gear was stowed:—two rolls of bedding; some large wooden cases with
household effects; C——’s suit-case with what clothes we had to take; and
Sotero sitting behind, carrying a mysterious bundle, with the cook beside
him, got up in a clean pink and green muslin _camisa_ and blue cotton
trousers, carrying C——’s panama in one hand, and a long sack full of his
beloved pots and pans in the other. C—— and I and Tuyay followed in the
_calesa_, leaving Domingo in charge of the house, under oath to _mucho
quedado_ (take great care), but rather gloomy at not being in the outing.
At the Muelle Loney we embarked, with friends waving to us from the
office windows as if we were going away for ever. The day was perfect
and the crossing lovely, but a slight swell made it rather difficult for
us to tranship into the small boat we had towed over. When we got to the
other side, C—— did the complete and efficient sailorman in stowing the
gear in the boat, handing me down (something after the fashion of the
Arabs at Jaffa) into the cook’s embrace, and giving orders generally; but
he spoilt the whole effect by falling into the boat right on top of me,
and bonneting me in my own topee, at which _debâcle_ the cook showed all
his dark red betel-stained teeth from ear to ear, and even Tuyay laughed.
The tide was very far out, showing long stretches of wet sand and reefs,
all shining in the sunlight, with strips of very blue water in between.
C—— quite redeemed his reputation for sailorising as he steered the boat
ashore by the colour of the water over the sand banks; and we managed
to get not very far from the front of the house, which we could just
manage to make out amongst the trees and rocks, but the water-pipes on
the bamboo frames going out into the sea, showed us where to look. The
crew and the servants waded ashore, carrying gear, and Tuyay was chucked
out and splashed along with them, while two skinny brown ragamuffins made
a “chair” of their arms, and carried me—with puffings and groanings, so
rude!—to land, and set me down on the beach with a sigh of relief. After
landing me and the _ménage_, C—— rowed back to the launch to put the
sailors on board, and she steamed away to Iloilo again. Coming back in
the boat alone, he tied her up to a fish _corral_—a sort of wattle fence
in the shallow water—and then waded ashore and came gingerly up the sharp
rocks.
By the time he arrived I had unpacked, and it was about half-past five,
so we put on bathing suits and filled the swimming bath, and the fun
began at once. It was delicious, after the long, hot day, to splash
about in the cool, fresh water, and we stayed there till it was quite
dark, and we could see stars shining in the patches of dark sky between
the branches. By-the-bye, I often think how strange it seems to see the
same old Orion’s Belt and Cassiopeia looking down on us here. We see the
Southern Cross, too, low on the horizon—a disappointing exhibition, and
no one would think it was meant for a cross unless they were told so.
We dined early, and were hungry, which was delightful. The cook and
Sotero managed wonderfully, so that we were just as comfortable as in
our own delightful house. There was a firefly flitting all about the big
room, looking so pretty; appearing and disappearing like a tiny fairy
light.
Next morning, when I woke up, I heard only a few cocks crowing—nothing to
speak of—and some twitterings of birds as well, and I think the latter
pleased me as much as the whole trip! In the Philippines “the birds have
no song and the flowers have no scent,” they say, which is a sweeping
generalisation, but true for the most part.
We put on our bathing suits, had a cup of tea, and were out on the beach
by six o’clock. The tide was far out again, with long stretches of
shining wet, ribbed sand; the sea all fresh and blue, and glittering in
the sunlight. But where we went was still in shade, for the sun had not
yet come up behind the Guimaras hills, and the morning air was exquisite.
We “ran races in our mirth” along the wet sands, till we got opposite the
fish _corral_, where the water was deeper and the boat was tied up to a
bamboo pole.
As we went along the beach, we saw people from the little huts we passed
when we were here before, washing at a spring of water which flowed out
from the rocks and down to the beach. They were some way off, though, and
we were in the shade and they were in the still deeper shade under the
cliffs, so we could not make them out very clearly, but we could see
their coppered-coloured skins shining with water, and hear them laughing
and talking.
We swam about the boat for a long time, and found the water quite warm
in the shallows, even before the sun was up. I had brought C——’s panama,
which I hung to the fish _corral_ while I swam about in the shade, but
when we went back to the house, I had to wear it, as the sun which was
then on us is oppressively hot here as soon as it rises.
The fish _corral_, by-the-bye, is an ingenious trap, rather after the
fashion of a maze, into which the fish enter but never have the sense to
get out again.
When we got back to the house, we filled the swimming bath, which felt
very cold after the sea, and it certainly washed off the salt water, but
it was nearly as hard and harsh as the sea itself.
[Illustration: A FILIPINO MARKET-PLACE.
_To face page 218._]
In the early morning a fleet of _paraos_ (native sailing boats) goes
across to Iloilo to the market with fowls, mangoes, maize, pine-apples,
etc., and our cook took passage in one of these vessels to go and do his
marketing, for it is impossible to buy a single thing in Nagaba, where
the people only just keep enough for their own scanty consumption. He
returned about nine o’clock, and I went into the kitchen to inspect the
result of his shopping. The kitchen was in the regular native fashion,
just a prolongation of the living-room, with the same split-bamboo floor,
through which could be seen the fowls and pigs wandering about under the
house. There was no ceiling below the thatch and rafters, and everything
seemed very nice and trim—the fireplace being a high table of concrete
with holes in the top. In each hole they light little pieces of charcoal,
so that each pot has its own fire, which seems a cumbersome method, but
it saves fuel, and must be quite enough trouble for a Filipino, who
has probably one pot of rice to boil and no more. From the roof hang
all sorts of dried fruits or vegetables, and queer little bundles of
herbs for flavourings and for medicines as well. I noticed that amongst
the things the cook had brought he had not forgotten the day’s supply
of _buyo_. When first I used to go into the kitchen here to look at the
day’s supplies, I saw this little packet, not unlike a lily-leaf, tied up
with a wisp of twine, and classed it amongst the mysterious little odds
and ends intended for flavourings. But one day I had the curiosity to
ask, and the cook, with much shyness and shrugging up of his shoulders,
told me it was _buyo_ (betel-nut). I could quite believe it when I looked
at his crimson teeth, and was thankful the supply was only for himself
and not the other servants, for I could not stand being waited on at
table by a person with a mouth as if he had been drinking fresh blood.
The betel-chewers expectorate a great deal, though they can’t possibly
do so more than their compatriots and the Spaniards and Americans, but
the red expectoration is horrible, somehow, and I’ve often seen all the
pavement outside a house or shop quite crimson with the great splashes of
betel-juice ejected by the inmates.
We spent all the morning pottering about and reading, and regretting
that we could not carry out our plan of bathing again when the tide was
up and deep below the house, as we were expecting a party of English and
American friends from Iloilo, who had announced that they would visit us
on Sunday morning. But the party never landed after all, which was rather
a disappointment, as we were done out of our bathe, besides having no
use for a dozen or two of sodas which we had brought over with infinite
trouble.
After the _siesta_, we thought we would make use of the boat for a little
trip, so we sent into the village for two men who could row; and they
fetched her to the beach and rowed us up the little estuary, past the
village and up the river. Unfortunately, the tide had gone out again—very
far out—and the river was too low to go as far as we had intended, which
was to a convent and church, the corrugated roofs of which we had seen
from a height. So we just went a little way up the narrow, muddy river,
but we could not see much as we were below the level of the thick bushes
that fringed the banks. At last we stuck and could get no further, so we
turned back and went up a little back-water, and landed by a queer sort
of lime-kiln in a palm-grove.
We scrambled ashore, and walked up a track through the woods of mangoes
and palms, till we got up a good height, with a map view of the river
winding far below and a glimpse of the roofs of the convent. Down in the
valley the land was all cultivated, chiefly in maize-fields and bananas,
which looked green enough though uninteresting, but the hills were
pretty, and wooded with trees of all tones of green, and the distances
exquisite in gradations of mauves and blues. From where we stood, the sea
was quite hidden, for we had our backs to it, and the hill between us and
it; and the view spread out below was like some tropical version of the
valley of the Doons. We went on up through the wood, still big dark mango
trees with leaves like laurels—dark and shiny—and feathery, graceful
cocoanut-palms in between. The ground was all covered with straggling
plants, wild mint, and dead palm-branches, while wild pine-apples grew in
quantities, each fruit sitting in a flat bush of spiky yellowish leaves,
and looking delicious!
By a very primitive hut in a clearing we came upon some natives, clad
only in short white drawers, who were very nice and cheerful; very
different from the people in the towns. They knew very little Spanish,
but we made out that their chief occupations were gathering the fruit of
the pine-apples for food and the leaves to make into the thread to weave
the _piña_ muslin. They made charcoal too, and all this information C——
elicited in Visayan and a few words of Spanish. I don’t suppose they
trouble themselves much about even those simple occupations, and I should
think the less thought they gave to the blessings of civilisation the
happier they would be. What good on earth can education, whisky, votes,
appendicitis, electric light, a free press, frozen meat, clothes, and
pianos do to such happy simple souls? It seems so odd to think that in
one part of the world cultivated, thinking men are trying their level
best to destroy for others an ideally happy, simple life, while at home
their one profession is a wish to return to it themselves, and their only
idea of a holiday is to go off and camp in the Rockies, where they can
approach as nearly as possible to the conditions one sees here in the
country places. Indeed, as I told you, far from encouraging a simple,
agricultural life, the land and other taxes, and the education they go to
maintain, are having the effect of choking agriculture and hurrying the
half-taught countrymen into the towns.
But even with the elect, with the Filipinos, the sums of money raised
should be spent on roads, on remitting the poll-tax, on reducing the
export duties—and then, when a generation or two has been peaceful and
well fed, it would be time enough to educate the masses—if such universal
education is necessary or beneficial to such a people, or any people
at all. In the white countries, with all their thousands of years of
progress through Greece, Rome, and the Middle Ages, one can’t be sure,
judging from the tone of literature that appeals to the masses, whether
education has been an unmitigated boon; but hastily to apply the same
methods to this infinitely lower development of the human race, is an
absurdity that would be laughable if it were not pitiful and dangerous.
And it seems so strange to think of a country being governed against its
inclinations, not by legislators trained in its problems, but by a body
of electors on the other side of the world, not one of whom knows more of
its conditions and needs than the first cabman one would hail in London
or Paris. Strange, is it not, when you come to think of it?
Well, to get back to our trip up the river in Guimaras, we came down
through the woods again, and got into our boat about sunset, rowing back
to the beach opposite the house in a pale crimson sunset glow, with long
dark shadows of trees and houses falling on the sand, and when we got out
at the house, we walked up over the rocks and pools, and saw the little
bright metallic-looking crabs running into their holes again. We tried
very hard to catch one, but it was impossible, for they run sideways at a
great pace, simply vanishing like so many harlequins of crab-land.
[Illustration: A THREE-MAN BREEZE OFF GUIMARAS.
A PARAO.
_To face page 222._]
We dined early, and spent the evening in long chairs on the balcony. It
was a lovely night, fresh and cool, probably not more than 85°, with
great stars shining brightly, making quite a silver light upon the sea.
Many people from the village were out in the bay, wading in the shallows,
and catching fish with spears and torches, shining a light on the water,
and then plunging down a spear and bringing up the poor deluded fish. A
man ran out from under our house, carrying a bamboo staff about 12 feet
long, dipped in something resinous, and flaming at one end, and we saw
another man join him, and they waded far out, till the torch was only
a little speck of yellow in the silvery night. That was all very nice
and primitive, but on the rocks below sat another engaging barbarian,
squatting on his heels getting crabs out of the pools, and whistling
“Hiawatha” perfectly in tune.
We had a very early start next morning, turning out at half-past five,
and packing and breakfasting as soon as it was light, for we had to be
back in Iloilo in time for C—— to be at his office at eight o’clock. We
had not been able to get the launch to come and fetch us, so, when we
were on our way back from the river the night before, we had stopped by
the village and made arrangements to take one of the _paraos_ lying at
anchor there—long, thin frames of bamboo covered with _bejuco_ matting,
tarred inside and out, in shape sharp and narrow as a blade, with big
canvas sails and great wide outriggers. The crews of these boats consist
of several men, one of whom steers while the others control the sails
or run out on the outriggers, for the art of sailing them consists in a
very skilful balance, according to the direction of the wind; and breezes
here are known as “one-man” or “three-man” winds and so on, by the number
of men that would be required on the outriggers of a _parao_. They are
said to be safe enough, but they look very risky, and skim over the water
like swallows, also they draw very little water, and can anchor in very
shallow places.
We got on board our _parao_, the _Soltero_, by about seven o’clock, and
had a lovely, fresh three-man breeze, a glorious sunny morning, and I
wished the crossing could have taken half a day instead of half an hour.
C—— and I sat on the little narrow plank that served as deck; while the
other half of the boat, where the “deck” stopped, was full of rolls of
bedding and gear, and on top of all, sat the cook still clutching the
panama and his sack of pots and pans. The boat towed behind, with one of
the wooden cases in it, guarded by Sotero, holding in his arms a large
and handsome rooster, to buy which he had asked for an advance upon
his wages. I don’t like cock-fighting, and was depressed by the sight
of this poor animal; but it would be silly to make a fuss and perhaps
lose so good a servant, and, after all, though you can train a Filipino
to understand your ways, it is no more possible to alter his being a
Filipino by your theories than to wash his skin white with somebody’s
soap.
I was so interested in watching the marvellously nimble way the sailors
ran out upon the outriggers, first to one side, then we made a wide
tack and the sail swung round, nearly knocking our heads off, and the
crew rushed over to the other side, doing feats of balancing far more
wonderful than anything I ever saw in a circus, for they had not got a
nice safe net below them, with a lot of men in brass buttons holding on
to the poles and looking up to see if they made a slip. On the contrary,
there was nothing but their astounding balance and agility between them,
and fathoms of choppy sea running with a swift current, and full of
sharks.
They brought the boat to the beach at the end of the street which runs
at right angles from our own, opposite the end of our house, and ran her
broadside on in shallow water and then up on to the sand, where we could
jump ashore from the bows.
The sailors and the cook and Sotero carried the gear up into the house,
and when I went into the hall, I had the impression of having been some
weeks in a strange country, whereas we had really only been within sight
of our own town from Saturday to Monday. So many new things—and yet,
though I have written till I am tired, I feel that I have not told you
half what we saw and noticed.
LETTER XXVIII.
A LITTLE EARTHQUAKE, AND AN OPERA COMPANY UNDER DIFFICULTIES
ILOILO, _May 15, 1905_.
We had a slight earthquake here on Wednesday morning, the 11th. It was
my first experience of that form of excitement, and I am sure I don’t
want another. The queer thing that everyone here tells me, and they have
plenty of experience to go by, is that people do not usually think much
of their first earthquake, but instead of becoming accustomed to them,
they become more alarmed, and get to be horribly frightened at the mere
suggestion of the earth’s surface shifting about.
This one took place at about half-past four in the morning, and at first
I thought it was a burglar or someone moving about the room, and was just
going to call to C—— when he cried out: “Wake up! There is an earthquake!”
I woke up pretty quickly when I heard that! The shaking continued quite
a long time, and I thought it a sickening sensation, and so horribly
uncanny, with all the room trembling, and the furniture rattling and
moving, while outside the air was deathly still. I think that what made
the stillness was that no cocks crowed, and the eternal shrilling of the
crickets ceased, which made a deadness in the ears such as one feels on
coming out of a factory.
C—— invited me to go out on the balcony and “see the street moving,”
which I firmly refused to do. I am sorry now that I did not go on to the
balcony, but at the time I felt too horribly frightened to move hand or
foot.
I don’t think I like earthquakes, but I expect I shall have to accustom
myself to them, for they are so common in the Philippines as to excite no
remark unless some building tumbles down; and the houses, as I think I
told you, are built with a view to these hysterics of old mother Earth,
with all the planks and beams tied with bands of _bejuco_ to give them
room to shift a little.
But besides the earthquake, we have been in more imminent danger since I
last wrote, in the shape of the final and really conclusive and farewell
performance of the Italian Quartette, which took place last Saturday
night. The theatre was very full, and gaily decorated with loops of green
leaves and paper roses of red and yellow, mixed up with perilous paper
lanterns. The electric light, which has been weak for some time, chose,
on this occasion, to go out altogether—in the midst of an impassioned
duet.
There was instantly great excitement, for the paper lanterns were not
lighted, and the theatre was plunged in blackness of the deepest dye.
Reckless scratching of matches sounded all round, and the little lights
were held up for a few seconds till they burnt out, and then dropped just
anywhere. One did not need to look to gather that a Filipino did this
thing! It made one’s blood run cold to see them.
Of course, though the electric light was in such a precarious state,
and expected to expire at any minute, there had been no provision made
in case of accidents, and the remedy now was a wild rush outside to buy
candles, which were soon produced and stuck in dabs of their own grease
along the front of the stage and amongst the orchestra. One or two
lamps came somehow from somewhere and were placed jauntily about the
building, while the spare candles were secured by enterprising spirits
in the audience and put about so that they shone in the eye, and no one
could see anything, and little brown ladies in _camisas_, with huge
gauze sleeves, leaned past the naked lights with admirable indifference.
There was not a single accident, however, but how that was managed, and
indeed how the whole matchbox theatre was not burnt to the ground and the
audience roasted, is simply the eighth wonder of the world.
I can’t say I took the affair very cheerfully myself; in fact, to be
truthful, the sensation of impending doom, and the trouble of having to
keep my eye on the wobbling candles, spoilt my enjoyment a good deal. The
singing was very good, and in spite of the partial gloom, the opening
scene of La Bohême was given very well indeed, and it was such a treat
to hear that glorious music. Of course the darkness suited that very
well, and made the scene in the garret most realistic, though I expect
the Quartier Latin was rather _caviare_ to the ladies in the muslin
_camisas_. I loved to hear the Italian too, it sounded so full and round
and pure after Spanish. I suppose one prefers whichever tongue one
happens to learn first. After the opening piece the light suddenly went
up, so we had a fairly good sight of the second part. They did a sort of
shortening-up—I can think of no other name for it—of Cavalleria, acting
really so remarkably well that the worn old story seemed as fresh and
terrible as if it were just happening. I’ve never seen it done better
in any part of the world—no, not even Caruso and Melba. One felt the
full tragedy and pathos of the music, and the duet between Turiddú, and
Santuzza, a handsome, graceful woman, was magnificently impassioned,
leading up to an almost breathless moment when he cast the girl from
him, and she fell upon the ground.
But, alas!—we were in the presence of a Filipino audience, who greeted
the fall of Santuzza with hearty laughter, and continued to giggle while
the girl sang her curse as she dragged herself to her knees.
I don’t know how the Italians went on acting as they did. I am afraid I
should have lost my temper and had the curtain lowered.
This great heat still continues, and is very exhausting, for the lightest
clothes are always soaked, and the face and hands covered with little
beads. No one thinks less of a “perfect lady” in this country if she mops
her face with her handkerchief; in fact, it is the only thing for the
poor creature to do. I simply long to feel fresh and energetic, and to
be able to walk fast on a hard road on a cold day—what a dream of bliss!
Even to enjoy food would be a pleasant change.
Those who can get away, but they are very few, go to Hong Kong, where
the people are making a fuss about their hot weather. It is coolness
after the Philippines. The missionaries are the best off, with their nice
little trips to Japan; and there has been a great exodus of these good
people lately.
The lowest average of the thermometer is 93°, which means that is
sometimes as low as 90° but generally up to 95°. Some people tell me
this is the usual thing at this time of year, and others vow it is
abnormal. Whatever it is, it has gone on now for three months, and I
am getting rather tired of it, and don’t think I shall be able to pull
through another year out here. It is not only the climate that tells
on one, but the scarcity and badness of the food. To think that you at
home in an average of 60° think you would die off unless you had fresh
cabbages, and peas, and beans, and gooseberries, currants, the first
strawberries—how the very names make one’s mouth water! Well, they say
the Monsoon will change soon, and then the rainy season begins and the
air gets cooler, and that is something to look forward to. The wind blows
now some days from one side and some days from another, in an undecided
fashion, with intervals of stifling calm, and then a sudden burst, which
whips the sunblinds from their anchorage.
LETTER XXIX.
AN EVENING ON THE RIVER—RIVAL BISHOPS
ILOILO, _May 17, 1905_.
We went out on the river one evening last week at the invitation of two
members of the boating club, which has its being in a _nipa_ hut on the
bank above the town, off the Molo road. It was a regular little native
hut, with a rickety ladder up to the door, and boats slung underneath—a
delightfully primitive place.