“My wife?” I mouth the words in wonder.
“Yes, she is a beautiful young lady. A good loyal woman to have by your side sir. She explained to us how you were drunk and fell down the stairs hitting your head. She brought you here a few hours ago. You lost a lot of blood and have a deep wound to your head. You will need to stay with us a few days so we can keep an eye your progress. While you’re here I would like you to read this little pamphlet.” He held it up to my face the title was “If You Think You Have a Drinking Problem, You Do.” I groaned as he placed it on the stand by the bed.
Once they slacked up the meds and I was able to speak, there seemed no point in making a fuss about being robbed. “Karen” had been a French speaker, therefore she was from one of the Francophone countries that neighbor Ghana. It was a common ruse for them to cross the border, set up and old fool like myself, rob them and slip back across the border to relative safety. The Police here were predatory and would launch no investigation unless paid to do so. Indeed they have been known to force hapless foreigners to start an investigation and then charge them for it. So I had been had and there was nothing to be done about it. My wound healed and the only problems I had associated with it was a difficulty opening doors. I would get ready to leave my room to go out and freeze in front of the door, unable to bring myself to open it. This went on for a few weeks and slowly subsided.
I returned to Accra and began making purchases of presents for my grandkids and giving away my unneeded things, snorkel, fins, mask some clothes, to make room for the gifts. I usually gave my stuff to a girlfriend or hotel staff at the end of every trip. I would just pick up new stuff back home to prepare for another trip overseas.
My life, in spite of the many travails and peccadillos was in perfect balance—5 or 6 months on the road and 6 or 7 months back home working on my rental properties.
While involved in this process of preparing for my trip home I received a text from a beautiful African girl I knew and had lusted after in Accra for many weeks. I had never consummated my feeling for her and now she wanted to come over for a fling before I left the country. I was touched and even though pressed for time I gave her the address of my hotel and invited her over. She arrived as I was locking up my suitcase. I had locked everything of value in it and was becoming a little leery of African women of late. She looked beautiful as always and I began to make man sounds to indicate time was short and I was in the mood for love.
“I have to eat something first baby,” she said pushing me away.
“Eat after.” I murmured renewing my feverish assault.
“Now!” she said and gave me a strong shove.
“OK, dammit” but you have to go alone cuz I have to finish packing.” I gave her a couple of dollars for the restaurant across the street. She giggled at her victory and rushed out of the room. I made one more halfhearted grab at her ass as she disappeared on the other side of the door.
I went in my bathroom to collect my shaving tackle. Gathered my toothbrush, paste and spied my contact lens case. I always carried “crazy eyes” contacts whenever I traveled. Often scared the locals and good for a laugh. I cleaned things and packed for about an hour and Becky never returned. “Shit” she must have changed her mind and gone home. About then there was a tapping on the door. I opened it to a beautiful young black girl.
“Do you remember me?” I was spell bound by her sexy good looks. Gravity defying boobs and pretty face. I had never seen her before.
“Yes. Of course I remember you” I lied quickly and naturally. “Please come in.” She stood on her tiptoes and gave me a kiss on the lips. I put my arms around here and was pleased that it looked like it was all going to work out ok.
Love would be mine.
We were on the bed pulling at each other’s clothes when Gladys walks through the door. I knew I had locked it, the girl must have unlocked it for some stupid reason. Gladys put a hand to her mouth and gave the perfect look of a stricken lover. Even though we hardly knew each other and I the girl struggling underneath me even less.
“Who is this? And what is going on here?”
Now I was getting burned out on the whole thing. Looked like these two were going to fight about some pussy that I never even got. Fuck it. Time to throw these whores out. But they began to shout at each other about whose boyfriend I was. Suddenly Becky reaches forward and slaps the other, she screams, and the fight is on. As I try to separate them, the younger girl grabs me around the throat with both hands, digging in her nails.
“Gaaaaaaaaaaaa!” I cry.
Drawn by the commotion the desk clerk rushes into the room through the open door. Becky picks up my carryon bag and races past him and into the hall and is gone. Unable to free myself from her claws I shout to the desk clerk that the girl has my bag.
He replies “Yes I have your back” and tried to pry the girl’s fingers from my neck. Once free, I raced out to the street crowded with bicycles, taxis, vendors pushing wagons, malnourished dogs, kids playing in the gutters, but no Gladys. I walked disconsolately back to the room. It was empty of people. I went to the desk to ask about the other girl.
“What happened? Where is that girl? That was a set up, they stole my bag together.”
“Oh she’s gone, said she was going to the Police Station to report you.”
“You let her go?”
“Of course, she was very upset and threatened to turn me in to the police too.”
I shrugged and said to myself “TIA, this is Africa” I assessed what losing my bag meant. I had my money and passport in my money belt as usual but in the bag were my kindle, notebooks and medications. Big bummer, but no disaster. The girls assumed that like most people I had my money, tickets, passport in the carry on. But I had been robbed, beaten and attacked so many times in my travels that I always kept my stuff next to my skin.
There was totally no point in getting ahold of the police. That road leads to madness. My flight was in three hours, I had to go. And go I did. My gunboy accompanied me to the airport to get more money of course. I gave him 50 cedis, even though I later became convinced he was in on the scam. I settled into my tiny seat with a huge sigh of relief. I was tired and done with Africa. It had been a great adventure, but one I did not want to repeat. Or so I thought.
Chapter 3
~
The first time I bought a motorcycle and toured Cebu Island, several years ago; I just figured I could handle the traffic by driving slowly and stay far to the right. But it just doesn’t work that way. Traffic in the Philippines is a participatory thing. You can’t go off and drive alone and be left alone. You are going to be involved. For one thing, the right hand lane is very busy with Jeepneys, buses and taxis entering and leaving the highway constantly. So I have to move over towards the center lane and then must maintain an equally high rate of speed so as not to be swamped by trucks and other motorcycles.
Entering and leaving a roadway in the USA is quite different in the Philippines. In America, we wait for an opportunity and then punch it, quickly joining traffic. In the Philippines you put your nose in traffic and slowly push your way into the fun.
In Mindanao don’t ever stop for people in the crosswalks, even the ones in front of primary schools. I often see little girls, 5 or 6, looking out with round, frightened eyes at the traffic. Clutching each other waiting for a chance to dash across the street. It hurts my heart to barrel through the crosswalk mere inches in front of the nervous kids. The problem is that no one stops. If you stop to let them cross, as would be normal and mandatory in the USA; you screw up the system and are likely to get someone killed, maybe yourself. Seeing you stop for them, the kids might believe it safe to cross and walk in front of a speeding bus that follows the rules of Mindanao roads and continues on through the crosswalk, speed unabated. The traffic behind you will not expect you to stop and likely pile into the back of you. Therefore, don’t ever stop at crosswalks or for any pedestrians trying to cross the roadway at any point. The pedest
rians know the rules too and won’t expect you to make their journey any safer. There is an exception to this rule. Many of the schools have crossing guards, usually old men carrying a red flag. When they are present and signal for traffic to stop, all vehicles obey.
~
I arrived at Action Geckos and spoke to the waitress in Cebuano language. I was unaware as to how I knew that language. It was a nice open-air restaurant with information on dives and hikes covering one wall, available for booking. There were a few expats sitting around sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. My entry had caused all their heads to turn for a moment and after a cursory perusal return to their conversations. But once they overheard my speaking the local language their gaze swung back. Damn! I better be careful with that. I didn’t want to be noticed, I should stop the bilingualism in front of expats. I ordered a mango shake and made my way to the furthest away table to wait for Becky, whoever she was. Why was I so concerned that I not be noticed? It was becoming important that I piece together my recent past. I looked in my small daypack searching for clues. Inside were two language books, a phrase book and regular textbook covering Cebuano. That explains my ability to speak, I sighed. On my motorcycle helmet, that I had placed on the table I saw a small vidcam. Humm. That would be interesting to see what is on that, I thought. It was a cheap, Midland helmet cam, no play back capability. Would have to wait until I could hook up to a computer to see the contents.
I sipped my mango shake and enjoyed the view. I looked out at the beach. The lawn loungers that Jesus and I had sat in were in their places under the palapa. The dream had been so real.
I left my bag and stuff on the table, signaling the waitress to keep an eye on it, I walked out towards the beach with my shake. I stood and looked at the table and beach loungers, where Jesus and I had sat and talked, until He got upset. Then something very unusual happened. A waiter walked up and asked if I wanted a beer or something. I was so accustomed to being ignored by these guys I did a double take before I indicated the shake I was holding and gave him a small smile.
“Where is ur buddy?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders and said “Who?”
“That long haired guy you were sitting with here yesterday? Why did he smack you anyway? Not much of a friend, I’d say.”
~
I don’t know much about traffic in Europe but in the USA, when joining the highway at an unregulated spot, you wait for a break and then gun it! Racing into the flow and adjusting your speed to match the rest. In the Philippines there is no break in the traffic, you would wait forever. When entering the roadway you stick your nose out and slowly move into the flow. Slow and stead, everyone knows what is happening and a hole opens and you are there. An important fact in all driving in PI. No jerky movements, no leaning way over to make sharp turns. Keep your motor nearly upright all the time. SUVs, speeding Yellow buses, etc. may come up on you unexpectedly. You don’t want to be jerking around in your lane when they blow by.
If you come across a family on a motor, stay away from them. The driver with four of five people onboard cannot stop, turn or anything else with alacrity. You will notice that the local bikers will pay them no mind and zip around them, cruise past them, missing by inches. You stay away from them because you are not a good enough driver to chance messing up the guy’s navigation. At this point your response is “I been riding bikes all my life, I can out ride a Filipino or anyone else”. No you can’t. Filipino’s are nearly born on the back of motorcycles. They learned to lean into corners at the age you were pooping yellow. For me, there is nothing more impressive than watching one of the hotdog drivers go by. They hook their flip-flops over the foot pegs, baseball hat on backwards, driving at top speed, cigarette dangling out the corner of their mouths, while texting! My understanding is that many of them die on the road, but they lead a glory-filled life until that day. If you get a chance to observe some of them, do so; maybe you’ll learn something.
Many times the driver of an overloaded bike ahead of you may signal turns using his feet. Arms are full of stuff or whatever. Oft times one of the passengers may stick out his foot or arm to signal the turn. Most turn signal lights have stopped working years before and it’s a luxury that is never replaced.
Bring rope from home for tying on your luggage. ¼ inch woven nylon is the stuff you want. The only rope available in the Philippines is braided plastic shit that keeps its shape after one tie and you always got a mess. You might take a few moments and learn how to tie a “truckers knot”. Works perfectly for tying down your loads.
Always make sure your load is secure before hitting the road. Sounds like a silly admonition but it got by me a couple of times. I knew it wasn’t perfect but figured it would suffice for the short hop to the next town. Consequently, I kept reaching back and checking on it and fucking around with it while driving and nearly crashed!
When driving in the Philippines you need your full attention on the road. Tie down your load securely before setting off and don’t fuck with it while driving. Rubber necking the babes at the side of the road is also a problem for me and anyone else with testosterone in their system. You will have to work that one out for yourself. I sneak as many looks as I dare without collision. They are so damn pretty I can’t keep my eyes/hands off them…je je je
Chapter 4
~
“I’m on my way over there to fuck you up!”
I was lying in my bed in the town of Tandag. I had been texting a few girls I knew, which is my habit in the morning to set up a rendezvous for later in the day. I had visited with this pretty girl for a day or two. She told me she had a foreigner BF but that he was stateside. She had told me never to text her phone for that reason. Apparently he was back in PI. In the business of sex tourism, you must be careful because you are dealing with several intense emotions. Love, greed, hate, jealousy, hope—all that stuff. This was an excellent example of jealousy. This brings me to my next point of preparedness. I always keep my gas tank over half full. I keep my hotel bill paid up but not in advance. I always have a pocketful of the local currency. You don’t want to be shot in the back trying to get money from an ATM to leave town. Already have the money on you. This may sound like an over dramatization but many Filipinos carry guns and they are very jealous. Especially since your money makes you so much more desirable.
Money is the key in many developing countries. Probably the key in any country, for that matter. I have my things organized in my room in such a fashion that I can be packed up, loaded up, tied up and gone in 15 minutes. Now I had no idea who this girl’s BF was except he was an American. Now he could be a little old man using a walker or a buff thirty year old. A BF of a Filipina covers quite a range. Either way if he followed through with his threat there would be a big scene at the hotel and maybe a fight. Whether I was going to beat on the head with an aluminum frame walker or get a good beating from a tough young man, the cops would undoubtedly be called.
Cops, generally speaking in the developing world love to get a foreigner in their jail. They can milk him for months. Being a dedicated sex tourist can be dangerous. In my case I could stay safe in the USA and bang little old ladies or take the risks and screw beautiful young girls in the Developing world. I kind of enjoy the edginess and I love the pussy. When I say “young girls” I try to stay at 18 and above but the girls often lie about their age. In every town in the Philippines are a few large, beautiful homes. Most are owned by girls that landed a “long nose” as they call us. When a girl develops early and is motivated to score one for her family, she will tell you she is 18 but may be younger. That can be dangerous. It’s all part of the game. Good luck.
Prudence is the better part of valor? I think is how it goes. Time to get out of Dodge. This was the day I had prepared for and lived for. At this time, I put plan A into action. 20 minutes after I received that text, I was starting my bike and waving goodbye to the hotel staff.
Did that guy ever show up? I don’t know. Doesn’t ma
tter. I have a set of protocols that I follow when I am in a foreign country. Running for my life is one of those.
~
Keep your hands off that girl!!!
If you look around you and notice the local couples, they don’t touch each other. No putting an arm around their waists or shoulders. At the very most, they may hold hands. Kissing in public—scandalous. So you do the same. It is difficult enough for a Filipina to hang out with a foreigner. People talk. Gossip is a major pastime in the Philippines. No money, nothing else to do. The objective here is to make being with you, for the Filipina, as easy as possible. So don’t touch her in public. Behind closed doors the Filipinos obviously hold their own in the wild sex department, judging from all the unwed, young mothers. But in public. Don’t touch. I cringe inwardly when I see a new foreigner hugging or kissing his GF. I know he is putting her through hell. But she puts up with it in the hopes of winning the prize. A big fat, foreigner to take care of her and her family…yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!
~
Becky arrived at Geckos as I was writing in my journal. My memory is so bad I need to write everything down and take lots of pics. Actually I guess my memory has gone from bad to clinically dysfunctional.
Becky was a cute, compact, big boobed, fire cracker. Lots of energy and open to adventure. Of course, her end game was similar to every poor Filipina—score a long nose husband.
“Hey honey, you look pretty today. Glad you could make it”
I stood and pulled out a chair for her to sit. I am always extravagantly polite to Filipinas. Being poor, I don’t think they get much of that. And a rich foreigner showing good manners towards them is extra significant. Or so I think. Being polite, she said she was not hungry, but I insisted she have some lunch. There is never enough food in a Filipino household. When I go to visit a family of a GF I usually stop at Jollibees, if it’s around and bring a bag of burgers for lunch. Damn! I sit here writing this and I must be a hell of a nice guy. Can I have an Amen?
Confessions of a Sex Tourist--Motorcycling in Mindanao Page 2