Chapter XIII: Letter XI: Some Results of the American Occupation

ILOILO, _January 22, 1905_.

Mail-day has come round again, but I don’t feel as though I had much energy for writing, or anything else, as we are in the midst of a heat-wave, which means, in this part of the world, that the Monsoon has dropped unaccountably, and the heat is suffocating and appalling. Everyone is saying that such a temperature is quite unusual at this season, and some even go so far as to say they never felt it so hot here before; but this does not surprise me, as I have never yet come in for normal weather anywhere.

This heat comes in the middle of a drought, too, as we have not had rain for about four weeks—another phenomenon. Our rain-tank is empty, so we now depend on the supply of brackish water from the wells, and even that is reported to be limited, which is alarming, as one would commit almost any crime to get enough water for a bath. Even at times of plenty, however, one does not rejoice in the European style of bath, but an arrangement of a tub, the acquaintance of which I first made at Singapore, and I can’t say I was much struck with it when I did see it.

The tub, of wood or china, is placed in a small room with a sloping floor of concrete or tiles, and the bather stands on a wooden rack; first using what soap he sees fit, and then pouring water over himself as best he can with a tin dipper. It is an economical method in countries where water is scarce and valuable; but it was a terrible disillusion to me, after the grand ideas I had always formed, when I read how every one in the Far East has his or her own bathroom. Don’t you know how jolly it sounds in Anglo-Indian novels, or in descriptions of the world beyond Port Saïd? A dreadful disenchantment!

More than ever, in this heat, do we miss the dog-cart of our dreams, for we long to get out of the town on these hot evenings. Something to drive is a bare necessity of life out here, and even the humblest school-teachers and missionaries keep what the Americans call a “rig,” such a queer word, which is made to signify anything from a four-in-hand to a _carabao_-cart. The Americans all drive in a very strange fashion, holding a rein in each hand, which looks awkward at any time; but is most comical in the case of the swaggering negro who drives the military waggons, holding in a team about as fiery as a couple of old circus-horses, with a rein twisted round each of his hands, body thrown back, and the gestures of a Greek restraining an untamed pair round a stadium.

The white man who drives the Government ice-cart amuses me too, for he is got up in full cow-boy pageantry—huge boots, loose shirt with broad leather belt, immense sombrero worn well over one eye, long moustaches standing out, and great gauntlets up to his elbows. All this to hawk ice about a dowdy little town.

When a soldier rides one of these quiet old animals, he sits in an enormous Mexican saddle, with a very high peak back and front, and his feet, clad in big boots with huge spurs, thrust into roomy leather shoe-stirrups. To the casual observer these horsemen would certainly convey the impression that they were venturing great deeds in a wild country, and one can’t be anything but thankful to them for throwing a little picturesque relief into the humdrum life of the grey streets.

We have tried hiring carriages, but besides the terrible discomfort of all hired vehicles, their prices are more uncomfortable still. Fancy, in a place like this, having to pay as much for a little carriage for two hours in the evening as one would for a brougham in London for the day! Yet such is the case, and it is only an indication of the cost of living here, which is really alarming; as you may imagine it must be when I tell you that all the Americans I have met complain bitterly, declaring that it is more expensive to _exist_ in the Philippines than to “have a good time” in New York or San Francisco! The only comfort is that we are not in Manila, which is a shade worse, I am told.

So, except for an occasional carriage lent us, we continue to walk about after sunset, but I find I can’t get very far, for though exercise may not be very tiring at the time it is being taken, it makes you realise how the climate is taking it out of you.

There is no meeting-place like the club of an English garrison town, for the Americans seem to have no idea of anything of the sort; and I think this may, perhaps, be owing to their democratic principles, for, of course, it would be impossible to exclude the private soldiers from such a place, as in theory they are as good as the officers. I notice that in practice the officers don’t think so at all, though most of them have risen from the ranks themselves. The U.S.A. have a sort of Sandhurst, called West Point, but I have been told, by highly-placed officers themselves, that the only way to get on in their army is to obtain a commission from the ranks through “pull” (political influence), and that “pull” is even more a factor in the army than in any other profession in America. This can easily be verified by reading the extraordinary cases that occur from time to time, when an officer with a “pull” gets the decision of a Court-Martial reversed without any further controversy, and, after an undoubted misdemeanour, is simply re-instated somewhere else, and often in a higher grade, by order of the Government at Washington.

This independence of military authority, together with the principles of extreme democracy which America professes, accounts, I think, for the curious behaviour of the private soldiers, who are really quite different from any others I have seen anywhere else in the world, for they lounge about when addressing an officer, and speak to him as an equal; which looks more than odd to anyone not accustomed to such ways. Men who were here during the American War have told me most amusing stories of the discussions that used to go on between officers and privates on active service; all straggling about anyhow, and men, with no notion of saluting, just giving their opinion with a drawling “waal” by way of preface. All the same, they fight well, and perhaps, in modern warfare, individual intelligence may be a very good thing, and it is only in peace time that a lack of smartness and discipline jars upon the faddy European eye. Perhaps.

But the oddest thing of all, to my mind, is to see officers in uniform salute ladies by taking their caps off. That I can’t get accustomed to!

I call this a garrison town, though, as a matter of fact, the garrison is situated in the Island of Guimaras, at a place called Camp Josman, in the interior. This Camp, which is about 200 feet above sea-level, and possesses springs of good water, is supposed to be much healthier than Iloilo, where they only have the Hospital, Headquarters, and the Cavalry Barracks. It seems a strange and uncomfortable arrangement in a half-pacified country—the garrison half a day’s journey away; though the real object is, of course, to keep the American soldiers out of the towns, where they are no end of trouble.

The town is well and even elaborately policed by the Constabulary, a Filipino corps of sturdy little “brown brothers” in dark blue linen suits. Each of these defenders supports an immense revolver in a leather case strapped to the back of his broad leather belt, and carries a short truncheon as well. I suppose they would fight all right, in reason, if there were a disturbance, and if the occasion were not of a patriotic nature. But that is not much consolation, as the occasion would not be likely to be of any character other than patriotic.

The Americans give out and write in their papers that the Philippine Islands are completely pacified, and that the Filipinos love Americans and their rule. This, doubtless with good motives, is complete and utter humbug, for the country is honeycombed with insurrection and plots; the fighting has never ceased; and the natives loathe the Americans and their theories, saying so openly in their native press, and showing their dislike in every possible fashion. Their one idea is to be rid of the U.S.A. to have their government in their own hands, for good or evil, and to be free of a burden of taxation which may be just, but is heavier than any the Spaniards laid upon them. The present burden is more obvious to the Filipino mind than the ultimate blessings.

They have no real say in their own affairs, you see, as the government of the Philippines is in the hands of a Commission consisting of five Americans, nominated by the President of the U.S.A. and three Filipinos, chosen by the Governor-General of the Philippines.[4] This body, however, does not govern the Islands according to what experience teaches, but is responsible to the Senate at Washington, whose members having their own interests to push or preserve, hamper the Philippine Commission at every turn.

It does seem extraordinary to think that there is no Colonial Office, or Civil Service examinations, and that anyone in America who has a “pull” can get sent out here to fill any sort of post anyhow, anywhere. Tremendous salaries come out of the miserable Island Revenues to make these posts acceptable. So it is hardly surprising that, without the faintest glimmering of the language, customs, climate, or anything beyond their own State, these eager, well-meaning, bustling Americans tumble into pitfalls, and rub the Oriental the wrong way, and that the dislike and mistrust on both sides are about equal.

I did not mean to let you in for this political dissertation, but now I am on the subject I am reminded of a new tax, which has lately been levied, and is causing much vexation. It will give you a good idea of the methods in vogue. This is an order requiring every owner of a horse to take his beast to the Philippine Government, or rather its local and selected representatives, who will brand the animal on one flank with certain marks by which it may at once be known. Then the owner is to brand it twice on the other flank, and to find two sureties of 250 dollars gold (about £50) each, that the horse has not been stolen, and should the animal prove to have been dishonestly acquired, the sureties are to be held criminally liable!

This in a country where the crime of horse-stealing is entirely unknown! But it is believed that the Senators in far-off Washington have an idea that the Philippines are a sort of California, so they insist on applying exactly the same law here as obtains in that wide, wild State. It is hardly necessary to add that the examination, branding, papers to be signed, stamps upon same, and so on, cost the wretched owner a pretty sum before he is safe from the police with his poor, disfigured horse.

I have wandered away from a walk through the town, which I meant to describe to you—only I never seem to get ahead at all with descriptions here, as there are such endless mazes of side-issues to lure one from the track.

At the end of this street one comes on the Plaza, a very wide square bordered by odds and ends of houses, which include the Police Court, the Y.M.C.A., the Prison, and the Cathedral, the three former buildings being large, ordinary, two-storied houses, the latter a big, plain, grey stone front, with a belfry on each side, not unlike a miniature of the cathedral at Las Palmas, and, as far as I remember, in much the same style.

An old church at Daraga.

_To face page 89._]

The town must have been quite handsome in the Spanish days, but during the Insurrection the Americans stood off and bombarded it from the open sea, while on shore the natives set it on fire. You see, when the Americans had conquered the Spaniards, and the Philippines had been handed over to the United States, the Spanish garrisons cleared out, leaving the Filipinos in charge to wait for their saviours. But the Filipinos beginning to realise that they had only sailed from Scylla to Charybdis, fought tooth and nail to prevent the American troops garrisoning their towns. So it came about that when the Americans had officially conquered the Spaniards, and _fêtes_ and rejoicings were in full blast in the U.S.A., the trouble here was really only just beginning, for though they had managed to dislodge an alien race like the Spaniards with the full help and concurrence of the natives of the country, it was a very different task to conquer the disaffected people of the soil, even when it was being done “for their own good.” When the American fleet came to take Iloilo, the Filipinos showed fight, and the American Admiral said they must give up the place or he would bombard it, allowing them so many hours to decide in—which hours, by-the-bye, were not unconnected with some complication regarding the Christmas dinners of the sailors, who insisted on eating plum-puddings they had brought with them, or had had sent from America. Well, the Filipinos replied that the Americans might come ashore and fight if they liked, but if the Admiral bombarded the town, they would set it on fire, and make Iloilo not worth the taking.

The end of this exchange of courtesies was that the Admiral chose the alternative of bombardment, whereupon the Filipinos promptly fired the town, and Iloilo was pretty well destroyed, and eventually taken for the Stars and Stripes. The loss of life was one mule and one old woman, neither of whom probably cared two straws who the Philippines belonged to, poor things.

One or two people were wounded, but this was only another instance of the extraordinarily small amount of damage done by a bombardment. I have heard many curious “yarns” about the bombardment and the fire, which took place on Christmas Day, 1899, but I have not time or space to tell you these legends now, even if I could remember them. I wish I could remember all the things I hear—though, I daresay, I remember quite enough for you as it is!

The chief feature of the bombardment stories is the terrible drunkenness and looting that went on; but even if those anecdotes interested you, they are all connected with personal adventures of people you have never met, and would not entertain you. I am glad I was not here though, for the anarchy and misery seem to have been terrible.

Many results of these stirring times still remain in the streets, for the top stories of the houses were knocked off and the stone foundations gutted, and when the people settled down peaceably again, there was no money to restore the buildings to their former state, so they just put rough rooms over the charred ruins, makeshift upper stories of Oregon pine with corrugated iron roofs, which arrangement makes the town look very shoddy and unfinished. In Jaro and Molo are to be seen many of the handsome old Spanish houses still standing, with carved wooden balconies and ornamented doorways, some of them still beautified by deep roofs of charming old red-brown hand-made tiles.

There is a _café_ in the Plaza Libertad, in what was once a big, fine house, but now the thick concrete walls of the lower storey, with huge doorways and window-openings crossed by heavy bars, all blackened with smoke, end abruptly in a narrow-eaved corrugated roof, making a house like a misshapen little dwarf.

There are many buildings like that, and in the streets the jumble of different sorts of odds and ends is most curious, but not the least picturesque, for it is all grey and mean and squalid.

All the middle of the square, which, as I told you, is called the Plaza Libertad, is laid out as a pretty Alameda, with a low wall round it, and steps leading up on each side, the centre thickly planted with palms, bamboos, and various other trees of dark and light greens, intersected by four wide paths and a lot of little tracks, all bristling with seats. Some of the seats are of wood, broken and dilapidated, and others of iron painted to look like marble, which are quite warm to the touch hours after sunset. The first evening we were there, when I put my hand on one of the iron seats, thinking to touch cold stone, I got quite a shock on finding the surface warm.

This flowerless garden is a very pretty place, especially at night, when the big arc-lights shine on the very green trees, and throw lovely shadows of palm branches on the white paths, making quite a theatrical effect; but it is all overgrown, untidy, neglected, the steps broken, paths untrimmed—always reminding me of some place in a deserted city, or the garden of a house long uninhabited.

The Plaza Libertad has one resemblance to a real town park, however, in its rows of idle men; brown-faced, white-clad Filipinos in this case, who sit on the seats and low walls like rows of sea-birds, only, instead of making nests or catching food as birds would, they simply doze, and gamble, and talk, or, more often, sit about in the profound abstraction of the Oriental.

The “unemployed” has no grievance against society, however, in this country, if he ever tries to attempt one, for work is abundant and labour not to be had, even at the present scale of wages, which enables a man to work for one day and then keep himself and his family to the remotest scions, in idleness and cock-fighting for a week. You see in the Spanish days the Philipino labourers got from 10 to 20 cents a day wages but now the American Government, which sets the scale, gives a _peso_ a day for unskilled labour, and that, of course, has altered the social conditions here, and, I believe, all over the Islands as well, for the same conditions prevail everywhere. A _peso_ a day they get for loading and unloading vessels—just wharf-coolies; and as for carpenters and people like that who used to get 70 cents from the Spaniards and live well on it, they are now with difficulty to be caught for 2½ to 3 _pesos_ a day. Of course this has enormously increased the cost of living without bringing any extra benefits, but that particular increase chiefly affects the white man, for I have asked servants and natives, who tell me the cost of _their_ food, the eternal rice, fish, and bananas for them has very little altered, if at all.

The high rate of wages, far from bringing plenty, has caused great demoralisation and consequent poverty; and it does seem a pity that some one who understood Orientals and their ways could not have come and pointed out to the Americans how dark races differ from white men in body and mind. As it is, I should think that even if the well-meaning reformers do find out their mistakes, which is very doubtful, it would be very difficult, if not impossible, for the Americans to go back now.

On one side of the Plaza there stand a few specimens of the funny native trap called a _quilez_, which I have mentioned to you. It is very like the _tartana_ of Spain, a sort of tiny wagonette on two wheels, and covered so that it is really a sort of miniature two-wheeled omnibus.

Such a cabstand! Such fearfully dilapidated old rattle-traps, with mangy ponies lashed in by odds and ends of straps and string, and the drivers dressed in dirty rags (the only dirty Filipinos I’ve ever seen) sprawling half-asleep on the boxes! This collection, as I have said, is by way of being a cab-rank, but there are always plenty of _quilezes_ plying the streets for hire; their number indeed being at first astounding, till one becomes better acquainted with the laziness of the fares, coupled with the high rates of hire, which alone would make one job a day quite a good investment.

The discomfort and jolting of these conveyances is something which I can find no words to express —it is like one’s first ride on a camel—like waltzing with a Sandhurst cadet—like—like nothing in the world! A drive of one mile inside a _quilez_ is more fatiguing than a walk of two.

One thinks regretfully of the delightful luxury of the rickshaws and chairs of the real Far East, and I was very much surprised to see none of these luxurious comforts when we first arrived in the Philippines. It seems that a company was formed some years ago to introduce them, and got the concession to bring rickshaws and coolies from China, but as soon as these useful institutions appeared in the streets of Manila, the Filipinos stoned them, and at last forced the American authorities to banish the innovation altogether: “For,” said the astute and progressive Filipino, “the next thing will be that _we_ shall be made to draw these things about, and we will not be treated as animals.”

Fancy giving in to them! And fancy thinking of a splendid country and people like Japan, “where the rickshaws come from,” and listening to such preposterous nonsense from a Filipino! But these ignorant half-breeds got their way, and the only example they had ever had of energy or the real dignity of labour was promptly withdrawn to please them.

In the middle of the Alameda is a bandstand, bare and empty, with a big spluttering arc-light over it, shedding its cheese-white light on nothingness—for no band ever plays there, and the glories of social Iloilo went with the gay and courteous Spaniards. A few people go and sit about, however, in the evenings, and it is not a bad place to loaf in for anyone who can’t drive out to the country and is tired of the beach.

One evening, as we sat under the trees watching a group of _Mestizo_ children playing about some older people sitting on a seat, a little _banda de musica_ came strolling by, half a dozen young Filipinos in white trousers and _camisas_, carrying mandolins and guitars. They stopped near to where the children were playing, and struck up a certain beautiful waltz which one hears everywhere here—the work of some native composer, I believe—whereupon the little things all danced about on the white path in the fretted shadows of the trees, making a perfectly charming picture, and all so happy and jolly it did one good to watch them, in spite of the excessive heat.

The _banda de musica_ seemed to enjoy the fun too, for they smiled and showed their white teeth; speaking to the children and playing one tune after the other; and when we had to go home in time for dinner, we left them still dancing and playing under the trees, perfectly happy, even at that age, with anything in the nature of a _baile_.