For a Filipino local, life in Philippines is likely an unremarkable existence.
For a White man trying to respectfully make his way in this Third World land, the adopted lifestyle is anything but unremarkable.
Butuan was nice, reminded me of my dream province in Vietnam and, just like Buon Ma Thuot, I would have happily made it my (other) home; all I needed was assurance that the woman for whom I had come to Philippines was worth it.
I was aware she had heard it before but, even before we arrived back from the airport, I was compelled to go over my ‘rules’ (in context, of course): “As you know, I like simple … I do not tolerate lies … Small lies, big lies, they’re all the same to me because, when you lie to me, It means you don’t respect me and, if you don’t respect me, small lies will always become big lies, then you need to lies more to cover the lies, then nothing makes sense, you lose sight of reality, you contradict yourself because you forget what lies you’ve already told me… Lies complicate and unnecessary complications piss me off … I like simple, I like real … Be honest, be genuine, tell me anything you want, no matter how bad and, providing it’s the truth, I will assess it and I will accept it … Tell me lies and I’m gone … Treat me well, don’t ever lie to me, I will treat you very well.”
“Okay,” she said dreamily. “Yeah, I hate lies too.”
That was her first lie.
First thing I noticed, amid this inexpensive rural settling, was how much money I was spending on my travel partner. I could live comfortably, even eating out twice a day (the expensive hotel room she had encouraged me to rent provided breakfast), living a peaceful existence on around 500 Pesos – she would easily burn through over twice that, not including the hotel for which I had already paid. Of course, I had no problem spending money on a lady but, it occurred to me, the way she was behaving once I arrived – now – was not even a little bit how she would have been behaving before I arrived. This troubled me; I was there, with her, to sample the beauty of Philippines life, we were doing none of what she had previously said we would do – beaches, snorkelling, hiking – although she was certainly making the most of my time there – hair done, nails done, clothes, makeup – which, again, fine, I had time to myself, this was my preference. What I could not suffer, though, was when we would meet up again, she would barely speak to me, other than to demand more money.
It took two days to realise the 33-year-old woman from Butuan was not my destiny.
Next day, she was busy all day; I used my further alone time to book flights to and accommodation in Cebu.
Day after that, seemingly courtesy of an implicit compounding effect in her own mind, she had not a pleasant word to say; we breakfasted together but she refused to come for a swim afterwards. Her words, as she stormed off, seemingly annoyed at herself for being too lazy to be any better, “Oh, why don’t you just leave … Go to Cebu! (For the record, there was no way she had knowledge of my planned trip to Cebu; I had heard this before, anyway, whenever she was frustrated – ‘Just leave … Go to Cebu!’ – this was just how she ended most of her personally inspired disagreements with me.)
Next time I saw her I told her, “Right, you’ll be pleased, going to Cebu tomorrow.”
“What?” She actually looked surprised. “Why?”
“Remember ‘Be good to me and I’ll treat you well’? Yeah, well, I feel as though I’ve treated you pretty well and, basically, you’ve been treating me like a piece of shit with money.”
From what I’ve seen, Filipinos (‘not all Filipino people’) are an opportunistic bunch (‘sorry, not all, just most, many’) who, when faced with a White man, seem to become overawed by avarice; their focus becomes attempting to screw as much money in one hit as they can out of the ‘idiot American’.
The ‘White Man Tax’, extra cost placed upon any item the Filipino vendor believes the White man is stupid enough to pay – fruit, vegetables, other takeaway food, barbershop, hardware, anything – ‘taxation’ attempts of the aforementioned happened to me continually during the month of January, through February, onto March, until these vendors started to realise for themselves what I was always sure to tell them before leaving in empty-handed disgust never to return: “I am going to be here for a long time, my repeat custom would have served you much better than a one-time score.”
“No English.”
Article by Tim Walker
Edited by Wyatt Mon Tacks
Photography by Phil Upeen Marketing