Ages ago in a nondescript joint, when no one could have imagined a pandemic the scale of what we’re going through right now, a group of writers got entangled in drunken expressions of mutual admiration.
One writer, brotherly arm around another, raised his glass of beer to the group and said: “Cheers to the Dostoyevsky of Cebu!”
“Wrong,” another butted in vehemently. “Dostoyevsky is the Villaflor of Moscow!” The group yodelled in agreement.
I cannot remember exactly who said what that evening, and I didn’t give much thought to the hyperbolic exchange that bordered on the absurd.
Because that was what the comparisons were: hyperbolic and absurd.
Worst of all, this subliminal belittling of ourselves and of our natural treasures reinforces a people’s misplaced sense of low self-worth and heritage of smallness.
Yet I never thought of such a label as anything more than collective self-deprecation made in inebriated jest, and therefore, meant nothing.
We were writers after all, and we, alongside our aesthetic tapeworms, partake in figures of speech as customary pulutan.
But like some pulutan, not all figures of speech are that palatable. Some have the texture and taste of dog vomit.
And as far as figures of speech go, nothing turns my stomach more than ascribing localities with the names of more popular places, all in the name of tourism marketing and advertising. Just marinate on this sampler:
“The Maldives of the Philippines.”
“The New Zealand of the Philippines.”
“The Maldives of Cebu.”
“Mini Switzerland of Cebu.”
“Boracay of the South.”
“Baguio de Cebu.”
“Little Baguio.”
“Little Santorini.”
“Little Amsterdam.”
The list is as real as it is endless and never-ending.
And have you heard of the Tourism officer who, during an official event during the pandemic, called I.T. Park as the “New York of Cebu,” because like the Big Apple, our I.T. Park also never sleeps? Sounds to me like the brilliant idea of someone with a hopeless case of insomnia.
Parang Hindi Pinas Syndrome
Seriously, this lack of creativity from both private and public sectors has reached ridiculous levels. (In Cebu, it has reached epidemic proportions.)
But these idiosyncrasies are mere figures of speech, one might argue.
Not too long ago, I wrote “Parang Hindi Pinas Syndrome,” a blog post about why the Filipino’s propensity to name the country’s beautiful spots after more popular—though not necessarily more impressive—destinations is condescending, unimaginative and, often, an act of self-flagellation.
Worst of all, this subliminal belittling of ourselves and of our natural treasures reinforces a people’s misplaced sense of low self-worth and heritage of smallness.
So may I reiterate that we need to ask ourselves: Why is it so hard for us to acknowledge the country’s beautiful sights? Why belittle them by making nonsensical comparisons to validate their existence, our existence?
I believe in embracing similarities as much as celebrating differences when it comes to the various destinations of the world. But when it comes to names and labels, there’s a need for us to be sensitive of nuances, especially when the identity of a people and place are involved.
Reacting to my blog, someone asked, “Why can Malaysia or Singapore name their districts ‘Little India,’ or for Manila to have a ‘Chinatown,’ but we can’t enjoy our own Mini Switzerland in Cebu?”
“Oh, I didn’t know that a Swiss community has taken root in Talisay,” I said. “Same thing with kitschy Little Amsterdam in Sirao, or Little Santorini in Liloan. But KL or SG’s Little Indias? They’re populated by real Indians, while every Chinatown in the world teems with residents of Chinese ethnicity or descent.”
Hyperbolic and Absurd
That said, another acquaintance on social media pointed out that this tendency to associate a locale with a more popular or supposedly more beautiful place is not unique to the Philippines.
And it’s nothing new. She cited a bunch of Romantic English poets who committed the very same crime of eyebrow-raising nomenclature in the 19th century: they branded a countryside in England as “Little Switzerland.”
Now, many of the said English Romantic poets who had longed to visit the Central European country did fulfill their desire to go there via “long-haul” travel. Lord Byron, Percy Shelley, and a few others gathered at the Swiss Alps, where they wrote poetry. On the other hand, poor John Keats always wanted to visit Switzerland and even wrote a poem about it. Alas, he never got to “sit upon an Alp as a throne” as he died of tuberculosis at the age of 25.
Why is it so hard for us to acknowledge the country’s beautiful sights? Why belittle them by making nonsensical comparisons to validate their existence, our existence?
So probably for the Romantic poets, Switzerland must have been the pinnacle of natural beauty. That pretty much explains their motivation to name a place in England as “Little Switzerland,” their collective condescension notwithstanding.
So my acquaintance was right: such idiosyncrasy of naming places is not a Philippine exclusive. And yet one cannot deny that the context of naming changes from one country to another, one era to the next, especially in relation to how the collective psyche of a place or period works.
The cultural melting pots in SG and KL, for instance, were named as such because of the huge Indian populations who settled in the said districts during a long and ongoing history of migration.
In contrast, our random, reckless obsession with our brand of tourism nomenclature is predicated on the most superficial associations. The result is both hyperbolic and absurd.
But how about the Romantic English poets and their ilk? Why do they get to name their own “Little Switzerland” and get away with it?
To quote the great Russian writer Dostoyevsky: “Perhaps the Romantic poets weren’t so romantic after all.”
Okay, the Dostoyevsky of Cebu probably just made that quote up. But you get the drift.
