We visited Manila South Cemetery first, then went to Paco where our parents are in the crypt under the Church. Mama had made us boys serve Mass daily, every 6 a.m. in that same parish Church, and now she lies there alongside Papa’s bones. We know that immortal souls don’t reside in graves, or niches, or crypts, but every year it’s the custom all over the planet – to whatever creed one subscribes – for mankind to remember and honor ancestors and those they held dear in their lifetimes. In South America, they call the observance Dia de los Muertos, even if by Catholic teaching, those who’ve gone across have passed into Everlasting Life.
La Presidenta, swimming in a sea of troubles, has chosen to make this year’s commemoration such an extended holiday that nobody can mobilize a demonstration against her until everybody comes back from both the provinces and the cemeteries. The government even chose yesterday – still a holiday – as the V-Day in which to first enforce the E-VAT, or "Vatever" (can’t resist the pun) since nobody who objects will find a forum in which to express pain, indignation and resentment. We’ll have to wait till tomorrow, Thursday, for anybody to voice a reaction.
I bought a Dutch calendar as a souvenir of Amsterdam on this last trip of mine, and browsing through it I discovered that the Dutch have only ten holidays, including Christmas and New Year’s. Theirs is a culture of hard work, which is what made that nation great and strong.
The Europeans, though, in the past two decades have increasingly given in to the temptations of leisure and over-long paid vacations, which are the linchpin of the demands of their powerful trade unions and syndicates whose pugnaciousness has cowed governments and reduced work schedules to just a few hours a week. This is precisely why the economies of Western Europe are in deep trouble and unemployment hovers around 10 to 11 percent.
This is why a rising China is overpowering Europe and the United States in terms of output and production. Everywhere you go, whether in Paris, Vienna, Amsterdam – and even Madrid – you’ll find Chinese goods and garments flooding the market. Even in chauvinistic Paris, in the districts near the Gare du Nord in which Muslims used to dominate the garment trade, the Chinese seem to have taken over.
The energetic, aggressive Chinese are into everything – from garment shops and wholesaling, to Chinese restaurants and eateries, to even public massage! In Madrid’s top tourist center, the Plaza Mayor, Chinese woman grab tourists and strollers offering them a vigorous "invigorating" massage right there in the square itself. For ten to 12 euros, the victim gets to sit, fully-clothed, on his or her rump on the cobblestones, to be vigorously pounded on the back and massaged by husky Chinese girls, with everybody looking on in amusement, or envy, as the case may be.
But make no mistake about it. The Chinese have also become a global force in tourism. Where it used to be the British traveller a century ago, then the backpackers, then the hordes of Japanese, clicking photographs everywhere and descending on Louis Vuitton stores like a swarm of locusts (they still do buy LV by the ton), it’s now the era of the Chinese. Busloads disgorge them in Vienna, in Amsterdam, in the Hague – by golly – and they do spend.
For instance, my friend, Ambassador Romy Arguelles drove me out one morning to Zaanse Schans, where you can still see the old-fashioned Dutch windmills grinding away on the River Zaan. Those five windmills are a beautiful sight, one of them dating back to 1622, the other to 1780, a third to 1781, the "youngest," De Kat (The Cat") dating back to 1781. Nearby, there’s a mill which is of more recent vintage, the "De Gekroonde Poelenberg", which was used to saw timber – it dates back to only 1869.
But that’s not the point of my story. On the banks of the same river is a cluster of reconstructed traditional timber buildings which are actually, besides being picturesque, shops for crafts, wooden shoes of fine-design and tracery (klompen), as well as cheese and other food products.
One building sold Edam and Gouda cheese of every delicious variety, from jonge (young), belegen (medium) to oude (old). They were packaged in delightful ways, truly Holland is superbly-geared for tourism. But we didn’t manage to purchase any in that shop – because it was bursting with Chinese tourists snapping up everything in sight, along with keychains, teapots, Delft blue crockery, you name it.
We headed out towards the "wooden shoe" display building, but before we got into the door, we were overwhelmed by another wave of Chinese just disgorged from a tourist bus.
We scurried towards the pancake house, and beat the third platoon, erupting from a third bus, by a whisker – managing to order Dutch pancake with cheese and ham plus coffee before the Chinese grabbed all the tables. (The thin pancakes were delicious, as you’ll find almost everywhere in the Netherlands, even though, unlike "Le Rive" – the elegant riverside restaurant of the Amstel Inter-Continental Hotel – the eatery didn’t boast two Michelin stars.
There’s something for every pocket in Holland, even in the notorious, entirely colorful Red Light District where, day and night, girls – from lissome to materiales fuertes – are on display in large picture windows, or behind glass doors.
The ladies of day-and-night come in many colors, from blonde to deep black, and in many classifications from A to D. Class A cuties go for 100 to 150 euros, or so, then you go down to 50 euros. Gents can even use credit cards, though how this will come out in the swindle sheet may be problematical unless the girl has a receipt marked "Salvation Army," or something like that.
I don’t really know whether it’s true that "American Express’" cards are not welcome in those Red Light houses, but I heard one red-headed beauty telling a would-be client: "We prefer Visa." (If you’re heading for the Red Light, then, don’t leave home without it). Alas, only the day before, Citibank had rung me up to warn me that I had overspent beyond the limit of my gold Visa card.
Then, of course, there are the D-class, which one can translate into Desperation Class. Ten euros? Twenty euros? I guess I’ll never know. I noticed that the gals in the windows fronting the pretty Protestant Church on Oude Kirksplein appeared to be of the "D" variety. Perhaps D stands for "Devotion" instead. If I were one of those Old Church choirboys, I’d sprint for home instead of lingering about.
Everywhere you walk in this part of town you’ll inhale cannabis, which is the term for marijuana. It stings your nostrils as you go by coffee shops and pubs named "The Bulldog," "Old Sailor," "The Flying Dutchman", "Dread Rock", "Energy Coffee Shop" etc.
In any event, a saunter through the Rosse Buurt which is the Dutch name of the place is good, . . . er, clean fun.
The district dominates the canal-side of Oudezjids Achterburgwal, and spills over into Oudezjids Voorburgwal and the alleys radiating from them. (Those Dutch names are jawbreakers, aren’t they?) There are sex shops, porn shops, live sex shows, video porn and video cabins, an erotic museum, and over-priced t-shirt outlets – all offering commercial sleaze. Surely places to avoid and abhor by the Opus Dei or the Caballeros de Colon, unless you’re Columbus at Night.
It’s enough to repel you, and turn your path back towards Virtue, Chastity and Abstinence.
Forgive me. What an awful topic to discuss on All Saints’ Day! But it’s the sort of divide that separates the sinners from the Saints. May you be one of the latter always!