MAY 31, 2017
The Initial Encounter
10.55AM “I saw you leave Z Hostel. I just finished night duty. I work door security,” buoyantly announces a Filipino man, face tanned yet hoary from the deprecating winds of ageing.
“That’s nice.” I retort, rapt by the hustle of the Makati avenue. Mildly cautious, I walk forward, intent – in part - on visiting the mall an hour’s walk away.
“I’m walking to the metro. Join me, if you want.”
Walking to Manila in the sweltering heat does not appeal. The thought of air-conditioned travel getting there does.
“Sure. We’re walking in the same direction,” I yield, gauging his presence inferentially with each sweaty pound we make on the cracked pavement. “Let’s go,” I concede.
* FAST FORWARD *
Seven hours later, a policeman collects my unconscious body from the pavement of a Manila street, freshly dispossessed - physically - of my prized possessions; emotionally and psychologically, I’d lost much more.
* REWIND *
Establishing Rapport
11.00AM (Approximately) Things began innocently, as do most cultural encounters on foreign soil. I’d left the hostel in Makati on foot at 10.55am, planned destination: SM Mall of Asia, in Pasay, Manila. Although fatigued following a delayed 2.00am arrival in the Philippines, I was coherent, certainly enough to make rational decisions. Shortly after stepping foot into the busy street, I was approached innocuously by a mid-fifty-year-old Filipino man, non-threatening and jovial. His approach was cordial; he’d not tried to force-sell me anything, nor did he push me into any unsavoury activities. I was cautious, as always, and maintained association – distantly – during our walk to the station, parting only with impartial information
“My aunty is meet me at the Metro, and her colleague. They are here from Cebu for conference of teachers.”
As we walked languidly, conversation ensued, mostly about his life. I parted only with a name, age and country of birth. Until our supposed encounter with his ‘family’ at the metro station, I was in self-protection mode. After several text messages to his aunt, a phone call that lasted only seconds and further neutral chit chat between ourselves, we arrived. True to his word, there awaited a short thin woman in her seventies beside a corpulent woman of my age, both eager to become acquainted.
Meeting ‘The Gang’
11.15AM “You are fine, and handsome,” sultrily – and a little creepily - announced the elderly Filipina woman, more than twice my age.
I laughed, deriding the absurdity of the situation, as she firmly held my elbow while descending the escalator to the train. The touching didn’t stop. In fact, both her and her ‘colleague’s’ hands found their way across the narrow expanse of my upper body. I’d become drenched in sweat during the walk to the station thanks to the plus 40-degree heat and intense humidity compressing the air overhead. Their incessant touching with four hot hands made my skin crawl and core boil, almost literally. They stopped once I voiced irritation, and began simultaneously fanning me.
“We’re sorry,” they apologised, their eyes reflecting a glint of sincerity.
“You are lovely, and we want to welcome you to the Philippines.”
“It’s okay,” I sighed. “I just like a little more personal space.”
Building Trust
11.20AM – 12.00PM Following convivial banter throughout the train journey, I’d begun to dismantle the internal walls of complete distrust I’d held firmly in place. They seemed reasonable people, all with plausible and convincing life stories. They answered my questions concertedly, and conceded to ensure I was safe. In fact, the ‘colleague’ my age ensured I held my bag – most of the contents none of them saw throughout the encounter - close to my chest, to avoid the “thieves on the train.”
“We are going to visit a church with a bamboo organ,” revealed granny, as the train whooshed past streets tarnished by the brush of third world brutality.
“You come, if you want. We take taxi – it’s some kilometre from here.”
“It sounds interesting. I was going to visit the mall, but I can do that later,” I replied earnestly.
I felt safe, and almost a little protected by these people, Filipinos I’d only just met. Not only were they saying the right words to evoke a sense of trust, their charm and charisma had begun dulling my sense of apprehension, disarming alarm bells and shifting my disposition from stranger-danger to acquaintanceship.
I slid into the middle seat of the non-descript white taxi, squashed between the two Filipina women. The taxi driver, after some time - following quiet discussion in Tagalog with the middle-aged Filipino man sitting in the front, asked if anyone knew how much further the church was along the street. I helpfully retrieved an iPhone from the bag held snugly on my lap, opened Maps.Me and tapped in the location.
“It’s only another 500 hundred metres, on the right.”
‘Familial’ Sightseeing
12.00PM – 12.30PM As we entered the gates of Las Pinas, it became apparent there was a funeral in progress. Rather than disrupt the ceremony solely to see the bamboo organ, the group suggested we travel a short distance further along Quirino Avenue, to a karaoke restaurant. Unbeknown to me, almost every restaurant and bar in Manila – and by extension the Philippines – boasts karaoke equipment. I quickly learned that most people from the island nation adore karaoke; it’s an institution, of sorts. I’ve never been fond of the pastime, mostly because I possess the vocal finesse of a cat on heat.
Karaoke Time
12.30pm – 1.50pm The establishment was literally a shack, roof and walls held together loosely by rusty nails. As we walked through the entrance to the dining area, I noted the ‘buffet’ on display: whole fish, tofu salad and various plates of seafood dishes sitting – unrefrigerated – in the sun. My stomach turned, and I consciously decided – even at the risk of being offensive – not to eat any of the food. I didn’t want gastroenteritis spoiling my first day in the Philippines.
For the following one and a half hours, they sang song after song. We talked, they ate, they sang and we laughed together. They bought a tall bottle of beer - opened at the table, of which I had one small glass (consumed within the first twenty minutes). I’ve never liked the taste of beer, and I further dislike it when it’s warmer than the air temperature.
“You offend us not eat our food,” whimpered the older woman.
“It’s too hot for me to eat. I have no appetite. I’ll just have my water. I’m sorry.”
“But today is celebration. It is my anniversary with husband – 40 years,” she ruminated, as if pandering for attention.
“I know,” she continued, “I get you something delicious you like. You like mango?” she asked.
“I do, thank you. It’s not necessary, but as it’s your anniversary, I’ll have some mango.”
After all, how dangerous could mango be? It’s peeled, not washed in local water and mostly fresh and juicy.
‘So long,’ I thought, ‘as it hasn’t been sitting in the sun, it’ll be fine.’
The Stroke of Evil Genius, On A Mango
1.50 – 2.00PM (approximately) As I listened to the decent vocal acoustics of the ‘colleague’ as she belted out Adele lyrics, granny sat in a dark, isolated corner of the shack and went about business. Moments later, she arrived at the table with a mango cut into slices. As grandmothers often do, she scooped a chunk of mango from “your” slice with a spoon, and motioned it towards my mouth.
“This piece is for you. Try it. Good mango.”
“Oh no, please. Okay,” I compromised.
It was fresh, juicy and delicious. As a child, I hated the texture of mango. I only enjoyed the flavour of mango, in juice. I wish I’d maintained my dislike of its texture as, minutes later, I was unconscious.
JUNE 1, 2017
A Misty Blur
1.30AM (approximately) “There’s a rock in my bag. Why is there a rock in my bag? Where’s my camera? My lens isn’t here. It’s a white rock. Where’s my camera. It’s missing. Where am I? Who are you? What’s happening? Have I been robbed? Did you rob me? Do you have my phone?”
Back in Makati, the security guard working the front door at Z Hostel kindly escorted me inside, after extracting a verbal report from the police officer who had dropped me off.
Barely Conscious
1.50AM After being helped to bed, I somehow managed to open my laptop and, with little coherency or consciousness, wrote the following message on Facebook:
"My worst travel nightmare has materialised. I was drugged in a taxi, and had my $4000 SLR camera stolen as well as my brand-new iPhone and all my visa cards. I’m groggy still, and don’t know what to do. I’m devastated, and really upset."
Waking up briefly in the police car (assuming it was a taxi driver who was robbing me after finding a rock in my bag) and stringing together several sentences to post on Facebook are the only two memories I have after losing consciousness on May 31 and waking up shy of midday on June 1, 2017. My sense of rationality had disappeared with my belongings.
Gibberish at the Police Station – Attempt One
11.48AM Not only were my thoughts dissonant from the sounds leaving my mouth, I was unable to walk in a straight line, various parts of my body acting as cushioning against the objects I encountered: walls, doors and everything within arm’s reach. The kind-hearted security guard who’d escorted me to the Makati Police Station acted as a physical support, almost carrying me at times. Even though the police officer to whom I spoke was fluent in English, he sent me away, unable to understand what I was trying to say. My world had become a physically and emotionally vertiginous rollercoaster.
I have little memory of the first police station visit on June 1.
I understand the kind staff at Z Hostel – upon our return 30 minutes later - put me back to bed in the 8-bed dorm and left me sleep.
Return to the Police Station Equipped with more Coherence – Attempt Two
4.00PM I was coherent enough to speak with Officer Aldrin at Makati Police Station, although my gait was still unstable. Reynan, the guard from the hostel, sat patiently by my side, providing moral support and comfort. At this point, I’d not joined any dots; all I understood - through the drug induced haze – was that my belongings had gone, and I felt physically unwell.
“So, what happened yesterday?” asked Officer Aldrin.
As I recounted the details of the previous day at a languid pace, he scribbled notes, finishing his report long before I’d completed detailing a verbal account. He did not exhibit surprise at my storytelling. The police knew the shameless routine, verbatim. It was business, as usual.
“Were you drugged?” he enquired.
“Drugged, how? By whom?”
“Consider medical help”, he implied.
Only then did I put one piece together: something had been laced, but I had no idea what, and was clueless to the drug of choice. It explained the irrationality of my world.
The Onset of a Zombie-Like Existence
6.00PM Sitting upstairs in the hostel restaurant, food generously lain before me, tears rolled down my cheeks, tricking into the bowl – filling with raw emotion. The greatest sense of loss and vulnerability I’d ever felt washed over me; I felt violated.
7.00 – 8.00PM Exhaustion set in; a drug induced fatigue swirled around me, draining every ounce of vital energy. I lumbered up the stairs, and collapsed into a new bed, in a four-bed dorm generously assigned – for free – by Erica.
JUNE 2, 2017
Putting Together the Puzzle Pieces
11.00AM – 6.00PM After reporting the incident at the Australian Consulate and walking to Makati Medical Centre, I was seen in the Emergency Department by a concerned physician. It was only following our conversation that further clarity occurred: the friends I’d made in Manila had lulled me into a state of complacency and left me wholly disarmed; it was a ruse, cleverly disguised as a familial trio. Why a taxi driver, who was dropping me at the front of a hostel, would rob me, made no sense. The extreme sense of disorientation I’d experienced the previous day had clouded my thinking and left me void of clarity.
It had indubitably been the older Filipina who’d laced the mango. She’d successfully sent me into unconsciousness with a high dose of Lorazepam, so I learned weeks later. With short-term sedative and amnesic effects, it’s no wonder I had no control – or memory – of events. Worse still, according to footage I later saw of my return to the hostel, my trousers were completely loose and my zipper undone, which leaves question marks hanging overhead regarding the extent of the violation incurred.
As my mind gained further clarity, I determined the damage: they had absconded with my camera, lens, equipment, new iPhone and cash, totalling nearly AU$7000.
JUNE 3, 2017 TO NOW (BUT HOPEFULLY NOT BEYOND)
Repercussions and Reflections
It’s thanks to a kindred soul who shared the same dorm room that I managed to leave the hostel several days later. His name I forget, but his face I’ll always remember. He was patient enough to endure my zombie-like state, completely void of discussion and emotion.
One day at lunch as I stared blankly through a restaurant window, swirling the food on my plate perfunctorily in circles, the sparkle of life that flickered in his blue eyes gave me hope: despite the void that had been created, I knew – on some level – things would eventually improve.
However, since that meal, there have been significant obstacles to overcome. I’ve had to endure intense feelings of shame, embarrassment and humiliation. As an experienced traveller with 15 years’ experience, it should not have happened. I walk confidently to the beat of my own travel drum, and have done so since I was 18. I’m savvy, safe and securely composed. I take pride in the way I’ve grown competently as a global citizen, and know I travel well. Previously, I’d engaged - on numerous occasions - in cultural encounters around the globe, always cautiously assessing the risk; it’d never ended badly. However, I was shanghaied. I also made a fatal error, violating a principle underpinning solo travel.
I fallaciously overlooked certain details during my research. As part of a plan-as-you-go one-to-two-year travel-cum-volunteer journey, I spontaneously decided to visit the Philippines. I booked a flight from Kuala Lumpur to Manila five days before arriving, little time in which to devise a plan (especially while travelling every day). I subsequently only scratched the surface on details of the dangers and annoyances one can expect to encounter in the Philippines. I read about pickpockets, unethical taxi drivers and money-change scams. However, I somehow overlooked the section regarding drugging and robbery. I am, thus, in part to blame for the losses incurred. Overlooking such an impactful detail amounts to negligence, despite the high-level professionality and believability of the Ativan gang.
As an adult, I’ve defined myself through travel so with my sense of security disappeared my sense of self. I’ve since grappled to reacquire it; the definition has been distorted. Redefinition is required. I hope that with a renewed travel identity sprouts a vivacious desire to travel. The one that once burned infinitely within has been somewhat extinguished. The flame requires reigniting.
Despite regular flashbacks, I’ve reclaimed only snippets of detail, mostly about day three and onwards. It still creates horror to visualise myself lain unconscious on the sidewalk of a busy street in Manila.
Forward Thinking
The experience I had was only a raindrop in the ocean in comparison to the outpouring of kindness and generosity I experienced post-trauma. The staff at Z Hostel almost singlehandedly got me through the first few difficult days. It’s through their generosity, care and support that I received ample nourishment, saw the relevant authorities and got enough rest. They have set the benchmark high in terms of remarkable customer service.
It’s also thanks to the incredible generosity of various Filipino citizens that I’ve been able to reclaim some physical losses, considering my travel insurance only paid out 60% of the damage. Thank you, KC Conception, for getting me back on the photography horse. Thanks also must go to an unnamed gentleman I never had the opportunity to meet. Your financial support in the days following the event demonstrated the mark of a kind-hearted human. The generosity of all these people restored my faith in human kindness. Without the help of Anthony, I’d never have been reached by locals who helped tremendously. Simon, Tracey and Lucas helped me begin a healing process, for which I’m eternally grateful. Your kindness, generosity and hospitality can never be repaid.
Thank you also to my family and friends from around the globe, all of whom reached out following May 31st, a date I’ll never forget.
I’ve since been asked whether I’ll ever return to the Philippines. My answer, unequivocally, is “yes!”
Bad exists everywhere. By its side is good, a whole lot of it. I cannot blame an entire nation of generous, hospitable and spirited people for the immoral actions of three evil souls. I’ve learned from my mistake and will never repeat it.
This article has also been shared on Daily Inspired Life.
