A week in Manila hampered by the rain
28th September 2005

Fly Qatar - boozy planes, dry country
Manic Manila, home of the Jeepney
The morality of the Filipino wife syndrome
VSO are in and active where others have pulled out
Sightseeing in Manila in the dry moments
More sightseeing, the Rizal Circus

Leaving England yet again - this could be the last time, I don’t know

The day did not start well, with a hang over, completely self inflicted of course. I was not feeling grand at all. With fuzzy head I tubed it to Heathrow, then sat ruing those last few wines at Fi and Alan’s the night before. Our flight was called and we toddled obediently off to boarding gate. Top! We could relax in front of the big screen showing the cricket. The whole country was praying for rain in a thoroughly unsporting way but play had resumed. I clutched at my normal wallet pocket and discovered an empty space. Oh, pooh. I hadn’t checked I’d picked it up from the pre-gate-seating seating that we’d been seated in. I blurted out to Pat that I’d left the wallet behind and while he muttered contemptuously I dashed back to try and find it. I grabbed a passport on the way past so I could get back to the gate.

After a jog, run, fast walk, run kind of a passage through the airport, I arrived in a sweaty, panting mess in front of a couple who were now installed in our ex-seats. They were somewhat aghast as this dervish ploughed under their seats and triumphantly danced around clutching her purse. The similar dash back to the departure lounge left me with a painful restriction of the chest. God, I’m so unfit. I guess running around in a hot airport while wearing a motorbike jacket was not wise. Pat seemed unsympathetic as usual and muttered about not having kept our life insurance policies up to date. I didn’t realise at first what a bad way she was in. Sorry my turtledove.

I was intrigued with the idea of flying with Qatar Airways. They had the cheapest flights and so you know that there could be no other option for Hippy and me. We’d just been on the stingiest and most disorganised airline (American Airways) and I wondered whether Islamic hospitality would be better or worse. In fact, there were drinks and snacks a-go-go, hot towels came around every couple of hours, as many films available as you could possibly crave and the food, though strangely minimally spiced, was varied and better than simply edible.

I’ll be honest that before we bought the tickets, I could not have placed Qatar on a map. I knew, kind of that it was somewhere in the Saudi area. I now know.

Doha airport, naturally, is the hub for their operations and as one might suppose from the size of the country (or is it a kingdom, principality, shahdom or something else?) most of the passengers are in transit rather than visiting Qatar itself. One might think that there would be ample provision of furniture for those waiting around for a few hours for a connection. This would be naive, but we were well organised and bagged a seat as soon as we could. Hippy was all delighted when she came back from the loo, though. For some reason she always gets excited about arabic bottom-washing facilities. Whatever. Apparently it was the warm water option that had her so chirpy.

I was also impressed by the smart crisp white cotton outfits of the well to do Arabs. I conjectured the more draped their head scarf attire, the better off they were, the arrangement didn’t look overly practical for labourers, the lower classes having it tied in a turban for more practical use. The women too, had a whole range of hair coverage, some glitter trimmed, others more of a ‘snook’ affair (do you remember those from the 80s). I was particularly interested as I know that for Iran I will have to be head covered, so I am intrigued by the different styles. Maybe the women thought me rude looking at them, trying to figure their chosen method of modest head gear. What worries me is whether I have the skills to arrange a scarf firmly enough that it doesn’t keep falling about. Personally, I am still confused about whether I should wear a scarf beneath the helmet or not. Actually the grimy condition of the inside of our helmets maybe I should make in a permanent hygienic arrangement.

It was rather fun to watch some of the obviously Islamic chaps downing as much free booze as they could. On the second flight, from Doha on to Manila, I learned that the favourite tipple of your average travelling Filipino geezer is brandy. Over the aisle from me, a group kept clamouring for brandy at every opportunity only to be told each time by the steward that the stewardess with the other trolley would bring it later. As we landed in Manila, these poor deprived chaps were still begging their first tipple of brandy and were to remain unfulfilled. I felt a bit sorry for them, really, as on the first flight, into Doha, every trolley had been sagging under the load of amber liquors.

First taste of South East Asia

Landing in Manila brought up a flood of emotions for me. Even looking out of the window as we flew down excited me. Out in the bay were all kinds of fishing nets and platforms and I could just make out a fisherman paddling along in what appeared from a couple of thousand feet to be a dugout with outrigger. Even within the confines of this sterile aluminium tube I could almost feel the sweat rolling down my skin and smell the smoke that I could see drifting up from the corrugated iron shacks that were, in parts, piled up on one another. Landing on the perfect asphalt runway and pulling up to the modern terminal was a bit of a let down. A potholed runway and an old shack would have seemed much more appropriate. I guess I really am gagging for a bit of adventure.

I, on the other hand, was feeling none of this excitement. I had not managed to shake off my inertia about setting off again added to which there was no enthusiasm for the Philippines now that we were not as intended island hopping through them. It symbolised a major cock up. I knew that the best of the Philippines was outside Manila and now without transport we would probably be stuck there for the week. On top of that is was raining.

There are some things that mark a country down as developing no matter how modern the airport may be and one of them is staffing levels. Ironic, really. One would somehow think that a rich country would be able to afford lots more folk to provide excellent in service. However, creation of employment is easy in a high value enterprise such as an airport when labour is as cheap as chips. In Manila I couldn’t progress more than 20 feet after the baggage claim without someone needing to perform an important operation or simply to ask once again for my passport.

It got worse. I had to nip up to the offices of Singapore airlines to confirm our e-ticketed flights out a week later. Their office was two floors above arrivals and necessitated passage through the departure hall. To get to the office, I had to leave the building (passport check), enter through another door (passport check), get on escalator (passport check), leave the building (passport check), enter the building by another door(passport check) and then leave my passport at reception to gain access. Of course, I had to present my passport to get my tickets. The lass behind the desk nodded sagely when I told her I’d left it at reception and accepted my driving license instead. I had to pass through all the same passport checks on the way back as if I’d changed into someone else on the way up. I was laughing when I got back but poor Hippy was a bit miffed as she’d misunderstood and thought I’d gone off to get a taxi.

I was pleased that I wouldn’t have to drive here when we left the airport and had to suffer traffic that moved fairly randomly up to a point where four lanes turned left at a set of traffic lights into three lanes. There was no parping horns and everything seemed to see everything else but I always think in situations like this that there must be some convention that is being kept secret from me. In fact, in case I fail to mention it later, this was the most random bit of motoring we saw in Manila - everywhere else may have been slow but at least seemed to stay in lanes.

Over half of the traffic is made up of Jeepneys. These are an odd creation, originally built on jeep chassis which were left behind by the americans after WWII, when the Americans colonised the place for a while. They are stretched out and have solid covered area extended to the rear of the drivers seat that house two bench seats facing each other along the line of the body. Capacity is about 14 people. Now, of course they are made on any old chassis that fits the bill which means that they can make use of efficient Japanese engines. Efficient, that is, until they are old and knackered, as indeed most of them are. The bodies are made out of either galvanised steel sheet or stainless steel which I thought extraordinarily over specified. There must be a cheap source of stainless out there somewhere.

In the city, 20 percent by volume of the traffic is made up of bicycles with two-seater sidecars. Funny how these simplest of all city centre conveyances vary so much from country to country; in some the front is chopped of a bike to be replaced with a two wheel section with seats or a loading platform, others replace the rear section with two wheels but here the sidecar is preferred. It would make perfect sense to me if it were just a bolt on section - then the bike could be returned to normal if desired, but this is a huge contraption to weld onto a BMX bike. Good thing it’s flat around here.

The traffic was chaotic, I consoled myself with thoughts that it was a good introduction to South East Asia. The traffic jostled for space on the road, each vehicle on a mission to squeeze into ever diminishing gaps. Black smoke pumped relentlessly into the polluted heavy, humid air. It felt hot, sticky and grimy. I was not sure at all that I was ready for the rigours of travelling again. The rain that muddied the street outside our guest house, was not inspiring. The dead rat that I stepped over in the street getting out of the car compounded with the pollution and damp stained exterior of the place and did nothing to enthuse me. I knocked on the steel gates of the hotel, with trepidation of the squalid horrors that may await us on the other side and with resignation that we had months of this ahead of us.

I could not have been more wrong. It was a delightful place, a haven of cleanliness. A lovely sitting area, with a fountain, glisteningly clean tiles. I was relieved. The room they had reserved for us was clean, but simple, with en suite shower - light and airy. I was tired and still suffering in the aftermath of a hang over. I was thankful for a clean bed.

Manila is a huge industrial city, and is a dichotomy of sophisticated progress and frantic developmental stagnation. The saga with the aborted importation of the bike had alerted us first hand to the thriving system of corruption that holds back so many countries. But one beacon of wholesome progress in Manila is the Metro system.

Looking a little rickety from below because of the way all concrete looks tired in humid tropical countries, the overhead transit system is in fact pretty efficient and extremely clean. Being somewhat unobservant, we hopped onto the nearest carriage as the train pulled up. The conductor seemed very organised and kept moving blokes along to create space so that female passengers wouldn’t have to be jammed in next to them. Five stops later no men had got on and the guys who had been in the carriage had mysteriously disappeared so I turned to the lady who Hips was in deep conversation with and enquired as to why that was. “That’s because this is a women only carriage.” Doh. I hadn’t expected that in the Philippines. I know that there are a high proportion of moslems on the southernmost islands but here in the city it is not so obvious and, other than that, we are led to believe that Filipinos are of easy virtue. It seems that the so-called developed world typically gives less respect to their culture than they should. I cease to be amazed by the lack of respect given by western nations.

We needed the whole range of transport to get about as the hostel was way out of the city centre on the airport road. The transit system is so brisk and incredibly cheap that being out of town was not too much of a handicap. The pollution is just about everywhere in Metro Manila, though and after an afternoon out and about your skin becomes ingrained with oily soot. Nasty. After a week, our eyes were dry and sore and we were overjoyed by the idea of moving on. Hopefully Singapore will be a deal healthier.

Hippy rightly rants about the ‘wife trade’

The Filipinos are a nation of dainty, petite people. With the women maintaining an almost prepubescent slimness (not really my bag, I’m more of a Rubens type guy) into their twenties. The number of brothels and girly bars was testament to the girls’ natural beauty, and youthful figures dooming some to a life of exploitation.

The hostel was a 75/25 mix of overweight middle aged blokes with Filipino wives/girlfriends to travellers. The travellers, as usual, chatted about all and sundry while the rather sad ‘couples of convenience’ spent pretty much silent time together. It would be very narrow minded of me to say that they lacked the social skills to ‘pull a bird in their own country’ but it certainly seemed that they enjoyed their being able to run the show. I think what seemed so unnatural about these relationships was the striking discrepancy in age and attractiveness of the couple. The men often large, and aged, and the women very young, with dainty, perfect figure. It felt slightly, pervy and sleezy. These women were pretty and young enough to have their pick of the male population. If it had been young, virile foreigners marrying the girls it would not have instinctively seemed so unbalanced.

Kristy, the hotel receptionist, who seemed to work 24 hours a day, was a delightful and cheerful girl who, despite her mere 19 years, was efficient with the maturity that comes with the responsibility that is put on the people early out of necessity in developing countries. My mind, debates the pros and cons of the rich, Western approach to youth, that protects and demands little of the young, often producing teenagers who lack responsibility and common sense; against the maturity forced on the young in developing countries. The rich countries can afford for their children to play and not have to concern themselves with contributing to the family’s survival, but in consequence many also have the time to be irresponsible and selfish. The developing countries do not have this luxury, the young do not have a carefree youth, but are often more capable young adults.

After a few days we began to chat with Kristy, and I felt enough time had passed to try and touch on the sensitive subject of so many young, pretty Filipinos marrying Americans, in the main. She whispered conspiratorially, divulging that when the couples come to stay, she often chats in Tagalog, the local lingo, with the wives, deliberately so the husbands cannot follow. And more often than not discovers that the wives tolerate their husbands but do not like them, and in most cases find them ugly, and unkind. But living in America they are able to live with more consumer goods and can send money home to their family. The husbands, often choose a Filipino because they are more willing to slot into the servile homemaking role, that many modern western women are not content with. So in Kristy’s words ‘What they want is a servant.’ I had kind of hoped that the foreigners that were snapping up nubile, Filipinos, maybe lack the social skills and confidence to compete successfully in western courtships, but were essentially kind, gentle people. Clearly, that maybe true of some, and indeed I did see one couple that seemed genuinely affectionate and caring with each other, but I fear that maybe Filipino girls make that shrewd trade off between a caring, equal relationship and money. I’m not sure how I feel about this. If the girl knows precisely what she is doing and she will be a sex-giving servant in exchange for a better financial life for her and her family, then is she being exploited? Yes, it is sad that her own happiness is of little or no importance. But she would not be the first woman, or the last, that puts her own happiness after the happiness of others. What I fear is that some may be conned by the fantasy of American films. Do the Filipino girls who enter into these arrangements with open eyes end up with a more honest deal than the people who enter conventional unhappy, Western marriages blinkered by initial ‘love’ and don’t even gain financially. The truth is that pleasure can be gained from making others happy, and even in the most ‘Westernised’ homes women do most of the domestic work either willingly or out of habit. It may also be true that some use the marriage to gain a ‘green card’ out of the arrangement and thus a permanent ticket of of the country. There is a lot of abject poverty in the Philippines and the offer of financial security for not only themselves but their family, is a rational temptation to people. Sadly, maybe for many, it is the best financial opportunity they have, to marry a fat old white guy. In the end, I felt sad that poverty makes these options a legitimate way to provide for others. As with the women in the HOTels, their situation often leaves with few choices.

This is not say that I did not see successful women in the Manila. On the Metro, women in smart business suites alluded to the openings for women. But with a lack of a free education system, children of poorer families stay at home.

We had noticed that all official signs, newspapers and magazines were in English. But people spoke a strange blend of a splattering of Spanish words, English words and 90 % Tagalog. OK the odd few words are English but it seems strange that all written text is in English rather than Tagalog. Kristy, enlightened me, the official language is English, since being an archipelago nation there are a multitude of native languages. But so many people we had meet on the streets had little or no English. Apparently, the explanation is schooling. The schools use English as the medium of instruction, but many do not attend school. So it seems that a person’s competence in English signifies not only education but may dictate their opportunities in the Philippines, with most documents and information being only given in English.

Their use of Spanish and English reflects their past. The Spanish had colonised the islands, until with the aid of the Americans they gained their ‘independence’ only to be colonised by the Americans. As with most colonialism the Americans were themselves booted out in the post-war independence boom.

The VSO bit

We called in at the VSO office to say hello and find out about the programme. We knew that we wouldn’t have time to get around and see volunteers in their placements here and so thought that a chat with the field staff would fill us in sufficiently to get an idea of the thrust here. The director, Pancho, filled us in over coffee in his office. We were overjoyed to hear that rather than pulling out of the ‘risky’ zone in the south of The Philippines, VSO has kept their volunteers in place when all other agencies have pulled out. Further, they are focusing more and more on this area which is perceived to be of greatest need.

Apparently, pretty much all other agencies have pulled out their workers, now only giving financial aid rather than skilled manpower. Certainly, the people working in the ‘danger’ zone were typically nonchalant and claimed as normal problems had been hugely exaggerated by the media.

There is little need for teachers and health workers in the Philippines although, ironically, their success in training medical staff means that their staff are poached by all and sundry rich nations. Instead, the country focus is more to do with social issues - inclusion of the handicapped, rehabilitation of traumatised folk and the like.

VSO has a volunteering wing which we’ve mentioned before which redistributes skills between less developed countries, formerly called South to South - I believe the name might have changed but the theory stays the same. We’d met a Filipino doctor in Malawi along with a Kenyan vet so we know that the system is working. There is a bit of a downside, though, and that is that there is a temptation for, taking the Philippines as an example, doctors to prefer to volunteer to work in other countries rather than fill the unpopular posts within their own country. I can see their point to a degree. In terms of career progression, one may be better off working in a large hospital in a foreign country with a variety of specialists with whom to touch base than to be lancing boils in a stand-alone clinic in the middle of nowhere. And so there is another scheme afoot which is in-country volunteering. I’m not sure exactly how this works given that VSO generally offers an allowance calculated to be about the salary of a qualified teacher and accommodation. This is paid for by the government/local authority. Surely if this can be provided for a volunteer, it can be provided as a salary for a local employee in the normal way. I need a bit more input on this scheme.

Wot we did in the Philippines - not a lot

Three days of solid rain, did nothing to motivate us to see the sights of Manila. We used the down time to catch up, on a much belated lot of web site stuff and me to do some darning. The darning fascinated Kristy, she stood watching me over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure what aspect of my activity was so enthralling was it the fact that she had never seen a Westerner mend anything and was surprised. She said she didn’t know how to sew. Somehow, I thought that strange. I had imagined that it would be something that people knew when money was tight, or is that tailoring is so inexpensive that it would be ridiculous to bother to do it yourself. It is true that clothes are very cheap in the Philippines, so her comments about why don’t you just buy new ones, may have been valid.

Eventually, when the sun broke through, and we took the opportunity to prove the guide books wrong and find something of tourist interest in Manila. There was the old town, museums, the park. The old town, Intramuros, built in Spanish colonial times, and blitzed in the second world war by both the Japanese and Americans, had recently had some money spent on it, to restore to a little of it’s former glory. It had been a walled city, with garrison points in appropriate vantage points on the perimeter. On the far side of it had been a moat, for further protection. The Manilans had been delightfully enterprising. What do you do with a disused moat, to stop it becoming a nasty mosquito breeding, litter collecting cesspool.

Come on now, haven’t you guessed yet? Maybe a boating lake, fill it in and make a park. No, better than that - a golf course. When the moat was filled the ground was uneven, perfect for bunkers, the water can be channelling to make water obstacles. I am not an expert on golfing by any means, but as far as I am aware it is the only such golf course in the world.

Inside the walls, was a memorial park to a guy called Rizal. A local educated in Europe, became a poet and doctor, who fought to boot out the Spanish. It was a meeting point for young Manilans, courting and generally hanging about. A group of lads gathered around. To start with I couldn’t fathom what was of such intrigue, until I saw a shuttlecock rising and falling in the centre of the bunch. It was keepy-uppy shuttlecock style.

The renovated areas of Intramuros, gave glimpses of what the place must have been. There is an up and coming trendy high rise area of town with smart restaurants and designer clothes stores. It had a level of sophistication that we had led to think was absent in Manila.

We were having trouble acclimatising to the humidity and heat, we were feeling lethargic, we had to will ourselves to get off to Rizal Park on the Sunday. Firstly, we knew we had made the right decision when the museum turned out to be free on Sundays. We had hoped to get some clarification of when, who did what to whom in the history of the Philippines, we were still a little confused about why exactly America was so interested in the Philippines etc. We came away none the wiser, but were very well informed about the native cultures of the Philippines whose traditions were distinct from those developing on mainland Asia.

Park Life

But the real highlight of the day was in Rizal Park. It itself is nothing all that fantastic, but the activities in it were a joy to watch. People met to perform and practice martial arts, to juggle Tom Cruise Cocktail style, to learn acrobatics. It seemed free and open to all comers, to watch or participate. Like the six year old girls in girly spangly outfits playing around trying to emulate the actions of the kung fu-ers.

Our personal favourite was a tiny guy instructing the acrobats. He was about 4ft 6in, bald apart from a wee tuft in the middle of his head arranged pineapple style, and a smile that engulfed his face. He was a pocket dynamo, and a person that oozed assertive control. His instructions threw in Spanish and English randomly. ‘Adelante - one, atras - two, three’ Then a bunch of stuff I didn’t understand, then the odd word in Spanish again. He was a joy to watch, humorous, firm and assertive. He moved so fast demonstrating his routines that in the fading light we failed unfortunately, to capture a quality likeness of him. But my memory will never forget that beaming smile of his.

The smells of roasted garlic and frying coconut oil fill air everywhere in Manila. Little stalls fry peanuts in chillies and garlic producing a rather potent snack. Lechon-erias have roasted pigs invitingly sitting in front advertising their wares. The other lasting memories we take away with us from our short stay in this archipelago is karaoke. It’s everywhere, and as far as we could tell, it was a prerequisite to sing very loud and completely out of tune. It was so bad, that I wasn’t sure whether it was all rather tongue in cheek. And people’s smiles, these people are a very friendly people, who are almost naive in their openness. Our guide book advised that laughing at a poor performance would cause huge offence closely followed by a good kicking. We smiled politely.

It is a shame, we did not do justice to the richness of the Philippines. Maybe one day we will return. Perhaps when we have a bike that is less than 5 years old.