One afternoon, I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Datu. I was barefooted. My pants, that were made from abaca fibers and woven on homemade looms, were rolled up to my knees. My bolo was at my side.
An American soldier was walking on the highway. When he saw me, he headed towards me. I stopped plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a half-pint bottle of whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed part of the American uniform.
I am sorry, Joe, There are no bars in this barrio.
Hello! My little brown brother.
Any bars in this town?
No, Joe. I am sorry. We do not drink whiskey.
Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more whiskey?
No, thank you, Joe. We, Filipinos are mild drinkers.
Here, have a swig. You have been working too hard.