Unrelenting Foreignness

Even when pre-planned, it’s unsettling to run into an old friend in Manila at midnight. Most midnights, I do nothing of the sort. But this past Saturday there I was, running into Mr. M.B., who Jessica and I knew when we lived in England. M.B. is a likeable, well-traveled guy, and big like me, which made for a great hug.

Hugging me, by the way, is a tough job. If you’re shorter than I am - basically everyone - you’re caught not only in the over/under game, but also the one-arm/two-arm game. Problem is, if you don’t think it through ahead of time, you don’t realize the second game until mid-hug. So you start out by going with what you think is a simple “over” choice. You reach up and hug two arms around my neck, but then realize that feels too much like a junior high dance, so then you readjust, going for the “under” option - only to realize that now you’re doing a face plant in my man chest.

Here, you unexpectedly realize the second game: the one-arm/two-arm choice. You might want to give me a warm, two-arm hug, but if you do, you’re doomed to the face-plant; so you go for the one-arm: a side hug. Thing is, you started with the two-arm hug, which I reciprocated, so now I’m hugging you lengthwise, my hands clasped around your opposite shoulder while you go for the under/one-arm choice. Tell you what – next time, just go for the under/one-arm to start with, which I can match, or commit to the over/two-arm and don’t back down. Thanks.

But back to M.B., who of course, doesn’t have your problem. Ours was a straight up, two-arm, big man hug. And it’s been about five years since we shared one. Double bonus points.

I’d been in the Philippines long enough to be offered an illegal liaison with my choice of partner (which is to say, long enough to visit the hotel restroom), when M.B. dropped the defining phrase of the night in describing the typical Western reactions to our environment. “Some people eat Southeast Asia up – I mean, I love it. The neon, the weird beeping sounds, it’s all great," he said. "But some people just can’t take the … well – unrelenting foreignness – of it all. Makes them go crazy.”

Jimi Hendrix had to take double the drugs, they said, because the regular dose only got him back to where everyone else was normally. Maybe M.B. and I are a little like Jimi in that way. For whatever reason, we just can’t get enough of new places and people. The more different and remote, the better. (Note to self: the previous statement probably says something about my concept of home that I’ll need to consider at length on a separate occasion.)

The thing about that embrace of ‘the other’ is that I’m now thirty years old. And one of the many great things about being thirty is the chance to inject some old-fashioned cynicism into that nubile idealism that so often carries M.B. and me from cloud to unfamiliar cloud. Gratefully, the Philippines offers plenty of opportunities for the thirty year old me to become prematurely bellicose.

Take, first of all, the karaoke bars: K-TV bars, they’re called, as if to disguise the awful, awful truth of what’s going on inside. They’re everywhere, they always seem to be full, and the proprietors blast not only the music, but the singer, well out into the street. The 3 o’clock hour in the office today was punctuated by a searing rendition of Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” somewhere in the street below, and on the way to lunch we heard someone doing a hearty version of the recent pop song, “Poker Face.”

Can you imagine what it must be like, rushing off on your lunch break down to the K-TV bar to impersonate … Lady Gaga?

I’ve seen karaoke setups in 100% of Filipino homes I’ve visited, although truth be told, that’s only two. The first home was owned by my counterpart here, William: a fifty-year-old, four-foot-tall General Patton who, karaoke habits aside, is a master of our craft. The second is (interestingly enough) back in Atlanta, where our Filipina friend’s karaoke setup is too ghetto even for our ‘hood. Just think of MIDI backup tracks of “Hotel California” with tropical islands on the TV in the background, and you get the picture.

Beyond karaoke, there is a second cause of my current bellicosity. After this trip, I’ve finally decided never EVER again to eat voluntarily any dish in Asia that is marketed as a “delicacy.” The word “delicacy,” I’ve decided, is Southeast Asian for, “Make American pay for screwing with us.”

I’ve eaten plenty of bona fide Asian food – Vietnamese, Chinese, Filipino, Thai – but I’ve never had any Asian “delicacy” and thought, ‘Oh my, I’d sure like to eat that again.’ Three basic grievances I have against the Asian delicacy:

1. Inexplicable proliferation of innards

Ok, I get that you have to use the whole animal. In America, we have these genetically-engineered chicken that can’t walk because their steroid-enhanced legs and breasts have to carry 216% more meat to keep Popeye’s in business. One of the things I actually appreciate about the rest of the world is that most folks just eat what exists in nature. And, it’s true, part of what exists in nature are some innard parts that have nutritional value. I just don’t get how those non-muscley parts are the special ones that should be reserved for the “delicacy” dish. Honestly, I haven’t seen a dish with a decent percentage of fleshy meat since I’ve been here. What ever happens to the meaty bits - where do they go? To feed the dog? I don’t get it.

For example, in the Batchoy dish – a “delicacy” in La Paz, a section of Iloilo City where I’m staying – I counted no fewer than five distinct varieties of pork innards. Five different bits of a pig’s insides. What was the development process like on this product? Why didn’t its inventor stop at, oh I don’t know – maybe just three types of innards? What did the fourth and fifth innard add? Texture? Color?

2. The smell of feet

Some things are universal. The smell of feet at the end of the day is, I’m fairly certain, detestable to all humankind, with one exception: where it adorns the Asian delicacy.

3. The awkward moment at the end where they try to serve you a second helping

The end result of my (and, I’m fairly certain, most of my tribe’s) encounter with the Asian delicacy is what must be an obviously awkward display where I gesture to my hosts (“Mmmm, that was very good, yes”) all the while leaving my food conspicuously cut to pieces and gathered in little piles on my plate (see: broccoli and eight-year-olds) and then, at the end, being a little too quick and a little too sharp in turning away the expected offer for another serving (“Oh no, no – quite full, yes, thank you”).

Your host will never show it, but I’m gospel-certain that the in-laws are holed up somewhere in a back room of the house, watching you on CCTV, cackling themselves to tears. I’d actually put money down that most Asian families have reams of videotape of this same, predictable sequence with all their Western guests. I’d watch it.

Followed by karaoke, of course.

PG