Hapa

Here's what Bauan is to me, an American visitor, one with a lot of experience moving around busy giagantic monstrocity cities like New York, London, Chicago, Madrid, San Francisco, Auckland. Washington D.C., and Houston. (Somehow L.A. still escapes me, and okay, I haven't visited Rome or Cairo).

On one hand, it made me afraid to venture out. Unless we had a Pilipino escort-guide, we did not leave the second floor flat of our host family in Bauan. This was disturbing at first. AFter all, Rob and I are continual explorers. Traveling to a new area, our first instinct is to jump right in, walk the streets, find stores and sights, take in the place at the street level, mingle among the people, and, sure, find a coffee bar.

What happened here? The people weren't the problem. No one hassled or hounded us; even the street beggars or vendors hawking newspapers or peanuts or jewelry in Manila, or the provinces, while they were persistent, did not threaten to retaliate if we looked the other way, which we mainly did.

Bauan- city of 70,000 living in 23 barrios--wasn't itself menancing. There were no obvious signs of criminal-minded people, despite hearing and reading that political crime was on the upswing in the country at large, despite the fact that a Bauan reporter, on the trail of something or someone, was murdered in the city several years ago. Type 'Bauan' into Google, and THAT story is prominent, by the second screen.

So? What kept us indoors much of the time? I think it was the streets themselves in Bauan. They're narrow raceways filled with 1000 honking, screeching, motorized tricycles, many Jeepneys, cars, and buses. All these vehicles compete for space on the one or two-lane roads, and rush about frantically, narrowly missing the young and old pedestrians, dogs, and cats. Without stop-lights or stop-signs, or driving rules, it's a free-for-all frenzy out there, far from the lazy, seaside village I foresaw, with maybe one busy, hectic street.

It's not just the roads; the edges of the roads are just as dangerous. There are very few sidewalks; those that exist are water-pitted, with deep almost bottomless holes, or crumbled at the edges. Clearly the population has greatly expanded while the streets have not. Tjey're like capillaries bulging, not with destructive plaque, but with packed red cells, thriving and squeezed in matter with little room for maneuvering.

Crossing the street in downtown Bauan--or Manila, or Quezon City-- is not unlike crossing a mid-sized freeway in L.A., on foot, during rush-hour. It takes courage, and excellent eye-foot coordination. The street is rarely emptied of vehicles. It's a dare game. Does that guy on the tricycle see us, or not? Our hosts ALWAYS took our arms to walk us about, like we were little children with no experience, which was practically true. 'Single file, Tita Pat' Karla or Kristine would say. 'You need to watch,' Lita or Ida would warn me as we walked about. Just noise, or just traffic might be more negotiable for a foreigner like me, but the combination intimidated me. And so, we kept still much more than I'm used to.

On the other hand-and for this I am greatful- being still was ultimately rewarding. It meant being in homes, and focusing on what was around me visually, afternoon after afternoon. I sipped, not gulped, like I usually do. Indoors for hours, I got to experience the small beauties of Filipino homes,some more Spanish, some more Mayan or Chinese: the spare tidiness of rooms devoid of unnecessary clutter; the inviting large retangular or circular dining tables; the heaping bowls of carefully chopped pork and green beans, resting in a thick, soy-vinegar-garlic-ginger sauce; the shrines, the small to large porcelain blue-rose-white Madonna figures watching over the living rooms; the polished ornate wood and rattan furniture grouped symetrically about a lace-draped table; on the wall, the many, many framed photos of children, family groups, and ancestors, and the simple to ornate pictures of Jesus or crosses. Everywhere, the swatches of color in mango or dark lime, or turquoise or rose played out against the backdrop of rich, dark wooden furniture and floors.

The Pilipino homes I sat in had some other dramatics touches: high ceilings, or great, sweeping touches like an interior balcony, flowered draperies looped from window to window or large, pew-like wooden benches with rising backs, tilted back chairs in wood and rattan, glassed cabinets holding precious memories of people, or prized possessions like figurines, or china, or imported liqueurs; dark, polished floors, and ornately carved doors.

There is something important and immutable here in what I was made to see staying indoors much of the time. It might be this, that the best gifts lie, not just beneath the wrappings, but deeper, in the meeting space between giver and receiver, in the the meanings to be taken from the exchange,the things that are what's remembered, and preserved. What's important to a Pilipino home is not an array of possessions meant to be emblematic of class or status, but the care and preservation of only the important items necessary for staging family, custom, and rememberance. What's essential is not the expensive sterling-silver vase, but a tiny red plastic candle holder sitting below a draped, religious statue, and its flickering flame, burning day and night, no matter what.