A Little Filipino Hospitality

Despite looking like Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer, a hairy white Neanderthal living in the present day and providing the biological evidence to support evolution, I am in fact an ethnic being. My father is Mexican and, barring the possibility I am adopted, so am I. As a result, I was raised around the Mexican culture. Mexicans are a loud, amicable bunch, proud of their cultural identity and heritage. In particular, they pride themselves on their hospitality. One of their oft-repeated sayings goes: “Mi casa es su casa.” It translates literally: “My house is your house.” For friends and family and friends of family and friends of friends, it’s an invitation, or rather a demand, that they come inside, grab a beer, grab a plate full beans and tacos and enchiladas, shed the layers of social anxiety, and take part in the ceremonial “giving of a hard times” to various family members. No hermano or hermana will leave unscathed. It’s impossible to remain invisible at a Mexican social gathering.

In the Philippines, I have encountered a similar sentiment regarding hospitality to that of the Mexicans. Filipinos have extended their welcome to both Matt and I, total strangers from another country. It’s an interesting facet to their culture, especially given that Filipinos are not especially forward people. I’ve sat near a group of Filipino’s and, feeling their wandering eyes on my back, turned to say hello. They averted their eyes and responded with a sheepish hi. Some might perceive their actions as being rude. But they were simply being shy. When I turned again to ask “How are you doing today?” it was the extra encouragement they needed. Five minutes later I was being invited to eat with their family.

Filipino’s, although timid at first, are some of the most social and welcoming people I have ever met. Since I’ve been here, countless people have surprised me with their generosity and kindness. Three families in particular have come to epitomize the real nature of Filipino hospitality to me.

Calicoan

The first family lives in a small surf village called Calicoan. Matt and I traveled there with several of our friends, who had been there before. They had met Mama Bernie and Adrienne buying coffee. Mama Bernie invited them over for dinner. Then she invited them to stay at her house.

When Matt and I went for the first time, neither Mama Bernie nor Adrienne were even there. Despite their absence, we were still welcome to stay in their house. We were greeted by the housekeeper, a bustling assertive Yaya Dubs. When I entered the house, I pulled out a bag of M & M’s and started eating them. The first thing Yaya Dubs said to me was: “Haa you eat chocolate like a girl.” Startled, I continued eating my chocolate, presumably like a girl.

(Yaya Dubs and her daughter Melanie)

Yaya Dubs showed us to our sleeping arrangements. Standing amongst the fallen coconut trees in the backyard were two buildings. One was a guest house with a sleeping loft and the other a nipha hut, an open structure (no walls) with thatched roofing to cover its inhabitants from the elements. We spent the next two days living in this gorgeous refuge. Yaya Dubs provided us with meals as we ventured back and forth from the beach to surf.

(The property in Calicoan)

(The nipha hut and graveyard of coconut trees)

I returned to Calicoan two weeks later and was able to meet Mama Bernie and Adrienne. “Oh you’re one the guys that stayed here when we were in Manila” Adrienne said upon meeting me. Again, I spent the weekend full of food and fond of the kindness being shown to me. On our final day, we sat down and had a mother’s day brunch with Mama Bernie. In a way, for that weekend, I really did feel like one of her kids.

Maripipi

Similarly, the Conde family showed us unbelievable generosity when we visited them on Maripipi Island. Our friends, Patyck and Sarah, met the Conde’s eating lunch on a beach a month prior to my arriving. Like Mama Bernie, the Conde’s offered their home as a place to stay.

When Patryck, Marney, and I first arrived on Maripipi for my visit, we were introduced to half of the Conde family. Filipino’s have big families. My hand moved from one palm to the next, desperately trying to keep pace with the number of names and faces to match. After introductions, we were ushered into the kitchen to eat. We had arrived on Fiesta, a celebration of the baranguay’s (county’s) patron saint. Wanting to appease my guests, I stuffed my face full of fish covered in spicy cream based sauce, pork lathered in barbeque, beef stewed with vegetables, and rice. Eating copious amounts is one of the best ways to pay respect in many ethnic cultures. Feeling I had paid my dues, I slumped in my chair satisfied. Minutes after my victorious binging, Mary Clyne, one of the daughters of the house, came to the table and informed us our presence was requested at William’s, her uncle’s house. We all slid from our chairs and, the amorphous masses of gluttony we had become, rolled to William’s house.

I had been naïve to think that the first meal we were offered would be the only one until dinner. As soon as we arrived at William’s, the dishes started coming. “Try my lechon, you will love it! Try my liempo, you will love it! Try my cake, you will love it.” I do love food. But it’s a relationship that becomes exponentially less intimate the more you have at one time. I spooned food forcefully down my throat, bemoaning my lack of foresight. Then came the alcohol. Homemade tuba. A coconut derived liquor that gets better with age. After a year of fermentation, it’s a sweet, smooth drink. After one month, it’s a sour, hardly palatable liquid. We had the latter of the two. I choked down glass after glass, not wanting to appear disrespectful. (At any point I could have said no… but that’s not in my nature when it comes to food and drink)

After lunch, we stole away to another island for a swim, but not before being given snacks for the journey. After our sojourn, I returned a wiser and smarter man, prepared to pace my consumption.

We ate dinner at Mary Clyne’s house. Afterwards, her grandfather, a small chortling man named Billy, invited us to drink some brandy with him. An hour and a half later and two bottles of alcohol gone, Billy and I were best friends. He even had a nickname for me: Germs.

(View of Maripipi in the background)

(Location of our hiatus from eating)

(Smashin bottles with Billy)

The power drinking finished, Patryck, Marny, the Conde crew, and I made our way to the village square, where the community gathered. We were offered more alcohol and eventually prompted by the emcee to get up in front of the entire town and perform the traditional dance. The dance consisted of one male and one female. The male pursued the female around a circle like a suitor chasing his love. Members of the community came up and threw money at the dancers (money to be reinvested in the development of the community). The amount of money given varied depending on the social rank of the individuals performing the dance and the fluidity and beauty of the performance. Being a foreigner who had only learned the dance 30 minutes before did not bode well for me. For the first minute and a half, no one approached with money. Sweat, which already poured out of me on account of the humidity and physical activity and mere fact that I’m a sweater, rushed from the pours of my body. Finally, some heavenly soul, seeing the uncomfortable expression locked across my face, came up and threw some money. Others followed suit.

The song ended and I returned to the group. Eventually, the partner dance gave way to a more contemporary group dance. And we danced. For several hours.

In the midst of my Footloose esque dance montage, I looked up and noticed I had been separated from the Conde’s, sequestered near the corner of the square. Surrounding me was a circle of males, which I soon gathered took just as great of an interest my being male as they did in my being a foreigner. At that moment, Mary Clyne arrived and grabbed my hand, bringing me back to the house. For the next two hours, we sang Karaoke. At three in the morning, I stumbled into bed.

The next morning, Papa Conde took us on his boat to the main island, where we could take a van back to Tacloban. When I stepped through the door back at my apartment, I received a message from Mary Clyne on facebook thanking ME for the memories. I had to set her straight. The Conde’s were the ones worth thanking.

(Flash dance circa 2016)

(Singing Karaoke)

Tacloban

The final incident personifying Filipino hospitality occurred here in Tacloban. Kit, as I found out was her name, invited us to her birthday party. Matt and I had never even met Kit. We simply had a mutual acquaintance. And that was our ticket

It’s not really an unusual gesture to invite random to people to house birthday parties. Usually the birthday boy or girl is trying to throw a “rager” and wants to bolster his or her social standing by having as many people as possible show up to the party. To fall short, to have a poorly attended party, can be social suicide.

Matt and I assumed we were added to the guest list to help pad out the numbers. When we arrived at the house, we soon found our assumptions were incorrect. We weren’t walking into a packed house party, but rather the family celebration. I entered the house first on account that the mutual connection between Kit and me didn’t actually know Kit at all and had only met her twice. I walked through the door, former shades of my university glory days swelling up inside of me. Then I shook hands with the mother and father, watched a woman sweetly rocking a baby to sleep, and smiled at the kid in the corner toying dangerously with a water balloon. I shifted back to present day Jamie. Good thing too, as the beer chugging, keg standing, rabble rousing drunkard was climbing out of the depths.

We were seated in chairs in the living room and brought food. It was Kit’s birthday. Regardless of this minor fact, the four of us fresh arrivals were served like royalty. We were brought beer, Coca Cola, beef, rice, chicken, and cake. We stuffed our faces. And it was glorious.

(Birthday celebrations. Matt hordes the birthday girl's cake)

After we finished eating, we were, inevitably, wrapped up in Karaoke. Filipinos love Karaoke. It’s a staple in their lives, a fact made clear when babies can sleep through the blaring noise. Some of Kit’s more intimate friends were at the party, so we joined them and sang several songs. After an hour and a half of it, we decided to retire from the party and head home.

Kit has invited us to her family’s fiesta in several days.

The sheer number of invitations to go to family events or dinners or Karaoke since we’ve been here has been astounding. Every family we’ve met has made it abundantly clear we’re welcome back and always have a place to stay. I have no doubt that I could show up in five years time to any one of the houses and be shepherded to a table to eat food and drink alcohol. It’s a special thing to find people so welcoming and caring, to find a sense family when you are away from home.

#Philippines #Stage3