A Very Stubborn Filipino

By Chicago Mike (Hughes)

(Editor’s note:  Really from Gary, Indiana…but nobody admits being from Indiana anymore)

I was happy to be back in the Philippines and with the lovely Filipino people who had inspired new dimensions in my humanity. Now forty seven, a father of one, and with another on the way, I felt a new lease on life and warm expectations.

I was especially glad when Grace’s Uncle Ben showed up from the Bondak. He was my favorite relative. Ben told me he had been promoted to full principle of the High School where he had taught throughout his teaching career. He was proud of his service to the small mountain community, far removed from the comforts and modern conveniences we all take for granted. Now his dedication was being rewarded and his career reinvigorated.

We chatted in the shade of the two story house Ben had built for his Mother and a Maiden Aunt. Ben spoke of his work and expectations as coach of a regional High School volley ball Team he hoped to take to the finals. He also shared his Catholic lay work in the hinder lands, he took the sacraments and catechism to areas too remote for the local clergy. I was surprised to hear that he actually performed Marriages and Baptisms as a vital part of his mission.

When I expressed interest in his mission, Ben surprised me with an invitation to hike the hinder lands with him and his best friend, his new assistant Principle, Andrew. “I’ve always wanted to hike up in the mountains,” I replied.

“Then join us tomorrow morning, early,” he said. “It will be a long and interesting day.”

We met with Andy at the base of the mountain road the next morning. Andy had a worn 125 cc Kawasaki motor cycle that was to be our only transportation. We rode triple. Andy was very sturdy and more than competent enough to handle two passengers. The road to the next town was well graded though unpaved; but soon after passing through it, things took a turn for the worse. The road became more narrow and ungraded. It seemed to end at a sheer rock outcrop about three or four feet straight up. We came to a stop and dismounted.

“What now? Do we walk from here?” I asked.

“No,” Ben replied; “this is just a small wash out. We will continue.”

Andy eased the motor bike back a few yards and, absent his passengers, scrambled it up around the rock, nearly losing it in the process. We climbed hands and feet to join him above the obstruction; and we were once again on our way. An hour later we entered Seres, the tiny town where Ben lived and taught.

By the time we dismounted the sun was feeling oppressively hot although it could not have been later than seven am.

Ben’s house was surprisingly roomy, though sparely furnished. He had one electric light and a radio powered by a car battery charged with a bicycle generator. Water was carried to the house from a common well nearby. I hadn’t really breakfasted and my throat was parched. When I informed Ben of this he claimed to have the solution. “I will make kwarter”.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It is a very refreshing drink. It has raw eggs and handmade chocolate in tuba.”

Andy slipped out to buy the tuba and Ben set about grinding the chocolate and breaking eggs. Andy returned with a couple of liters of red tuba and Ben whisked the ingredients together in a bowl into a rich froth. He poured three glasses; and I tasted. “Delicious” I grinned, “May I have more?” Ben poured me another. I could not stop drinking it. I felt suffused with energy.

With all three glasses and the bowl empty Ben announced “We walk from here.”

A hundred meters later we were walking up a mere mountain path. There were no signs of vehicle marks and no road. When we rounded a small peak the town fell out of sight. “This must be the hinder lands”; I thought to myself. As we continued forward at a crisp pace, I kept thinking that we must be reaching the mountaintop ; but one peak just lead to another, a little down and then a lot of up. I had not seen a sign of civilization and scarcely any shade. I had left Dipolog expecting lush jungle, but only saw a vast wasteland of parched grass and scattered trees. Soaked in my own sweat, I felt a sudden thirst and a trace of panic.

“Ben, are we almost there yet?”, I asked.

Ben pointed with his nose. “Don’t worry”, he said “it’s just over there.”

I felt even more uneasy. I had already learned that when a Filipino points with his nose it means a great distance; and over there applies only to direction, not distance.
I blurted out “Ben! We forgot out water!” My panic became more urgent. At that moment my stomach lurched and the liter of kwarter shot out in a jet of vomit. My first feeling was of relief and even cooling; but this quickly passed into a shaky enfeeblement. I felt lost, trapped and embarrassed at the same time.

“I need water”, I croaked.

Ben and Andy were solicitous. Ben apologized for allowing me to drink so much kwarter and so fast. Andy explained how young tuba continues to ferment in the stomach after drinking. Finally Ben said “I know a friend with good water over there”, he pointed in a trackless direction to the left; and we set out. The two of them offered me partial support as we continued under the merciless sun.

The land scape seemed even more desolate; the same parched grass, but with even fewer trees and scrub. Then I saw it; off in the distance was a tiny hut on stilts under an immense shade tree. “That the house?” I asked, removing myself from their support.

“That is it, we will ask water.” Ben replied.

I felt my strength return at the thought of water, and my steps took on a more confident stride. As we approached I spied a small, sun-baked Filipino of indeterminate age under a scraggly tree. Upon our arrival Ben introduced me to Pedring. He wore tattered shorts and a dirty ragged T shirt. A machete hung from a cracked leather belt over his hips. But he grinned widely and seemed genuinely glad to see us. Ben translated because Pedring had no English, and I was not even sure what his language was. We were equally curious about each other.

After our man secured us some water in a common dipper and we all had a few sips we began to chat amiably. I was the first white man Pedring had ever encountered. He asked my age, and then marveled that I looked so young and fresh. It turned out that he was ten years my junior, but appeared ten my senior. His labor under the relentless sun and grinding poverty had left him grizzled and impossibly lean. Yet he was wiry and obviously much stronger than I. Ben explained my youthful appearance in terms of how much easier my life was compared to his.

I discovered that he was wearing his only set of clothes and generally washed himself and his cloths simultaneously. There was no garden in sight, but in answer to my query he said he had a small plot down by the river. He also had a single native pig tied to a tree near his house and a few native chickens pecking nervously into the dust. When I asked to see his garden he explained that it was too far to walk in the hot sun. Throughout our conversation my eyes kept returning to a Guaynabo hanging from the emaciated tree under which we were standing. It was one of two, plump and ripe in contrast to the other only half its size. I had to have it!

When we reached a lull in the conversation I instructed Ben to ask if it was for sale. Pedring’s reply was that it was not. But my saliva was already running. Judging it to be worth five or six Piso, I told Ben to offer twenty. I had fallen in love with the fruit in Jamaica where it is known as sour sop, and also enjoyed a couple during my first stay in the Philippines. The wizened little man stood firm; he would not sell it. Offer fifty I retorted. No, he would not sell it. My frustration was headed for outright anger. “This is one stubborn Filipino” I said, “tell him I will give him a hundred”, sensing triumph. Ben replied “He says he won’t sell it”.

Exasperated beyond belief, I blurted, “Just ask him why?

The response was “Because you’re my guest. But I will give it to you.”

With that said he pulled the machete, nudged the stem, and neatly caught the treasured fruit in his other arm against his body. My mingled joy and relief was tempered by a sense of guilt. Here I was a prosperous American taking the most precious visible possession of an impossibly poor family man, and for no payment.

I said “There is enough for everybody. Let’s all have a share.”

Pedring neatly nicked the fruit in a pattern and broke off a nice portion for the four of us, leaving almost half just for my later enjoyment. He reserved the smallest piece for himself. I greedily sucked on the sweet sour pulp, finishing ahead of the others. I was marvelously satiated. But now my guilt dissolved into shame. I had to make a gesture of generosity and reciprocation. But how?
I had a sudden inspiration. “Ben”, I said “Ask him if he has a C. R. where I can have a bowel movement”.

Pedring answered that he did, but he would prepare it first. With that he walked toward a dilapidated lean to. After a longer than expected wait, Pedring returned and gave his assent to my use of his facility. I walked there almost trembling. I would reward Pedrings unselfish hospitality in a grand way.

I found the hut still very wet from a thorough rinsing. Near the business hole was a dented can nearly full of fresh water. I removed a one hundred Piso and fifty Piso note from my roll, folded them in half and neatly tucked them under the water can and out of sight. He or a family member would find the money later, when we were long gone. After an appropriate amount of time, I returned to my friends.

“We had better be going”, said Ben, “I know a short cut back that is almost all downhill”. After thanking our host and saying our good byes we set off. I carried my prize with the knowledge that I had more of its pleasures still to come. I equally enjoyed the thought of how much Pedring would enjoy my secret gift. I was refreshed. Despite the overhead sun I felt energized and we walked silently and at a quick pace. I marveled to myself on how this had turned into a very good, if unusual, day. My reverie was interrupted by a distant shout.

We turned around and could just make out a distant figure running for us and waving something over his head. “What’s he shouting?” I asked Ben.
He is saying that he must return the money you lost in his comfort room, and to please wait.
“That was a gift!” I tried to explain. “It is for him.”

We ambled back towards the running man. Ben said “No, you must accept your money and thank him for his honesty. There is no need to reciprocate Filipino hospitality. He will be insulted if you do not accept it. Pretend that it was lost and he is just returning what is yours”

“OK, but that is a very stubborn Filipino.”