We Filipinos Are Mild Drinkers
Alejandro R. Roces
When the Americans recaptured the Philippines,
they built an air base a few miles from our barrio.
Yankee soldiers became a very common sight. I met a
lot of GIs and made many friends. I could not
pronounce their names. I could not tell them apart. All
Americans looked alike to me. They all looked white.
One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our
carabao named datu. I was barefooted and stripped to
the waist. My pants that were made from abaca fibers
and woven on homemade looms were rolled to my
knees. My bolo was at my side.
An American soldier was walking on the highway.
When he saw me, he headed toward me. I stopped
plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a
half-pint bottle of whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed
part of the American uniform.
“Hello, my little brown brother,” he said, patting me
on the head.
“Hello, Joe,” I answered. All Americans are called
Joe in the Philippines.
“I am sorry, Jose,” I replied. “There are no bars in
this barrio.”
“Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more
whiskey?”
“Here, have a swig. You have been working hard,”
he said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild
drinkers.”
“Well, don’t you drink at all?”
“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”
“What the hell do you drink”
“I drink lambanog”
“Jungle juice, eh?”
“I guess that is what the GIs call it.”
“You know where I could buy some?”
“I have some you can have, but i do not think you
will like it.”
“I’ll like it alright. Don’t worry about that. I have
drunk everything—whiskey, rum, brandy, tequila, gin,
champagne, sake, vodka. . . .” He mentioned many
more that i cannot spell.
“I not only drink a lot, but i drink anything. I drank
Chanel number 5 when I was in France. In New Guinea I
got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid
up in a hospital I pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my
way here on a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice.
You ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let’s
have some of that jungle juice, eh?”
“All right,” I said. “I will just take this carabao to the
mud hole then we can go home and drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?
“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”
“Why don’t you get two of them?” I didn’t answer.
I unhitched datu from the plow and led him to the
mud hole. Joe was following me. Datu lay in the mud
and was going. Whooooosh! Whooooosh!
Flies and other insects flew from his back and
hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose out of the
muddle. A carabao does not have any sweat glands
except on the nose. It has to wallow in the mud or
bathe in a river every three hours. Otherwise it runs
amok.
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns
scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled over
and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of
perfect contentment came into his eyes. Then he
swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from
the mud hole to keep from getting splashed. I left Datu
in the mud hole. Then turning to Joe, I said.
“Let us go.”
And we proceeded toward my house. Jose was
cautiously looking around. “This place is full of coconut
trees,” he said.
“Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I
asked.
“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine
tree.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the
sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the
Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its leaves
sway down the earth, as if remembering the land that
gave it birth. It does not forget the soil that gave it life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took
the bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree. Then I
climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this
for our drinks.”
“Oh, chasers.”
“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.”
I filled my pockets and then went down. I went to
the garden well and washed the mud from my legs.
Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut. It was
getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell, dipped a wick in
the oil and lighted the wick. It produced a flickering
light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall.
“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.
“Where?” he asked, looking around.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.
 Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in
halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the foot high
table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube
where I kept my lambanog.
Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut
tree with pulverized mangrove bark thrown in to
prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We
use it as a remedy for snake bites, as counteractive for
malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao
hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut
shells and gave one of the shells to Joe. I diluted my
drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We
were both seated on the floor. I poured some of my
drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to
the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good
liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to
give back to the earth a little of what we have taken
from the earth.”
“Well,” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end
of the war!”
“Here is to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting
my shell. I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a
slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his
drink but reacted in a peculiar way.
His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand
clutched his throat. He looked as if he had swallowed a
centipede. “Quick, a chaser!” he said.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined
salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it was too late.
Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help
him. I don’t think even a coconut would have helped
him.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects
me this way.”
He was panting hard and tears were rolling down
his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a
minesweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be
smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted
my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave his shell. I noticed
that he was beaded with perspiration. He had
unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Joe took his
shell but he did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell
and said: “Here is to America!”
I was trying to be a good host.
“Here’s to America!” Joe said.
We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in a
funny way. His neck stretched out like a turtle’s. And
now he was panting like a carabao gone berserk. He
was panting like a carabao gone amok. He was grasping
his tie with one hand.
Then he looked down on his tie, threw it to one
side, and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought it was
my tongue.”
After this he started to tinker with his teeth.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a
perfect host.
“Plenty, this damned drink has loosened my
bridgework.”
As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering
flame fell dead. He stared at the dead moth and said:
“And they talk of DDT.”
“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is
what we came here for.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m through.”
“OK. Just one more.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted
mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his drink. ”Here’s to
the Philippines,” he said.
“Here’s to the Philippines,” I said.
Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very
clearly in the flickering light, but I could have sworn I
saw smoke coming out of his ears.
“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said. He threw
the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yelled:
“Blaze, goddamn you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe
passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a starfish. He was
in a class all by himself. I knew that the soldiers had to
be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided
to take Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a
carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me
carry Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my
bolo from the house and strapped it on my waist. Then I
proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was
wondering what had happened to the big Amerikano.
After two hours I arrived at the airfield. I found out
which barracks he belonged to and took him there. His
friends helped me to take him to his cot. They were glad
to see him back. Everybody thanked me for taking him
home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of
his buddies called me and said:
“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you
go?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild
drinkers.”