Salon Wanderlust | Passages: Luzviminda

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Nagano: Not ready for prime time
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Hundreds of thousands of athletes and fans are about to descend -- so where's the Olympics fever?
(01/14/98)
Nigerian nightmare
By Jeffrey Tayler
A death-defying bus adventure
(01/13/98)
Road Warrior
By Dawn MacKeen
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(01/12/98)
In the Footsteps of Alexander the Great
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Tracking Alexander the Great through the Hindu Kush
(01/08/98)
The Inuit Olympics
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(01/07/98)

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__________luzviminda
A TALE OF LUST, ILLUSION AND REVELATION___________
___________ON A CARGO LINER IN THE PHILIPPINES.

| E X C E R P T |

From Travelers' Tales Guides:
The Road Within
Edited by Sean O'Reilly, James O'Reilly
and Tim O'Reilly
435 pages
Nonfiction
Travelers' Tales, Inc.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
BY RICHARD STERLING | She had one of those names that are so common in the Philippines, like Lucy or Linda. Maybe it was Dinah. I can't remember. I met her on the Manila waterfront. True to what I had been told, she did look a bit of a tramp, and an older one at that. You might even have called her mannish for her shape. But she was a she to the core, as all good ships are, and which I found when I boarded her. I'll speak no ill of her. Under the maritime subdivision of the Masculine Code, it is a bad thing to defame virtuous females, whether terrestrial or marine.
I was going to ride this cargo liner to the southern islands where I could relax in a place where nothing ever happens, and feel nostalgic. This was one of my many return journeys to the countries of the South China Sea since the end of the Vietnam war. It was in this region I came of age, and lived many years.
I was almost too young when I was sent out to this end of the world in the final years of the war. I was that guy everyone called "the kid" in so many old war movies about better wars. A navy man, I did duty sometimes on the "gun line" along the coast, and sometimes up the river. This is not a war story, so I'll just say that in the battles without and the battles within there was plenty to make a man crazy, I mean really truly bad crazy, unless he had something with which to ground himself. Some men got religion. Some took drugs. Others wrote songs or poetry. Still others just went crazy.
Me, I was lucky. I was able to get away frequently to the Philippines, Thailand, Indonesia, all over the South China Sea, where I took my comfort with women. It was the Tribe of Women who kept my mind and spirit whole. I found I could sail to the antipodes, fight all the hordes of Ho Chi Minh, live in fire, go without beer, if I could but lie in the arms of a woman. I drank deeply from their cup, and their female powers sustained me. And there didn't always necessarily have to be any sex involved, although that was certainly a plus. Indeed, I remember times when the woman whose arms I would have most preferred were my mother's. Maybe you'll find it questionable that a grown man wants to nestle in his mother's arms, but any man who has been in war knows whence I speak. We all know stories of men dying in battle with the word "Mama" on their lips. You may be sure the stories are true.
So there I was in the islands again, roving southerly in a tramp steamer with no particular destination, and ready to put ashore on any island where a lady might find me good company. My cabin was located port side amidships and contained a bunk, wardrobe, sink and toilet, a little desk and chair, and a port hole. We had been at sea several hours when I decided to tour the vessel. I started at the bottom and began working my way up the decks, having the bridge as my ultimate goal. When I reached the level of the crew's quarters and the chart house I noticed a closet-sized space that held a swivel chair. A cigar box full of scissors, combs and other supplies sat on a makeshift shelf. A hand lettered sign above the door read, "Barber and Beauty Shop."
I kept climbing upward intending to reach the bridge. One level below my goal, I found a small bar. "Hot damn!" I thought, and walked in; the bridge be damned. The place had a port hole on each side, but otherwise no access to outdoor light. No electric lights were burning so the room was pretty dim. It was seedy looking, kind of like the ship itself, a tramp bar. Only a few passengers were in there. I figured it was mainly for the comfort of the crew. It looked like a waterfront dive. But I had drunk in many a waterfront dive, so that was okay with me.
I took a seat at the counter and ordered a San Miguel beer. The sleepy looking barman served it up with no glass but it was icy cold, and I downed it quickly then ordered another. I was taking my time with the second beer, gazing out a port hole when I heard someone sit down near me. I didn't turn around, but I heard a woman with a husky, Lauren Bacall voice order coffee in a Philippine accent. I heard the cup set down on the bar, the spoon tinkling in the cup as it stirred in sugar and milk, then sipping sounds. I realized that she was sitting right next to me. And all the other barstools were empty. I made a quick, silent prayer to Aphrodite that this woman be attractive, then turned, as casually as possible.
She was dressed in a kind of jumpsuit, but the sleeves and legs were short. It looked clean, but rather old. She was very slim and lithe looking, in the manner of one of Balanchine's dancers with their characteristic small breasts and hips. Her skin was the same color as her coffee with milk. Her hair was shoulder length and fine. She had big brown puppy dog eyes. She was not beautiful, but in no way was she undesirable. To my eye, her most remarkable features were her hands. They were very graceful and looked like they belonged to a sculptor. In one hand she held her cup and saucer, in the other, her spoon, with which she drank her coffee, just as a child might do with a cup of hot chocolate. She held the cup close to her mouth and looked at me over its rim. Her name was Luz.
A lot of women in the Philippines are named Luz. In Spanish, Luz means light, as all Filipinos know from their time as a Spanish possession. In the islands Luz is short for Luzviminda, a contraction of the names of the three island groups that comprise the Philippines. Luz, then, is a female patriotic name with a lovely double meaning.
"Are you going to Cebu?" she asked in her Lauren Bacall voice, and took a little sip from her spoon.
"Yes," I answered. "Are you?"
She nodded a yes and said, "But I'm not going to be stopping there. I work here in the ship. I have my beauty shop."
"Oh, yes. I noticed that."
"Do you want a haircut?"
"No. Thanks."
She put the spoon into her mouth, upside-down, like a lollypop, and drew it out slowly between pursed lips. We made small talk. I offered her a beer but she declined, preferring more coffee. "Do you have a girlfriend in Cebu?" she wanted to know.
"No. No I don't. I'm just on a pleasure tour. Do you have a boyfriend? In Cebu?"
She looked into her coffee for a moment, stirring thoughtfully. "No," she said. "l don't got no boyfriend no more. I leave him because he's always hitting me."
What do you say to something like that? I tell you, it always upsets me to hear about men who beat women. I come from a long line of cowboys and lumberjacks and frontier sheriffs and other Neanderthals who have the quaint and outdated notion that men are to protect women and guard them against abuse. I have brawlers aplenty among my kinfolk in the Tribe of Men, but from earliest times I can remember their admonition: "Never hit girls, even if they hit first. It's a bad thing to do." I take it near personally when I hear of men who violate the code. You can call me old-fashioned, patronizing, patriarchal or sexist, but there it is. And I don't care.
I mumbled something I hoped sounded sympathetic, because I was, and because what else could I say, and she said, "Don't worry. That's okay. He's not going to hurt me anymore because I leave him forever."
"Good for you," I said.
She sipped another spoonful of coffee and then slowly licked the spoon, her puppy dog eyes on mine. We made some more small talk. I drank more beer. She even bought me one. Now and then, with the back of her spoon, she painted her lips with coffee and then licked the sweet creamy brew from them. She did none of these spoon maneuvers blatantly. Rather, each action was very subtle, as though she had learned to do it in some kind of finishing school where young ladies of position study social comportment and how to snare a man.

N E X T+P A G E+| A late-night rendezvous


T A B L E_T A L K Vacationers discuss their worst trips ever in Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Nagano: Not ready for prime time By Eric Gower Hundreds of thousands of athletes and fans are about to descend -- so where's the Olympics fever? (01/14/98) Nigerian nightmare By Jeffrey Tayler A death-defying bus adventure (01/13/98) Road Warrior By Dawn MacKeen Frequent flyer guru Randy Peterson shares his secrets (01/12/98) In the Footsteps of Alexander the Great By Michael Wood Tracking Alexander the Great through the Hindu Kush (01/08/98) The Inuit Olympics By Mary Roach Inuit Games: Head Pulls, Knuckle Hops and other madness (01/07/98) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Passages archives		__________luzviminda A TALE OF LUST, ILLUSION AND REVELATION___________ ___________ON A CARGO LINER IN THE PHILIPPINES. \| E X C E R P T \| From Travelers' Tales Guides: The Road Within Edited by Sean O'Reilly, James O'Reilly and Tim O'Reilly 435 pages Nonfiction Travelers' Tales, Inc. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BY RICHARD STERLING \| She had one of those names that are so common in the Philippines, like Lucy or Linda. Maybe it was Dinah. I can't remember. I met her on the Manila waterfront. True to what I had been told, she did look a bit of a tramp, and an older one at that. You might even have called her mannish for her shape. But she was a she to the core, as all good ships are, and which I found when I boarded her. I'll speak no ill of her. Under the maritime subdivision of the Masculine Code, it is a bad thing to defame virtuous females, whether terrestrial or marine. I was going to ride this cargo liner to the southern islands where I could relax in a place where nothing ever happens, and feel nostalgic. This was one of my many return journeys to the countries of the South China Sea since the end of the Vietnam war. It was in this region I came of age, and lived many years. I was almost too young when I was sent out to this end of the world in the final years of the war. I was that guy everyone called "the kid" in so many old war movies about better wars. A navy man, I did duty sometimes on the "gun line" along the coast, and sometimes up the river. This is not a war story, so I'll just say that in the battles without and the battles within there was plenty to make a man crazy, I mean really truly bad crazy, unless he had something with which to ground himself. Some men got religion. Some took drugs. Others wrote songs or poetry. Still others just went crazy. Me, I was lucky. I was able to get away frequently to the Philippines, Thailand, Indonesia, all over the South China Sea, where I took my comfort with women. It was the Tribe of Women who kept my mind and spirit whole. I found I could sail to the antipodes, fight all the hordes of Ho Chi Minh, live in fire, go without beer, if I could but lie in the arms of a woman. I drank deeply from their cup, and their female powers sustained me. And there didn't always necessarily have to be any sex involved, although that was certainly a plus. Indeed, I remember times when the woman whose arms I would have most preferred were my mother's. Maybe you'll find it questionable that a grown man wants to nestle in his mother's arms, but any man who has been in war knows whence I speak. We all know stories of men dying in battle with the word "Mama" on their lips. You may be sure the stories are true. So there I was in the islands again, roving southerly in a tramp steamer with no particular destination, and ready to put ashore on any island where a lady might find me good company. My cabin was located port side amidships and contained a bunk, wardrobe, sink and toilet, a little desk and chair, and a port hole. We had been at sea several hours when I decided to tour the vessel. I started at the bottom and began working my way up the decks, having the bridge as my ultimate goal. When I reached the level of the crew's quarters and the chart house I noticed a closet-sized space that held a swivel chair. A cigar box full of scissors, combs and other supplies sat on a makeshift shelf. A hand lettered sign above the door read, "Barber and Beauty Shop." I kept climbing upward intending to reach the bridge. One level below my goal, I found a small bar. "Hot damn!" I thought, and walked in; the bridge be damned. The place had a port hole on each side, but otherwise no access to outdoor light. No electric lights were burning so the room was pretty dim. It was seedy looking, kind of like the ship itself, a tramp bar. Only a few passengers were in there. I figured it was mainly for the comfort of the crew. It looked like a waterfront dive. But I had drunk in many a waterfront dive, so that was okay with me. I took a seat at the counter and ordered a San Miguel beer. The sleepy looking barman served it up with no glass but it was icy cold, and I downed it quickly then ordered another. I was taking my time with the second beer, gazing out a port hole when I heard someone sit down near me. I didn't turn around, but I heard a woman with a husky, Lauren Bacall voice order coffee in a Philippine accent. I heard the cup set down on the bar, the spoon tinkling in the cup as it stirred in sugar and milk, then sipping sounds. I realized that she was sitting right next to me. And all the other barstools were empty. I made a quick, silent prayer to Aphrodite that this woman be attractive, then turned, as casually as possible. She was dressed in a kind of jumpsuit, but the sleeves and legs were short. It looked clean, but rather old. She was very slim and lithe looking, in the manner of one of Balanchine's dancers with their characteristic small breasts and hips. Her skin was the same color as her coffee with milk. Her hair was shoulder length and fine. She had big brown puppy dog eyes. She was not beautiful, but in no way was she undesirable. To my eye, her most remarkable features were her hands. They were very graceful and looked like they belonged to a sculptor. In one hand she held her cup and saucer, in the other, her spoon, with which she drank her coffee, just as a child might do with a cup of hot chocolate. She held the cup close to her mouth and looked at me over its rim. Her name was Luz. A lot of women in the Philippines are named Luz. In Spanish, Luz means light, as all Filipinos know from their time as a Spanish possession. In the islands Luz is short for Luzviminda, a contraction of the names of the three island groups that comprise the Philippines. Luz, then, is a female patriotic name with a lovely double meaning. "Are you going to Cebu?" she asked in her Lauren Bacall voice, and took a little sip from her spoon. "Yes," I answered. "Are you?" She nodded a yes and said, "But I'm not going to be stopping there. I work here in the ship. I have my beauty shop." "Oh, yes. I noticed that." "Do you want a haircut?" "No. Thanks." She put the spoon into her mouth, upside-down, like a lollypop, and drew it out slowly between pursed lips. We made small talk. I offered her a beer but she declined, preferring more coffee. "Do you have a girlfriend in Cebu?" she wanted to know. "No. No I don't. I'm just on a pleasure tour. Do you have a boyfriend? In Cebu?" She looked into her coffee for a moment, stirring thoughtfully. "No," she said. "l don't got no boyfriend no more. I leave him because he's always hitting me." What do you say to something like that? I tell you, it always upsets me to hear about men who beat women. I come from a long line of cowboys and lumberjacks and frontier sheriffs and other Neanderthals who have the quaint and outdated notion that men are to protect women and guard them against abuse. I have brawlers aplenty among my kinfolk in the Tribe of Men, but from earliest times I can remember their admonition: "Never hit girls, even if they hit first. It's a bad thing to do." I take it near personally when I hear of men who violate the code. You can call me old-fashioned, patronizing, patriarchal or sexist, but there it is. And I don't care. I mumbled something I hoped sounded sympathetic, because I was, and because what else could I say, and she said, "Don't worry. That's okay. He's not going to hurt me anymore because I leave him forever." "Good for you," I said. She sipped another spoonful of coffee and then slowly licked the spoon, her puppy dog eyes on mine. We made some more small talk. I drank more beer. She even bought me one. Now and then, with the back of her spoon, she painted her lips with coffee and then licked the sweet creamy brew from them. She did none of these spoon maneuvers blatantly. Rather, each action was very subtle, as though she had learned to do it in some kind of finishing school where young ladies of position study social comportment and how to snare a man. N E X T+P A G E+\| A late-night rendezvous