may sound to you, for though you may have heard of the corruption of
American political life, it does not strike one with such force when
read in papers as when it comes home to you in daily life like this.
Even out here there seems to be no sense of that _noblesse oblige_, which
alone can keep the ruling race upright before the eyes of the “little
brown brother,” for one cannot take up a Manila paper without seeing
the case of some Provincial Treasurer, or someone tried for official
swindling.
Each town or district is controlled by a _Presidente_, a Filipino,
something like a mayor, who, in his turn, is under the guidance of an
American, called a Provincial Treasurer. Far from being an example of
integrity, the Provincial Treasurer is very often anything but proof
against the temptations that beset him financially. It is not hearsay;
there are the actual police reports in the papers. And if those found out
and brought to justice are so many, one can only speculate in amazement
upon the numbers who escape, or are sheltered by influence or a “pull.”
It does seem such a pity that a great and noble nation should not be
better represented in the eyes of another—and, when all is said and
done—an inferior race.
LETTER XX.
FILIPINO INDOLENCE—A DROUGHT
ILOILO, _March 31, 1905_.
Many thanks for your letter of February 23rd. We were greatly interested
in your description of the radium baths, though it seems difficult, out
here, to imagine that there is anyone anywhere taking so much trouble to
get hot! I must say, though, that I don’t feel this heat quite so much
as one might imagine, at least, as far as actually feeling hot goes. For
an evening or two ago I was quite surprised, when we were in Hoskyn’s
stores, to notice that the thermometer was marking 92° Fahrenheit. Of
course that was in the cool of the evening, but I had not noticed any
particular heat during the day. I thought how much it would interest
you to get some idea of the temperature we live in, so we bought a
thermometer and have hung it up in the _sala_. In a way, I am sorry we
have done this, as we did not know before how hot we really were, and did
not mind the heat half so much.
A watering-cart has begun operations, and as I write, it is passing down
the street. It is a most amusing contrivance, consisting of a _carabao_
waggon with a cask laid longways on it, and a native sitting astride the
_carabao_, guiding with a goad and one string. The water flows out of a
bamboo pole at the back of the barrel, and a spray is produced by means
of a circle of holes, through which the water squirts uncertainly. The
only result, as far as the roads are concerned, is a long narrow puddle
and a great waste of precious water, though I expect it is sea water
they use. The whole contrivance is so amusingly extravagant, shiftless,
inefficient—so characteristically Filipino!
_À propos_ of the ways of the natives, a Spanish friend of C——’s, who was
here the other day, told us a long and harrowing story, which was to him
somewhat of a tragedy, though to me, I am afraid, it was only a source
of amusement. This man tried the venture of keeping a small stable of
_quilezes_ for hire, which is a favourite speculation with young men who
want to play with a little capital, either with the idea of trying to
keep body and soul together in this expensive country, or else with the
perennial hope of being able to get away from it. One of the Englishmen
professes to have made a good thing out of it (_quilez_-hiring), but when
we told our Spanish friend this hopeful news, he refused to be comforted,
and hunched up his shoulders and spread out his hands, saying, “Horses
are cheap enough, and fares are high, which is very well from our point
of view; but you have the eternal Filipino to deal with.”
“What does he do in this case?” we asked.
“He does nothing,” said the Spaniard. “In this, as in every other
employment, he does not think it necessary to learn, or to know anything
at all.”
We said we had observed this trait, and that anyone seemed to be
confident in signing on for any job, anyhow.
“They do,” he said, “and this is the sort of conversation I have with
every man who represents himself as a driver. ‘Where were you _cochero_
before?’ I ask.
“‘With _señor_ L—— at B——.’
“‘How long ago was that?’
“‘Five years ago.’
“‘Where were you _cochero_ after that?’
“‘Oh, I was not _cochero_. I was cook to _señor_ S——.’
“‘And then?’
“‘Then as _muchacho_ with _señor_ C——, and then as cook——’
“‘And you are a cook, not a _cochero_!’
“‘Oh no. _Mi trabajo_ (my job) is really a _cochero_, but I went as cook
to _señor_ L——, and as _muchacho_ to _señor_ C——, and as——’
“‘Yes, yes. I heard what you said.’
“Then, as this is as good a man as you may hope to get, you engage him,
and it is a great piece of luck if you get half your fares, and the pony
not killed.”
This story, and many others I have heard to the same effect, account, in
some measure, for the marvellous and eccentric driving one sees going
on—one can hardly call it “driving,” though, it is simply a rough and
tumble with destiny, and there are more street accidents in Iloilo in any
given number of hours than in the same time in the whole of London.
It is so Filipino to be content with make-shifts—the same thing, the
same lazy Malay, and Spanish _Mañana_ in their food, their music, their
houses, their work—nothing thorough, nothing complete, no heart put
into anything but cock-fighting and talk. I don’t suppose any influence
could alter these racial faults, certainly not the hasty assimilation
of mathematics, electric trams, and ice-cream sodas. They are stupid,
too, these people, with the malicious cunning of all stupid people, and
cruel—sickeningly cruel.
A night or two ago we went again to the cinématograph, but the evening
was rather spoilt by an unpleasant “incident.” While C—— was getting the
tickets, I sat on an empty bench by the wall, whereupon a common native
boy came and sat down beside me.
I got up and walked away, for there were plenty of other benches empty,
and I knew this was only an act of impudence. When C—— came back with the
tickets and saw what had happened, he was simply furious, wanting to kick
the fellow out of the place, and pretty well out of the world too! “You
should have sat there,” he said, “and beckoned to me to kick the brute
out.”
But I implored him to let the thing pass unnoticed. “For,” I said, “if
you touch him you know he will summons you, and the case will go against
you. Besides, according to the customs of the country, the man was not
doing any harm, for he thought I was an American, and his equal.”
Whereupon C—— exploded; but luckily the door of the show was just
opening, so I got him to hurry in to secure good seats, and the
“incident” passed off. But when one thinks of the social status of the
coloured person in America!—Words fail me!
We are having more drought now—the rain-water tanks empty, and the
well-water brackish. We filter the latter, even to make tea with,
which makes the tea more palatable; but for washing, it is like using
sand-paper on the skin, and after soap has been used the water remains
perfectly clear, with the soap in a woolly cloud at the bottom. I wish
some millionaire philanthropist would take it into his benevolent head
to help his country with this “Trust from Heaven,” as they call the
development of the Philippines, and begin with building an aqueduct from
the hills into its second largest town! However, the 40-acre law would
stop any extensive enterprise of that or any other sort.[6]
Water is being brought over from Guimaras and sold in the streets at
fabulous prices, only I am happy to say we have been lucky enough, so
far, to secure a daily supply out of a friend’s well, sufficient to get
along with if we are careful.
All this time I have not told you our great piece of news, which is
that we have bought a horse and trap—or rather a pony and a _calesa_—a
sort of small dog-cart, with big, spidery wheels, to seat two, which
tips up unless a third person, generally the groom, is sitting on a
small perch behind. This is a very light and comfortable trap, and the
pony an exceptionally good one, both being the property of an American
officer we know who is going to Manila and selling off his effects. It
is a great stroke of luck to get hold of such a turn-out, and we are to
enter into possession in ten days or so, or possibly longer. I shall be
glad to drive, as it is not very pleasant for ladies to walk about the
town, owing to the way the Filipinos have of shoving white people off the
footpath, when there is one, and expectorating as close as they dare.
LETTER XXI.
THE WHARVES—AN OLD SPANIARD
ILOILO, _April 9, 1905_.
Many thanks for the book about carpentry, which arrived quite safely by
this mail, and is a treasury of delight to C——, who has got all sorts
of ideas out of it. One of the first things he did was to swarm up the
box-room door, getting through a flap in the matting ceiling and up into
the roof, to see what hold there would be to fix up a punkah over the
dinner-table. All the English people, and many of the Americans, have
punkahs in the dining-room, but we have not troubled about one so far, as
we are so lucky in our splendid draught through the hall, right across
the dinner-table. Now, however, the Monsoon is changing, and with the
wind this other side of the house, we want a punkah badly, for, you see,
if you get out of a draught here you nearly suffocate.
[Illustration: A PHILIPPINE PONY.
_To face page 174._]
C—— said it was like a huge hall up in the roof, and fearfully hot,
which I could quite believe, as the thermometer in the dark, airy rooms
below stood at 91°. Many of the houses have a sort of small top roof,
like a little hat, with a wide gap, which acts as a ventilator, and
lets off this heat out of the space above the ceilings; but, of course,
the corrugated iron always makes a dreadfully hot roof, however it is
treated. The only cool, healthy, and reasonable houses are the native
ones of palm thatch, but they are so very inflammable and dangerous that
no company will insure them. Though the way the native huts are lighted
with naked, flaring lights or rickety lamps, and remain unburnt for two
hours, is a marvel and a never ceasing source of interest to us when we
go about after dark. In each grass-covered _carabao_-cart, too, there is
a flaring torch by way of complying with the lighting regulations, and
when one sees them jolting and swaying along, it is impossible to imagine
why the regulations are not exceeded by the whole cart going along in a
blaze.
We went a walk last night, down this street, through the Plaza Libertad,
and down two more streets to the Muelle Loney, the quay along the
estuary. As C—— had come back from the office late, we did not have tea
till sunset, and by the time we went out it was nearly dark, and the
moon had not risen. The Muelle was all deep shadows and spots of light,
and the lamps in La Paz, the suburb the other side of the river, made
long reflections of yellow light in the dark water, while the masts and
sails of the ships at anchor stood out like Indian ink-drawings against
the deep blue sky. All along the quay are offices of business houses,
stevedores, customs, etc., and vast _camarins_ (warehouses) with low,
corrugated iron roofs, and open in front with iron bars like colossal
menagerie cages. Inside the _camarins_ could be seen shadowy piles of
sacks of sugar, which is to be detected by a certain heavy, sweet,
nauseous smell.
The quay itself is a very wide road, with a stone wall going into the
river—the latter deep enough to allow steamers of a fair size, such as
the _Kai-Fong_ and the _Butuan_, to come up and lie at anchor opposite
the wharves and _camarins_, as I told you when I went to Manila. There
are a lot of curious, rusty old steamers huddled together at the side of
the quay, with open decks and fixed iron awnings, which ply between here
and Negros, and other neighbouring islands; little launches belonging to
the offices; and the big steamers that go to Manila and Hong Kong, which
all look quite commonplace by daylight, but seemed very mysterious in the
darkness, with a light burning here and there, and always the tinkle of a
guitar, and a voice singing softly in a minor key.
There was one big, dark bulk, larger than the others, which was a Hong
Kong steamer, and we heard the funny, quacking jabber of the Chinese
crew on the fo’c’sle. They can’t get ashore in the Philippines, as a
guard is placed on the gangway, and the captain is liable to a fine
of 2000 dollars if a Chinaman escapes ashore. Now and then one reads
in the Manila papers about a Chinaman without a passport having been
caught, sentenced to a few months of Bilibid prison, and returned to Hong
Kong. As we passed the Chinese steamer, I could not help thinking how
tantalising it must be for such keen, industrious men to be almost on
the soil of this Eldorado of lazy natives and high wages. The few who do
enter, as I told you, make fortunes very quickly, or what is a fortune
to them, as well as the fortunes of those who employ them. It is most
unfortunate that popular opinion in the far-away U.S.A. is so dead set
against this source of prosperity and revenue.
At intervals along the Muelle, with its jumble of dark buildings on one
side and jumble of dark ships on the other, in front of the offices and
_camarins_, and at the corners of the little dark alleys that turn off
into the town, were numbers of little stalls, each with a flaring naphtha
light, round which natives were sitting about laughing and talking, and
chewing betel-nut, and haggling for hours over the price of some little
bunch of eggplant, or a tiny, insanitary fish. The wares were laid
out on flat rush trays—bananas, maize, horrible-looking toffee, native
fruits, and tumblers of pink _tuba_—a drink made of the sap of the palm
tree coloured red. The stall-keeper was invariably a little brown native
woman, with a huge cigar in her thick-lipped mouth—not such cigars as
are sold at home, but a loose bundle of tobacco leaves about four times
the size of the largest cigar you ever saw, and tied round with cotton
or fibre. The way their mouths stick out beyond their noses when they
are pulling at these big “weeds” makes their flat faces look very funny.
I saw a native girl the other day, walking round the Plaza at Jaro, in
a very tight _sarong_ and freshly-starched _camisa_, puffing at a big
black cigar all coming to pieces and tied up with white cotton, and her
swaggering gait, and the way she looked to right and left for admiration,
displaying a profile with absolutely no nose, was one of the most comical
things I have ever had the luck to see.
There are always any amount of natives along the Muelle in the
evening, for it is a favourite lounge, and they make such picturesque
groups, loafing about the stalls or lying against the walls in deep
thought or opium. Their voices are subdued, and they are all perfectly
good-humoured, and another point about such a crowd here is that there
is no smell from them, for the clothes of the poorest Filipino are
spotlessly white and clean, and their bodies carefully washed. One or
two costumes made up from empty sacks amused us very much, and they
are really very effective, for the wearers imagine the names on them
to be a pattern, and arrange the rows of letters quite carefully,
generally across the back and chest. Beyond the offices and ships we
came to immense mud-flats, which are partially covered at high tide,
and look quite nice when they are a sheet of shallow water, but appear
depressing, and smell nasty when they are bare. The tide was far out,
and the rising moon showed up a lot of curious tracks and channels, with
planks across them, and in the distance the backs of some of the houses
in the town. Such a desolate place! The spot to which one would think
sick animals would crawl when they feel they are going to die.
A lot of little native boys were rushing and screaming about in a
remote corner, their short shirts fluttering behind them, playing some
mysterious, meaningless game, revolving round certain heaps of manure
and dead dogs. The little chaps seemed happy enough, but they looked so
uncanny, like little black and white imps in the moonlight.
In time, I daresay, all this desolate waste will be reclaimed and built
over, for someone told me that the Harbour Company are filling it up with
dredgings. In Manila I saw a vast mud-flat being reclaimed in the same
way by harbour-dredging, and the flattened, finished part had lines drawn
on it, which I was told were the ground plans of streets and houses. It
seems so strange to go on building the towns out on the mud-flats in a
climate like this, when there are acres and acres of native huts standing
on sound land a few feet above the sea-level. I asked a man who has lived
here many years why this was done, and he told me that it was because of
the great cost of transport, owing to the high rate of wages, which would
take away all profit if one had one’s shops and _camarins_ far from the
water’s edge. I said I thought it must be very unhealthy on the mud.
“Absolutely fatal,” he said. “But then, you see, it is a toss-up between
a chance of fever on the mud and a certainty of starvation in the town.”
I enjoy the walks about very much, or rather, I am more interested and
amused than exhilarated; but all the same I am looking forward so to
having our trap and going for drives, and even though there are only two
roads, still we shall be able to get out of the town. I keep thinking
that it is spring at home—or rather, I try not to think of it! How one
longs to see a bunch of daffodils or a snow-drop; to hear a blackbird
sing; to see beautiful oaks and elms coming into leaf instead of these
eternal green palms, and to feel fresh and invigorating air instead of
this everlasting swelter and sun!
We have a queer old neighbour here, an ancient Spaniard, who lives on
the ground-floor of a house, in two rooms which are, so C—— tells me,
hung with pictures of Isabella and the King; medals on velvet, framed and
glazed; and certificates and memorials, for he was once some official in
the Royal Household of Spain.
He is a courtly and dignified old person, though about 4 feet 6 in
height, and as broad as he is long. He is very poor, and when he can sell
some piece of land, he is going back to Spain to die.
This personage came to call on me a few evenings ago, on account
of having on a black evening suit, as he had been to a funeral. We
stumbled along in Spanish, and would have done better if my guest had
not persisted in trying to remember French so as to convince me that he
really had been in Paris. However, we got on very well, and I showed him
some of papa’s sketches of Spain, which enchanted the poor old thing.
Over the Alhambra he waxed quite sentimental, with his head on one side
and one podgy hand raised to heaven. Of course the fact of my having been
in his native land made me quite charming, and compliments bloomed like
spring-flowers in the gardens of the Vega.
He had told C—— that he wished to come and pay his respects, as he
had heard that the _señora_ had good _custumbres_, which is a Spanish
word for good breeding and good manners—not that I mean the two can be
separated, but that the expression conveys those two, in a sort of way.
This fact he repeated to me again, with much decorative compliment, and
many assurances that I did not look the least like an Englishwoman—and
oh, no! not a bit like a Frenchwoman—and still less like an Italian!
Anyone would know at once that I must be a Spaniard—and from the southern
land, where the women are elegant as flowers, and their eyes speak of
love.
At last he backed himself out, still showering compliments, and offering
to teach me “_la lengua Castellana_.” His Spanish was beautiful to listen
to, so round and full and correct, and he implored me, with his hands
clasped, not to learn the language of “_los Indianos_,” as I told you the
Spaniards call the Filipinos.
All the Spaniards here long and yearn for Spain, and everything Spanish,
which is only natural, I suppose. They hate the Archipelago, as they call
it, but confess that the prospect of continuing to earn a living here
ties them by the leg.
Another old Spanish friend of C——’s, a man in business, amused me very
much one day, by giving me, as one of his reasons for disliking the
Philippines, that he was in constant terror of “_los Indianos_” coming
and “click”—he drew his finger across his throat.
“Really?” I said. “But you don’t, honestly, think that, do you?”
“_Señora_,” he said, “I _know_ it will happen some day. There will be
such an uprising as will wipe us all out. _Mi corazon_” (my heart) “beats
perpetually with terror.”
I thought, however, that this life of secret anguish could not have
done much harm to the old fellow’s system, for he looked remarkably
flourishing after thirty years of life in the tropics, without any idea
of panic at all.
As to this panic, I am surprised to find how prevalent is this notion of
a general uprising, for though the Philippines are full of Insurrection,
and many of them in a state of open warfare, still one can hardly believe
that a reign of horror could sweep over these slow little towns. Not that
the Filipinos are not capable of any atrocities when roused—and in the
War many terrible and horrible things happened, which are not printed in
newspapers or found in books.
LETTER XXII.
A TRIP TO GUIMARAS—AN ASTONISHING PROPOSAL—HOUSEBUILDING
ILOILO, _April 14, 1905_.
Yesterday, Sunday, we had the launch offered us, so we arranged a little
trip in the cool of the evening.
We drove down to the Muelle Loney (too hot to walk at five o’clock), and
when we had got on board the launch and seated ourselves in basket chairs
in the bows, she steamed down the river and the estuary, and out into the
channel. There was a fresh breeze blowing, and the air was delicious.
As to the scenery—words fail me! The blue and green of the sea, and the
mauve and rose lights reflected on Guimaras from the brilliant sunset
behind us over the Panay Mountains, were like some wonderful picture
wrought in amethysts and sapphires and exquisite enamels, while all along
the shore line the groves of palm trees glowed in the strong light like a
border of emeralds set in golden sand.
We crossed over, going close to the opposite shore, with the object of
visiting an old steamer which lies over by the quarries from which they
are getting the stone to build the harbour. This steamer used to be a
French packet, and was bought cheap by some Spaniards for inter-island
traffic, but the owners soon found she burnt her head off with coal, and
did not pay for her keep, so now they are trying to sell her, and she
has lain out there at anchor for a year or more; a fine old boat, with
splendid saloons and cabins all rotting away.
We climbed up the rickety gangway and came up upon what looked like
the ship of the Ancient Mariner or the Flying Dutchman, all still and
silent, everything ready as if for use, but worn and rotten with the
sun and weather. We went all over her, into the saloon with its long
table of handsome, polished wood and ghostly chairs with high, carved
backs; and into the cabins where the closed scuttles were dark with dirt,
and there was a musty smell like bones, and our own reflections in the
cracked green mirrors made us jump. C—— said he was sure there must be
a forgotten skeleton of a pirate in one of the dingy bunks hidden by
close-drawn curtains of faded green cloth, and really, the prospect of
something of the sort seemed so inevitable that I did not dare look in
one of them!
We came out on the deck again, which looked quite a cheerful place after
those spectral saloons and cabins, and we saw the galley, with dead
fireplaces, and wandered on the bridge, up a very unsafe companion. Old
Tuyay had scrambled off the launch after us and followed everywhere,
struggling and slipping up and down stairs and ladders, smelling about,
and getting stuck somewhere every now and then, and having to be helped
and hauled by the collar.