I stumbled across this NanoWriMo (click here) yearly writing contest entry (from November of last year). I never finished the story – but the beginning reveals some interesting (and true) perceptions of my early life in the Philippines. Anyway, it was hiding in some dark corner of my hard drive. It’s relatively recent – but it seems like years. Since I had to re-start my website from scratch, I’m including it here, for posterity…
(by they way – please keep in mind that this was to be a work of horror fiction – you’ll need to pick out the elements of truth from the addition of the more sensationalist elements of the story)
Chapter 1 excerpt : (Part One)
First of all, I would like to preface this story by stating that the events contained within are absolutely true with just a few minor changes to names and locales – for obvious reasons. I currently find myself in an odd situation. Every year in recent times, I write for an event that requires a minimum of 50,000 words written in the space of one month. A daunting challenge, indeed. However, this year, my task is a little easier. The time of this event, through an act of providence, coincides with a set of circumstances that recently occurred in my new place of residence, which is located in the Philippines. The events that I am going to relate in this story have not been told to my family, back in the United States, nor have they been published in my blog. When you read this narrative in its’ entirety, you’ll understand why.
It was the kind of hot that you don’t see too often in the United States. Sure, you have places that mimic the tropics. Most notably southern Florida with its’ tropical vegetation and proliferation of charming creatures such as alligators and black vultures circling the local hospitals as they smell the dead and dying. Yes, Florida came close – but it just wasn’t the same. Maybe it was the landscape. You had poverty in southern Florida, for sure. Drastic contrasts between the spoiled, hot, irritable tourists in Orlando headed for the illusive pleasures of an expensive Disney World holiday and the poor locals who tried to feed off them. But here, in Manila, you had the kind of poverty that only a third world country can provide.
The heat radiated not only from the sun, but from the downtrodden despair of people who had reached a level of molasses-like survival. You could see them sleeping in places that would make the average American recoil in horror. Filth, insects, disease, deformity and naked children crowding streets polluted by the choking stench of unregulated motor vehicles spewing carbon monoxide like gas rising from a swamp. Young schoolgirls in green and white uniforms holding handkerchiefs against their noses and mouths in a vain attempt to preserve their health – or maybe it was just the smell they were trying to avoid. The poverty would seem odd to the typical American. There was hunger, to be sure. But there was an amazing abundance of food everywhere – in the market places, being served in little eateries that dotted the streets and peddled by strolling street merchants. It was just that it was usually the type of food that an American might not wish to partake of. But, you have to remember, this was a tropical environment. The big giveaway was the odd number of stray cats, dogs and even roosters and chickens that one could see roaming about. No one was eating those – which said something. I’m sure there are many places in the world when the local stray wildlife is non-existent.
I arrived here a mere five months ago and had yet to learn the strange local language called Tagalog. Everyone I run into keeps asking if I can speak Tagalog. I never tell them what my true answers are. First of all, it’s not my top priority and it would take me more than five months to learn a non- Latin based language. My next answer would be “Why?” The language of success here is English and the natives try their best to learn it. It’s even the language used officially in business and government matters. The oddest thing is to see a Filipino TV show and hear how they insert whole phrases of English mixed in with their native Tagalog. It’s actually quite disorienting. Learning a simplistic, island-based language that is useless beyond the Philippines is just not number one on my list just now. Survival is.
Since, I’m an American, I get a lot of curious stares. There are few Americans here, now, since the U.S. Navy is no longer present and The Philippines is now an independent country. If you see an American, it’s usually near the U.S. Embassy or with their local wives in the outlying provinces. Certainly not on the outskirts of Pasig City, which is part of the conglomerate called Metro Manila. Here, you will find a variety of housing arrangements. You could see comically ornate mini-mansions that seemed to be designed by a deranged architect with no concept of symmetry. Right next door to that monstrous structure, you could see humble apartments and smaller houses. Not far away one can see rows of hobbled together shacks with no electricity or running water. Next to those, you might see families living in what amounted to little more than tin sheds where the wife might be seen cooking outside on an open fire while the unemployed husband hauls drinking water in a bucket from a unnamed source. All of this within the radius of a couple of blocks. I live in one of the humble apartments which makes me rather fortunate.
I find myself hailing a tricycle on the main street which is just outside my sub-division of housing. Allow me to explain. Transportation in Manila is, on the surface, simple, yet deceptively complex. There are five main modes of public transportation. The first and lowest level is the Jeepney.
This consists of an open air small bus the resembles a jeep that has been somehow converted and stretched to accommodate about twenty people. The cost is cheap. Around ten pesos which amounts to just under twenty five cents American. I have yet to figure this type of transportation out since it seems to rely on one understanding such things as only a local or long term resident might. I’m not all that interested in it, either – because it looks extremely hot and uncomfortable. It’s the mode of choice, though for students and the less affluent. The second mode is known as the FX which really stands for the Toyota Tamaraw FX type SUV which is common everywhere.
These make pre-determined runs – usually from a shopping mall to a central point in town such as a market place. They are air-conditioned (more or less depending on the condition of the vehicle) and are quite affordable. The only hitch is that they are usually crowded with 10 people squeezed in like sardines. The price is a low twenty five pesos which is just over fifty cents American. For a half hour ride from one end of the route to the other, it’s a very good deal in my opinion. You just have to remember to yell “Para” (Tagalog for “stop” when you need to get off. In this manner, the trip is rather personalized for each passenger. Quite accommodating, actually. Next up are the ubiquitous “tricycles”. These are basically small engine motorcycles (between 100 and 175 cc) with enclosed sidecars attached.
This can be relatively expensive unless you are willing (or fortunate enough) to have other passengers crammed in with you and/or riding on the back of the motorcycle. If not, the trip will cost anywhere from thirty to fifty pesos. Now, fifty pesos (a little over a dollar) might not seem like a lot for the distance traveled – but remember where we are. Next, we have the standard bus. These, I’m not familiar with since my routes, up to this point, have not involved this form of transportation. Those I have spoken with have told me that it’s reasonable affordable and only somewhat frightening. It seems that the unregistered ones are in poor repair and all are frequently driven psychotically by maniacs who are in competition for fares. Finally, we have the standard taxicab that an American would recognize. Almost. There are two major differences here. One – they are quite cheap compared to a taxi in the U.S. A forty minute trip would run about one hundred pesos (just over two dollars). The second difference is that since the drivers run long shifts and practically live in their cabs, they can sometimes be far from home and unfamiliar with the locale they happen to be driving in, at the moment. Hence, you can find yourself in a taxi where the driver has no idea where he’s going. There have been many occasions when I have been in a taxi and had to figure out where I was so I could direct the driver. Try that in a foreign country when you’ve just arrived. The main problem with being a new arrival in a foreign country is that your surroundings will seem quite alien and unrecognizable to you. It’s easy to get turned around. Especially in a congested Asian city. I’m better at it now, though. Did I mention that tricycle drivers also try to get as much fare from you as possible? This is true especially when they think you are a “rich American” – which I certainly am not. Now, it’s easy for me to judge the distance I have traveled, hand them the exact fare and there are no longer any arguments. I tell you all this because transportation figures greatly in my story. One that starts out as an adventure in unfamiliar surroundings and ends in vortex of horror that is unimaginable to the average person – or anyone else, for that matter.