Sex Tourism in Asia: Part 2 – The Philippines (Sabang, Puerto Galera)

In my last post, I had initially intended to talk about the bizarre happenings of “One Night in Phuket” (Mad hair-flinging! Wet swimsuit contests! Bums on heads! A Slow Loris!?!), but then got a bit side-tracked (oops), and inadvertently began what I feel should now be a series of posts on the topic of Sex Tourism in Asia.

I started off with Hong Kong and a little insight into the Red Light District of Wan Chai, which is where I lived last year. This is Part 2. The night I was kiss-attacked by a stripper.

Well, you know what they say… there’s always a first time for everything. ;-)

Hmm, where to begin? Well, it was the last weekend of June / the first weekend of July and I had agreed to come along on an impromptu weekend getaway with my friend Paul (a serial traveller…seriously, I think he has a problem!) and his friend Tiffany who was visiting for the week. It didn't take a lot of convincing, to be honest. Paul sold it to me straightaway with the promise of off-season sun, sea, sand; possible dancing; and cheap lodgings, food and booze – and all this only a short 2 hour flight from Hong Kong. Given that it had also been the end of a really tough month at work, for both of us, the prospect of relaxing on a quiet beach far away from the endless smog and commotion of the city was most welcome.

I was quite excited as I had never been to the Philippines before. However, if viewing the Philippines through the narrow lens of Hong Kong, one might be encouraged to surmise that it is a country filled primarily with maids, sex workers and cover bands – a poor nation primed for servility and the entertainment of its foreign, rich counterparts. Which is, of course, a preposterous and pretty offensive presumption, but I would say this is how the Filipino influence is felt most strongly in HK.

In one of my English lessons, for example, where we were discussing other cultures, my students uniformly failed to identify the Philippine flag when presented with it, and most if not all of their contact with and knowledge of Filipino people originated with their Filipina “helpers” or “maids”. I still struggle to distinguish the difference between the two, but many families in HK have a maid (or helper) who may live with them, and whose primary function is to look after the domestic chores. They can also often be found helping to look after the children, packing their lunches and chaperoning them to and from school and other extra-curricular activities such as after-school tuition: part cleaner, part surrogate mum. As far as I could tell, however, these kids barely knew the first thing about their maids. I sometimes wondered if they even knew their names.

One time, I had the misfortune of witnessing the absurd, almost comical, yet deeply unsettling sight of a grown woman on the MTR cringing and cowering in fear as she was bollocked by her young charge: a precocious, pint-sized 9 year old, who was screaming at her in a fit of rage. Why? I didn't really know…probably because she forgot to pack something or other in his backpack. Either way, this kid saw it fit to make his fury known, publicly, so righteous was he in his anger; and she, meanwhile, head cowed, quietly accepted the humiliation. I personally don’t think that’s any way to talk to another person, no matter your beef, and especially not in public; but the setup of this particular exchange – young vs. old, rich vs. poor, boy vs. woman, master vs. servant, Hong Kong vs. Philippines – engendered an odd reaction in me. Aside from feelings of mild horror and disgust, I felt embarrassed, and a bit complicit, as if I were somehow connected to that child, or as if this one exchange somehow exemplified a lot of shit that is wrong in the world. Then I realised that it was probably some weird remnant of colonial guilt (despite me, myself, being the child of South Asian immigrants – go figure). Whatever the reasons, it’s a feeling which I found cropped up a lot throughout my travels across Asia.

For me, though, my enduring perception of the Philippines, Hong Kong style was this:

Sunday afternoon at the HSBC Main Building (HQ) in Central

Every Sunday, the streets of Central Hong Kong undergo a transformation, as foreign domestic helpers come out in their thousands to celebrate their one day off. Huge swathes of open pavement and road are suddenly occupied by women – setting up shop in HSBC, picnicking outside Prada, meandering outside the Mandarin Oriental. At the steps of these chic temples to consumerism and capitalism, hewn from brick, stone, marble and steel, they erect their own – cardboard dens, enclosing solidarity, kinship and shared experience. For one day each week they come out in their thousands and stake their claim to the city which, for many, has become their new home.

One downside to this is that getting round town on foot on a Sunday in Hong Kong is a bitch, but I genuinely didn't mind because these women just seemed to be enjoying themselves so much, and it was lovely to see that so out in the open.

And now, I was actually going to the Philippines for myself. I wasn't sure what to expect or what new, enduring perceptions I might come back with…

*

After 3 hours on a bus from the capital, Manila, 1 hour on a ferry, and several cans of chilled San Miguel later, we finally arrived into the beach resort town of Sabang in Puerto Galera. First impressions were good:

It wasn't quite the white-sand paradise I had envisaged in my head, but it was still beautiful in its way, and blissfully calm.

We were lucky though, because in spite of the threat of thunderstorms, the beauty of Sabang definitely revealed itself further the following day, when the sun broke through the clouds and the sea transformed from a muted grey-blue to a shimmering blue-green:

White sand!

It turned out to be the perfect day for a boat trip, and that’s exactly what we did.

Overriding thoughts at this point: Beat THAT, Hong Kong!

Later that evening, as we were trying to decide how best to spend our Saturday night in Sabang, we tucked in to a makeshift feast of fresh avocados, fresh mangoes, spicy peanuts, Doritos, Pringles and more San Miguel (so many cans…urgh).

Yep. Really.

Perhaps the sun did something to our energy levels, but it took us AGES to mobilise. In fact, if I remember correctly, our method of getting ourselves geared up and pumped for a night on the town consisted of lying on the bed in a guacamole beer haze, watching back-to-back episodes of Got to Dance. Now, Tiffany herself is a dancer and I, y’know, dabble occasionally, with the odd ho-dance explosion here and there…

WOOO!! – Swindlers, Wan Chai, HK

 …so we were loving it. Paul, on the other hand, remained skeptical and made his reservations loudly known. But even he got sucked in, and in fact turned out to be the most involved competitor in our new drinking game which basically required you to guess which judges you thought would star an act, letting them through, and which wouldn't:

Adam Garcia, Kimberley Wyatt and Ashley Banjo

Paul thought himself quite the expert on Kimberley Wyatt’s judging style, priding himself on his psychic abilities to predict her star-giving powers; but this meant that he was especially irate if and when he got it wrong!

Eventually, after maybe the third episode, we thought, bloody hell, what are we doing, we’re in the Philippines and we should probably head into town and have a few more beers with other real life people rather than sit inside on a Saturday night vegetating in front of reality talent shows – I mean, that’s what I do in the UK!

So after a quick change and yet another beer, off we went. It’s a good job we took a little compact flash light with us, because the walk “into town” included stretches of the beach that were in pitch darkness. We also had to duck into one bar (which was more a piece of decking under a plastic umbrella outside someone’s house) at one point to avoid a sudden thunderstorm. As we sipped our San Miguels and waited for the rain to pass, a young girl and a cat hovered in the doorway, eyeing us with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. I felt a bit uncomfortable, like we were intruding on their personal space, so was relieved when the storm finally eased and we could be on our way.

Sabang town centre is not that big really, just a maze of interlocking streets adjacent to the beach away from the waterfront. Drawn by the sound of live music and the lure of disco lights, we entered a bar (the name of which, once again, escapes me) and perched at a high table. While Paul got the first round of drinks in, Tiffany and I surveyed our surroundings. Directly in front of us was the entertainment: 3 Filipina ladies in matching white outfits belting out Western pop songs:

Admittedly not the best picture, but you get the general idea

All of a sudden I flinched as I realised someone was touching me – a lingering, creepy trace of a finger down my arm. I spun round to face the culprit, ready to dish out a torrent of abuse. To my relief, it was only Tiffany, but the look on my face must have conveyed my surprise. She quickly explained that it was a bit like a game, a tradition almost, that she and Paul had, whereby every time you spotted a creepy old white guy with a really young, tiny Asian woman you let the other know with the subtle creepy touch. Like a secret club, but not so much exciting as depressing.

Paul returned. We filled him in. We looked around. We touched each other, creepily, once, twice… I think, in total, five times.  

I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t sure if it was the cheap, low-grade vodka or the overwhelming stench of inequality and desperation I suddenly found myself in. Over to my right, I spotted another one: an old, white-haired, overweight man wearing shorts that barely contained his bulk, his white t-shirt straining against the bulge of his belly, his cap perched on top of the wiry nest of his hair. He was touching the arm of a tiny Filipina woman, who was vacuum-packed into a pair of faded jeans and a tight black tank top. She didn’t look young but it was hard to tell. As she flirted with this foreigner’s fragile ego and closed the distance between them, fitting snugly in the gap between his now parted legs, as his large white hands enveloped her slender arms, I had to fight the urge to vom. I conjectured – perhaps unfairly, perhaps not – that this gentleman hadn’t had much luck with the ladies in his native country (USA was my guess), and, driven by loneliness and desperation, had ventured abroad; and where his unpopularity and lack of social skills, there, had failed, he figured his money would succeed, here, instead. The woman, meanwhile, I imagined was almost certainly motivated by his money alone, hoping to cash in on that desperation, send some more money back, perhaps, to a husband or kids hundreds of miles away, put a son or daughter through school. I found it hard to entertain the notion that she was enjoying herself, no matter what her body language indicated. Maybe she, too, felt a combination of pity and revulsion as I did right then, but she was too professional to show it.

There was only one thing to do. I creepy-touched Paul and Tiffany so they could share my pain. After a collective groan and a shudder, we buried our heads in our drinks, succumbing to a deep, shared belief that alcohol was the answer to whatever discomfort we were feeling.

It was then that I spied a hitherto-unnoticed doorway at the far end of the bar. There was a curtain. Memories of Hong Kong flashed through my mind. Through it, the intermittent flash of multi-coloured lasers beckoned: a portal into another world. Men, clothed in black, guarded the gateway. Some people went in, disappearing into the bowels within. As they disturbed the curtain, we were treated to another tantalising glimpse of lights and music.

“LOOK!” I cried, half jumping out of my seat in a fit of excitement. “I think there’s another room through there! LET’S GO I WANT TO DANCE!” (The lady trio had long since finished their set and nothing much was happening on the music front in our part of the bar.)

Paul looked over to where I was pointing and announced excitedly that he believed it was, in fact, the entrance to a strip club.

“Do you want to go check it out?” he asked me and Tiffany, doubt creeping into his voice. I think he thought maybe it wasn’t such a good idea and sensed that maybe we agreed. We looked at each other. We looked down at our empty glasses. We looked at the doorway.

“YEAH! Why not?” I said. In all honesty, I don’t know what came over me. The chances that this would be a good idea, given what we had already witnessed in this den of horror and iniquity, were slim to none. But the pull of the bright lights, the promise of a ho-dance explosion (mine or otherwise), the alcohol flowing freely through my veins, and my own morbid curiosity created a potent cocktail of recklessness.

“Yeah,” Tiffany agreed, “let’s go!”

Decision made.

Turned out Paul was right – it was a strip club. This one was less of an anti-climax than Hong Kong, where the “club” behind the mysterious black curtain had been little more than a small sliver of a room with a ledge and three or four bored looking Chinese girls standing around in their underwear sending text messages on their phones.

Paul glanced over at me and snorted. I must have looked quite the noob; head lolling around in wonder at all the naked flesh on display, eyes wide as saucers, jaw hanging gracelessly open. The truth is I’d always wanted to go to a strip club, just to see what it was like. And here, at last, I was. There was a proper stage, with 2 poles on either side, and seating emanating out in semi-circles. For a real eyeful you had the high stools right at the front, fringing the stage, but I decided I wasn’t quite ready for that yet, so I suggested we sit at a table a little further from the action, towards the mirrored wall at the back of the room.

On stage at that moment was an older-looking lady, perhaps in her late 30s/early 40s, performing a very controlled dance routine using one of the poles. She was naked, very fit as far as I could tell, and performing sexual gymnastic feats of wonder.

I was still trying to figure out where to look and how to act. As to the first, it was obvious to me that I was meant to be eyeing up the laydeez in all their naked/half-naked splendour, but then in doing that I just felt like a creepy perve. I reflected that, perhaps, this is the reason why I don’t go to strip clubs. That’s like going to ASDA for your weekly shop and refusing to go near the shelves. Pointless. You may as well just go home.

Perhaps due to our earlier Got to Dance binge, I decided to settle for the following approach: judging each girl based on the attractiveness of (1) her attire, (2) her figure, (3) her face, (4) her moves and (5) her general demeanour (we all seemed to agree that a smile and genuine engagement with the audience was an effective counter for any shortfall in categories (1), (2), (3) and (4)).

In my head, I gave this first lady a star; she was through to the next round. She seemed confident, self-assured, and very bendy. Plus, she actually used the pole. Unfortunately, however, she set a high standard which was not to be matched by those who followed.

This is how the rest of the “strip show” went: an “act” (an individual or a pair) followed by a pair of “interim dancers” followed by an “act”, etc. Thing is, most of the “acts” that followed the first gold-star lady were, frankly, a bit rubbish. Almost no-one else actually used the pole, and in the absence of pole-dancing there was very little of proper dancing to enjoy either. So that was a red star from me. With little in the way of performance to judge, we had to settle for bog-standard objectification. “I like her boobs,” I would interject. “Mm,” Paul, or Tiffany, or both would add in agreement. And then we’d all take another sip of our double spirit and mixers.

Worse, though, than the acts themselves were the so-called “interim dancers”. Their role was like the MC at a comedy club. Entertaining filler. Warming up the audience in between the main events. In practice, however, they had about as much entertaining power, presence and charisma as the heavy, motionless, red curtain that cloaks the stage during a play’s interval.

It actually became a joke between the three of us, so flagrantly disinterested and uncoordinated were these girls. In later weeks and months, in Hong Kong, I would whip out my rubbish interim dancer impression, shuffling dejectedly from side to side, miming one hand noncommittally holding on to a pole, staring into the distance pretending to check myself out in a far-off mirror – much to the amusement of my fellow drinking buddies, and Paul most of all, because he had been there, and he knew the truth of my imitation.

But you had to laugh, because if you didn’t, you might cry. These girls, that we so flagrantly mocked, couldn’t have been much older than 19, maybe 20. They lacked commitment and conviction because they looked exactly how I imagine they felt: that they’d rather be anywhere else than where they were, doing anything else other than what they doing – namely, parading around in their smalls and exposing themselves to a male-dominated, leering, cheering audience who (mostly) cared little for their situation or their individuality. They probably weren’t being paid an awful lot either, so why bother?

I tried not to think too hard about it and bought another drink. Instead, with every lacklustre dancer who came on stage, we wondered aloud why they weren’t putting more effort it. We moved to the front and sat by the stage; we tipped the ones whom we felt made an effort, and we ignored the ones that didn’t. There, we agreed, was the incentive to perform, to look like you were enjoying yourself – you could make a lot more money out of the pliant, drunken public – out of us.

The next girl who came on stage, however, got all of our attention. Part of the reason for this was the pillar-box red of her bikini. The main reason, though, was her smile. It might have been nervousness, because there was definitely an element of shyness and embarrassment in her demeanour, which we all found endearing, but she turned that into laughter, a sort of playful abandon, and she engaged with the audience. She waved at people in the crowd, she smiled. As she unhooked her bikini top she erupted into a fit of nervous giggles, with her hand over her mouth. She was also very attractive. Lust and pity is quite a weird combination, but I definitely think there was some of that going round the room.

Paul got a crisp note ready, clearly feeling like she deserved some recognition for her performance. He placed it carefully in her cleavage. Tiffany and I readied our notes and folded them gingerly into her G-string. We smiled up at her as we did so, and she smiled back in appreciation.

“Awww,” Tiffany and I said to one another, both feeling like we wanted to take her home with us, or at least be her friend. “She’s hot,” added Paul. “Mm,” we agreed.

Our new favourite dancer ran off stage, grateful for our attention but clearly still embarrassed, and was swiftly enveloped in a bear hug by a pair of loud British women whom she may or may not have known. Friends or otherwise, I reckon they had similar sentiments to me and Tiff.

The show appeared to be winding down by this point. We looked at our watches: 1 am. All of us were surprised that we had somehow managed to while away 3 hours in this den of bad dancing and despair.

“I’m hungry,” I said. No big surprise, really, to anyone who knows me. “Shall we go find food?”

The others agreed, so we shuffled tipsily out, comparing notes on the girls we’d just seen, and were gratified to find a burger van just outside. The smell of caramelised onions and chargrilled meat inspired in me the kind of lust that men experience in strip clubs: raw, immediate, unbridled. I wanted that burger and I wanted it now. My pupils dilated. I licked my lips in sweet anticipation. But there was a queue and only one burger man on duty, so we had to mill around, and wait.

Patience is not my strong point, especially when there are 1am burgers at stake, but I did my best. Across the road there was an open air karaoke bar, and some locals were blaring out a hideously out-of-tune rendition of some Filipino pop ballad.  

  

The strip bar/club was closing, and the girls started to emerge from the front door in dribs and drabs. We conferred in hushed tones with one another, trying to see if we recognised anyone.

And there she was. The girl in red. Still smiling, sharing hugs with her friends and colleagues. As she turned to the road, we grinned and waved at her, not expecting her to respond or to recognise us.

To our surprise, she bounded over.

“Hi!” I said, enthusiastically, as if she were a long lost friend. I don’t remember exactly what I said but it was something along the lines of: “We came to see the show. You were great!”

We exchanged minor pleasantries and asked her if there was somewhere we could go for music and dancing. She pointed to a club a few doors down and told us she’d be there a bit later.

“Hey, MM! You coming?” shouted one of her friends.

“They call me MM, in the club,” she explained, “but my name is Michelle.”

“Nice to meet, you Michelle,” we said, and told her we hoped to see her later, though not expecting to. Then in a flash, she was gone.

*

On Michelle’s recommendation we checked out the club down the road. It was on the first floor of what felt like a converted warehouse. It was pretty spacious, with high ceilings and dark wooden floors (soon to be sticky, I thought). To the left, there was a large, square raised platform for dancing with a balconied viewing gallery up top, and a live band set up in the far corner; to the right, spectator seating; and at the back, an open air balcony looking out across the beach and the sea beyond. It was just a pity you couldn’t really see anything.

We took our seats and perused the cheap drinks menu. The band played a selection of instantly forgettable songs, since I can’t tell you even one, and then the DJ took over.

About half an hour in, we spotted a familiar face.

“Michelle!” we yelled, beckoning her to come over and sit with us. Tiffany and I nudged Paul childishly telling him he ought to chat her up and that she was really fit and that maybe he was in with a shot. This was a mistake, as we soon found out.

She pulled up a chair and joined our happy little band. Paul asked her, and us, if we would like a drink but she shot him a dirty look that said she wasn’t interested in drinking anything if he were the one buying.

“Jeeze,” I thought, “what’s he done?”

Unperturbed, however, he went to the bar and left us to it.

With Paul temporarily out of the picture, the conversation soon descended into a girly mutual love fest whereby Michelle told us how much she loved our hair/eyes/skin colour/boobs whilst bemoaning her own shortcomings in these areas, which we then rebutted in the strongest possible terms by telling her how gorgeous we thought she was (which we did). But seriously, though, she was really hung up on my skin (which baffled me because I could swear we were practically the same colour) and Tiffany’s boobs (which, to be fair, are awesome and probably more ample than the average Filipina bosom).  

When Paul returned, he kept a low profile and just listened to the conversation, probably responding to the thinly veiled hostility radiating from Michelle and therefore deeming it wise to keep his contribution to a minimum. At one point, however, I think he actually dared to add something nice and complimentary in support of what we were saying, like, “Yeah, you having nothing to worry about, you’re gorgeous!”

Bad move.

“YOU can shut the fuck up!” she snapped.

My mouth fell open a little in shock. Her words carried such force and such venom that she may as well have slapped him in the face. Thankfully Paul, a seasoned traveller and generally sensible person, knew better than to take it personally, and as she was pulled away by one of her friends from the club, we all reflected quietly on what could have possibly happened to her to make her feel this way. Clearly, it didn’t matter what Paul did or didn’t say, or whether he said anything at all; the fact that he was a man taking an interest in her was enough to damn him forevermore. In the club, she was all smiles, but out of it, it was war. The spectre of exploitation and abuse lingered uneasily in the air.

As I sipped my rum and coke, I watched Michelle let loose on the dance floor. There was no shyness now. There was abandon, but it was not playful. Instead, there was fury there, barely repressed, and frustration too.

A song came on that both Tiffany and I loved (Shakira’s “Waka Waka”, maybe? Rihanna’s “S&M”?). We jumped up instinctively, obeying the deep carnal desire to get our boogie on. Paul was happier sitting this one out, so Tiff and I leapt into the fray, shimmying and shaking our asses like there was no tomorrow.

I saw Michelle and went to dance next to her. She was teaching me a “work” move, and I was a willing pupil. We body rolled and gyrated together. I may have ground her leg at one point in a silly female solidarity kind of way; I’m not sure, my memory’s a little hazy. I think she told me again that I was beautiful.

And then she kissed me.

I was definitely not expecting it, but she just sort of grabbed my face with both hands and planted one on me, square on the lips. It wasn’t a friendly little peck, either; I think she’d intended it to be a full-on snog. She was quite forceful about it too, for someone so slight, so I was doubly taken aback. I think I tried to make it clear somehow that I wasn’t that way inclined, because I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression, but the moment quickly passed and she was off again, leaving me standing there thinking, “What the fook just happened??”

I wondered how many other Michelles there were in Puerto Galera; young women trapped, looking for a way out, racked with insecurities and filled with hate for the opposite sex.

*

At 3am, the music died down and the lights came up. We were being turfed out, back onto the street. I idly wondered whether the burger man would still be there.

Outside the club, Michelle found us again. “Tiffany! Alaka!” she cried, happy to see us. She shot Paul another venomous look.

The conversation returned to girly, superficial stuff like hair and make-up and skincare and boobs. Well, I say superficial, but she was genuinely enthused and told us how she would really love to give us a makeover (I hadn’t made all that much of an effort that night, to be honest, so it’s not like I took any offence).

Surgically and cleanly excised from the conversation, like fat trimmed from a rasher of bacon, Paul absented himself and told us he was going to go sit on the beach for a while until we were done. I said OK but I wasn’t sure when that would be; all I knew was that I didn’t want to risk ending the conversation prematurely because there was just so much more I wanted to know. I was worried of breaking the spell, of Michelle flying away or one of us turning into a pumpkin or something. I remember feeling that it was important we stay, and I think Tiffany felt the same.

Completely unaffected by Paul’s departure, Michelle continued fussing over us; asking Tiffany what colour eye shadow she liked to wear, asking me to take off my glasses so she could see my eyes and my face better, telling me I should really have a side parting rather than a centre parting because a centre parting was just so boring.

Tiffany and I didn’t mind being living dolls if it meant this…continuing this conversation, as equals, as young women, with opinions and thoughts and feelings, hopes and dreams. We wanted to know more about her and she seemed to trust us enough to tell us. Out there on the street, as drunken men and women staggered past us on their way home, we learned that she was 21 years old. We learned that she had parents and a 17 year old brother back home in Manila, and that she had been sent out here to Puerto Galera to earn money for the family. We learned that she was sending money back home to help her brother get into college, to give him a good education. We learned that she lived here in Sabang and that she had only been here for a few months. We asked her what her passion was in life, what she wanted to be, if she had the opportunity to do what she really wanted. She told us she wanted to be a fashion designer.

But the thing I vividly remember her saying, over and over again, was this:

“In the club, I’m MM. But out here, I’m not MM. I’m different. That’s not really me. This is me.” (As she said this, she placed both hands across her chest, above her heart, for emphasis.) “I’m Michelle. You understand?”

“Yes, we understand,” we said, trying to give her the reassurance and validation she so desperately craved. “It’s just your job,” we told her. “We know it’s what you do, but it’s not who you are.”

I felt so awful. Hours before I’d been objectifying her just like everyone else, just as I’d been encouraged to behave, and here she was, begging us to see her for who she really was, as if she herself was no longer sure anymore. As if she were looking to us to tell her, to remind her, that she was better than this; that this was not all there was, nor all she could ever be.

As we were talking, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that two men, who were walking down the street towards us, had slowed and stopped on the corner. They looked at Michelle, and looked at us, and muttered to each other, sniggering, under their breath. I could see Michelle’s eyes darting back and forth, from us to them. Did she know these guys? I tried to get a better look at them. They looked Filipino. Young men, maybe mid 20s. Maybe from around here. Michelle didn’t seem to acknowledge them though, and their continued presence began to bother me.

A few minutes passed and they had still not moved on. They appeared to be waiting for something; probably for us to leave, so they could get Michelle on her own. I began to resent them for their rudeness, their intrusion on our conversation to which they had no claim, no right. I resented them for their presumption that we would possibly leave Michelle alone, with them. I could feel their eyes on us and all I wanted was for them to go away.

I found that the hostility Michelle had shown towards Paul earlier, towards everything that he, in her mind, represented, was mirrored and amplified in the hostility I felt in that moment towards the two hangers on, whispering and smirking just yards away from us. I am not a confrontational person by nature, but I think it goes a long way towards explaining why I did what I did next.

I turned to them, looked them both in the eye, and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, is there something I can do for you?”

I was using my best British manners but my voice carried a warning, and there was steel underneath. I think they heard it, too, because they didn’t give me an intelligible reply, just shook their heads sheepishly and looked confused. I wondered for a second if they even spoke any English but it didn’t matter too much because they seemed to understand; and even if they didn’t, the fact that I had openly addressed them immediately changed the power dynamic.

“Are you…waiting for something?” I continued, pointedly.

“No,” one of them mumbled, shrugging his shoulders. I raised my eyebrows, as if to say, “Right, well…?” Thankfully, they took the hint, and slinked away into the night.

In hindsight, it was probably not wise to risk provoking two grown men – strangers – at 4am on a Saturday night when there were few other people around, but it was a risk I was willing to take. I wasn’t being inflammatory, I was merely being polite and asking after their intentions; plus I had the feeling that they wouldn’t think it wise to provoke a pair of foreign nationals in case of reprisal and the involvement of the police.

Once they’d gone, Michelle seemed to visibly relax, as did I, and she happily returned to fussing over our hair and telling us what make-up we should wear to match our eye colour and skin tones.

It was really late by now, coming up to 4am. The burger man had shut up his van and gone home, and the last of the clubs were closing up too. The streets were steadily thinning of people and lights were going out along the road.

By now, Paul had long gone, having tired of waiting and grabbed the key off us earlier, and was probably fast asleep in bed. We knew we had to get back, but we were unwilling to leave. Our little chinwag in the street had become a kind of cocoon, and we felt that as long as we kept talking to Michelle, nothing bad would happen to her, and neither of us need return to our real lives. We could just talk and share and laugh and everything would be fine.

I think she sensed this tension and awkwardness and the fact that we were thinking maybe it was time to go because she said, “Wait. Please. There’s something I would like to give you.”

Tiffany and I looked at each other. This was unexpected; but then so was this whole evening.

“I want to give you a gift,” Michelle continued. “Please. I just need to go back to my apartment. It’s just over there,” she said, pointing down the street. “It’s not far. Will you wait?”

“Er…” we offered hesitantly, not knowing what to do.

“Please? Just wait here. I’ll be really quick. Promise me you won’t go anywhere? You’ll wait?”

We protested and told her she really didn’t have to give us anything, that just talking to us was enough and that we’d really enjoyed her taking the time to chat to us, but she wasn’t having any of it. So, not wanting to let her down, we agreed to wait.

“Wait here,” she insisted again, with her hands outstretched and another winning smile as she backed away from us.

“Shall we come with you?” we asked, our brows furrowed in concern, but she said no. We soon saw why, because her flat was really not far at all, and within visible distance of where we were standing. She struggled with her keys for a moment, laughing at her clumsiness, and then disappeared inside.

We waited, having absolutely no idea what this “gift” might be, but feeling utterly humbled by her kindness.

A couple of minutes later, she emerged, beaming, and ran back to us with a black and gold striped carrier bag in her hand.

“I want to give you this as a gift,” she said, with one hand resting solemnly on top of the bag.

The curiosity was killing us. “What is it?” we asked.

She gave us a little cheeky smile, like an indulgent parent on Christmas Eve telling her kids to be patient.

“Wait,” she said again, surreptitiously opening the bag and peering inside. She looked at Tiffany, then into the bag; then at me, then into the bag again. Her face was a picture of concentration, weighing up her options. I, on the other hand, was completely bewildered, not knowing what the hell was going on, but quite enjoying the suspense nevertheless.

“OK,” she said. She had made her decision. She reached into the bag and pulled out another bag (clear, polythene) containing a piece of folded silk material – white with large purple flowers on it. She held it out to Tiffany, double-checked with one more look down to the material and up to her, and said, “Here. This one is for you.”

Tiffany took the bundle, still not sure what it was – a scarf perhaps? – and opened it out.

“Oh my god, it’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. It wasn’t a scarf at all. It was a dress.

“And this one is for you,” Michelle said, turning to me this time. She reached into the bag and pulled out another clear, polythene bag, but this one containing material banded with blue, white and pink.

I thought the naked ladies accepting dollar bills with their hoo-has was shocking, but tonight, this moment won, hands down. 

Michelle was beaming from ear to ear as she watched our surprised faces appraising our new gifts. We held the dresses up against ourselves and thanked her profusely. She seemed pleased with her choice.

“This dress suits your colouring,” she said to Tiffany. “And this one is better for you,” she told me. We both nodded in agreement.

“Will you…,” she began, suddenly bashful and apologetic, “will you try them on for me so I can see how it looks?”

“Yeah! Of course!” we replied, obligingly, feeling like it was the least we could do. Looking around for somewhere sheltered enough to do a quick change, we settled upon the burger man’s table, behind which has a thick blue curtain we could use as a screen.

Michelle was so excited to be curating her own mini little fashion show on the streets of Sabang. There was no audience, but it didn’t matter. It was a private show. It was ours and ours alone.

She was even more pleased when I told her I had my camera with me and insisted I take some shots. She didn’t even need to ask…

Tiffany modelling her new gift

Michelle and Tiffany

Tiffany, Michelle and me, modelling my new dress

Me, sans bra and glasses with makeshift side parting (all at Michelle’s request)

She asked us if we were staying long in Sabang but we told her, sadly, that our ferry was leaving tomorrow lunchtime.

“Which one?” she said. “I’ll come and say goodbye!”

“You will?” we said, wanting her to, but not expecting that she would.

She nodded enthusiastically and gave us both a big hug. We wanted to exchange contact details but none of us had any phones or pens or paper to hand.

“You won’t forget me?” she said. “Now, whenever you wear your dress, you will remember me?”

“Never,” we replied to the first, “Always” to the last.

We hugged her again, and we thanked her again. We wished her luck in her quest to be a fashion designer. We uttered hollow platitudes about following her dreams and believing herself, yet deep-down knowing that the next night she would be back on stage, hiding behind smiles and her own nakedness, encouraging unwanted advances, and harbouring a deep-seated hatred for menkind.

*

On the walk home, along the beach, in the darkness, Tiffany and I reflected on our night; on Michelle’s excitement, enthusiasm, and kindness; on her eagerness to make a connection with another person that meant something; on the depressing inevitability of her situation which mirrored thousands of other young women all across the Philippines, and Asia, and beyond.

We wanted to do something, to rescue them all, but knew the ridiculousness of our naivety.

Worse still, I thought, in frequenting that bar in the first place, had we merely added to the problem? Because as long as there is demand, there will be supply to meet it. I felt a bit sick at my complicity in the systematic exploitation of young girls.

“But it’s their choice,” some might say, “or the choice of their families.”

Perhaps. But surely exploitation and abuse should never be a willing choice. It’s the kind of empty “choice” borne out of the lack of any other viable option. There’s nothing empowering about that.   

Round and round went these thoughts in my head, but this time I had no alcohol left to drown them out.

*

The next day, the three of us boarded our ferry, nursing a mild hangover and aversion to bright sunlight. Tiffany and I kept our eye out for Michelle but we couldn’t see her. It was already 1pm but the ferry didn’t seem to be making any moves out of the harbour.

More people boarded, climbing over our legs with heavy bags in tow. I wondered if any of these people were in the bar last night – fellow partners in crime. There was still no sign of Michelle.

15 minutes later, the engine started. And that’s when we saw her. She wasn’t wearing red this time, just jeans and a black tank top and a pair of large, dark, sunglasses. She waved at us from the shore, and we waved back. We exchanged smiles but I could tell that we all felt something was different, that something had changed in the light of a new day. The magic of the previous night – the liberating social lubricant of the alcohol, the quiet privacy of the empty, moonlit street, the seductive fantasy that we were really just the same – had gone. We were going back to our real lives – our lives of privilege, and relative ease; our first world worries; our short impromptu breaks to the Philippines just because we could – and she was going back to hers.

We wanted to go talk to her or give her one last hug but it was too late; the boat was about to leave. Tiffany scrabbled around in search of a piece of paper and a pen, hoping to at least give her an email address before we left. We waved her over, and she tottered down the pier in her 6 inch heels. Just as the boat was cutting its moorings, Tiffany leant out with her outstretched arm and handed over the little piece of folded paper – the promise of continued contact, of friendship.

She told us to take care, and not to forget her.

I knew then that we’d probably never hear from her again. To this day, as far as I know, there have been no emails. I often think about her and wonder how she’s doing; if she’s still working at the club in Sabang, or if she’s following her dream to become a fashion designer.

I don’t think I ever shall hear from her. But I have kept my promise. I haven’t forgotten. And I know that every time I wear that dress that she so kindly gave me, I will remember her.