Such a state of affairs is not so astounding out here, however, as it may sound to you, for though you may have heard of the corruption of American political life, it does not strike one with such force when read in papers as when it comes home to you in daily life like this.
Even out here there seems to be no sense of that noblesse oblige, which alone can keep the ruling race upright before the eyes of the “little brown brother,” for one cannot take up a Manila paper without seeing the case of some Provincial Treasurer, or someone tried for official swindling.
Each town or district is controlled by a Presidente, a Filipino, something like a mayor, who, in his turn, is under the guidance of an American, called a Provincial Treasurer. Far from being an example of integrity, the Provincial Treasurer is very often anything but proof against the temptations that beset him financially. It is not hearsay; there are the actual police reports in the papers. And if those found out and brought to justice are so many, one can only speculate in amazement upon the numbers who escape, or are sheltered by influence or a “pull.”
It does seem such a pity that a great and noble nation should not be better represented in the eyes of another—and, when all is said and done—an inferior race.
LETTER XX.
FILIPINO INDOLENCE—A DROUGHT
Iloilo, March 31, 1905.
Many thanks for your letter of February 23rd. We were greatly interested in your description of the radium baths, though it seems difficult, out here, to imagine that there is anyone anywhere taking so much trouble to get hot! I must say, though, that I don’t feel this heat quite so much as one might imagine, at least, as far as actually feeling hot goes. For an evening or two ago I was quite surprised, when we were in Hoskyn’s stores, to notice that the thermometer was marking 92° Fahrenheit. Of course that was in the cool of the evening, but I had not noticed any particular heat during the day. I thought how much it would interest you to get some idea of the temperature we live in, so we bought a thermometer and have hung it up in the sala. In a way, I am sorry we have done this, as we did not know before how hot we really were, and did not mind the heat half so much.
A watering-cart has begun operations, and as I write, it is passing down the street. It is a most amusing contrivance, consisting of a carabao waggon with a cask laid longways on it, and a native sitting astride the carabao, guiding with a goad and one string. The water flows out of a bamboo pole at the back of the barrel, and a spray is produced by means of a circle of holes, through which the water squirts uncertainly. The only result, as far as the roads are concerned, is a long narrow puddle and a great waste of precious water, though I expect it is sea water they use. The whole contrivance is so amusingly extravagant, shiftless, inefficient—so characteristically Filipino!