Shit River

A bleak colony of squatters
The first thing you notice is the stench
marinated in the relentless heat,
steeped by the relentless heat
hesitated just long enough for her to lurch
fetid, stagnant air

I woke up that morning and told myself that 'Today I would try like hell not to care." Last night Bloom accussed me of acting like an American.



Possible Edits

I love this fucking place!" one of the sailors shouted.

The crowd of hungry lenses grew ravenous, mugging him now, mauling him, pinning him to the wall at the back of the stage. He looked like a veal calf at slaughter.

Hot. The air gray with smoke. I needed to collect myself.

One of us -- it didn't matter who -- should have said something. But on that afternoon, we didn't sense anything, just exchanged a couple of dumb jokes and said goodbye. And tleft that hill still overgrown with blind willows.

The river did not flow.
Flies fluttered around the girl, around me, around everyone.

He looked at me with a slightly confused look on his face.

He looked at me with a slightly hurt look on his face.

He looked at me with a hurt look on his face.

"Let's go," I said. "It's all right." I knew I should say something more, try to be kind to him, try to make him relax a little until we got across the bridge. But he was trembling so bad I could tell he was about to explode.

"No it isn't," he replied shaking his head. "It's not like the people here are toys or something. If you want to stand here and do nothing, that's on you."

"Raise it all the way up, little fox," I heard someone shout from the railing beside me. "Show us what you got, little bitch."

I hung back, watching Spinks move forward. A lot came back at that moment.

The edges of the raft lapped by the fecal water.

You gain the city of Olongopo by crossing a bridge.
The heavily silted and polluted river

loop of suffering

In the narrow streets of Olongopo City, mounds of black debris sat piled high.Filthy rainwater snaking beneath the rubbish

singed wood floating on top

The sailor turned around. I held my hand out to Bloom, who gave it a brief shake. His grip was limp and cold. He never took his eyes off the girl at the bottom of the bridge.

If he found what was going on so objectionable, then why wouldn't he just leave. Or was it that things had suddenly changed.

Shit River



My friend, Bloom, and I both knew that as American sailors on liberty we could only gain the pleasures of Olongapo City by first hurrying over this concrete bridge, which spanned a fecal-brown waterway known as 'Shit River.'

We also knew that with the sun high and scorching, the river's assaulting odor would be more apt to leap up and cling to our clothes and skin.

So the instant the Filipino soldiers who guarded Subic Bay's checkpoint had completed their search of our overnight bags, Bloom and I held our breaths and started across the bridge at a picked-up-pace.

If it wasn't for the group of sailors leaning over the rail at the bridge's midway point, shouting down into the heavily polluted river, neither Bloom nor I would have stopped. The sailors, led by one in particular, were trying to coax a young girl of perhaps twelve or thirteen to flash her breasts.



the hotter the day, the more assaulting the river's odor became. And today was scorching.


could only be gained by crossing a concrete bridge that spanned a fecal-brown waterway known as 'Shit River.'


After our bags were searched by Filipino soldiers at the checkpoint of Subic Naval Base, Bloom and I held our breaths and started at a picked-up-pace to cross the concrete bridge, which spanned the fecal-brown waterway known as 'Shit River.'

The bridge was the only way to gain access to the pleasures of Olongapo City.




To gain access to the pleasures of Olongapo City, you

After your bags have been thouroughly searched at the Subic Naval Base checkpoint, you gain access to the pleasures of which separates the Americans from the Filipinos, where your overnight bags are searched by Filipino guards, you gain the pleasures of Olongapo City by hurrying across a concrete bridge that overlooks a fecal brown waterway.

, you must first pass a guarded checkpoint where your bags are randomly searched.

Once through the checkpoint, you then have to walk across a concrete bridge that overlooks a fecal brown waterway, on which its unrippled surface foams with disease.

Everyone calls this waterway Shit River. Because the river's assaulting odor leaps up to cling onto your clothes and skin, crossing this bridge is best accomplished by picking up your pace and holding your breath. As the sun settles higher in the sky, the aggressive odor grows more rancid. Almost to the point of being unbearable.

But it is not the odor that disgusts us on the day a shipmate of mine, Spinks, who is also of mixed Filipino-American blood, wanted to put an end to a practice we both detested.

Halfway across the bridge, Spinks pauses to point out the small group of sailors who stand leaning over the rail. The sailors are shouting down, trying to coax a young girl of perhaps twelve or thirteen to flash her breasts.

In Olongopo City such a sight is no strange anomaly. It happens every day. Different sailors, different children.

Below, the young girl kneels on a bobbing raft made of twisted wood that's been strung together. A myriad of plastic bottles, each a different size and color, have been laced around the raft's edges to keep it afloat.

On her knees, the young girl blocks the sun with one hand and flashes the peace sign with the other. Her drenched hair lays flat against her head and neck. Her filthy, sun-bleached blouse clutches tight against her adolescent body.

While his friends laugh and hoot, one of the sailors holds a peso coin out over the rail. The coin catches the sun, glistening. Like a dog trainer might shake a stick, the sailor waves his hand back and forth.

"Show me," he says, "and I'll give you the coin."

The young girl, grinning broadly, takes a full pinch of the lower hem of her blouse and slowly starts to roll it upward. A hooting crowd of American sailors are now piled against the rail of Shit River bridge, their collective voices calling down in an effort to urge the young girl to raise her blouse completely and reveal her budding breasts.

Spinks shakes his head in disgust. His elbows are bent, his clenched fists opening and closing. When I suspect he's considering confronting the sailors, I suggest he ignore what we're seeing and just keep moving.

The fact is, although Spinks and I have shared our thoughts a million times, we are no angels. Despite our eagerness to condemn what we see other American sailors getting away with, neither of us can claim, not honestly anyway, that we've never chosen to participate.

Both Spinks and I have slept with women who under different economic situations might possibly have become doctors or teachers. We've both shouldered past crippled beggars and slapped away tiny open hands darting out at us from filthy children.

Even tonight, we're both headed into a town where with ten American dollars we intend to fill our bellies on fine food, drink until we're stupid dizzy, get laid, and still return to the ship in the morning with change in our pockets.

In the river below, the girl in the raft rolls her handful of blouse up to just above her navel. The sailor who waves the coin says, "Come on, baby. Just bring it up a couple more inches."

The girl smiles, showing a mouthful of small teeth, and continues to work the fabric upward until the lower curves of her breasts are exposed.

Something unexpected happens then . . .

Spinks quickly moves past me and shoves a sailor aside to get himself close to the railing. He extends a closed hand out over the water, and when he opens his hand a spattering of silver flies up out of it and seemingly suspends in the air. Then, one after another, the coins Spinks has released begin to plop, plop, plop into the discolored water.

The girl, eyes wide, her blouse released, dives off the raft and disappears under the murky water. Moments later she surfaces holding several of the coins Spinks had tossed.

One of the sailors who'd been goading the child turns to Spinks, glaring. "What's your problem, man?"

Spinks says nothing. He shoulders past the guy and heads in the direction of town. I follow close behind.

Although neither Spinks nor I bothered to glance back over our shoulders that afternoon, we both knew without saying that within minutes the rail of Shit River bridge would once again be crowded with a new group of sailors, ogling and bartering with yet another young girl for something unobtainable back home in their real world.

***