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.

The lock out

What's the biggest difference between Philippines and Vietnam?

When you find yourself locked out of your apartment in Vietnam they stare at you with absolute disgust, shake their head then call you a stupid idiot to your face.

When you lose your keys in the Philippines they come at whatever time of the night (in my case 1:30am), let you in with a smile, then thank you when they leave.

It's highly likely that my Filipino landlord thinks I'm a stupid idiot. In this particular case (where I am at fault), I prefer the overly polite, slightly dishonest approach...

George the 52 year old bus driver from Sydney

Good Friday is not a busy day in the Philippines, especially because over 80% of Filipinos are Roman Catholic. I was in Cebu - an island south of Manila that is the nation's busiest port, and has a thriving metropolis.

That day I had walked through the township, completely dead and closed apart from a mob of locals re-playing the scene where JC carries his cross with a thorny crown and Filipino men with painted beards whipping him with tassels. It was relatively tame compared to the tradition up north in Clark where devout Catholics are actually nailed to a cross by their hands and feet.
I was meeting friends who had flown in from Malaysia, however they would be arriving quite late so I scoped the most appropriate bar to meet them. I had a choice of 4 bars: 1. Dimples 2. Pussycat 3. Gentlemen's Club 4. Viking World Bar I tried Dimples because it was closest, but as expected the girls were handsy and the bartender frowned at me when I refused to buy them drinks. The girls were very friendly but it gets tiresome saying "Hindi" which means "No" in Tagalog (now confidently correct).

This was definitely not going to work. I finished my beer and excused myself saying I needed to buy chewing gum from the Caltex across the road. I wandered across the road. Just like Manila I was followed by kids with their hands out. Mechanically I waved them away and said "hindi hindi" as politely as possible. Using the local language to reject beggars is more powerful because they quickly realize you aren't some tourist potato that will be duped by dirty faced povo kids in need.

I decided to enter the Viking World Bar as the name indicated it was the least sleazy. The bar was FULL of people… the demographic was possibly 90% Filipino women, 5% korean men, and 5% flaccid wrinkly old men. I bought a beer from the bar, trying to avoid eye contact.

In the corner of my eye, glowing like a premonition of Jesus wearing green, were two pool tables. Ahhh - this would occupy me until my friends arrived… in 2 hours time.

It was here I met George. He was a 52 year old Australian man playing pool with a twenty something prostitute. I asked him if I could put a coin on the table and he welcomed me to join him. He was jovial and cocky.

Not an attractive man, I assumed he had fought in a war due to his navy style tattoos on his arms. Most probably the Vietnam war. George was stereotypical of a sex tourist, but at the same time unique because of how casually proud he was of it. Most solo men I had seen wandering Borgos St. in Manila seemed to have a guilty look on their face. The few groups of men I had noticed, seemed more like Viking's that guzzle large handles of nondescript lager and clumsily wander around causing destruction to anything that crosses their path.
"The girls are much cheaper here in Cebu" he said holding his pool queue in one arm and lady friend in the other. She was half his size. "1700 pesos (approx. NZD $60) per night here, compared to 2500 in Manila. It's a bloody rip off there, thats why I come here".

This was George's fourth holiday in Cebu, his regular escape from a mundane life as a bus driver in Sydney, Australia. I didn't inquire as to his marital status, his wedding ring answered that burning question. I had an image in my head of George's wife at home watering the pot plants while gossiping on the phone about her next door neighbors messy front yard.

I started to consider from his perspective how he could rationalize this lifestyle. Some say it is better for your husband to cheat on you with a prostitute than a lover, at least then it is purely physical (usually). Possibly there are causal factors that trigger this need - differing libidos, unexplored sexual fantasies, or lack of physical attraction. Maybe his wife was in a wheelchair, and approved of his foray into this dark, seedy world. All speculation of course.

The girl jumped in between us and said "Sandwich!!". George laughed loudly and joked that it would be much cheaper to share the cost between us. Not knowing whether either of them were serious I turned my focus abruptly to the pool table and nervously said "who's turn is it??". Usually girls don't make me feel nervous, but potato hungry prostitutes give me the creeps.
What about the high risk of sexually transmitted disease? Being such a devout catholic country, it has only been in recent years that condoms have been readily available for purchase. Possibly he doesn't have sex with his wife at all anymore, so the risk is only his. Many working girls in the Philippines find new lives through these men. Often older caucasian men and younger Filipino woman can be seen shopping together hand in hand, sometimes even pushing a baby stroller.

Both needs are being met - the man is receiving sex and companionship, the girl is receiving her ticket to a new life where she isn't forced to sleep with dangerous, disease ridden potato men every night just to survive. Whatever George's possible argument or reasoning - I cannot judge him or the girl grinding her genitals on his leg, until I know the full circumstance that bring these two souls together in a bad way on a Good Friday.
I continued to give him shit for being a convict, and in return he hassled me for being a sheep fucker. Shortly after our pool game, he left the bar with girl in tow, and left me with a world of unanswered questions.

Saved by the Roman Catholic church

On my taxi ride from the Manila Airport to my hotel I thought it strange that the taxi driver gave me a full prostitute price break down. I was travelling alone and he had enquired as to my marital status; although I don't think that would have prevented him from his well rehearsed speech. Of course as we drew closer to the hotel he offered to take me to Burgos St (a red light district) close-by apparently.

The next evening (Sunday night) I decided to go out. My objective was to find a bar with other fellow potatoes (see term #2 on Urban Dictionary) that I could sap for local information and advice. I was drawn to a lively street with bright neon lights and 'bar noise' - this was obviously the place to be. As I entered the busy one way street, two young children of about 6 years old attached themselves to each arm and held up their free arm to me, palm up in a begging motion.

I am well versed in child beggar language and it is best to not entertain them and just proceed. Certainly not an easy ethical decision for many, but I strongly believe that giving money to these children is perpetuating the problem. If one feels torn, a good response is to buy them food and watch them eat it (commonly children will return the food to the shop for cash).

I noticed a stunning filipino girl approaching and considered whether she could be a prostitute… it didn't take long to find out. She opened me flirtatiously but politely with "hello sir, where are you going?". I responded by saying "I'm going to a bar" - its all I had. She had stopped me in my tracks and it was obvious at this point she was a "working girl".

My gut sank in the same way it does when a charity collector stops you in the mall or on the street. Out of pure politeness you listen to their speech on whaling, starving children or abused women, waiting for the opportunity to interrupt them and say you are not interested. All the while wishing you had brushed them off initially and kept walking. Her next question was "would you like some company sir?", to which I responded awkwardly "uh no, no thank you". At the same time I still had two kids pulling on either arm asking me for money. She proceeded to counter my objection with "how about a blow job sir?" while she glared hungrily at my package. In shock and disbelief I said "No!" with a pre-pubescent quiver in my voice.

At this stage I was feeling very uncomfortable. A hooker was distracting me, and two children were occupying my arms - I had become an open target. Across the street was a bar with two older white men sitting outside at separate tables staring at passing girls like lions stalking their prey. This was my escape… only slightly better than my present situation. I brushed past the hooker with children attached like monkeys. I untangled the kiddies quite forcefully saying Opo! Opo! Opo! which I had learnt from Lonelyplanet as "No" in Tagalos (the local language in Manila). A few days later I was to find out that I had yes and no mixed up… Opo actually means yes and is used when speaking respectfully to an elder. No wonder they put up such a struggle, talk about mixed messages!

Finally I reached the bar. I felt sick. Absolutely sick to my stomach. This was the first time in many years that I had experienced real culture shock. My first night in the Philippines and my heart was racing - in a bad way. The children disgusted me, the prostitutes disgusted me, and the old men sitting next to me disgusted me. I had one beer. Alone. To passers by I must have looked no better than those crusty old men on the girlie prowl. I decided to leave this place, I looked up and noticed the street sign "Burgos Street"… this is the place the taxi driver described, and it all made sense. There were no backpackers, or young people - only children begging, men selling viagra and fake watches, prostitutes of questionable gender and of course the filthy old men that feed this twisted ecosystem.

I left the bar and walked down the street in search of another bar. Again I was accosted by a gaggle of girls pulling at my arms. "Mr, Mr, where are you going?"; "Sir, massage sir?"; "I give you special egyptian blowjob sir". I dived into the closest taxi and told him to take me to a nearby mall I had heard about called Greenbelt. Usually interesting experiences like this excite me and I take all in my stride, but I felt frustrated, disgusted and dirty instead. Manila had disappointed me. I got out of the taxi and walked into the mall. Hymns were chiming in my ears as I walked into the mall area. There was a Catholic Mass in progress.

HALLELUJAH !!!

Never in my life have I been so happy to be in church. In this mall I found normal bars and restaurants, although Sunday night was a quiet night, I managed to relax and enjoy the remainder of my evening with no temptation from sin or sodom.