To everyone’s disappointment there were no superheroes at the door. No Ewoks either. The website was littered with little people in leotards waving revelers in, so it was somewhat anticlimactic to find two vertically privileged humans greeting us out front.
Three hours prior the Aussies informed us this bar had “midget mud wrestling” and was a “must-see” in Manila.
When traveling, nothing makes me cover my wallet and cradle my rosary beads quicker than the terms “drunk Aussie” and “must-see attractions”. Sharing the sentiment, my travel companion, Roy Durmont and I agreed earlier in the evening we would avoid the loosely organized group outing being organized to the tourist trap on Burgos street. But dammit if the poolside San Miguel’s didn’t get their foothold in us and as the clock struck midnight, something akin to a mob mentality erupted in the common area of the guesthouse and swept us all into taxis to a bar called Ringside.
The first thing you notice as you nod your way past the doorman, is, well, the boxing ring — the second is the strippers. Quite a one-two punch. Your instinct is to search for shelter. No one wants to be discovered by mom in the marketing material of a third rate mud wrestling venue in the Far East. But the layout allows no refuge from the chaotic cry’s of the emcee, the gratuitous grabs from the bar girls, or the accidental forearm shiver from the Canadian sexpat you’re sharing a table with. “I feel like the liver of Prometheus in here.” Said Roy.
“It isn’t considered prostitution for these girls to go home with a guy.” The Canadian sexpat explained sagely. Most of our guesthouse had collected at a long chest-high table in the back by one of the main bars. The tables design had the unfortunate effect of funneling a few of us into an interaction with the lone inhabitant at the far end of the table who was drinking alone and eager for an audience.
“It isn’t like the west, you know.” The sexpat smiled and nodded, searching the tables body language for encouragement. Finding none he continued. “Many of the girls just come here for a night or two before their regular paycheck arrives. Helps make ends meet.” In my experience, forthright discussions of prostitution tends to clam up conversation. Since our crew was unfamiliar with each other, not to mention mixed company, the air became especially stiff. This didn’t slow the sexpat. Attention to social cues was a concern intentionally scuttled long ago along with most of his previous life. “In Thailand, you can actually pay almost any girl you meet. Trust me on this one.” The Canadian was getting excited and one could almost see the perverse thought bubbles forming above his head. “Even once proposed to a sales girl at a Prada bag shop in a fancy mall in BKK.” He laughed, holding us in his watery gaze. “It just takes learning a few phrases and a loose grasp on your Thai bot. Slip the cash under your pillow before you fall asleep. BLAMO! When you wake up in the morning, they’ll both be gone, eh?!” He snapped his fingers for effect. “Like the tooth fairy in reverse!” His eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead like a claymation Gumby. “Another baffler we share with the Americans!” He nudged Roy, who he took as American, but Roy didn’t notice, he was busying himself attempting to decipher the havoc in the ring.
“Fairies?” said one of the Aussies. He had face planted as soon as we reached the table but now he shot back up with a groggy expression. “I stick to the lady boys these days as well. At least you can reason with them, hay?” He looked around the table for affirmation, which the sexpat provided. He leaned towards the Aussie, and raised his eyebrows again, nodding. “Plenty around here, eh.”
Chuck Palahniuk says a great story isn’t one that leaves the audience speechless. A great story will stir the listeners to compete to a tell a better version of the same thing. Chuck Palahniuk had probably never tested this theory at Ringside. Sensing the unease of the ladies in our company and increasingly worried about where this conversational jenga game might take the table, I attempted a subject change. What in the fuck is going on in the ring? I asked. “Ah you’re curious about the ring are you?!” Replied an Aussie downwind, accompanied by a Cheshire smile and a nod at his mates.
A few shitty cocktails later, and there I was. In the center ring. The Aussies were at fault, no surprise there. But the blame-game would do me no good as the Rocky soundtrack pumped from the speakers and a bouncing little man scowled at me with ill intent. I blocked the bright lights with one glove and searched for an exit.
There was a double row of tables closest to the front where I could see the Aussies celebrating their prank. Roy stood apart from them, guzzling a grimy mixed drink. I motioned him to corner me and as he neared the bell rang thrice. Oh shit. What now? In an instant my opponent was firing away from behind the ref like a thick little woodpecker, I stretched out with one arm and lowered my chin, parrying the blows while also hoping the demonstrated reach advantage might stutter the flurry. It worked. Turning slowly, my shirtless opponent walked right into my jab with an upright neck like a celery stalk. This wobbled him momentarily. He studied me carefully, and then charged.
I followed up, hitting my adversary with a straight right cross that bolted him to the floor. He dropped in a messy, if exaggerated, thump. “Protect yourself at all times.” I yelled, a little too pleased. He was instantly back up and angrily bobbed under the bright disco lights. He slipped to my left and just as I was feeling confident with my footwork ……..A BELL RANG……A white light. I took a knee.
The little dude had decked me in the dick. I waved to my corner man for help and when Roy neared, I reached for his drink and mouthed, “whiskey.”
—–
With enough money and tips, just about anything can be organized at the Ringside. This went for the guy getting the blow job at a booth by the front door and for the match following mine where a British backpacker fought three little people with one arm tied behind his back. The more you paid, the weirder it got.
For a different kind of blow, head to the bathroom. Earlier in the evening one of the bargirls who’d been flirting with our table told me to follow her to the toilet. Without waiting for a reply she grabbed my hand and led me past an elbow-drop off the bottom rope and down a long corridor to the W/C. Just before the washroom door we made a blind right hand turn at an imperceptible opening in the wall that led down a long hallway darker than satans gooch and equally narrow. The trip culminated with her depositing me in what felt like a dental chair. Immediately a half-dozen hands were in my hair accompanied by squeals, hair-spray and a mechanical device I initially took for a dildo. I soon learned it was a blow dryer. A few minutes later I returned to my table a different man. I was well styled, but even foggier than after my boxing match. Roy gave me a quizzical up-and-down and said, “cool hair” before wincing down another jack and coke.
Apparently the famous lady-boy bar next door shared a common bathroom area with the Ringside. It had a hair salon where staff was known to practice their craft on clueless customers.
—–
The boxing match ended as expected. Before I could draw a long breath and let it out, I missed the count. The ref waved it off. The count was quick, no doubt — some home cooking — but I saw good cheer in no longer being part of the spectacle and did not protest.
So should one ever find themselves in this most bacchanalian of backwater bars, I don’t recommend engaging in the pugilism. But if you want some crazy action in Manila, go to the Makati district, and if you want some crazy action in the Makati District, go to Burgos street, and if you want to get crazy on Burgos, well, then by all means, go to Ringside.
Just remember to cover your nuts.
Where: The Ringside Bar, Manila, Philippines
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When to go: From 8pm-4am ten bouts are staged.
What to order: A hair cut and mixed drinks.
Uncharted Dives 