The business district of Alaminos, in the Philippines, consists of roughly eight blocks by eight blocks of stores. A 7-Eleven recently opened. The nearby Hundred Islands National Park has become a popular ecotourism destination for nationals and foreigners alike.
A derisive comment or gibe nearing sexual innuendo usually comes next, followed by laughter. Everyone knows what Alaminos means. It means prostitutes. It means going there after the sun sets. The women in my office laugh, too. The first time I went to a brothel in Alaminos, it was by accident. I was with two colleagues from the LGU, Bill and Ka Rene; they took me to a restaurant to celebrate a recently approved grant.
Bill aroused my suspicion when he ran a quick errand in town proper and returned with three women. Then he said he would be treating everyone that night, just after the grant money was deposited. Aileen, one of the three women, took us to Franz Bar where she introduced us to an eclectic group of prostitutes — transvestites, minors, costumed girls, and fetish experts. Aileen was just that — a madam, a female pimp; but more than that, she was a matriarch for the slew of young, impoverished prostitutes in Alaminos.
Beyond ensuring the constant income revenue from her sex workers, she made sure they had basic necessities — food, water, and shelter. It was difficult for me to reconcile. The second time, a friend I was with claimed to have fallen in love with a girl — a prostitute — at first sight. Ka Rene is nearing His affability and capability to make those around him laugh make him extraordinarily effective at his job as a community development organizer.
He settles disputes in conflicted communities so that projects can proceed. Ka Rene was awestruck. A theme started to emerge to me. A pattern. These men actually thought — no, believed — that these women were hopelessly and absolutely in love with them. They thought their constant text messages were not mere marketing, but confessions of a tender and longing heart.
