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"Yeah, yeah," I call, returning the salute. Anin and I forget the fish. She needsno reason to wander the dawn Manila streets. Nor I to follow. She wants waternow and I want something with which to down my vitamins. We seat ourselves inan open air cafe spilling directly onto the street. A child comes up and nudges me,its hand outstretched. I draw my vitamin bottles from my bag and remove a C anda multi mix. I place them in the child's hand, relaxed enough to demonstrate howshe should eat them. The child stares at me with big chocolate eyes. She slowlydrops her hand to the floor allowing the pills to slide from her fingers. Her eyesare glued to my face. Anin laughs and leans over."Here you are," she says, tucking a packet of cigarettes into the undersized arm.The child grins and runs off.I begin to protest when a hand runs down my spine. I swing around and stareinto the heifer eyes of an ageing prostitute. Her face creaks into a smile."You golden hair. Very beautiful. You look like a man," she whispers. "Myboyfriend look very much like you, golden haired. Soon he sends ticket for me. Whereare you from?""Australia.""Ya. I told my friends you from Australia!" Her friends, five or six other prostitutesnod vigourously. One of them puts her face, grotesque in its make-up next to mine."We are all waiting too but her ticket will come first. Her man was the best. Hetake her shopping one morning. He buy her that!" She fingers a well-worn dress."Ya. Maybe my ticket come tomorrow.""What will you do then?" I was tempted to laugh at the spectacle of the old whore,searching the sands for her beachboy who was probably balancing a beergut anda few kids. He would be stunned. Some broad that he'd hung out for a week within downtown Manila and hadn't he paid her right? Ask his mate and shit. He wasmarried.But she knew or did she? She didn't answer my question. Just kept noddingvacantly. Ricco was the same. I meet him in the lobby trying to pick up Anin. Anartist."Be overseas this time next year ... a documentary ... the Germans will pay ...they like films on the Philippines."Again our eyes don't meet. He's too ashamed to admit he could never get a visa.He hasn't enough money to bribe his way and if he makes it out, who will let himin?But why do they blame themselves? Why do they feel ashamed? We pay our billand leave. Two little boys are running past and in that familiar gesture used fromthe depth of Mrica to the front pages of Time, they grab my arm, rub their bellies.Before I can respond, the taller one drops my arm and lewdly feels my crotch. Thenthey run off hooting and hawing. I gasp and demand to know of Anin had shewitnessed this act. Are they hungry or is this a political act. She tells me to shutup, that I will never understand them because I think too much.Yes! I start to walk slowly behind her. She has a point. I am at a loss. She hastravelled the breadth of the country without a scratch while pickpockets and rapistshoe in on me as if they can smell my fear. Mter the incident my mind will desperatelytry to fit everything into a system, to rationalize their action. They are poor, toomuch testosterone, inadequate role models . . .I throw back my shoulders and lengthen my stride. I am too passive. Things alwayshappen to me. Not like Anin. She makes things happen. I will start to act.I run to catch up to her. I notice on approach, that a huge black man has implantedhimself within reach of her smile."Hey ... " he bt"~!"~"Piss off." I grab Anin's arm.One of his eyes stares emptily ahead, as big and glassy as a dolls.20 WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989