The Philippines Experiment, Track Three

If you know who I am or have been reading this blog, you are probably aware that I spent two and half years of my life living in the Philippines. Now I'm back, and I'm going to attempt to chronicle the entire experience as best as my vague recollection allows.

Talking Heads - This Must be the Place (Naive Melody)

At some point, we all become perturbed by the fact that today will be the youngest we will ever be. I think “quarter-life crisis” is the proper designation for such realization, and the textbook reaction recommended by psychologists and Roman lyric poets is to seize the day, to abide by the mantra carpe diem. Remember, I embarked on this new journey goal-oriented; the intention was to secure a lucrative job first, worry about social life later. But since my ego was being stroked by every human resource officer I encountered, and because I realized that the money I set aside can actually support me for a long period of time if rationed correctly, I figured that a nine-to-five can wait. I can contribute to society some other time. Instead, I braced myself for some heavy-duty day seizing.


I chose to stay in my hometown Olongapo City, primarily because my grandmother’s house was vacated and I can have a roof over my head without paying rent. But due to Olongapo’s small land area, the nightlife options are slim. You can either: (1) watch a live band that constantly plays Top 40 hits and late 90’s post-grunge music, (2) go to clubs with DJ’s that spin the same set of hard house and techno songs every night, (3) go to a hip-hop club that people have judged to be for the “lower class” (*), (4) sing karaoke, or (5) watch some pretty ladies (or men, if that’s your type of thing) take off their clothes (**).

(*) The gap between social classes in the Philippines is no more prevalent than in the way party people view the hip-hop club called Gigolo. The upper-crusters would not step foot in the club, other than to do so ironically. They feel like they’ve already graduated from that embarrassing phase of their life, and, on top of that, girls don’t want to go there because they don’t want to get hit on by wannabe gangstas and juvenile jejemons. The lower class only hangs out in Gigolo because they feel out of place anywhere else. Moreover, guys who frequent the club don’t go anywhere else because they feel that the girls elsewhere are unattainable. I personally love the spot because it’s the only legit hip-hop club in Olongapo, but I could NOT get anyone to go with me there.

(**) Adam Carolla made a comment about the Philippines earlier this year that “they got [Pacquiao] and sex tours, that's all they have over there.” I would be angrier if I didn’t think that there’s some truth to the statement. Although it’s not as bad as countries like Thailand or the Netherlands, prostitution in the Philippines is ridiculously widespread, more so in my city seeing that it was once adjacent to an American Naval Base. In strip clubs and some karaoke bars, you can hire a “G.R.O.” or a “guest relations officer” to “accompany” you in your table. It’s straight out of the “Big Spender” sequence from Sweet Charity. At first, you are required to buy her a drink that costs five times more than normal (think of this as her fee). Naturally, in order to make more money, she coerces you to buy her more drinks, and some accomplish the task by any means necessary. The more earnest G.R.O.’s are open to the possibility of a “take-home business agreement”, if you know what I mean. Me? I’m proud to say that I have never paid for the nookie; it’s not how I roll.

The most enticing element of this nocturnal lifestyle I’ve chosen was the fact that beer was ridiculously inexpensive. On average, a bottle of beer in Olongapo costs 45 php (approx $1.00 Canadian). I don’t classify myself as a heavy drinker; four or five usually inebriates me effectively. Thus, in theory, if I were to go out everyday of the week (which I did in many occasions), the most I would spend is $35. That’s more or less a standard budget for a Friday night in Edmonton. However, to quote the Hall-of-Fame Yankee catcher Yogi Berra: "In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. But, in practice, there is."

If you’re not familiar with the Tagalog term balikbayan, it literally translates into “come back to his/her home country”. A balikbayan is a Filipino living or working outside of the Philippines who returns for vacation. On nights out, they are also responsible for picking up the bill, which is normally pardonable since, I’m assuming, the average Filipino who emigrated from the motherland usually makes more money than 75% of the Philippines population. Technically, I didn’t qualify as a balikbayan because I wasn’t actually on vacation; but I guess someone needed to explain that to the people around me. I didn’t mind allocating a few drinks to a couple of my relatives and some close friends, but it becomes exasperating once I’m expected to give out drinks to their closest friends and their closest friends’ closest friends. I guess it’s my fault; I did mention that I wanted to meet more people because I only knew my cousins and a couple of people at the time, I never specified how many friends my cousins can invite, and I’m too nice to forthrightly speak up when it’s time to divide up the check.

Honestly, I didn’t care as long as everyone were having fun. Besides, I don’t think any of my tabs exceeded 3000 php ($75) anyway, and that’s with a crowd of 25 freeloaders on the rowdiest Saturday night. I aspired to network in order to develop my address book, which can help me both socially and professionally, and if I had to buy alcohol in droves for that to happen, I suppose it’s a small price to pay. Having said that, at times I felt like I was being swindled. One of my cousins seemed like he invited me only during the nights when he needed a financier. My other cousin indicated that he was going to introduce me to a girl, who turned out to be a paramour he was banging on the side. I ended up being the fifth wheel, spending the night with the two lovebirds and a friend who was also in a secret relationship with the girl’s sister. It goes without saying that I had to take care of the check. What can I do? The only people I knew in the Philippines were these nincompoops and their friends. (***)

(***) For what it’s worth, I do want to thank the guys who did want to pitch in every now and then during my first few months there. Undeterred by rough times, they were still willing to give up a percentage of their paycheck or allowance just to be courteous. My cousin Ace gets a proper big-up in this sidebar, who tried to slyly slip his contribution under the table every single time we were out together. Even when I refused it for a couple of months (I accepted it later on when I worried that my budget’s decline was a little too steep), he never got spoiled by the free beers like the others did. I’ll forever appreciate it with all my heart.

Oh, and there are girls in the Philippines! I came in single and ready to mingle, but I have to speak the truth: I’m not the biggest ladies man around, and I’m usually not the type to approach women and strike up conversations and grab digits, but I feel that once I’m given an introduction by a mutual acquaintance, I can do well for myself. I also had two things going for me: (1) the average height of Filipinas is 4' 11.8" according to WikiAnswers, and (2) I’m from Canada, the True North strong and free! The former I took advantage like a tennis player winning a point after deuce; I loved how my 5’5” stature towered over most girls. The latter I wanted to keep hidden. Don’t get me wrong, I’m never ashamed of being a canuck, it’s just that I don’t want that to be the only reason why they wanted to get with me.

Don’t hate me for this, women of the Philippines, but most of you can’t argue with me on this one. Some see foreigners—that includes me, a Canadian citizen—as a ticket out of the country, and because of how substandard the living conditions are, it’s actually a reasonable strategy. Love can’t put food on the table, it can’t put a roof over your head. I’m not even singling out the girls that go clubbing every night; girls with degrees, girls with professional jobs, girls who have satisfactory upbringing are guilty of this too. Once girls found out that I’m a Canadian citizen, they were instantly (and suspiciously) captivated by me. The worst are the moms who are friends with my aunts: “you’re from Canada?...you have to date my daughter…she’s an accounting graduate with honors…here’s her number…I’ll tell her that you’ll text her tonight...when are you going back to Canada?” And then when you don’t contact their daughter, they give you the stink eye the next time you see them. Is it fair to call me stupid for not exploiting this situation? Sure, it is. I guess I just want to be ethical whenever I do my thing. If I’m dumb for not being a douche, so be it. Also, when you can see right through their motives, it was such a turn-off.

I have to say, impressing people during the first month was a tad arduous, mainly due to my ineptitude to convert my sense of humor in Tagalog. A girl told me once that I had no personality because I was so quiet. I also didn’t want to have a conversation in English because I always found it ostentatious when people are alert to your fluency in the native tongue, and you still choose to not speak it. After time, it got better; I stopped translating words in my head and I just said whatever it was that popped in my mind. Amidst the overspending, the shady females, and massive intoxication, I did meet a lot of fascinating people and had countless amounts of enjoyment. I wish I could’ve shared the experience with my friends in Edmonton, downing beer with 15% alcohol content, chowing down appetizers such as deep fried pig ears and nachos with mayonnaise, taking a drunken jeepney ride home at six in the morning, and doing it all over again the next night.