Handcuffs

Well, lets wind it right back. I’m living in the Philippines for a while. The fiancé has taken up a position with a University here and I’m following along. In case you’re wondering, like my slightly bewildered Aunt upon announcement of the news, the Philippines is a part of Asia, east of Vietnam, south of Taiwan, west of the pacific ocean and north of well, ummm, Fitzroy Crossing and Halls Creek. It’s a really poor country, but we’re not allowed to say third world or knickers-in-a-twist do-gooders get all huffy about it.

I think the UN recently changed its definition of developing nation to: being a place where you are not allowed take your shopping-trolley out of the supermarket because it’ll end up as a structurally important part of someone’s home.

The Philippines had a very exciting 20th century, managing to throw out, not one, not two, but three oppressive empires to settle on one that was here all along – the Catholic Church, which is barely a trade-up from the Spanish.

While we’re at it, why does the Catholic Church insist on making the most oppressively poor countries in the world irredeemably overpopulated too? Latin America, Africa and the Philippines are all producing babies faster than they can produce crops, education and export dollars. A reduction in birth rate doesn’t really fit with the Church’s present marketing strategy however - “… And still the worlds fastest growing major religion!”

Most Filipino’s that I meet assume that I’m either an American missionary, an American GI, or an American sex tourist. But the jokes on them, I’m just an Australian with a head injury.

I was running around in a pair of wet thongs, the work boot and athletic shoe of the developing world when disaster struck. I slipped over. I face-planted onto a rock. Blood gushed everywhere, my eyes rolled back in my head and I vomited unconsciously and uncontrollably on the ground. Worst of all, my best t-shirt, pale blue and tight in all the right places would never be the same again.

Oh, did I forget to mention – I was handcuffed at the time. The Ameicans, Germans and Australians that I was drinking had previously decided to borrow handcuffs from a security guard at the bar. Being a genial fellow, well disposed to helping the patrons enjoy themselves, he agreed.

Personally, I’m doubtful as to the details of the story. Much like the rest of the Philippines, nothing quite adds up to me, but unfortunately the combination of alcohol and severe concussion has removed almost all of the evening and most of the next day from my memory. I guess I just hit my head.

Join me next week for another thrilling adventure in Viva la 3^rd World.