Three little words. Gen. Doug MacArthur made history by uttering a certain three-word phrase — “I shall return” — which launched a thousand T-shirts, dozens of sly spoofs and countless Corregidor tours here on these shores.
It’s also a promise my American dad (who lives in Quincy, Massachusetts, home to John Quincy Adams, among other Bay State dwellers) has made more than once.
You see, my dad has visited the Philippines twice: once to attend my wedding, and the second time, well, just for the fun of it.
We were so excited, my wife Therese and I, when my dad decided to take us up on our offer to stay with us for a few weeks in Manila. (This was his second visit, back in 1999. Erap was in office. Things hadn’t gotten completely crazy yet.)
I wasn’t prepared for the type of adventures he would get himself into, some of them involving the police. (More on that later.)
Basically, my father isn’t the type of American who would have a hard time locating the Philippines on a map. Before retiring, he was a high school science teacher, so he’s the inquisitive type. He actually touched down at NAIA, made his way around EDSA in a local cab. He even had a few Amazing Race-type adventures out there. Talking with local “characters” is his idea of a good time.
But so far, it’s been hard to convince him to hop on a plane and come back for a third visit. I’m not sure why; he’s more than welcome here. In fact, I can name a handful of people who still remember him fondly, eccentricities and all. Not unlike MacArthur, come to think of it.
So when shall he return?
There are a lot of factors, of course. Time. Money. The fact that airlines in the US are downsizing to the point that flying may soon involve a month-long commitment to Weight Watchers. (It’s true: some airlines are considering limiting the weights of passengers allowed to fly.) So it could be any of these things. Or maybe the time just isn’t right yet.
I have to say, he seemed to have a grand time during his last visit, what with hopping in a jeepney first thing in the morning (he’s an early riser, and would leave us in the dust and be out the door before we could even get the coffee maker going). I can still picture my dad: fanny pack, T-shirt, denim shorts and sneakers (at least not black socks with sandals), sitting in a jeepney alongside a crowd of office workers and college students: the Indiana Jones of Old Manila.
He would take the jeepney absolutely anywhere, exchanging what he insisted on calling “funny money” (his term for the local currency) to go wherever the driver would take him. I should mention that my dad has always had this adventurous streak: he calls it “the E.O.D.: Element of Danger.” He’ll adjust a TV antenna on his roof for an hour, perilously poised upon a rickety ladder, rather than call a cable guy. Not cheapness, mind you: just looking for thrills.
For Dad, the E.O.D. included deboarding a jeepney in the middle of EDSA (because he had spotted Megamall yonder) and dashing across the crowded highway on foot. Now, that takes guts. Only demented people and streetkids ever attempt doing that here.
But he’s always been on the hunt for adventure. Like the time my family went camping out somewhere in New Hampshire, and our campsite was visited by a brown bear that must have detected some leftover hotdogs and coleslaw in a nearby trash bin. It was a small bear, but looked like it could have bigger relatives nearby. I distinctly remember our father slamming pots and pans together, making a ruckus until the bear decided to search elsewhere. Then we ever so quietly packed up our sleeping bags and tents in the station wagon and went looking for a motel.
He didn’t run into any bears here, but he did find himself in Old Quiapo on one of his excursions. He had been touring Intramuros in a tricycle, decided to switch to a passing kalesa, and took it across the bridge to the old Chinese section of Manila. Upon leaving the kalesa, he left behind the fanny pack containing — you guessed it — his US passport and assorted souvenir finds.
Did my dad head straight for the US Embassy and plead for assistance? No, no, no. Instead, he hailed a local police officer who had taken a curious interest in his plight. The cop took him on a walking tour of Quiapo’s kalesa operators, where he impressively rousted many a snoozing driver before retrieving my dad’s passport in record time (it would have taken the US Embassy weeks to issue a replacement, I’m sure). The assorted trinkets he had purchased? Well, they went the way of Japanese currency after wartime.
I tell you, this type of stuff never happened to MacArthur.
Did this experience dampen my dad’s visit to the Philippines? Nay, nay, nay. He still maintains he had “a ball” in the Philippines. Being single now (my folks split up decades ago), he made fast friends with a half dozen co-workers and editors at The STAR, along with countless Pinays upon whom he lavished the all-purpose compliment we had phonetically taught him: “Maganda babae.” (The other useful phrase we fed him was “Magkano ito?”)
He met Pinoy cab drivers who told him they were spies working for the C.I.A.; street vendors who taught him how to read the tarot; and ladies who, to this day, still e-mail him personal photos that it’s much better that I know nothing about.
My dad, in short, found something in Manila to explore and enjoy. A new country, a place of fun and opportunity. Maybe just a land of curiosities, as any new visitor would surely agree. For whatever reason, I’m sure when I call him this Father’s Day, I’ll be asking once again: “So, Dad … When are you coming back for a visit?”