Farsiding

by Vanya Vetto

  Manila is playing magician. What you see is an illusion.

  And if you want to know what's really going on in the background operating system, dig a little deeper, and all will be revealed.

  'Manila has the highest commercial rentals in Asia,' says Aron the seaman who runs a restaurant on Mabini street.

  He crunches the figures. Even I'm starting to faint.

  It's a tale-tale sign that money is flowing.

  'Into the government's hands.'

  Aron can't wait to retire in the provinces.

  'I'm only here to make the money.'

  And so is everyone else, I say.

  The church is holding us back, says Aron.

  They won't give out charity.

  They pontificate.

  And ignore the pleas of the poor.

  But they hold large political sway.

  The congregation always listens to the pastor.

  'Nothing but a bunch of fucking thieves,' Duterte says.

  Thieves with political sway.

  I poked my head into Manila's Cathedral.

  Large plasma televisions were hanging from the roof broadcasting the sermon while outside families in rags begged for small change.

  A white priest in a white frock, with a white bishop's hat, was telling his congregation to rejoice in poverty.

  'God has reserved a place for the meek.'

  Had I just entered a giant jumbo jet?

  Aron has been escorted by security guards on his port of leave in Venezuela.

  'Kidnappings were rife,' he says.

  He draws a similar parallel to the Philippines.

  'We may have all the saints, but they aren't going to save you from a kidnapping or getting your head chopped off.'

  Sending heads to your enemy was always a popular choice by the mafia of Mexico, I said.

  The church holds us ransom and we hold the people ransom, says Aron.

  I can see why Duterte loathes the crooks.

  'The Vatican is the richest country in the world,' says Aron, 'and our country is one of the poorest.'

  It's not hard to figure out why.

  Vote with your feet, I say, and stop putting your coins in the collection box at the churches.

  Hit them where it hurts the most, in their fucking hip pockets.

  Not only are the women the victims of the sex trade.

  'The men are too,' says Aron, as a western guy dressed in rags walks by.

  'He lost his house and life savings,' he says.

  And let me guess, she got back with her Filipino boyfriend.

  'Close, they were never separated.'

  Then a Korean drops by.

  Aron nods and lets him eat for free.

  'He was once a Samsung executive, a high flyer, now he's homeless.'

  Let me guess, he had his passport stolen after his ATM was skimmed?

  'Something like that,' says Aron, as a Japanese in rags drops by.

  Aron nods and he joins the table where the Korean is sitting.

  His story?

  I think you know the recurring pattern, says Aron.

  It's a familiar story, he says, 'and it can happen to anyone who isn't smart enough.'

  I'm counting the days now before I'm out of here.

  I've not had any propositions yet.

  'You won't dressing like you do,' he says. And I'm reluctant to flash money.

  What's wrong with my cum stained shorts I bought from Butterworth in Malaysia?

  Actually, it's paint stains.

  A sigh of relief, my 'get up' to deter the hot-gold-diggers-and-scammers is working.

  Three churches were bombed within ten minutes of each other and an apartment block a few hours later, in Indonesia's Surabaya on Sunday morning.

  At least 13 people were killed and scores maimed or wounded by shrapnel.

  The ethnic Chinese governor of Jakarta was jailed for quoting the Koran.

  Over 1000 Abu Sayyaf insurgents have been hunted down like animals in the southern Philipines, explains the security guard outside my hotel.

  'After six months of strafing from helicopters, Marawi City and the insurgent-riddled provinces of Mindanao seems under control,' he says.

  'Two hundred soldiers have been killed,' he adds.

  'Rocket launchers, machine guns, you name it.'

  It's Apocalypse Now, Filipino style.

  Mahathir is in power in Malaysia now.

  He has a history of sending members of Southern Thailand insurgents parties back to Thailand to face justice.

  He just doesn't want insurgents living it up in Kuala Lumper anymore. Over twenty members of the Abu Sayyaf insurgent group were discovered working in the capital as security guards under Najib's presidency.

  The whoring bars and villages have been closing down all over Indonesia.

  Now the Christians are under siege.

  President Jokowi will be known as the Indonesian president who was too accommodating. With the elections approaching next year, expect more shenanigans.

  Some were saying the recent bombings in Jakarta were rumblings against a waning president. Could the jailing of Ahok be his way of appeasing the more fundamentalist elements?

  It's anyone's guess. But his war on drugs has backfired to a war on Christian churches.

  The Southern Philipines may be riddled with insurgents, but Duterte is trying his best to prune them off the face of the earth.

  He's not interested in cashing in on FBI's most wanted list. The Malaysian bomb maker Zulkifli Abdhir was captured under President Benigno Aquino presidency after a raid on Bangsamoro Islamic Freedom Fighters (BIFF) and the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) territory in the Southern Philippines.

  Forty-four police of the SAF 44 unit were slaughtered in the 2015 'Oplan Exodus' operation because someone very high in the chain of command wouldn't allow backup which was nearby.

  Making matters worse, Aquino didn't attend the funeral of the elite forces in Manila and purportedly pocketed the 5 million dollars reward for capturing Abdhir. His excuse for not attending was that he was too busy opening up a Toyota factory on the same day.

  This is the narrative of most Filipinos and I know Dr. John wouldn't give me a bum steer. Which might explain why Duterte won a landslide election.

  The Filipinos just don't want their churches and ferries bombed.

  I get a bad feeling something is underfoot. I can't see or hear it, but they are planning. Manila could be next. Grudges are a big part of the fatwa indoctrination.

  But for now, this would have to be the safest part of South East Asia. With a president devoted to maintaining law and order, at least the illusion of being safe is better than not feeling safe at all.

  Meanwhile in Surabaya today, there's another suicide attack on the back of yesterday's attack:

  'The family, riding on two motorbikes, blew themselves up at a checkpoint outside the police station, Police Chief Tito Karnavian told a news conference. The young child survived and is now recovering, he said.'

  It's crazy days leading up to Ramadan which starts tomorrow.

  Stay safe.

  It's counting down.

  I'm out of here in 48 hours.

  Never thought Manila would grow on me.

  I was seriously contemplating changing my flight and leaving after the first few days.

  Then I found a dentist.

  Then the heart palpitations stopped. It had to be a festering tooth which Dr. John would sort out.

  A shard of a filling was biting into my gum.

  Eating Mentos on arrival outside the airport had dislodged an expensive filling I got in Indonesia.

  Like a trance, I walked down the road and stopped at a dental clinic with posters of before and after smiles on the front window.

  It would be a good start.

  A week later, I have a mouth full of porcelain. My smile doesn't look half bad either.

  I wasn't supposed to take the flight from Kuching in Sarawak to Manila
. The night before I had already decided it would get in the way of my walks and routine.

  I tested myself. A knock on my door by Thomas the night reception set the ball rolling.

  I'm leaving soon.

  I haven't left my hood for over three weeks.

  I don't need to. The stories are still coming to me.

  I got ripped off by the taxi driver from the airport.

  It was out of my control.

  But not taking taxis or day trips was in my control.

  If you want to be a real traveler, just stay close to your hotel.

  It's invigorating.

  I'm resisting LA Cafe.

  Apparently white men are in demand there.

  I won't be tempted.

  I must resist.

  I have a flight to catch.

  I can't ruin all the good work of surviving Manila by following the whimsical demands of my Bronco Jones.

  I'll resist.

  I'm still smarting over being ripped off in Bali by that evil Hindu driver who got me into so much trouble.

  My wallet hasn't stopped complaining.

  Watch out for the Hindu humbuggers, they are the best.

  That seems a lifetime ago.

  My smile seems new. I'm still learning to speak and chew with my new teeth.

  I don't dare look at the makeover in the mirror. The person looking back at me is someone else.

  Dr. John wasn't wrong when he said I wouldn't like the ‘old’ me. It will put my enemies back in Oz into a head spin.

  Thus ends the saga of the teeth which have fuelled most of my books, one way or another.

  Cover the fucking story.

  This was the Manila Challenge.

  I had resisted drinks the night before with a pretty lady.

  See, Manila was tempting me.

  That wouldn't do.

  That's when I miss flights.

  Discipline. That's what I needed.

  A full set of crowned teeth, discipline was proving to be a good friend of mine.

  If you don't beat the Manila traffic, it will beat you.

  I had to get that flight at 9.30 in the morning to Kota Kinabalu in Borneo.

  Being late would stuff up the schedule of the other two flights, the next one to Kuala Lumper at 3.30 in the afternoon and from there a midnight flight to Perth in Australia.

  My wallet couldn't afford such stuff ups. As far as flights went, they were cheap but where I was returning, they charge one buck for a cigarette. I was only paying one buck a packet in Asia. Being addicted to cigarettes is a costly enterprise.

  I was already in the grips of nicotine withdrawals.

  Now Manila has four airports, each at a different location.

  You'd think I knew which one I wanted to go to.

  Take me to International, I said.

  The fare was reasonable. But do you think Air Asia fly out of this one? They don't. A quick look at my ticket, Terminal 4 will do the trick and I need to take a leak.

  I had the money in my wallet. I just knew there was going to be a cluster fuck. I got cheated leaving the airport to downtown Manila three weeks ago and I had enough money in my wallet now to cover being cheated to the airport.

  Three flights in one day, are you kidding yourself?

  No Air Asia flights at this terminal,' says the security guard checking boarding passes.

  'It's terminal four,' he advises.

  Did he say terminal three, or four?

  'It's terminal three,' says Robert the taxi driver who is going to screw me from here to China town.

  One guy already offered me forty US bucks to take me to terminal four.

  I should have taken his offer, at least he'd take me to the right terminal.

  They try hard in Manila, I've got to give it to them but Robert is reasonable.

  A backpacker couple also jump into my taxi and Robert is reading them the riot act, 'you pay separately.'

  He's getting three fares now.

  And he's taken us to the wrong terminal. He won't shake my hand because I'm a bad guy who hasn't paid him enough.

  The German couple makes their own way to terminal four.

  I'll make my own way.

  I've still got two hours before I board my plane, I tell Frank, my new driver.

  He agrees on my rate. He's screwing me over too.

  But it was all accounted for. Manila would be disappointing if it was easy.

  This town is never easy.

  It's supposed to be hard. You'll never forget Manila. There are no good deals. It's just a big hustle. If you agree on the price, then it must be good. Just don't suspect you are being ripped off, because usually you are.

  I'm at the right terminal.

  Frank was a real character.

  I handed him a Winston and we smoked the short ride to Terminal Four.

  I had one more terminal to cover and then I could say I've hit them all.

  I'll save that for another day, I told Frank as I paid up and headed to the check-in counter.

  He was happy with his payment, sure he wanted more but he wasn't going to get it.

  A handshake restored faith in Manila. Goodbye, I said as I entered the timeless world of airports.

  Sleep deprivation seems a big part of airport culture.

  I've never been fresh taking a flight.

  It just doesn't work that way.

  You've got to get on that plane. That's all that matters. Get your boarding card and find the gate and get on that plane.

  The rest is cream and fake cherries on top.

  Get on that plane. Doesn't matter how tired you are. Get on the plane. It's taking you home.

  It's taking me home.

  I couldn't say I wanted to go home. It's too abstract a term.

  But I'm on those flights.

  My shoes are stinking to high heaven.

  I dump them in an airport bin.

  They had served me well, my walking shoes. They are now in a bin at an airport in Malaysia.

  Dump stuff. Travel light. Give some stuff away. Travel light. It confounds and confuses customs.

  Travel light and miss the crowds waiting for their luggage.

  It works for me.

  At any one time, I'm carrying five kilograms.

  It's my life.

  It's freedom. It's unrestrained get-off-the-plane-fast-and-through-customs-freedom.

  Don't let hoarding get in the way of your life, jettison all the crap and travel light.

  It works for me.