Steve White.net

As a foreigner in paradise, everyone here tries to charge you more for stuff, because they think you are rich and you won’t notice the difference. We’re not talking about much, just five or ten cents (US) for small things you would buy around town, such as a newspaper, a loaf of bread, etc.

When Amy and I go shopping at the big market in town I always stay 20 feet away from her so the shop owners don’t jack up the price on everything. Nothing in the market has an actual price displayed, they simply invent a price based on how well the shopper is dressed, and how much they think they can get away with, and whether or not the shopper has a foreigner husband in tow.

On the bright side, everyone thinks that, as a foreigner, you must be really busy with important foreigner-related things like corporate takeovers and debenture bonds and such.

For example, I went into the local courier office (sorta like FedEx) the other day. There were lots of people there and you had to take a number to be served by one of the two clerks on duty. I drew number 19, and moments later the first clerk called out, “Serving number two please.” This was going to take a while.

Each customer had multiple forms to fill out, options to choose, packaging to do, etc., and the service was unbearably slow. The hot, stuffy room was awash in sweat dripping from every forehead. On the other side of the room a naked, filthy baby wailed for its mother. But my business there was important so I had to wait it out.

Then suddenly, in front of a whole room full of waiting people, the second clerk finished with her customer, looked me straight in the eye from across the room, and shouted, “How about you sir, what can I do for you?”

Because I was the only foreigner in there, everyone in the whole building had seen me go up and pick a number like everyone else. And they knew the next number to be called was three. And they knew that the clerk was cutting me to the front of the line. To try and be a little bit fair I pointed at my own chest and pantomimed, “Who me?” in response. With no shame at all the clerk just said, “Yes sir, please step over to the desk.”

You can almost think of the whole country as a giant pay-for-service model business, whereby you pay extra for your newspaper, but you don’t have to wait on the line to pay. That’s a perfect microcosm of what it is like to stay in the Philippines my friends, and that’s why I don’t sweat the small stuff.