Madness in Manila
I’ve always had the mentality that the misfortunes I read about are things that only happen to Other People. By definition, ‘Other People’ refers to those outside your social circle; not your loved ones, nor your immediate friends, and most definitely not yourself.Natural disasters, kidnapping, and scams - these are horror events that are documented extensively by the media and bloggers. As a sheltered Singaporean and a consumer of social media, I read and marvel at the atrocities that happen elsewhere in the world. These are unfortunate events that only affect Other People, after all.
I've traipsed across many Asian countries and traveled solo at times, but have never encountered anything more than a deliberate hike in taxi fares.
So it was a complete shock when I became a victim of the ‘Ativan’ scam in Manila.
I was exploring Manila by foot when a group of three Philippine ladies approached me. They claimed to be local tourists from Cebu, and were in Manila to celebrate the birthday of their ‘Aunty’, who just turned 48. I can’t remember the names of the two other women, but let’s just call them ‘X’ and ‘Y’. X, 30, was a babysitter while Y, 35, operated a provision shop back in Cebu, which ‘sells everything from diapers to beer’.
They invited me to a local market and a nearby volcano. We took a jeepney, had lunch, and took another bus ride, all of which Aunty insisted on paying for. According to X, it is Philippine custom to pay for one’s guests when it is your birthday, and it would be rude to refuse. They joked about how hard it is to pronounce my name, and endearingly gave me a Philippine name 'Ina'.
Along the way, Aunty asked if I paid for things with my credit card. I replied no. Due to inter-bank charges, I always bring cash when I travel. She also asked to look at my passport as she claimed the authorities at the volcano need photo identification for verification. I showed her my Singapore EZ-Link card instead.
After a long bus ride, we ended up in the middle of nowhere. Aunty shuffled off to buy some ice cream, and watched as I ate it. In hindsight, the Ativan drug would have been mixed into it. Ativan is the drug of choice by scammers to disable their victims, rendering them dizzy, clumsy, and unusually tired. She then suggested we wait in a room as a car would arrive in half-an-hour to bring us to the volcano.
I was brought to a dark, anonymous-looking room to rest in. Aunty exchanged a furtive look with the lady whom I supposed own the apartment. They got me to lie down on the bed, and I soon lost consciousness.
The rest of the night was hazy. I only remember vignettes over dinner – drinking Red Horse beer, cutting into a slice of potato-like dish and putting it into my mouth. I even remember thinking that it tasted pretty good. Another beer. And suddenly I was in a taxi outside my hostel, fumbling for cash to pay the driver. In my foggy state, I told him he overcharged me, and he passed me twenty pesos with a strange look.
I stumbled out of the cab, sat outside my hostel, smoked a cigarette, and vomited my guts out. I remember taking care not to puke on a car parked nearby.
***
Losing memory is a scary thing. The last time that happened to me was during a rugby game, when I sustained a concussion. I lost twenty minutes of memory then. People told me I was walking around the pitch, crying.
This time, at least four hours of my life was robbed, along with almost S$800. Money is material and can be earned, but losing parts of my memories feels almost as if a piece of myself was forcibly taken away.
The next two days, I treated the incident as a joke when concerned friends texted me.
Now, as I write about what happened, the trauma kicks in.
But this is essential. I am a writer. And when things happen to me, I turn it into a story and file it into a treasured memory trove. I try to replace what is stolen with something more.
I think about the government’s failure to provide for their citizens. I think about the rampant poverty here. I think about the desperation that drives people to commit evil deeds. I think about karma. On a brighter side, perhaps they were swindlers with a conscience. They left me my IPhone, MacAir, and 900 pesos to fend for myself. And they sent me back to my hostel in a taxi.
This may be stupidity and naivety. But a part of the blame lies with myself, and I'd rather have learnt my lesson and be wiser, than to always travel with a closed heart, thinking that every local who approaches me is a conman.
I don't want to explore the what-ifs; it is dangerous territory. Fear is an organic being that festers and thrives on negative thoughts.
When I went to the local police station to make a report, the policeman told me, almost apologetically, "Many people are good, it is just some who are bad."
I believe him. I believe in the kindness of strangers.
I still love the Philippines. And I will still travel here, smile, say hi and exchange pleasantries with the next stranger who talks to me. But I will not follow them anywhere.
I have six more days in this beautiful country, and I’m looking forward to every moment that lies ahead.
