T to the fourth power y

People love making acronyms (PLMA!). But when you're in a different country, even something as simple as an acronym can make a conversation completely incomprehensible. I've mastered the blank stare whenever I hear an unfamiliar acronym now - especially since I've realised that some of them are made out of words/phrases that don’t necessarily make sense on their own, let alone when they’re shortened.

Some acronyms are fair enough:

Jason: I saw you walking past UV the other day.

In Australia, UV is a type of ray. It comes from the sun and burns the crap out of you. Seemed a little odd for someone to be able to see a UV ray, let alone remark on the fact that I was walking past one.

But as it turns out, UV = University of the Visayas. Perfectly understandable, shortening the name of a wordy institution is pretty commonplace.

Some acronyms that are a little more dubious:

Jovey: Rezza wants you to model for her photography assignment. What’s your TF?

TF? The hell does that mean?

Jovey: *after some time of awkward silence* Your talent fee.

TF = wages or asking price. Weird, but I can see the connection. It’s just really awkward having someone ask you, “What’s your talent fee?” as opposed to, “How much do you want to get paid?” Essentially saying you are charging someone a fee for your “talent” seems unbelievably up yourself.

Some acronyms they may as well have just used actual words for:

Jovey: Yeah, Sam has been working with Merah for ten years, and we all know he has a HD towards her.

She was used to me by now, and stopped to concept-check.

Jovey: Do you know what HD is?

Me: High definition?

Jovey: Hidden desire.

HD = crush. This one just seems needlessly dramatic. “Hey Taylor, I hear you have a HD for Jenny?” Potentially, it’s just a euphemism for hard-on.

The best of all is when they shorten things that are already acronyms:

Me: SM (Supermall), please.

Taxi driver: Sim?

Me: SM. The mall.

Taxi driver: *correcting me* Sim.

Sim = SM. Clearly, the two syllables are still far too much trouble to say.

Weird questions I get asked

"How much are you paying where you stay?"

After “Where are you from?” and “How old are you?”, "How much are you paying where you stay?" is seriously one of the most common things I am asked whenever I make a new acquaintance in the Philippines. Like, after five minutes of small talk a complete stranger will start drilling me on my monthly expenses, as if that's as routine as asking, "So what do you do?" 

This threw me the first couple of times it happened, because I think abruptly asking strangers/guests how much their rent is (as well as other money matters) is nosy, rude, or just plain weird. "Hello John. Nice to meet you. Where are you from? I see. Are you enjoying your time here? That's great. What are you studying? How interesting. And how much rent do you pay per calendar month where you're living?" See? That's a sudden jump from Generic Introductions to I Am Snooping About Your Financial Matters, don't you think? 

I suspect I'm used to such nosy questions being prefaced with faux-apologetic statements ("If you don't mind me asking...") indicating the speaker knows said question is nosy/rude/just plain weird but they're going to ask anyway. That's the way we go about prying in Oz. But in the Philippines bluntly asking how much rent you pay is just the logical next step after, “Where do you stay?” so if you plan on living here, be prepared to discuss your rental arrangements with every second Filipino you meet. 

I find if you give a figure that is half the amount you actually pay, you minimise the shocked faces and gasps of, “So expensive! Does that include laundry?" But honestly, you could say, “5 pesos per month!” and still have someone’s aunt clutching her chest and bemoaning how you're being ripped off.

It's just a cold

Me: *pondering* "Seriously, Renee. Who catches a cold in this heat?"

Brain: "Someone who has contracted a rare and deadly disease, one that has flu-like symptoms and goes unnoticed until it's too late."

Me: "SHUT UP BRAIN, WHO ASKED YOU."

... maybe I'll Google some local GPs.

Why are they staring at me?

I could see her out of the corner of my eye as I sat at the bamboo bus shelter with my cousins. An old woman peering at me from the window of her adjacent home. Normally I would've been all like, "What you lookin' at, Gladis?" but I was used to the staring by now.

Foreigners quickly get used to being gawked at in the Philippines, especially in this small beach-side town my cousins had taken me on a day trip. I don't know why I noticed this old woman in particular, but I did the usual and I pretended I didn't see. That's what I tend to do nowadays. Three schoolgirls staring wide-eyed at me as I cross the street? Didn't see. Two male grocery store workers pausing conversation and pointing at me as I walk past? Didn't see. Everyone on the jeepney quietly turning and watching me as I climb aboard? Didn't see.

Because if I acknowledge that they are staring, I might have to think about why, and that is something my insane imagination is way too active for. Maybe it's not just because I'm foreign. Maybe they think I'm a big fat white whale. Maybe I stepped in toilet paper. Maybe my dress is tucked into my undies. Maybe a cauliflower is spontaneously growing out of my ear. Maybe my back is covered in an infectious-looking pus.

So I ignored the old woman staring at me from her window, and focused on my cousin's conversation with two other women at the bus stop. I'd fooled myself into thinking that if I tried to follow Cebuano in this way, I might learn it - like people who think watching Telemadrid helps them learn Spanish. I mean, you don't just listen to things, not knowing what the hell is going on, and then suddenly become fluent. Unless you have magic leaf powers like Disney's Pocahontas or something.

Anyway, just like that adorable cat who comes closer without moving video on YouTube, the old lady crept towards me even while I ignored her. I'd blink and she would be standing in the door frame, staring. Blink, and she'd be sitting on her porch chair, staring. Blink, and she'd be on the gravel outside her house, staring. Before I knew it, she was standing right behind me, leaning on the bamboo railing. Staring. It would've been scary if it wasn't for her Starbucks t-shirt.

I felt a hand stroking my back, and thought, "Well, I guess I better stop ignoring her in case this escalates and we throwdown right here at the bus stop." I turned around and she was rubbing the back of my tank top, asking me something I had no chance of understanding. Meanwhile my cousin had sidled over, smiling, and answered the woman on my behalf. My imagination blearily woke up, and started stirring.

"Yo, who's this white girl with the shiny top? I had to touch it, it was so weird-looking."

"This is my cousin from Australia."

"How old is she? She looks about 12."

"She's 27. She's having some sort of late-twenties crisis and decided to travel here alone to learn more about her heritage and, I don't know, find herself or some crap."

"That seems like a silly thing to do. Does she realise everyone here, from street kids to hardened criminals, will eat her for breakfast?"

"We've tried explaining that to her multiple times. She may also be a little addled."

"Her hair is not meant for this humidity, is it?"

My cousin noticed my alarmed look, and switched to English. "You see how she's touching you? She wants you touch her also," she explained, picking up my hand and stroking it down the old woman's arm. It seemed weird but it was better than a bus stop throwdown. I smiled and surreptitiously smoothed my hair with my other hand as the old lady backed away.

It wasn't until a few days later that my cousin explained that was really about.

"It's an old folktale," she began. "I don't really believe it. But the people in the mountains believe that when an old woman touches you, she is casting a spell on you. The only way to deflect the bad magic is by touching her back, so I made you do it. Just in case."

"Why would she want to cast a spell on me?" I asked. "That's not very nice." Extremely rude, one might say.

My cousin grinned. "Because she thinks you're beautiful. She wants to absorb it for herself."

So now I think that everybody is staring at me because they want to cast a spell on me, and cook me for breakfast to absorb my powers. Now I think they're staring because they want my frizzy brown hair or my skin or my shoes, and they're muttering curses or making stabbing motions behind my back.

Well, I guess it isn't as bad as the pus-covered back scenario.

Jeepneys

I am never going to get the hang of these things.

It's far too hot for that, lady

You'd think, having moved to a humid island nation in the tropics, that I would no longer see that dreaded Leggings As Pants trend so nauseatingly popular in Melbourne.

You would be wrong. 

Ways of Life

The Filipino side of my family are well aware of the disparity between our ways of living, and often make straightforward references to “our poor way of life” and how their house "isn’t five-star accommodation” which I find completely baffling. They have given me something infinitely more precious than fresh towels and stupid little soaps: they welcomed me into their home without question, protected me, loved me. Even the way they scared the shit out of me with merry tales of women being stabbed or abducted in Cebu was done with love. They care about me (when I don’t really know what I’ve done to earn such value besides turn up on their doorstep) and don’t want to see me get hurt. They rallied an army of friends and relatives to escort and protect me on my subsequent trip from Maasin to Cebu; these people still turn up whenever I send confused texts about how to catch a jeepney. These people had never heard of me a week ago, and now they drop what they’re doing if I need help. I can’t even comprehend that level of selflessness and devotion.

I would take that love over any superior king deluxe suite penthouse with complimentary breakfast in the world. I don’t even like breakfast.

It’s different for different people I guess, but at this stage of my life finding pieces of myself is so much more important than air-con. This trip isn’t about hiding in hotel rooms and shrieking every time a brown person comes near my handbag. It’s about jumping off that same rock formation my cousin just did even though I’m certain the water isn’t deep enough and I’ll die, it’s about trying that side dish my aunt whisked away from me clucking, “That’s too spicy!”, it’s about getting mosquito bites and food poisoning and hopelessly lost and catching glimpses of a fisherman’s silhouette on the ocean between splashes of palm fronds as my bus trundles down a mountain.

Security and safety are of course, very real and legit concerns as a white* woman travelling this country solo. I have already experienced the joys of sexual harassment (a bellboy at this very hotel made fuckwit calls to my room and attempted to gain entry; he has since been fired but it inspired me to always barricade my door and scream at every caller to identify themselves). I came into this trip prepared to "pay the cost" for safety, and was pretty much ready to stay in a serviced apartment (read: long-term hotel room) if it meant a secure entrance and staff members around. This is still an option should I crack for whatever reason (a very real possibility).

But a friend of my cousin's has insisted I stay in a "Pension House" (closer to what we know as college dorm rooms) because it's more affordable, closer to public transport (minimises the walks down dark streets), housed with university students, closer to his side of town, and he of course has relatives around the corner because this is the Philippines. He has come with me to inspect other apartments, which I have quite liked, and loudly dismissed them as being too expensive. He practically projectile vomits at any price I consider reasonable. I don't know how to explain that I am prepared to pay a cost in exchange for security without making some unintended reference to how Australians/Filipinos Live Differently. Because honestly, I just want to live somewhere that will repel any ne'er-do-wells that get the notion to follow me home, and armed guards tend to do that. I couldn't care less about mountain views and WiFi.

I was (and am still) a bit sketchy about the security at the Pension House although my friend insists the neighbourhood is safe; I figure I'll give it a month and if I freak out I can fall back on Fancy Serviced Apartment.

Well, if I wanted to be in my comfort zone, I’d be wrapped in a doona in Melbourne right now. Which it isn’t all that bad in itself: but I’ve done that a million times. Time for something new. 


*Although I "pass" as Caucasian, I am mixed-race and identify as such.