Marilao Santa

Every Christmas he came to Marilao, a regular ojiisan Santa. Thin and bespectacled, smoking all day long while draped on the bench in the shaded porch, languid as a sunbather. His arrival was always announced by happy children as they buzzed around his sack of presents. When the commotion had eased, he would settle into his reclining position for days at a time, eyes half-closed as his kingdom swirled itself into a hospitality frenzy of fried food and loud music. 

It's her Japanese husband, the neighbours told newcomers who wondered about him. The second husband, or was it the first?, seemed to be unbothered by the visitations of this popular, exotic other man. He continued to tinker with car parts at the front gate and waddle in and out of his house, shirtless and undoubtedly the alpha. They never spoke to each other.

The wife stationed herself at the outdoor kitchen frying up lumpia and turon, singing along loudly to her radio or rapidly commandeering her many children. She had orange hair held up with a claw, and her round figure was always poured into either hot pink tank tops with shorts or large housedresses that she slept in. 

What could a Japanese man possibly want with this family? What tidy, buttoned-up suburban Japanese neighbourhood was he escaping from, and did it come with a tidy, buttoned-up Japanese wife? Or was he an old salaryman condemned to a soulless routine of drinks after work, making this the only family he had? Neighbours peered at him as they walked past their open gate, but his contented nap face revealed nothing. He seemed completely at rest, as if he was reclining in a beach resort and not in a nest of laundry tubs, water barrels and kitchenware in middle-class Marilao.

He wasn't the only odd guest who appeared at Christmas. In SM Marilao, the only mall in this suburb, white men would appear like seasonal new goods. They would always be walking beside younger Filipino women whose faces took on a kind of quiet glow. The men, though, resembled shocked prey. Imagine being stared at by an entire suburb, and hoping nobody you know catches you. Add to that the unrelenting SM Mall soundtrack, the Christmas countdown posters plastered every few steps you took, the smoke kicked up from the trikes, and the crowds, the crowds, the crowds. If they were escaping Christmas back in their homes, they found themselves in a whole different kind of holiday hell.

Santa Ojiisan, however, had none of the shellshocked sheen of his juniors. He wore Marilao as comfortably as a set of favourite pyjamas. Never mind that in this house he had to wait for the water trucks' daily delivery before he could take a pail bath in the yard. Never mind that the house had walls that leaked and flaked when the rain came, and that the floor was swelling with underground life-- centipedes that crawled up through the cracks and a perennial moistness that made the tiles rise up and crack like baked bread. Never mind that thirteen people slept in the two rooms, spilling out to the living room on foam mattresses. Never mind that the internet speed boasted in this precinct was as fast as 5 MBPS. This was his kingdom.

"Show him Tala! Show him Tala!" The kids had reconvened around him with a night program. "Tala" was the number one hit song on the radio now, and everyone was doing the Tala dance challenge. The music video was racy, but the way the dance was copied by young and old across the nation made it feel as wholesome as a camp workout.

Santa Ojiisan sat up a little more, smiling as they danced. He clapped for them, ruffled their hair, and with a sigh of deep happiness, lay back on his bench and closed his eyes. Two days later he was gone, as was every white man in Marilao.