Viajes por Filipinas: De Manila á Albay (Chapter 1)

NOTE: I asked ChatGPT to translate from Spanish a chapter from the book “Viajes por Filipinas: De Manila à Albay” (Travels Through the Philippines: From Manila to Albay), the work of a certain Juan Alvarrez Guerra. He’s probably different from politician Juan Alvarrez Guerra because this book was published in 1887, while the politician Guerra died 42 years earlier in 1845. This traveler, a Spaniard, expressed his views on the places in Bicol candidly, but by today’s standards, some might consider them racist. I couldn’t find an English translation of this work and Google Translate and other translator websites offer awkward translations. So far, this translation is the best. I just asked ChatGPT to translate the work from the original Spanish, so there’s no danger of artificial intelligence’s “hallucinations.” Texts in blue are Rey Anthony Ostria’s notes.

Quietism.—Thermometric fevers.—D. Francisco.—A letter and a visit.—Travel plans.—The Sorsogon.—The captain’s appearance.—Sorsogon’s deck.—Hoisting activities.—Underway.—Salute flag.—Manila Bay.—Naig.—Bataan.—First lunch.—Luís.—French monomania.—Two mestizas and a friar.—Races.—Tastes and hobbies.—The port and the island.—Cavite and San Roque.—Enriqueta and Matilde.—Coasts of Tayabas.—Evening prayer.—French and Bicol.—Fireworks.—Amusements.—The Protestant cemetery.—Promise.—Dream.—”Bottom!”—Albay land.

You will see many old books’ chapters start this way. This is a way for you to see what’s inside the chapter. I don’t know why we stopped writing chapters this way.

It is four in the afternoon on October 3, 1879 … The thermometer reads 37° Celsius, and the grim statistics of the past week report two hundred and something deaths, mostly caused by a fever that doctors call I-don’t-know-what, and I don’t care, but I call thermometric fevers, because I’ve observed that in a house where a doctor uses a thermometer, there is a decrease in life, one less piece of marble in Rodoreda’s workshops, and one more page in Paco’s triennial records.

If you want to see a 19th century thermometer, I gotcha.

Renting any of the rooms in the three-story neighborhood of my respectable Mr. D. Francisco requires an advance payment of three years; if at the end of that time the tenancy is not renewed, eviction is carried out with a pickaxe, and no one has the right to complain, since the landlord, through the Gazette, magnanimously grants a twenty-day grace period.

Why is the cemetery called Paco? This is a question to which no one has ever been able to give me an answer.

This chapter starts in Paco, Manila, obviously. The title of the book is “Travels Through the Philippines: From Manila to Bicol” after all.

While I make these observations, I fend off mosquitoes, break the ribs of a hand fan, and soak two handkerchiefs in sweat.

A quarter of an hour has passed, and the heat is unbearable.

My robe, which only needs to be born into a higher cradle to be a complete gentleman, hands me a letter, the contents of which inform me of an expected visit from a friend.

An hour elapsed between receiving the letter and my friend’s tapping, an hour that I cannot mark in my work diary, as I squandered it with the prodigality of a millionaire or a skeptical twenty-year-old.

My friend, who announced himself with a wheeze worthy of better lungs—because poor guy, his aren’t very healthy—took a seat and caught his breath.

“Have you received my letter?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea why I’ve come?”

“No.”

“Then let’s get to the point. Will you accompany me on a trip?”

“By sea or by land?”

“By sea.”

“But man! You’re out of your mind. It’s typhoon season. Commerce doesn’t sleep, watching the Pasig’s bubbles. La Oceanía looks askance at its neighbor across the way, and the Diario prophesies, through the mouth of I-don’t-know-who, that the typhoon is just about to blow at the gates of Santa Lucía, and you’re thinking of sea voyages. Come on, come on, you’re sick and trying to infect me.”

“But, well, will you come with me or not?”

“I’ll tell you when you answer several questions: Where are we going, or rather, where do you plan for us to go?”

“We are,” said my friend with all the enthusiasm of a purebred tourist, “to the cradle of abaca, to the land of volcanoes, to sleep two nights at the foot of Mayon, to step on the mouth of its crater, if possible; to Albay, in short.”

“Who is in charge of the ship? Because I presume you’re not thinking of a sailing ship.”

“The ship is called Sorsogon and it is commanded by X. So, will you decide or not?”

“I repeat, when you answer all my questions, I will answer yours. I want to know where the captain is from, his age, marital status, character, his wife’s circumstances, if he is married, if he has a mother-in-law, children, fortune, and…”

“Who his tailor is and what he eats, right? As if this were a police station or a passport office. I’m already used to your witticisms, and since I know the captain perfectly well, I can tell you he is Andalusian, young, good-humored, married, his wife is pretty and makes him completely happy; he has a very cute little child, some thousand pesos, and never met his mother-in-law.”

“When does the ship depart?”

“On Saturday the fifth at nine in the morning.”

“Quico!” I shouted to my servant. “Get everything ready to board early on Saturday.”

“So, are you coming? Aren’t you afraid of typhoons?”

“Typhoons! Typhoons on board a good ship commanded by an intelligent captain, and therefore Andalusian and young, and rich, and with a pretty wife, and with children, and happy, and without a mother-in-law, there is no fear; I don’t have any of that, his life is responsible for mine, so no worries; besides, this trip seduces me, as I’m bored of Manila and want to explore the Bicol towns. Mark those five, and see you on board the Sorsogon on Saturday.”

My friend left, I got dressed and…

* * * * *

Two days have passed. It’s seven in the morning, and we find ourselves on the deck of the Sorsogon. A prolonged whistle sets chains, ropes, and pulleys in motion.

The complement to human activity is represented by the act of hoisting a ship. Everything moves, everything creaks, everything groans. The anchor tears through the bed of algae where it has slept with its teeth, coal sizzles on the grates giving breath to the steel lungs of the boiler, gears adjust, double pulleys show off their power, rough ropes and hawsers test their elasticity, chains strike the deck, and amidst all that life and movement where nothing is still, the ship swings free of all hindrances, combining the blades of the propeller in the depths of the swirling waters, whirlpools that bring intertwined ripples to the surface, forming filigrees of foam that the churning wake leaves behind.

The Sorsogon, obeying the reins of its helm with mathematical precision, rounds the southern pier, folding its greeting flag, with which it bid a fond farewell to the Marqués del Duero, one of the most beautiful vessels of the Spanish Navy.

Marqués del Duero would later be used during the Spanish-American War. It took massive hits from the American artillery. After the war, the Americans salvaged the ship and used it under a different name, but was decommissioned shortly after.

From the flag waving atop a mast to the one fluttering high on a wall, I find the same difference as in a handkerchief that wipes away a tear versus one that stifles a smile. The wall denotes confidence, its ensign defines a homeland; the ship indicates danger, its flag constantly writes in its folds a heart-wrenching farewell. The former is stillness, the latter the wandering traveler who ends his days either on the inhospitable shore burying his remains, or in the raging waves that in a swirling whirl carry him to sleep the eternal sleep in their mysterious coral beds…

The Sorsogon steams full speed ahead across the vast bay.

Manila shrinks, contracts, merges, and finally, as the coasts of Cavite come into view, only a strip of mist points on the horizon to the place of departure. Then, only through the spyglass can one perceive, like a white seagull perched on a foam crest, the tower of the lighthouse; later, the foam merges into the Ocean, the seagull disappears into the realms of light, the mist dissolves into the skies, and as the last line of the walled city fades from the retina, a new entry opens in the mysteries of memory.

To portside, we have the coasts of Naig; to starboard, the rugged mountains of Bataan, and ahead, the island of Corregidor.

Eleven chimes resonated in the chamber, and three knocks were sounded on the bell of the bowcastle.

Lunch was served.

The official presentation on board always takes place during the first meal. Upon taking possession of a ship, each person busies themselves arranging their cabin and attending to the small details that come with settling into a new home, even if it’s just a two-meter square box.

During the first meal on board, no aspect is overlooked by the passengers. Later on, familiarity sets in, along with a more relaxed atmosphere; however, the initial entrance into the ship’s dining room is impeccable. They surround themselves with all the little details of elegance, undoubtedly debuting the indispensable travel outfit. Before setting off, they must announce it to their friends, and in doing so, they must display a few yards of fabric cut and sewn according to the latest fashion. The travel outfit is as essential as a wedding dress. To tell a young or old woman to light the torch of matrimony without first adorning her body with new garments is sure not to spark joy: announce a little trip to her, even if it’s just a journey of twenty miles, and don’t present her with a sample beforehand, and the journey won’t be possible. For a woman traveling, her true passport is a paid or unpaid bill from a fashion store.

Shielded behind a robust bottle of red wine and whetting my appetite with half a pound of salami, I awaited the opportunity to thoroughly review everything within my sight.

Since among people of refinement, presentation is paramount, I will now introduce my lovely readers, and I say readers because they are always more curious than the men, to the sketches of my fellow passengers on board. Six white napkins pressed into ivory rings adorn the table. There are three unknown individuals whom I must sketch, as for the captain and my friend, you’ve already seen them, even if briefly. I have little to add to the sketch of the captain. Who among my readers doesn’t know a young Andalusian, handsome, lively, and gallant? Surely all. Therefore, we already know the captain. As for my friend, we will complete the picture with a few strokes. His name is Luis, he is 26 years old, blond, tall, slender, dresses like a Frenchman, eats like a Frenchman, thinks like a Frenchman, and is not French because his mother had the weakness to lighten her burden in a certain village of prosaic chickpeas and beans, a fact Luis never mentions because he believes it to be un-French.

Luis calls himself a man of letters; but he knows more about Balzac than Cervantes, hums tunes, but surely cannot recall a melody by Barbieri but always an Offenbach song. He navigates through the French Revolution, the days of the Empire, and the crossroads of the Commune without stumbling; however, he stumbles when entering the camp of Santa Fe or strolling through the fields of Almansa and Bailén. He finds fault with our Gothic cathedrals and our Moorish palaces because at the foot of their walls, wild basil and rugged thyme grow, circumstances not in line with French monuments.

Luis, not being touched by chic, esprit, and comfort, is a perfectly reasonable man; but as soon as he crosses the Pyrenees, he brandishes Don Quixote’s lance and shows that in every age, knights errant are born. Luis has all the conditions to be happy, and yet he is not. He is constantly tormented by the idea that his collars are not starched in the French manner and that the mail steamers do not call at Manila. The likelihood of having to travel on a Spanish ship and the thought of wearing a collar with morisqueta starch make him utterly miserable.

In the time it took me to paint the above strokes, two mestizas have taken their respective places, one dressed in the native saya and the other in European attire, and next to them an elderly and reverend Franciscan father.

Lunch was served on deck, thanks to the captain’s kindness. A double awning protected us from the sun, but not from the sea breezes caressing the folds of the canvas and the powerful light of the tropics refracting through its carved cups.

The two mestizas ate in silence, the captain served, the friar remained reserved, Luis mumbled through his Spanish stew, and I, your humble servant, seized the opportunity to capture the perfect light that illuminated my models entirely. I had mixed two inks on my palette since I began analyzing the two mestizas dining before me. It is impossible to behold in a human creature eyes darker and more velvety than those before me, hair more harmonious with the eyes, and teeth more contrasting with the hair color. The two mestizas were undoubtedly sisters, and I won’t say twins, for at first glance, there was an age discrepancy between them, which, if it didn’t lead to the assumption that they were mother and daughter, certainly completed the idea that they were sisters. Their faces had prominent and notably accentuated features, indicating the fusion of European and Indian races. The mestiza who carries only a single drop of Chinese blood can never be confused with either the quarterona or the mestiza of Indian and European descent. It is impossible to find in human races a force of attraction like that noted in the Chinese and Japanese. When there is a union between a Chinese and a European or vice versa, the children are invariably Chinese; when there is a union of Indian with Chinese, the offspring is Chinese, always Chinese, not even considering the possibility of regressing, for the great-great-grandson of a Chinese is as Chinese as the great-grandson, even if he is born in Europe and the family has no recollection of the Celestial Empire. Chinese eyes are not corrected by blood mixtures, surgical scalpels, or cosmetic products. The daughter of a European mestiza and a European father, that is, the quarterona, is also distinguished and perfectly defined, preventing confusion with the pure mestiza of Indian and European descent. The latter is brunette, her eyes are usually black, her nose slightly depressed, her hair long and thick, and her lips slightly full. The characteristic feature that distinguishes the quarterona from the mestiza is that the latter preserves in all its purity the traditions of her graceful and picturesque attire. The loose saya, the tiny chinela, the embroidered piña, the high pusod, the flattened peineta, and the small earrings constitute her attire, which she never abandons unless the Epistle of St. Paul takes charge of modifying attire and customs, something that tends to happen when she marries a European. In this case, one of two things happens: either the European becomes Indian or the Indian becomes European; and I say Indian because the customs of the mestiza generally follow those of her mother. Impressions, habits, and customs of childhood are not easily erased; thus, it is very difficult for the quarterona to forget sewing while seated on the petate or speaking Spanish with her servants. As for the mestiza, it is very common to find types that not only do not wear chinela, but also wear a corset and boots even indoors; quarteronas who claim they don’t speak Tagalog, don’t eat lechón or morisqueta, and have a high bed, subscription to La Moda Elegante, tight-fitting robes, long earrings, and a square neckline. In private, I’ll tell you that very discreetly, an Indigenous woman who served a mixed-race woman once told me that despite everything her mistress said, from time to time she would sneakily chew a tiny bit of betel nut and savor a cigarette; but she always did it with her toothbrush and perfumed water nearby. As for the suckling pig— the servant told me—she used to eat it, but solely and exclusively so as not to offend some friend.

A quarterona is an individual who has one-quarter ancestry from a specific racial or ethnic background. A chinela is—although I don’t think this needs more explanation—a tsinelas.

Based on the previous notes, there’s no doubt that our two unknown women are pure-blooded mestizas: the older one’s attire suggests she’s married, and married to a European.

During the first courses served, they didn’t engage in conversation.

They looked around and ate with the awkwardness of someone aware they’re being observed. Several times when the younger sister raised her eyes, she met mine, which were trying to discern what lay behind those darkest pupils. The bottom of every abyss is black. I don’t know what color the eyes of the first woman who sinned were, but those of the first who compelled to sin were surely black.

Having noticed the younger one’s face growing paler by the moment, I couldn’t help but inquire. Her sister focused on her and repeated my question, making it more familiar and ending it with a name. “What’s wrong, Enriqueta?” The one questioned replied, “Nothing, surely just a bit of dizziness.” “Come now,” the sister continued, “it’s clear you can’t even board a boat; and it’s strange; because imagine,” she added, turning to us, “she’s quite accustomed to the sea, as she’s from the Port and I’m from the Island.”

“Well, this is unexpected,” I thought to myself, “I believed I was dealing with two daughters of the Far East and here I am suddenly faced with Cádiz and San Fernando disguised in saya and candonga.”

“Alright, but this young lady would board a train.”

“Oh no!” the woman replied with the utmost naturalness, “we’ve always boarded barotos or paraos.”

Merriam-Webster defines a baroto as a “dugout canoe that is larger and heavier than a banca.” I cannot find the meaning of a parao.

“But, madam, there are no barotos or paraos in Cádiz or San Fernando.”

“But there are in Cavite and San Roque.”

“Ah! I see, so this young lady is from San Roque and you’re from Cavite.”

“Exactly, she’s from the Port and I’m from the Island.”

Then I remembered that women from Cavite are called Andalusians, knowing Cavite by the name of the Island and San Roque by the name of the Port, and those lucky girls are such sailors and so flirtatious that on one occasion, one of them, seeing a young boy about to be thrown off the horse he was riding, shouted, “Drop anchor, lad, drop anchor!”

Enriqueta’s dizziness must have increased, for before the end of the meal, she got up, saying to her sister, “Accompany me, Matilde.”

Enriqueta and Matilde, for we now know their names, left the table, leaving only the stronger sex.

The original text says, “quedando solamente el sexo fuerte.” Obviously, the product of its time.

Lunch ended, and following the age-old custom, the friar bid us farewell to seek a quiet and comfortable digestion in a few hours of siesta. In the light conversation we had during coffee, I learned that the reverend father had been in these lands for a whopping forty-seven years. While he savored his coffee, he spoke at length with his servant, who, in his fifteen years of service, must have known his master’s tastes and needs perfectly. I regret not being able to convey a single syllable of what they said, as they spoke in Bicol, the only way to communicate, as the servant didn’t know a single word of the rich and harmonious Spanish language.

I hope that by the end of his visit, he realized that the Bicol languages—”languages” because there are many different languages and dialects in the region—are also rich and harmonious.

Sitting in comfortable rattan armchairs and inhaling, if not the aroma, at least the smoke of a second cigar, we remained on deck, Luis, the captain, and myself. We talked about the journey, the coasts we were losing on the horizons, and various onboard episodes, finally falling silent, lulled by that sweet drowsiness that a good lunch, pleasant temperature, and a twisted Cagayan leaf predispose one to.

The afternoon hours were announced one by one in the strikes of the bronze, given by the vigilant bow lookout.

At five o’clock, dinner was served.

The mestizas did not appear.

The sea had become rippled by the caresses of a fresh Northwest wind.

The increasing rolls enlivened dinner, which was served in the dining room.

As we ascended to the deck, the luminous transparency of the day vanished on the western horizons, gradually erasing the outlines of the monstrous groups that the last rays of the sun sketched in the clouds.

In the faint and melancholic light of dusk, we sighted to portside an ashy strip. It was the coasts of Tayabas. I fixed my gaze on those peaks of eternal greenery with the same insistence as one trying to recognize the features of a loved one from a long distance.

The bow bell announced prayer.

The sailors ceased their tasks, silence reigned, and prayer took flight to other worlds. Mine was a memory for the loved ones who inhabit that distant land that was fading into the veils of the night. The name Tayabas will always stir our souls.

After prayer, we bid each other goodnight, following the legendary customs of our grandparents, covered our heads, and took our seats under the shelter of the helm’s cabin.

During one of the discussions that arose, Luis, following his eternal habit, tried to convince the Father that the guingón made in France far surpassed that produced by the looms of Barcelona; the good Father, who was not familiar with France or its guingón, who was a staunch Spaniard and therefore an old Castilian, who invariably rose at five, ate the prosaic stew with plenty of saffron, ham leftover, and lacking bones, at twelve, who found the monumental cup of thick chocolate as necessary for the body at five as the midnight prayers were necessary for the observance of his rule at twelve, listened without blinking to my good friend Luis, smiling mischievously. During the conversation, Luis interjected quite a few French words. The Father constantly had his servant behind his chair, who lit more than one matchbox for each cigar his master smoked. Whenever he addressed him, it was in Bicol, so as the abuse of French by Luis was quite frequent and the matches by the servant no less so, it can be assured that the Spanish language was in the minority. At a moment when Luis separated from us, the Father couldn’t help but tell me: “But tell me, why doesn’t your friend get rid of that habit of speaking in another language than our own?” At that moment, the question was interrupted for the hundredth time as his cigar went out; he turned his head and in perfect Bicol, held a conversation with his servant, a conversation that undoubtedly must have revolved around the combustibility of the leaf, or the flammability of the match, as he soon pointed to the meager box as he crushed the well-chewed stump that had reached such a state by passing through the flame of a hundred sticks. “So, you were saying, Father, when your cigar went out, why don’t you try to get Luis to rid himself of the habit of speaking French with Spaniards, as it’s quite simple,” I said very softly, “because we all have our own beam in our eye, seeing the mote in another’s eye; Luis’s beam is French, yours is Bicol. Fifteen years, you say, that servant has served him, well, in that time, he should have been speaking Spanish, not you Bicol.” This reason must have seemed so strong to him that he smiled, pulled another cigar from his sleeve, and… indeed, asked his servant in Bicol for the first match, inaugurating the second part of the fireworks.

Guingón is a fabric made from cotton.

Twenty-five Säkerhets-Tandstikor, which is like saying twenty-five rivals of Cascante, had rubbed against the amorphous tar of the box when ten o’clock struck on the clock in the chamber. Politely, we bid goodnight, and indeed, it was good for me, as I didn’t take long to fall asleep while I counted about a hundred beats of the propeller, beats that in my dreams I likened to as many pulsations of that iron monster, in whose bowels I slept with the tranquility of one who had never broken a plate.

Here two lines of ellipses would be appropriate, or the obligatory tale of goblins and apparitions; but as no one appeared to me, nor did I dream of being chased by a bull, or something of the sort, I renounce the dots and soporific tales, limiting myself to saying that with the dawn of a new day, I returned to real life, entering into social interaction, as a novice would to subjective objective, having previously covered my underwear with less airy fabrics.

I left the chamber. The sea was as perfectly asleep as I had been two hours earlier. A little breeze imbued with pure ozone gave elasticity and well-being to my entire body. Well-being that increased in me when I saw the improbable foot, due to its small size, of Enriqueta, who was climbing the stairs to the deck while lightly gathering her brightly colored skirt.

With the confidence that comes from living under the same roof, and that which every traveler lends, I approached the mestiza, using her recent bout of seasickness as an introduction. We talked about various things, indifferent at first, then accentuated, and later intentional. Enriqueta had let her curly and beautiful hair loose, which prompted the first word of the risky language of personal remarks from my lips. Mestizas are generally very sensitive, so it’s difficult to broach those tasty indiscretions where gallant phrases, promised ambushes, and incipient sensations come into play.

“With as much hair as you have, it’s no wonder your head hurts.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Enriqueta replied, smiling, while instinctively playing with the spirals of one of her beautiful curls.

“There’s no compliment at all, because I presume you won’t accept it as such when your head hurts.”

“Before the pains that are only presumed, one has attended to an abundance that no matter how much it is, women never consider excessive.” This reply made me understand that I not only had a beautiful woman by my side but also a discreet one.

After two hours of conversation, I am completely sure that Enriqueta was also sure of not being mistaken in considering herself beautiful, a circumstance that every woman knows before they put on their first long dress, but they still like to confirm whenever the opportunity arises, not in the mirror’s reflection but in the phrase and in the eyes of the man they’re talking to. Women up to thirty years old are constantly on guard, at the first word exchanged with someone of the opposite sex, they are on alert; if they don’t like it, they furrow their brows and their cold and displeased response tells the other to back off, and they continue on their way undisturbed; if, on the other hand, they like it, then concealment is impossible, in this case, an incendiary proclamation is made, and mutiny is almost certain.

Matilde’s impertinent voice calling her sister interrupted our conversation.

Enriqueta didn’t leave her cabin until lunchtime. While it lasted, various topics were discussed, without being able to resume the pending conversation, for as soon as coffee was served, the two mestizas returned to the cabin.

In the afternoon, I had the opportunity to approach Enriqueta, from whom I learned several details of her life. She was an English mestiza, her respectable Scottish merchant father had inherited all the rigidity of Puritan principles from his ancestors, in whose doctrine he had descended to the grave two years ago, leaving Enriqueta under the care of Matilde, who had been married for some time to a Spanish merchant who was currently in the province of Albay, dedicated to his profession.

Enriqueta had expressed her desire to leave Manila several times; I tried to inquire about the cause, and after a few detours, I learned that she went to the Protestant cemetery every Saturday, where her father’s remains rested in the solitary enclosure, a grave that Enriqueta kept clear of branches and weeds with filial care, who told me that the small railing that closed the mausoleum was covered with the red bells of climbing vines, under whose shade a large number of pots grew painted and whimsical flowers.

“I regret not being in Manila on this occasion,” I said when Enriqueta finished giving me those details.

“Why do you regret it?” she replied.

“I regret it because perhaps when you return to Manila, you will find the flowers dry and withered, whereas if I were there, I would find them as you left them.”

“My absence will be short, as my brother-in-law is trying to conclude his business, and we will return immediately; meanwhile, I have left the caretaker well gratified, with a promise to increase the reward if I find the small garden that shades the golden characters that mark my father’s name on the marble in perfect condition upon my return.”

Enriqueta fell silent upon uttering those words, her gaze wandering over the ocean, in whose majestic desert she perhaps evoked her beloved memory. There are silences that must be respected. For a long time, Enriqueta did not take her darkest pupils off the blue waves, whose moving surface reflected the ashy clouds that herald the night. This quickly enveloped us with its shadows.

“Do you know the province of Albay?” Enriqueta said, breaking the silence.

“No, ma’am, it’s my first time going there, and I do so like someone who seeks or desires nothing.”

“You will want and seek.”

I couldn’t fathom all the intention behind those words.

“Do you plan to describe your journey?” added Enriqueta.

“I don’t plan to write another line. We all are born with a cross to bear and a Calvary to traverse, the writer’s cross is very heavy and their Calvary very long, so I believe it impossible to undertake such a thorny path again.”

“I believe I have heard or read somewhere that the word impossible is not in the Spanish dictionary.”

“If you erase it from mine, it surely won’t be,” I replied not with malice but with naive certainty.

“So if I erase that word, there will be no impossible for you; well then,” she said with great vivacity, “it’s erased, write.”

“Do you command it?”

“If I had the right to do so, I would; since I don’t, I only express a wish.” As she said the last word, undoubtedly believing she had gone further than intended, she stood up, bidding me goodnight while extending one of her hands.

“Since you command me to write, I will write,” I said, holding her hand for a moment, “and furthermore, I promise you that the first copy of my new book will be for you.”

“You won’t do it.”

“I swear I will.”

As Enriqueta walked away from my side, I felt a sad emptiness within my soul.

Moments later, I heard her cabin door close.

I slept that night, but not like the previous one: I dreamed that Enriqueta and I were pulling up the weeds from her father’s grave together.

* * * * *

At dawn on the seventh day, we had in sight an extensive village.

The Sorsogon slowed its pace, avoiding with great caution the shoals that were scattered in those seas.

A buoy swaying within gunshot range of a rustic wooden pier came within reach of the ship’s maneuvers and … “Anchor!” shouted the captain, the sound of iron from the chain being confused with the bronze of two bells ringing on land. One was raised in the church tower, the other at the door of a warehouse. Religion called to the Christian, work summoned the laborer. That town awakened to the voice of faith and the voice of labor. Sacred language that makes everyone who understands it happy!

Quico was tasked with collecting the luggage. Luis and I set foot on the gangplank; we swayed for two minutes on the moving boards of the pier and set foot on Albay soil.

We were in Legazpi.

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In the second chapter, Juan Alvarrez Guerra describes Albay. Let me know if you want me to post the second chapter by sending me a message via ra@ravstheworld.com or via the comment section below.

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