Travelers Welcomed as Tourists or Missionaries

Sunday January 12, 2003

SAN MATEO, RIZAL, REPUBLIC OF PHILIPPINES – Most travelers to the Philippines seem to come either as tourists, missionaries or as employees or representatives of an international corporation. From the beginning, my focus was a little different than all those. Traveling with a balikbayan, a returning resident, has given me the opportunity to see life here almost as a local.

When we decided, after all, that cooking at home would be a good idea, I started shopping in the open-air markets along Liamzon Street, between the apartment and the highway. Joseph takes care of choosing the rice, which is always displayed in bins, at four different levels of quality. He runs his hands through the rice, looking for stones, and usually chooses the second best quality, washing out any stones when he’s ready to cook it.

Although there are several shops which offer vegetables, I found that Lily, across the busy intersection, seemed to have the freshest and best variety. The first couple of times I went there, Joe went with me. When I went by myself one evening, I found I didn’t have quite enough change for what I needed. Lily just picked up the extra stuff and put it in my bag anyway. I haven’t been able to bring myself to buy meat from the open markets, so we’ve stuck mostly to canned meat. I buy apples (Fuji) and bananas from Cherry, a beautiful young woman who, when I was there the other day, wanted to know what I was having for lunch. “A boiled egg, and an apple,” I said, “with a banana for merienda,” – my midafternoon snack. She laughed and said her uncle in Australia often ate meals like that (nothing but fruit), taking a break from the ubiquitous rice. She said, “we eat rice for breakfast, lunch and dinner,” and it’s true! This is the only place I’ve ever seen where McDonald’s serves rice with its meals – to a Filipino, even a Big Mac isn’t a complete meal without plain rice on the side.

Our neighborhood is off the beaten track for tourism – a good safety precaution, according to the State Department’s World Caution, issued Nov. 6. It said that American tourists in the Philippines should avoid places where Americans in large numbers generally congregate. I was here for 10 days before I even saw another American, and she was shopping at Divisoria, one of the biggest market-areas (and tourist attractions) in Metro Manila. Since that time, I can count on my fingers the total number of Caucasian faces I’ve seen, mostly in Makati where a sizeable settlement of expatriates lives.

Many times, in conversation with strangers in the market or on public transportation, a local will ask, “Weren’t you afraid to come?” They always follow that question with reassurances that I’m safe here, and that they’re glad I came. My neighbors continue to act protective toward me, too; just the other day, Irene, an upstairs neighbor, offered advice to keep me safe from the Abu Sayyaf (an active terrorist group).

I haven’t really let fear control my movements, although the awareness of my vulnerability sometimes surfaces, especially, it seems, as my time here grows short.

The State Department also encourages Americans to keep up with the news, but that’s been all but impossible – with no radio, a broken TV and only an occasional newspaper finding its way home with me. A few days after our arrival, we went walking through the neighborhood, and met a man who told us the news that the Australian and Canadian embassies had been closed, at least temporarily. That was the first we’d heard of it.

The terrorist New People’s Army (NPA), the military arm of the Communist Party of the Philippines, operates throughout the Philippines, according to our Embassy, especially in remote areas. Although we had no plans to visit the remote areas in question, we did head up into the mountains of Montalban one day, to get away from the noise and congestion of the city, at least for an afternoon. We rode the jeepney to the end of the line, then followed the road into the mountains on foot.

After trekking quite awhile along a new muddy road lined with flimsy-looking houses, and down by the river where several women were doing their laundry, we crossed the river on a bridge and saw a sign, “Prayer Mountain, 3 kilometers.” Someone had told us we should visit there, so we agreed to keep walking. As the road climbed more steeply, the houses became fewer and farther apart, and there were times when we could hear or see no one else. Even before we started out, I was pretty nervous about it, but decided to trust the instincts of my companions. At one point while we were still in sight of dwellings, two guys came up to us on a motorcycle, chatted with us for a minute, then shook our hands and left. My companions assured me later they were probably members of the NPA, just checking us out.

We trudged on, wondering at times if “Prayer Mountain” had moved on us. I had worn long pants that day, for the first time, thinking at last I would be experiencing coolness, but not so! After the last 40-degree climb, we were rewarded at the summit by a wonderful view of the city, off on the horizon, and by the peaceful grounds of this place of seminars and retreats.

We had passed a lone tricycle on the way up, and the guys had promised me a ride down, so on our return, we engaged him and clambered in, two of us inside the bubble side car, the third on the seat behind the driver. He kicked the engine to life, and we spun around on the rocky, muddy road, slipping sideways down the slope. I thought, “this is going to be more than I bargained for!” But when he finally got control of the bike, he proved to be a careful and skilful navigator of the treacherous underfooting, and delivered us safely in no time down the mountain and back to the jeep line.

I’ve had one more trike ride since then, part of the way home from Leah’s house the other night. Trikes are limited to fares within their own municipality, so it’s not a good choice for commuters, but with their maneuverability, they fill a niche in the overall transit system.

Next week I’ll tell you about becoming a real tourist, at least for a few days.

Sandy Weil is a freelance columnist who writes regularly for the Plainsman. She can be reached at home in Huron, S.D., or by e-mail at dakotawoman@santel.net

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