Fil and Filippa

It took me over a month and a half to get to the summer islands I was looking for. In three weeks, I went through the Panama Canal and reached San Francisco, and in another four weeks, I crossed the world’s widest, most peaceful, and bluest ocean, the Pacific.

There, like a string of pearls hanging from the golden Equator, I found thousands of amazing islands of all sizes, but only two of them were very large. I also met my new and friendly young friends: Fil, his sister Filippa, and Fil’s boy playmate named Moro, who came from the big southern island; their parents and friends; and the kind Padre. Each one of them was shorter and darker than I. Yet they said to me: “The Stars and Stripes, now our flag too, makes us all American brothers, and we will always be.” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“But how come you are called Filipinos and live in the Philippine Islands?” I asked.

Fil smiled and said, “Even though I think you already know without me saying, I’ll share it to show that I'm aware of our romantic and intriguing history.

“Hundreds of years ago, long before America became a nation, wandering Spaniards discovered these islands and named them the Philippines, in honor of their king, Philip. When American Admiral Dewey took these islands from Spain, our name remained the same.”

“And our Christian names, Fil and Filippa, sound similar and have almost the same meaning as Philippines,” Filippa added, her eyes shining from beneath her gorgeous hair—hair longer and thicker than an American girl’s hair—and eyes darker and deeper than an American girl’s eyes. Maybe her brows were a bit flatter, and her nose a bit shorter and wider than ours, but she was still pretty, especially when she smiled, because she had beautiful white teeth.

Then I turned to Fil’s playmate, Moro, and asked him what his rolling name could mean. Moro was even more eager and darker than Fil. He replied, as he confidently touched his toy sword:

“I, too, am of the Malay race, but I practice a different religion from Fil. I'm a Muslim; [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__] in other words, I honor the same prophets that the Turks revere. I come from the southern islands of the Philippines. There, we spend most of our time sailing in boats and exploring the hills. The first white man who encountered us noticed that we were just as dark and shared the same religion as the tribes of Morocco in Africa. Maybe that's why I'm referred to as Moro, the Muslim, whose father fears no man; and neither will I, when I grow up.”

“But we’re all friends now under a new, friendly flag; and we promote and practice love instead of fear and fighting,” I replied.

Filippa looked at me with very happy eyes when I said this because a girl seems to have smarter ways of resolving arguments than boys do. A boy gets worked up; a girl takes her time to think and acts more thoughtfully. Definitely, Filippa’s gentle demeanor and the look in her beautifully deep eyes had more influence on Fil and Moro than fighting and aggression ever could.

“Every name seems to have a lovely meaning in your paradise-like Philippines,” I said to Filippa’s playmate, Favra.

"Yes," she answered, "the Padre, our pastor or priest, who knows a lot, told me that my name means the friendly one who does favors." [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

Next day I met the Padre. He was sitting on a rattan chair under a group of whispering bamboos, which are giant grasses that are as tall and sturdy as trees.

We had barely exchanged morning greetings, saying “Buenos dias (boo āi′nos dē′as),” before we heard the kids running along the white shell path, through the tropical woods that felt like a park.

“Everyone wakes up early in this amazing climate, yet nobody really seems to be fully awake,” I said.

The good Padre replied, “We are so close to the Equator that the sun rises into full and bright daylight instantly.” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“I feel like I'm in a half-dream all day. Is it the warm, soothing air, the scent of fresh flowers, or the equatorial sun?” I asked.

The Padre explained it by saying: “The sun shines more directly here, and its rays go through thin hats, especially black clothes. It’s better to wear thick, white paper helmets. Plus, our climate is more humid than America’s climate."

"That’s why you feel a bit dreamy; and that’s why everything in nature, like trees, fruits, flowers, ferns, and even animals and birds, grows so abundantly; and why the flowers release their scents and fragrances into the air. It all speaks to the warmth, color, and dreaminess in your joyful imagination."

“You might think of tales of Eden or Paradise, where there are no harsh winters, no bare trees or lawns, no snow. Everything looks more beautiful here. The birds, winds, and rains drop seeds, and instantly lush plants spring up. You’ll quickly adjust to our warmer climate because you'll eat less meat and butter, which keep you warm. Instead, you’ll eat more rice and fruit, which will give you energy without raising your body temperature.”

At this moment, our little friend Moro puffed out his cheek and made a sound like a howling siren or a storm.

“That noise makes me think of your terrible typhoons. I went through one of those wild storms right as I was getting to these beautiful islands,” I said. “Can you tell me about that amazing phenomenon?” I asked.

“It is God, the Creator’s, magnificent yet frightening act, like you read about in the Book of Job or in the Psalms,” said the Padre, who crossed himself and bowed in reverence. The good children, except Moro, all made the holy sign.

Then the wise Padre continued, “Just like strong characters, for a long time calm—like the peace that has blanketed the earth for years—so, in our calm summer seas, suddenly in September, everything seems to contradict and rebel, with a power that’s unfamiliar and surprising, a power that’s even greater because it has been building up quietly for many months.

“The heat becomes unbearable. The winds pick up and blow in one direction for a while. Then comes the black rain. The fierce typhoon soon starts to howl and moves in a circle for two or three days. The swirling storm shifts from spot to spot and eventually calms down at sea.”

Filippa asked, “Why is a circular storm in the tropical regions of the East called a typhoon?” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

The Padre explained: “It’s a word we borrowed from the Chinese, who live just a few hours away from us, across the water to the northwest. ‘Tai’ means great. ‘Fung’ or ‘phoon’ means a wind. These storms travel all the way from the Philippine Islands, across the seas to China. We like the descriptive word the Chinese have given these wind storms.”

“We have another natural wonder here, the volcano,” Favra said.

“Yes,” replied the Padre, “the Taal (Tä′al) and Mayon (Mä y[+o]n′) volcanoes were once smoking and fiery mountains, shaped like cones. Years ago, fire and lava, which is molten rock that has cooled, poured from their hot, pointed peaks, flowed down the sides, and destroyed everything in their way.”

“What’s lava?” asked Fil.

The Padre replied: “Even a volcano creates something good. This melted rock, when it cools down, turns into a light, porous stone that's used for polishing. You use it in your bathroom to scrub ink off your hands. Lava stone can be easily ground into powder. When mixed with soap, this powdered lava becomes a helpful cleaning and polishing agent.”

“Nature is always helpful, as well as magnificent [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]and beautiful,” said Fil’s father, who was wearing a white silk suit and an abacá hat, and had just walked up the path.

“Where did you get that hat?” I asked Fil’s dad with a laugh.

“I’ll tell you another time. It's made from reeds, woven underwater to keep them moist and flexible. Because of that, the hat is lightweight, durable, and breathable,” he replied. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

When I got up the next day and walked to my usual morning spot under the bamboos, I found only Moro there.

“Where is everyone else?” I asked.

“At the church,” Moro replied.

I knew that "iglesia" was the Filipino word for church, so I said to Moro, "Let’s go there too and see what they’re all doing."

After we walked along the white shell paths, past the swaying fishing boats, over an old stone bridge, beneath tall palms and hanging vines with thick bunches of bananas, we saw a beautifully carved doorway with statues in the niches. Above the treetops, a majestic [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]white dome rose. From the open windows, we heard the lovely sound of sacred music. It was the familiar Mass or communion music from our own country, featuring the beautiful melodies of the Gloria, the Sanctus, and the Benedictus. As we got closer, a gentle breeze brought us sweet incense from the altar, a mix of sandalwood, spices, flowers, and cinnamon scents.

Though Moro practiced a different religion, he took off his hat; I did the same. The short Filipino men wore white outfits. The pretty Filipino women were dressed in wide-striped skirts and white tops with big stiff collars. They had large lace shawls over their heads, called mantillas. They didn't wear hats because they were very proud to show off their long, beautiful hair adorned with gold and jeweled pins.

Everyone dipped a finger in the water that was in a large shell near the door. Then they bowed before the cross on the altar, which was shining at the end of the long aisle.

In the front seats, under the high dome, we could see Filippa, her parents, and Favra. The colored light from the stained glass windows streamed down in beautiful rays and clouds onto the altar boys, who wore purple and white lace robes. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

The music from the blue and gold organ was soft, almost like a velvet whisper. Suddenly, a boy stood up behind the intricately carved benches of the choir. He sang with a voice as clear as a bird's:

It was Fil who was singing. The censers were swinging. The organ started to overpower even Fil’s clear voice. Then all the singers in the choir stood up and filled the huge dome, the long cathedral aisles, and even the palm grove outside the windows with a powerful burst of sacred music:

It was all very serious and very sweet. The music felt much more vibrant than back home, thanks to the stunning natural beauty of the tropics.

Then our good friend, the Padre, stood up and talked to everyone about charity, missions, peace, and the stranger among us. He spoke so kindly that we all felt regret for war, and even came to dislike the very word. He asked us to donate gifts for the wounded and the poor in those sorrowful, colder, harsher places filled with hate and evil.

Then he stretched out his hands. A powerful blessing [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__] seemed to pour down from the pulpit and even from the walls of the sacred temple of peace, where the white altar, the golden cross, and the stained glass windows glowed as symbols of purity and love.

When the service was over, we all walked home together.

“When are you going to become a Christian, little Moro?” asked the kind Padre.

“I am a Muslim. My people are from the southern Philippines. We worship one God, and Mohammed is his prophet. We make converts through the sword of force, rather than by preaching,” replied Moro, his eyes looking strange and brave.

“Tell me more about your religion. I’ve heard it’s pretty unusual,” said Filippa.

“When we pray, we face Mecca, not Jerusalem or Rome. At Mecca in Arabia is the Holy Book, which we refer to as the Quran. It’s also the birthplace of Mohammed, our prophet. We believe in many angels in the sky, as well as in ‘jinns,’ or spirits, on earth, who are ready to help us. We don’t have altars in our mosques or churches.”

“Our mosques are huge, simple buildings, with just large Arabic letters of texts painted on the walls and ceiling. Five times a day, the [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]Muezzin climbs the outside of the mosque tower to call the faithful to prayer. Every Muslim brings his own prayer mat. After laying it on the tile floor beneath the thin pillars, he kneels and bows on his mat, facing Mecca, where our prophet was born. We don’t use music or organs.”

All of this Moro explained to us. What he shared about his religion was quite different, really interesting, and totally new.

“There are good things in your religion,” said the kind Padre, as he placed his hand gently on Moro’s dark head.

“You can't stand the idea of drinking alcohol. You promote the importance of giving to charity and supporting the poor, the unfortunate, and the sick. You believe that everyone should look out for each other and help one another succeed in life. You emphasize that being clean and living simply are almost like religious obligations. We Christians agree with you, Moro, on all these important principles; I think that, given all the suffering in the world right now, some of us have been too selfish and too indulgent, as if we think we’ll live forever and have no responsibilities beyond ourselves.”

I also felt guilty for my country and for myself when I heard, in this strange [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]and different part of our vast world, the Filipino Padre’s genuine yet compassionate commentary on Moro’s different faith.

“The bells! Oh, the beautifully sweet bells!” exclaimed Filippa’s mother.

“The bells of love and peace,” said the Padre, looking back at the twin towers of his white church that glimmered above the grove of coconut palms. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“What strange homes! Toy houses tipping over from their stilts!” I exclaimed as we walked through a remarkable village. All the buildings were raised on poles and had ladders for the residents to climb up to the high doors. The houses looked like the lower floors had been washed away, leaving only the upper stories. Above each window and door was a neat overhang, so to speak, designed to block rain or keep out the sun.

"That’s our famous nipa-thatch house that the original Filipinos used," said Moro. "I can tell you all about it, since all Moros and many traditional tribes live in these houses."

“Tell me everything,” I insisted.

“First,” said Moro, “there's not a single nail in a nipa-thatch house. Elevated high in the [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]air on poles, you might think our typhoons would easily blow it over, just like a flimsy toy.”

"Guess so," I replied.

“Well,” laughed bright Moro, “let me ask you a question. What makes a pole break before the rush of a storm? What makes a brick wall give way before a sudden wind? And why do a tree or a reed handle the storm so easily?”

“Because the tree and the reed are flexible enough to yield a little,—to bend instead of breaking,” I replied.

“That’s exactly it,” my little Master Moro laughed again. “Our small nipa hut, elevated in the air, sways a bit, but withstands the storm. Every pole, every beam, and every rafter of the frame is made of hollow bamboo. Bamboo is stronger than steel because it bends and gives, then springs back. There isn’t a nail in the house. Every crosspiece is tied with rattan, the same vine used to make cane chairs; so you know how strong and flexible it is.”

“And what are the sloping roofs and side walls made of?” I asked.

“Of the famous nipa palm,” Moro replied. “It grows in swamps, often near the sea. It looks [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]like a huge fern. Its wide leaves are layered on top of each other and tied to the bamboo frame with tough strands of cogon grass.”

“Are you not afraid of fire?” I asked.

Moro straightforwardly replied, “Yes, but since our house is so inexpensive, we can easily build a new one. However, in this warm climate, we cook in a separate building, and we bathe outdoors. We don't smoke inside our nipa houses; it's too risky.”

“Let our friend from across the purple ocean know how we use bamboo and nipa plants for things other than construction,” remarked little Fil.

Moro continued: “We extract alcohol from the sap of the nipa palm. We create pipes for transporting water from hollow bamboo. We cook and eat the young bamboo shoots like celery. We plug one end of a hollowed bamboo stalk to use it as a bottle. The flexible bamboo root is turned into whips. We build bridges, fences, window coverings, furniture, and carts from bamboo. We even craft blow guns and shoot arrows at birds using bamboo stalks.”

“There are a hundred types of bamboo, and a thousand ways to use the plant,” added Filippa. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“I think of the bamboo as the bones or framework, and the nipa as the skin of the Philippine structure,” I said.

“That's the doctor's way of making a metaphor,” laughed the Padre. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

The next morning, Filippa’s mom treated us all to a cup of delicious cocoa, so we could start the day in a good mood. As I was sipping it, the Padre commented cheerfully:

“Did you Americans take the Philippines just for a cup of cocoa?”

I laughed and said, “This cup of cocoa is so good that I would definitely try to take the Philippines for it.”

Filippa's parents both bowed and said I was flattering, like a diplomat.

Then I continued: “I’m glad the Philippines are now ours, and yours too, because our money can help develop the amazing tropical products that don’t grow in our colder America. I wish you would explain [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]something about cocoa and coffee, which we value a lot and for which we send our ships a long way to get.”

Fil's dad, who owned a large plantation, replied:

“The cocoa bean and the coconut are two very different plants. Don't mix them up. The cocoa bean, which is ground into cocoa powder and chocolate for drinks, candies, and puddings, comes from a fruit that looks like a large red cucumber. This fruit grows on a delicate bush that needs to be shaded by a thick banana tree. Inside each fruit are twenty of these seeds, or cocoa beans.

"They have tough skins and are really bitter and energizing. When you eat them, they stimulate the heart and make you feel active and alive. Soldiers and athletes eat them to fight off fatigue. Once the fruit is picked, the beans need to be dried in the sun or roasted. The cocoa bean is very oily. To make cocoa, the oil is extracted when the beans are ground into a paste. To make chocolate, the oil is left in."

“I’ve never eaten a cocoa bean that was sweet, but a chocolate drop is sweet,” said Filippa, who had bought chocolate drops at the candy store. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

Her father explained, “We add sugar and vanilla to the brown cocoa bean paste.”

“Just imagine actually growing chocolate bonbons on a tree, right outside the window of your nipa huts, in these amazing Philippine Islands,” I added, and everyone smiled.

“It’s really true, when you add the sugar,” said the Padre.

“Now please tell me about coffee, too,” I begged.

Fil’s dad continued:

“The coffee comes from a low bush. You pick a hillside because, while the plant loves the heavy rains in the Philippines, it doesn’t want its roots sitting in water for too long. It needs to drain and enjoy the warm sun. The leaves are long and shiny; the flowers are a waxy white. The smell is richer than a rose sweetened with sugar. The fruit looks like a red cherry; each one contains two seeds. These two seeds are the coffee beans we see in stores and on our breakfast tables. They get ground in a small mill, as you know.”

“How were the beans first discovered?” I asked.

Fil’s father smiled and shared this story: “One day, a shepherd saw that his goats, which had eaten the cherries from a coffee bush, were jumping around in excitement as if they were the ones heading to a party instead of their master. Then the shepherd tried the berries himself and felt energized. That’s how coffee eventually made its way to our breakfast table. Instead of eating the berry, we grind it and brew it, and drink the liquid.”

“But, Dad, the seeds are light-colored, not dark brown, when you open the fruit,” said Fil.

“I know,” replied Fil’s father. “We roast the seeds in an oven to remove the moisture and to preserve and enhance the stimulating oils.”

“Thank you all,” I said. “Now I will see an entire tropical tale of geography and trade every time I glance into a grocer's window at home.” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“However, the most valuable products of our Philippine Islands are abaca (ab′aca) and sugar,” said the fatherly Padre the next morning when I saw him under the shade of the bamboos and the madre trees.

“I’m sure you don’t know what abacá is,” laughed Filippa.

“I assume from its name that it might be a relative of tobacco; it sounds similar: abacá—tobacco.”

“Names can be confusing,” replied the Padre. “The manila hemp, or abacá plant, is actually more closely related to the banana palm. You [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]can’t make a sail or tie up a bag of potatoes without using our manila hemp, or abacá. It’s the strongest fiber known; it doesn’t weaken in water. The large ropes used to pull big ships are made from it. It all comes from the leaf of this Philippine palm.”

“Awesome and beautiful and useful islands,” I admitted. “But how do you turn a leaf into a rope, a line, a sail, or a bag?”

The Padre continued: “This huge plant with leaves taller than a person grows on a hill. We don’t let it flower. The big leaves are cut close to the root, and new leaves immediately grow back. Long, tough veins run through the leaf. We pull this over a big, rough knife that's secured to a board, and this way, we scrape off the soft pulp without damaging the fibers. We hang the wet fibers over a fence in the sun to dry.

“Then we pack all the fibers tightly together and send them to you in large, heavy bales at the bottom of a ship. You turn the bales of fiber into bags, fabric, ropes, canvas, tents, and cords. We Filipinos also separate the fiber and weave it into various types of fabric. Sometimes we blend silk or cotton with the abacá hemp.”

“I bet our friend would want to know about sugar,” said Fil, who had a sweet tooth for candy. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

Fil's dad picked up this part of the story and said:

“Sugar, of course, comes from sweet cane, which grows on elevated land. The cane is harvested. A pony or a water buffalo is attached to a roller. We feed the harvested cane into the rollers. As the animal walks around, the sugar cane gets crushed. The sweet juice is collected and placed into kettles. This juice is heated multiple times, stirred, and clarified using bone charcoal. The white crystals separate from the dark molasses syrup. We sometimes give the molasses to cattle and pigs to fatten them up for market.”

Fil's eyes lit up with longing as he listened to this story of good things, so I handed him a couple of pennies.

“Isn't sugar also made from really sweet, dark beets?” I asked.

“Not in these islands,” replied the Padre. “We find that sugar cane produces a sweeter and more nutritious product. Beet sugar is made in Europe and in the western states of America.”

“What do you do with the pressed sugar cane?” I asked.

“We lay it out in the sun and dry it in big yards. It still has a lot of sugar in it. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]We use it as fuel to light the fires under the kettles.”

“What a waste!” I exclaimed. “You should use oil or gas for fuel, and make sure to squeeze every drop of sugar out of that valuable cane. Waste not; want not is just as good a saying for a country as it is for a kid.”

“If you’re always that serious, like a teacher, the kids might not like you very much,” said the kind Padre.

“Not at all,” replied Fil, Moro, Filippa, and Favra, who might have remembered the pennies I had given them. Then I hummed as we headed home for lunch, or “tiffin,” as they call it:

Moro was always up to something. I noticed he was whispering something to Filippa, who was laughing.

“Spill it,” demanded Filippa's mom.

“The bad boy said the coconut we’re trying to break looks like a dried hairy monkey’s head.”

“Show it to me,” I insisted.

Sure enough, there were clearly marked a monkey’s eyes, mouth, hair, and nose.

“We’ll sort this out soon,” said Fil, as he smashed the coconut against a rock, cracked the hard shell, spilled half the sweet milk, revealing the white, fragrant meat.

“Did you know that the coconut provides [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]cloth, mats, roofs, fuel, soap, oil, candy, puddings, cups, dyes, lamp oil, butter, candles, axle grease, ropes, brushes, furniture, shade, food, drink, and liquor to get you drunk?” asked Filippa’s mother, who was just as wise as Fil’s father.

“Please take your time,” I said, “because you’re making me think these islands are like Paradise; that you press a button and every wish comes true, just like in fairy tales. In my country, a tree provides just lumber; or sometimes nuts or sugar, but never more than two things at once. Now you want me to believe that one slender tree with only a few leaves at the top gives you twenty useful and valuable products. This is really hard to believe, but I hope you can forgive me for being so honest.”

Filippa’s mother replied, “These are the gardens of the sunny Equator, so you can expect amazing things. The tough shell is turned into mats, brushes, ropes, and bags. The fibers from the leaves create soft cloth. The dried leaves are used for thatching roofs. The trunk is made into foundation poles. The coconut itself is both food and drink. When the white meat is dried, it’s shredded for pastries and candy. When the coconut meat is pressed, the oil that’s extracted is used for fuel, [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]light, hair products, butter, candles, and grease. It’s also used to make the best hand soaps; actually, it’s the only soap that works with saltwater.”

“Let me share all its other valuable qualities,” said Fil.

“If you cut a coconut in half, you have two bowls. You can drink the coconut water through a small hole, plug the hole, and use the shell as a float. If you burn the shell, you can create a deep dye from the ashes—a dye that won’t fade or wash out.”

“I’ll tell you more about it,” Moro eagerly interrupted. “The weirdest use for a smoothed half of a coconut shell is to use it as a rat guard to keep rats away from our strings of dried fruit hanging from the roof. As the rat comes down the rattan rope, the halved coconut shell tips, and down it falls from its smooth surface to the floor, missing the hanging fruit.”

“If you climb up the tall coconut tree and cut a hole in the flowering stalk, the juice will flow out. This is called the tasty ‘tuba’ liquor, and we collect it in cups made from half of a coconut shell.”

“And if you ferment and distill that liquor,” said the Padre, “you get cocoa wine, which is widely used for medicinal purposes in America.” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

Filippa’s mother then said, “I’ve seen coconut oil in a coconut shell, burning on a coconut wick, as a lamp in a house made of coconut stems and leaves, under a coconut grove; and the Filipino family was eating coconuts and drinking coconut ‘tuba’ juice at a table made from coconut stalks.”

“That must have been in Coconutville, when a coconut clock was chiming, under a coconut moon,” laughed Fil, who often had a clever sense of humor.

“But what I’ve said is completely and sincerely true,” replied his kind mother.

“I get it now,” I replied, “and I realize how one coconut tree would make me richer than an entire forest of poplar or oak trees back home.”

Hungry Moro said, “I wish I had some shredded coconut on top of Bebinka cakes right now.”

“What are Bebinka cakes?” I asked.

“They are pancakes made from fermented corn and rice dough, mixed together. Every Filipino loves them,” explained Filippa’s mother. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“If you stay in our sunny Philippines, I’ll tell you about plants, flowers, and fruits that you’ve never even heard of,” said cheerful little Filippa, who was as beautiful as a flower and as soft to the touch as fruit.

“Tell us about our indigo,” suggested her brother Fil.

Filippa looked very wise, pointed to her indigo skirt, and continued: “You get your dyes from the benzene in coal tar, but they don’t hold up to washing or sunlight like our vibrant and strong vegetable dyes. We take our indigo plant and soak the leaves in water for twelve hours in a stone tank. Then Fil drains off the yellow liquid. This quickly turns green. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]Then blue sediment forms naturally under the strong sunlight. We drain off the water and cut the indigo cakes into cubes.”

“Very well told,” said Filippa’s mother. “This is a dye that won’t fade. It lasts as long as the dress. Now, Moro, I’d like you to talk about mangoes, guavas, and durians; you’re always eating them.”

Moro laughed and started tossing sticks into a tall tree.

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you answering?” I asked.

“I’m trying to finish a custard, one foot long and half a foot deep,” he replied.

“That's ridiculous. In my country, custards are made with eggs and baked in ovens,” I said.

“Not this better kind,” replied Moro, who held down a huge fruit, completely covered with sharp spurs and spikes, sharper and harder than rose thorns.

“Nature has protected her rich custard with thorns and a terrible smell,” said Fil’s father as he chopped through the tough outer skin with an axe.

“But it’s worth the effort,” said Moro, pointing out the center of the fruit, which [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]was truly one solid, delicious natural custard, one foot long—enough to feed an entire Filipino family.

“The monkeys know how to open the thorny fruit better than you do,” Fil said. “They throw it from the high branches. The fruit breaks open on the ground. Then the wild monkeys race down the tree and eat the custard durian. Who says a monkey doesn’t think?”

Everybody laughed at this strange but true story about the amazing Philippines.

“I know a bit about guava since I eat guava jelly with my turkey and venison at home, but I never realized it came from the distant Philippine Islands. Is it a root or a seed?” I asked.

“Oh, no!” replied Moro. “It’s a fruit from that low tree over there. The flowers are white. The fruit, which is shaped like a pear, is yellow.”

“What makes the yummy jelly red?” I asked.

“Maybe it's the cooking or the sugar that's added,” suggested Fil’s mom.

“You haven’t mentioned mangoes yet. Please pass one to our friend,” said Filippa.

Moro climbed higher and higher into a tall evergreen tree that stood sixty feet high. He brought [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]down in his pockets, several fruits as big as cucumbers, but they were red and yellow in color.

“Try one. They’re the most delicious and juicy fruit in the world—just like wine,” said Moro.

I eagerly took a bite of one, but immediately tossed it away. Everyone laughed at my odd behavior.

“Why, it’s turpentine; it’s paint,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d do this to me, Moro.”

“Just swallow it anyway. That turpentine smell only lasts a second,” Filippa explained.

I tried another mango, and found it to be the juiciest and sweetest fruit I have ever eaten, dripping with juice, full of refreshment in the heat, food, drink, and medicine all in one.

“What do you do with its large seed, which is as tough as iron?” I asked.

"I'll show you," said Moro.

The bright boy quickly started a fire and roasted the hard seed in the ashes. Then he brushed it off and washed it clean, handing it to me after it cooled a bit, saying: “Eat it too; it’s really chocolate toast now.”

And that's how I found it to be.

“Your mango is basically a complete breakfast—toast, drink, and fruit,” I said. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

When we all met the next morning, again under the bamboo grove, the good Padre said:

“If you got lost in the woods near your home, you would quickly wander around and die; but if you got lost here, you could survive for years.”

“Then let's go into that Eden-like forest,” I replied, reaching out my hands to Fil and Filippa.

Away we went down the white shell road across the canal, and soon we got lost among the many trees, palms, and vines.

The Padre pointed to the coconut tree and the nipa palm, and said: “As we’ve already told you, they would provide you with a house, food, drink, light, and soap.” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“What is this huge, tough tree?” I asked.

The Padre explained: “That’s the valuable mahogany. Thin strips of it are polished and used to cover the woodwork of your piano and dresser at home.”

“And what about this amazing new tree?” I asked.

“That’s the molave. It’s so hard that sea worms and termites can’t get into it. So it’s great for boats, docks, and the framework for large buildings,” replied the Padre.

“Here’s a beautiful tree,” Filippa said.

“You should think so,” her father replied. “It's the lanete. Its wood is so strong and flexible that your violin was made from part of one.”

“Here’s a jump rope,” shouted Filippa.

“No, a boat rope,” Fil explained.

“That’s really the bejuco rattan vine,” said the Padre, who was knowledgeable about botany and nature. “It’s three hundred feet long, about the length of a city block, if you pull it out of the jungle and away from the tree tops, where it has climbed like a giant snake. We can use it for bridge or carriage ropes, or we can separate the strands and make cloth, hats, or cord from it.”

“What beautiful and fragrant flowers,” Filippa exclaimed, pointing to a large tree. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“That's the Ylang,” said the Padre. “Our friend scents his handkerchief with it; but he might not know that the flower comes from the distant Philippines. It has the most intense fragrance of any flower, whether on a plant, bush, or tree.”

“What could that unusual name mean?” I asked, feeling like I didn’t know anything about nature in this incredibly different land.

The Padre, who spoke several languages, explained: “It’s a Malay word that means, ‘The chief flower of all flowers’; and I truly believe that it is. We capture the scent by distilling the flowers and mixing pure alcohol with the essence.”

“If you got sick in the forest and caught a fever from the mosquitoes and ants that stung you, the bark of this tree would heal you, just like quinine does,” the Padre continued.

“Is it the small quinine or cinchona tree?” I asked.

“No, it’s a sister tree. We call it ‘Dita’ in our language.”

“I said our forests would shelter and nourish you. Now I’ll show you how they would also provide you with clothing. Please show me your handkerchief, Filippa,” said the Padre. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

Filippa gave him a small square of linen cloth, so thin and pale, or lacking in color, that I could see right through it.

“In your country, that small handkerchief would cost twenty-five dollars. It’s made from the very fine fibers extracted from pineapple leaves and is called Pina cloth or Pina linen.”

Filippa’s mother added: “It’s nicer than silk or linen. We use it to make our most elegant dresses and laces. Because it’s so fine, it takes a long time to gather enough threads to weave and put together. The time spent making it explains its high price.”

“I get why Filippa is getting a Pina gown for our upcoming feast, or fiesta day, that you kindly promised to give in my honor before I leave. It really is a fabric that’s fit for a queen,” I replied.

“Oh! When will the feast day arrive?” Filippa asked eagerly.

“Soon,” her mother laughed.

“Here is an even more amazing tree, from which we get the gum used to make car tires, rubber heels, elastic bands, hot water bottles, raincoats, rubber shoes, hoses, and more,” the Padre exclaimed.

I looked, and sure enough, there was the same rubber tree that we see in florists’ [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__] shops or in the greenhouse at home; only this tree was bigger. Its thick leaves were almost as big as a hat.

“We cut a hole in the bark, and when the yellow gum oozes out, we boil it down thick until it turns dark. Then we mix it with chalk and sulfur, and just like that, we roll out your car tire,” explained the wise Padre.

“Could you stretch the rubber tree up to the stars, and would it spring back?” asked joking Moro.

“Cut out the jokes,” Fil’s mother said. “You know very well that the rubber tree itself isn’t pure gum, just like the maple tree in America isn’t pure sugar. It’s the gum from the rubber tree that turns into rubber.” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“It’s not just what’s above us that makes our islands valuable. Dig a little, and you’ll find precious minerals! Magellan, the Spaniard, was the first to discover the Philippine Islands while looking for gold, but I believe a rubber tree or bamboo is worth more than gold,” said the wise Padre.

“We get gold in two ways,” Fil explained. “We wash it out of the gravel we scoop up, and we break it out of rock using a hammer.”

“And how do you melt your iron and copper?” I asked.

“We dig coal and use bamboo pipes and a bellows to create airflow. We place the ore into a clay kettle and melt the rock out of it. Once the iron is pure, we heat it again until it’s red and hammer it into different shapes. That’s how we make wheels, spears, axes, and more,” explained Fil, who had observed the workers at their tasks.

“I don’t know much about practical, mechanical things; please tell me more,” Filippa urged.

“We have oil, just like America does; we also have lead and paint ores. We have [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]burnt-out volcano hills, filled with sulfur deep inside their cores.”

“That sounds like a really bad place, deep down below, that I've read about,” interrupted Moro; and Fil’s mother and the Padre shook their fingers at him for joking.

Fil continued: “We have beautiful marble quarries where we can carve statues, tabletops, and seat tops. Our marble has colorful veins just like jewels. We also have gypsum mines that provide fertilizer to help crops grow tall and plaster of Paris, which we use to make lovely white statues.”

“Wonderful!” I said, “I never thought about all this when I bought the beautiful white statues of lions and birds from the vendor with the basket on our street corner.” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

We were all so tired when we emerged from the woods to the canal that Fil’s dad told us to wait for a buffalo cart to come down the white shell road.

“A buffalo cart!” I said. “I’m scared to ride in that. We used to hunt buffalo in my country, and the few left now are kept behind iron fences in zoos.”

“Here he comes!” Fil and Moro shouted in unison.

“Guys, guys, be careful!” I shouted.

“Let’s scare our guest,” whispered Moro.

The buffalo sniffed at me, a stranger, and was ready to charge with his head down; but [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__] the man with a rope tied to a ring in the buffalo’s tender nose pulled the animal back.

“Get down, you silly boy!” I exclaimed.

But before I could stop him, brave little Moro had climbed up between the fierce-looking animal’s thick, long, sweeping horns, which stretched from his large head back to his shoulders.

“Please get into the cart, everyone,” Fil’s father said kindly, bowing and waving his arm. It was definitely a big step.

The cart had sturdy wooden wheels, crafted from a single thick piece cut from a mahogany tree. There was no iron rim around the edge of the wheel. The sides of the cart, however, were lightweight, made from bamboo posts with rattan vine woven in between them.

The driver sat on the shafts and guided the heavy animal as much with words as by tugging the long rope.

“Why do you call these strong animals water buffaloes?” I asked Fil.

“Because, to avoid the flies and the heat, the animal won't work during the hottest part of the day and rushes into a stream or the sea to cover itself with mud, sand, water, and weeds [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]. The only thing visible above the disturbed water are its large eyes and two menacing-looking horns that are as thick as a tree branch.”

“What a strange tail he has, kind of like a mule’s hairless tail. It looks like a piece of garden hose,” I exclaimed.

Moro, high up on the buffalo’s neck, heard me and laughed: “He can’t reach me with his rubber tail.”

“But I’ll get to you, Sir, if you don’t come down soon from your risky spot,” said Fil’s father.

The Padre explained: “We sometimes call these animals carabao. We use them for plowing, hauling our sugar to market, operating our hemp mill, turning our water wheels and sugar rollers, and dragging big hardwood logs out of the dense forest. When the roads are too muddy for wheeled carts, we make a mud sleigh with runners, and the water buffalo, with its thick hooves, pulls our loads of rice bags through the muck.”

“And we eat him too, even though his steaks are tougher than beef,” laughed Fil.

“And we make taws and whips from his thick skin to discipline little boys when they talk too much sometimes,” Fil’s [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]father remarked, winking at me, indicating that his words were harsher than his actual intentions or actions. Like a terrier, he just enjoyed scaring people; his bark was worse than his bite, as the saying goes. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“Can we stop here?” begged Fil.

The driver, wearing a mushroom-shaped bamboo hat, brought the water buffalo to a stop. Everyone, except Filippa and Favra, got off at the entrance of a cave.

“I’m not going in or anywhere near it,” Filippa exclaimed.

“Girls are scared of real stuff, of made-up noises, and even of fake shadows,” mocked Fil.

“No wonder, if you’re talking about this damp cave,” remarked Fil’s mother.

Creeping up silently to the entrance, Fil and Moro tossed stones, oranges, and mangoes up to the reverberating roof.

“Lie down fast,” shouted Fil’s dad.

We had to bend down, because there was a whirring noise coming from the cave’s roof and its entrance, like the sound of birds or planes.

“What are they, owls or eagles?” I asked.

“Furry fruit bats, as big as flying cats,” laughed Fil, who was proud of his secret cave and his discovery. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“You can't be serious that those big flying creatures have fur and eat fruit?” I asked.

“Exactly,” replied Fil’s dad. “These are the big Philippine bats. Some of them have wings that are three feet wide. Women use their fur to embellish dresses. The bats feed on fruit, just like monkeys; the only difference is that the bats eat at dusk and sleep during the day. That’s why we found them resting when we went to the cave during the day.”

“Awesome country! Amazing new kinds of life! I also see that your cattle have humps on their shoulders,” I said.

“Yes,” replied Fil’s father, “our cattle, though smaller than yours, have prominent humps on their shoulders. They are of the Indian and Chinese breeds, not the English breed. But they are great animals and have beautiful, gentle eyes that seem to cry and plead for compassion. We also use them to pull our carts.”

“I see that some of the other Philippine animals are also like toys; small but beautiful creatures, similar to your lively little black horses,” I said.

“Yes,” said Fil’s father, “our Malay horses, just like the Chinese horses, are more like feisty little ponies. They have strong mouths, but when they know you and are treated well, [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__] they listen well. Someday, when you ride over the hills on one, you’ll see how sure-footed they are on the trails; as safe as mountain goats. Your bigger horses would trip over in those tough spots.”

One of the agitated bats had settled in a tree. It was hanging upside down, with its wings covering its eyes. Climbing up the trunk of the tree was the strangest type of cat after it.

"That cat should totally be a fisherman," I said jokingly.

“Yes,” replied Fil, “some of our yellow cats have strange, hooked tails, just like monkey tails.”

“Maybe they used to hang from tree branches by their tails, just like the furry monkeys,” Moro suggested, who often considered the strange side of things.

“What a captivating story you’re telling,” added Fil, who enjoyed making cheeky jokes.

“Well, our monkeys are just as good for people to eat as they are for cats,” said Moro.

“Imagination is just as important as taste when it comes to food; and unless you call my next stewed monkey dish deer or lamb, I’m not eating it,” I said.

Fil and Moro laughed and winked; they had come up with this true yet odd story to make me feel uneasy for a moment. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

We all got back into the buffalo wagon to head home. On the way, we passed a house that had fallen in the middle, as if something heavy had snapped its spine.

“A blind, flying ant did that,” Fil said.

“Now, Fil, you seriously think I’m from the sticks; you want me to believe these crazy stories,” I replied.

“Not at all,” said Fil. “A flying white ant smashed the sturdy beams of that big building, as if a mountain had collapsed on it, or like an earthquake had torn it apart.”

“Why didn’t they stop the ants, those silly, lazy people?” I exclaimed.

“Because they couldn't see or hear them,” said Fil. “You see, it happens like this. Our deadly white ant flies in a swarm of ants. When it reaches a house, it bores inside; then it is happy. It feels its way. It doesn't need to see. It just follows its nose, so to speak.

“His sense of smell probably leads him to the wood of the house he lives in. He doesn't like fresh air. So, when he reaches a beam, he [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__] and all the other brother ants eat out the core; but they don’t break the outer shell, which is painted. The people in the house have no idea this is happening because the ants, of course, make no noise, and the painted surface of the beam remains intact.”

“Suddenly there’s a strain during a typhoon, or a jolt happens because someone walks above; and down comes the whole house, like a person whose bones suddenly collapse and turn to dust. The ants have managed to escape, because they’ve consumed the entire beam and have gone elsewhere for food.”

“Can't you catch and get rid of those horrible pests?” I asked.

“Oh, yes! It’s so much fun,” replied Filippa. We put a bucket of water in a dark spot and light a candle that floats on a saucer. The ants are drawn to the light. Their wings get burned off, and being silly and half-blind, they all end up drowning or getting wet, so we can collect and get rid of them.”

“They can bite you, too,” said Moro, who was swatting at something on his hand.

“Some people in the Philippines eat insects—like locusts. They fry them in coconut oil. Have you ever heard of such a thing?” asked Filippa.

“Now that I think about it, yes; the Bible [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__] mentions that John the Baptist, the great prophet, ate locusts and wild honey when he was in distress in the wilderness.”

“What does locust mean?” asked the wise Padre. Nobody seemed to know.

“It means jumping,” said the Padre.

"That's how we catch them," Fil said. "Before their wings grow, they jump. We dig deep ditches and chase them by banging drums, since they don't like noise. They jump and fall into the ditch, which is too high for them to leap out of. Then we pour in oil and burn them."

“If we didn’t, they’d wipe out all our crops,” said the Padre.

“I know a bird that catches them. I’ve seen it,” said Fil, whose eyes were very sharp, like a boy scout in the woods.

“What kind of bird?” asked Filippa, who loved pet birds.

“A type of Chinese ground-lark. It has big eyes and a long beak, and its feathers are patterned,” replied Fil. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

We were crossing the bridge that spanned an arm of the sea—the purple sea, which had a white foam edge.

I saw a boat moving upstream. It had no engine, no sails, and no rowers at the oarlocks. There was just one man on deck, leaning on a long pole. He walked slowly from the front to the back of the boat, still leaning on the pole.

“Here’s another amazing thing about your wonderful Philippines—a boat moving without any effort,” I said.

Fil looked at Moro and smiled. I could tell they both felt sorry for my cluelessness in this unfamiliar place. Then Fil said kindly:

“Don’t you see the man walking steadily [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]along the side of the boat, from the front to the back? He’s pushing on a long pole, which helps move the boat against the tide. The pole goes down to the bottom, through the shallow water. If the boat is loaded and the cargo is really heavy, two men push on each pole. The pole is a thick bamboo stick.”

“I also see a curved deck or covering over the boats,” I said.

“Yes, that’s a roof, or thatch, made from nipa palm leaves tied to bamboo sticks,” Fil explained.

“Look!” said sweet little Filippa. “Over there on the purple ocean is an even more amazing boat.”

I looked. What a strange sight! A boat shaped like a long leaf was skimming across the wind. The single sail seemed to pull the boat away from the breeze. There wasn’t really anyone in the boat. But sitting far out on a bamboo outrigger, high on the windward side and above the water, a sailor was balancing the boat and holding the sail with a long rope. There was only one bamboo pole attached to the boat lengthwise. It didn’t seem like a well-balanced boat, yet it sped along quickly; and as risky as it looked, the sailor sat perfectly safely on [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]his high and seemingly dangerous perch above the water.

“What kind of boat is that?” I asked.

“It's an outrigger boat. Some folks refer to it as a dugout,” Filippa answered.

“I’ll tell you more about it,” Fil added. “The boat is basically half of a solid log, carved out using fire, an axe, and a knife. It’s rough and smoothed out on the outside, with pointed ends. If the wind calms down, the sailor has to paddle the heavy boat back home. He sits on the side opposite the outrigger to keep it balanced. But when he raises the sail, he sits on the outrigger, as the sail keeps the boat balanced on the side that's sailing against the wind. The boat can easily tip over because it doesn’t have a sharp keel that goes down into the water. However, it moves faster in the wind precisely because it lacks a keel to hold it back.”

“Your Filipino sailors are really smart,” I admitted. “Can you tell me if the boats are used for anything other than recreation?”

“Oh, yes,” said quiet little Favra, Filippa’s friend. “The sailors fish in them and bring us home fish with names as amazing as their colors.”

“Could you please tell me the names?” I asked.

Favra slowly considered three options and replied: [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]“The pompano, shining silver, gold, and purple, and as wide as it is long; the feisty barracuda, which is so tough to reel in; and the leaping tuna, which jumps out of the water and might even leap into the boat.”

Fil added: “Then there’s the bonito, as big as a pig, even though its name playfully means ‘good little one’; the sailfish that raises its fin to catch the wind; and the garoupa.”

"Great names," I admitted.

“And all delicious to eat,” added Moro, who often thought about dinners and feasts. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“At what are you going to earn a living when you grow up, Fil?” asked the Padre, who was his teacher, when we all met again under the whispering bamboos the next morning.

Fil thought for a minute, puffed out his chest like a proud pigeon, and replied to the great admiration of Filippa, who was a very supportive sister:

“I will be a Senator or President.”

“Come back to reality, Master Fil,” his father replied. “Stop dreaming and say something practical. There can only be one President and just a few dozen Senators. So if everyone had your goals, millions would go hungry. But millions are working happily and earning paychecks that provide for their needs, as long as their ideas aren't too selfish. They don’t need to submit to pathetic, groveling politics.” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“At what are they working?” eagerly asked Fil.

“Come and see,” said Fil’s dad and the Padre together. We all followed.

"Here’s a lumber yard; let’s go inside," said Fil’s dad.

“That guy on top of that huge, raised log is going to fall off, and that guy underneath will get his eyes full of sawdust,” I exclaimed.

“That’s how we saw wood,” Fil’s father explained. “We lift one end of the log. One person stands on top, and the other stands below; together, they pull the heavy saw up and down until half of the log splits into several boards. Then they raise the other end, and the men saw down to meet those initial cuts, while board after board drops down.”

“Don't you have steel circular saws powered by machines?” I asked.

“Not always,” said Fil’s father. “The wages here are so low that we can pay men to do manual labor. This provides jobs for many men and keeps them from being idle and unhappy.”

“But here is one very round log that they are cutting across the grain into round wheels, and they are drilling a hole in the center,” I exclaimed. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“They really are wheels for buffalo carts. Don’t you remember your ride the other day?” Fil asked.

I remembered the heavy, creaking wheel, made from a single piece of wood.

“They never need an iron rim,” Fil’s father added, “so they aren’t as heavy as they seem.”

“Why, here’s a simple sled made from bamboo poles, runners, and boards. Do you actually get winter here?” I asked.

“No, it's just the hottest summer all the time. But we get a lot of rain, and our roads aren't all paved with stones,” Fil’s father explained. “If we used those high wheels on the muddy roads, they would sink so deep that the buffalo or ox couldn’t pull the cart loaded with rice or sugar.”

“So you see, the sleigh glides more smoothly through the slick mud,” added Fil.

“But what if you fell off, a mile from a crossing?” I asked with a laugh.

“Oh, he jokes around too, and you don’t call him out on it,” said Fil, who looked at his dad. Fil’s dad smiled.

“What is this hard, bent elbow stick attached to a long pole?” I asked.

“A plow,” Fil answered wisely: [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“Don’t joke. How can you have a plow completely made of wood?” I asked.

“I’ll explain,” said Fil. “Our rice fields are flooded and soft. We don’t need a heavy steel plow like you do in dry, hard soil. The water buffalo, which loves to wade through the flooded fields, easily pulls this bent stick that plows up the mud. Then we drain the field, plant the rice seedlings, and flood it again because rice needs to grow in water.”

“It’s a strange but beautiful Philippines that you live in; so different from our country, but maybe even more charming,” I added. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“Please show us an umbrella store,” Filippa and Favra pleaded together, since they had been whispering about what they wanted to see.

“This way, then,” said her dad and the priest.

We strolled down a series of narrow streets, where bamboo blinds were hung between the second floors to block out the intense sun.

When we reached a certain doorway that didn't actually have a hinged door, Filippa's dad pushed aside the hanging ropes made of glass and bamboo beads that were draped across the entrance. This made a tinkling sound and drew the worker to the front.

“We’d like to see your umbrellas,” Fil’s dad explained.

I expected the worker to show us silk or fabric ones that would roll up neatly.

“Wow, this one is really thick,” I said.

“Lift it. It’s really not heavy,” Fil’s dad explained.

“How is it made?” I asked. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

“It’s made from split bamboo that’s arranged in a circle. Oiled silk or oiled hemp cloth is glued over the frame. It doesn’t cost much at all,” explained Fil’s father.

“But they’re so thick that I can’t fit more than one in my umbrella stand at home,” I said.

“There you are joking again,” laughed Fil, who added: “We Filipinos hang our umbrella on the veranda roof, where it looks nice and is also handy when we need it.”

“You see, our umbrellas come in nice colors,” Filippa explained, clearly showing that she would make a great housekeeper.

“Now, would you like to see a chair shop where they don’t use any saws, planes, or nails?” asked Fil.

"It sounds ridiculous because our chairs at home are made from oak logs, and they’re so filled with tacks and nails that they rip my clothes," I replied.

“Around this corner,” said Fil, who was excited to take the lead.

Sure enough, Filipino workers were tying together pieces of bamboo with strong rattan vine to create the frame of a chair. The back was crafted from woven rattan and grasses. The seat was made from split bamboo, round side up, and everything was as smooth, comfortable, lightweight, and flexible as [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]could wish for; and not a single dangerous nail or saw was used to make it.

“You can toss these chairs around. They never break because they flex a bit, like a spring. They’re flexible but still strong,” explained Fil’s father.

“And they only cost a few cents,” added the Padre.

“We don’t care when they burn up,” Fil said, receiving a stern look from his father and being told not to joke around too much.

As we walked home, we passed a man carrying a bamboo pole over one shoulder. On one end of the pole was a thick piece of hollow bamboo. On the other end was an earthenware jug, tied up in a rattan net. Behind him, a herd of goats followed.

“Fresh milk and bottled milk for kids,” he shouted.

“What is he, a souvenir seller?” I asked.

“No, a milkman,” Fil replied. “The bamboo jug is a pint measure. The clay bottle holds the milk. And if you want fresh, warm milk for the baby, he’ll milk it right here from one of his nibbling goats, directly into the bamboo jug.”

“Fresh milk! Get your fresh milk!” shouted the vendor, snapping his fingers to call his herd of goats.

“Honestly, it’s like a walking dairy,” I said.

[__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

We were all tired when we got home. The Angelus bell was ringing from the tall white tower of the church. Everyone stopped, bowed, made the holy sign, and then said a quiet prayer.

After a late dinner, Fil and Filippa, like usual, kissed their parents' hands, bowed to them, and went to bed.

I thought about how meaningful this tradition was, and I remembered how, in my own country, too many rude, selfish kids, full of themselves, have little respect for their parents and actually try to boss their elders around. The Filipino boy seems to understand his role as a boy.

The larger Philippine houses, on the second floor, have a spacious hall called the “caida” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__] (ca ē′da). This is where everyone gathers to enjoy meals or music. The kitchen and the bathhouse are small separate buildings in the yard, or “azotea” (a tho tai′a). Everyone is required to bathe at least once a day.

During the intense heat of the day, after lunch, or “tiffin” as it’s known, everyone takes a refreshing nap for an hour or two. Because of this, visiting and dinners go on late into the night when it’s cooler.

To block out the sun, instead of glass, opaque mussel shells are used in the many small frames of the windows. This creates a pearly, soft light, like moonlight in the house, even on the brightest, hottest day.

I saw women standing in the streams, beating clothes on smooth, rounded stones.

“That’s how we wash, out in nature’s laundry,” explained Filippa’s mom.

When Fil and Filippa woke up each morning, I noticed their mother didn't touch or shake them, and I asked why she called them for so long and loudly, even though she was standing right over them. I commented that in our country, a father would quickly shake his lazy son awake.

“You surprise me,” replied Fil’s mother. “We in the Philippines believe that it’s really bad luck [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]to disturb a sleeping person's spirit by touching them. When the spirit is ready to respond to the call, it’s ready to wake up and come back to this world.”

“Wow, how superstitious!” I said, maybe because I didn’t have much decorum; good manners should accommodate differing opinions on trivial matters.

“Not any more superstitious than you are when you avoid walking under a ladder or starting a trip on a Friday,” Fil’s mother replied. Then I understood that every person, every race, and every nation, and every color of humanity has its flaws as well as its strengths, weaknesses as well as good qualities. There’s something good in even the worst among us; and, maybe, something bad in the best of us!

“I can say that you Filipinos are better than my people at one thing,” I said.

“Thank you. What is it?” asked Fil’s mom and dad together.

“Respect for parents and elderly relatives,” I replied. “Fil and Filippa kiss your hand and bow, morning and night. You, despite being a father and mother, are just as respectful as kids. You make sure grandfather and grandmother, along with your less fortunate relatives, have a place to stay in your home, where they can always find a bed, a friendly hand nearby, [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]something to eat if they need it, and a tear of compassion at their sickbed in the end.”

“By our faith, and by the warmth of our hearts, we Filipinos believe it’s a terrible sin to send our parents and relatives to nursing homes. God gave us to them at the start of life, and God gives them back to us at the end of life,” replied Fil’s devout mother.

“What a really beautiful saying, and what a beautiful thing to do!” I said.

Fil’s grandmother was sitting in a corner of the room. I could see a tear of joy rolling down her sweet old face.

We all got up; greeted each other; and, as we headed off for the night, we each said “Adios” (a dē ōs′), which means “good night” or “goodbye,” or really, “We commend you to God.” [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

The next morning, the laundry woman was bringing in the clothes. Knowing that I was a stranger and would want to share a real story with American kids, Fil’s mother asked me, “Would you like to learn the names and types of our clothes? You’ll see that they’re very different from yours.”

“Of course I would. I live in a place where some people care more about their clothes than about education, character, doing good, or fulfilling their responsibilities for the day,” I replied.

“This large flowing skirt in red, green, or white is made of cotton or hemp, and sometimes has a little silk mixed in. We prefer bright colors and a long train. No short, tight skirts in our styles,” explained Filippa’s mother.

“How smart,” I said.

“This loose waist or chemisette is sometimes white and sometimes colored. It is made of jusi cloth, which is fabric woven from banana leaf fiber. You can see it is softer, thinner, and cooler than your linen or cotton.”

"It's lovely," I said.

“Loose wide collars are trendy for you now, but they’ve always been in style here. We call it ‘panuelo’ (pa nu ai′lō). It’s made from our whitest, thinnest fiber, which comes from pineapple leaves, just like the handkerchiefs I mentioned earlier. You see, we starch it. It drapes down the back to a point and is really cool and delicate,” explained Filippa’s mother.

“What wide sleeves!” I said.

“Yes, sinamei chemisettes, or waists, have really wide sleeves, but they’re short to the elbow. We starch them out so they look cool and tidy,” replied Filippa’s mother.

“I notice that Filippa's hair is styled simply,” I said.

“Yes,” replied her mother, “we brush the hair back simply; tie it up or leave it down. We love jewelry, and we wear beautiful lace mantillas or shawls over our heads.”

“What strange slippers with no heels!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, we all like our feet ready to jump into mud or water, since our roads aren't great yet. These slippers are called 'chinelas' (chē nay′las). They have no heel and just a [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__] catch for the toe. There are no laces. We slide along the ground in them. But we can't back up straight or run quickly in them. If we want to go back, we have to turn around to keep our chinelas on our toes. Young people don’t wear stockings in our warm climate, where we live close to Nature—sometimes too close when snakes bite.”

“But when you consider everything, what a wonderful paradise this is for a boy or girl,” I added. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

Next day, as we were walking down the road to the farewell feast, I noticed a crowd gathered in a circle, leaning over.

“What are they doing; digging for gold?” I asked.

“No, they’re making game birds fight,” Moro replied. “They bet money on which one will win and chase the other away. The boys and men get really excited.”

“This farewell feast in your honor, before you head home, is called a ‘fiesta’ (fē ais′tă),” Filippa explained. “Dad and Mom and Fil have talked to the Padre and the barrio elders; everything is set.”

“But what is a ‘barrio’?” I asked.

“It means a village, a neighborhood,” replied Filippa.

[__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

I could hear bands and orchestras coming together. Here and there were tall bamboos leaning over the paths, and from their arches hung banners and colorful paper lanterns.

Carromatos (car rō ma′ tos), small carriages pulled by little black ponies, were bringing people in. The men and boys were dressed in white duck, as if they were getting ready to board yachts.

In front of the houses, the church, and the convent, there were flags, decorations, streamers, wreaths, and bunting hanging up.

Flowers and palm leaves were scattered along the path the procession would follow.

Then we all began. The procession was led by the bands to the church, where the bells were ringing from the tall bell tower. In the church, the kind Padre said a few words and gave us all his prayers and blessing.

While we were inside, evening had arrived. When we stepped out into the square, we saw a magical starry landscape. Someone had lit not only the lanterns and torches, but the larger southern stars of these tropical islands were shining brightly above. Colored rockets were also launched into the night.

The barrio saint—actually, the small statue of the village's patron saint—was carried at the front of the procession. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

Then, to the music of the bands, we all marched home to the big upper hall and gathered around an amazing table. Roast pig, chicken, pheasant; heaps of rice and fruit; candied ginger and mango; sweet and sour pickled chutney with spices; coconut and nipa wine; flowers as big as hats and smelling as sweet as perfume! Sandalwood and spice incense burned sweetly and almost concealed the good Padre and Fil's father, who sat at the head of the table.

The orchestra played all sorts of drums, castanets, bells, and fiddles; many of them had unusual shapes and sharp sounds. Funny, chubby-cheeked boys were blowing their hearts out on the flutes. Everyone was really happy!

“Not happy to see you go, but trying to make you so happy that you won’t have time to feel any regrets tonight. We want to remember your smiling face,” said Fil’s father.

Then the table was cleared and moved. Everyone gathered around the hall.

Suddenly, there was silence; then the loud sound of the orchestra! Another moment of hush—Filippa, dressed in shimmering silver, and Fil, wearing red and gold, burst in from opposite sides of the hall to perform the love dance, where the brave soldier courts and wins his sweetheart. [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]

They moved closer to each other. She seemed a bit shy; sometimes she argued; she begged; she promised. They twirled around; they performed dance steps; they clapped castanets. The orchestra played, whistled, snapped, and strummed. The music flowed in waltzes; it jolted in Castilian rhythms; it whispered. It serenaded while Fil carried a mandolin adorned with a ribbon. Filippa dropped her handkerchief: Fil picked it up with grace. He danced with a pleading look. He displayed all the beautiful steps he could do. As a sign that the soldier had won his lady's heart, Filippa finally agreed to let him return the handkerchief, proudly crown her with it on her thick cloud of hair, and waltz away triumphantly with her.

It was a beautiful scene. The orchestra erupted in loud, rich harmony, occasionally punctuated by a wild Moro yell or shout from the flutes and drums.

How we cheered! Fil and Filippa had to bow their thanks multiple times from the side of the caida (hall).

Then there was another pause after the Padre and Fil’s dad had whispered.

Suddenly, Moro burst out excitedly to perform a wild dance inspired by Muslim traditions.

How oddly he was dressed! He wore tight red pants, a red and blue turban on his [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__]head, and a fitted jeweled top, covered with pearl buttons. His sash was green, speckled with purple spots. He had purple parrot feathers at his waist and in his turban.

His feet were bare, like the custom in his home in the South Island. The round shield he carried gleamed. He waved two impressive kriss-knives with jeweled handles. Over his shoulder, he carried a spear. The way he drummed on that shield was captivating! He threw his knives into the air and skillfully caught them before they fell. He seemed to chase an enemy; crouch like a boy scout; listen; follow a trail; confront the foe; fight for his life and country. Finally, he appeared to triumph with a wild yell, just as he was knocked back and his shield was tossed aside. All of this unfolded while we held our breath in excitement, as he performed his unique, tribal dance, keeping pace with the wind-like, volcano-like music of his native Moro islands.

The party and the dances were finally over. The dancers and the guests left.

Next morning, as we stood on the coconut wharf waiting for the boat to arrive, Fil probably noticed that I looked upset. I could tell by his smile that he was getting ready to tell one of his jokes to lift my spirits.

“Dad,” he said, “can I take our friend [__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__] back to America to make sure he gets there safely?”

“Wait until you grow up,” replied Fil’s father.

“Then don’t blame me if he gets lost,” laughed little Fil, as he tried to stand on his tiptoes and lifted his hand high above his head to look as tall as a man.

After all this kindness, all this joyful, laughing time in these sunny summer islands of the purple Philippine seas, it almost broke my heart to leave for home and say goodbye to Fil, Filippa, their caring parents, Moro, the good Padre, and little Favra who were calling from the dock: “Adios, amigo” (ah-dee-ohs, ah-me-go)—“To God we commend you, our friend.”

The End

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