At the Ninoy Aquino International Airport, a foreigner off a long-haul flight is delayed by immigration officers, not for interrogation, but for sotto voce solicitations in broken English: “Something for coffee, sir?”—an honest bribe euphemism. It is not any one incident; it is a ritual that is performed with such frequency that it has become tacitly included within the welcome package of tourists. And we are astonished, shocked, or amazed at how far behind our neighbors we are in the tourism sector.
The bitter truth: we possess a jewel of untouched beaches, beautiful mountain ranges, and colonial towns stuck in time, but it is all spoiled by an administration culture of petty corruption and laissez-faire opportunism. While Thailand, Vietnam, and even Cambodia host tourists with ease, the Philippines still welcomes its visitors with open hands, half-closed fists, and a feigned scowl disguised as a smile. What the other countries have realized—and we have not—is that tourism is not about places; it’s an experience, and ours is a minefield that is scattered with landmines disguised as men in uniform or men with meters off.
There’s something grotesque about watching a foreigner haggle with a Manila taxi driver who insists that a ten-minute ride should cost three times more than the standard fare. What’s worse is that this daylight swindling happens just steps outside the airport, under the very nose of traffic enforcers who either look away or, worse, take a cut. If we’re being honest, the rot begins at the welcome mat. We have allowed predation to become institutional. From porters who “accidentally” misplace luggage unless tipped handsomely to immigration staff who ask unnecessary questions just to assert their tiny power, we’ve reduced our first line of contact into a gauntlet of greed.
But the betrayal doesn’t end there. Our streets, where the true Filipino spirit can be unleashed, are nurseries of urchins and con artists who feed on foreigners like hawks on the prowl for the vulnerable. Pickpockets creep through crowded bazaars like ghosts. Drivers—legal and illegal ones alike—quote foreign-sounding fares, particularly to backpackers who speak not a word of Tagalog. And if they do somehow make it out of the city alive, they’re usually abandoned on their own out there on the archipelago, as if our tourist bureaus existed only in figments on smooth paper and not in real, operational physical offices where they could, at least, leave behind a good map.
That’s the other massive hole in our system: disorganization. In Vietnam, tourists leap on masterfully crafted bundles of transportation, food, cultural experience, and hotel accommodation—all nicely wrapped and professionally planned. In the Philippines, short of having a personal guide or tedious hours on Google, each trip is akin to an individual adventure. Tourists do not have to be sleuths the instant they step off the plane; tourists must be greeted with the welcome mat, oriented, and escorted. Rather, they are used as chokeholds that have to pay their way out of ignorance.
I am left to ask whether or not the issue is one of more than a lack of resources—it is an attitude. We treat tourists not as revered visitors but as wallets on legs. Rather than longer-term thinking with an emphasis put on repeat visitors, we are fixated on attempting to get as much out of unsuspecting first-timers. No national pride when we treat guests. No social obligation to guard our country’s reputation. We complain about our declining tourist flow but never really take the time to ask ourselves: “Would I return if I were treated thusly in some other land?” But it’s not the land’s fault.
The islands remain stunningly gorgeous. The sea continues to glint like molten glass at night, and the ancient churches continue to whisper stories through broken stones. The issue isn’t a lack of charm—it’s the human-built infrastructure that is murdering the magic. Our citizens, at least a poisonous some who staff the gateways and drive cabs, ruin what could have been an affair of love between two peoples: the world and the Philippines. Until we meet that reality, we will remain a place with a reputation for promise, never achievement.
We don’t require fancy, costly grand rebranding efforts or costly tourism exhibitions at the moment. We require sweeping our front porch. The best way? Begin with decency. Reorient our airport staff, institute anti-extortion behaviors, penalize extortionate motorists, and—most importantly—welcome visitors not as prey, but as storytellers. Because ultimately, it’s the stories they bring home that will attract others, or send them far, far away.
