Is this where we ate dog? The native guides are from a tribe that connects machismo with eating. Eat lots and eat loudly a group of sailors from the base at Sangly Point are told. Our guide at the end of our visit goes up to a house and announces loudly that he wishes to honor us—he will buy us food. He, being quite an important man who had taken us all over the Luzon Mountains in his World War Two Jeep, would buy. We sit on a back thatched patio. The lady of the house brings a wooden oblong platter for our guide, myself, and another Navy man whose name I cannot speak. The giant plate looks as if it caries about six pounds of barbequed meat. I wonder if we can eat it all. She sets the meet platter in front of me, and brings two identical platters for the guide and the mysterious sailor. It’s impossible to eat that much meat but somehow I get about half down. To stall time I ask what kind of meat he is he honoring us with. I point to a caribou in a rice field but no this meat is from a different animal. He can’t remember the word in English. It’s not a chicken or duck we eat. I get about two-thirds through my barbequed flesh mountain. It starts a warm rain out in the valley below. An old bitch hound comes under the porch for shelter. She fills the room with sadness and the smell of a dirty wet dog. The rain pours and dances the neighbors’ roofs. They had all gathered to watch us show our manhood. They had come to watch us eat, and the tin roofs played like a drum. The smell of dog brings back our guide’s English vocabulary. “Dog!” he stands up and proclaims. My mouthful of puppy suddenly had the flavor of wet dog. The other sailor refused to eat another bite. This made him invisible, which is why I can’t say his name. Our guide is gravely insulted, and so are the other natives who still practice ritual beheadings. “What? Your friend is not hungry?” I say nothing and keep eating. “I think we need to eat this man’s meat for him,” he says looking through the invisible man to take his plate. We split the remainder of his dog parts. Still I eat. The native becomes friendly again. The neighbors relax. I think I’ve won. Then I hear, “But I’m still hungry.” He orders another platter that had to have come from another hut. We eat another litter as the storm passes. I’m not mad at my traveling companion, I just can’t say his name because he became invisible. In fact, I wonder still. Who was he?