Filipinos You Meet in Port Moresby

"Seven Kinds of Filipinos You Meet in Port Moresby

1. The Pioneers.
Legend has it that they paddled their way to pre-independence Papua New Guinea fleeing the Imelda Inquisition.

This is the bunch I don’t know much about but ever so easy to spot in a crowd.

From the grannies with faux Australian accent and their SM-deprived offspring they’re almost always vexingly together anywhere they go thronging the ever few expatriate-safe locations in packs like a grade school fieldtrip.

2. Second Generation.
The OFWs.
Like the Pioneers, they are ever present during them infamously banal June 12 Independence Day celebrations where you’ll die of boredom from the shitty appearances of minor over-sensationalized Pinoy celebrities, Bingo craps, Christmas whatnots and basketball blahs.

3. Cross Breeders.
For socio-economic reasons, they breed exclusively with Caucasians.
If there’s too much carats going on, that’s them.

4. The Entertainers.
They’re prostitutes.

5. Churchgoers.
Well, you see them in church every Sunday and at majong tables after mass.

6. Accountants.
Grace Adler once said, “I hate clowns. They think they’re so funny”.

Delete “clowns”. Insert “accountants”. Delete “funny”. Insert “smart”.

7. Then there’s this gang of five. You’ll live life regretfully if you never get to meet them.

Nothing extremely special about this party of five but they guarantee an experience second only to that feeling of orgasmic headboard-rocking coitus.
Ever genial and handy, they paint the town red onboard a green Mitsubishi."

Rambling to 2007

Fridays uncommonly serve me as downers.

I’m guessing it’s that feeling of sadness and longing to be home with family and friends.

Hello control dramas, my trusted friend!

Still, in my state of destitution, in the face of all my fashion transgressions, as my spa/sauna-deprived circumstances, I am thankful.

My nomadic, adorable Filipino friends in Port Moresby keep me at bay from insanity-ville. My Caucasian comrades keep me intoxicated every so often and have them to thank for things like yacht in social vocabulary.

I might exploit this into a long, mushy, rambling story. I better do something else.

No, I don’t masturbate anymore. At least I lie that I don’t.

5 PM

5:00 p.m.’s are everyday to anyone as it is to me, but not today…

what and why port moresby’s cold june wind brought breeze of nostalgia, i do not know…

my late father seldom made it home at 5:00 p.m.

his showing-up on time is always a special occasion

for me it’s an answered prayer. it is.

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papa IS the best cook in the world. although help was always around to prepare dinner, consistently, he does all the cooking every time he’s home by 5:00… making such days so special.

i never grew out of these 5:00 o’clock’s:

us siblings shove ourselves on the passenger seats, thrilled for that special trip to the market.

trips that make my day perfect no matter how fucked-up the rest of it was.

i would trade a day of waking life for another 5:00 o’clock with papa…one is to one...

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papa always reminded us of two things every time we take these trips:

(1) a good cook buys the ingredients himself &

(2) only lazy people can’t cook.


this is not my fathers’ day blog.

Acts

My Bible-armed colleague ambushed me one I-hope-no-one-speaks-to-me Monday morning rubbing the pages of the Acts of the Apostles to my Nivea Pore Cleanser-nursed face.

The bigot ran out of Amens when I told her I’m as Christian as Hans Christian Anderson but I don’t subscribe to the story of the physical Resurrection of Christ.

This is but one of the personalities I deal with in my day in and out here in the betel nut capital of the world—Port Moresby!

Life’s a bitch!

Party Pooper

I never said Lamana parties are cheap shindigs. The first time I went there I was so bored I died way before I could give the place a fair appraisal.

I can’t afford Spain to be an Ibiza party-file, and I’m a US visa short to hang around Miami either. Exposure wise, I am no where close to being a party diva, and I refuse to be regarded as one either even if people suffer agitation on my recent non-appearance at Port Moresby’s apparent disco Mecca.

Lamana or the people who enjoy themselves there are NOT cheap. If in my many nights of insobriety I happen to say such a horrible but not totally impossible thing, then accept this post as my official recantation.

Tetris

My bed is starting to get crowded. Bert bought me a croc stuffed toy to accompany my caveman teddy.

I have a small bed. Good enough for just one person and good enough for me—in Port Moresby anyway.

I wonder how Ces dozes a non-alcoholic night away when she’s got an entire outback of space in her king-sized bed. I’ll find it daunting if I were her. Hell, every toss and turn is a reminder that there’s no one to nudge and grumble “move over fart!” at.

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A few weeks ago, I had dinner with Ces.

Struggling with her chopsticks, she asked me: “WHEN will I be truly happy?” I wanted to tell her to visit the furniture shop. But I didn’t wish to go all too cynical before my tempura. I faked a sigh instead.

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An ex told me that happiness is a state of mind. I didn't understand what he meant. I was 16 going on 17 then (21, if you really want to know the truth).

I gather that happiness doesn’t come in one she-bang. Not in one lump-sum. It comes in pieces. You have to see to it that each piece will make life bearable, a bit like a game of tetris. Bricks of assorted shapes trickle one after another for you to sort out. Sometimes you get the easily maneuverable pieces and sometimes you get the tricky odd-shaped ones like the crosses, T's or the L's. You just have to be smart about it to score points.

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After the dinner my phone rang and it’s midnight-caller/stalker on the other line, offering his bed for the night.

I sighed (this time it’s genuine), wished him a good night (not) and for the nth time refused his offer.

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That night I slept in my small bed with caveman, croc and a 100 unread pages of Sharon Creech.