When Turtles Come Home

by Victoria Hoffarth

  Perhaps, for an individualistic person like me with a different set of values, it is not unusual to have a clash of expectations. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, I employed a housemaid named Carmen who stayed with me for about eight years. When I came back to the Philippines in 2004, Carmen approached me, expecting that I would talk to my brother who owned a business, to employ her son who, incidentally, didn’t possess any qualifications. Carmen was surprised when I said that my brother would not be able to use the services of her son. She had felt my family had some kind of a moral responsibility towards her for having served me loyally all those years. Instead of employing her son, we solved the issue by my giving her a small pension because by then she was sixty-five years old and didn’t have a steady source of income.

  Power Distance

  I had an old schoolmate, Anita, who became a high-ranking official in control of a government television channel under President Corazon Aquino. At that time, I was an associate professor in a leading business school in Manila. An academic position in the Philippines did not pay much, and also did not carry the same prestige as a similar position would in, for example, Germany. On the other hand, an equivalent government position carried with it a great deal of power, and therefore attendant deferential behaviour.

  In the mid-1980s, I headed a project called Women Managers in Business Organisations, which was aimed at developing educational materials and conducting workshops for these managers. Corollary objectives were to promote entrepreneurship among women currently engaged in backyard operations, whilst sensitising others to the possibilities for self-employment. With the intention of using the medium of television, we filmed inspirational stories in order to motivate those mostly in micro- and small-scale enterprises to continue and possibly expand their backyard activities. We injected into the stories tips on such things as how to market their products and how to approach a bank for loans. (This was before the advent of micro-financing initiatives, which were to become popular later.)

  I had written the usual letter to the government television channel explaining the project and asking for an appointment in order to discuss the possibility of airing through its channel three forty-minute pilot episodes of docu-dramas entitled Landas Ng Tagumpay (Pathways to Success). One episode was about a vendor selling meat in the wet market who becomes a hog raiser. Another told the story of a seamstress who takes discarded bits of fabric, turning them into basahan (small, quilted dust rags). She ends up producing contracted sportswear. Still another dramatised the story of a woman owning a fishing pump boat who later becomes a successful purse seine net operator. I was convinced they would attract many viewers. There were big-name local film stars acting out love triangles, tear-jerking scenes, catastrophes, and all the other usual elements of popular soap operas. One particular scene, where a fire totally consumes the woman’s factory, delivered great dramatic colour as the protagonist realises she should have had insurance cover.

  I wrote to every party who could possibly be interested in the project. Receiving no reply, friends made me understand that letters were usually considered too formal an approach in the Philippines and, in any case, “Busy people didn’t have time to read long letters.” I was advised to pursue the matter through more personal channels.

  Accordingly, among my other efforts, I tried to call Anita for an appointment, thinking that she could point me in the right direction, and that, through her, I could meet the decision makers. I had presumed that old school ties were important to most Filipinos, and that Anita would give me some of her time. However, I was not sensitive to the ritual demands secretaries had with each other. I could have asked my secretary to make the telephone call for me but instead I found it simpler to lift the receiver and to dial myself. (I did this for most of my phone calls.) It was only much later that I realised it was the wrong thing to do. It would be assumed that I obviously did not have a secretary and therefore didn’t occupy an important position. Thus, when I tried to call Anita, and after having given my unfamiliar name, her secretary would then tell me that she was in a meeting, and that she would call me back. Naturally, this never happened even after repeated calls on my part. The common practice was that one secretary called another. Then the two secretaries would size each other up, in order to ascertain whose boss was the more socially superior of the two. It didn’t matter who initiated the call: the social inferior would have to go to the telephone first before the other party was called. In any case, “important” people would have had access to Anita’s private number, bypassing secretaries. Why didn’t I have it if I were so “important?”

  As a supposedly social inferior, what if I really needed to get a reply from Anita? I would simply have gone to her office until she would have had the time to chat briefly with me, perhaps when she arrived at work in the morning or on her way back from lunch. If I were lucky, I could then be endorsed to someone in the department more directly responsible for handling requests such as mine, and I would have been able to use her name to keep channels open. If unlucky, I could spend hours, indeed weeks or months, following up on my request. To cut a long story short, the project never got the airtime it needed to test the pilot episodes. As I wasn’t sensitive to this form of rejection, it built up a deep sense of frustration within me. I held more egalitarian values and I found having been told to call back again and again deeply humiliating.

  This experience, and other similar efforts resulting in similar failures, made me decide to give up on the television project in spite of the great deal of work that had already gone into it. More importantly, I concluded I didn’t have what it took to “succeed” in the Philippines. I was out of my comfort zone, and I did not know how to operate within the system. With my idealism crushed, I thought I would have better opportunities elsewhere, once again entertaining the idea of leaving the country once more.

  An Individualist in Manila

  It is only in hindsight, after spending what I considered were more productive years abroad, that I see the advantages of Philippine collectivism. By encouraging interdependence instead of self-reliance, traditional Filipino codes of conduct may not lead to increased efficiency and, hence to economic growth. Nonetheless, I believe that whatever losses in productivity Filipinos suffer are compensated for by gains in the development of strong human bonds, a crucial factor in leading satisfying lives. In a number of individualistic Western societies with which I am familiar, it is these bonds of family and friendships that I often found wanting. They in turn make for a more atomised and lonelier existence. Individualistic cultures may have more inventions, but collectivistic cultures suffer from fewer suicides. (The relatively high suicide rates in Japan can be partly attributed to their deeply ingrained code of honour.)

  Coming back to the Philippines after several decades abroad, I have noticed how people are warmer and more sensitive to the feelings of others—attitudes honed through the years of relying on smooth interpersonal relationships with prescribed norms of behaviour. My Ateneo University teacher, Frank Lynch, used to call this a value orientation—SIR (smooth interpersonal relationships). One mechanism used to ensure the development of SIR is the pressure to be mabait (good). A person who is mabait is not inherently nor necessarily honest or selfless, but they are pleasant and good-natured. The ability to get along and not make waves is necessary in a collectivistic society, and therefore the culture attaches prime importance to it. Conversely, someone who is confrontational or contentious, though perhaps kind-hearted and generous, is certainly not mabait. Needless to say, as I was by no means mabait by temperament, but rather argumentative, I had difficulties not only as I was growing up but also later whilst teaching at the business school. The fact that I fought against what I thought were unfair practices by management towards their women professors, and against flagrant sex discrimination, meant I was NOT mabait.

  Consequently, my retirement in Manila has, therefore, not been so simple. My tendencies to be direct a
nd assertive have earned me the reputation of being suplada (conceited). Survival habits I had learned in Manhattan are undiminished, notwithstanding the years of exposure to the more indirect communication style of the British. It often tires me merely trying to control my natural proclivities. I have therefore heeded Socrates in Plato’s Republic who enjoins outsiders like me “to hold your own peace, go your way, and retire under the shelter of a wall”. Since my return to Manila, I have hidden my head in the sand, like an ostrich, and have led a quiet life of non-involvement.

  I minimise my trips outside my immediate neighbourhood, which saves me a lot of time—any visitor to the city will readily note the horrific traffic situation, everywhere you drive, a direct result of poor planning and inadequate infrastructure. Thanks to my “ostrich” introversion, I am satisfied with the hobbies I can do by myself inside my flat and do not miss the incessant social activities of my acquaintances. Even the social game of golf I can play alone whilst enjoying my time on the course, comfortable with my own company.

  Instead, I cultivate a few friends on a one-on-one basis whilst avoiding their multiple barkadas where I am otherwise pressured into joining whatever activity the group wants to undertake. Naturally, it helps if my friend is also a gate-keeper of her barkada, because then, through her, I can join selected group activities without having to become a full-fledged member. For instance, I am now a group “mascot” of a barkada who are all former classmates regularly meeting over lunch. Knowing I like Chinese food and that Chinese food is best eaten in a big group, my friend, whose job is to coordinate these lunches, invites me whenever they eat in a Chinese restaurant. This is in spite of the fact that I am the only non-classmate who, furthermore, comes from a different school. However, I don’t have to go on shopping expeditions with them, another favourite group activity, because my friend knows I hate aimless shopping.

  Often, people I meet from a certain segment of Philippine society simply overlook me—an elderly woman they don’t know, with a name that doesn’t ring a bell, riding in a nondescript car. Their lack of interest in me is mostly justified as there is nothing I can do for them in terms of influence, access to networks, business skills, or potential investments. In other words, I am useless as a contact. On my part, I am quite pleased about this anonymity because it gives me the feeling of being truly liberated and free—I can wear what I want to wear, go or not go with whomever I please, or say what I want to say without worrying too much about what people will think. This is something I couldn’t have done during my working days in the Philippines, when it was important to develop a wide network in a country that functioned, as I have outlined, mainly through personal contacts.

  I am also lucky that in cases where it matters, I can cite my two sisters who were prominent among the social elite on their own merits as well as having married into prominent families. Moreover, I have a nephew who is a well-known politician. Therefore, I know that the moment I am asked for my maiden name, I am usually in for a free ride. Thus, my idiosyncrasies, notwithstanding, I am generally accepted by the people who “matter”.

  As for the rest of my kababayans, I am fortunate that they are flexible, friendly, and funny. Ever rigid and impatient, I sometimes lose my temper over, say, poor service, or what I think of as stupidity: I remember a recent good-natured reply, “Si Ma’am naman, nag high blood naman” (here goes Ma’am again, raising her blood pressure again). Among other heart-warming traits, this country’s charm makes me all in all quite content about my decision to reside in the Philippines.

  Four

  Philippine Business

  And Politics

  (Progress is based) not on a sudden revolution of human nature but on a gradual evolution in human institutions

  John F Kennedy

  The Family Business

  A foreign friend once told me about his experience helping an acquaintance set up a family business: a sari-sari store in the province. I quote …

  When the store opened, there was pressure from the community for it to sell on credit. “I will pay at the end of the month,” etc. Naturally, some never paid, to the point that the business started to lose money. So the store implemented a no-credit policy. The people in the community resented it—it was not what they had expected. It created so much friction that the family eventually decided to sell the business. A local Chinese with a very strict no-credit policy took over and, in no time, made a healthy profit. It seems behaviour that was not acceptable from their kababayans would be tolerable coming from a Chinese—an outsider.

  This little anecdote is an illustration of how difficult it is for small family businesses to establish themselves locally and to succeed in the context of the collectivistic mindset of Filipinos. This is especially true of those dependent upon the goodwill of the community. Creatively exploring ways to cultivate such goodwill necessitates an understanding of the mechanisms that lie behind these practices.

  There is an assumption in many impoverished, collectivistic societies that assets, such as money, land, and other resources are limited—the size of the pie, so to speak, is finite. Therefore, if one has a bigger share, the others will have less to divide amongst themselves. If one wins, the others lose. However, fortune favours some more than others, the reason why we all have to share, why we have to make balato. My brother, for example, recently cashed in a big amount of money and to make other members of the clan comfortable, he invited all of us to a holiday cruise. Skip the balato, and you incur envy as what happened to the owner of the beach resort my husband and I visited; you then invite the emergence of the “crab mentality”.

  This is all well and good for those who have sufficient resources for their business, or who receive a windfall. However, many may have barely enough for the business to survive — let alone have something extra to give away. Yet, because the venture might have some visibility, neighbours often ascribe to these small-scale entrepreneurs even more resources than they actually have. As this attitude towards sharing is not expected among outsiders, it is of small wonder that many successful businesses are run by hard working, often frugal ethnic Chinese. Their ethnic Filipino counterparts, therefore, must be more creative, and think “out of the box” in order to overcome this handicap.

  Both Filipino and Filipino-Chinese businesses, large and small, are family-owned and family-managed. Many exist not as an independent entity but as an adjunct to serve the short-term needs of the family. Even those that have grown very large and attempt to bureaucratise remain family-controlled, indeed including listed companies where minority shares have gone to outsiders. Thus, the dynamics of family relationships remain firmly in place.

  In the early stages of formation, the entrepreneur who sets up the business naturally controls management. However, no sooner does their idea succeed than they recruit their spouse, their children, and the members of their extended family. The initial motive could be to save on expenses—you don’t have to pay family members. Then, as the business grows, they add paid employees, and with further expansion comes the pressure to bureaucratise.

  “Bureaucratisation” may seem an ugly word because it implies de-personalisation, but it is a necessary component to the growth of organisations. In order to promote efficiency and to produce economies of scale, organisational structures must be designed, positions created and filled with hopefully qualified incumbents. Jobs must have descriptions of responsibilities and accountabilities. Also with expansion comes the need to establish systems and procedures for planning, for coordination, monitoring, and controlling, for performance appraisals and compensation. Unfortunately, many Filipino cultural traits hamper the execution of these productivity requirements, and a key reason is their general inability to de-personalise organisational practices. A clerk feels offended if he cannot personally see the department head, who might, after all, have been his godfather at his wedding.

  Additionally, systems and procedures are weak or even
non-existent because in cases where paid employees are hired, training is not valued as it does not directly contribute to short-term profits. When short-term profit considerations are superseded by the ideals of giving good customer service, this ideal is effected by adding more staff rather than training them. Over-staffing can, as a matter of fact, result in increased inefficiency.

  *

  To an egalitarian mind, a policy that is not for everybody is no policy at all. However, this is not the case in a housing development where I have a small second residence. It is managed by the residents’ association to whom I once submitted a renovation plan for my house. The association has a set of rules governing construction including a three-metre easement from the property line. My plan was not approved because the new easement was a bit short of three metres. I was well on my way to revising the plans when I saw that a neighbour’s new construction had almost no easement at all! The reply, “But ma’am, he’s different. He is the friend of the president of the association.” And another property being built nearby contravening major construction rules? “Do you know he is the governor of the Philippine Central Bank”?

  Another weakness, as far as business success goes, is the Filipinos’ inability to plan ahead because they have a different sense of future time orientation. In a market economy, time is a resource to be spent, wasted, or hoarded. As many Filipinos do not see the value of time, I had thought it was often wasted. Recently, I have also wondered if, possibly, their idea of time is not linear. In agricultural settings, time is circular: the planting, the harvesting, and weeding seasons come and go, to be repeated next year. Indeed, as I have earlier stated, the country is still transitioning from a rural agrarian economy towards more urbanised industries.