Dispatch frm OLP, Saturday April 9, afternoon

Our friend and official motor-tricycle driver Primitivo Ester arrived right on time to take us down to Jordan (Haaw-daan) the local port where we get a pump boat to Iloilo city. (We had made arrangements the day before.) We arrived at the wharf to help fill a large pump boat for about 25cents for the 15 minute trip. Arriving at the head of Ortiz Street we made our way first to the city market. Jeanne was hoping to find some island crafts, especially fabrics that are only made on Panay. What we found was mounds of flies buzzing on fish, various animal parts, alongside fresh fruits and vegetables. Not a craft in sight, but then we didn’t venture that far. The place occupied a city block and was made up of narrow labyrinthine paths into the dark bowels of the market. Call me a chicken, but I, at least, preferred to stay where I could see shafts of outdoor light coming through.
From there we found our way by jeepney (local open air bus) to a large sopping center complex, making us feel like we’d been set down in University Park Mall. Seeing such a ”western” place in such a far- away locale is unnerving and deeply disappointing. If “freedom is our great export, it comes at an enormous cost to the civilizations that clamor for it, and are overrun by our great western marketing machine. We both noted that not a single person we saw wore what years ago was the standard Philippine costume of long, fancily embroidered, pleated shirts for men (Bill Svelmoe can give you the name, and I was hoping to find one for myself) and colorful skirts for women. It was all tight pants and skimpy blouses with slouching jeans for the boys. The radio stations, mostly English language, sounded like 105 FM, while most of the people we met couldn’t understand much English. We did shop for a light blouse Jeanne needed (no size big enough—a medium in the Philippines is like an early teen size in the States. This does not make for a happy shopping experience).
But the main purpose was to find the internet café of which there were several in the complex. The place vibrated with loud techno-beat music for gaming, which seemed the main pastime there. We downloaded our blog and uploaded our postings, as well as taking care of our emailing. We needed the assistance of one of the techies there, who seemed much more attuned to gaming than how to find Microsoft Word. But we did eventually work it out.
We then set out on a long walk. Jeanne’s right. You can never get the real feel of a city unless you walk the streets. Iloilo is not a pleasant place, jammed with traffic, choking on smog and blowing dust. It’s unfortunately, rather typical of a cities in SE Asia. Fancy new buildings next to crumbling block stores. Fancy hotels alongside long narrow alleys. Busy passersby stepping over filthy sleeping, almost comatose beggars (I couldn’t help thinking most of them would be dead within a month). There’s an undeniable energy here, but my heart sinks at the cost of this “progress”.
On a happier note, the goal of our walk was a restaurant complex on the river we found in a guidebook. It wasn’t quite what it was cracked up to be, or we were here off-season,--and early, but it was a fine, exotic meal of every sort of seafood imaginable. At one point we had about ten of the waiting help gathered around all giving their attempted translations of the menu selections. They giggled, not at our expense I don’t think, but at the human endeavor to find a common language, especially for food.
After a great meal (about $15 US, all included--we were told this was the place to retire, living well on Social Security, as long as it lasts) We then picked up a moto-tricycle back to Ortiz Street and the wharf, a little worried that we wouldn’t find a boat so late (8:30), after the regular water taxis have ended service. But who should show up but the same guy, Ramy, who brought us over in the first place. I hesitate to chalk this up to angelic visitation, since we were paying well, and he wanted to make a deal for the rest of our stay. We had to be let into the monastery gates since it was just after 9 p.m., and it’s locked up tight. The doorman let us in with a smile, and asked about our day. We also got to see the secret of tomorrow’s menu posted on the back of the kitchen door, part of which was disturbing, but most of which was delightful.