By Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz, Executive Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine
SOMETIMES it’s not the place, but the people.
I remember how once, having arrived early in Durban, South Africa for an AIDS conference, I was told that my room was not ready so could I please wait in the lobby? With two hours to kill and a shimmering white beach just across, I asked the concierge if I could leave my baggage and take a stroll by the water’s edge. Almost in one voice in a pitch approaching panic, the front desk staff shook their heads. “Noooo! You can’t go to the beach alone. Wait till there are at least five of you.”
“But it’s just across, and it’s 9 in the morning,” I protested.
The concierge was adamant. “If you step out that door, we shall not be responsible for whatever happens to you,” he said in a clipped British accent that brooked no argument.
Needless to say, I spent the entire morning waiting for people I know to walk in so we could lope over to what has been described as “The Golden Mile” just a hundred meters away, and play tourists. Endless waiting would turn out to be routine the following days and group walk the protocol.
“A posse of five, no less,” the staff warned and we were too intimidated to play hookey. This meant wasting at least an hour while we summoned friends to make up the requisite quota, not to mention another hour arguing and discussing where the five of us would like to go.
Walking five abreast was no guarantee however, as well-meaning locals often called out: “Watch out for the homeboys!” They were apparently referring to the shabby young men lounging around street corners or leaning on trees, eyes shifty, looking for prey. Yup, this was Africa after all, and news of muggings, of purse snatchings and several hotel break-ins among the other conference delegates the following days convinced us that although apartheid has started to recede into history, the rule of the jungle still applies here.
Despite our precautions, I lost a pashmina shawl already packed in my bag to a light-fingered cleaning woman. And that’s why I’m not returning to Durban anytime soon despite the handsomely carved tribal masks, the well-crafted beadwork and the exotic plants in its botanical garden.
In contrast, I can’t wait to visit New Zealand again, this time in the guise of making the trip my son’s graduation gift. It’s not just the rolling hills, the fresh air, the wide open spaces and the surprising gardens tucked in every nook of the city that beckon, but the genuine warmth we experienced both from the Maoris and the Kiwis. I recall how, unable to decipher a map and feeling lost in the suburbs, we stepped into a bus to ask the driver for directions. To our surprise, he stepped down the bus, looked up the street and helpfully pointed out landmarks we could use to find our way. Total strangers would smile and greet us ‘Good morning,” or “Good Evening” just because we happened to walk in the same street or shared the same bus.
Indeed, passengers stepping into buses routinely greeted the drivers and thanked them for the ride before disembarking (“Good morning, Mr. Driver. Thank you, Mr. Driver).” Not one harsh word did we hear in our three weeks’ stay in this country. Our only complaint, if you can call it that, is the Kiwis’ rather undecipherable accent that takes getting used to.
In the same vein and except for the terrorist bombings of late, I would also love to go back to Bali if only to see once more how every household nurtures the culture, with children assiduously learning native dances in their neighbor’s backyard like we do catechism lessons here. Unlike in India where swarms of decrepit beggars appear at every streetlight, there are no beggars in Bali (at least when we were there ten years ago). People approach you timidly, but just as you reach for some coins, they bashfully bring out some goods — fruits, a batik cloth or some trinkets — to sell. No dole-outs for them, they’re too dignified for that.
Locally, I’d doff my hat off to the Ilocanos. I may not share their politics, but there’s no doubt that I’d break bread with them anytime. Such honest, hardworking, open people!
I remember buying a braid of garlic and some cornik, the total being P149. I gave the vendor P150 and turned to go. But she called me back and smilingly said, “Sukli po,” handing me the peso change. This happened again and again — whether we bought mangoes or empanada or ordered pinakbet and bagnet at restaurants, and even once, when a barangay aide directed traffic to help us get out of a rather tight parking space. Always, they refused to take tips, graciously returning our change and sometimes looking perplexed at the extra coins we proffered. Some, like Tito Olie who owns a restaurant in Paoay, volunteered to buy us some native vinegar when we couldn’t stop smacking our lips while dunking the crunchy bagnet into it. We found out that he charged us exactly what he paid for, not one centavo more. Not much of a businessman but definitely a swell guy.
When I discovered a run in the inabel shawl that we had bought two days before at the Vigan public market, I thought I’d try to exchange it for one without damage but with some trepidation that the process would probably be tedious and involve some arguments. Surprise! The young woman at Emelina’s took one look at the run and promptly took it back, bringing out other shawls that I might choose the replacement I wanted.
The adherence to traditional values is as apparent at Sitio Remedios in Currimao, right next to the Nipa resort where we stayed.
There, seven Antillean houses (the Spanish bahay na bato) have been pieced back and reconstructed from the original, complete with turn-of-the-century furnishings, a banggera, and sepia photographs. With Versailles-inspired grounds that open to the sea, it’s the perfect setting to savor age-old civility that, we’re happy to discover, resides deeply in this region’s people no matter their social status.
This was our third visit to Currimao, but you can be sure, not our last.
Editor’s note: Photos taken by Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz. Click here for more Sitio Remedios photos.
For more stories, check out the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s Favorite Places issue this Sunday, April 13.
