Into the World:
The Random Thoughts in My Mind

A corporate goodbye and welcome party seemed like an over-sized, yet subtly protocol-led version of the previous pool party described . Presence of similar activities means noting their socio-cultural significance will be redundant and thus omitted, but the different atmosphere and context for which it was held mean that the event, as a supposedly more casual yet dramatic extension of the regular workplace relationship espouses certain theories of how people of different levels and motivations may very much behave in coordination to satisfy their own self-interests.

How should one define the "high position" that one holds, in life, in a job, in any sort of community?  Is it the amount of money one earns, the amount of respect received from others, the amount of responsibility one takes on?  The answer is an all-encompassing one that mingles all three, but yet is none of them, strictly speaking.  To be precise, cash flow or that nice title on a business card , by itself, does not really mean much.  Instead, "high position" is always a comparative term, one that draws comfort from comparison, a thought that "ahh, I am doing good because I am better than X and Y."

From the first look, he did not seem all that welcoming.  Long nails, unwashed hair, dark skin that is perhaps a bit too dark to be considered purely natural, crooked teeth...he was not the ideal guide, or for that matter, a good example of an ordinary citizen in a cosmopolitan tourist town.  Yet, somehow, as the author spent more and more time with the diminutive 27-year-old man who was his two-day guide in Siem Reap and the Temple of Angkor, his life experiences and stories became, in many ways, the most interesting portion of his trip, much more so than imposing stone temples or fantastic local food.

The so-called "villa" did not look like much from the outside.  The big sign "Villa Constantino Spa & Resort" had a big red arrow pointing down to a narrow, dark dirt road seemingly leading to a rather normal bedroom community of dense, one-story family houses.  But as so many other places in the Philippines , once inside, a whole new world opened up: three large pools and a children's pool were surrounded by a series of gazebos, open-door karaoke booths, and well-decorated two story buildings full of rented bedrooms.

In the little town of Lucena two hours bus-ride south of Manila, there is a little park right on the main north-south boulevard running the length of the town.  Despite being just south of the commercial markets and malls, the park has a constantly solemn air, maintained by uniformed guards lazily watching the passers-by from their wooden rocking chairs under the big trees.  In the middle of the park is an imposing statue of Manuel L. Quezon, the first president of the Second Philippine Republic, after whom Quezon Province (for which Lucena is the capital) is named.

There are (if you ask some people, outrageously ridiculous-sounding) researches that show a resounding statistics of 65-70% of people having some sort of relationships in their office that is at least somewhat beyond the confines of professional work-related exchanges.  But then again, if one spends majority of the day for 5-6 days a week for nearly every single week with the same group of people , it is almost inevitable that some form of amorous feelings develop over time.  As humans, most are not immune.

At the bus terminal in downtown Olongapo City around 4pm, there was a massive line snaking out its front door and spilling onto the side streets.  The line was for purchasing bus tickets to Manila.  Dejected by the prospects of late arrival back home, the author nonetheless joined the end of the slow-moving line, hoping that his turn at the ticket window will come as quickly as possible.  Rules, when they do seem to exist, should be followed.  And with dozens of others anxiously inching forward in the still-hot afternoon sun, there was no reason the author should not. And then, one of the conductors for the half a dozen Manila-bound buses (at least so marked on their front windows) started going out the ever-lengthening line in front of the ticket window, asking if anyone is going on the next bus to Manila.  No one in the line made a peep or even looked at the conductor.  The author, anxious to go as he always is, raised his hands.  The conductor signaled him to join him at the park