Lessons in Humility
Holy week is a big thing in the Philippines, as are other things religious and ritualistic. To me it means a lot more than the average Filipino: I work for a network and it is the only time of the year we can take a couple of days off. Of course there is the usual caveat: if something big breaks, you have to go back to base. Never mind if you caught a whale on your fishing trip and you still have to haul the monster in and take pictures as proof. You have to go back to base.
That’s why I hate those coup plotters. But that’s another story.
This grand year of our Lord 2005, I spent holy week washing dishes and waiting tables in a resort where I have been a permanent fixture the past seven years. I am considered part of the family. It’s in the island of Mindoro If you’ve seen pictures of the Sipadan dive resort where the Abu Sayyaf kidnapped those foreigners, that’s how my favorite resort looks like. Only “my” resort is better. It has a lot of flowers in the garden, behind it are the craggy parts of a mountain, and at night I have the sea breeze on one window, and the mountain breeze on the other.
Holy week is the time of the year resorts in the Philippines jack up their prices to the maximum limit of human tolerance, and I really can’t afford them. This time of the year, I usually find myself sleeping with the resort’s staff or the resort manager. Of course, they’re all female. I don’t eat meat during holy week. Get it? Come to think of it, if that’s the way I’d put it, it means I have been a vegetarian for…ewww…never mind.
I had no problems with the dishes, never mind if the stack was often higher than me and my hands were white and wrinkly by the time I finished. It was those contacts with other humans called “tourists” that I found amusing.
The first one reminded me of ducks when I first saw him. He waddled, not walked. Maybe it was the excess in poundage and the shortage in self-confidence. He used his two-year old son as a shield. He kept talking to the boy in English, and the son could only answer in the vernacular. In two minutes I was asking myself “what’s going on here?” He wouldn’t let the son walk barefoot in the sand, warning him of “tetanus”. He refused to let the child touch the resort’s Labradors, and shrieked (yes, a man can shriek) when the boy tried to pet one. The dining area’s early dinner population was alarmed, then sniggered like a snake, head first then tail later. He demanded that we shoo away the dogs if he as much as sees them ten feet away from his path. I didn’t listen to this voice in my head that kept telling me to command the dogs to “kill, kill!”
I wonder what happens when the son outgrows the dad, both in height and maturity.
Then there was this middle-aged lady whose hair, clothes, make-up and demeanor lent an imperial air to the wood-and-bamboo resort.
“Daaahling, we need a serving fork and knives for thaaaat,” she said when I came out with a beef dish during lunch. She didn’t quite say it, she sort of breathed out the words like a speech therapist in the middle of a five-minute orgasm.
No matter where the wind blew, not a strand of her perfectly brown-dyed short hair was astray. She sat with her back straight, feet on the floor, and sometimes I was surprised that her hands were not folded on her lap. Is this woman alive or has King Tutankhamen possessed her body?
“Daaahling, I want salt with thaaaat,” she purred again when I served her pineapples for dessert. Why can’t I be the perfect waitress and anticipate these things, I kept berating myself. Salt! Yes, people eat their pineapple with salt! What’s the matter with me? I swore I’d get her to like me, that at the end of her three-day vacation, she’d adopt me and I’d be her pet. Arf, arf! My master is a sophisticated lady!
The night before she left, she strayed into the dining area where I was chatting with the resort owner. She said she couldn’t sleep and wanted to read. I offered to fix the corner table and chair. I pulled a chair for her. She rewarded me with a very sweet smile. Arf, arf! I would willingly pull a thousand chairs for her.
She left the following morning, wearing jeans and a pair of Nike. “Cool mamma!” I thought. I never thought a pair of Nike could look regal. Would King Tut have worn them?
Then there was this gay guy, part of a “package" tourist group who kept complaining about the food and made the menu seem like a malicious piece of paper containing information that’s all meant to hurt and offend him. At lunch he turned his back on the table and declared he couldn’t even bear to look at the food we had for him. When I brought in the piece de resistance, a king’s serving of prawns, he said “I’m sure they’re too hot for me.” Since it was holy week, I just smiled and postponed murder to a later date. I was glad his group left the following day. Yes, Virginia, there is a God!
Then there was a time the resort’s whole population decided to have breakfast at the same time. And our grand total in the kitchen was seven. I was assigned to the sunny-side-up egg area. I am proud to proclaim that all of them were perfect, thanks to that invention called non-stick frying pan. The local paper did not have a headline about some food poisoning the following day. Again, yes, Virginia, there is a God!
That’s why I hate those coup plotters. But that’s another story.
This grand year of our Lord 2005, I spent holy week washing dishes and waiting tables in a resort where I have been a permanent fixture the past seven years. I am considered part of the family. It’s in the island of Mindoro If you’ve seen pictures of the Sipadan dive resort where the Abu Sayyaf kidnapped those foreigners, that’s how my favorite resort looks like. Only “my” resort is better. It has a lot of flowers in the garden, behind it are the craggy parts of a mountain, and at night I have the sea breeze on one window, and the mountain breeze on the other.
Holy week is the time of the year resorts in the Philippines jack up their prices to the maximum limit of human tolerance, and I really can’t afford them. This time of the year, I usually find myself sleeping with the resort’s staff or the resort manager. Of course, they’re all female. I don’t eat meat during holy week. Get it? Come to think of it, if that’s the way I’d put it, it means I have been a vegetarian for…ewww…never mind.
I had no problems with the dishes, never mind if the stack was often higher than me and my hands were white and wrinkly by the time I finished. It was those contacts with other humans called “tourists” that I found amusing.
The first one reminded me of ducks when I first saw him. He waddled, not walked. Maybe it was the excess in poundage and the shortage in self-confidence. He used his two-year old son as a shield. He kept talking to the boy in English, and the son could only answer in the vernacular. In two minutes I was asking myself “what’s going on here?” He wouldn’t let the son walk barefoot in the sand, warning him of “tetanus”. He refused to let the child touch the resort’s Labradors, and shrieked (yes, a man can shriek) when the boy tried to pet one. The dining area’s early dinner population was alarmed, then sniggered like a snake, head first then tail later. He demanded that we shoo away the dogs if he as much as sees them ten feet away from his path. I didn’t listen to this voice in my head that kept telling me to command the dogs to “kill, kill!”
I wonder what happens when the son outgrows the dad, both in height and maturity.
Then there was this middle-aged lady whose hair, clothes, make-up and demeanor lent an imperial air to the wood-and-bamboo resort.
“Daaahling, we need a serving fork and knives for thaaaat,” she said when I came out with a beef dish during lunch. She didn’t quite say it, she sort of breathed out the words like a speech therapist in the middle of a five-minute orgasm.
No matter where the wind blew, not a strand of her perfectly brown-dyed short hair was astray. She sat with her back straight, feet on the floor, and sometimes I was surprised that her hands were not folded on her lap. Is this woman alive or has King Tutankhamen possessed her body?
“Daaahling, I want salt with thaaaat,” she purred again when I served her pineapples for dessert. Why can’t I be the perfect waitress and anticipate these things, I kept berating myself. Salt! Yes, people eat their pineapple with salt! What’s the matter with me? I swore I’d get her to like me, that at the end of her three-day vacation, she’d adopt me and I’d be her pet. Arf, arf! My master is a sophisticated lady!
The night before she left, she strayed into the dining area where I was chatting with the resort owner. She said she couldn’t sleep and wanted to read. I offered to fix the corner table and chair. I pulled a chair for her. She rewarded me with a very sweet smile. Arf, arf! I would willingly pull a thousand chairs for her.
She left the following morning, wearing jeans and a pair of Nike. “Cool mamma!” I thought. I never thought a pair of Nike could look regal. Would King Tut have worn them?
Then there was this gay guy, part of a “package" tourist group who kept complaining about the food and made the menu seem like a malicious piece of paper containing information that’s all meant to hurt and offend him. At lunch he turned his back on the table and declared he couldn’t even bear to look at the food we had for him. When I brought in the piece de resistance, a king’s serving of prawns, he said “I’m sure they’re too hot for me.” Since it was holy week, I just smiled and postponed murder to a later date. I was glad his group left the following day. Yes, Virginia, there is a God!
Then there was a time the resort’s whole population decided to have breakfast at the same time. And our grand total in the kitchen was seven. I was assigned to the sunny-side-up egg area. I am proud to proclaim that all of them were perfect, thanks to that invention called non-stick frying pan. The local paper did not have a headline about some food poisoning the following day. Again, yes, Virginia, there is a God!
posted by atticus at
9:19 PM
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