Philippines Stories

When I get stressed out with the pressures of life in the west, I yearn for the simple life of a Philippine paradise. But is it, in the words of Omar Khayyam, 'paradise enow?'

One night I ask Mr. Gumbo where to rent a motorcycle for the day. Exuberant in his desire to cater to all my whims and needs he promises to take care of this matter for me. And indeed, walking the crumbling winding staircase from my room down to the breakfast area early the following morning a 110cc Honda with off-road tires is already waiting for me.

The sun in shining, the birds are chirping, it's a new day in paradise. Well, perhaps not quite paradise, for this is the rural Philippines.

“Akulka, may I please ask you something else?” she inquired politely for the umpteenth time within the past twenty minutes, her eyes yet consistently glaring with seemingly insatiable curiosity. I’m thinking she knows very well I won’t turn her request down. Too intrigued am I by this inquisitive little girl’s wits and her thirst for knowledge.

George claims he is only 34 years old, but looks at least five years older. He is my designated tricycle driver for the afternoon. I picked him because he spoke reasonably fluent English, not always a matter of course with tricycle drivers in the provincial Philippines. He appears to be a cheerful guy to boot, eager to impress with his knowledge of typical quirks of the local populace, worthwhile sites of interest for the ambitious traveler, and his sophistication of spoken English. The latter he soon takes advantage of to share with me his woeful story.

The first thing I notice is how exceptionally pretty she is. Actually she doesn’t look like your average Filipina at all. Her facial features remind me of an Italian girl I once had the pleasure to spend some quality time with years ago. Despite this she still has a very distinctively Asian look about her. One could say she combines the best of both worlds.

Filipina grad student beguiles widowed American.

Another poem inspired by Charles Bukowski.

Last week I wrote about my meeting with a cherry girl called Jenelyn. I also wrote this poem about her based on Keats’ Ode on Grecian Urn – a Cherry Girl and a Grecian Urn are about as different as you can get – yet somehow my poem ends up with the same message.

'Cherry Girl' is AC-speak for virgin. Generally speaking, they are not up for it unless you are their Mr Right, or prepared to pay large sums of pesos - neither of which apply to me - so why bother paying the barfine?

Needs be to remembered that in the Philippines there is no morality. At all. No sense of right or wrong. At all. No sense of property. At all.

Resident in the Philippines for two years, I relished it’s magnificent Islands, treasured it’s warm friendly playmates. Miss it still, if the truth is told.

I sit in red silk shorts dreaming of another land, kingdom of the bums and rogues who ride the filthy sea dropping dynamite bombs on luckless fishes, riding the national highway in perverted US Army jeeps, killing and consuming shitty dogs.

“Actually the locals call me the Fucking Fox!” Victor adds visibly proud. That title stems from the time before I got married and used to live and share my bed with all my five female employees. Ah, memories…”

“Why don’t you do as Tahira and chat to five fat dudes from Scandinavia simultaneously while at the same time playing solitaire on the second screen and clipping your toe nails with your free hand?”, I ask her tongue-in-cheek while glancing over at Tahira who now suddenly looks extra cute with her face blushing slightly in reaction to my comment.