Yesterday, Sunday, we had the launch offered us, so we arranged a little trip in the cool of the evening.
We drove down to the Muelle Loney (too hot to walk at five o’clock), and when we had got on board the launch and seated ourselves in basket chairs in the bows, she steamed down the river and the estuary, and out into the channel. There was a fresh breeze blowing, and the air was delicious. As to the scenery—words fail me! The blue and green of the sea, and the mauve and rose lights reflected on Guimaras from the brilliant sunset behind us over the Panay Mountains, were like some wonderful picture wrought in amethysts and sapphires and exquisite enamels, while all along the shore line the groves of palm trees glowed in the strong light like a border of emeralds set in golden sand.
We crossed over, going close to the opposite shore, with the object of visiting an old steamer which lies over by the quarries from which they are getting the stone to build the harbour. This steamer used to be a French packet, and was bought cheap by some Spaniards for inter-island traffic, but the owners soon found she burnt her head off with coal, and did not pay for her keep, so now they are trying to sell her, and she has lain out there at anchor for a year or more; a fine old boat, with splendid saloons and cabins all rotting away.
We climbed up the rickety gangway and came up upon what looked like the ship of the Ancient Mariner or the Flying Dutchman, all still and silent, everything ready as if for use, but worn and rotten with the sun and weather. We went all over her, into the saloon with its long table of handsome, polished wood and ghostly chairs with high, carved backs; and into the cabins where the closed scuttles were dark with dirt, and there was a musty smell like bones, and our own reflections in the cracked green mirrors made us jump. C—— said he was sure there must be a forgotten skeleton of a pirate in one of the dingy bunks hidden by close-drawn curtains of faded green cloth, and really, the prospect of something of the sort seemed so inevitable that I did not dare look in one of them!
We came out on the deck again, which looked quite a cheerful place after those spectral saloons and cabins, and we saw the galley, with dead fireplaces, and wandered on the bridge, up a very unsafe companion. Old Tuyay had scrambled off the launch after us and followed everywhere, struggling and slipping up and down stairs and ladders, smelling about, and getting stuck somewhere every now and then, and having to be helped and hauled by the collar.
When we got back to the launch, there was still enough daylight to make a paseo along the coast a little way. We went so close to the land that we could see right into lovely little bays, where palm-thatch huts stood amongst the groves and the white sands, and tiny figures were walking about or wading in the shallows for fish. It all looked exactly as it must have appeared on some fine evening, when the first Spanish navigators or Captain Cook came sailing along in their big three-deckers, while the people ran away into the jungles and began sharpening their arrows at the sight of a white face.
We said to each other how much we should like to be Navigators, and go about in fine ships and land in undiscovered islands, and, if we escaped the arrows, fire a rifle or take a photograph, and be made kings for being so clever. Instead of doing that, however, we steamed back to Iloilo when darkness fell, and on landing, went to the Plaza Libertad, where a band was playing a two-step.
This band which performs twice a week, on Thursdays and Sundays, from about half-past five to eight, is a new and delightful institution. It is not due to any enterprise on the part of the authorities, military or civil, but is a purely native enterprise, consisting of a number of Filipinos who have collected themselves together under the title of La Banda de Musica Popular. They started the notion of playing in the Plaza twice a week if they could raise enough subscriptions, whereupon we all paid up at once, promising to make the same contribution every month in so good a cause. I think our share, personally, comes to about 2 pesos a month, and it is really well worth it, for now the band is an institution, and a very good one too. They have not got a very extensive programme—some marches, a few “coon” tunes, an overture or two, and some dance music—but they play with spirit, and with the marches they are particularly successful. It is very creditable, too, when one thinks that this is a brass band, for the only instruments the Filipinos are really proficient with are the mandoline and guitar.
It is a great pity that the American authorities left this very important affair to drift so that the natives themselves, in sheer desperation, started a band depending upon public charity. I am not exaggerating in calling it important, for the Filipinos, like all other Orientals, can understand and be ruled by tangible and visible signs of the ways of a ruling people; but the empty bandstands in the towns, and the dull, colourless lack of ceremonies or ceremonial of the American régime have had an extremely bad effect, though the Filipinos are laughed at for wanting the gay, courteous Spaniards back again. Not only is this fact patent, but I have heard the people say so, and they are accused of being unreasonable about wanting the Spaniards back again after having got rid of them; but really, quite apart from their not having courted foreign rule at all, and loathing the usurpation of the Americans, the Filipinos have something to complain of in the lack of all that pomp which an Oriental loves and understands. The American Ideal is noble, grand—but it cannot be compressed into an Oriental brain. I can’t make myself better understood than by asking you to picture what India would be if the durbars were stage-managed by Americans!
We delight in the band evenings, when we sit and watch the groups of natives walking about under the pretty trees; the fat mothers with coveys of slim, dark-haired daughters in fresh muslin frocks; the young Filipino “mashers” in white suits with straw hats worn daringly on one side, and long, thin, tight boots, trying to hide their shyness by a lot of swagger with a walking-stick; and all the little comedies and flirtations that go on. I have hardly ever seen any white people there except ourselves; a newly-married American couple who sit in the dark shadows very close together, and some American soldiers in khaki and turned-up sombreros. The programmes always end with “The Star-Spangled Banner,” on which we stand up and C—— takes his hat off, but the American soldiers unfortunately seldom trouble to salute their Anthem—and as to the Filipinos, they remain truculently seated with their hats on. It makes one feel rather foolish to be the only ones to take any notice, but C—— insists.