Poverty in Paradise

by Chris Devauld


Chris Devauld Photo


Chris Maniocha Photo

Tell me something about the Philippines.

I’ll bet the first thing that pops into your mind is that it’s a group of islands in Asia, so it’s somewhere you might fly over on your way to the modern, backpacking Disneyland known as Thailand.

The Philippines has remained somewhat of an enigma to the average North American travelling junkie. Known mostly for its previous American military occupation, colonial history, and so-called pirates (Life Aquatic anyone?), this region is often brushed aside as just another “Eastern” country.

As a result, it might come as somewhat of a surprise to know that the Philippines consists of more than 7,000 islands, has remained over 90 per cent Christian since the Spanish arrived, and has a tropical fish market that fills about 80 per cent of the world’s fish tanks (think about that the next time you flush Blinky down the toilet).

The Philippines lays claim to some of the most beautiful reefs, beaches, islands, and mountainous regions on the planet—it also nurtures a society that idealizes generosity and selflessness. This is all set amidst appalling poverty, which, ironically, is reflected in the nation’s rapid globalization.

I begin my brief visit in the capital city of Manila, a sprawling metropolis that’s home to more than 10 million inhabitants. The city is often hailed as the “Pearl of the Orient” because of its “strong” economy and modern vibe. However, there is little luster in the city. In fact, the average person doesn’t appear to live in Manila so much as survive there.

The streets overflow with desperate poverty: I notice human shapes living underneath an overpass, among awkward huts of garbage, dirt, and old car parts. At stoplights children cling to my windows, gazing at me with a terrible hunger in their eyes. I can even make out large communities of people wading—and actually living—in the city’s garbage dumps, existing off of the filth that other poor people had no use for.



It is impossible not to compare Manila’s rat-race to our own, especially when most of the city’s nicest buildings are none other than the beautiful cathedrals of the original Spanish settlement, and, of course, the mighty business tycoons of the west. But I guess I shouldn’t be too critical of these North American corporations because, in an effort to demonstrate their cross-cultural flexibility, McDonald’s includes a rice option with every Happy Meal and Starbucks is nice enough to offer locals a Mango Frappuccino. Good job.

Feeling guilty and curious, I enter a Burger King. I don’t even have to make an effort to enter because the door is opened by a cheerful security guard whose other hand strokes an AK-47. Authority doesn’t fuck around in this country.

“If you are caught dealing drugs,” the immigration pamphlet declares, “you are subject to death.” What’s more, if you take a picture of a Burger King guard, which I am at least smart enough to ask about first, you’ll most likely end up in jail. Fair enough—but if you enter a fast-food restaurant and someone doesn’t open the door for you, bring you your burger in under five minutes and give you some paper towel after you flush the toilet, there’s hell to pay. The guard smiles as I leave and tells me to enjoy my stay.

In order to understand the logic behind what seemed to be happy-faced poverty, I look no further than my next destination—the Visayas. Consisting of thousands of picturesque islands in the central region of the Philippines, the Visayas is hailed as one of the next “big things” in the travel world. Most of these islands are uninhabited, a few are overloaded with tourists, and some even harbor Islamist separatists and communist rebels who perform the odd terrorist attack on small ferries.

While drinking a bottle of exceptionally strong beer and boating around the famous White Beach of Boracay, Andrew, a local snorkelling guide, points out the facts. “Every year the American and European tourists increase in numbers. Yes, we have a small amount of agriculture, but tourism is our only real source of money, and all of the beautiful houses you see near the beachfront belong to Americans.”

I would like to pretend that I completely understand his plight and respect his good-natured look on the whole “tourism is destroying the world thing,” but there is one problem: I have a good chunk of the average Filipino’s monthly salary back at my hotel, inside the wet pocket of some Billabong shorts that cost me about $6.

What I want to know is if it is a good thing to vacation in a country where more than 40 per cent of the population lives in poverty and where nothing is expensive except for suntan lotion and bottled water. Most of all, I want to know if it is a good thing that I am here.

I guess it’s not surprising that places like Boracay are becoming more and more like a rich person’s playground. There’s an increasing demand for unspoiled, exotic locations, and I find it hard to imagine any tropical paradise escaping the clutch of globalization. Yeah, it sounds sad, but it’s more complicated than that.

Andrew simply accepts the fact that my money makes his life easier and that his island offers an unspoiled tropical beauty, which North Americans like myself desire. “We’re always happy when the tourism season picks up,” Andrew claims, “because that’s when we can rake in money—as long as we give the tourists what they want.”

OK, that’s logical enough. So we want beaches, pina coladas, palm trees and wild nightlife, right? Kind of like a trade system: we export our desires and the Filipinos fulfil them in exchange for money.

So what the hell are you supposed to think when underneath, above, behind, in front, and to your left is a tropical paradise that every picture in your Lonely Planet guidebook fails to live up to, but to your right is a 50-year-old redneck male wading in a tide pool with an adolescent Filipina girl?

In all honesty, it’s very hard to remember that you’re “on vacation” when your vacation is the same thing that dominates someone else’s life.
Being a confused white guy on a four-kilometer white sand beach can be a surreal experience. Lucky for me, I run into Jordan. A former UVic business student, now owner of one of Boracay’s wild nightclubs, Jordan is quite an enigma. Am I supposed to envy a guy who said “screw it” and lived happily-ever-after in the tropics, or am I supposed to be disgusted at his entrepreneurial bullying?

He’s quick in answering my questions. “These people think differently than you and I. Being a Caucasian UVic dropout, I expected to be met with hatred and jealousy when I started this bar, but I was wrong. These people simply make the best of what they have so you should enjoy the fact that those 90 shots on your table cost around $90, but ultimately enjoy the fact that you’re putting money into an economy that desperately needs it.”



So I think, and I drink, and then I think some more, but thinking and drinking rarely co-operate. The only critical thought my mind is able to articulate an hour (or four?) later is remembering to keep a close eye on the bartender who is making my rum and coke. After all, in a country where pop costs more than rum, “watering a drink” translates to Filipino as “adding more booze.” Of course, even too much water can make a person sick. . .

But there is no time for a hangover, or at least no time to think about it. I leave my tropical orgasm for another “day-after” destination: Baguio, a mountainous city in the northern province of Benguet. When I get there I discover a community that exists outside of the depressing streets of Manila and the too-good-to-be-true beaches of Boracay.

There is a comfortable poverty in the small city. Maybe this is due to the fact that most of Baguio’s residents are Catholic, or maybe it’s the fact that, besides the whole religious tyranny thing, little western influence has invaded it. I join a party at the local square and am greeted warmly by everyone. Right away it is apparent that what these people lack in the North American version of wealth they more than make up for in cheerfulness.

I feel like I was the one from a backwards country when I realized that the woman who stood beside me just wanted to talk. “You should go for a ride in a Jeepney,” she says, “because everyone becomes friends before their stop.”



A Jeepney is an old American military jeep, which is gutted, equipped with benches, and redecorated as a fabulous, pimpin’ ride. Jeepneys are the pride of the Philippines because they are the perfect symbol of how Filipinos have learned to cope with colonialism—by decorating it.
I would much rather be in a Jeepney talking to complete strangers, then shyly staring out the window of a deathly-quiet Greyhound. And then I realize that North America has made me cold.

Caught up in my consumerized life in Victoria, I was at first shocked by the Philippines’ lack of materialism. That’s just it: it’s hard not to look at a country through western eyes. If we insist on classifying the Philippines as part of the troubled “East” (weird, I thought it was west from here?), then why do we first look for signs of the West?

This country is struggling with modernism, coping with tourists, and trying to deal with a history of depravity. Its beautiful reefs are being destroyed by dynamite and the chemicals used in fish extraction, its forests are being over-harvested in an effort to keep up with Asian lumber exports and exhaustive expansion, and its people are being forced to bow down to the desires of an increasing number of backpackers.

But if everyone I knew was as enduring, kind, and honest as the Filipinos I met, the world would truly be a happier place.