We Filipinos Are Mild Drinkers PDF

We Filipinos Are Mild Drinkers Alejandro R. Roces When the Americans recaptured the Philippines, “I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.” they built an air base a few miles from our barrio. “Wh...

We Filipinos Are Mild Drinkers Alejandro R. Roces When the Americans recaptured the Philippines, “I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.” they built an air base a few miles from our barrio. “Why don’t you get two of them?” I didn’t answer. Yankee soldiers became a very common sight. I met a I unhitched datu from the plow and led him to the lot of GIs and made many friends. I could not mud hole. Joe was following me. Datu lay in the mud pronounce their names. I could not tell them apart. All and was going. Whooooosh! Whooooosh! Americans looked alike to me. They all looked white. Flies and other insects flew from his back and One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose out of the carabao named datu. I was barefooted and stripped to muddle. A carabao does not have any sweat glands the waist. My pants that were made from abaca fibers except on the nose. It has to wallow in the mud or and woven on homemade looms were rolled to my bathe in a river every three hours. Otherwise it runs knees. My bolo was at my side. amok. An American soldier was walking on the highway. Datu shook his head and his widespread horns When he saw me, he headed toward me. I stopped scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled over plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of half-pint bottle of whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed perfect contentment came into his eyes. Then he part of the American uniform. swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from “Hello, my little brown brother,” he said, patting me the mud hole to keep from getting splashed. I left Datu on the head. in the mud hole. Then turning to Joe, I said. “Hello, Joe,” I answered. All Americans are called “Let us go.” Joe in the Philippines. And we proceeded toward my house. Jose was “I am sorry, Jose,” I replied. “There are no bars in cautiously looking around. “This place is full of coconut this barrio.” trees,” he said. “Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more “Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I whiskey?” asked. “Here, have a swig. You have been working hard,” “No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine he said, offering me his half-filled bottle. tree.” “No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild “What is it like?” drinkers.” “Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the “Well, don’t you drink at all?” sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.” “Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.” “Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the “What the hell do you drink” Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its leaves “I drink lambanog” sway down the earth, as if remembering the land that “Jungle juice, eh?” gave it birth. It does not forget the soil that gave it life.” “I guess that is what the GIs call it.” In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took “You know where I could buy some?” the bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree. Then I “I have some you can have, but i do not think you climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi. will like it.” “What’s that?” Joe asked. “I’ll like it alright. Don’t worry about that. I have “Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this drunk everything—whiskey, rum, brandy, tequila, gin, for our drinks.” champagne, sake, vodka....” He mentioned many “Oh, chasers.” more that i cannot spell. “That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.” “I not only drink a lot, but i drink anything. I drank I filled my pockets and then went down. I went to Chanel number 5 when I was in France. In New Guinea I the garden well and washed the mud from my legs. got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut. It was up in a hospital I pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell, dipped a wick in way here on a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. the oil and lighted the wick. It produced a flickering You ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let’s light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall. have some of that jungle juice, eh?” “Please sit down, Joe,” I said. “All right,” I said. “I will just take this carabao to the “Where?” he asked, looking around. mud hole then we can go home and drink.” “Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor. “You sure love that animal, don’t you?  Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in Then he looked down on his tie, threw it to one halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the foot high side, and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought it was table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube my tongue.” where I kept my lambanog. After this he started to tinker with his teeth. Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut “What is wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a tree with pulverized mangrove bark thrown in to perfect host. prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We “Plenty, this damned drink has loosened my use it as a remedy for snake bites, as counteractive for bridgework.” malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering hide. flame fell dead. He stared at the dead moth and said: I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut “And they talk of DDT.” shells and gave one of the shells to Joe. I diluted my “Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We what we came here for.” were both seated on the floor. I poured some of my “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m through.” drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to “OK. Just one more.” the ground below. I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted “Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his drink. ”Here’s to liquor away?” the Philippines,” he said. “No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to “Here’s to the Philippines,” I said. give back to the earth a little of what we have taken Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very from the earth.” clearly in the flickering light, but I could have sworn I “Well,” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end saw smoke coming out of his ears. of the war!” “This stuff must be radioactive,” he said. He threw “Here is to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yelled: my shell. I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a “Blaze, goddamn you, blaze!” slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe drink but reacted in a peculiar way. passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a starfish. He was His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand in a class all by himself. I knew that the soldiers had to clutched his throat. He looked as if he had swallowed a be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided centipede. “Quick, a chaser!” he said. to take Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it was too late. carry Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help bolo from the house and strapped it on my waist. Then I him. I don’t think even a coconut would have helped proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was him. wondering what had happened to the big Amerikano. “What is wrong, Joe?” I asked. After two hours I arrived at the airfield. I found out “Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects which barracks he belonged to and took him there. His me this way.” friends helped me to take him to his cot. They were glad He was panting hard and tears were rolling down to see him back. Everybody thanked me for taking him his cheeks. home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of “Well, the first drink always acts like a his buddies called me and said: minesweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be “Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you smooth.” go?” I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted “No, thanks,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave his shell. I noticed drinkers.” that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Joe took his shell but he did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: “Here is to America!” I was trying to be a good host. “Here’s to America!” Joe said. We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a turtle’s. And now he was panting like a carabao gone berserk. He was panting like a carabao gone amok. He was grasping his tie with one hand.