manila I had a dream. This sounds absolutely retarded but please bear with me. I was watching a LOT of Gossip Girl and had decided that while in Manila I would attempt to infiltrate the A-List. Search out the celebrities and find the high powered businessmen. My hypothesis: These people have access to more opportunity, and have more fun… and because of my ethnicity and social status, it will be much easier than in New Zealand. Call me fickle, I don't give a fuck. This was my opportunity.

After an excellent night of partying my host asked if we could catch a taxi home. I hesitantly submitted to her request. As we drove I noticed my apartment building and asked the taxi driver to drop me off. She was relatively comatose, and muttered very little English in response so I paid the fare and got out of the cab. She got out too.

Curiously I asked her where she was going… she said "I live here - where are YOU going?" We awkwardly walked for the same lift. I thought she was following me and vice versa. She pressed 16, I pressed 17. What the..?

To my surprise, slashie and her flatmate lived in my apartment building, one floor down. We are all now close friends - in the tv show sense of the word. We share DVDs, kitchen utensils and sometimes toilet paper if we are feeling intimate.

This is the beginning of a beautiful story and many exciting adventures… hopefully more to come. Watch this space for A-List exploits, corruption and scandal.