which is why dasmarinas (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dasmari%C3%B1as_Village) is an aberration in the landscape. it's a private subdivision and gated community where armed security guards cast cursory glances at your picture ID before waving you through. they don't check miguel's. they know him, apparently.
once through the gates, it's like a soundproof bubble has fallen on the world. the streets are wide here, and clean. the houses are fucking huge. they pass a few joggers listening to ipods. they pass children on tricycles whose nannies hang back a few feet behind them, gossipping with each other. it is like an american suburb, or what a country with money problems thinks an american suburb is like, with one key difference. property boundaries in the suburbs of america are often amorphous, barely defined for the abundance of space; sprawling lawns merge into each other or the woods, and gates are almost symbolic. in dasmarinas the gates are very high, the spikes that crown them very sharp. on the tops of some walls, edmund notices, they have placed broken glass; it's the only similarity dasmarinas has with the world of manila beyond its walls.
"would you look at this place," edmund mutters, taking in the idyll outside.
"yeah, well," says peter. "lune is loaded. what's his deal, satellite communications?"
"partly. he's got some call-centers, some night-clubs. he has a couple of hotels."
"i hear he's got some business with the philippine government."
"more like the philippine government's got business with him."
lune's house-mansion-thing has its own security guard, who opens the gates and ridiculously salutes them as they drive through. miguel pulls up to the front of the house and stops, and edmund and peter blink in the sunlight and the heat as servants take their bags.
the front door opens, and it's corin in board shorts, a t-shirt, and sandals. peter and edmund still somehow look the worse for wear.
"hey, man," corin grins. "long time no see."
"corin," peter nods in greeting. "your father home?"
"naw, he's in taipei, he'll be back tomorrow. come in! you guys must be exhausted. you want a beer?"
they follow corin into an entrance hall with marble flooring and a chandelier, a painting of a fisherman hanging over a tastefully empty vase.
part 2/2
once through the gates, it's like a soundproof bubble has fallen on the world. the streets are wide here, and clean. the houses are fucking huge. they pass a few joggers listening to ipods. they pass children on tricycles whose nannies hang back a few feet behind them, gossipping with each other. it is like an american suburb, or what a country with money problems thinks an american suburb is like, with one key difference. property boundaries in the suburbs of america are often amorphous, barely defined for the abundance of space; sprawling lawns merge into each other or the woods, and gates are almost symbolic. in dasmarinas the gates are very high, the spikes that crown them very sharp. on the tops of some walls, edmund notices, they have placed broken glass; it's the only similarity dasmarinas has with the world of manila beyond its walls.
"would you look at this place," edmund mutters, taking in the idyll outside.
"yeah, well," says peter. "lune is loaded. what's his deal, satellite communications?"
"partly. he's got some call-centers, some night-clubs. he has a couple of hotels."
"i hear he's got some business with the philippine government."
"more like the philippine government's got business with him."
lune's house-mansion-thing has its own security guard, who opens the gates and ridiculously salutes them as they drive through. miguel pulls up to the front of the house and stops, and edmund and peter blink in the sunlight and the heat as servants take their bags.
the front door opens, and it's corin in board shorts, a t-shirt, and sandals. peter and edmund still somehow look the worse for wear.
"hey, man," corin grins. "long time no see."
"corin," peter nods in greeting. "your father home?"
"naw, he's in taipei, he'll be back tomorrow. come in! you guys must be exhausted. you want a beer?"
they follow corin into an entrance hall with marble flooring and a chandelier, a painting of a fisherman hanging over a tastefully empty vase.
edmund says, "how about a bed?"