Is man inherently bad?

Last Friday was my dies horribilis. For most of last week, I was looking forward to spending Friday night with several college friends because a girls-only hangout is always nourishing food for the soul. 

Our group of six was washing a light dinner down with some drinks when our friend “B” started filling us in on her budding friendship with this expat. B had separated from her husband four years ago and has electively never gone on a date since then — she hadn’t found somebody worth breaking the record over. Only Mr. Expat finally convinced her after much wooing. She was recounting the wonderful evening Mr. Expat had orchestrated for them a week prior and waxing romantic about how smoothly it went, when — Shazam! — there he was!

They had apparently agreed on his joining us and since we were all eager to size him up, we welcomed the chance.  He clearly delighted in the company of six ladies because he got more animated and candid as the night wore on.  With the help of liberal amounts of scotch, it wasn’t long before he transferred his focus from B to our other friend, A. Red flag!

He very casually left B’s side and moved several seats over to be next to A. Immediately, we all looked at each other in wild confusion, and once it had sunk in that this, indeed, was happening, sat there in stunned silence.

Mr. Expat then proceeded to charm A, right within sneezing distance of B, going as far as whispering to her, “I love your body.”

Of course, the classic female move of congregating in the powder room to regroup was hastily employed, where an immediate course of action was drafted and then executed. That was the end of Mr. Expat.

During the post-mortem on this fiasco the explanation for such unbecoming behavior that kept cropping up was the “cultural disconnect.” But to my mind, it has nothing to do with culture and all to do with common decency — but then all that is now moot since Mr. Expat is dead in the water.

Earlier in the evening, before all this melodrama unfolded, another friend, T, was repeatedly checking her cell, anticipating text messages from her husband with whom she had had a spat. He had committed an indiscretion, which resulted in a marital cold war. T was angry at herself for having blinked first by messaging him, which later escalated into self-chastisement when he ignored it.

To make this surreal evening even more soap operatic, another friend, L, had just received news that her husband had been pursuing a woman who was a relative of one other friend present with us that night. She immediately called him on the phone to ask him what that was all about and he predictably denied everything.  Their conversation was ongoing as more text messages streamed into her other phone relaying everything her husband had done in the past year, which all validated the claim that his hand, in fact, had been stuck in the cookie jar, with the lid now too heavy to lift.

In other words, there were two other sideshows brewing, aside from the main feature of Mr. Expat’s inadvertent self-crucifixion by working concurrently on two women — friends seated at the very same table. 

I went home with a throbbing headache that night and a renewed interest in the age-old question, “Is man inherently bad?”

Come Sunday, very early in the morning, the sour taste that Friday’s soap opera left in the mouth was washed away by the cleansing effect that biking brings about. It is the repetitive, mechanical motion of pedaling, the focus on traffic and ride safety, the whip of the wind as bike and rider forge ahead in top speed, the full exposure to the elements and the endless, open space, that clears the rider’s mind of everything extraneous to the activity at hand and that transports the rider to a peaceful place, deep inside him or herself.

But along with the ride, it has been, for me, the company of good men in my bike group that restores my faith in a world that makes sense. These are men from all avenues: doctors, daily wagers, engineers, corporate stalwarts, techies, architects, teachers, nurses, mechanics, students, brothers, husbands, fathers — all strikingly different in provenance, social stature, financial capability, persuasion, politics, religion, character.

But they are all identical in one aspect: they are true; they are transparent. Apart from a love for biking, this is what binds them: that they embrace all that they are, all that they have, and have not. As in most organizations, many in the group have fallen by the wayside in the course of time, as their true character reared its head.  What is left is a distilled bunch of like-minded men. 

Last Sunday, I was one of only five women among a group of 19 men, biking on the streets of Manila. I hardly know any of those 19 on a personal level but whenever I am in their midst, I feel I am in the safest place possible.  These men have literally thrown their bodies in front of oncoming vehicles to cover me. They have gone on their knees to fix my bike chain and pump the tires. At the height of hunger, they have waited patiently beside me keeping vigil in dimly-lit streets for food and drinks I order in sari-sari stores along bike routes before attending to themselves. They indulge my every clueless query about the sport. They have assisted me and checked on me tirelessly in every probable situation. They give of what they have and even of what they may not have enough of — old clothes, shoes, time, money, affection — during charity bike runs. 

If I were to be stranded on a deserted island, these are the men I would choose to be with: Pio, Gody, Ronx, Mike, Idolak, Papa Rocky, Larry, David, Nic, Wawel, Marius, Brian, Elbert, Ads, Armando, Stephen, Chris, Clay.

No matter the staggering number of those like Mr. Expat, transgressing partners, corrupt bosses, abusive tyrants, common criminals, and just generally abhorrent fellows; there is still an infinite number of men with solid characters, if only you look hard enough and in the most unlikely of places.

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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.