My Journey – Part 3: Three Months in the Philippines

If you haven't read Part 2 yet, I wrapped it up with all the prep work back in Korea and finally stepping out of Manila's airport. This is where things get real.

Welcome to Manila: The Heat and the "Sparta" Life

The moment I walked out of Manila Ninoy Aquino International Airport, a wall of hot air hit me square in the face. That was it — that was the moment it really sank in. I'm actually in the Philippines.

I'd been told before I left Korea that someone would be waiting for me outside. Sure enough, there was a person holding up a sign with my name on it. I followed him to a van, and we headed off to the English academy — a so-called "Sparta-style" language school located in a district called Quezon City, not too far from Manila itself.

By the time we arrived, it was already dark and well past dinner. I was shown to my room, and three Korean guys were already settled in. One was younger than me, one the same age, and one considerably older. They all seemed like good people. That was night one.

Starting the next morning, the real schedule kicked in. Monday through Friday, 8 AM to 6 PM — structured English classes with Filipino teachers. No Korean. Just English, all day.

I won't lie — at first, the idea of learning from teachers who couldn't speak a single word of Korean was intimidating. I was starting practically from zero. But the teachers were surprisingly good, patient and encouraging, and I found myself keeping up better than I expected. From early April to late June 2012, that academy became my world.

But honestly? I'm not here to write about grammar drills and vocabulary lists. What I really want to tell you about are the food, the chaos, the close calls, and yes — the women.

Pandesal, Red Horse,

and the Best Street Food of My Life

Every morning before 8 AM classes, a few of us would take turns running to the bakery right outside the school to grab fresh pandesal — small, round Filipino bread rolls, barely bigger than half my fist, still steaming, lightly sweet, and impossibly soft. Someone would always toss a couple to whoever was standing around, and that was breakfast. Simple as that.

I still think about those rolls. Even here in Canada, Filipino bakeries sell pandesal — but it's never quite the same. I don't know what it is. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the moment.

Speaking of things I couldn't quite bring myself to try — balut. For the uninitiated, balut is a fertilized duck egg that's been boiled just before it hatches. My friends ate it like it was nothing and swore it was delicious. I watched. That was my participation.

On weekends, the routine was simple and perfect: head to one of the pubs near the academy, order fried chicken, and crack open a San Miguel or Red Horse beer. I made the rookie mistake of treating Red Horse like a regular Korean lager. It is not. It will humble you quickly, especially when you're sitting outside on a patio in that thick, humid heat. But that first icy sip every time? Absolute bliss.

And then there was the street food stall right in front of the school — a little open-air setup where they'd take slabs of pork belly, deep-fry them, chop them up right on the board, toss them into a plastic bag, and drench everything in Mang Tomas sauce. Cheap, greasy, ridiculous, and one of the best things I've ever eaten.

That was daily life: bread in the morning, classes all day, street food and cold beer in the evening. Throw in a Filipino massage whenever we had time, and honestly — it wasn't a bad life at all.

A Knife to the Neck: The Jeepney Ride That Changed Everything

Now for the less relaxing parts.

One afternoon around 4 PM, two of my roommates and I needed to go to the bank. We were completely broke — not exaggerating, we had almost nothing left. Since it was broad daylight and three big guys were moving together, we didn't think twice about safety. We hopped on a jeepney like we always did.

For those unfamiliar, a jeepney is one of the most iconic forms of public transport in the Philippines. The front looks like a military jeep, the back is stretched out like a small open bus with no doors. You climb on, drop a few coins to the driver, and hop off whenever you need to. Casual and cheap — we rode them all the time.

What we didn't know then (my wife pointed this out to me years later) is that jeepneys can actually be pretty dangerous. But back then, we were blissfully unaware.

So there we were, riding to the bank, when three Filipino men got on and immediately squeezed in close on either side of me and the oldest roommate. Then it started:

"Give me your phone! Phone! Phone!"

I brushed it off at first. Then one of them pulled out a knife and pressed it against my neck.

I told him I didn't have a phone — which was true. I'd left my smartphone at the dorm like everyone did, because smartphones were expensive targets. I opened my wallet to show him. Literally just coins. We were on our way to the bank because we had no money.

Every time the jeepney hit a pothole, I felt the cold, sharp edge of the blade shift against my skin. It wasn't a deep cut, but the sting was a sharp reminder that this was very, very real. Not a drill. Not a misunderstanding.

Meanwhile, the oldest roommate, panicking, held up his phone — this old brick of a thing he'd gotten for free from one of the Filipino teachers, some beat-up little handset that looked like it had survived a war. The robbers looked at it. Then looked at each other. Then burst out laughing — and held their hands out to us for a high five. Like, "Fair enough, you guys are just as broke as we are."

It was, without question, the most polite robbery I've ever heard of — after the part where they put a knife to my neck, of course.

And just like that, they hopped off the jeepney at the next stop, still laughing.

The other Filipino passengers on the jeepney? Every single one of them had turned their heads and stared at the floor the entire time.

Once they were gone, my roommate looked at me and said, "Hey — your neck is bleeding."

We'd taken jeepneys plenty of times before without a second thought. We never rode one again after that.

A Separate Jeepney Story (Not Mine, But Too Good Not to Share)

While we're on the subject — there was a guy from a different room at the academy who'd decided to make his own way from the airport when he first arrived. He'd done some research online and figured he could just take a jeepney.

He flagged one down, and the driver told him not to sit in the back — he should sit up front, next to the driver. Then the driver said he'd need to rent the whole jeepney.

"How much?" the guy asked.

"One thousand pesos."

The fare was 3 pesos. He paid 1,000. Possibly the most expensive "private" jeepney ride in the history of Quezon City.

He sat up front, feeling pretty good about himself — until people started getting on and off in the back, paying the driver coins as they went.

He asked the driver: "Hey, I rented this jeepney. Why are people still getting on?"

The driver replied, completely straight-faced: "Oh, those are my friends and family. They had reservations before you rented it. Nothing I can do."

Rules for Surviving the Philippines

I say this with love: you have to stay sharp.

Taxi drivers who "forget" to turn on the meter. Alternate routes that somehow double the fare. The moment you say you don't know where you're going, someone will take full advantage of that. You have to speak up — "Turn on the meter or I'm getting out" — and then actually mean it.

A Legendary Night Out Gone Very Wrong (For Someone Else)

Nights off usually meant clubs. And one particular night became legendary among our group.

Two older guys from a different room at the academy had gone out clubbing and come back looking absolutely traumatized. They started cursing us out the moment they saw us, which was confusing since we'd had nothing to do with their evening.

Here's what happened:

That night, my same-age roommate and I had been at the club and managed to meet two tall, attractive women. We were having a good time when the older guys approached us and, essentially, asked us to hand the women over. They argued that we were young and could find others. Annoyed but outnumbered in seniority, we let it go and tried our luck elsewhere — which didn't pan out — and headed home.

When we got back to the dorm, the older guys showed up shortly after, clearly shaken.

Apparently, they'd had drinks with the women, then split into pairs and gone to a hotel. One guy got to the room, things progressed, and then — let's just say he discovered something unexpected below the waist.

The woman looked at him and said:

"Don't worry — I have a hole too."

He grabbed his clothes and ran to the lobby. The other guy from the other room was already there, having had the exact same experience at the exact same moment.

They shared a taxi back to the dorm in stunned silence.

We laughed until we couldn't breathe. And yes — if we hadn't "given up" those women, that would have been us.

The Night a Homeless Man Saved Me

This one I don't laugh about as easily.

One evening, the four of us decided to visit LA Café — a well-known adult entertainment venue in Manila at the time, open 24 hours. We'd actually gone earlier in the day just to check the vibe. Even in the afternoon it was dark inside, and women came up from all directions calling out "Oppa, Oppa!" We peeled them off and left, deciding to come back in the evening.

The plan was simple: meet someone inside, go to a nearby hotel, handle your business, then meet back outside LA Café afterward and head home together. We went in, and one by one, everyone paired off and left.

I was the last one.

I went to a hotel with a woman, and we'd barely gotten settled when she said, "My friend is nearby — can I invite her over?" Something about the way she said it made me uneasy. I said no. She said the friend was already on her way and stepped toward the door.

I didn't wait to find out what was going to happen. I grabbed my things and walked out.

Now I was alone, on a street I didn't know well, with almost no money (I'd already paid), no smartphone, and just a folded piece of paper with the dorm address on it — which one of my roommates was holding.

I started walking toward LA Café to wait. That's when I noticed a group of men in the distance, moving in the same direction I was. Probably nothing, I told myself.

Then a homeless man approached me.

"Give me money."

I showed him my wallet — nearly empty. I told him I was broke too. We walked together for a bit, just talking. He kept glancing behind us. Then he said, quietly:

"You are in danger."

"Why?"

He told me the group behind us was a local gang, and they'd been following me. He said I needed to get inside a building with armed security, fast. I told him I didn't know the area.

Without another word, he grabbed my wrist. His grip was surprisingly firm. We sprinted through the dark streets, and I could hear the heavy footsteps of the group behind us getting louder with every step.

He brought me straight to the front of LA Café — the brightest, most crowded spot on that block — let go of my hand, said "Good luck," and disappeared into the dark.

I stood there alone, broke and shaken. Then a woman from earlier in the day spotted me and asked what I was doing standing outside by myself. I explained the situation. She grabbed my hand, led me to a table inside, and said: "You don't have to spend anything. Just wait here."

I waited for what felt like a long time. My roommates didn't show.

Eventually, the youngest roommate cracked the door open and peeked inside. He spotted me. Turned out my same-age roommate and one of the older guys had each gone home with different women, and both assumed the youngest and I would find our way back on our own. The youngest had almost left too, but decided to check inside one last time before heading out.

We got home safe.

I've thought about that homeless man many times since. He had no reason to help me. I had nothing to give him. But he grabbed my wrist and ran with me anyway.

What's Coming in Part 4

Over my three months in the Philippines, I made it out of Quezon City a handful of times — three proper trips: Taal Volcano in Tagaytay, the waterfalls at Pagsanjan, and Angeles City.

Those deserve their own stories. See you in Part 4.

Have you ever had a moment where a complete stranger stepped in and saved you? Or maybe a travel story that still makes you laugh years later? Drop it in the comments — I'd love to hear it.