Pilipinas
The air is already oppressively warm- I'm back in the office relishing the air-con switch on and wishing it wasn't inappropriate to show up for work in flip-flops...and maybe a bikini to balance things out...just had my first day of teaching and feeling regretful of my decision to leave this job behind- I finally feel like I'm on great terms with the kids and teachers, have an arsenal of teaching methods that seem to work and am yet rarely bored, if not exactly feeling...stretched. I could easily do this for another year, and wonder why I made such a leap to return home- I think it was based on feelings that I'd had earlier. You never know what'll change, but my life here right now is super lovely. The thought of another year away from family, friends, cheddar and charity shops always pulls me through these pointless moments of doubt and I am so excited about reunions with people I miss more and more every single day, but I know my glowy imaginings will not be easy to achieve- at some point life will get in the way and I'll have to start earning my Megabus miles and shavings of parmesan.
Holidays always lend a glittery dust to the lens of what came before. The world looks different upon our return from a wonderfully rich, if imperfectly conducted, holiday in the Philippines, which I think is a fantastic country to visit, if not a great place for everyone to live. A BBQ at Ken's last night and today's school visit made me suddenly notice how much the children have grown since I arrived, how I've witnessed their budding personalities, celebrated anniversaries between couples I knew when they were still single, held the newborn babies of people who were nervous newlyweds when I first arrived, and are now living in changed circumstances, whose witnessing is richly afforded by the fact that we've become very good friends. It's a sudden rush of sentimentality that on frank reflection may in fact be my subconscious trying to sum everything up and make me appreciate what I've achieved and what I will miss. I will certainly look upon my life in Japan with enormous fondness and nostalgia, but Nadine and I are both adamant that striking while the iron's hot is a far cooler plan. Plus, though getting Grace's hand-print paintings through the post is a pleasure, I feel dreadful to know that I am a mere name spoken of occasionally at home, rather than an interactive part of my neice's growing up.
So, Philippines. Our basic trajectory took us north from Manila, via the ancient rice terraces of Banaue, to the colonial-era facades of Vigan city in North-west Luzon. We returned, again via Manila and a night of cockroaches and shitty Dominos, to head out west to the island of Palawan to visit the underground river at Sabang and in what became a fruitless search for deserted island and coral paradise. Rain, fog and lack of time proved the biggest blockades to feeling that we'd really 'arrived' in the Philippines, but it's given me real resolve to go back. It was depressing to have to sack off our boat ride to the abandoned shack on Snake Island, but we always found cheer in the company of gregarious Filipino characters, San Miguel, delicious food and immense amounts of laughter. It was a pleasure to speak English, even when it meant copious amounts of amateur lurve croon karaeoke. It's the most English-literate country in Asia, and one night a hotel worker expressed amazement at our new Japanese companion Hiromichi's total lack of English. It was an uncomfortable moment but we were loathe to take it to its logical conclusion, leaving in meta space our thoughts about why Japan has no real need to learn English, with its lesser need to compromise its own sense of unique superiority in order to engage globally. My ideas about English as a global metaphor for inequality, the illusion of uniting participation and homogenising capitalism have changed- anthropology taught me to be self critical of panic about loss of diversity and the 'reality' of globalisation in what is in fact a multifaceted and changing phenomenon. But I still have pangs of guilt about my own position on the somewhat frontlines of invisible divisions, which come alive in the classroom and the attitudes towards my role of the children, teachers, co-workers and media that make up the outside of my fishbowl.
Travelling provided boundless opportunities to think about the issues and quandaries that have rebounded for me for so long- the price of tourism, education and development in places like Banaue, McDonaldisation, Chowkingisation, sex tourism, the spurious 'liberation' of women through the import of ideas of femininity and careerism, postcolonialism, neocolonialism, migration and, above all, my own position as a traveller-becoming-tourist. We found ourselves a lot more willing than in the past (Cara in Tanzania, Nadine in Turkey and Morocco, myself in Ghana) to avail ourselves of tourist luxuries- restaurants serving Western food at prices that, while proposterous within the country, were bargainous against the currencies we earn. We took taxis, tipped lavishly, ate and drank till our stomachs burst and sat there dissecting this culture and history we knew little about. We wondered what stereotypes we would perpetuate; whether we were being patronising by tipping too much. We ate a restaurant-chain meal in a foul mall cos we thought it would be clean (it was vile). Consumed Dominos and Subways because we are 'denied' things in Japan. Felt a wee bit indignant to meet the same Lithunian couple on a boat in Palawan that we'd shared a bus to Banaue with; spotted at the airport in Manila the same middle-aged British foursome we'd shared a restaurant floor with on Sabang beach. There were many more such coincidental reunions with other travellers, and gave one a sense of being utterly predictable, enslaved to Lonely Planet and riding a hamster wheel of boxes to tick.
However, these thoughts and hammering them out with each other alongside copious amounts of laughter were what made this holiday feel so rich, and the lack of sure answers to my questions was enough to reassure me that I'm hardly a mental colonialist. I was frustrated with the lack of Tagalog and time to discuss life with many people. There were, however, some intense and enlightening conversations, such as a meeting on a bus with a maid on her first trip home from Saudi Arabia in two years. It was also her first holiday- she had not had a single day off since leaving home shores, where she'd also had to leave behind her two small children, looked after by her mother-in-law (the father is also an offshore worker in Qatar). Ten per cent of Filipinos work abroad, and their travels became framed in the language of 'sacrifice' by the maid, and the girl in the seat next door whom she'd befriended on the way. Life was unsustainable, even having moved to Manila to seek a livelihood. Too difficult, though becoming a maid was 'easy'- Filipino girls are popular due to their being seen as 'clean' and more willing to work hard than Indonesians, who often leave their posts after a few days. I'm not surprised, after the conditions described by E- not being allowed to visit friends or go to church, having to wear a full niquab veil, having to fast along with the family during Ramadan whilst sweating to provide the evening feasts, not preparing meals but waiting on the family hand on foot while they order food as and when and where they like...but E is providing for her siblings, parents and children back home. The family in Saudi had called her three days into her return visit, begging her to come home and relieve the drugery now inflicted upon them. But she smiled, saying her boss is better than others, even if he is fat and lazy. She showed pictures of the smiling kids and is clearly seen as an albeit unequal part of the family. I averted my eyes when she flicked through the pictures on her mobile, most of which were shots in her bedroom taken of herself in various trendy poses. I suppose she is lucky, if comparison to utterly disgraceful treatment of other maids can be taken as fortune- or maybe she was just discreet, but others are beaten, forced to convert, refused pay and sexually abused, with little legal protection. Since the Philippines imposed a ban on exporting foreign workers unless certain labour conditions were met, demand for Filipino workers has in some areas dropped hugely while demand has drifted elsewhere. According to the cruel dictats of the global labour market, E is indeed lucky. I can't wait to do research and some proper work in this area...huge numbers of Filipino women are working in Japan as 'entertainment workers', receiving visas that allow the J govt to uphold its close-doors-to-citizenship policy while preventing rights to immigrants and satisfying the 'entertainment' requirements of a nation of bulging-trousered businessmen. Many of the women arrive on a pretext of being recruited in the domestic or clerical sector yet have little recourse to go home once they find themselves in the service of sex, aften because the dull compulsion of the paypacket makes this job seem like a 'fortunate sacrifice', like the one E is constantly making.
I somehow managed to contain my anger...often with a displacement into my ongoing sciatica...or a drowning in a bottle of San Miguel. Beer became a frequent 10am cheerer, after breakfasts when without fail the fruit shakes advertised on the menu turned out to be made from powdered Tang. The constant chime of 'no bananas/mangoes/coconuts available' became a real mystery. 'So, what just thudded on the roof?'...'Er, it's a mmmmeteor maam'. Right. Ooh, being called 'ma'am'. That was a toughie. Felt like colonial mistresses at first, but soon noticed that it is the ubiquitous term of politeness in customer services. It became quite sweet in a way- lulled by etiquette into forgetting that our language is a sometimes useful hangover of colonialism all over the world, and that we can no longer claim control over the warpings that have occured along the capillaries.
Notable characters-
1) The young boy who paddled our canoe into the Sabang cave, which looks as though it might make it as one of the New 7 Wonders of Nature (http://www.new7wonders.com/nature/en/nominees/asia/c/PuertoPrincesa/)
Randy told us about the cave formations (such as the Male Mushroom, so called because of its mushroom-like shape and, on top, a fine protrusion to 'commuinate its anatomy...ladies you don't have to look'). He told us about the fish and the killer spiders and history of its explorations, the heights of the inner caves (HUGE! Inspired cathedral-like awe in me) and how to tell whether you've been dripped on by bat shit or holy water (the former is warm). I was transported back to Thailand and the wonderful trek to the caves of Chiang Dao, where our guide pointed out the cave formations- a lotus, an elephant, a buddha...the Philippines being a Christianised country, we instead were shown Jesus, the Nativity, the candle, the Holy Mother and the crucifix. Bien sur. Randy was great. He made Nadine and my day as we were about to alight, with a last-chance shot- 'you are very beautiful...if you turn around you will see your dream'. He was sitting behind us.
2) The staff at the gaudy Gordion hotel in Vigan, to which we moved after a resented night in the stuffy, stuck up Vigan Prince. We'd been led there by another friend from the bus journey and the friends who greeted her at the bus stop, perched on a scooter. The dude in front had a mullet and baggy tee, while behind him was straddled a flowing-lock beauty in tight jeans and snazzy sandals...who upon speaking turned out to have a voive deeper than Louis Armstrong. Walking to the hotel, our bus pal told us they were a 'lesbian and a gay'. We weren't quite sure which was which. They merrily escorted us into the gothic pile and left us with the snooty receptionist. After a night of stinky pillow, we went down to breakfast, during which I was clutched with the call of the morning cure. I went into the toilet with the 'Queens' sign above the door. Alright. Things turned a bit sour when I noticed the enormous sign hanging on the loo stall- 'No gays allowed in this toilet'. I felt a bit sick, and Nadine almost choked on her chipolata when I told her. We plotted defacement and loud complaint, but chickened out and merely poisoned the visitors book. Hate myself for such cowardice. Anyway, we moved out and headed for the Gordion, where we had wonderful, high-ceilinged rooms and, joy of joys, fresh filtered ice water. We spent an afternoon lounging in our room with a box of red Franzia (the only wine of its hue in the world that advises you to serve it chilled), after a prolonged lunch in the wonderful Cafe Leona (Turkish pizza loaded with oily lamb, a richly spiced carrot salad, flavoury squid and wine. and pineapple juice). Our hotel party included readings of TS Eliot, Tennyson, Keats and, for me, John Betjeman (WHY DIDN'T I REMEMBER SUBALTERN'S LOVE SONG??!). We drank Sangria, spilt it on the sheets and had to do handwashing, watched Friends on the TV and were generally awful. At least we were confined to the shade of the room, eh?
I'm meant to be talking about the staff. Anyway, with a 6pm hangover, we explored the twinkling cobbled streets of Vigan, the colonial-era facades advertising the most incredible antique shops- huge, dusty harps and four poster beds and saints heads and looms. Cara bought an enormous straw hat that kept us amused until it found its final resting place with the staff of the New Camelot on our last day. We then returned to Cafe Leona to indulge in the outdoor grill, more pizza and more wine (standard). We invited over to our table the Japanese guy sitting at the table next to us, struggling to read his manga in the fading light. Hiromichi had a lovely crinkly smile, sustained throughout our lewd treatment of his native language (Cara had been hinting loudly that NIHONGO WAKARIMASU by dropping in the inevitable genki, kyushoku, kacho, chugakko, natto and itadakimasu that become the everyday dictionary of the expat ALT into our convo). He turned out to be staying at the same hotel and we went back for late night G+Ts. The staff joined us in the courtyard, and we ended up chatting, playing Eye Spy and singing until the wee hours. Filipinos are just incredibly musical. They know every song (especially if its sentimental and includes a key change) and can pitch things just right- Cara, Nadine and I probably left an offensive imprint on the ear drums of the many people upon whom we inflicted a song or four....
A few days later and being thoroughly back in the swing of life is making my memory-bank get stale.
From Vigan we flew back to Manila, staying at Robelle House in Makati. Nadine was convinced it was a house for illicit sexual encounters- the cockroaches, dirty carpets, cracked bath and corridor ashtrays filled with calcified ash merely exacerbated the evidence provided by our breakfast-time people-spotting from the windows of a German cafe. Over schnitzel and the most enormous platter of sausage, volkornbrot and cheese, we saw nobody except construction workers and pairings of tubby sunburnt white guys with skinny, sparsely dressed Filipino girls. We inevitably got chatting about notions of romantic vs economic love- my concern is more for transmission of STDs than for the jarring discomfort we get at seeing odd couples together- why should we judge them just because one is old and ugly and one young and beautiful? We can only hash out our assumptions, that behind the aesthetics lie deeply-engrained lines of racial and economic inequality, and our latent anger that these are the kind of men to think of western women as unkempt, feminist whingers. I get angry at myself for making these west/rest divisions, but at some point the relativism-busting voice of protest must emerge.
From the window we could also see a pair of sophisticat Asians who Nadine guessed to be Koreans, strutting the pavement and looking approvingly up at a 2nd floor building before entering a Korean massage parlour. The boy was tall, with pointing shoes and powder blue shirt tucked into slim-fitting tailored trousers. The girl, with long golden hair curling at gradiated intervals, wore a gingham Victoriana shirt with high-waisted buttoned pencil skirt. I spotted that they'd been looking at a hair salon and, remembering my own current hair disaster, resolved to go and seek a haircut, despite my tummy having forced me to the bathroom 4 times during breakfast (the pineapple bought from a street stall obviously didn't react well with my American pancakes). I sauntered in and found a bustling array of hoovers, well-heeled Filipinos and some spotty Korean teenagers huffing into their i-phones. I asked if they had a free appointment. 'Free haircut?'. 'No no! I'm happy to pay for it, but I want to know if you have a time slot for me'. But turned out to be the opening day of the salon, hence my haircut was indeed free! The Korean stylists were not there, I was told- they would call them. A little girl moaned at having to have her hair cut again- her mum was a stylist and made her have a weekly change, for practice. My tummy churned as I sat and chatted to the owner, flicking though scrapbooks of boys haircuts and wishing I had naturally straight hair, or at least some trepidation at the thought that these hairdressers may have never seen anything like my birds nest and unwillingness to spend time on my appearance. I had to go, plain and simple. Trouble was, the toilet was not yet built. I could use the builders loo, said the owner. He scuttled in before me and made me wait while he cleared the yellow syrupy bowl...crossed my legs and clenched my bowls. When I could go, it was beautiful. After going, the realisation that there was no flush was NOT beautiful. Had to scrabble around in the back of the loo and finally happened upon a plastic flap that brought the welcome sound of rushing water. Phew!
Back in the salon, it turned out that the Koreans we'd seen outside were the stylists, and the guy would be cutting my hair. I asked for him to cut it short, all the same length, so my curly bits could grow out. He told me, in one or two words of English, that it would not look pretty, so I told him to do whatever he liked. He turned me into Wilma Flintstone
Nadine was less than ravished with her Rachel cut, where the guy had refused to put in layers anywhere except the front before ironing her curly crowning glory poker straight. He'd also given us headaches with his head-massage during the cold water wash (yep, still renovating the water works. I knew).
Holidays always lend a glittery dust to the lens of what came before. The world looks different upon our return from a wonderfully rich, if imperfectly conducted, holiday in the Philippines, which I think is a fantastic country to visit, if not a great place for everyone to live. A BBQ at Ken's last night and today's school visit made me suddenly notice how much the children have grown since I arrived, how I've witnessed their budding personalities, celebrated anniversaries between couples I knew when they were still single, held the newborn babies of people who were nervous newlyweds when I first arrived, and are now living in changed circumstances, whose witnessing is richly afforded by the fact that we've become very good friends. It's a sudden rush of sentimentality that on frank reflection may in fact be my subconscious trying to sum everything up and make me appreciate what I've achieved and what I will miss. I will certainly look upon my life in Japan with enormous fondness and nostalgia, but Nadine and I are both adamant that striking while the iron's hot is a far cooler plan. Plus, though getting Grace's hand-print paintings through the post is a pleasure, I feel dreadful to know that I am a mere name spoken of occasionally at home, rather than an interactive part of my neice's growing up.
So, Philippines. Our basic trajectory took us north from Manila, via the ancient rice terraces of Banaue, to the colonial-era facades of Vigan city in North-west Luzon. We returned, again via Manila and a night of cockroaches and shitty Dominos, to head out west to the island of Palawan to visit the underground river at Sabang and in what became a fruitless search for deserted island and coral paradise. Rain, fog and lack of time proved the biggest blockades to feeling that we'd really 'arrived' in the Philippines, but it's given me real resolve to go back. It was depressing to have to sack off our boat ride to the abandoned shack on Snake Island, but we always found cheer in the company of gregarious Filipino characters, San Miguel, delicious food and immense amounts of laughter. It was a pleasure to speak English, even when it meant copious amounts of amateur lurve croon karaeoke. It's the most English-literate country in Asia, and one night a hotel worker expressed amazement at our new Japanese companion Hiromichi's total lack of English. It was an uncomfortable moment but we were loathe to take it to its logical conclusion, leaving in meta space our thoughts about why Japan has no real need to learn English, with its lesser need to compromise its own sense of unique superiority in order to engage globally. My ideas about English as a global metaphor for inequality, the illusion of uniting participation and homogenising capitalism have changed- anthropology taught me to be self critical of panic about loss of diversity and the 'reality' of globalisation in what is in fact a multifaceted and changing phenomenon. But I still have pangs of guilt about my own position on the somewhat frontlines of invisible divisions, which come alive in the classroom and the attitudes towards my role of the children, teachers, co-workers and media that make up the outside of my fishbowl.
Travelling provided boundless opportunities to think about the issues and quandaries that have rebounded for me for so long- the price of tourism, education and development in places like Banaue, McDonaldisation, Chowkingisation, sex tourism, the spurious 'liberation' of women through the import of ideas of femininity and careerism, postcolonialism, neocolonialism, migration and, above all, my own position as a traveller-becoming-tourist. We found ourselves a lot more willing than in the past (Cara in Tanzania, Nadine in Turkey and Morocco, myself in Ghana) to avail ourselves of tourist luxuries- restaurants serving Western food at prices that, while proposterous within the country, were bargainous against the currencies we earn. We took taxis, tipped lavishly, ate and drank till our stomachs burst and sat there dissecting this culture and history we knew little about. We wondered what stereotypes we would perpetuate; whether we were being patronising by tipping too much. We ate a restaurant-chain meal in a foul mall cos we thought it would be clean (it was vile). Consumed Dominos and Subways because we are 'denied' things in Japan. Felt a wee bit indignant to meet the same Lithunian couple on a boat in Palawan that we'd shared a bus to Banaue with; spotted at the airport in Manila the same middle-aged British foursome we'd shared a restaurant floor with on Sabang beach. There were many more such coincidental reunions with other travellers, and gave one a sense of being utterly predictable, enslaved to Lonely Planet and riding a hamster wheel of boxes to tick.
However, these thoughts and hammering them out with each other alongside copious amounts of laughter were what made this holiday feel so rich, and the lack of sure answers to my questions was enough to reassure me that I'm hardly a mental colonialist. I was frustrated with the lack of Tagalog and time to discuss life with many people. There were, however, some intense and enlightening conversations, such as a meeting on a bus with a maid on her first trip home from Saudi Arabia in two years. It was also her first holiday- she had not had a single day off since leaving home shores, where she'd also had to leave behind her two small children, looked after by her mother-in-law (the father is also an offshore worker in Qatar). Ten per cent of Filipinos work abroad, and their travels became framed in the language of 'sacrifice' by the maid, and the girl in the seat next door whom she'd befriended on the way. Life was unsustainable, even having moved to Manila to seek a livelihood. Too difficult, though becoming a maid was 'easy'- Filipino girls are popular due to their being seen as 'clean' and more willing to work hard than Indonesians, who often leave their posts after a few days. I'm not surprised, after the conditions described by E- not being allowed to visit friends or go to church, having to wear a full niquab veil, having to fast along with the family during Ramadan whilst sweating to provide the evening feasts, not preparing meals but waiting on the family hand on foot while they order food as and when and where they like...but E is providing for her siblings, parents and children back home. The family in Saudi had called her three days into her return visit, begging her to come home and relieve the drugery now inflicted upon them. But she smiled, saying her boss is better than others, even if he is fat and lazy. She showed pictures of the smiling kids and is clearly seen as an albeit unequal part of the family. I averted my eyes when she flicked through the pictures on her mobile, most of which were shots in her bedroom taken of herself in various trendy poses. I suppose she is lucky, if comparison to utterly disgraceful treatment of other maids can be taken as fortune- or maybe she was just discreet, but others are beaten, forced to convert, refused pay and sexually abused, with little legal protection. Since the Philippines imposed a ban on exporting foreign workers unless certain labour conditions were met, demand for Filipino workers has in some areas dropped hugely while demand has drifted elsewhere. According to the cruel dictats of the global labour market, E is indeed lucky. I can't wait to do research and some proper work in this area...huge numbers of Filipino women are working in Japan as 'entertainment workers', receiving visas that allow the J govt to uphold its close-doors-to-citizenship policy while preventing rights to immigrants and satisfying the 'entertainment' requirements of a nation of bulging-trousered businessmen. Many of the women arrive on a pretext of being recruited in the domestic or clerical sector yet have little recourse to go home once they find themselves in the service of sex, aften because the dull compulsion of the paypacket makes this job seem like a 'fortunate sacrifice', like the one E is constantly making.
I somehow managed to contain my anger...often with a displacement into my ongoing sciatica...or a drowning in a bottle of San Miguel. Beer became a frequent 10am cheerer, after breakfasts when without fail the fruit shakes advertised on the menu turned out to be made from powdered Tang. The constant chime of 'no bananas/mangoes/coconuts available' became a real mystery. 'So, what just thudded on the roof?'...'Er, it's a mmmmeteor maam'. Right. Ooh, being called 'ma'am'. That was a toughie. Felt like colonial mistresses at first, but soon noticed that it is the ubiquitous term of politeness in customer services. It became quite sweet in a way- lulled by etiquette into forgetting that our language is a sometimes useful hangover of colonialism all over the world, and that we can no longer claim control over the warpings that have occured along the capillaries.
Notable characters-
1) The young boy who paddled our canoe into the Sabang cave, which looks as though it might make it as one of the New 7 Wonders of Nature (http://www.new7wonders.com/nature/en/nominees/asia/c/PuertoPrincesa/)
Randy told us about the cave formations (such as the Male Mushroom, so called because of its mushroom-like shape and, on top, a fine protrusion to 'commuinate its anatomy...ladies you don't have to look'). He told us about the fish and the killer spiders and history of its explorations, the heights of the inner caves (HUGE! Inspired cathedral-like awe in me) and how to tell whether you've been dripped on by bat shit or holy water (the former is warm). I was transported back to Thailand and the wonderful trek to the caves of Chiang Dao, where our guide pointed out the cave formations- a lotus, an elephant, a buddha...the Philippines being a Christianised country, we instead were shown Jesus, the Nativity, the candle, the Holy Mother and the crucifix. Bien sur. Randy was great. He made Nadine and my day as we were about to alight, with a last-chance shot- 'you are very beautiful...if you turn around you will see your dream'. He was sitting behind us.
2) The staff at the gaudy Gordion hotel in Vigan, to which we moved after a resented night in the stuffy, stuck up Vigan Prince. We'd been led there by another friend from the bus journey and the friends who greeted her at the bus stop, perched on a scooter. The dude in front had a mullet and baggy tee, while behind him was straddled a flowing-lock beauty in tight jeans and snazzy sandals...who upon speaking turned out to have a voive deeper than Louis Armstrong. Walking to the hotel, our bus pal told us they were a 'lesbian and a gay'. We weren't quite sure which was which. They merrily escorted us into the gothic pile and left us with the snooty receptionist. After a night of stinky pillow, we went down to breakfast, during which I was clutched with the call of the morning cure. I went into the toilet with the 'Queens' sign above the door. Alright. Things turned a bit sour when I noticed the enormous sign hanging on the loo stall- 'No gays allowed in this toilet'. I felt a bit sick, and Nadine almost choked on her chipolata when I told her. We plotted defacement and loud complaint, but chickened out and merely poisoned the visitors book. Hate myself for such cowardice. Anyway, we moved out and headed for the Gordion, where we had wonderful, high-ceilinged rooms and, joy of joys, fresh filtered ice water. We spent an afternoon lounging in our room with a box of red Franzia (the only wine of its hue in the world that advises you to serve it chilled), after a prolonged lunch in the wonderful Cafe Leona (Turkish pizza loaded with oily lamb, a richly spiced carrot salad, flavoury squid and wine. and pineapple juice). Our hotel party included readings of TS Eliot, Tennyson, Keats and, for me, John Betjeman (WHY DIDN'T I REMEMBER SUBALTERN'S LOVE SONG??!). We drank Sangria, spilt it on the sheets and had to do handwashing, watched Friends on the TV and were generally awful. At least we were confined to the shade of the room, eh?
I'm meant to be talking about the staff. Anyway, with a 6pm hangover, we explored the twinkling cobbled streets of Vigan, the colonial-era facades advertising the most incredible antique shops- huge, dusty harps and four poster beds and saints heads and looms. Cara bought an enormous straw hat that kept us amused until it found its final resting place with the staff of the New Camelot on our last day. We then returned to Cafe Leona to indulge in the outdoor grill, more pizza and more wine (standard). We invited over to our table the Japanese guy sitting at the table next to us, struggling to read his manga in the fading light. Hiromichi had a lovely crinkly smile, sustained throughout our lewd treatment of his native language (Cara had been hinting loudly that NIHONGO WAKARIMASU by dropping in the inevitable genki, kyushoku, kacho, chugakko, natto and itadakimasu that become the everyday dictionary of the expat ALT into our convo). He turned out to be staying at the same hotel and we went back for late night G+Ts. The staff joined us in the courtyard, and we ended up chatting, playing Eye Spy and singing until the wee hours. Filipinos are just incredibly musical. They know every song (especially if its sentimental and includes a key change) and can pitch things just right- Cara, Nadine and I probably left an offensive imprint on the ear drums of the many people upon whom we inflicted a song or four....
A few days later and being thoroughly back in the swing of life is making my memory-bank get stale.
From Vigan we flew back to Manila, staying at Robelle House in Makati. Nadine was convinced it was a house for illicit sexual encounters- the cockroaches, dirty carpets, cracked bath and corridor ashtrays filled with calcified ash merely exacerbated the evidence provided by our breakfast-time people-spotting from the windows of a German cafe. Over schnitzel and the most enormous platter of sausage, volkornbrot and cheese, we saw nobody except construction workers and pairings of tubby sunburnt white guys with skinny, sparsely dressed Filipino girls. We inevitably got chatting about notions of romantic vs economic love- my concern is more for transmission of STDs than for the jarring discomfort we get at seeing odd couples together- why should we judge them just because one is old and ugly and one young and beautiful? We can only hash out our assumptions, that behind the aesthetics lie deeply-engrained lines of racial and economic inequality, and our latent anger that these are the kind of men to think of western women as unkempt, feminist whingers. I get angry at myself for making these west/rest divisions, but at some point the relativism-busting voice of protest must emerge.
From the window we could also see a pair of sophisticat Asians who Nadine guessed to be Koreans, strutting the pavement and looking approvingly up at a 2nd floor building before entering a Korean massage parlour. The boy was tall, with pointing shoes and powder blue shirt tucked into slim-fitting tailored trousers. The girl, with long golden hair curling at gradiated intervals, wore a gingham Victoriana shirt with high-waisted buttoned pencil skirt. I spotted that they'd been looking at a hair salon and, remembering my own current hair disaster, resolved to go and seek a haircut, despite my tummy having forced me to the bathroom 4 times during breakfast (the pineapple bought from a street stall obviously didn't react well with my American pancakes). I sauntered in and found a bustling array of hoovers, well-heeled Filipinos and some spotty Korean teenagers huffing into their i-phones. I asked if they had a free appointment. 'Free haircut?'. 'No no! I'm happy to pay for it, but I want to know if you have a time slot for me'. But turned out to be the opening day of the salon, hence my haircut was indeed free! The Korean stylists were not there, I was told- they would call them. A little girl moaned at having to have her hair cut again- her mum was a stylist and made her have a weekly change, for practice. My tummy churned as I sat and chatted to the owner, flicking though scrapbooks of boys haircuts and wishing I had naturally straight hair, or at least some trepidation at the thought that these hairdressers may have never seen anything like my birds nest and unwillingness to spend time on my appearance. I had to go, plain and simple. Trouble was, the toilet was not yet built. I could use the builders loo, said the owner. He scuttled in before me and made me wait while he cleared the yellow syrupy bowl...crossed my legs and clenched my bowls. When I could go, it was beautiful. After going, the realisation that there was no flush was NOT beautiful. Had to scrabble around in the back of the loo and finally happened upon a plastic flap that brought the welcome sound of rushing water. Phew!
Back in the salon, it turned out that the Koreans we'd seen outside were the stylists, and the guy would be cutting my hair. I asked for him to cut it short, all the same length, so my curly bits could grow out. He told me, in one or two words of English, that it would not look pretty, so I told him to do whatever he liked. He turned me into Wilma Flintstone
Nadine was less than ravished with her Rachel cut, where the guy had refused to put in layers anywhere except the front before ironing her curly crowning glory poker straight. He'd also given us headaches with his head-massage during the cold water wash (yep, still renovating the water works. I knew).