My Trip to the Philippines
by
Dale S. Yeazel

I chose to fly Japanese Airlines (JAL) instead of the more usual Philippine Airlines (PAL). PAL flights usually involve long layovers in various airports. You can get a sweet deal (less than $900 per person) by agreeing to leave and a Tuesday and return on a Tuesday. This was my itinerary:

JAL 0025 LAS to LAX 1 hour and 25 minutes. You must get off of the plane so they can clean it and pick up passengers. If you are addicted to nicotine like myself (and your wife isn't) you can take your passport and your boarding pass and go out the security gates (leave wife with carry-on) and go out the entrance to Tom Bradley Intl and have enough time to inhale 2 or 3 smokes, on hour and a half layover. The return flight goes straight from Narita to Las Vegas.

JAL 0025 LAX to NRT 11 hours and 45 minutes. This is the only real layover on route to Manila. JAL pays for you to spend the night at one of their two hotels in Narita Japan. Narita is about 40 miles NE to Tokyo. Free shuttle transportation is provided to and from the airport. They also provide a free shuttle to and from Narita. We didn't do this since the wife was tired and we paid an extra $120 airfare to have a two-day voluntary layover on the return trip. I booked those two nights online at the Holiday Inn Narita for $60 per night.

Well anyway, we stayed at the Hotel Nikko Narita and it was very nice. While my wife slept, I ventured across the street (remember those cocksuckers are driving on the wrong side of the road) and discovered a wonderful noodle restaurant. It only cost about $8 USD to eat and regardless of what anyone says, tips are graciously accepted. They also only accept Yen.

In case you think that you will never be traveling to Narita: think again. Narita is the hub from which a hell of a lot of overseas flights passes through. You see all of these airlines have their own hotels in Narita and their own shuttle buses running every half hour or so. I talked to some guy that was traveling from Australia to Great Britain. Its like the entire area of Narita was designed and built to accommodate "transient passengers." Make sure you fill out the correct form and go through the correct line, when passing through immigration, if you are a transient passenger. I thought the sign said "transvestite passengers" which forced my homophobic ass to spend an extra 10 minutes in line.

The hotel served a great (relatively speaking) free breakfast buffet including American "pan cakes" (I love the way foreigners spell American words). If you were smart enough to check your baggage all the way to Manila, you can use the JAL check-in desk at the hotel to get your boarding passes.

JAL 0741 NRT to MNL 4 hours and 50 minutes. This flight is always packed with the most retarded passengers in the Pacific Rim. Forget about sleeping because if you didn't bring any small children with you, they will assign you one. The only highlight of the flight is the beautiful JAL stewardesses. Which is a refreshing difference from the gum-chewing, Nike-wearing lesbians they have on PAL flights.

The best way I can describe the airport at Manila is to ask you to visualize a scene from "Soylent Green" (I'm sorry kids, "Blade Runner" isn't dirty or degrading enough). When you finally get through immigration and customs and get outside, an aroma that lets you know you have finally arrived in the PI will greet you. The aroma of centuries of dirt mixed with more diesel fuel than oxygen. Now don't get me wrong, I love that smell. It is the smell of millions of people getting on with the business of living.

If you were expecting relatives to greet you, they will be waiting across the road and down the curved ramp. Don't go down that ramp unless you have your passport and airline tickets with you, as they might not let you go back up. The easiest and cheapest hotel transportation can be arranged across the road, before and to the right of the ramp. Find a representative from your hotel. Remember to not hesitate to tip! A five or ten dollar tip (or even less) will get any local on your side, which can do a lot to cut down on the inevitable bullshit.

There will be some stops you might want to have the driver make on the way to the hotel. First: the duty free store, to pick up smokes and liquor for yourself or your family. Second: a currency exchange place. Your hotel won't give you a good rate and good luck changing greenbacks once you leave Manila. Third: the ticket office for PAL so you can book your domestic flight. I made the grievous error of booking my Manila to Roxas City flight in Las Vegas. To make a long story short, the next morning I found that PAL refused to accept my ticketless boarding so I had to pay for those tickets again. I am still waiting for a refund. Fourth: this stop may be more appropriate for your return trip but if you want good Filipino handcrafts or even good souvenirs for that matter, the place to go is "Bayan Handicraft Corp (Store) @ 0761 Roxas Blvd. They are a little pricey but damn well worth it. They accept pesos, USD or credit cards.

My travel agency booked my reservations at the Heritage Hotel for about $60 per night. I don't know what the usual rate is but it cost me $150 for an additional room for my in-laws (double-occupancy three adults and one child). It is the Filipino version of a four or five star hotel. The most amazing thing to me is how they cater to couples that are just looking for a clean place to stay and what seemed to be the more usual clientele; horny American and Japanese men picking up hookers across the street and bring them to their room. The hookers left me alone, as they knew if I beefed to the staff, their ass would be 86' d. From this view of the hotel, if you went around the corner to the right, you can find 7-11, McDonalds (very good but I didn't try the McSpagetti), drugstores and a good restaurant named called "Chow King."

But like the good book says; "Getting there is half the fun!"

This is actually a scene from Iloilo City but it should give you and an idea.

Those wheeled "vehicles" are what the Flips call "tricycles" which are small motorcycles with sidecars on them. The streets are crawling with them and I prefer to stand on the back of it rather than endure the bumpy ride inside the car. Apparently shock absorbers have yet to make it to this part of the world.

The other major form of transport are called "jeepnees." Which are American jeeps leftover from WWII converted to buses and equipped with rebuilt Japanese motors. If you are white, I would never ride in one as the chances of you being robbed is very high.

So you have 8 million tricycles and 8 million jeepnees on the road and you are sitting in your air-conditioned Toyota LandCruiser, going to your hotel. The newcomer to the PI will think that Filipinos can't drive but one must keep in mind that you're not in Kansas anymore and the rules of the road are really more of a suggestion than law.

Here is a classic example taken from my first trip to the PI:

I am sitting is a cab which is driving very fast down a street in Manila. I don't know how fast, even though I'm riding shotgun because apparently the first thing a Filipino does after buying a car is to disconnect the speedometer (I suspect this has more to do with resale value than nervous passengers). We are traveling on a three-lane (each direction) road and of course this means all vehicles are forming four lanes of traffic across. Exposed wheels from cars, jeepnees and tricycles are crossing paths and then separating so they can cross paths with the vehicle on the other side of them. I am beginning to feel as though I am starring in a remake of the chariot scene from fucking Ben Hur but I'm not usually a nervous passenger, so I am trying to keep a sense of humor about my near-death experience. I'm spending my last moments musing about why someone goes to all the trouble to paint those white lines on the asphalt.

However, even as I have resigned myself to death, I can't shut my eyes or shut down my brain. I see what has obviously escaped the fifty fucking drivers on this stretch of road: three lanes will become two lanes in less than three hundred feet! Of course, I don't wish to be the ugly American by pointing out the obvious, so I merely clutch the bottom of my seat with both hands and say a silent goodbye to my wife, who is in the back seat jabbering with her relatives.

At less than 150 fifty feet from the mother-of-all-clusterfucks, a light bulb goes off and all fifty driver come to the startling conclusion that the lanes are about to merge. Of course, my silly white ass fails to consider the cobra-like reflexes of your typical Filipino motorist and that they are all forming identical strategies to avoid the impending crash: HIT THE FUCKING GAS AND HONK YOUR FUCKING HORN! The following moments were a pure Darwinian experience as tricycles finally give way to their more powerful counterparts and in pure determination the more aggressive drivers force the more docile drivers out of the way.

I went to the casino in the Heritage Hotel in Manila (where I spent two nights) and lost $20 playing roulette. I had to buy checks at the cage so I could buy chips on the game. I didn't inventory or even count the games but there seemed to be about 20 games: 2 roulette, no craps, and the rest either mini-baccarat or some other game that resembled 3-card poker. I managed to acquire two decks of cards wrapped in paper. I certainly hope they didn't come from the mini-baccarat game as the cards are dealt to the players, who have an annoying habit of rolling them into cylinders as they peek at the pips.

After taking a PAL flight from Manila to Roxas City, I was treated to a three hour boat ride, on my brother-in-law's boat, to the far away island of Jintotulo. Please keep in mind this boat had four adult passengers, two teenagers, a small child and a crew of four,

"A three hour cruise, a three hour cruise."

The tiny ship was rocked and I arrived there looking like a drowned rat and feeling like a Viking.

When I got to Jintotulu (where my wife is from and her parents live) I got to go to a cockfight! This was the highlight of my trip and a very JamesBondian experience.

Note the "bleachers" around the "pit."

The locals move out of my way in order to give me a prime space to watch. There were no women or girls present. Everyone then starts to shout to the ringmaster in the center of the ring. Obviously they were making bets on either the white cock or the red one. I wasn't going to bet on the first match but after a couple on minutes the ringmaster looks at me and says; "Hey Joe, you want to bet three hundred (Pesos)?" I said; "Yes, three hundred on the red one (pointing to the cock on my side of the ring). He waved his hand and with a smug expression indicated I had no bet. He then looked at me and waved his hand towards the opposite side of the ring. I then realized that since us bettors weren't laying odds or giving up points, he was trying to even up the betting at my expense. A minute later he asked me if I want to bet 500. I said yes and again pointed to the red bird. He waved off my bet and then grabbed himself in a Michael Jackson fashion, as if to dare me to bet on the white cock. Meanwhile the referee is writing down the bets in a spiral ring notebook.

The other man in the pit (the referee) then held a bird in each hand, faced them towards each other and released them. My bird scored the "dim mak" the other bird didn't die but was obviously unable to continue. This however, being a "fight to the death" the referee would grab a bird in each hand and face them off again. This process was repeated until the white cock was deemed to be dead.

Now all eyes are on "Joe" because he picked the winning cock, even though I hadn't won anything. At this point one of my nephews-in-law brings me a glass of "halo halo" which is a delicious Filipino desert made with shaved ice, jellied fruit and sweet cream. He explains that I'm sitting on the side of the ring for the first time birds. The experienced birds are brought to the other side of the ring. My oldest brother-in-law then tells me to "go look at the birds" and points to an area near a very old tree that is about 20 feet from the ring, where all the bettors are gathered.

This gathering is the equivalent of the "cock weigh-in" and there are six bird owners holding their prized cocks (birds). They hold the birds while facing them to each other in order to determine the two birds that display the most animosity towards each other. There is a lot of talking going on and I can tell the organizers are getting a feel for whether the betting will be equal in a match between the birds in question. I look at the old tree and I see how they disposed of the losing white cock: by dumping him unceremoniously at the roots of the "tree of woe."

After the contestants are selected, the owners begin the process of tying and taping the three inch long curved blades to the left ankle of their bird. In some cases these blades are selected from a collection displayed in a wooden case that was probably more accustomed to containing expensive silverware in its previous life. After the cocks are ready everyone returns to the ring and the shouting starts immediately. The cocky (pun intended) ringmaster looks at me and asks if I want to bet "500 Filipino money (10 USD). I said yes and pointed again to the red cock. He seems to book my bet and I look to my brother-in-law and ask him if I have a bet. He says that he doesn't know because he doesn't bet on cockfights. I said I just wanted to know if I have a bet or not and he finally says he thinks I do.

The referee released the birds and my bird jumps high and seems to drive its blade in the chest of his opponent. Everyone (including the chickens) knows that the white cock is doomed. The referee continues to pick up both birds and face them off, even though the white bird merely hangs there limply. After he releases the birds, my bird merely pecks at the face and eyes of his adversary. He is taking no chances of getting close to the other bird's feet, where a voluntary or involuntary kick could send him to the tree of woe. Now please don't think harshly of me because at this point and I stand up and scream; "FINISH HIM!" which brought cheers from my brethren of those that bet on the red cock. The white cock was finally declared dead (it looks strange seeing the referee check the bird's wrist for a pulse) and I stand up again to join my comrades in a barbaric roar.

The organizers then collect the losing bets, which are generally crumpled and thrown angrily to the center of the pit. I ask my brother-in-law if I should ask for my money and he tells me not to worry. The referee then comes to me and hands me a 500-peso bill. I smile, thank him and display my coin purse as I gingerly shove the bill into it. I announce; "It was a pleasure doing business with you." This brings roars of approval from everyone in the pit area.

The third bout was a replay of the first: cocky ringmaster won't book my bet and my bird ends up winning.

Now "the legend of Joe" is truly born and I strut to the weigh-in like I'm Nick the Fucking Greek. I have my eye on one red cock that will face another red cock. The owners tape the blade one of the birds with blue tape so us bettors can tell them apart. The ringmaster then announces; "In this corner with the blue trunks (OK, tape) is a SIX time championnnnn!!!!" He then immediately looks at me and asks if I want to bet five hundred. I was not naïve enough to believe that this bird was a six-time champion but that cock was scratching the ground with his claws (which I took to be a sign of aggression) while his opponent merely stood in the ring, looking around like he was thinking; "Where am I? What am I doing here? And why the fuck is everyone looking at me?" I immediately agree to bet 500 on the blue trunks when here comes a clear signal that "Joe the Greek" is about to get fleeced. Another cock trainer comes to the ring carrying a bird. He shoves it is the face of my bird's opponent in order to get him riled. I knew I was fucked but also knew that the worst thing that could happen is that I would break even for the day on the last bout. And besides, no one was beefing, so I can assume that this is within the Queensbury rules of cockfighting.

This is a picture of me losing my money.

To no ones surprise, I lost my bet but managed to take what was to be the last photo on this set of batteries. I choose to be a gentleman and hand my money to the referee and say; "Easy come, easy go." Which the crowd seemed to appreciate.

I then retired to the "store" across the street where I drank warm San Miguel beer (to excess) with my brother-in-law and one of my wife's uncles, who was a lawyer and had a pleasant conversation about dealers cheating the players and witchcraft on the island. There were two other tables with people play mah jong and "tong 8" which is a cross between rummy 500 and tonk.

Now please don't misunderstand: I have a total distain for the "sport" of dog fighting but after all these are chickens we are talking about. I later heard that they even have horse fights in some parts of the PI where they attach blades to the horses hooves and put a mare in heat between them to start the bout.

After much useless searching, I finally scored a cockfighting tee shirt at the gift shop of the Heritage, which was the first Hotel I stayed at (typical). I plan on wearing it to the first PETA rally I can find.