by Vanya Vetto
Street kids ran to the corner of a busy road.
A local was handing out fried chicken from the back of his boot.
I continued the walk.
I avoided the Viagra tout. I continued avoiding the crazy Jeepney racing by at the speed of lightning. Man, there's been a few close shaves.
I'm on the main drag near Manila Bay. Cars are cutting a bit too close.
A group of well groomed and dressed westerners look at the lone wolf on his walking quest for street life.
'Loser,' says one.
I'm on a mission. I don't hunt in packs.
Where's the fun in that?
I avoid the butchers down at Manila Bay and suck up the sunset.
I'm walking back now, a few loonies are trying to get my attention. I know where that will lead so I ignore them.
I'm walking with my new teeth.
They might not be on a leash, but boy can they smile.
My GPRS walking app is lying. I'm sure I did about four clicks.
The knee is holding up.
I'm sweating like an old sow.
This feels right.
Walking, it's where I roam the path less trodden by.
I like the fear factor, the rabid dogs, the thieves, the dirt poor and the maniac drivers.
Smells like victory.
You may snicker, but Apocalypse Now was filmed about 120 kilometers north of here.
I'm just continuing the tradition, that's all.
I’m only here for dental work, I tell Brian, who is a legal representative for the recruiting company next door.
He wears a pony tail and is polite and verging on the shy.
‘Why don’t you travel?’ He asks.
Oh, too expensive. They charge and arm and leg at the tourist places.
‘This is a tourist place,’ he says.
I’m looking at the whores in glittering dresses showing way too much tits and leg.
I think you have a point, I say.
‘You are staying on the busiest tourist street in the Philippines,’ he says.
Why else would be there be so many foreign tourists? He asks.
Another good point.
I better get out Google Map and find out just what street I’m on staying on.
‘It’s Mabini street,’ he says, ‘google it, you’ll be surprised with what pops up.’
I’m learning every day.
Brian says we should go out for a drink one day.
He’s already proving a wealth of knowledge.
He’s seen through my cover.
‘You aren’t here to get dental treatment, are you?’
I’m here to fuck my brains out, I say. He’s too polite to ask such prying questions.
I’m feeling exposed.
I’m hanging off a tenuous thread.
When you are ready to take the plunge, I’ll be your guide.
That’s the pesos talking to me.
‘They always ease the way when hot chicks are concerned,’ said a 1000 peso note, and another piped up, ‘but you’ll be needing a few more of them to pull the hot chicks.’
The Philippines might be a third world shit hole, says Brian, ‘but boy do they charge first world rates.’
Frank has been coming to the Philippines since 1978.
'It was magic then, all the bars and businesses were run by white guys, Australians, Germans and Americans.'
Frank is from Belgium, late sixties, bald and rolly polly, and he's piddled most nights.
He's a harmless rolly polly and loves nothing better than giving those young whores a great work out.
Aquino and Marcos brought in the Chinese, Japanese and Koreans, he says, 'and pushed us white boys out.'
He said back in 1978, Mabini street was rocking.
'Then the Chinese mayor and Aquino cleaned up the place in the 80s.'
He means the sex just went underground and into KTV land.
He gestures to the massage parlours.
'Do you see any sex here?'
I had to think about it.
Eventually, I nodded in the affirmative.
'The new president is good. He's very good.'
Many are saying so too.
'Whites are welcome back again,' says the Belgian. 'It's the way it always should be.'
Sure, the Spanish and the Americans both controlled the country for many years, why not let legitimate white businessmen invest and ensure prosperity all around?
'Soon,' says the Belgium, who excuses himself, 'I've got the whiskey breath.'
I couldn't smell it. But then again, I'm a smoker, and apparently, we don't smell anything.
'Bullshit,' says Frank, 'a smelly pussy is a smelly pussy, and even if you can't smell it, you can certainly taste it when you go down on her.'
It was a walk around the block.
'Come in, take a look.'
It was a KTV tout.
A group of young drunken female backpackers eyes me up suspiciously.
They are shocked to see me walking alone without a hot long haired local holding my hand.
Yong the Korean was making his way home near the roundabout.
He was totally shit faced on a mission to nowhere.
I'm glad I didn't take up his offer for a drink.
Loud music on another street.
I'm really missing out on a lot of action.
Lilly from the hostess bar that serves food during the day time is looking hot.
And the average looking lady who serves the food is now transformed with makeup and a tight hugging elegant evening dress.
I’m avoiding the Seven Eleven.
Alex must be mad at me.
But I doubt the complaint ever got through to her branch.
The owner has two branches, says Aron the seaman.
I walk past another hostess's bar near my place.
She's smiling at me again.
Does that mean she wants to fuck me?
'You'll never know until you open your wallet Mr. Tight Wad.'
Those pesos in my wallet really need to know the meaning of respect.
I've put most of them and my passport in the security box at the reception desk.
To say I'm overwhelmed by all the beauty on the street that wants to suck my dwindling savings is really an understatement. Been there and done that. I'm not going to give in. San Miguel can fuck off too. One bottle, it will be ten later when I'm hunting for an ATM machine to top up my bacchanalian romp.
I might be stupid, but I'm wising up.
As a wise friend says, a wank in the bank, 'your wallet will thank you for it in the morning.'
I tell my pesos that.
They aren't consoled. They want fun. But not on my shift, I say.
That's final.
I don't want any more cheek from them
I'm isolating myself.
I sit outside my hotel on a plastic chair.
Some think I'm the owner of the hotel, other's think I'm the security guard.
I make sign language with the Muslim guard that works at the massage parlor.
He knows I'm always good for a cigarette stick or two.
At the Mini Mart, I watch the midget make his rounds. He clings to the wall and moves a few inches.
He sleeps in an area designated for pot plants. It's a little gap raised outside the minimart. For a normal human being, it would be too tight, for him, it's a perfect fit.
He sleeps on cardboard boxes. His hands are constantly grimy.
It's not like he can just wash them in the toilet. He's a slow mover, at a pace of a turtle, and sometimes enters the Mini Mart to drink a coffee on the stool.
He's a harmless old man who deserves better than this.
He's more a small person than a dwarf. I really wouldn't want to mislead you.
The midget’s son rides a bicycle with a sidecar. He's intense and best avoided.
The midget’s brother crabs along with the help of a wheelchair.
He’s got
a shabu habit and inhales glue. He’s totally shit faced and everyone knows he’s using. He’s so pitiful that the Angel’s of Death give him a wide berth.
The small people are blending into one: Manila, the land of small people.
Maybe I'm suffering from sensory overload.
I've stopped walking. It's just too hard. The dangers are too real.
I can't be bothered. I've only got six days and I want to make it out of here alive.
Manila has been an assault on the senses.
Money is the only thing that cocoons you from the madness.
If you stay alert, you live.
I think of my conjoined twin, Frank and wonder if he's still floating on his back down at Manila Bay.
He's a tough sack of shit.
I'm told he just pushes any floaters along.
’No time for sentimentality,' he says. I bet he's hanging around the fountain and chatting up ladyboys.
At least someone hasn't lost the edge.
'Toughen up snowflake.'
I'm the snowflake of Manila.
When I'm feeling down I think of my twin brother down at Manila Bay and the old midget outside the Mini Mart.
Now that's an incentive to stay up.
My midget is still sleeping in the concrete slot outside the Mini Mart.
I wake him up.
Here.
It's only a few coins which I throw on his tummy.
I love the gratitude that's written all over his face.
He's so adorable you just want to put him your suitcase and take him home.
I know, I've been in Manila toooooo long. I'll blame that superb blogger of B grade movies.
'You'll love it, Manila is fun.'
So was the hostess at the Intercontinental.
She had the mostess too.
The coppers were here for a convention on law enforcement on the streets of Manila.
'We don't shoot to kill always,' was the topic of the forum.
But the coppers were too busy drooling over the susu, or big tits, of the hostesses, than in making any meaningful contribution to the forum.
They dressed provocatively. The big boobed DNA had migrated from Borneo to the Philipines plus the Indonesian word for tits, susu.
'I love susu,' I say.
The coppers are now posing with me.
The hostesses are now posing with me.
I can feel something rubbing against my hip.
'Put that fucking gun away,' I say.
The more susu the better, I add. And the cops are going into another giggling fit.
The Philippines is really no different to Indonesia and Malaysia in many ways.
When the conversation starts about tits, the men always break down with their own version on the most talked about subject in the history of mankind.
One small tit for man, a giant set of tits for mankind.
It's all giggles and back slapping and haven't I culturally adjusted well to the Philippines.
I do try my best, I tell the coppers, as I make my way back to my room with three big titted hostesses.
It would cost me.
So I don’t go there.
Imagination is so forgiving in that way.
I wouldn’t be so stupid as to fraternise with coppers with licenses to kill and whores who want to steal my wallet and passport.
I was waiting for security to throw me out of the Seven Eleven.
I gave them a running commentary on my complaint.
'Where are you staying?' asks the male staff who was there when his colleague belittled me.
I wouldn't tell you even if I had to. Who's to say you won't tell Alex's boyfriend where I live. He might come hunting for me.
But the security guard will take care of me, I say, turning my head towards him. He was kind to open the door for me when I entered the joint.
This is getting messy.
Don't fuck with the customer. His money has voting power.
'She sometimes works in the evening.'
Well I'll avoid your branch and find another one.
It's getting messy.
You guys have lost a good customer. My money is going to another branch. Surely your boss can't be happy with that.
That mince and rice has stuck to my tongue. My tongue has grown into a black hairy carpet and it needs a haircut.
I'm suffering from an MSG hit. This can't be good, can it?
I try to scrape off the black gunk forming on my tongue.
That Selig dish, or whatever they fucking call it, is just toxic.
Another reason to avoid this 7-11.
Did the fuckers poison me?
I only make my own coffee. That way I know it's not been spiked.
Call me paranoid, call me cautious, one must take precautions in a land that traditionally thrived off kidnapping.
Garcia is wanking off.
Is he suggesting I go back to my room to wank?
He's doing a dry hump kinda wank, if that makes sense.
He works as the parking guy for the Raman noodle store.
He's wearing the company's shirt too that says 'My Raman.'
I never tell him I want to do more than wank.
But I've got my new teeth. You can't have the best of both worlds, can you?
Garcia is in fifties, jagged teeth, is always asking me to buy him a drink.
He's a real lad and covers the turf outside Maya Bank on Mabini street.
I think he likes me.
He was thumping the shit out of my shoulder as I made my way the dentist.
Are you sure it's not cancer of the tongue, I ask Dr. John?
'Nope,' he says, 'it's coloring and preservatives, 7-Eleven is notorious for it.'
He says my gums are good.
He doesn't comment on my blue T-shirt that is just about to jump off my back and crawl to a dark and warm spot.
I did say that I would annoy you, conditional on getting my teeth done.
’I know,' he nods. It's a nervous kinda nod. I can see he's regretting my terms that I laid on the table. It can get lonely on the open road and I was just ensuring I'd have someone to talk to after my teeth were done if you really wanted to follow my logic.
But he's cool with it. My teeth are settling in, he says.
'But stop playing with your teeth.'
I have a bad habit of putting my fingers in my mouth.
'That's one sure way to get the gums infected.'
Dr. John really cares about me.
I can feel it in my gums.
In a few days time, I'm out of here, I say.
I've never seen the man so happy. He says he's nearly over his cold, 'about ten percent lingering.'
I've just given Dr. John hope.
I noticed he didn't offer me a coffee.
I take a mental note, reminding myself to get one on Monday.
It's all about follow up, I say.
And Dr. John, you are doing just fine.
On a recommendation from a friend, I hit 7-11 again looking for the sushi. He says my tongue will turn green 'but your hallucinations will be all rainbows and unicorns.'
If this is true, then I think Seven-11 is onto something.
Like the sands of time, Manila is running through my fingers.
I can't catch the grains.
I can't stop the marching of time.
All I can say is that the place has been kind to me.
It's opened my eyes, in so many ways.
The fear of fear has been replaced with fascination.
I'm barricading myself in my room.
Chris the Butcher, the massage guy down at Manila Bay, did me in good.
'Only listen to Chris.'
I hold him no grudges.
Not roaming far has been a blessing.
Manila isn't the most friendly city for walking.
I've nearly been hit a few times by cars.
People won't think twice about nudging you towards the centre of the road, br
inging you closer the incoming Jeepney that rule the roads.
They are built like tanks and I don't want to end up on a roadkill menu.
I've had to restrain myself pushing a few locals into the middle of the road.
Better them dead than me.
It's not conscious that they are luring you to your death, but it's so easy to become a statistic if you aren't conscious of your surroundings.
It's a bit like that. You need eyes in the back, front and side of your heads.
Sure I'm over the humbuggers.
The security guards all have a story.
They aren't shy about annoying guests and see if they can get something out of them.
I'll buy a few rounds of Sprite or Seven Up.
But I say fuck to the humbugging. These guards are being paid twice the rate guards are paid in Indonesia.
The economy is booming and the receptionists get paid double what a receptionist would get paid in Malaysia.
These are sobering thoughts.
The Philippines isn't a poor third world shit hole anymore.
If only the people would head that advice and start acting proudly of an economy that is overtaking countries like Thailand, Malaysia, and Indonesia.
This could be the start of a new Philippines.
Everyone I know has the option of working double shifts and they hold second jobs.
This country is booming.
Crime is at its all-time low.
It's just that the people aren't adjusting to the new economic climate.
Their old Mafiosa ways have been too entrenched for them to see the miracle that's happening before their eyes.
Everyone has a spiel, even the beggars.
The trickle-down effect is amazing.
One old bag who collects plastic received a twenty peso note from a female office worker. Not content, she was begging for more.
Its a moving and shifting economy.
The dwarf who walks with the aid of his wheelchair to the ice truck transforms himself into a composed cyclist. Straight back, aloof and totally confident.
When he's not begging, he's a proud owner of a bicycle attached to a yellow sidecar, used to transport recyclables to the depots.
‘That’s his brother dipstick.’
So they both are on crack?
He is no different to the other thousands of tricycle cabbies who choke the streets of Manila.
You'll do a triple take and marvel at the midget's makeover.