Hit by the jetlag, I woke up early those few days, and in the morning stillness I watched the Filipinas from the balcony. In the early morning the Filipinas walk the dogs around a beautifully-maintained (not to mentioen gated and guarded) residential compound. A little later, I saw them carrying shopping bags from the nearby supermarket and shepherding the children to the school bus. Sometimes — in the lift, at the pool, in the massage studio, or in a restaurant — the fashionable owners of these Filipinas would appear: stylish young white women, two or three gorgeous children in tow.
My hosts say that Hong Kong is a magnet for young business people. The money’s good, the accommodation luxurious, the Filipino maids cheap — ideal conditions for keeping the family wheels turning.
Aside from their work, in the evenings and weekends my friends live within their own, Anglo-American, enclave. In the evenings they have drinks in bar owned by a Filipina whose husband is a successful English businessman.
One evening, my friends were invited to the birthday of a Filipina who was happily engaged to a Dutch guy, so they brought me along. It was a Filipino bar, there was a Filipino band, the singer was a Filipina, and, apart from my hostess and myself, the female guests were all Filipinas. The male guests? — “Englishmen.” The Dutchman was still somewhere in the air on board a Hong Kong bound plane.
Entering the bar felt like entering a cave full of bats. The twenty or so Filipinas were quick off the mark, their movements finely honed. They swarmed on us from all directions, omnipresent, amiably plying us with food and drink, patting and nudging us, intermittently letting out short sharp bursts of laughter. For a moment I thought they might all be sisters — they all gesticulated in the same way, their bursts of laughter on cue, all of which made me uneasy.
The shenanigans soon got underway. The Filipinas wiggled their butts, wrapped themselves around invisible poles, and flashed their breasts. Lining up one behind the other, each grabbed the hips of the woman in front, bumping and grinding their pelvises into her rear. Or one would stick her rear out and another would bend down and nestle her nose where the other’s anus had to be. This vulgar pantomime was accompanied by peals of laughter. Each wave of laughter rang out like a command for others to laugh along. One Filipina popped her breasts out, asking those present to rate them.
“Don’t pay any attention,” said my hostess, catching my disapproving glance. “They always carry on like this.”
Yes, Filipinas. Some are married to “Englishmen,” and others are on their way to finding one, says my hostess. The husbands, “English” businessmen, come to Hong Kong to earn money and lay the foundations of family life. That’s how it starts out: They bring their wives over, have children, earn money — and then a Filipina turns up on the scene. I spoke to an Englishman at the bar, a friend of my friends, who told me that he had an adult daughter and a wife in Australia, and here, in Hong Kong, a Filipina. As we spoke, she kept coming over, rubbing herself against him. It was as if she were running around on an invisible leash, like an impatient dog.
Another Englishman had the same story: an ex-wife and two children — and a Filipina. His Filipina was the star of the evening, her routine unforgettable. She took a largish bone from the table (dinner was delicious grilled pork) and performed a lengthy and well-rehearsed fellatio pantomime. The Englishman was wealthy; my friends told me that he’d built the Filipina a luxurious villa in the Philippines, that he supported her many relatives, her child from her first marriage, and her ex-husband, while she just goes wild, spending and spending. This Filipina has carved out a career sought by many; for while many are currently still the home help, which is how they feed their parents, unemployed ex-husbands, and their children to unemployed ex-husbands, they all dream of one day finding their “Englishman.” Back in childhood someone drilled it into them that “Englishmen” don’t fall from the sky and that only girls who are good at gyrating their hips and shaking their asses deserve them. Later, life just confirmed the truth of the story. Although many of them completed their schooling, gyrating their hips has proven to be a more secure and profitable path. That’s why in the evenings many Hong Kong Filipina Cinderellas transform themselves into porno-comedians. The night belongs to them.
“Look at them,” my new bar-friend says warmly, “like snakes. .”
He was obviously looking for a way to tell me to relax, to not be so judgmental, because it’s all a bit of innocent fun, for Pete’s sake, “we’re all the same under the skin,” “a drop in the ocean,” our common home is “a valley of tears.” I didn’t say anything. Allowances for life in all its color, for its peaks and troughs, are usually sought by those who stand to gain from such an “anything goes” position — an excuse for themselves at the very least.
I spoke with two Filipinas, who, like me, had gone outside for a smoke. One complained that everybody thinks Filipinas are prostitutes. The other nodded in agreement. They just came here to earn an honest living. They dream of buying a little homestead in the Philippines and growing vegetables. For a moment I’m carried away, I feel like Betty Friedan: “Yes, veggies,” I say, “good idea.” They shrug their shoulders and sadly exhale cigarette smoke into the steamy Hong Kong night. In their heads they tally up the dog walks, the bags of groceries, the mornings getting the kids on the school bus, and the nights spent wedged into the cupboard-like space where some keep Filipinas, others washing machines. Then they go back inside. From the street I watch them rejoin “their kind,” wiggling their rears, curling up “like snakes,” household knick-knacks, efficient little sex-machines.
“Englishman” and “Filipina.” The only irony is that the players in this game don’t know how to enjoy what they’ve achieved in life. In a Gucci dress and Prada shoes, the Filipina licks stubbornly at the pork bone, although there’s no longer any need. The Englishman, I assume, has it in mind that although his Filipina still works — her expiration date not yet up — he could still trade her in for a new one.
Filipinas have left a dark stain on the glittering panoramas of Hong Kong, like sepia ink. Half-crazed bats lay siege to the tall and slender Hong Kong skyscrapers, flapping their wings and flushing gold coins out from somewhere. The coins fall to the ground like snow, like fireworks. The sound of the metal coins hitting the ground echoes like short sharp bursts of laughter that chill me to the bone.
July 2010
SERBIAN HOLLYWOOD
1.
I recently visited a small settlement near Groningen in the north of Holland. The place is called Eelde, and the chances are fairly remote that I’d ever go out of my way to visit. Eelde is home to one of the most beautiful small museums of figurative art I’ve ever seen. Everything is perfect: the unusual architecture is perfectly integrated into the natural surroundings, which were perfectly designed by Holland’s most famous landscape architect. The museum catalogues are exquisitely designed and the café wonderfully situated in the museum’s natural landscape. It was a Sunday, and the museum was full of locals. I’m not sure if it was because the museum shop was open or because there are only two things one can do in the tiny settlement: go sailing, or go to the museum. The museum in Eelde would represent a commendable example of the synergy between money (a Dutch bank is one of the sponsors), meticulous environmental awareness (the museum is in perfect harmony with its surroundings), and art, if only it fulfilled its primary function. Namely, the museum has everything except art! Yes, there were a few pictures hanging on the walls, but you couldn’t even call them amateur (even amateurism can have its charms); what you got instead were exemplars of the worst kind of pretentiousness. A quick look at the prices in the catalogue, and the only thing a visitor could possibly conclude was that being an artist really does pay, particularly if you’re a crappy one.