Dispatch from Guimaras: April 7

Dispatch from Guimaras
We caught a connecting flight to Iloilo City (somehow when you look at that word it seems unpronounceable, but it’s simple when you take it apart (eelo-eelo). We knew we had finally arrived a really different world when we saw farmers at work and scrawny cattle grazing along the runway. Landing midmorning, the sun was really getting hot and the humidity rising.
Those of you who have traveled for the first time to “remote” places probably know the shock of being assaulted by a completely different way of life and customs for which no travel guide can prepare you. It’s all noise, confusion, and people, who understand little of your language and you little of theirs, wanting to do this and that for you. Taxi drivers, porters, and self-appointed guides descend like crows on road kill, and you suddenly become very conscious of the fact that you’re an Anglo and have lot’s of money of which they’d like a generous portion. (I’m not criticizing here as much as simply describing the experience from an Anglo’s point of view. I’m the guest, or, in a way, the interloper, after all) On the one hand you’d like to give it away, on the other hand, you don’t want to be a sucker. Anyway, we were pretty much naïve Americans that first hour and a half, all the way t the monastery, and paid way too much for just about every means of conveyance from taxi to pump boat, to jitney. Still, by American standards, it was all very cheap,
Iloilo City is, I gather, pretty typical of Philippino cities where poverty and wealth, but mostly poverty, combine with choking traffic congestion, pollution, and blowing dust in this the dry season, to make us both fascinated and revolted, but mostly fascinated. We were in the third world, and people looked unashamed at us as curiosities.
It’s hard to describe the sound, feel, noise, and general hubbub of a city like Iloilo. Our taxi driver (a blonde Philippino) pretty much drove like he was leading a presidential motorcade, deserving of a clear path through the most congested traffic. It was a constant macho game of “chicken” when it came to giving way to another vehicle (which caused me to gain new respect from Jeanne as a driver, meaning I wasn’t that bad). When we got to the dock, we were assaulted by porters and pump boat “captains”. (Pump boats are 25-foot wooden boats with outriggers and a motor that ply the waters between islands.) We found a pump boat for about 30 people that took us and or luggage alone to Guimaras (gee [hard g]-maras) our final destination. All the way across the “captain” plied us with offers to take us to fabulous white sand tourist beaches, and generally frowned on the idea that we’d be happy going to a monastery besides.
Once we landed, another flurry of taxi and porters while I searched my pockets in vain for the right “tip” for each, and handed out pesos like a stupid American. (We soon learned that you really need to be mentally and emotionally prepared for such a stark landing in a totally different culture. But after a day we will bargain and frown like the rest.) Then followed a jeepney ride up to the monastery, about a 15-minute speeding, lurching, jostling ride, on which I hit my head hard three times on the steel roof. (A “jeepney” is basically a little truck or jeep dramatically and cleverly expanded into a makeshift bus, and the main “people” transportation of the island.)
Fifteen minutes later we stood with our luggage in front of the monastery guesthouse. It was tranquil, peaceful, and wonderfully welcoming, as the house lady let us in and showed us to our room. We soon discovered that this was the only air-conditioned room in a guesthouse of about 40 rooms, where signs warned about overuse of electricity. We immediately made up our minds. If the other guests did not enjoy the cool air, neither would we. The fan in the room works just fine, and as long as you don’t move too fast it’s like life as I remember it in August back in the 50’s as a kid.
Lunch was waiting for us (we had arrived about 20 minutes after noon, and all the other guests had eaten). It was good, and we soon learned, rather typical. Rice (always), fish, almost always, some other sort of mystery meat (Jeanne thinks goat), and something called a “fish ball” which is like an orange dumpling tasting vaguely like fish stew. It was all quite edible (note we do not say fabulous).