Things the guidebook neglects to tell you or only hints at:
(keep in mind this is my experience)
--The Phil is not meant for women, of any race.
The entire culture revolves around men: marrying them, catering to them, kissing up to them, rooking them for money. Case in point: the other AM after work I was in MCDo waiting for my food and I saw this ultra drunk old fart stagger over to a table of giggly young ladies and start in with the "lovely ladies" crap. My whole body was as stiff as a cat on a wire and I was ready to tell him off (he was American) when I heard the one girl: "Do you have a car, Daddy? Can we go to your house?"
("Daddy" is what you call every man over 30, regardless of if he has kids or not. On the floor I hear my agents call male agents "DaddyJoe" "DaddyAl", etc".It's common to address people by a shortened version of their title and name: "MOD Ry" (manager on duty Ryan) "Boss Nikki" "Kuya Guard" ("Brother" Security Guard) in general).
I was, to put it mildly, stunned. Well, they could fend for themselves, apparently!
Basically, instead of being offended, these women saw what was clearly a row of triple cherries: jackpot. A walking wallet. I don't know who I was more disgusted by, but when I left I was thinking "this is not the country I'm going to spend the rest of my life in."
Even other foreigners that I see getting dragged around by their Arab husbands (or whoever- usually this is the case though- there's practically a shuttle from here to Dubai and back) look shell shocked by the super rigid gender roles (for straights- for gays anything goes- go fig!). All the managers are men, and men stick together. There's literally only one other white woman in the ENTIRE TOWN and that's Anne, my boss. On one hand, I've always been the odd one, so nothing new, but on the other, it's a little tiresome to have people trying to snag you to put on their mantle piece.
I was talking to my friend Davie trying to understand the odd behavior of one of my Indian friends and he made a "hole punch" motion with his hand- "He just wants his 'white girl' ticket punched, honey." I protested that I thought he has most likely already had that ticket punched (I just went with it. Too exhausted to argue). The look Davie gave me was priceless. He slowly looked around the Paradise. " And that would be by whoooooommmm?" he asked. Good question. "By whommmmmm?" Indeed.
If you're American, you're a target for everyone.
The mildest, least annoying thing you'll get is open stares (once a baby was looking at me from her highchair at Pizza Hut saying what I thought was "atte" (that means "sister" in Tagalog) and her mother told me helpfully "she thinks you're sexy". Uh, baby in a highchair renders her verdict. Okaaayyy. For days I wondered about that one. More on "appropriate" words later.
What you usually get is relentlessly hustled. Relentlessly. In the store, on the street, and I hate to say it, by your "friends". Several of my white friends have loaned out over 20,000P only to never see it again. I don't blame the hustlers- hey, "everyday I'm hustlin'" is a lifestyle for a lot of people because they don't have a choice, but it's just depressing to think that everyone who smiles at me doesn't even want to bed me, they just want to dip a hand in my back pocket.
Sexuality: short shorts and no FCC= a Friday night.
Basically, leave your Puritanism at the front door. Sex is so prevalent that I would tell my friends "this is not the place for you if you have uncontrolled appetites of any kind: for booze, drugs, or sex especially". And the (to me) shocking part is the venality of it: it's all for sale: boys in thigh high boots and corsets lounging in the doorway of the club across from Club Bossa, girls in school girl outfits with "register numbers" pinned to them (meaning they're legal and clean) eating from a street vendor at 6 AM, tired and washed- out from a night of "Dancing" at the bars, drunk ex- pat men openly prowling the streets, wallet in hand, clothing that refers quite openly to "performance", the way people dress (agents wearing what we would call "stripper heels" in the States, painted on jeans, and a wiggle in the walk), the cheating on spouses....it goes on. Suffice to say they're alot of pregnant women up in here. Falling in love is for fools and teenagers.
As a side note, physical Puritanism of any kind is "passe". Despite being fastidious, Pinoy are..."raunchy". "Earthy." "Open." In short, bathroom humor, and hell, bathroom activities are cool. Don't keep it to yourself. Share with the class, please. This is relatively easy to get used to, but hard to keep the shock off your face when someone picks their nose at the dinner table. Whenever something like this happens I always think "Prime Directive, Na. Prime Directive."
People will act like you're the only one that ever had any problems of any kind.
There's an unspoken pact that people who've traveled overseas come back and make it sound "easy". "Oh, you can get anything you want over there. I had no problems. I got free candy and massages every Friday. What's up, bitch? Wish you were me, much?" Even long- time transplants have a way of acting like "what's the beef? What do you mean the store doesn't carry size 39 shoes? And? I don't have any problems at all! Umbrella drink?"
I have to say a repeat offender in this department is Ant, who once failed to sympathize with me about "riding" in a Jeepney (which I only did once- and that was more than enough), pointing out : "I'm a perfect fit" he laughed instead, with a dreamy look on his face, probably relishing all his super- cheap rides across town. Yes, dear. And I am 5 foot 10 with a 35 inch inseam. It's a tad uncomfortable to fold oneself in half to fit in a Jeepney whose main source of shock absorbers is the insane amount of people they've crammed into it. Also, men are usually "half and half"- half legs, half torso, whereas I'm ALL legs. I guess if I could dangle them out the back we'd be cool. Some *trikes* are too small for my legs! Sigh.
Ryan was like this too, although he was worse. He would tip his head to the side and launch into a lecture about procedures "here" as if I should know by now. He would sigh and shake his head and drink his tea (he loved tea with the same level of mania as a Brit) and lament my foolishness. I mean, I've been here 2 weeks. Duh! EVEYONE knows about "the coaster." Then he'd follow that up with stories of women in love with him, trike drivers who gave him free rides, stores who begged him to put up his picture (okay, not that last one, but almost). Etc.
The point is, it's a hard road, and you'll be alone. There will be times when you're fed up, angry, and feel like you're going to cry. And NO ONE will admit to this. There will be times when you wake up thinking "wait, where am I?" and for a minute you'll page through the plane ride, the staff house, the house-sitting house, the hotels, and finally you'll come back to earth...oh.
More to come if I member.
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