Impressions of an American visiting the Philippines…

A food van with big speakers woke me just before seven a.m., blasting an American pop song that I vaguely recognized from the 1990s. Kind of frat-boy spring break-feeling, like the band Sugar Ray, but not them… maybe.

The van driver was selling fresh breads of all kinds, rolling through the streets near Sangi, Toledo, Philippines. I would find out that he came by every weekday morning, pausing beneath my window, his music a cousin to our ice cream truck jingles. Well, it worked on me. I liked the little crescent breads, slick underneath with butter and cinnamon sugar sprinkled on top.

After fifteen or so mornings of hearing the same song, I’m doomed to remember it forever. By the time I checked out of the motel, the van’s sound system was no longer cute. What still bothers me is that I can’t remember the song title.

I had been in the Philippines for about three days, with three weeks to go until my flight back to the States. The lodge room I’d rented would probably be considered a step below the normal ‘tourist hotels’ in the area. But it was well-maintained, near the pier and its markets, and next to a large school—about as safe and accessible as the stranger in town could want.

related: Siomai & Friends Fries, chapter one

It was a Monday. My wife wanted to visit one of the clan patriarchs—the mother’s father. Most of my communication there went through my wife. Knowing I was a foreigner, there were plenty of people who would have made me into an easy mark if not for her. Although English is widely-understood in the Philippines, there are different levels of “understanding.” Many people were shy to talk to me because they spoke English about as well as I spoke Cebuano (Visaya). Which was less than parrot-literate.

The grandfather lived a thirty minute ride away from Toledo, then another half-hour walk into what Americans would call “the sticks”; that is, the country. Filipinos sometimes call it “the province.” As in: I’m going to visit my lola (grandma) in the province. My wife, her mother, two brothers, sister and I fit into a trike that carried us away from the towns of Sangi and Ilihan.

The trike driver asked me where I came from and how I liked his country so far. He kept calling me “amigo.” My mother in law called him to stop at some point, on a road that wound all the way to Cebu City, eventually. My wife motioned me out, smiling at my caution. I’d already smacked my head on a couple of trike tops. Not everyone in the Philippines was short, but the trikes, jeepneys and inter-city vans were all built for people five-eight and under, or so it seemed.

Ahead of us, a long dirt road stretched into the woods.

“You don’t mind walking far?” they asked. I laughed and said, “That depends.”

We walked along the two tire ruts that cut through fast-growing grass. A rooster dashed across our path. Farmers were working yoked carabao. Women pinned up laundry. Not much else moved. In the middle of this provincial atmosphere, we passed a small property and house, fenced in with high-quality materials out of place here. The garage was open; a luxury car sat inside. A small patio decked with beautiful blue stones was shaded with specialized eight-foot coconut trees. The owner could just pick the ripe coconuts off at waist-level…

The ruts quickly tapered off to a footpath. The sun was high and very hot. Even in small towns like Sangi and nearby Ilihan, the sheer volume of vehicles (trikes, motorbikes, jeepneys, buses and cars) meant inhaling a lot of exhaust and seeing a bunch of garbage everywhere. I had started noticing looks because I bused my own trays at a Jollibee. Everyone here just dropped trash as they walked or drove. Wrappers and papers and plastic things and name-it lined most every road and path. Like refuse had been scattered from airplanes. I had looked for public bins and seen very few; saw a garbage truck once… Now we were in what I’d imagined the Philippines to be before arriving: Green, peaceful, and fresh air.

“It is a rare thing when a memoir allows you to not only be a spectator to someone’s life but actually feel as if you are walking through their experiences with them.” 

–Amazon review

From “Siomai and Friends Fries“

My wife offered to shield me with her umbrella, but I waved her away, adjusting my hat. We paused at a family store for beverages.

There are hundreds of these mostly family-owned stores everywhere in the Philippines. Some aren’t much larger than a toll booth. Their convenience stores have the same things as the American version—basic necessities at a slightly inflated price than large markets. I bought a small orange drink and stooped to pet a friendly puppy.

Though we were far from the SuperMetro malls and trike-filled streets of Toledo, the sight of a tall foreigner walking around got plenty of attention. For the first couple of days, the stares were unnerving. Then I realized that it was mostly an intense curiosity, more than hostility.

Americans are so used to diverse groups of people in even most small towns, now. It is being a stranger that gets you examined. Being looked at with such shock was a shock in itself. But by now, that was melting into just a part of the experience.

A carabao voiced his opinion as we went past. The ruts were gone, and we walked a path that wound through the bush. We crossed a one-man bridge that was sturdier than it looked—a long stretch of twined planks, with a large bamboo hand railing. The water below wasn’t deep, but the banks were easily twenty feet.

At grandfather’s two-room home, the family’s oldest son, a lanky young man of about twenty, stripped his shirt and sandals off. His sisters giggled, clearly teasing him in Visaya; they turned to me and explained that they were calling him “monkey boy.” He just grinned and loped over to a nearby stand of coconut trees.

Chickens large and small darted by as I went inside the house. The front area/kitchen was a shotgun room, longer than it was wide. The length was about five large paces. He had a stove and counter at the far end. In between was a ladder leading to the elevated sleeping area. The five-foot-six-inch doorway meant I was careful to duck once again.

There was some nonverbal communication between me and the grandfather. I was realizing that part of the point of this journey had been to let him see me. Wife and mother motioned toward me, giving him a somewhat lengthy explanation. I don’t know what they said, and never asked. He shook my hand again, wizened and wrinkled face barely registering anything.

One of several stray cats hopped up on the stove’s side counter. He glanced at me, then sniffed around empty pans and tins. Another stray dog sniffed around a minute and then disappeared, never to be seen again during our visit. There were lots of random animals moving around everywhere I went, tails ragged, ribs showing. While in the Philippines, I rarely saw any cats chasing the many chickens, nor dogs chasing cats. All coexisted, more out of a kind of lazy familiarity than anything.

The land sloped up sharply from the house. We stood outside and watched our brother hack coconuts. They would drop ten yards, bounding down the hill, clearing ten feet at a bounce. The sisters and I made to catch them. A few had to be dodged. He climbed down and used a short machete to chop a tennis ball sized-hole at the crown of each green coconut.

The women made a concoction of coconut and its juice, condensed milk, and other sweet tastes I couldn’t identify. I spooned it out of a large drinking cup, slurping and drinking and chewing the fresh coconut chunks.

We sat inside, enjoying a breeze that blew through. After a while, the younger brother, a constantly moving boy of about four, started to tire out. We said our goodbyes and made to leave. Turning to go, I remembered at the last moment to duck.

I didn’t make it, and hit my head on the doorway anyway. Grandfather finally grinned.