Manila, Mindoro, Manila - Part Three (of Six)
But it’s fucking pathological here.
Previously: Her name is Ate Dora. Spelled A-t-e, but pronounced like that: Ah-tay. It’s an honorific, it means older sister. She’s been my primary support here, helped me make all my connections, set me up with all the women I’ve interviewed.
They left Andrea’s apartment at a little after five-thirty that evening, Matt having gone back to bed after breakfast, fallen asleep, and dreamt about a leaky pipe that couldn’t be fixed, raw sewage dripping onto his arms and face as he worked. Though the sun was lower in the sky, the temperature had not dropped, the city was hanging onto all of the heat of the day — from the sun, from the cars, from the people — and was unwilling or unable to let any of it go. The heat was taking up space.
How long is the walk?
Not even half a mile.
I might die.
It will be cooler by the bay.
This was false. When they got to the bay, it was no different. There was not a breeze to be felt. The water was as still and flat as a putting green.
I’m assuming people don’t swim here.
People shouldn’t swim here. I’m not even sure it’s safe to look at directly. But people do. Swim, I mean. And fish.
I can’t believe anything can even live in there.
Maybe nothing can. Maybe people just do it because that’s what you do when you’re next to water. Most people in most times and in most places, when they live next to water, they grab a pole, or net, head down to the shore and fish. For 99.99% of human history that would be appropriate behavior, maybe people who fish the bay just want to feel normal.
They sat side by side on a knee wall as they watched the sun drop and turn red. Andrea leaned her head on Matt Lang’s shoulder. He liked it in spite of the humidity. A small boy ran up to him, lightly touched him on the arm and then ran away as his friends laughed from behind a small tree. A vender wheeled a cart down the sidewalk.
The vender was silent, his wares a mystery. Maybe he was on his way home, maybe he was exhausted. Another couple took a seat on the wall a few yards away. For no good reason, Matt Lang thought they were German. The man said something and the woman gave a loud and deep laugh. Matt Lang and Andrea got up to leave but a woman blocked their way. She had spider web thin hair, only a few teeth, and on her cheek was a mole so large it nearly pinched her eye shut. She hiked up her dress to show legs covered with days of Manila soot, and took an ample, pungent piss.
At the table at a restaurant at the end of a pier, Matt Lang could catch the slightest hint of a breeze. He leaned back and tried to absorb as much as he could. He sat with his back to the bay, looking back at the city. Roxas Boulevard stretched to his right. Lined with palm trees and hotels, lit with neon lights, from his seat it looked Miami-elegant. It helped that he’d had three beers.
It’s so weird you live here.
Well, I’ve only been here for a few months. I don’t really live here.
No, you live here. I mean, you knew how to get me from the airport, you know how to go out and get lunch, you have friends stop by for breakfast, you have favorite restaurants. You live here.
I know a few places in a giant city. If I leave this little neighborhood, I’m fucked, helpless as a little child.
The waiter came and patiently stood by their table, pen held to pad, ready to take their order. He did not speak until Andrea looked up to order. After the waiter left, Matt Lang asked Andrea how long she thought he would have stood there.
Hard to say.
So polite.
Polite to a fault.
A fault?
I mean, they fall all over themselves to make sure tourists are happy, meanwhile, their own lives are a mess and the country is falling apart.
That’s not that bad, though, right? I mean, it’s nice to be nice.
But it’s fucking pathological here. It’s beyond being nice and polite, it’s a real inferiority complex. It’s like they think they deserve to be shit on. I heard one guy say, with all seriousness, that what Filipinos eat for dinner, we in America feed to our dogs. He really, in his heart, believed this.
Matt Lang had a hard time focusing on the conversation. At another restaurant, at an adjacent pier, a band was playing The Flame by Cheap Trick. The lead singer’s take on Robin Zander was betrayed by only the slightest trace of an accent.
Is the food here bad or something?
No, it’s fine. Most of it is delicious. Wait until you taste this tuna that’s coming. Out of the fucking world. But most people here just can’t believe that they have anything worthwhile.
What about your friend? Dora, was it?
Yeah, Dora. She’s different. She’s in the minority. She’s a hardcore activist. She’s been at it since Marcos was in power. No, she doesn’t think she’s inferior. Maybe closer to the opposite. Most of the time I think she just wants me to go home. Yankee go home. The rest of the time, she’s glad I’m here listening to the stories.
The waiter brought their food, the lead singer nailed the key change, and Matt Lang took a bite of tuna. It was the best fish he’d ever tasted.
Thank you for reading. Up next:
In the morning they went to Mindoro to spend two days on the beach.