We Filipinos are Mild Drinkers

Alejandro 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, dont 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.

Ill like it alright. Dont worry about that. I

have drunk everythingwhiskey, 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 aint kidding
when you say I drink a lot. So lets 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, dont you?
I should, I replied. It does half of my
work.
Why dont you get two of them? I didnt
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.

Dont you have any coconut trees in

America? I asked.

for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for

tanning carabao hide.

No, he replied. Back home we have the

pine tree.

I poured some lambanog on two polished

coconut shells and gave one of the shells to
Joe. I diluted my drink with some of Joes
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.

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.
Whats 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

Hey, what are you doing,

throwing good liquor away?

said

Joe,

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. Heres 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 frogs 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 dont 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 Joes 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.

Heres to America! Joe said.

We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted
in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a
turtles. 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. Im through.
OK. Just one more.
I poured the juice in the shells and again
diluted mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his
drink. Heres to the Philippines, he said.
Heres 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

happened to the big Amerikano.

had

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.

Soused v soaked in or drenched in liquid

Swig v drink in large gulps
Hempen
Groggy weak, dazed or groggy
Yank v a sudden hard pull
Yankee
Mild adj gentle and note easily proved

We Filipinos are Mild Drinkers

This Story is about an american soldier and
a Filipino, these two men started to drink
and the american bragged that they drink
all kinds of alcohol but when the Filipino
gave the american a drink of lambanog or
Jungle Juice, the american started to feel hot
as if he was a turtle, his eyes were about to
pop out, at the end of the story, when the
Filipino brought back the american to their
camp another american invited the Filipino
to have a drink but then the Filipino said,
"We filipino's are mild drinkers"
I think that the story was a bit sarcastic but
humble, because when the filipino said that
they are mild drinkers, they certainly are
better drinkers than the americans, it's as if
the filipino said that with either sarcasm or
humility.

Hospitable
Vocabulary Words
Geisha N a Japanese hostess trained to
entertain men
Garrison

Respect
Humble
Contented
Sarcastic
Humorous

Diluted
Mire

"WE FILIPINOS ARE MILD DRINKERS"

When T. D. Agcaoili's Philippine Writing

appeared in 1953, Willis Knapp Jones,
who reviewed it in the Saturday Review
of Literature, said that Roces' We Filipinos
Are Mild Drinkers "is the only really funny
story in the whole collection." Martha
Foley listed it as one of the distinctive
stories of the year. It was first published
in 1947 by the Arizona Quarterly. Since
then it has been reprinted and
anthologized several times. It is a simple
story with a simple plot based on a single
incident. It is about a friendly drinking
bout between an American G. I. whose

unquenchable thirst has made him drink

anything brewed by man and a barefoot
Filipino farm boy who does not drink
whisky because it is too strong for him.
When the G. I. keeps asking the boy
where a drink can be had, the boy, out of
traditional hospitality, accommodates
him because there are no bars in town.
So together they have a few rounds of
lumbanog, a native-brewed liquor of
tremendous strength, at the boy's
humble hut. The drinking has some
disastrous ef