BIG MIKE

Big Mike came to the Philippines in 2017 for a two-week vacation.
He still hasn’t left.

Mike was 61, twice divorced, from somewhere near Cleveland. When he landed at NAIA he was wearing cargo shorts, white New Balance sneakers, a Hawaiian shirt, and a money belt holding $3,800 in cash, because his buddy Randy had told him, “Never trust the ATMs over there.”

Within 72 hours, Mike had pulled off four things.
He bought a used Toyota Fortuner.
He got engaged.
He opened a sari-sari store.
And he had no idea at all where his passport was.

His fiancée Joy was 34 and called him “my handsome American,” despite plenty of photographic evidence to the contrary.
Mike moved with Joy to her hometown in Pampanga, and right away the whole barangay knew him as “Sir Mike.”
Mike loved it.

Back in Ohio, nobody had called him “sir” since the judge finalized his second divorce.
Every morning Mike walked to the sari-sari store in basketball shorts and no shirt.
“Good morning, Sir Mike!”
“Morning!”
“Where you going, Sir Mike?”
“The store.”
“You eat already?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s Ma’am Joy?”
“Inside.”
“When you go back America?”
“I LIVE HERE, RONALDO!!”

This exact conversation happened every morning for six years.

Mike soon learned that retiring in the Philippines meant accidentally picking up about 47 relatives.

Mama.
Papa.
Three sisters.
Four brothers.
Seven cousins.
Two uncles.
One aunt nobody could properly explain.
And roughly sixteen kids who called him “Uncle Mike.”

Mike bought one nephew a bicycle.
That was a tactical error.
Within three weeks he had bought four bicycles, two school uniforms, a refrigerator, a karaoke machine, and a replacement carburetor for the tricycle of a man named Jun, who Mike was fairly sure wasn’t related to anyone.

Then came the house.

Mike’s original budget was 2.5 million pesos.
The final cost was ₱6.8 million.
Nobody — not even the contractor — could explain why.

Still, Mike loved his house.
It had four bedrooms, three bathrooms, seventeen security cameras, and an outdoor kitchen that got used far more than the expensive indoor kitchen Mike had designed himself.
His pride and joy was a giant American refrigerator.
Nobody used it.
The family kept putting food in the smaller fridge next to it.
“Why don’t you use the big fridge?”
“Too big.”
“But we ALREADY OWN IT!!”
“Yes, Mike.”
This was Mike’s first taste of Philippine logic.

Then he discovered karaoke.
At first Mike hated karaoke.
Six months later, every Friday around 10:47 p.m., anyone within a two-kilometer radius could hear a very drunk American belting out “Take Me Home, Country Road.”
Mike was from Ohio.

That didn’t matter.
By midnight he’d moved on to Frank Sinatra.
By 1 a.m. he was singing Air Supply.
By 2 a.m., Mike had become Filipino.

His food transformation was just as dramatic.
When he first arrived, Mike refused to eat anything but hamburgers.
Then he discovered sisig.
Before long he was lecturing actual Kapampangans on where to find proper sisig.
“No mayonnaise!” Mike would declare.
The locals nodded politely.

Mike got especially passionate about lechon.
At fiestas he’d stand next to the pig handing out unsolicited carving advice despite having zero qualifications.

Then Mike discovered Red Horse.
This was unfortunate.
Their first meeting was at a neighborhood birthday party.
“How strong is this?”
“Strong, Sir Mike.”
“I drank Budweiser for forty years. I’ll be fine.”

Mike was not fine.

At 11:30 p.m. he was explaining the American electoral system to a baffled tricycle driver.
At midnight he tried karaoke.
At 12:20 he announced he was opening a beach resort.
By morning the resort had been quietly called off.
Eventually Mike became an expert on the Philippines.
At least according to Mike.

After eighteen months there, explaining Filipino culture to Filipinos had become routine.
“The problem here is…” Mike would begin,
and everyone knew a 25-minute speech was coming.

His favorite topics were traffic, electricity prices, corruption, why nobody uses turn signals, and why every mall has seventeen coffee shops.
He complained about the Philippines constantly.
Then someone from America criticized the Philippines.

Mike was instantly furious.
“You don’t understand the Philippines!”
Mike’s transformation was complete.

Every six months he announced he was leaving.
“That’s it. I’m going back to America.”
Joy kept scrolling Facebook.
“I mean it this time.”
“Yes, Mike.”
“I can live cheaper in Florida.”
“Yes, Mike.”
“And the internet works.”
“Yes, Mike.”
“And people know how to drive.”
“Yes, Mike.”
Twenty minutes later:
“Joy, where should we eat tonight?”
“Samgyupsal?”
“Okay.”

Mike never went back to Ohio.
Instead he bought a condo.
Then some farmland.
Then another used car.
Then somehow he ended up in a tilapia business with Joy’s cousin Bong.
Mike knew nothing about tilapia.
Bong apparently knew slightly less.
The business lasted seven months.
Mike lost ₱240,000.
To this day, he describes it as:
“Basically broke even.”

But the best chapter came on Mike’s 68th birthday.
Joy secretly threw him a party.
Mike expected about ten people.
One hundred and twelve showed up.
Mike recognized maybe thirty of them.
There were three roast pigs, six cases of Red Horse, an industrial-size karaoke machine, balloons spelling HAPPY 68th BIRTHDAY DADDY MIKE, and an elderly woman who hugged Mike for five minutes.
“Who was that?” Mike whispered.
“My mother’s cousin.”
“Have I met her?”
“No.”

At sunset, Mike sat outside his house.
Kids were running everywhere.
Someone was grilling barbecue.
Someone else had started karaoke three hours earlier than was legally advisable.
His dog was asleep under a plastic table.

Joy handed him a San Miguel.
Mike looked around.

Nine years earlier he’d landed at NAIA expecting beaches, cheap beer, and two weeks away from Cleveland.

Instead he’d ended up with a house, a wife, a dog, dozens of relatives, three godchildren, two vehicles, one failed tilapia business, several mysterious financial obligations, and extremely strong opinions about sisig.

Mike took a sip.

“You know,” he said, “the Philippines is completely crazy.”
Joy smiled.
“So why you stay?”
Mike thought about it.
Then the karaoke machine started playing “Country Road.”
Mike stood up.

“Hold my beer.”

And the whole barangay groaned.
Because Sir Mike was about to sing again.