Muddled and Misshapen in Manila
By Joel Katz
“Eeeeeeeeee… KarBOOM!”, and another inner-ear bursting explosion goes off nearby - my knees start shaking uncontrollably. As we cough and splutter on our rooftop terrace, the noise of laughing, screaming kids and stereos blasting the latest American hip-hop from the alleyways below, reminds us that this isn’t a conflict-ridden hotspot, but just another firecracker-free-for-all Saturday night in the working class suburbs of North-eastern Manila.
Speaking candidly, I never really expected to find myself – an Aussie-Canadian of Jewish descent and delicate bowels – spending time inside the ghettos of Manila, but here I am starring in my own Filipinoised version of ‘Meet the Parents’...
But instead of facing a waspy white-bread-eating family headed by De Niro’s menacing and humourless father, I’m meeting a clan of karaoke-crazy, fried-chicken chomping, bawdy insult-flinging Filipinos.
Born in the Philippines, my girlfriend moved to Australia when she was a kid, and we’ve joined her parents on this family reunion of sorts. Sure, the allusion to the Byrne family in the Stiller blockbuster might be extreme, but I’m a bumbling incompetent, and there’s probably no place on earth where a Jewish guy might feel more out of place than in one of the world’s most devoutly Catholic countries.
Will I, like Stiller’s Gaylord Fokker, discover some deep truths about my girlfriend’s strange and exotic family, and maybe my girlfriend too?
Who knows? But I’m sure to have many adventures over the next three weeks.
With fireworks exploding around our ears, some neighbours have gathered on the street below, so we make our way downstairs to join the festive crowd.
Scurrying down the top flight of stairs of the tall and thin family residence, I slip across the second level’s frictionless tiled floor careening past the life-sized poly-resin statue of infant Jesus, dressed, incongruously, in camouflage army fatigues. His large, soft-blue glass eyes follow me imploringly, as I swivel around the balustrade.
He seems to be reaching out to me as I bound down the lower stair case, a Hello Kitty keychain and assorted trinkets dangling from his outstretched hand.
“Join the fold, oh heathen”, he whispers.
I forget that I’m a non-believer momentarily until I slide, like an iceberg-luging penguin, across the tiles of the ground floor and pass under an enormous, puffy wall-hanging of ‘The Last Supper’.
Outside, the narrow streets seem to be ruled by the cast of ‘Lord of the Flies’ as scores of kids set off homemade firecrackers while others break dance to some ‘Phat’ rap beats.
Wait a sec, is this South-central LA, or Manila?
Turns out there’s not much difference, I realise, as a conga-line of pint-sized Southeast Asian ‘homies’ ‘hip-hop’ by me like krumping kangaroos, drowning in their baggy white shorts and over-sized Chicago Bulls basketball singlets.
We decide to get something to eat, so we make our way to the monstrous Mall of Asia, the third largest shopping complex in the world, located near the international airport in Manila’s southern suburbs.
Setting off on the long journey, we hop on one of the famous Filipino jeepneys - pimped out jeeps with extended carriage space in the rear for passengers. Other jeepneys weave around us like a school of metallic, smoke-belching sharks, splashed with gaudy colours and intricate art works of Jesus, Elvis and Bart Simpson.
“Bayad!” blurts the guy next to me, as he dumps a handful of peso coins into my sweaty palms. “Sweet”, I think, pocketing the change, amazed at the generosity of the toothless, shoeless little old guy jammed under my armpit.
Gloating at my new found wealth my mortified girlfriend quickly explains that “bayad” means “Fare, driver”, not “Take my life savings, kind foreigner”, so I reluctantly fish it out of my baggy shorts pocket and pass it on.
The jeepneys stops at Divisoria, a bustling and chaotic local market where shoppers ascend to heaven, and we dive headlong into the teaming masses and snaffle some incredible bargains, including some super-fly trainers, designer jeans and DVDs, all dirt cheap, and as fake as Paris Hilton’s smile.
Afterwards we jump onto a local bus, and continue our trip to the super mall. Crawling along at a snail’s pace, fresh-faced Tita Espie (aunties are called Tita) points to an official notice glued above our heads in bold lettering, translating it from Tagalog.
“Mistresses of the employees of this bus company are prohibited from riding on this vehicle”, she explains, vigorously nodding her head in agreement, and simultaneously trying not to gag on the putrescent mix of stank wafting into the bus from the open sewers.
“Why don’t the rivals set up a bus fleet for the mistresses”, I respond cheerfully, and Tita Espie’s previously invisible husband bursts into laughter, slapping me on the back.
“Why’s he suddenly treating me like his poker-playing buddy?” I whisper to my girlfriend, as he sits guffawing behind me. Meanwhile Tita Espie stares grimly out the window at the road-side slums, splashed yellow, black and red, the colours of a local cola brand.
My beloved quietly explains that he’d cheated on his wife with five different women, and apparently he was impressed by my pathetic remark.
From that point on I was his new best friend, and Tita Espie ignored me completely.
Finally we reach the mammoth mall, bail out of the bus. Pushing past the throngs, we shun the mall’s internal tram system, making our way by foot to the expansive restaurant precinct. My girlfriend’s entire extended family trail behind us as we look for a suitable eating venue.
Hmm… ‘Shakey’s’ has great fried chicken, but can it beat ‘Max’s: The House that Fried Chicken Built’?
We shuffle past Yellow Cab Pizza, Greenwich Pizza, Subway, Pizza Hut, Burger Machine, Zagoos, Chowking, Dunkin’ Donuts and Goldilocks, but no-one can select from any of these high-class eateries.
“I wanna eat at Jolibee!” shouts AJ, my girlfriend’s super-cute but acerbic and diabetes-bound five year old cousin.
Seeing the Jolibee mascot is a trip in itself: like a red shiny morphing of a Teletubby and a bumblebee. Just walk into one of these fast-food joints and your arteries harden, as you squeeze in-between the sea of plastic tables and chairs.
Thousands of bento box styrofoam trays litter the tabletops, filled with scrumptious items like the Spicy Chickenjoy - apparently both Crispylicious and Jucylicious - and an unidentifiable object smothered in pink mayonnaise goop dubbed the Double Cheesy Bacon Yum Burger; all as glossy and artificial looking as the giant, cheerful fibreglass mascot spruiking out in front.
As we make our way back home, my belly starts bubbling like Mount Pinatubo, the active volcano to Manila’s northwest: knew I shouldn’t have finished off Tita Lita’s super cheesy bacon fries.
When we get back home we tumble out of the jeepney. The street party’s still in full swing, and a heavyset lady starts lumbering towards me. She’s decked out in an elegant black and white polka-dot summer dress, a matching wide brimmed polka-dot hat, and knee-high leather boots, as if she’s on her way to the Spring Carnival at Randwick Race Course.
She starts to gyrate towards me in an oddly captivating manner.
As she gets closer I discover that she has a five o’clock shadow and chest hair. She’s actually one of the famous drag queens that sashay around the streets of Manila on festive nights, dancing for their neighbours and earning some pesos for their titillating talents. Also known as Baklas, they play an important role in Filipino culture, particularly as performers and comedians.
Suddenly the flowing dress flies above her head, and I instinctively duck behind a fruit stall. She intercepts me mid-dive and starts shaking her ample polka-a-dot thonged buttocks in my face. With all that ‘junk in her trunk’ my acid reflux is going berserk, so I cover myself with fresh produce as neighbourhood kids jostle around me, yelping with joy.
An old guy nestles next to me under the pile of fruit, his wizened eyes smiling out of his dark leathery face. He shoves a plastic cup full of a lethal mix of San Miguel beer and the local firewater into my hand, and wraps his arm around my shoulders, as if I were his long lost grandson.
It’s kind of weird having this grandpa-grandson type bonding moment as a hirsute she-man thrusts ‘her’ pelvis violently towards us, so I take a swig of the brown liquid and relish the moment.
Keen to put an end to this crescendo of hip-jabs, I quickly hand over a fistful of pesos. She tucks the notes in ‘her’ bra and resumes ‘her’ booty shaking side shuffle down the alleyway, followed by a chorus of lusty hoots and hurrahs.
The Videoke machine is firing up inside, so I give my new-found grandpa a pat on the back, down the rest of the awful concoction and make my way back inside. CJ, another of my girlfriend’s countless Manila cousins, is crouched forward on the carved wooden sofa, a microphone poised in front of his face.
He’s passionately belting out a version of Oasis’s ‘Champagne Supernova’ in a flawless Mancunian accent, “Shhhhampagne Soooopah-Novaaaah in the skyyyyyyee”.
One thing about Filipinos, with their jumbled heritage, including 400 years of Spanish colonisation and decades of American rule, is that they are unlike any other Asians, in both look and temperament. With all that Latin influence, how could they not love music?
Even the most tone-deaf of them won’t hesitate to snatch the karaoke mike from your tightened grip and burst into a rendition of ‘My Way’, and the city’s packed with roadside karaoke stands.
They usually nail their songs too, mimicking exactly the crooning style of Sinatra or even the gravelly ‘Norvern Anglish’ twang of Liam Gallagher.
There’s no way I can compete with these musical freaks, so me and my girlfriend opt for bed. We wave a feeble goodnight to her family who are all jacked up on karaoke, KFC and RC Cola, and crawl up stairs to our bedroom.
Infant Jesus is still perched on the side-table, glass eyes as gentle as ever and arms still outstretched, but now a mini-carton of ‘Selecta Chocolate Moo Milk’, illustrated with a little safari-suited Moo Cow peering out from a jungle scene, lies crumpled at his holy feet.
I flick it into the bin, feeling like a Good Samaritan.
Collapsing on our burger-bun-soft mattress, with my amazing girlfriend’s elbow wedged into my kidneys, I think back on the night’s escapades, and what I’m learning about my beloved and her sugar-coated country of origin.
Not sure if it’s that honey glazed donut holes are a staple here, or that they’re blessed with faith, joie de vivre and an awesome sense of humour, but Filipinos are probably some of the most wonderful folk I’ve ever met.
The sounds of Beyonce and blasting fireworks from outside lull us into a deep slumber.
Tomorrow I ‘Meet the Grandparents’.
By Joel Katz
“Eeeeeeeeee… KarBOOM!”, and another inner-ear bursting explosion goes off nearby - my knees start shaking uncontrollably. As we cough and splutter on our rooftop terrace, the noise of laughing, screaming kids and stereos blasting the latest American hip-hop from the alleyways below, reminds us that this isn’t a conflict-ridden hotspot, but just another firecracker-free-for-all Saturday night in the working class suburbs of North-eastern Manila.
Speaking candidly, I never really expected to find myself – an Aussie-Canadian of Jewish descent and delicate bowels – spending time inside the ghettos of Manila, but here I am starring in my own Filipinoised version of ‘Meet the Parents’...
But instead of facing a waspy white-bread-eating family headed by De Niro’s menacing and humourless father, I’m meeting a clan of karaoke-crazy, fried-chicken chomping, bawdy insult-flinging Filipinos.
Born in the Philippines, my girlfriend moved to Australia when she was a kid, and we’ve joined her parents on this family reunion of sorts. Sure, the allusion to the Byrne family in the Stiller blockbuster might be extreme, but I’m a bumbling incompetent, and there’s probably no place on earth where a Jewish guy might feel more out of place than in one of the world’s most devoutly Catholic countries.
Will I, like Stiller’s Gaylord Fokker, discover some deep truths about my girlfriend’s strange and exotic family, and maybe my girlfriend too?
Who knows? But I’m sure to have many adventures over the next three weeks.
With fireworks exploding around our ears, some neighbours have gathered on the street below, so we make our way downstairs to join the festive crowd.
Scurrying down the top flight of stairs of the tall and thin family residence, I slip across the second level’s frictionless tiled floor careening past the life-sized poly-resin statue of infant Jesus, dressed, incongruously, in camouflage army fatigues. His large, soft-blue glass eyes follow me imploringly, as I swivel around the balustrade.
He seems to be reaching out to me as I bound down the lower stair case, a Hello Kitty keychain and assorted trinkets dangling from his outstretched hand.
“Join the fold, oh heathen”, he whispers.
I forget that I’m a non-believer momentarily until I slide, like an iceberg-luging penguin, across the tiles of the ground floor and pass under an enormous, puffy wall-hanging of ‘The Last Supper’.
Outside, the narrow streets seem to be ruled by the cast of ‘Lord of the Flies’ as scores of kids set off homemade firecrackers while others break dance to some ‘Phat’ rap beats.
Wait a sec, is this South-central LA, or Manila?
Turns out there’s not much difference, I realise, as a conga-line of pint-sized Southeast Asian ‘homies’ ‘hip-hop’ by me like krumping kangaroos, drowning in their baggy white shorts and over-sized Chicago Bulls basketball singlets.
We decide to get something to eat, so we make our way to the monstrous Mall of Asia, the third largest shopping complex in the world, located near the international airport in Manila’s southern suburbs.
Setting off on the long journey, we hop on one of the famous Filipino jeepneys - pimped out jeeps with extended carriage space in the rear for passengers. Other jeepneys weave around us like a school of metallic, smoke-belching sharks, splashed with gaudy colours and intricate art works of Jesus, Elvis and Bart Simpson.
“Bayad!” blurts the guy next to me, as he dumps a handful of peso coins into my sweaty palms. “Sweet”, I think, pocketing the change, amazed at the generosity of the toothless, shoeless little old guy jammed under my armpit.
Gloating at my new found wealth my mortified girlfriend quickly explains that “bayad” means “Fare, driver”, not “Take my life savings, kind foreigner”, so I reluctantly fish it out of my baggy shorts pocket and pass it on.
The jeepneys stops at Divisoria, a bustling and chaotic local market where shoppers ascend to heaven, and we dive headlong into the teaming masses and snaffle some incredible bargains, including some super-fly trainers, designer jeans and DVDs, all dirt cheap, and as fake as Paris Hilton’s smile.
Afterwards we jump onto a local bus, and continue our trip to the super mall. Crawling along at a snail’s pace, fresh-faced Tita Espie (aunties are called Tita) points to an official notice glued above our heads in bold lettering, translating it from Tagalog.
“Mistresses of the employees of this bus company are prohibited from riding on this vehicle”, she explains, vigorously nodding her head in agreement, and simultaneously trying not to gag on the putrescent mix of stank wafting into the bus from the open sewers.
“Why don’t the rivals set up a bus fleet for the mistresses”, I respond cheerfully, and Tita Espie’s previously invisible husband bursts into laughter, slapping me on the back.
“Why’s he suddenly treating me like his poker-playing buddy?” I whisper to my girlfriend, as he sits guffawing behind me. Meanwhile Tita Espie stares grimly out the window at the road-side slums, splashed yellow, black and red, the colours of a local cola brand.
My beloved quietly explains that he’d cheated on his wife with five different women, and apparently he was impressed by my pathetic remark.
From that point on I was his new best friend, and Tita Espie ignored me completely.
Finally we reach the mammoth mall, bail out of the bus. Pushing past the throngs, we shun the mall’s internal tram system, making our way by foot to the expansive restaurant precinct. My girlfriend’s entire extended family trail behind us as we look for a suitable eating venue.
Hmm… ‘Shakey’s’ has great fried chicken, but can it beat ‘Max’s: The House that Fried Chicken Built’?
We shuffle past Yellow Cab Pizza, Greenwich Pizza, Subway, Pizza Hut, Burger Machine, Zagoos, Chowking, Dunkin’ Donuts and Goldilocks, but no-one can select from any of these high-class eateries.
“I wanna eat at Jolibee!” shouts AJ, my girlfriend’s super-cute but acerbic and diabetes-bound five year old cousin.
Seeing the Jolibee mascot is a trip in itself: like a red shiny morphing of a Teletubby and a bumblebee. Just walk into one of these fast-food joints and your arteries harden, as you squeeze in-between the sea of plastic tables and chairs.
Thousands of bento box styrofoam trays litter the tabletops, filled with scrumptious items like the Spicy Chickenjoy - apparently both Crispylicious and Jucylicious - and an unidentifiable object smothered in pink mayonnaise goop dubbed the Double Cheesy Bacon Yum Burger; all as glossy and artificial looking as the giant, cheerful fibreglass mascot spruiking out in front.
As we make our way back home, my belly starts bubbling like Mount Pinatubo, the active volcano to Manila’s northwest: knew I shouldn’t have finished off Tita Lita’s super cheesy bacon fries.
When we get back home we tumble out of the jeepney. The street party’s still in full swing, and a heavyset lady starts lumbering towards me. She’s decked out in an elegant black and white polka-dot summer dress, a matching wide brimmed polka-dot hat, and knee-high leather boots, as if she’s on her way to the Spring Carnival at Randwick Race Course.
She starts to gyrate towards me in an oddly captivating manner.
As she gets closer I discover that she has a five o’clock shadow and chest hair. She’s actually one of the famous drag queens that sashay around the streets of Manila on festive nights, dancing for their neighbours and earning some pesos for their titillating talents. Also known as Baklas, they play an important role in Filipino culture, particularly as performers and comedians.
Suddenly the flowing dress flies above her head, and I instinctively duck behind a fruit stall. She intercepts me mid-dive and starts shaking her ample polka-a-dot thonged buttocks in my face. With all that ‘junk in her trunk’ my acid reflux is going berserk, so I cover myself with fresh produce as neighbourhood kids jostle around me, yelping with joy.
An old guy nestles next to me under the pile of fruit, his wizened eyes smiling out of his dark leathery face. He shoves a plastic cup full of a lethal mix of San Miguel beer and the local firewater into my hand, and wraps his arm around my shoulders, as if I were his long lost grandson.
It’s kind of weird having this grandpa-grandson type bonding moment as a hirsute she-man thrusts ‘her’ pelvis violently towards us, so I take a swig of the brown liquid and relish the moment.
Keen to put an end to this crescendo of hip-jabs, I quickly hand over a fistful of pesos. She tucks the notes in ‘her’ bra and resumes ‘her’ booty shaking side shuffle down the alleyway, followed by a chorus of lusty hoots and hurrahs.
The Videoke machine is firing up inside, so I give my new-found grandpa a pat on the back, down the rest of the awful concoction and make my way back inside. CJ, another of my girlfriend’s countless Manila cousins, is crouched forward on the carved wooden sofa, a microphone poised in front of his face.
He’s passionately belting out a version of Oasis’s ‘Champagne Supernova’ in a flawless Mancunian accent, “Shhhhampagne Soooopah-Novaaaah in the skyyyyyyee”.
One thing about Filipinos, with their jumbled heritage, including 400 years of Spanish colonisation and decades of American rule, is that they are unlike any other Asians, in both look and temperament. With all that Latin influence, how could they not love music?
Even the most tone-deaf of them won’t hesitate to snatch the karaoke mike from your tightened grip and burst into a rendition of ‘My Way’, and the city’s packed with roadside karaoke stands.
They usually nail their songs too, mimicking exactly the crooning style of Sinatra or even the gravelly ‘Norvern Anglish’ twang of Liam Gallagher.
There’s no way I can compete with these musical freaks, so me and my girlfriend opt for bed. We wave a feeble goodnight to her family who are all jacked up on karaoke, KFC and RC Cola, and crawl up stairs to our bedroom.
Infant Jesus is still perched on the side-table, glass eyes as gentle as ever and arms still outstretched, but now a mini-carton of ‘Selecta Chocolate Moo Milk’, illustrated with a little safari-suited Moo Cow peering out from a jungle scene, lies crumpled at his holy feet.
I flick it into the bin, feeling like a Good Samaritan.
Collapsing on our burger-bun-soft mattress, with my amazing girlfriend’s elbow wedged into my kidneys, I think back on the night’s escapades, and what I’m learning about my beloved and her sugar-coated country of origin.
Not sure if it’s that honey glazed donut holes are a staple here, or that they’re blessed with faith, joie de vivre and an awesome sense of humour, but Filipinos are probably some of the most wonderful folk I’ve ever met.
The sounds of Beyonce and blasting fireworks from outside lull us into a deep slumber.
Tomorrow I ‘Meet the Grandparents’.
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