A White Pig

It was stifling hot yesterday at the Ayala MRT station. I still had some trips left in my stored value card, but the queues to the ticket booths were short, so I decided to pull up to the Express Fare Window to buy a single journey ticket. The people were in their usual mood, nothing promised to raise our collective excitement. Until, a voice, speaking in English and replete with expletives, rose above the hubbub. Heads turned and I saw a middle-aged Caucasian male on the line beside us arguing with the teller over his defective stored value ticket.
The tension peaked when he threw his ticket to the floor and stormed off to the entrance unmolested by the guards (Welcome to the Philippines where brutish foreigners are treated like royalty by biased authorities and law-abiding natives are treated like dirt!). He probably sensed the dagger looks burning on his back so he beat a hasty retreat before he was lynched.
Okay, he lost two bucks (if the ticket was unused), but was it necessary to raise a tempest over a dfective ticket and invite harm to yourself by such display of arrogance? He does not understand that we Filipinos have greater reasons to go on a warpath than a defective ticket. But he does not see crazed Pinoys sacking MRT stations over some technical snafu.
The guy behind me remarked how it must feel good to lay his hands on the haughty foreigner. I joined in the chorus. Did the white pig ever realize the danger that his outrage placed him? If he laid a hand on a single Filipino, he could have been mobbed. He could have learned that we, Filipinos, may be hospitable and warm to guests and all that tourism shit, but we could we rough to interlopers. The Spanish learned this in Mactan and in countless revolts. The Americans paid dearly for it in Balangiga. And the Japanese took a lot of beating from Filipino forces in the Second World War.