Davao Days II

Three Davao stories:

In which I finally get the elusive Travel Channel experience that seemed to come so easily for other people, yet not for me.

Monday night I was killing time waiting for an acceptable hour to toddle to the Marco Polo lounge, which was recommended to me by my coworker, Trip. (Yes, that sentence sounds like something from P.G. Wodehouse. Welcome to cognitive dissonance 101). So I naturally availed myself of the 100 channels to be had on the local premium cable lineup, including "Fashion TV", which exclusively shows runway shows and "events", during which you can hardly make out the players for all the strobe lights/ razzi flashes. Good stuff.

We already know based on my previous entry that I wound up watching Mystic Pizza, which was terrific. At first I was channel hopping between it and other stuff, and then it kind of sucked me in until finally I was fully involved and mentally running down the list of who I would recommend this to.

So just ride with me on this next part, because it's a bit woo woo, but I swear that movie somehow put me in a different frame of mind- like all was right with the world. I was also wearing a new dress that I had just purchased earlier that day, so I was set to have a good night. Usually when I'm dressed up, it's a bust, but this was a delightful exception to the rule.

I set off on foot to the Marco Polo, which is the tallest building in town, and visible from everywhere except my hotel and the 3 blocks between it and me, so I had to ask and kind of kick around trying to find it (actually, I have a pretty good track record for finding things based on where I "think" they should be- I have rarely been truly lost, even in countries with no street signs and no grid layout. I'm not sure where this hunting dog pointer nose comes from but generally I can just "feel" that the temple we want will be over the next rise, and usually I'm right-- of course I've consulted a map beforehand, I'm no fool!) until I stumbled on this rad place called Pasalubong Center (Souvenir Center), I dipped in and I found the coolest, cutest thing ever!

After a few moments of me getting hot under the collar as people fawned all over me to try to get me to spend 5$ on their generic crap, I saw a mannequin wearing blowsy shorts and a little halter top made out of flour sacks. Sign me up!! I literally bought out almost the whole stock of this "clothing" line ( I guess you could call it that). It consisted mostly of tote bags of various sizes, but it also included a little evening purse, a mob cap, oven mitts, slippers, apron, (I got the apron for my coworker, Ace, who explained to me that for men from Pampagna---which he is--- not being able to cook well is "like having a small dick"---yes, he used those exact words-- "People will be like "awwww, man, that's too bad", he went on to say. So an apron is the perfect gift for him. Since he really can cook.)

For some reason, even though I consider clothing items too personal and even more so since Ace is technically my boss and the type of person who can make "an advantage" out of even the most innocent gesture, so far all my gifts to him have been clothing- my desire to give the awesome gift far outweighs my fear of making a faux paux.

These items were about 1-2 dollars each and I bought about 8 of them. The staff was ecstatic. I was thrilled. For once me and the local sales people were getting what they wanted- no one was being cheated or settling for less or angry, or feeling ripped off. After we tallied the amount and put all the small bags in a larger bag,
one of the girls asked me to pose for a picture, and for some reason in that moment I just said ok, and I was not uncomfortable at all. People, this is major.

Allow me to explain: I have several travel themed channels on my TV lineup and in ALL of them, the plucky star bounces around in a dubiously lighted (and probably no- potty- having) locale, drinking fermented yak milk beer and laughing with joy when groups of little ruffian kids chase him or her down the street screaming. I mean, what an act to follow. For me, nothings worse than this type of forced cheer when interacting with people who sort of hate your guts for reasons that are buried in 1000 years of colonialism, or whatever.

But even Trip, who is about 5 times as cranky as me, manages to dredge up a chummy rapport with taxi drivers and the like, agreeably nodding and going along with all but the most egregious statements, can do it. For me, this was a major thorn in my side- what was wrong with me? Who did I think I was, Queen Elizabeth (not for nothing is boyfriend's most frequent nickname for me "Queen"---even the ROYALTY OF INDIA calls me by "Queen")? I felt like I was learning something really unpleasant about myself, due to my lack of what we might call "the human touch". But for some reason, there is the hot, stuffy, down- home bazaar it lighted on my shoulder for no clear reason, just a gift from beyond- happiness, relaxation, lack of self-consciousness, a lightness of spirit that allowed me to just take a picture with  a shopgirl and not think twice.

In which a strange coincidence occurs and makes for good chika (gossip). 

In the class I was teaching, there was an older woman, probably in her late 30's (which is older for the industry, most people are already grandparents at that age over here), who is kind of....odd. She's the kind of person who is just *waiting* for the moment to start a fight, the type of person who is shown on COPS berating the suspect with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. You know the type. Lawn chair psychologist.

Anyhoo, two HR reps came to say hello to our entire class as a whole and open the floor to any general questions, and to introduce themselves. Well! This woman, who's name shall be Denise for this article, barks out  to the female member, "Yeah, stop texting my husband. There's such a thing as interoffice email. It's called rude."

 The room was just frozen with tension, and the HR gal feebly said "I don't want to discuss this here". "I DO!" bellowed Denise. The teachers and myself were giving each other "how bad is this about to get" looks. "I'm not going to talk about this" the HR rep added in a whisper, as Denise reiterated "Just stop texting him, just stop." 

Well, we went to break after that and then, I swear to god, 20 minutes after this, Denise gets a call on her cell. She rushes out and has a loud conversation outside and then on her way back in, says in a stagey tone "Okay, if you can't handle it, I'll just call the Embassy". (Sigh.) Turns out her HOUSE WAS ROBBED. For the 3rd time. And Denise isn't "tolerating" this anymore. This translated to going to gather up her kids and going to a hotel (not sure how the Embassy figured in this, but you know these type of people like to appeal to "the authorities" as a means of threat they will never carry out). Once again, the teachers and me turn to each other, kind of speechless. "Maybe HR did it." I cracked, and we had a long attack of the church giggles after that. Wow, what a bizarre incident.

In which I meet an Englishman poolside.

On Thursday I met an older, rather rumply Englishman at the Marco Polo pool, after having casually noted "I never get the same bartender" to him while we waited for our drinks. Well, this was all the encouragement he needed. Starved for conversation (as so many ex pats are) he ambled over and stood behind the chaise lounge next to me and we chatted it up for about 30 minutes to an hour. I was more than willing to have him sit down and for the conversation to lapse into companionable silence, as I was there mostly to read and get some sun, but he kept it going through various gambits- "Sooooo, uh, how long have you been here? What cities have you been to?" Etc. He was friendly enough, and a decent conversationalist, one who was thankfully NOT trying to defend prostitution or it's kissing cousin, marriage for money, but neither was he anyone I would date or even really befriend in a serious way. Typical one off "chance meeting".

Well, after about an hour, and 2 drinks, he wound it up and started making noises about wanting to see me again (inquiring about my travel plans, etc) and then suddenly turned into Prince Charles. "This was very....very nice. Very nice indeed. Yes, very....very lovely. So nice. Well, if you do....if you do happen to come this way....very nice, very nice. If you're here, you're here, and if we meet again, well, you know,, and it's just nice to meet people who, you know, just for....a bit of fun, or....just very nice, very nice."

I'm not 100% sure, but I think I just got asked for a no- strings- attached roll in the hay by a stranger. But I'll never know, since I before I could investigate further he slipped off, still muttering about how nice it was to have met.


Thus ends the Davao stories.