Man on Trial

Charo sat at the event table and took a meditative breath. She knew that she was about to speak to an onslaught of educational agents, and so wanted to take a moment before the craziness began.

She wasn’t able to release a full breath before a man plopped himself down across from her table, smiling.

“Hello, I am Ahmed. A bit early,” he beamed as he tugged at his grey blazer.

“Hello, Ahmed. I’m Charo,” she extended her hand and smiled, trying to still exhale in a controlled way while speaking.

The man was dressed in semi-formal, in keeping with the theme at the event – for work, but comfortably so since there were 8 hours of meetings with a few breaks in between.

“I think I saw you yesterday during lunch,” Ahmed said.

“Ah, yes. It was so good, especially the salad and humous., no?”

“Oh? But I saw you near the mutton mandhi.”

“Er, I usually eat vegetarian and seafood only.”

“There was no seafood mandhi, though. Only mutton and chicken. Which did you have?”

“Lamb, I guess.”

There was a brief silence as they both thought of the tender lamb mandhi from the day before.

“So, Kuwait,” Charo said, looking at the scheduler in front of her. “Why did you ban Filipino visas to your country?”

It was her turn to ranch up the heat.

“Wha- what?” Ahmed asked, stammering as he tried to think.

“Filipinos. Mafi visa. Shu?”

“Y’uhti, I’m not from the Ministry of the Interior. I don’t even know what a Filipino is.”

“How can you not?” Charo was genuinely shocked. “There are millions of us all over the GCC.”

“I thought you were Nepali,” Ahmed said, opening his palms in confusion.

“No, no,” Charo shook her head. “Look, that’s a Filipino.”

She gestured at one of the wait staff at Jumeira Emirates Towers where the event was being held, who for some reason had changed into a full violet barong, standing next to the cappuccino machine.

“Why is that man wearing skirt?”

“That’s a barong.”

“Oh, like Indonesian?”

“No, that’s a sarong. This is a barong,” Charo said in frustration.

“I don’t know what you mean or want.”

“Look, look over there,” Charo now pointed at a small child in school shorts and shirt, sitting with his bag at a kid’s table. “See, that’s a Filipino.”

No one knew how the child had showed up at the event. The man had deftly, meanwhile, changed out of the barong back into uniform.

“All children – they look same to me.”

“But look at what he’s eating.”

“A burgarh?”

“Not any burger. A yum burger-“

“But all burgarhs are yum-“

“-from Jollibee, the greatest Filipino burger and fried chicken restaurant.”

“I don’t know what this is, but why do they do both burgarh and fried chicken? It’s too ambitious.”

“They have the most famous fried chicken in the Philippines also.”

“Ah yes, Philippines! I know this place. But why one restaurant for burgarh and fried chicken? Must be small country. We have here KFC and many more just for fried chicken.”

“We have KFC also.”

“SFC, Texas Chicken-“

“Okay, but you know what I mean by Filipino?”

“Yes, yes, like that sharmoutha Bruno Mars.”

“Yes, but he’s not gay.”

“Okay, we will agree to disagree on this one.”

“But why no visas for Filipino-” Charo ended her train of thought abruptly as she saw a large mass make its way into the meeting hall.

The mass in question was large – it stood maybe 5 foot 6, but had enormous girth as well as forward protrusion. The suit on top of it all sat like a parachute, just barely holding beneath a lot of flesh and fat. It was barely a man – more like a bag of potatoes that had come to life.

Charo was surprised because the man had not been even told about the conference.

“Excuse me just one minute,” she said as she got up and snuck behind the man she had spied.

“But what about student recruitment?” her interviewee asked, and then flapped his hand in resignation as he took out his phone to order KFC.

Charo did not need to have been so sneaky. The hall was loud and her target was himself preoccupied with getting around without being seen by someone – whom?

The man walked up to one of the tables where two representatives – both Indians but of different sexes – sat chatting while eating pakoras.

“Hello Calabrian College, Canada,” the man said, bowing slightly.

They both looked up from their pakoras.

“Myself, Sameer, Ajman ka Sam-” he paused, a bit flustered. “I mean, just Dr. Sameer.”

“Hello,” both the reps said in unison, not putting down their pakoras, but not eating anymore.

“I was previously with Canadian institution also,” said Sameer, putting one hand behind his sweating black hair like he was reminiscing about being a stuntman in his youth.

“Ah yes, which one?” the woman who had a very sharp nose asked.

“Atlantic Link College,” Sameer said. “I was head of GCC and Pakistan.”

“Ah, I think Charo is your replacement then?” the man who was wearing a blue suit tailored so his rainbow socks would show asked.

“No, no. She is just marketing rep. I was more than that. Also working for institutions here in UAE: BKC, UCADC. You might have heard.”

“I don’t know any of those,” the man said.

“Why did you leave?” the woman asked.

Sameer dropped his arms so that the suit sleeves covered his hands down to the tips of his pinkies.

“Very bad they are,” he said, shaking his head. “I brought them maybe 1 million dirhams of sales, but they were always wanting too much quickly.”

“Oh,” the man shook his head.

“And you know, their manager for Asia and Africa – he’s a Malbari.”

“A what?” the woman asked, her eyes squinting.

“Like from, Malabar Hills in Mumbai?” the man offered.

“No, no,” Sameer shook his head, bits of sweat flying off. “From south India, you know.”

“Oh, like Sri Lanka?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Sameer nodded hesitantly at first, and then vigorously.

“We didn’t grow up in India,” the man said in explanation.

“I’ve been to Punjab few times,” the woman defended herself.

“Great,” Sameer said, and then thought for a few seconds. “If you want to grow here in UAE or Gulf, I can do it.”

“Oh, as a local rep?” the woman asked.

“Yes, manager,” he underlined.

Charo had had enough.

“Sameer, what are you doing here?” she asked, walking up and around him so she was between him and the table.

Her target began to sweat anew.

“Oh hi Charo. How’s my – I mean – the job?”

“Oh good, good. Are you registered for the event?”

“Yes, yes!” Sameer tapped his chest, where the tag should have been. “I forgot the thing in my car.”

“He was just talking about you,” the woman at the desk offered from behind Charo.

“Well you know they’re quite strict here about those things. Maybe you should go get it.”

“I will now,” Sameer said, half-turning away from her.

“By the way, you never told me what your sales strategy for the gulf was.”

“I told you!” Sameer began, and then realized he was being too loud. “I told you, that was an inappropriate question to ask. But I’ll send you my strategy over WhatsApp soon.”

“Not over email?”

“Fine, over email.”

Charo crossed her arms and watched Sameer walk out of the meeting hall into the foyer, occasionally pausing to look back at her.

She looked behind her to the two reps, but knew even before she turned from the sound of crunching that they were back at their pakoras.

Charo walked back to her table. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sameer running while holding a small plate piled high with sambusas and Cornish pastries, Szechwan sauce running down his fingers, with a lean African security guard running after him. If animals wore clothes, the scene would have resembled a pig on its hind legs running from a panther.

Charo thought to herself, the chances of Sameer getting away from the guard were about as slim as for a pig in that situation.

How to Fill a Campus

Ras al Khaimah really was the step-sibling of the UAE. Abu Dhabi had the oil, and ironically, the green sector (something about a completely carbon footprint-free Ras Island). Dubai had, well, everything else – a big cargo port, tourists and business. Sharjah was sponsored by the Saudis and therefore was the place to go if you were devout and wanted to stay away from the wickedness of Dubai with its massage parlours, bars and shisha cafes. Ajman played off this and became the place to go buy booze, women or other elicit things if you needed a break from Sharjah.

This left Umm al Quwain and Ras al Khaimah, sitting next to each other, and Fujeriah which was quite a bit away. They were together termed the northern Emirates, and deemed as places to just kind of be in a rut.

Of course the rulers of these emirates didn’t just want their towns to be one-donkey spots where people from Dubai came to “get away from the rat race.” They wanted a bit more. Dubai’s ambition was infectious.

Ras al Khaimah, which is the setting for this story, had gone a bit full mode into a little of everything. It had leaned into the whole staycation vibe and catered well to visitors from Dubai with a chill vibe just a hour away from the bigger city. It also threw out rumours about potential casinos being built on its shoreline, which would attract addicts of all colours from around the GCC, and maybe even beyond.

Like every other emirate, RaK had gotten as much as it could into higher education. Having large swathes of land, it had created free zones and campuses, inviting in universities from abroad while building its own.

It was in one such university campus that Arun took a look around – specifically in a classroom full of swarthy-complexioned men.

“Who hit who?” he asked, looking from side to side with his green eyes.

There was pin-drop silence, even from the instructor, who stood there with hands in the pocket. He repeated the sentence as if it would have some kind of effect. Somehow, Arun did not realize that a roomful of south Asians would happily not reply to his question.

“I, ah, don’t think this is going to go anywhere,” Kayo said, standing behind Arun. “I’ve seen these people sit in silence for 15 minutes when an instructor asked them a question about tourism human resources.”

Arun knew when to admit defeat, and withdrew from the class back to the corridor. The class had a 90s feel to it – one of the aspects of RaK that it did not seem to modernize much despite many attempts at doing so. The corridor too had a look to it where it could have been the hallway of a university or prison or anything in between.

Pulling together his blue suit jacket, Arun walked in an authoritative way with Kayo down the corridor to a conference room that held several people.

At the head of the table was a clearly Indian man who was wearing a gunmetal grey kandura.

“Darlings, how was the tour through the campus?” he gushed in an effeminate manner. “Didn’t I tell you we have the largest campus in RaK?”

“It’s definitely big,” Kayo said, folding his arms so that the man in the kandura could not give him a belly-to-belly hug.”

“Hello again Dr. Ahmed,” Arun grunted, not having had the foresight to also cross his arms, and therefore being the victim of a squeeze that lasted 45 seconds.

“We are going to do so well with this,” Dr. Ahmed continued to prophesise.

The three sat down, along with Dr. Kumbalangi, the director of the campus – a dark man with an even darker moustache – and DM, who had arrived on the scene somehow. A few punes – orderlies that kind of did the default everything-else jobs – milled about, placing mineral water bottles on the table.

“So,” Arun said, looking over at DM first and then Dr. Ahmed and Kumbalangi, “how many students did we recruit for this intake?”

DM cleared his throat with the smirk of a man who had met his targets.

“4…,” he began in slow fashion, as if unveiling a masterful painting.

“400?” Arun asked, eyebrow cocked. “A good number, but low for here. Our plans were-“

“No, no,” DM corrected. “4…”

“4,000!” Arun sat up in his pleather executive conference swivel chair with a smile.

“No,” DM now smirked as Kayo looked at the ground. “4…”

“40,000!!!” Arun gasped.

“Yes.”

“How?”

DM just smiled, knowing that the details would be explored later. He felt the warm glow of the room marvelling at the number.

“This is an insane number,” Kayo underlined. “That basically fills up the next 20 intakes.”

“The largest intake given to any institution in Ras al Khaimah,” Dr. Ahmed mentioned, not wanting anyone to forget what he had gotten for the institution.

“Wow,” was all Arun could say.

The room sat in silence for a while, thinking over the number. On the slight rustle of kandura on skin from Dr. Ahmed cut the quiet.

“Well, let’s go over the numbers in detail,” Arun said, pulling a binder close to him.

“I’ll have the boys bring some Bagara Rice,” Dr. Ahmed said, reaching for his bell.

“No, no,” Arun said quickly. “Let’s have that after we discuss.”

“But it’s vegetarian,” Dr. Ahmed said.

“Dr. Ahmed, just that it’ll make us sleepy,” Kayo explained.

“All those carbs,” DM emphasized.

“Oh well, I guess I’d just be having my salad and barley, so I wouldn’t know,” Dr. Ahmed sighed as he put the bell back in place.

“DM, I’m just looking through the student profiles,” Arun mused.

“Yes.”

“They all look very similar in the photos.”

“Yes.”

“Why is this one,” Arun asked as he held up the binder, “holding a fish?”

“Oh, he’s Bengali,” DM said, matter-of-factly.

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“He’s Bengali.”

“Okay, but for the college photo?”

“Well, he is a labourer.”

“What?” Arun was dumbfounded.

“Yes, they all are.”

Kayo was looking at an ant on the floor. Dr. Ahmed twiddled his thumbs.

“What?”

“They’re all from labour camps.”

Arun was confused. He put down the binder.

“I’m lost. Can you explain?”

“See, Arun, you wanted 2,000 students per intake. I got the numbers by getting labourers.”

“But how can they afford our courses?” Arun asked.

“Oh, I got Kayo to create some micro-credentials that were affordable.”

Kayo at this point looked pointedly at the door, which was at the opposite side of the room from Arun.

“How much are these?” Arun pressed.

“400Dhs each.”

“What?”

“We had to make them affordable.”

“For labourers.”

“See, Arun,” DM rolled back his white sleeves as Dr. Ahmed stared at the new exposed skin. “These people make, what? 1,000Dhs a month? We had to set it at an amount they’d part with. It’s already almost half their monthly salary for a one-day course.”

“That’s still too low for a one-day course.”

“Well, we say one-day but basically it’s done in 6 minutes.”

“What?”

“Yeah, we bring them in for lunch, and by the time they eat, the course is finished.”

“We can make a course that short?”

“So long as we cover the material,” Kayo said, still looking at the door instead of at anyone.

“I guess that’s why we bussed everyone in,” Arun surmised aloud. “Well, 40,000 is 40,000.”

DM nodded.

“Speaking of buses,” Arun said, looking at the next binder, “what is this expense for a ‘bangbus?'”

“Oh, that,” DM started.

Kayo got up and headed to the toilet sign.

“See, you have to understand, 400Dhs is a lot for a labourer. You have to think about what they can get instead for that amount. That’s why of course transport and lunch are included. So is a good bang.”

“A good what?”

“We have some African prostitutes – one on each bus.”

“Holy shit.”

“Basically 30 guys on each bus to one girl. They can fill 3 holes at a time. Basically, by the time they get back to their labour camps, they’ll all have a certificate, a fully belly and empty balls.”

“Okay, that sounds like something illegal.”

“They’re all legal age,” DM said. “We only accept Emirates ID as verification.”

“On one bus yesterday 4 labourers put their…things…in one prostitute’s back side,” Dr. Kumbalangi, who had so far been chewing his moustache, suddenly said.

“Wow 6 at a time; guess those guys finished sooner,” DM said.

“I don’t think you’re getting that this might be seen as highly immoral,” Arun started.

“See Arun,” DM said, “You’re the one who said you wanted 100 campuses in 100 countries by 2025. That’s super soon. We have to drive hard to get to that.”

“Did you say that?” Kayo asked, walking back into the room. “That is kind of untenable.”

“Where did you see this 100 campuses thing?” Arun asked.

“On LinkedIn,” DM said. “I liked it.”

“No, no, I said we want to be in 100 countries by 2025. As in, working in them. We don’t want campuses in that many.”

Kayo rolled his eyes. Dr. Ahmed put his hand over his mouth.

“Oh, said DM.

Pinoys in Vancouver

Rudolph had never been in any predicament like this before in his life. And he had no idea to this minute how he had managed to fall into such a thing.

It seemed like a great idea when he had come up with it in conjunction with the three deans sitting in front of him at Gotham Steakhouse. He, or was it they, had suggested visiting Vancouver to see the college they would partner with, as well as employment hosts that would take incoming Filipino students. Rudolph had then pushed the trip with the college – paying for the flight tickets, hotel and tours of Vancouver.

To finalize the whole thing, he’d even booked the three deans’ visas for them and accompanied them on the flight.

Things went to hell on the first day in Vancouver. The three deans who sat in front of him eating steak and salad had stopped talking to him, even as they went to restaurants and tours together. They were doing the very same thing right now – eating and chatting with one another, but pretending that he wasn’t there.

Rudolph put his fork down partly on his untouched steak. He sighed as he pulled his coat around him, more for comfort than warmth.

“Ahem,” he began. “Ahh-hmm-hmm.”

He had to extend the ahem since none of the three looked at him.

“Deans Margie, Thomas and Dana,” he said, spreading his palms in surrender in front of him, “How has the trip been so far?”

“Perfect, Sir Rudolph,” Dean Margie, the smallest of the three deans replied, keeping her face close to the plate since she had not stopped eating.

Dean Margie may have been petite, even for a Filipina, but she was a fire-cracker. She asked most of the tough questions during most of the meetings.

“Excellent,” chimed Dean Dana, who said little in general.

“It has been fantastic,” Dean Thomas said, nodding as if some kind of judge on a trip competition show.

Rudolph felt awkward as they continued chatting to one another, leaving him to stare at his untouched glass of water.

He cleared his throat again.

“I can’t help but feel that something is amiss,” he said, pulling at his shirt collar as he did so.

The three stopped talking and looked at him for a while. He wondered during these painful seconds that turned into a minute if he should have said anything to being with. But he had to – it was now day three of this odd silent treatment.

“Maybe something bad happened during the trip?” he suggested, looking at the table instead of the thee of them.

“Sir Rudolph,” Dean Margie began, putting her eating utensils down, “Now you mention it, there is one issue worth mentioning.”

“You have to know, everything has been excellent,” Dean Thomas said, folding his arms over his ample body. He was a stout man – both big and fleshy.

Dean Dana nodded.

“Pala, on the first morning at the hotel, we went down and had breakfast,” Dean Margie said.

“Good breakfast,” Dean Dana emphasized. “Toast and eggs.”

“But then we had to pay for it,” Dean Margie said, shaking her prim head.

“Oh!” Rudolph said. “Problema! I had no idea deans! I’ll contact the reception and pay for the breakfast.”

He began to relax and breathe more deeply. It was all so simple.

“Pala, we already paid,” Dean Margie said. “29 dollars.”

For a moment Rudolph wondered why the deans of one of the most prestigious universities int he Philippines were squabbling about $29. But then he remembered that he saw their salaries when he applied for their visas.

“It’s no problem!” he rushed. “I’ll call the reception and they’ll charge it to me instead on checkout. I’ll take care of it.”

He was wringing a napkin for some reason.

“Speaking of checkout,” Dean Thomas said, unfolding his arms and leaning forward while looking at his colleagues.

“Do we have to fly economy?” Dean Margie asked, this time also looking at the tablecloth instead of at Rudolph.

“Ah, yes,” Rudolph said. “It was a last-minute booking, so all the flights were very expensive. We mentioned from the start that it would be economy.”

“Then can’t we fly direct back to Manila?” Dean Thomas asked, pulling at his tie to straighten it, even though it was already as straight as could be.

“I’m afraid not,” Rudolph said, feeling heat behind his ears. “These are too late to change now. I’m sorry, deans.”

He finished feeling like he should bow like someone who had failed in a Japanese game show.

“Well, let’s leave that as it is then,” Dean Thomas said with a little clap.

“How about today’s shopping trip?” Dean Margie asked.

“Yes,” Rudolph cheered up because he knew they loved shopping.

“Will we have to,” Dean Margie paused for quite a while but then continued when she realized Rudolph was not going to fill in the gap, “Pay for everything?”

“We just thought Sir Rudolph that there would be some shopping allowance,” Sir Thomas said, trying to fill in the vast chasm between the two.

Rudolph blinked as he tried to think.

“Deans, we didn’t think we would need to pay for…shopping,” he stammered, feeling a bit sick.

“But you said in Manila that you would take care of everything,” Dean Margie said.

She emphasized the last word a lot.

“Yes, but we don’t know what you’ll buy,” Rudolph said, still blinking. “Do we pay for all your clothes? And what if you buy a condo here?”

“At least we thought there would be a per diem of some kind,” Dean Margie said.

“Let’s leave that,” Dean Thomas said, noticing Rudolph was beet read.

“Yes,” Dean Dana said as she picked up her utensils again forlornly.

“Do we have to have the same driver?” Dean Margie asked.

“Driver?”

“We found him to be baho,” Dean Thomas explained.

“But he’s the head of Admissions for the college,” Rudolph said in disbelief, staring at the corsage on the table. “People don’t have drivers here.”

“Oh, but he had a Tesla so we thought he was your driver who also did Uber,” Dean Dana said, ending up almost breathless after this record-breaking long sentence.

“No,” Rudolph said shortly.

“Well then, just taking care of the bill will be fine I guess, Sir Rudolph,” Dean Margie said, also now picking up her utensils.

“That would be perfect,” Dean Thomas agreed.

“Thank you Sir Rudolph,” Dean Dana summed up.

As Rudolph sat in the restaurant feeling smaller than ever, the three continued their chat about the weather in Vancouver that they he had earlier interrupted.