Unvarnished and un-retouched. We were young, once, and out in a wild world.

Vic

03 February 1979

YOU COULD SMELL THE LAND THIRTY OR FORTY MILES OUT, if you had gotten up early enough for it. I couldn’t have; stupefied still from over-liberty in HONG KONG, I suppose, but here is how it would have been: the orange ball of the sun would have made you screw up your eyes after the nighttime of florescent glow. Brisk breeze as the Midway left off her night of circling off the coast. The green and black of the mountains would have been the first thing to strike you above the blue of the water. And the smell of the Philippines.

Musky, like the snatches of the thousands of little brown girls even now boarding the battered Victory Liners out in the tiny villages. Ready to greet the happy Midway crew.

Ready? Shit, we were- the first capital ship to call at Subic Bay since the Constellation pulled out for that crazy run to the Straight of Malacca before New Years. Guarding the rights of the Americans in Iran from five thousand miles away; defending Liberty by having the capability to bomb Singapore. Real gunboat diplomacy. They must be calling him whirling Teddy Roosevelt now, wherever that ace Imperialist finally fetched up.

It was a working In-Port. You know how that goes: you feel guilty as you bolt down a couple Cubi Dogs and a Special at the BOQ bar in the course of your official duties up the hill at the Cubi Point Naval Air Station complex above the field.

Having to hang around the ship all day, either nursing a hangover or plotting how to ravage and pillage Olongapo City again that night. We were docked by the industrious little tugs at 0900 sharp.

“All heads forward of Frame 47 are secured until further notice.” It is like using the lavatory on a train in the station, since plumbing simply exits to the great outdoors. It is important not to dump on the tugboat crew. Bad taste for all concerned.

The squadron was going to be flying this time, so there was no bullshit about the work part for us. The golf clubs started going ashore not long after the brow went across. After all, it was the P.I. The temperature was a balmy 87 degrees, the sky cloudless, the Bay a sparkling blue.

Two or three brushfires were raging out of control in the hills. It was great to be back. Naturally, I had the duty first day in. Not a snivel, mind you, as I would prefer to miss the ritual drunk-ex on the first night anyway. But I will confess to that distinctive feeling of loneliness on board as everyone you know throws on civilian clothes and races for the nearest fondly remembered club, bar girl, or rattan shop. Takes all kinds, I suppose.

I was able to work a deal with my boss about the duty. After he had a nice dinner and a couple cocktails, he came back and relieved me.

I was able to grab a cab and head for the Cubi O club for a couple non-Midway emergency burgers and an obligatory six pack. San Miguel: what a refreshing beer! Really a wonder-beverage. It has the capability to work as a thirst quencher, a mild intoxicant, and a purgative all at the same time. Back home it would run you a couple bucks a crack down at the bistro. Here, 45 cents at the Club and as little as 2 pesos out in the Ville.

Splendid! I believe I’ll have another. Rose early the next morning to discover that the Boss had an exercise associated with the Duty, commencing at 0500. Maybe there is a God, after all.

I hung around the ship until after lunchtime shuffling papers and plotting my escape. Finally discovered some vital Squadron business over on the Subic Side and logged myself ashore. Had a delightful burger over at the Chuck Wagon. And a couple beers. Paid off an overdue account at the Subic Club for some frolicking last time down. Duty done, I repaired to the ship to get ready to Alpha Strike the town.

Let’s see: watch and ring off the hand. Wallet purged of unnecessary cash assets. Placed in the front pocket, so it can be guarded with the left hand. All small valuables transferred to the security safe down in the Intelligence spaces. As the sun declined my spirits soared.

I walked down to the quarter-deck and reported that I did indeed have permission to go ashore to the bored Officer of the Deck. Free at last, I cruised to the waiting line for a taxi and prepared myself mentally for the rigors ahead. The mind-set is of necessity quite different than that called for in any other country in Westpac. Most anywhere else you can cruise around pretty much as you want.

In Japan, the chances of getting rolled are so slight as to be negligible, unless it is another American.

The Philippines Islands, or Pee-Eye in colonial-speak for the Republic of the Philippines- is another case altogether. Before Marshall Law, there were signs in the most fashionable nightspots requesting the patrons to deposit their firearms at the door. Not uncommon to see great bodily harm come to someone on the street; in fact. The Boss reports that his first time out in town a security guard got wasted in the very first club he was sitting in.

It is not quite that bad these days, but still among the weirdest places on earth.

A shared cab ride with one of the squadron Skippers brings us through the Naval Air Station grounds and out past the F-8 on the pedestal that marks the perimeter.

One of the Connie A-7 squadrons painted the hapless old fighter up like one of their birds. A shocking insult to both the memory and the mission of the entire Fighter community. Everyone knows the A-7 really looks like an F-8 that has been run hard into the hangar bay armored door.

Round the Bay we rocket: past the Air Force fuel receiving dock, past the JP-5 settling tanks and the huge fuel farm. A hard left by the new Exchange Complex and we scoot along the flanks of the supply depot warehouses, seemingly secure behind wire and lock. Amazing what the Filipinos can steal when they set their mind to it. I heard from some permanent party folks that it wasn’t unusual to have forty “intruders” every night roaming around looking for things to borrow.

Out in front of one of the warehouse go-downs are the guns of the Battleship New Jersey. Three to a rack the huge steel telephone poles are mute testimony to the days when we still used the islands as our own soil, which Subic still is. One of the funny little trappings of a former empire, like the old peso coins you still see with the legend “United States of America” on the reverse.

God, I wish I could have seen it: three aircraft carriers in off Yankee Station and the New Jersey taking on more ammunition for Naval Gunfire off the coast of Vietnam. Lobbing 2500 Ib. shells for a quarter of a hundred miles. Like throwing Volkswagens of high explosives at the strange brown people with their own funny dreams of imperium.

Into the Naval Station at Subic proper we cruise past the go-cart track and the skeet shooting facility. Past the baseball fields and the fleet supply ships. The flat black antennas of the escorts poke up into the night sky.

The aircraft in the pattern for Cubi roar overhead in a non-stop racetrack of flashing red lights, and suddenly there we are. Main Gate City. I can smell Shit River already.

We queue up for the ritual inspection at the gate. The Marines stand like ramrods and the.45s on their belts are loaded. We flash our ID cards and receive a crisp salute. “Good Evening, Sir!”

“Good evening,” we reply “and good luck tonight.”

No response. The Marine is already hunched over inspecting another party on the way out. We stand in disorientation for a moment and allow the crowd to carry us along. Already I have been asked to sell my watch and purchase some cheap shell necklaces.

Twenty feet beyond the gate is the real boundary: the famous vile smelling river the separates the shacks and gaudy neon from the prim American order of the Base. Shit River. No name could be more appropriate. A four-lane bridge connects the Base to the City, and the angels of the river beckon from the shoulder-to-shoulder outrigger canoes.

“Hey Joe! Look at me Joe!”

They stand precariously over the fetid water on stools set in the middle of the canoes. They wear long gay dresses that cover the stools, so they appear to be immensely tall. “For a quarter I show you my tits! Hey Joe!”

They carry wire nets scooped to catch flying change. Occasionally a sailor will toss whatever is in his pockets. Usually it is money. Above all, the scene is bizarre. The stench, the exhortations, and the pickpockets who stride through the crowd looking for the drunk, the naive, or the distracted.

Sixty yards takes you to the city. It is a riot of neon, a carnival of jeepneys, and a confusion of people. Beggars, chewing gum sellers and hookers.

Never mess with a hooker off the street; she works there because she cannot pass her medical examination to work in one of the clubs. Cute, still, and the eye cannot cover all that shouts out for attention. Money changing booths across Magsaysay Boulevard where the pretty girls bang the glass with pesos for your attention and patronage. Each club has a security guard outside exhorting you to come on in and start spending that paycheck.

Tee-shirt palaces to delight even the most jaded traveler: “I Love You No Shit” says one, concluding with “Buy your Own Fucking Drinks'”

And more bars and women than you could count. Taxis cruise the street and hiss at you from the curb. Hat sellers exhort their merchandise. And the women…. they call the P.I. the land of beautiful women and they are correct.

The centuries of Spanish rule were not wasted by the hardy conquistadors.

Short as a rule, with long glossy black hair and piercing black eyes under lovely lashes. It seems they are either ladies of Virtue here or of the lowest morals. After dark you will seem to encounter only the latter. It is a marvelous place.

The question at hand is where to enjoy that first ice-cold San Miguel. The Skipper wants noise and action and women. He heads for a place called the Cavern. It is dark and loud and the women know him. He buys her six drinks immediately (at 24 pesos per drink you could have twenty beers) and that serves to set her free.

I dance with the lady who sits by me, and buy her one drink before I slide on. I know a place where it is 2-and-a-half for a beer, and the same price should you care to provide liquid refreshment for a lady. I bid every one a fond farewell and head for the door. It is like hitting the Steelers line, but I win through and pass once more down the swarming street.

The Club Rufadora lies past the American Legion (with the deck gun from a Japanese Death Ship out front) and before the New Florida Club and the sordid pleasures of the New Jolo. I order several beers and relax. Part of the attraction of the Rufadora is the fact that there is no hustling allowed. The ladies are available, of course, but they don’t knock you down in the stampede to get at your wallet. I look around for Sally, a real beauty with a slim body and gold in her teeth. She is occupied, and I am momentarily at a loss for a goal. I see a helicopter pilot I know and we slosh down another beer in search of a game plan.

“How about a trip out to the Barrio and the Samurai Health Club? We could take some cocktails and still be back before curfew.” The hated curfew is a relic of Martial Law since lifted nearly everywhere else. Marcos, in his wisdom, has decided to retain the law in Olongapo to help contain the sailors.

Anyone still on the streets after midnight is subject to arrest, and the gates to the Base slam shut exactly at midnight. There are some great stories of survival in the darkened streets by shipmates who dallied for a rendezvous only to find (to their great fear & loathing) that their lady love got a better quotation later and abandoned them to their own devices ’till the gates to safety opened up again at 0400.

“Does the Samurai give specials with the massage?”

“You betcha. And for only 35 Pesos. ” At those prices it was impossible to pass up. We lurched out of the club, flagged down a jeepney, and were on our way.

A word about jeepneys: they are open long-bed jeeps with a surrey style roof.

The colors are gaudy and the hoods are decorated with chrome bars, horses, religious medallions, reflector lights, and any other bauble that strikes the fancy of the owner. They serve as the public transportation system, and for 30 centavos you may ride wherever they choose to take you.

This particular one deposited us at the Olongapo Jeepney Station, where you may book passage on a jammed Victory Liner for the exotic spas of Baguio, Angeles, or Manila itself. We negotiated with a waiting cabby and secured transit over the hill to the Barrio for IOP. We ground gears and commenced the journey in a cloud of unburned emissions and Tagalog profanity.

You gotta see the roads to believe them. No one has seen such things in America in two generations. Crushed rook and potholes are the main constituents of the paving, with an assortment of Wash-Outs, Craters, and Land Slides for diversion. We rattled and rolled for twenty minutes and came to the abandoned guard shacks of the check-point.

The Barrio is thinly populated in comparison with the ‘Po and very rural in appearance. No paved roads. The clubs tend towards open air. Sailors stand along the road in various states of repair looking for rides back to civilization.

We forge on into the middle of the place and come to a halt in front of a dark lane that runs generally uphill. We pay off our chauffeur and he wheels around to pick up a fare on the other side of the road. We amble on up the deserted lane and come eventually to a two story building that bears the legend “Samurai Health Club” on the front. Next door is a large private home with several cars in the drive.

A gaggle of children rush out to greet us, and they seem to recognize my companion: “Hello Joe! Rock n’ Roll Hoochie-Coo!”

My buddy digs out a peso piece and flips it to the first one to shout the slogan.
“You cultural imperialist” I observe.

“It passes the time. Ah! And here we are.” Behind the desk in the pink foyer is a cute little girl of about sixteen. We exchange amenities, haggle about the price, and order a cold beer while we settle the tab. “I’ll pick up the beers” says my associate.

”Yeah,” said I, “and a round of Blowjobs for my friends.”

It was 35 pesos, as advertised, and our hostess assigned us rooms and leaned back to speak Tagalog into an intercom. We walked through the portal to the large vacant bar and through the back to the numbered rooms. There was no one around that I could see, so we found our room assignments and prepared for the inevitable. “See ya out front” said my mentor.

“Later” I agreed.

I walked into my room, kicked off my shoes and stripped to my trousers. In a few minutes I laid down on the bed and watched the little gecko lizards dart around on the cracked ceiling. They eat them over in the attack squadrons, but it has always been my position that anything that walks around eating mosquito eggs is a definite ally. The Filipinos consider them to be good housemates and I defer to their judgment and experience.

I watched two circular evolutions and a near collision and a lady entered the room in a short white dress, severely tailored, like a nurses uniform. I got up, removed my trousers and dumped them on the floor. She went ahead and spread a sheet over the bedspread.

“Please lie face down” she said. Her tones were bored, but the massage was anything but. “Powder or Oil?” she inquired.

“Oil, I think. The sea air dries me out so.”

It is possible she could have cared less, though I am not sure how. I reclined and slid off into the zone. It was magnificent. She kneaded me, pummeled the muscles, and wrenched the joints. Finally she rolled me over and worked down to the main joint with careful deliberation.

When she reached the center of attraction she went to work with an experienced and enthusiastic palate. The Geckos ran circles on the ceiling.

“My God” I said.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

Copyright 1979 Vic Socotra