H.O. Santos,
Mid-Twentieth Century Philippines (Issue No. 13)

BPSS is back. No, it wasn’t triskadekaphobia that made this issue not appear for a while but something else. However, let’s not dwell on that but go right into what’s in this issue.

Here we have two short stories related to World War II. One happens just before the war begins, the other after it ends. One was written recently, the other more than half a century ago. Both stories were written by people who went through the war, and both are only peripherally about the war.

Vicente Rivera, Jr’s “All Over the World” is set in Intramuros, which was a place livable before WWII, turned slum area after the war, and is now livable again. A lonely man befriends a precocious young girl who loves to read books. The advent of the war separates them, as it did many many others from their own friends and relatives. It has a haunting quality that I find bittersweet.

Hugh Aaron’s “Under the Mango Tree” happens after the war, in Pampanga, just as the Philippines was getting ready for independence. There is the usual exhilaration among people that comes after a dark period in their history, but hints of renewed social conflict is already in the air. For one brief moment Filipinos can dream of a new nation that accommodated all classes of people. Alas, we know now that it was not to happen. It is within this setting that the characters strive to find who their real selves are.

After three years, a more mature Karen Pioquinto is back with a new poem. She is one of the many joys that makes an editor’s work fun.

DURING the last couple of years, several developments came about in traditional outlets for Philippine literature. First, Philippine Graphic announced it would close its literary section. That left the disturbing prospect that one magazine, Philippines Free Press, would have a monopoly and exert an undue influence on Philippine literary style. The gods didn’t let it happen, though, because strangely enough, Philippine Graphic continued to publish literary works long after most writers thought it no longer had a literary section. Whether it was intermittently or continuously, I don’t know. (Remember, I see very few copies of Philippine magazines.) However, I am sure they did because they featured one of my short stories—in two parts at that—in the latter part of 2002, long after the announcement. Philippine Graphiceventually closed its literary section, however.

Fortunately, Manila Times opened a literary section in its Sunday magazine even before Philippine Graphicclosed its section. I was lucky to have one of my stories featured there right after it opened. One of BPSS’s contributors sent me a copy of that particular issue.

Well, guess what? Philippine Graphic’s literary section is back in business with Nick Joaquin back at the helm. I can confirm this because they used another of my short stories—in two parts again—a couple of months ago. It seems that habits and tradition are hard to get rid of.

That’s the way it is with BPSS, too. Enjoy!

 AT WAR’S END: AN ELEGY
by Rony V. Diaz

©2002 by Copper Sturgeon

1. THE DINNER PARTY

THE evening before he killed himself, Virgilio Serrano gave a dinner party. He invited five guests—friends and classmates in university— myself included. Since we lived on campus in barracks built by the U.S. Army, he sent his Packard to fetch us.

Virgilio lived alone in a pre-war chalet that belonged to his family. Four servants and a driver waited on him hand and foot. The chalet, partly damaged, was one of the few buildings in Ermita that survived the bombardment and street fighting to liberate Manila.

It had been skillfully restored; the broken lattices, fretwork, shell windows and wrought iron fence had been repaired or replaced at considerable expense. A hedge of bandera española had been planted and the scorched frangipani and hibiscus shrubs had been pruned carefully. Thus, Virgilio’s house was an ironic presence in the violated neighborhood.

He was on the porch when the car came to a crunching halt on the graveled driveway. He shook our hands solemnly, then ushered us into the living room. In the half-light, everything in the room glowed, shimmered or shone. The old ferruginous narra floor glowed. The pier glass coruscated. The bentwood furniture from the house in Jaen looked as if they had been burnished. In a corner, surrounded by bookcases, a black Steinway piano sparkled like glass.

Virgilio was immaculate in white de hilo pants and cotton shirt. I felt ill at ease in my surplus khakis and combat boots.

We were all in our second year. Soon we will be on different academic paths—Victor in philosophy; Zacarias in physics and chemistry; Enrique in electrical engineering; and Apolonio, law. Virgilio and I have both decided to make a career in English literature. Virgilio was also enrolled in the Conservatory and in courses in the philosophy of science.

We were all in awe of Virgilio. He seemed to know everything. He also did everything without any effort. He had not been seen studying or cramming for an exam in any subject, be it history, anthropology or calculus. Yet the grades that he won were only a shade off perfection.

HE and I were from the same province where our families owned rice farms except that ours was tiny, a hundred hectares, compared to the Serrano’s, a well-watered hacienda that covered 2,000 hectares of land as flat as a table.

The hacienda had been parceled out to eleven inquilinos who together controlled about a thousand tenants. The Serranos had a large stone house with a tile roof that dated back to the 17th century that they used during the summer months. The inquilinos dealt with Don Pepe’s spinster sister, the formidable Clara, who knew their share of the harvest to the last chupa. She was furthermore in residence all days of the year.

Virgilio was the only child. His mother was killed in a motor accident when he was nine. Don Pepe never remarried. He became more and more dependent on Clara as he devoted himself to books, music and conversation. His house in Cabildo was a salon during the years of the Commonwealth. At night, spirited debates on art, religion language, politics and world affairs would last until the first light of dawn. The guests who lived in the suburbs were served breakfasts before they drove off in their runabouts to Sta. Cruz, Ermita or San Miguel. The others stumbled on cobblestones on their way back to their own mansions within the cincture of Intramuros.

In October, Quezon himself came for merienda. He had just appointed General MacArthur field marshal of the Philippine Army because of disturbing news from Nanking and Chosun. Quezon cursed the Americans for not taking him in their confidence. But like most gifted politicians, he had a preternatural sense of danger.

“The Japanese will go to war against the Americans before this year is out, Pepe,” Quezon rasped, looking him straight in the eye.

This was the reason the Serranos prepared to move out of Manila. As discreetly as possible, Don Pepe had all his personal things packed and sent by train to Jaen. He stopped inviting his friends. But when the Steinway was crated and loaded on a large truck that blocked the street completely, the neighbors became curious. Don Pepe dissembled, saying that he had decided to live in the province for reasons of health, “at least until after Christmas.”

Two weeks later, he suffered a massive stroke and died. The whole town went into mourning. His remains were interred, along with his forebears, in the south wall of the parish church. A month later, before the period of mourning had ended, Japanese planes bombed and strafed Clark Field.

Except for about three months in their hunting lodge in the forests of Bongabong (to escape the rumored rapine that was expected to be visited on the country by the yellow horde. Virgilio and Clara spent the war years in peace and comfort in their ancestral house in Jaen.

Clara hired the best teachers for Virgilio. When food became scare in the big towns and cities, Clara put up their families in the granaries and bodegas of the hacienda so that they would go on tutoring Virgilio in science, history, literature, mathematics, philosophy and English. After his lessons, he read and practiced on the piano. He even learned to box and to fence although he was always nauseated by the ammoniac smell of the gloves and mask. Despite Clara’s best effort, she could not find new boxing gloves and fencing equipment. Until she met Honesto Garcia.

Honesto Garcia was a petty trader in rice who had mastered the intricate mechanics of the black market. He dealt in anything that could be moved but he became rich by buying and selling commodities such as soap, matches, cloth and quinine pills.

Garcia maintained a network of informers to help him align supply and demand—and at the same time collect intelligence for both the Japanese Army and the Hukbalahap.

One of his informers told him about Clara Serrano’s need for a pair of new boxing gloves and protective gear for escrima. He found these items. He personally drove in his amazing old car to Jaen to present them to Clara, throwing in a French epée that was still in its original case for good measure. He refused payment but asked to be allowed to visit.

Honesto Garcia was the son of a kasama of the Villavicencios of Cabanatuan. By hard work and numerous acts of fealty, his father became an inquilino. Honesto, the second of six children, however made up his mind very early that he would break loose from farming. He reached the seventh grade and although his father at that time had enough money to send him to high school, he decided to apprentice himself to a Chinese rice trader in Gapan. His wage was a few centavos a day, hardly enough for his meals, but after two years, he knew enough about the business to ask his father for a loan of P60 to set himself up as a rice dealer. And then the war broke out.

Honesto was handsome in a rough-hewn way. He tended to fat but because he was tall he was an imposing figure. He was unschooled in the social graces; he preferred to eat, squatting before a dulang, with his fingers. Despite these deficiencies, he exuded an aura of arrogance and self-confidence.

It was this trait that attracted Clara to him. Clara had never known strong-willed men, having grown up with effete persons like Don Pepe and compliant men like the inquilinos who were always silent in her presence.

When Clara told Virgilio that Honesto had proposed and that she was inclined to accept, Virgilio was not surprised. He also had grown to like Honesto who always came with unusual gifts. Once, Honesto gave him a mynah that Virgilio was able to teach within a few days to say “Good morning. How are you today?”

The wedding took place in June of the second year of the war. It was a grand affair. The church and the house were decked in flowers. The inquilinos fell over each other to, supply the wedding feast. Carts and sleds laden with squealing pigs, earthen water jars filled with squirming river fish, pullets bound at the shank like posies, fragrant rice that had been husked in wooden mortars with pestles, the freshest eggs and demijohns of carabao milk for leche flan and slews of vegetables and fruit that had been picked at exactly the right time descended on the big house. The wives and daughters of the tenants cooked the food in huge vats while their menfolk roasted the suckling pigs on spluttering coals. The quests were served on bamboo tables spread with banana leaves. The war was forgotten, a rondalla played the whole day, the children fought each other for the bladders of the pigs which they blew up into balloons and for the ears and tails of the lechon as they were lifted on their spits from the fire.

The bride wore the traje de boda of Virgilio’s mother, a masterpiece confected in Madrid of Belgian lace and seed pearls. The prettiest daughters of the inquilinos, dressed in organza and ribbons, held the long, embroidered train of the wedding gown.

Honesto’s family were awe-struck by this display of wealth and power. They cringed and cowered in the sala of the big house and all of them were too frightened to go to the comedor for the wedding lunch.

Not very long after the wedding, Honesto was running the hacienda. The inquilinos found him more congenial and understanding. At this time, the Huks were already making demands on them for food and other necessities. The fall in the Serrano share would have been impossible to explain to Clara. In fact, the Huks had established themselves on Carlos Valdefuerza’s parcel because his male children had joined the guerilla group.

Honesto learned for the first time that the Huks were primarily a political and not a resistance organization. They were spreading a foreign idea called scientific socialism that predicted the takeover of all lands by the workers. Ricardo Valdefuerza, who had taken instruction from Luis Taruc, was holding classes for the children of the other tenants.

Honesto was alarmed enough to take it up with Clara who merely shrugged him off. “How can illiterate farmers understand a complex idea like scientific socialism?” she asked.

“But they seem to understand it,” Honesto expostulated “because it promises to give them the land that they farm.”

“How is that possible? Quezon and the Americans will not allow it. They don’t have the Torrens Title,” Clara said with finality.

“Carding Valdefuerza has been saying that all value comes from work. What we get as our share is surplus that we do not deserve because we did nothing to it. It rightly belongs to the workers, according to him. I myself don’t understand this idea too clearly but that is how it is being explained to the tenants.”

“They are idle now. After the war, all this talk will vanish,” Clara said.

When American troops landed in Leyte, Clara was four months with child.

THE table had been cleared. Little glasses of a pale sweetish wine were passed around. Victor pushed back his chair to slouch.

“The war has given us the opportunity to change this country. The feudal order is being challenged all over the world. Mao Tse Tung has triumphed in China. Soon the revolution will be here. We have to help prepare the people for it.” Victor declared.

“Why change?” Virgilio asked. “The pre-war order had brought prosperity and democracy. What you call feudalism is necessary to rebuild the country. Who will lead? The Huks? The young turks of the Liberal Party? All they have are ideas; they have no capital, no power.”

The university was alive with talk of imminent revolutionary change. Young men and women, most of them from the upper classes, spoke earnestly of redistributing wealth.

“Nothing will come of it” Virgilio said, sipping his wine.

“Of all of us, you have the most to lose in a revolution,” Apolonio said. “What we should aim for is orderly lawful change. You might lose your hacienda but you must be paid for it. So in the end, you will still have the capital to live on in style.”

“You don’t understand,” Virgilio said. “It is not only a question of capital or compensation. I am talking of a way of life, of emotional bonds, of relationships that are immutable. In any case, we can do nothing one way or the other so let us change the subject.”

“Don’t be too sure,” I said. “We can influence these events one way or another.”

“You talk as it you have joined the Communist Party,” Virgilio said. “Have you?”

But before I could answer, he was off on another tack.

“You know I have just been reading about black holes,” Virgilio said addressing himself to Zacarias. “Oppenheimer and Snyder solved Einstein’s equations on what happens when a sun or star had used up its supply of nuclear energy. The star collapses gravitationally, disappears from view and remains in a state of permanent free fall, collapsing endlessly inward into a gravitational pit without end.

“What a marvelous idea! Such ideas are art in the highest sense but at the same time, the decisive proof of relativity,” Virgilio enthused.

“Do you know that Einstein is embarrassed by these black holes? He considers them a diversion from his search for a unified theory,” Zacarias said.

“Ah! The impulse towards simplicity, towards reduction. The need to explain all knowledge with a few, elegant equations. Don’t you think that his reductionism is the ultimate arrogance? Even if it is Einstein’s. In any case, he is not succeeding,” Virgilio said.

“But isn’t reductionism the human tendency? This is what Communism is all about, the reduction of human relationships to a set of unproven economic theorems,” I interjected.

“But the reductionist approach can also lead to astounding results. Take the Schröedinger and Dirac equations that reduced previous mysterious atomic physics to elegant order,” Enrique said.

“What is missing in all this is the effect on men of reductionism. It can very well lead to totalitarian control in the name of progress and social order,” Apolonio ventured.

“Let me resolve our debate by playing for you a piece that builds intuitively on three seemingly separate movements. This is Beethoven’s Sonata, Opus 27, No. 2.” Virgilio rose and walked gravely to the piano while we distributed ourselves on the bentwood furniture in the living room.

He played the opening Adagio with sensitive authority, escalating note to note until it resolved into the fragile D-flat major which in turn disappeared in the powerful rush of the concluding Presto, the movement that crystallized the disparate emotional resonances of the first two movements into an assured and balanced relationship.

When the last note had faded, we broke into cheers. But at that moment, I felt a deep sadness for Virgilio. As the Presto flooded the Allegretto, I knew that he was not of this world.

Outside, through the shell windows, moonlight softened the jagged ruins of battle.

2. THE INVESTIGATION

ON July 14, 1950, in the evening, Virgilio killed himself in his bedroom by slitting his wrists with a straight razor and thrusting them into a pail of warm water.

His body was not found until the next morning.

He did not appear for breakfast at eight. At eight-thirty, Josefa, the housemaid, knocked on the door of Virgilio’s bedroom. Getting no response, she asked Arturo, the driver, to climb up the window to look inside.

The three maids panicked. Arturo drove off at once in the Packard to get me. After leaving a note for the Dean of the College of Liberal Arts, we stopped at the police station near General Luna to report the suicide.

Two police officers were immediately assigned to investigate. They came with us in the car to the house in Ermita.

They started interrogating me in the car.

“Who are you?” Police Officer No. 1 asked.

“Why are you involved?”, Police Officer No. 2 demanded.

I was somewhat nervous but as calmly as I could be, I answered.

“My name is Nestor Gallego. I am a second-year student at University of the Philippines. Virgilio Serrano, the deceased, and I come from the same town, Jaen, in Nueva Ecija. I have known Virgilio since 1942 and I think he considers me his closest friend in university. That is the reason the driver came to me.”

The policemen brought together the household staff. “Did you touch, move or remove anything in the bedroom? Did any of you go out of the house after the driver left for the university?”

To both questions, the maids answered, No, whereupon they were told to stay within the premises for separate interviews later in the morning.

Police Officer No. 1 went out to the yard presumably to look for clues. Police Officer No. 2 made a sketch of the scene and then searched the bedroom systematically. He opened the drawers of the tallboy carefully, he felt around the linen and underwear. The wardrobe and the aparador were also examined. But it was on the contents of the rolltop desk that No. 1 concentrated. The notebooks, a diary, and address book were all neatly arranged around a Remington typewriter.

He was looking for a letter, a note even, to give him a clue or lead to the motive for the suicide.

On the first page of one of the notebooks were the “Down There” and then “To my friend and confidant, Nestor Gallego, with affection.” Although unsigned, it was in Virgilio’s spidery hand.

“You know anything about this?” No. 1 said in a low, threatening voice. He handed it to me.

I leafed through the pages. It looked like a long poem that had been broken down into thirteen cantos.

“No,” I said. “I have not seen this before.”

“But it is for you. What does it say?”

“I don’t know, I have to read it first,” cuttingly.

My sarcasm rolled off him like water on a duck. “Well then—read,” he ordered, motioning me to the wooden swivel chair.

A frisson ran up my spine. My hands trembled as I opened the notebook and scanned the poem. There were recognizable names, places and events. There were references to his professors in university and his tutors in Jaen. The names of some of his inquilinos appeared again and again. But the longest sections were about Honesto and Clara Garcia and Ricardo Valdefuerza.

From the tone and the words, it was a satire patterned closely after Dante’s Inferno. Virgilio, like Dante, had assigned or consigned people to different circles “down there.” It ended with a line from Valery, “A l’extrême de toute pensée est un soupir.”

“I cannot say truthfully that I understand it. I know some of the people and places referred to but not why they appear in this poem.”

“I will have to bring this back for analysis,” No. 1 said, giving it to No. 2 who put it carelessly in a plastic carryall.

“When you are done with it, can I have it back? I have a right to it since it was dedicated to me.” I wanted desperately to read it because I felt that it concealed the reason for Virgilio’s suicide.

They spent another hour talking to the household help and scribbling in grimy notebooks.

Before they left past one o’clock, No. 1 said: “It is clearly a suicide. There was no struggle. In fact, it was a very neat suicide.” He made it sound as if it was a remarkable piece of craftsmanship. I hated him.

I went with Arturo to the post office to send a telegram to Jaen. “Virgilio dead stop please come at once.”

The undertaker took charge thereafter, informing us that by six o’clock, the remains would be ready for viewing. He asked me to select the clothes for the dead. I chose the white de hilo pants and the white cotton shirt that Virgilio wore the other day.

“It is wrinkled,” the undertaker said. “Don’t you want to choose something else.”

“No,” I shouted at him. “Put him in these.”

3. THE FUNERAL

FATHER Sean O’Donovan, S.J., refused to say Mass or to bless the corpse. “Those who die by their own hand are beyond the pale of the Church,” he said firmly.

“Let us take him home,” Clara said. She asked me to make all the arrangements and not to mind the cost.

The rent for the hearse was clearly exorbitant. I bargained feebly and then agreed. Victor, Zacarias, Enrique, Apolonio and myself were to travel in the Packard. Honesto and Clara had driven to Manila in a new Buick.

The hearse moved at a stately 30 kilometers per hour while a scratchy dirge poured out of it at full volume. The Garcias followed in their Buick and we brought up the rear.

The rains of July had transformed the brown, dusty fields of Bulacan and Nueva Ecija into muddy fields. We passed small, nut-brown men, following a beast and a stick that scored the wet earth; dithering birds swooped down to pluck the crickets and worms that were turned up by the plow.

The beat of sprung pebbles against the fender of the car marked our passage.

The yard of the big house was already full of people. In the sala, a bier had been prepared. The wives of inquilinos were all in black. Large yellow tapers gave off a warm, oily smell that commingled with the attar of the flowers, producing an odor that the barrio folk called the smell of death.

Then the local worthies arrived, led by the congressman of the district, the governor of the province, the mayor of Jaen, the commander of the Scout Rangers who was leading a campaign against the Huks, with their wives and retainers. They were all on intimate teams with Honesto and Clara. Except for the colonel who was in full combat uniform, they were dressed in sharkskin and two-toned shoes. They wore their hair tightly sculpted with pomade against their skulls and on their wrists and fingers gold watches and jeweled rings glistened.

They all knew that Honesto had political ambition. It was not clear yet which position he had his sights on.

With the death of Virgilio, the immense wealth of the Serranos devolved on Clara and on Honesto and on their 5-year old son, Jose Jr. Both the Nacionalista and Liberal Parties have been dangling all manner of bait before Honesto. Now, there will be a scramble.

Honesto shook hands with everyone, murmuring acknowledgments of their expressions of grief but secretly assessing their separate motives. Clara was surrounded by the simpering wives of the politicians; like birds they postured to show their jewels to best advantage.

They only fell silent when Father Francisco Santander, the parish priest, came to say the prayer for the dead and to lead the procession to the Church where Virgilio’s mortal remains would be displayed on a catafalque before the altar before interment in the south wall side by side with Don Pepe’s.

I left the sala to join the crowd in the yard. My parents were there with the Serranos’ and our tenants.

There was a palpable tension in the air. A number of the kasamashad been seized by the Scout Rangers, detained and tortured, so that they may reveal the whereabouts of Carding. They were frightened. From what I heard from my parents, most of the tenants distrusted Honesto who they felt was using the campaign against the Huks to remove those he did not like. The inquilinos were helpless because Clara was now completely under the sway of Honesto.

I walked home. When I got there, Restituto, our caretaker, very agitated, took me aside and whispered. “Carding is in the house. He has been waiting for you since early morning. I kept him from view in your bedroom.” He looked at me, uncertain and obviously frightened. “What shall we do?

“Leave it to me. But do not tell anyone—not even my parents. He shall be gone by the time they return.” I put my arm around Restituto’s shoulder to reassure him.

Carding wheeled when I walked in, pistol at the ready. He was dressed in army fatigues and combat boots. A pair of Ray-Ban glasses dangled on his shirt. He put the pistol back in its holster.

“You shouldn’t be here. There are soldiers all around.”

“They will not come here. They are too busy in the hacienda,” Carding said.

The shy, spindly boy that I knew during the war had grown into a broad muscular man. His eyes were hooded and cunning.

“I have to talk to you. Did Virgilio leave a last will and testament?”

“Not that I know of. He left a notebook of poems.”

“What is that?” Carding demanded, startled.

“A notebook of verses with the title ‘Down There.’ You are mentioned in the poem. But the police has it,” I answered.

“Did it say anything about the disposition of the hacienda in case of his death?”

“I did not have a chance to read it closely but I doubt it. Aren’t such things always done up in legal language? There certainly is nothing like that in the notebook. What are you leading up to?”

Carding sighed. “In 1943; Virgilio came to see me. He had heard from Honesto that I have been talking to the tenants about their rights. Virgilio wanted to know himself the bases of my claims. We had a long talk. I told him about the inevitability of the triumph of the peasant class. Despite his wide reading, he had not heard of Marx, Lenin, or Mao Tse Tung. He was visibly shaken. But when I told him of the coming calamity that will bring down his class, he asked ‘What can I do?’ and I said: ‘Give up. Give up your land, your privilege and your power. That is the only way to avoid the coming calamity’.

“He apparently did not have any grasp of social forces. He kept talking of individual persons—tenants that he had known since he was a child, inquilinos who had been faithful to his father until their old age, and all that nonsense. ‘The individual does not matter,’ I yelled at him. ‘Only the class called the proletariat.’

“But even without understanding, he said that he will leave the hacienda to the tenants because it was probably the right thing to do. But Clara should not be completely deprived of her means of support. It was exasperating, talking to him, but he did promise that in his will the tenants would get all.

“Obviously, he changed his mind.” Carding said in a low voice. “That is too bad because now we have to take his land by force.”

I was speechless. In university, talk of revolution was all the rage but this was my first encounter with a man who could or would try to make it happen.

“When I get back the notebook, I will study it to see if there is any statement that will legally transfer the Serrano hacienda to you and the other tenants,” I said weakly.

“I will be in touch,” Carding said. He walked out the door.

The day of the funeral was clear and hot. Dust devils rose from the road. In the shadow of the acacia trees in the churchyard, hundreds of people of all ages crowded to get away from the sun. Inside the church, even the aisles were packed.

“Introibo ad altare Dei” Father Santander intoned.

“Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam,” I answered.

The mass for the dead began.

My heart was racing because I knew the reason for Virgilio’s suicide. But nobody would care, save me.

THE BUS DRIVER’S DAUGHTER
by H.O. Santos

All photos ©1987 by Hector Santos

BY the time I got to Bora Bora I wasn’t shy anymore about asking strangers for favors. I always offered something in return and almost everyone seemed to appreciate that although I knew they mostly didn’t need what I had to offer.

Like yesterday. I spent a wonderful day on Motu Moute as the guest of a couple who tended a small watermelon patch on that barrier island, one of the many motus that surround Bora Bora. When I heard they were going to work on their farm, I offered to help for free. They thought I was nuts—the dry season was over, they said, and there’d be mosquitoes and gnats on the island. They laughed but finally said okay, undoubtedly to humor a fool as much as they needed help.

They weren’t kidding. There were lots of gnats and the mosquitoes were only waiting to take over at night. There wasn’t much work—there wasn’t enough weeds for three people to pull out and the plants were doing well. It was quite an enjoyable day for the island was beautiful and pristine—very few people go there to mess it up. For lunch we ate fish caught on the way over, broiled over charcoal from the coconut leaves I collected. I even managed to do some swimming in the calm lagoon waters.

I was on my third day in Vaitape, the main town in Bora Bora. It had a pier which wasn’t very busy—only little boats and small cruise ships docked there. For the third day in a row, I saw the brown dog that seemed to have made the pier his home. He would meet every ship that came in and look at the faces of everyone who disembarked, as if looking for a long-lost master who had sailed away one day and never came back. I wondered if his master had left his island home for the same reasons I left mine when I was twenty-one. I felt sorry for the dog because I had already learned what “you can never come home again” meant.

I worried about what I was going to do the rest of the day when I saw a le truck that looked like it might be a tour bus. I went to the driver and asked. Her name was Teróo and yes, she was waiting to take tourists from a cruise ship on a circle island tour.

“Can I help? I speak English.”

“What do I need you for, I speak English myself. Everyone in the tour industry does.”

“I don’t want any money—I just want to help you round your passengers up after each stop. Surely, you don’t want to lose any of them.”

She laughed loud in such an infectious manner I thought perhaps I had told a good joke. “I haven’t lost anyone yet. This is a very small island. How can anyone get lost?”

“Oh, come on. I’m sure you can find something for me to do to make your life easier. Besides, how can I get to see this island if you don’t let me help?”

“Where are you from, Chile or Castille?”

“Non, je suis philippin.” I wanted to impress her with my French.

“Well, well—I’ve never met a Filipino before,” she said with that beautiful laughter she had. “You can come with me but promise to tell me about your country.”

A LAUNCH from Wind Song, the high-tech French luxury sailing ship anchored in the bay, arrived at the pier to let passengers off for the tour. There was a dozen of them, mostly old Americans. As soon as they got aboard, we started on our way. There were already people from Club Med in the bus and we stopped at Bloody Mary’s to pick up another couple. Teróo was driving a regular le truck painted light blue and red, with wooden benches and open windows. I sat in the front with her.

We went in a clockwise direction along the road that circled the island. Our first stop was on a relatively high point just a few miles out of Vaitape. To the left we had a good view of the small bay, to the right were concrete bunkers and fortifications. Teróo explained the area used to be a submarine base in World War II. None of the old buildings existed anymore—they had either been torn down or reclaimed by the jungle.

I figured this was where James Michener was stationed during the war—the place where he wrote many of the stories in Tales of the South Pacific as he waited for the enemy that never came. I looked at Teróo, who appropriately looked like a cross between Bloody Mary and Liat in the movie, and pondered the likes of Lt. Joe Cable who saw beauty in Liat but at the same time found her unqualified to be a wife because of her color. By the time Michener’s book became a musical, Lt. Cable had been rehabilitated into one who protested “you have to be taught” to consider other races inferior. White America wasn’t ready then to look in the mirror and see its real self.

None of the passengers got down. I doubt if they knew or cared who James Michener was. Big band music and scenes of sailors and Marines in khaki uniforms scanning the horizon for enemy ships faded from my mind as the bus started moving again and jolted me back to reality.

The circle island tour doesn’t cover many historically important places for there is virtually none in Bora Bora. We stopped at scenic vistas—there was a lot of them—where the tourists got out to take pictures they can show back home. Farther along, Teróo stopped the bus at a secluded place where there were lots of trees and announced that those who wanted to relieve themselves can do so. “Women to the left of the road, men on the right,” she yelled. I told Teróo we did the same thing in the Philippines and drew a laugh from her. However, nobody wanted to go, probably too embarrassed to do even such a natural act outdoors because they had been doing it indoors all their lives.

Somewhere past the halfway point, we stopped at a wooden shack that sold souvenirs, snacks, and soft drinks. Teróo told everyone they were free to browse around for half an hour. As soon as they had gone, Teróo and I went to the back of the bus to chat.

“So how is it you’re here? I have never seen a Filipino here before, honest.”

“Oh, I was let go from my job in Los Angeles because sales was down. I wanted to go on a vacation before I start on a new job.”

“You born in the Philippines?”

“Yes, I went to America because life was hard for me in my country.”

“Isn’t the Philippines like this island?”

“Right, except there’s too many people. Even crowded Papéete seems wide open compared to the Philippines. I don’t know, but everything here seems familiar—not just the climate but the way the language sounds, the words, the way people go about their business. But we’re different, too. Perhaps we’ve changed so much that what we now have isn’t real anymore.”

“We’re changing, too,” she mused, “not always good. I don’t know how we were able to keep much of our customs. Look what happened to the Hawaiians…” She turned pensive for a while. “Anyway, how long are you going to stay here?”

“In French Polynesia? As long as my money holds out—I want to see as much of this area as I can. I’m beginning to think I can get a feel of what the Philippines might have been had things been different.”

“That’s nice.”

“I know I’ll never have another chance like this again. I don’t want to end up like these tourists who wait until it’s almost too late to enjoy travel.”

“I would like to travel myself but I can’t afford to go anywhere.”

“You’re lucky, this is paradise as far as I’m concerned.”

“But it still would be nice to see different places.”

Teróo didn’t want a soda so I got just one for myself at the snack bar. It was expensive as hell­—three bucks—but that’s what they charged everybody everywhere, not just tourists at this tourist stand. Everything was expensive in paradise.

When I returned, I asked Teróo, “So how often does anything exciting come to stir everybody from their romantic attitudes here?”

“Not very often. You know I was in a Hollywood movie once? Mutiny on the Bounty. Those were exciting times.”

“The one with Marlon Brando?”

She laughed hard. “You’re a bad boy. I’m not that old—the one with Mel Gibson.”

“At least I didn’t ask if it was the Charles Laughton movie,” I teased back. “Yeah, I saw the Mel Gibson movie—lots of nude women, beautiful bodies, sexy…”

“I was one of them.” She gave me a big smile.

I didn’t say anything and smiled back. She looked pretty enough but she had gotten a bit heavy just like most Polynesian women tend to do when they reach a certain age.

She sensed my incredulity and laughed again. “I was only eighteen… you wouldn’t believe how beautiful and sexy I looked then.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“No, you don’t—you don’t believe me,” she said, shaking her head.

Our passengers were still milling about the store—a few had gone across the road to check out what was there. I smiled at the idea some of them may finally be relieving themselves after passing on the first scheduled pee stop.

“What islands have you seen?”

“Tahiti and Raiatea before this.”

“Then you should visit Huahine. That’s my island. I have a daughter who lives there in our old house. She looks exactly like I did when I was eighteen. You can stay there for free.”

“You’re very kind but I don’t want to impose on strangers.”

“You don’t know us Polynesians. I like you and you are my friend, and I want you to meet my daughter. You will see how I looked twenty years ago. She will be happy to meet you. School is over and she’s there with her grandfather, my father. My husband works in Papéete, you know.”

TWO days later I was at Farepiti Quay, the pier commercial ships use in Bora Bora, waiting to get on the ferry for the overnight trip to Huahine. Teróo’s daughter, Simone, was going to meet me in Fare when we get there in the morning. She had just finished high school in Tahiti and was on vacation before going off to college.

We slept on the deck of the ferry which also serves as a freighter. Many people had straw mats to lie on—I had none but used my jacket for warmth and my backpack for a pillow. It was getting light when a loud crunch woke me up. I heard voices and I understood enough to know we had hit something.

I was surprised nobody seemed too disturbed. People were calmly looking out over the side. One of them explained we were in one of the channels through the barrier reefs around Huahine. We had hit a sandbar—the captain had misjudged its depth because of the complicated tidal pattern. Happens all the time, he said. The biggest inconvenience was that we’ll be six hours late. We’ll have to wait until the tide gets high enough again for us to clear the sand bar.

I worried Simone might go back home when the ship didn’t arrive on time. I can call her on the phone but my Huahine trip felt like it was starting on the wrong foot—I had already caused her inconvenience.

We eventually got to the Fare pier by mid-afternoon. As our ship was coming in I saw the rickety stores and hotels across the tree-shaded street. Next to the pier was a snack bar. Off to the right was a bridge that two white kids­—teenagers—on bicycles were crossing from wherever they may have gone to. They had white shirts and black pants, and the safety helmets required in America. I knew right away they were eighteen-year-old Mormon missionaries. They looked exactly like the ones we had in L.A. At their age, they probably didn’t realize how lucky they were to be able to spend a year of their lives among people of a different culture.

One young woman stood out from the rest of the people waiting at the pier. She was in a yellow and tangerine pareu, that one-piece wonder women all over French Polynesia used for clothing. She was sitting on that metal thing—I don’t know what it’s called—ships tie up to. She appeared to be scanning the ship for someone she was supposed to meet. When we made eye contact, I knew right away she was Simone. I went straight to her as soon as I got ashore.

“Bonjour, êtes vous Mademoiselle Simone?”

“Oui, vous devez être Antonio, n’est-ce pas?”

“Wow! Vous êtes jolie… Veuillez m’excuser, je ne parle pas bien le français.”

She laughed heartily—she had the same infectious laugh her mother had. “Maybe not, just good enough to flirt, I see.”

“You have to understand I only know a few phrases in French. Luckily, the ones I knew fit the occasion. I really meant what I said.”

“I’m glad to meet you. My mother said to take good care of you.”

“She’s a wonderful woman—as warm and friendly as anybody I’ve ever known.”

“She’s a good mom, too. That’s why I always try to do what she asks of me.”

“Where did you learn to speak excellent English?”

“In school. I chose to study English because I had been aiming for a scholarship in an American university since I started high school. I was lucky enough to get one at U.C. Santa Barbara.”

“That’s only an hour’s drive from where I live.”

“Good. Maybe you can visit me when I get there.”

She was beautiful—full-bodied and full-hipped—attributes which may later work against her but were assets at eighteen. Gentle face, large brown eyes, and long, shiny, dark hair. I saw Teróo in her face and in her genuine warmth and charm.

She had borrowed an Italian scooter from her cousin and asked me to get in the back. She told me to hold on to her so I can lean whichever way she did in a coordinated manner.

I couldn’t believe I had my arms around the warm body of a beautiful woman. I was awkward around women and would normally scheme and plan just to get so far. A friend once said I was too timid with girls I liked, afraid of getting turned down. He was right but my carefully crafted defenses had saved me from much heartache over the years.

I fell for Simone right away but warned myself she was a different kind of girl. She was the daughter of a woman who had befriended me. I had to be very, very careful not to do anything that would break that trust. The thought gave me comfort—I had no pressure to get anywhere with her and had a ready-made excuse should I fail.

She lived in Faie, on the other side of Huahine Nui, or Big Huahine. There was another island called Huahine Iti, or Little Huahine, and the two were connected by a short bridge. She warned me not to get Fare and Faie mixed up since they almost sounded the same.

The roads were good and the terrain was relatively flat—Huahine didn’t have the tall mountain peaks in the middle like most of the other islands of French Polynesia. Houses were well made, many built with concrete blocks and corrugated iron although some were made of wood and raised from the ground. They weren’t clustered together and had lots of space around them.

After a little over half an hour on the road, Simone pulled into a dirt driveway that led to a large wooden house. Trees—jackfruit and mango—shaded the house. Bird chirps punctuated the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.

We walked to the porch where Simone introduced me to her relatives who lived nearby. They were preparing food—peeling, cutting, and chopping vegetables and meat.

We next went to the kitchen where I met her grandfather. He was well-built and looked strong, not old at all. He greeted me in French and I mumbled back an appropriate response. They spoke to each other in Tahitian. Her grandfather laughed, then she came to me and put an arm around my waist and smiled. She laughed, too.

“What’s going on here? Are they having a party tonight?”

“No—well, yes—my extended family has come to welcome you. We’re all eating together tonight.”

“Oh, Simone, this is embarrassing—they’re going to all this trouble for someone they don’t know.”

“Don’t be silly. They all want to eat and have a few drinks, too. It’s a good excuse to get together. Besides, they know you’re my mom’s friend.”

She took my backpack and stored it in one of the rooms. When she returned, one of her cousins handed her a plastic pail and said something in Tahitian.

“We have more than an hour before food is served—they thought it might be a good time for me to show you something. When we come back, we’ll have time to take a quick shower and change before we eat.”

We went out to the highway, turned right, and walked about half a kilometer towards the bridge we had passed earlier. Next to the bridge was a house with dozens of vandas in various colors all around the yard. She exchanged greetings with a boy who was sitting on the front steps. The boy who was perhaps sixteen came running out to join us.

We went down the embankment and walked along the banks of the small river to where it almost met the ocean. Simone and the boy got on their knees at the water’s edge and started slapping on it with their hands. I saw one of the strangest sights I have ever seen. Large eels started wriggling out from their holes along the banks and came to where the splashing was.

When there was a couple of dozen eels around, they gave them food from the plastic pail—bread, rice, vegetables, pieces of raw meat. “They eat anything,” Simone explained.

“Do they bite?”

“They probably do, but not if you don’t do anything stupid. They know we’re here to give them food.” Simone explained that the eels were treated by the local kids as pets, feeding them regularly. “What do you think?”

I laughed. “All I can say is if this was in the Philippines they would all have been eaten long ago.”

WE were ready for dinner. We had showered and changed. Simone was in a new green and purple pareu. She had it tied in another one of the endless number of variations, like a strapless gown this time. A pareu is nothing more than a brightly colored piece of rectangular cloth and I always wondered how they made them stay in place.

Her relatives had set a buffet table and I saw barbecued pork and fish along with poison cru, their version of kilawen, broiled breadfruit, green salad, and steamed rice. Off to the side was a barrel full of Hinano beer on ice. On another small table were several bottles of French wine.

There must have been twenty or thirty people, all nice to me. The food was good, and the beer and wine made conversing in a strange language less stressful for everyone. Simone’s relatives spoke to me in French and bad English. I replied in English and terrible French. Simone hovered close to me all the time, ever ready to rescue or translate for me, whichever seemed to be needed at that moment. It was hard not to get attracted to her—she was extraordinarily kind. However, not only was she the daughter of a friend, she was also embarrassingly ten years younger than I was. It didn’t make it any easier that she was more mature than many of the other women I knew—I was afraid she’d consider me ancient.

After everyone was full, two guys came in with log drums. They started beating out a steady rhythm that got everyone dancing. To me, much of Tahitian dance is erotic and some moves are outright simulations of fornication. They taught me those moves, difficult and tiring for a novice, and made me dance. We had been dancing for over an hour when one of the drummers apparently gave an order because everybody started leaving the dance floor one by one until only Simone and I were left.

The drums beat out more complex patterns while Simone danced around me, brushing me with her arms and legs, and bumping me with her hips and her body. Everyone was yelling, encouraging her on. Simone got closer to me and started swaying her hips faster in a frenzy that was exciting. The drums rose to a final crescendo then everything stopped. The party was over.

Each of the guests offered me another welcome to their island before leaving for the night. Simone’s grandfather had long retired to his room.

Simone was sweating profusely from her dance. She got a couple of Hinanos from the barrel and gave me one. We turned the lights off and went to the front steps where we sat close to each other. There was a solid breeze—it helped make the heat bearable, even nice. The moon was high and lit the landscape with a cold light that turned the bright colors of the trees and the flowers to a dull gray.

We didn’t feel the need to talk. The cold beer tasted great in the sultry night—its bitter aftertaste reminded me of tears and sweat. I wanted to thank Simone with a hug but didn’t want to spoil anything.

After our second beer Simone said, “We better turn in now. We have a lot of places to see tomorrow.”

She led me to the room where she had put my backpack—the same room where I changed after I took a shower. “You’re sleeping in my room,” she said. She unrolled a palm leaf mat on the floor and placed blankets and pillows on it.

“What about you? Where will you sleep?”

“What do you mean? This is my room, too.” She sounded like she was surprised to hear such nonsense from me. She casually pulled out the corner of her pareu that held it in place and let it fall on the floor—she only had a pair of bikini panties underneath. She put on a large Miami Dolphins T-shirt and laid down on one side of the mat. I changed my wet T-shirt into a dry one and took the other half of the mat.

“This really isn’t my room anymore—it was mine until I left to go to high school in Papéete. We students board there during the school year. I get to use this room on my vacations. Two of my cousins who help take care of Grandfather use it when I’m not around.”

She snuggled close to me and I felt her soft breasts touch my arms. She smelled of tiare, the smell reminded me of the gentle fragrance of the sampaguitas of my youth. I turned around and kissed her impulsively—it just felt like the thing to do. Our tongues touched and she was delicious. I groped for her breasts through her T-shirt, then decided I could do better if I put my hand directly under her shirt. Her young breasts were firm but supple—her nipples were small, typical for one who hadn’t nursed a child yet.

I would have stopped right there, content with little victories had she not reached down and touched my cock. We both knew what was coming next and took our clothes off. I wasn’t clumsy anymore but confidently moved like I had been doing it with her for a long time. It felt good when I got inside her. We kept it up for a while, not speaking, and she held me back whenever she felt I was getting frantic. When she finally let me come, she was ready—her body stiffened and shuddered several times before she went limp.

I WOKE up just as the sun had come up. Simone was still sleeping. When I walked out of the room, I saw that her grandfather was already awake and having a cup of coffee. I was embarrassed when he saw me come out.

“Ia orana,” I greeted him warily.

“Bonjour! Comment allez vous? Voullez-vous du café?”

“Oui, si’l vous plait. Noir—sans sucre, sans lait.”

He came back from the kitchen and handed me a cup of coffee. It was strong and it was good. Another legacy from the French I said to myself. We seemed to be the only two people awake in all of Huahine.

We sipped our coffee in silence. I was apprehensive about starting a conversation.

“Simone est séduisante nest-ce pas? Is nice, yes?” he said at long last but didn’t show any indication of what he was really trying to get to.

“Oui, she’s very pretty.” Did I give myself away? I wondered.

“Êtes-vous de Californie?”

“Oui.”

“Simone go school Californie.”

Just then Simone came out from her room to join us. She was wearing the same T-shirt but had put on a pair of tan cargo shorts. Her hair was disheveled but she still looked lovely. Her large brown eyes smiled before her lips did. She put her arms around my shoulders in a gesture as unaffected as it would have been had she been greeting her grandfather. I realized then I had been brought up in an environment very different from hers—mine had been inhibited, hers open. Her touch made me uneasy no more.

Simone went to the kitchen to get herself a cup of coffee. She brought the pot over to refill our cups. She let her grandfather know about our activities for the day. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but they laughed a lot.

LATER that morning, we were back on the road. Simone had me put extra clothes in my backpack in case it got cold or we didn’t get back home before dark. She also made sure we had bathing suits because there would be places where we might be tempted to swim.

It didn’t take long to get to our first stop, Marae Rauhuru. I had been to a few othermaraes before but they’re all different—this one was smaller but had larger stones. Like the others, this maraewas on a raised rectangular platform built up with rocks, stones, and dirt. Flat, upright slabs of coral stood along its periphery. More slabs were in what seemed to be random places in the middle of the platform.

“These are sacred places our ancient people used for religious ceremonies—exactly what, we’re not sure. They could have been animal or even human sacrifices.”

“Those standing stones—any astronomical features to them?”

“Again, we don’t know although nobody has yet found a connection. There’s a lot of things we still don’t know about our old culture. That’s one reason I want to go to school in the U.S. After my degree, I’d like to go for a doctorate at University of Hawaii and do research on our past.”

“That’s very commendable… I wish you luck.” I knew Simone was kind and responsible but this was the first indication I got that she really had great plans about what she wanted to do with her life.

“I hope you don’t mind, but let’s stay around this marae for a while. Feel the energy from this place. Too many tourists rush from one place to another and never get to know anything real.”

We walked around the marae. Some of the coral slabs were green with lichen, others were smooth and plain.

“How old is this marae?”

“Probably twelve hundred years… Of course, it must have been destroyed by cyclones and rebuilt a few times. Sometimes those waves can get strong even though we’re surrounded by barrier reefs. Inter-island wars could also have destroyed it once or twice.”

“How do you know all these?”

“I’ve been reading a lot. It’s a subject that really inspires me.”

We sat on the edge of themarae, soaking the sun in and gazing at the ocean. After a few minutes, Simone pulled me up and pointed towards a nearby thatch-roofed, oblong-shaped structure built over-water on stilts. It had no windows. It was a replica of a building where the ancient rulers met, she explained.

She asked me to take my shoes off before entering as a sign of respect. I was surprised to see how bright and airy it was inside considering there were no windows. Light came through the gap between the wall and the pitched roof—the gap wasn’t noticeable from the outside. We squatted on a large palm leaf mat that covered the floor. The place was quiet and peaceful.

Presently, about half a dozen people came in. The men were in Hawaiian shirts and the women in colorful muumuus. They walked around and were apparently baffled there was nothing to see inside. I noticed Simone got a bit agitated because they hadn’t removed their shoes. One of them came over and asked what the building was for and Simone told him. The man said it would be a good idea to fill the room with exhibits because there was nothing there for tourists to see. I was astonished at the self-control my young friend showed.

We set out again in the direction of Fare. A couple of kilometers away, Simone stopped on the side of the road and pointed to the ancient rock fish traps in the inner lagoon. Nobody knew how old they were but they had been in constant use for centuries.

“I’ve seen bamboo fish traps in the Philippines with the same pattern.”

“Our ancestors brought with them many cultural traits and traditions from the Philippines and Indonesia. You’ll find a lot here that may have been lost there long ago. I once read an article about your sexual customs in ancient Philippines the friars found sinful. They said the women were too promiscuous. Funny but they didn’t say anything about the men. Doesn’t it take two?” She laughed.

“Is that true… the promiscuity, I mean? You wouldn’t know it the way girls behave there today—it takes a lot of work just to get one to let you hold her hand.”

“That’s the influence of the Church. When the white men first came to our islands they said the same thing about our women. Guess what, I don’t think they know the difference between promiscuity and not hiding your true feelings. In this regard, we probably haven’t changed as much as you Filipinos.”

“Anything we still do you don’t do anymore?”

“Our ancestors brought dogs with them—as pets and as a source of protein. We don’t eat them anymore.”

She turned red and looked anxious. She looked relieved when I laughed.

“Some day I’ll read the original friar manuscripts and write a paper investigating how Christianity changed the culture in the Philippines and how Islam did the same in Indonesia.”

I thought about my high school days when I wanted to be a writer, or maybe a photographer. I gave up those plans because I reckoned the best way to get respect was to have a good-paying, practical job. So I became an engineer, instead. I envied Simone who was going on to do the things she loved.

IT was noon and very hot when we got to Fare. Simone parked the scooter under a wide-spreading monkeypod tree across from the pier. I followed her to a small hotel that had mostly cash-starved surfers as guests. Inside was a restaurant, a typical South Seas restaurant the way I remember from the movies. It’s walls were bare except for an airline calendar. Two slow-rotating fans dominated the ceiling.

The restaurant served Chinese food. We had noodles, cheap but very good, followed by fresh, ripe mangoes for dessert. We talked about our lives, how different California was from Huahine, and promised to see each other in Santa Barbara. We talked about what we were going to do next.

Simone wanted to show me Bali Hai, the four-hundred-dollar-a-night resort hotel just outside of town where they had found ancient artifacts during its construction. “It’s a beautiful place but I had this strange feeling when it was being built we shouldn’t have been putting anything up there.”

She had worked at the archaeological site as a volunteer digger the last two summers. One of the archaeologists from the Bishop Museum in Honolulu was evidently impressed with her enthusiasm and attitude and helped her get a scholarship at U.C. Santa Barbara.

When we left the restaurant, there were three men were waiting for us outside. Simone looked annoyed when she saw them. She spoke with one and led him away from the others. They talked in Tahitian but I could sense the anger between them. He was jabbing at her with his finger and she was gesticulating wildly with her arms.

Unexpectedly, I felt a sharp pain that made me fall to my knees. One of the other guys had sucker punched me on my side. It would have been worse but my backpack had blunted the blow somewhat. The other followed with a fist to my face. More blows followed and I lost my sense of what was up and down. I heard a loud shriek from Simone then felt her arms around me. She shielded me from further blows with her own body.

Other people came, pulled the guys away, and made them leave. The waiter from the restaurant came out and gave me a glass of ice water. I slowly regained my breath as Simone cradled me in her arms. When I was able to stand up, Simone made me walk up and down the sidewalk to make sure I had my balance back. When she was convinced I could hold on to her on the scooter, we drove off.

She drove slowly, often driving with one hand as she used the other to make sure I was holding on tightly to her. She drove to Bali Hai which was close by and made me wait by the scooter while she went to the office.

After ten minutes, she came back with an armful of towels and a bucket of ice. A man who came out with her helped me walk to wherever we were going. He must have been appraised by Simone of what happened for he was apologetic. “I’m sorry this happened. We Tahitians aren’t brutes…”

“Oh, no, don’t worry. I’ve met many nice Tahitians and I’m not going to let some people spoil my visit or change what I think of your people.”

We walked to the lagoon where circular cottages were built on stilts above the clear, turquoise waters. A quiet breeze blew onshore making the humidity less intolerable. We took a raised walkway over the water to one of the cottages.

“My name is Sylvain, I’m the manager of this hotel. Simone asked if you could lie down for an hour in one of the rooms until you get your wind back. I knew she was going to drive you back to Faie so I told her you can stay as long as you need to—overnight, I insist. Don’t worry about the charges—we’re never booked full so it’s no big loss.”

He saw my reluctance and continued, “I owe a lot to Simone—she helped us coordinate with the archaeologists the last few years.”

He gave me a bottle of Côte du Rhone when we got in the room. “I hope you will enjoy this.” He shook my hand again before leaving.

The room was terrific. Over-water. Breezy. Three hundred sixty degrees of view. In the middle of the floor was a large round hole covered with thick glass through which you could see colorful fishes in the water below. Another over-water walkway led to a platform farther out in the lagoon from where you could swim or simply relax. Lots of space separated one cottage from another to ensure privacy.

Simone made me lie on the bed and removed my shirt. She put ice wrapped in towel on my side that hurt. She placed another on my cheek and told me to hold them in place.

She sat next to me and started crying. She had managed to hold everything in until she felt it was okay to let herself go. Between sobs she said one of the guys in town was an old boyfriend who couldn’t accept the fact it was over between them. “He is so jealous and possessive—he thinks he owns me. He’s going to hear from my cousins.”

After she put everything away, we drank the bottle of wine until I felt sleepy enough for a nap.

SIMONE was watching over me when I woke up. I looked at my watch and noted I had slept for a good hour.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Oh, yes. Fifteen minutes.” She wiped her tears away and smiled.

“Don’t make yourself sad for what happened. Everything’s okay.”

She wanted to say something more but I pulled her down to make her lie beside me. When I tried to hug her to reassure her, I felt a sharp pain at my side that made me flinch. Simone noticed and started crying again.

She nestled close to me—the smell of our sweat mixed with the tiare scent in the coconut oil she used on her hair. She was warm and her touch felt good. She must have noticed my tension for soon she had a mischievous smile on her face. Her smile made me feel better.

“You want to?” I thought she was being a tease.

“Yes, but I can’t.”

“Keep still, I’ll find a way.”

She undressed, then took my pants off. She straddled my hips, made me hard, and took me in, very careful not to put her weight on my body. The limited movement we dared do was a great turn-on—it was like an endless foreplay. She was very gentle, holding back the moves I knew she wanted to do.

After I came, she huddled close to me, uncomplaining, although I knew she was unsatisfied.

I forced myself to get up knowing if I didn’t, my muscles would get sore and stiff. We decided to go for a swim. We went through the walkway to the swimming platform. It had a few plastic chairs and a ladder that went down into the water.

The water was cold and the salt stung my cuts but it felt good where it hurt most. I couldn’t stay long, however, because I couldn’t move about well enough to get warmed up. I got out of the water and wrapped myself in a towel, content to watch Simone from my chair. She looked like a mermaid frolicking among the waves—she was in her perfect environment. I was relieved she wasn’t moping anymore or blaming herself for what happened.

When she came out of the water, I gave her a towel and asked, “Why are you so nice to me?”

“Mother said you were a good man. She’s always right.”

THAT evening, a waiter came to deliver dinner. He raised the tray cover to show us the entrée—filet mignon with tarragon sauce, he said. Sylvain also came by and inquired if I was feeling better. He uncorked a bottle of wine for us—it was a St.-Éstephe.

I knew then he really meant what he had said earlier. He could have brought over a less expensive bottle and saved the good Médoc for a more important paying guest. “Thank you, Sylvain. I’ve never had a good Médoc in my whole life. I only know cheap Bordeaux from that region.”

He smiled. I had a feeling he was happy with the thought his good bottle wasn’t going to waste. He left me wondering if this was all a dream.

Later that evening, a woman came to treat my bruises. She massaged my muscles with an oily mixture that smelled of ginger. It felt warm and soothing. She told me to keep myself warm for the night. Simone put another T-shirt over the one I had on. I slept well that night.

THE next day was my last in Huahine. We were back in Simone’s home in Faie. Everybody knew what had happened—she had told them on the phone the day before. Everybody fussed with me as if I were an invalid, causing me great embarrassment. I said I was sore but was feeling a lot better. I asked Simone’s cousin who promised revenge for the shame to his family not to do anything but he didn’t want to listen.

Simone and I said our long goodbyes that morning on a hill which in the past had been a lookout for enemies coming in from the sea. We didn’t say much, we hardly touched each other. We stared at the ocean, looking for imagined enemies who were coming to get us.

She gave me a necklace made of seashells. “I know other girls must have given you presents like this in the other islands. It is our custom, so I am not jealous. I made this necklace myself. All the shells and coral in it are from my home island of Huahine. The ones you buy in the market use shells from your country—almost all the shells sold here come from the Philippines.”

What she said was true—I had seen hundreds of plastic bags full of seashells marked “Harvested in the Philippines” in the markets of Papéete. I couldn’t tell her why my people harvest and sell all the seashells they can lay their hands on while her people leave them in the ocean and take only what they need. I couldn’t tell her why my people will never have eels in the river as pets, that they will be eaten as food.

But I felt good—Simone loved me and it seemed I had been touched by the ancient Filipino spirit that apparently lives on, though so very far from home. I was king of the hill for a while—then the time came for me to go down and catch the boat that would take me away.

TERÓO was waiting for me at Farepiti Quay when I returned to Bora Bora. She started crying when she saw my bruises that were now purple. “Oh, you poor boy. You look terrible. Simone wasn’t exaggerating.” She wrapped her huge arms around me.

“You should have seen the other guy,” I lied as I hugged her back, feeling safe in her warm and loving embrace.

“Are you okay?”

“I am, I feel fine,” I assured her.

She looked at me again. Then her face lit up and she broke into a big smile. “How was my daughter? I told you she’s great. She was, wasn’t she?”

THE CENTIPEDE
by Rony V. Diaz

WHEN I saw my sister, Delia, beating my dog with a stick, I felt hate heave like a caged, angry beast in my chest. Out in the sun, the hair of my sister glinted like metal and, in her brown dress, she looked like a sheathed dagger. Biryuk hugged the earth and screamed but I could not bound forward nor cry out to my sister. She had a weak heart and she must not be surprised. So I held myself, my throat swelled, and I felt hate rear and plunge in its cage of ribs.

I WAS thirteen when my father first took me hunting. All through the summer of that year, I had tramped alone and unarmed the fields and forest around our farm. Then one afternoon in late July my father told me I could use his shotgun.

Beyond the ipil grove, in a grass field we spotted a covey of brown pigeons. In the open, they kept springing to the air and gliding away every time we were within range. But finally they dropped to the ground inside a wedge of guava trees. My father pressed my shoulder and I stopped. Then slowly, in a half-crouch, we advanced. The breeze rose lightly; the grass scuffed against my bare legs. My father stopped again. He knelt down and held my hand.

“Wait for the birds to rise and then fire,” he whispered.

I pushed the safety lever of the rifle off and sighted along the barrel. The saddle of the stock felt greasy on my cheek. The gun was heavy and my arm muscles twitched. My mouth was dry; I felt vaguely sick. I wanted to sit down.

“You forgot to spit,” my father said.

Father had told me that hunters always spat for luck before firing. I spat and I saw the breeze bend the ragged, glassy threads of spittle toward the birds.

“That’s good,” Father said.

“Can’t we throw a stone,” I whispered fiercely. “It’s taking them a long time.”

“No, you’ve to wait.”

Suddenly, a small dog yelping shrilly came tearing across the brooding plain of grass and small trees. It raced across the plain in long slewy swoops, on outraged shanks that disappeared and flashed alternately in the light of the cloud-banked sun. One of the birds whistled and the covey dispersed like seeds thrown in the wind. I fired and my body shook with the fierce momentary life of the rifle. I saw three pigeons flutter in a last convulsive effort to stay afloat, then fall to the ground. The shot did not scare the dog. He came to us, sniffing cautiously. He circled around us until I snapped my fingers and then he came me.

“Not bad,” my father said grinning. “Three birds with one tube.” I went to the brush to get the birds. The dog ambled after me. He found the birds for me. The breast of one of the birds was torn. The bird had fallen on a spot where the earth was worn bare, and its blood was spread like a tiny, red rag. The dog scraped the blood with his tongue. I picked up the birds and its warm, mangled flesh clung to the palm of my hand.

“You’re keen,” I said to the dog. “Here. Come here.” I offered him my bloody palm. He came to me and licked my palm clean.

I gave the birds to my father. “May I keep him, Father?” I said pointing to the dog. He put the birds in a leather bag which he carried strapped around his waist.

Father looked at me a minute and then said: “Well, I’m not sure. That dog belongs to somebody.”

“May I keep him until his owner comes for him?” I pursued.

“He’d make a good pointer,” Father remarked. “But I would not like my son to be accused of dog-stealing.”

“Oh, no!” I said quickly. “I shall return him when the owner comes to claim him.”

“All right,” he said, “I hope that dog makes a hunter out of you.”

Biryuk and I became fast friends. Every afternoon after school we went to the field to chase quails or to the bank of the river which was fenced by tall, blade-sharp reeds to flush snipes. Father was away most of the time but when he was home he hunted with us.

BIRYUK scampered off and my sister flung the stick at him. Then she turned about and she saw me.

“Eddie, come here,” she commanded. I approached with apprehension. Slowly, almost carefully, she reached over and twisted my ear.

“I don’t want to see that dog again in the house,” she said coldly. “That dog destroyed my slippers again. I’ll tell Berto to kill that dog if I see it around again.” She clutched one side of my face with her hot, moist hand and shoved me, roughly. I tumbled to the ground. But I did not cry or protest. I had passed that phase. Now, every word and gesture she hurled at me I caught and fed to my growing and restless hate.

MY sister was the meanest creature I knew. She was eight when I was born, the day my mother died. Although we continued to live in the same house, she had gone, it seemed, to another country from where she looked at me with increasing annoyance and contempt.

One of my first solid memories was of standing before a grass hut. Its dirt floor was covered with white banana stalks, and there was a small box filled with crushed and dismembered flowers in one corner. A doll was cradled in the box. It was my sister’s playhouse and I remembered she told me to keep out of it. She was not around so I went in. The fresh banana hides were cold under my feet. The interior of the hut was rife with the sour smell of damp dead grass. Against the flowers, the doll looked incredibly heavy. I picked it up. It was slight but it had hard, unflexing limbs. I tried to bend one of the legs and it snapped. I stared with horror at the hollow tube that was the leg of the doll. Then I saw my sister coming. I hid the leg under one of the banana pelts. She was running and I knew she was furious. The walls of the hut suddenly constricted me. I felt sick with a nameless pain. My sister snatched the doll from me and when she saw the torn leg she gasped. She pushed me hard and I crashed against the wall of the hut. The flimsy wall collapsed over me. I heard my sister screaming; she denounced me in a high, wild voice and my body ached with fear. She seized one of the saplings that held up the hut and hit me again and again until the flesh of my back and thighs sang with pain. Then suddenly my sister moaned; she stiffened, the sapling fell from her hand and quietly, as though a sling were lowering her, she sank to the ground. Her eyes were wild as scud and on the edges of her lips,. drawn tight over her teeth, quivered a wide lace of froth. I ran to the house yelling for Father.

She came back from the hospital in the city, pale and quiet and mean, drained, it seemed, of all emotions, she moved and acted with the keen, perversity and deceptive dullness of a sheathed knife, concealing in her body that awful power for inspiring fear and pain and hate, not always with its drawn blade but only with its fearful shape, defined by the sheath as her meanness was defined by her body.

Nothing I did ever pleased her. She destroyed willfully anything I liked. At first, I took it as a process of adaptation, a step of adjustment; I snatched and crushed every seed of anger she planted in me, but later on I realized that it had become a habit with her. I did not say anything when she told Berto to kill my monkey because it snickered at her one morning, while she was brushing her teeth. I did not say anything when she told Father that she did not like my pigeon house because it stank and I had to give away my pigeons and Berto had to chop the house into kindling wood. I learned how to hold myself because I knew we had to put up with her whims to keep her calm and quiet. But when she dumped my butterflies into a waste can and burned them in the backyard, I realized that she was spiting me.

My butterflies never snickered at her and they did not smell. I kept them in an unused cabinet in the living room and unless she opened the drawers, they were out of her sight. And she knew too that my butterfly collection had grown with me. But when I arrived home, one afternoon, from school, I found my butterflies in a can, burned in their cotton beds like deckle. I wept and Father had to call my sister for an explanation. She stood straight and calm before Father but my tear-logged eyes saw only her harsh and arrogant silhouette. She looked at me curiously but she did not say anything and Father began gently to question her. She listened politely and when Father had stopped talking, she said without rush, heat or concern: “They were attracting ants.”

I RAN after Biryuk. He had fled to the brambles. I ran after him, bugling his name. I found him under a low, shriveled bush. I called him and he only whimpered. Then I saw that one of his eyes was bleeding. I sat on the ground and looked closer. The eye had been pierced. The stick of my sister had stabbed the eye of my dog. I was stunned. ,For a long time I sat motionless, staring at Biryuk. Then I felt hate crouch; its paws dug hard into the floor of its cage; it bunched muscles tensed; it held itself for a minute and then it sprang and the door of the cage crashed open and hate clawed wildly my brain. I screamed. Biryuk, frightened, yelped and fled, rattling the dead bush that sheltered him. I did not run after him.

A large hawk wheeled gracefully above a group of birds. It flew in a tightening spiral above the birds.

On my way back to the house, I passed the woodshed. I saw Berto in the shade of a tree, splitting wood. He was splitting the wood he had stacked last year. A mound of bone-white slats was piled near his chopping block When he saw me, he stopped and called me.

His head was drenched with sweat. He brushed away the sweat and hair from his eyes and said to me: “I’ve got something for you.”

He dropped his ax and walked into the woodshed. I followed him. Berto went to a corner of the shed. I saw a jute sack spread on the ground. Berto stopped and picked up the sack.

“Look,” he said.

I approached. Pinned to the ground by a piece of wood, was a big centipede. Its malignantly red body twitched back and forth.

“It’s large,” I said.

“I found him under the stack I chopped.” Berto smiled happily; he looked at me with his muddy eyes.

“You know,” he said. “That son of a devil nearly frightened me to death”

I stiffened. “Did it, really?” I said trying to control my rising voice. Berto was still grinning and I felt hot all over.

“I didn’t expect to find any centipede here,” he said. “It nearly bit me. Who wouldn’t get shocked?” He bent and picked up a piece of wood.

“This wood was here,” he said and put down the block. “Then I picked it up, like this. And this centipede was coiled here. Right here. I nearly touched it with my hand. What do you think you would feel?”

I did not answer. I squatted to look at the reptile. Its antennae quivered searching the tense afternoon air. I picked up a sliver of wood and prodded the centipede. It uncoiled viciously. Its pinchers slashed at the tiny spear.

“I could carry it dead,” I said half-aloud.

“Yes,” Berto said. “I did not kill him because I knew you would like it.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“That’s bigger than the one you found last year, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s very much bigger.”

I stuck the sliver into the carapace of the centipede. It went through the flesh under the red armor; a whitish liquid oozed out. Then I made sure it was dead by brushing its antennae. The centipede did not move. I wrapped it in a handkerchief.

My sister was enthroned in a large chair in the porch of the house. Her back was turned away from the door; she sat facing the window She was embroidering a strip of white cloth. I went near, I stood behind her chair. She was not aware of my presence. I unwrapped the centipede. I threw it on her lap.

My sister shrieked and the strip of white sheet flew off like an unhanded hawk. She shot up from her chair, turned around and she saw me but she collapsed again to her chair clutching her breast, doubled up with pain The centipede had fallen to the floor.

“You did it,” she gasped. “You tried to kill me. You’ve health… life… you tried…” Her voice dragged off into a pain-stricken moan.

I was engulfed by a sudden feeling of pity and guilt.

“But it’s dead!” I cried kneeling before her. “It’s dead! Look! Look!” I snatched up the centipede and crushed its head between my fingers. “It’s dead!”

My sister did not move. I held the centipede before her like a hunter displaying the tail of a deer, save that the centipede felt thorny in my hand. 

FIREWORKS
by H.O. Santos

©2002 by Hector Santos

ENSENADA is only one hour south of Tijuana but what a difference one hour makes. It's still a tourist town--gringos contribute a lot to the town's economy--but it's more tranquil. Unlike the border town of Tijuana, vendors in Ensenada aren't always in your face trying to sell you a souvenir or a bed warmer for the evening. As a matter of fact, many commercial establishments don't have employees who speak English--we do very well without you tourists, thank you very much, they seem to say. Even the popular Hussong's Cantina with its almost hundred percent gringo clientele is outside of town and doesn't affect Ensenada's relative calm.

I love the isolation Baja California provides, all within a day's drive from Los Angeles. My favorite Baja destination is easily San Felipe, a sleepy fishing village on the Gulf of California side, and that's where Barbara and I were headed for. There are many ways to get there from Los Angeles but my favorite route is the one which goes all the way south to Ensenada via Tijuana. You then cross the peninsula through the winding road over the mountains to reach the other side.

Close to the halfway mark, Ensenada is a good stopping point to take a break. We hit it at the right time on this trip, at eleven in the morning.

I was with Barbara Westbay, my girl friend of almost two years. In spite of her decidedly non-Hispanic surname, she claims to have Latino ancestors. You couldn't tell from the way she looked--she had red hair, green eyes, and freckles that showed prominently if she stayed in the sun too long. Lately it had been fashionable among gringos to claim Latino or Native American ancestry. I often wondered if she has been stretching the truth about her ancestry a little too much.

I never fully understood why she put up with my proclivity for these trips since she can't take too much sun, an almost impossible thing to do in Baja. She's envious of women who tan perfectly, those who can take on a beautiful shade of bronze without burning. She has to be careful for it's extremely uncomfortable for her to lie down when she gets burned. I like to think she puts up with these trips because she loves me but I know she does it as much to get away from the madness of city life as she cares for me.

I parked Barbara's Nissan Pathfinder in the center of Ensenada near the beach. We went to look for our favorite food vendors--the ones who plied the streets in their pushcarts and lunch trucks. She went to a truck that sold fish tacos. I found a vendor who served fresh clam cocktails from his pushcart. He picked a live one from a bucket, opened and cut it up, then put the meat into a large plastic cup. He squeezed lime juice into it, added chopped tomatoes, onions, cilantro, and red peppers and handed the cup to me with several packets of Santos saltine crackers.

We stopped at the corner store to buy two cold bottles of Corona Beer before going to the beach to eat our lunch.

"Have a bite of my fish taco, it's good."

"What did you get this time, the usual shark?"

"They didn't have shark but this tuna is good--it's not overcooked, just lightly grilled." I took a bite and agreed it was good.

"Here, have some of my cocktail, it's pismo clam." I brought a spoonful to her mouth to let her try it.

"Super. I wish we had these vendors in L.A. They're so convenient."

"We're starting to have them already. I see vendors selling ice cream and drinks out of pushcarts. They're probably all illegals, too."

"Come on, you wouldn't know an illegal if you saw one. Just because you see somebody who looks Hispanic doesn't mean he's a mojado."

"They mostly are."

"I don't think so. As an immigrant yourself, I expect you'd be more sensitive to their plight."

"But I came to America legally. I'm not against immigration, only against those who do it illegally," I protested.

"You have a lot to learn about how America stole most of the West from Mexico. All of the Western states from Texas to California used to belong to Mexico. The 1849 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo unfairly gave the West to America. Before, those areas were part of Mexico and people could move freely because there was no border. The worst part about it was that land was taken away illegally from their Mexican owners and given to the new settlers."

"All right, but what are laws for if they're not going to be enforced."

"Some laws are so unfair they shouldn't be enforced."

I let Barbara have the last word because I suspected she would win the argument. She once told me that new immigrants like myself who have been in the U.S. just long enough are sometimes worse than native-born Americans when it comes to tolerating new immigration. Each new group thinks the door should be closed after they've come in.

After lunch, we bought two more six-packs of Corona and stashed them in our ice chest before going on our way. We were soon outside Ensenada going east and climbing along the winding road. Some parts of the mountain range were as high as seven thousand feet although the highway only reached five thousand. I had a chance to enjoy the scenery as Barbara had taken over the driving chores.

Along the mountain road were large boulders that looked like they could roll down and crush us at any moment. Although I knew they had been there for thousands of years, it was hard not to get disturbed. I was happy when we reached the high plateau and left them behind us.

We stopped to buy gasoline at a small town. The mountain towns didn't have electricity--gas was dispensed in a primitive but ingenuous manner. The dispenser was a graduated glass container set high on a stand. An attendant pumped gas by hand from fifty-five gallon drums on the ground to the container until the desired amount was transferred. The gas was then allowed to flow down through a hose to your tank. We took in fifty liters of regular unleaded gas. I paid in dollars and didn't bother to count the change which was given to me in pesos. In all the times I've been to Baja, no one has yet cheated me on the change owed me.

The gas attendant was an attractive young girl who must have been around ten or twelve. She wore jeans, a Western shirt, and cowboy boots. She had light hair and looked European unlike most of the other children around her who had mostly Indian features.

"You know, she could easily cross the border and won't even get stopped," Barbara commented. "None of her friends will make it, though."

I knew Barbara was trying to tell me looks had everything to do with who was mistaken for an illegal alien in the United States. She was good at giving not-too-subtle hints like that to prove a point.

We were soon on the eastern slope of the mountain. From here on, the road is straight for the most part. It didn't need to snake around since the slope is gentle all the way to the ocean. The landscape also changes radically here--the marine layer which blows in from the Pacific and makes the western side of the peninsula green doesn't reach this far. It is an alkali desert--starkly bright white except for the black cinder cones of extinct volcanoes that rose from the desert floor in the distance. Every now and then we would see green farmland made possible by irrigation. I saw a red double-winged crop dusting plane make a pass to drop insecticide on the crops below. I thought of Snoopy--he would have loved to have been on that plane.

After an hour more, we got to the lowlands and at last I saw the ocean in the distance. I soon heard the ocean's roar and smelled the salt air. Even after all the trips I've made to San Felipe, it was still a surprise to suddenly see an ocean at the edge of a dry and desolate desert.

We turned right when we reached the main highway. The road was surrounded by sand dunes on both sides and gently rose and fell but was absolutely straight. The ocean was only a few miles to our left but it didn't do much to alleviate the July heat. We had turned the air conditioner off to spare the car's cooling system and get used to the heat.

There were no clouds in the sky and it was hard to imagine there was life around except for the few scrub cactus and stunted mesquite that broke through the chalky soil. I knew from previous visits, though, that they were simply hiding from the midday heat and would come out when it got cooler.

As we approached San Felipe, billboards touting campsites along the beach became visible to our left. We turned left at our favorite, the Playas del Sol, which was two-thirds of the way to the center of San Felipe from where the first campground was. We left a trail of dust on the gravel road as Barbara drove to the campground which was half a mile from the highway. We were lucky to find a cabaña still available--the shade provided by the thatched palm roof supported on four wooden posts made all the difference between comfort and torture.

Our chosen spot was on a bluff fifteen feet higher than the beach. Barbara and I quickly got our equipment from the car and set them up. Barbara then moved her car to the west side of the cabaña to block the sun when it got low. We decided we didn't need the tent--the wind wasn't strong enough and we could sleep in the open. We worked quickly and changed into bathing suits so we could get in the water before the tide started receding again.

High tide is the only time you can swim in San Felipe. The water is all the way to the beach then. Fish come close and often jump out of the water. You can see an occasional flying fish skip thirty yards or more before dropping back into the water again.

The water temperature was pleasant--cool enough to be refreshing but not ice cold like it was in the winter. We stayed only long enough to cool off and went back to tidy up our little camp area for the evening. It was better to do this while it was still light because it gets very dark at night.

I had some pork chops marinating in a container in the ice chest. While waiting for the charcoal to get going, I set a couple of beach chairs on the bluff facing the ocean. We sat on the chairs and watched the tide go out. Sea gulls were making their last attempts at catching fish before the tide receded some more. The temperature must have been in the mid-nineties so we were dry without needing to towel off.

We had a good dinner--Barbara's salsa was hotter than usual so it required frequent washing down with beer. Coronas weren't heavy anyway and here in the hot climate you sweated off the effects of beer faster than you could drink it.

We took a shower after we washed our pots and pans in the wash area. The camp site had free toilets but charged a nominal fee for showers. Fresh water was trucked in daily from Mexicali which was sixty miles away. The lack of fresh water is what has slowed developers from fully exploiting this place, thank heavens.

By the time we got back, the camp manager had already turned on the generator that provided electricity to the fluorescent lamps along the main camp road. Besides the road, the wash, bath, and toilet areas were also lit. Lights were turned off at eleven o'clock.

At night, there's absolutely nothing to do in the campground except stroll on the beach. It's the kind of place that drive Las Vegas types crazy. We took a flashlight with us to look around--tiny crabs scurried away as we made our way through the tide pools. The exposed ocean floor was muddy, and we found an occasional fish or shrimp trapped in the shallow pools of water.

After the walk, we sat on our folding chairs, sipping beer again. I loved Barbara for understanding there were times when you could be with someone and not need to say anything. The connection was made through the silence, not the exchange of words.

In the distance, I could see the lights of Mexican towns on the mainland and an occasional ferry or fishing boat crossing the gulf which separated us from them. Looking out towards the mainland made it clear to me why early explorers mistook California for an island.

I looked up the moonless sky and through the clear desert air saw more stars than I could count. The Milky Way and the reddish Magellanic Cloud were clearly visible. I thought about my namesake, my tocayo, Antonio Miranda Rodriguez--he must have gazed at these very same stars from this same spot more than two centuries before.

I had read he was a Filipino carpenter who passed through Baja in 1781 with a group of settlers who were going to start a settlement, near the San Gabriel Mission, which would later become Los Angeles. He never made it because his Mexican wife and daughter got sick. He stayed behind to take care of them until they died. He ended up in Santa Barbara instead of Los Angeles.

I wondered what made him and countless other Filipinos cross the Pacific on Spanish galleons leaving everything behind, how he must have felt upon losing his family to illness just when they were getting close to Alta California where they would have had a better life. It seemed Filipinos had been going to strange lands to find better lives forever.

I counted three shooting stars in fifteen minutes but didn't make a wish. What I wanted I already had.

"Do you mind if I turned the radio on?" I asked Barbara.

"No, it would be good to listen to some music."

I fiddled with the dial--I could only get AM. I got stations from the Mexican mainland, a strong one from Albuquerque, but stopped at a station from Tuczon that was giving a news summary. The temperature had been over a hundred in most places along the border and the Border Patrol had found some illegal border crossers in the desert. Four were dead and seven were suffering from heat stroke and severe dehydration. The authorities were investigating whether their coyote had abandoned them or if they had crossed on their own without realizing how high the temperature would be that day.

"My God, what a terrible way to die," Barbara said.

"I don't understand why people take such chances. It's dumb," I replied.

"Maybe some day you will. I'll love you even more when you do."

"There are legal ways to get in…"

"Most people can't get in legally. One day you'll meet a real illegal and you'll find out why they do things you consider dumb."

The news was over. I turned the dial to a Mexican station that played boleros. It was depressing to hear about people crossing the border only to die after they make it to their promised land. The music helped me push the thought away from my mind. I had more beer and watched the stars until I fell asleep.

IT must have been already in the eighties when I woke up. The tide had started to move out again and it was getting quieter. It had come in during the night, its roar lulling me to a deeper sleep. Its sound is so soothing you tend to wake up when it goes away.

The sun hadn't as yet risen but the eastern horizon already had a pink tinge. Clouds over the mainland were slowly turning crimson. Stars were still visible on the zenith and towards the western horizon. After a while, the sun peeked out and the sky was filled with a riot of colors. I don't think there's a more beautiful sunrise than in San Felipe. Too bad not many people get to see it because they don't wake up early enough.

I placed a towel on Barbara to cover her--I noticed she hadn't bothered to put her clothes back on after we woke up in the middle of the night wanting each other badly. She was still sleeping soundly and I didn't want to wake her up.

I filled a pot with water and made coffee, then watched the sun rise higher as I drank my coffee. A few people around camp were now beginning to stir and move about and so did Barbara. She gave me an amused grin when she realized she was naked--she hastily put her clothes on. As she washed her face in a small basin, I made her a cup of coffee. She didn't say anything but hugged me to give her silent thank you before starting to fry bacon and eggs.

Barbara fried our leftover rice with garlic in the bacon fat. I was surprised how easily she had gotten to like the Filipino breakfast staple I taught her to make. She fixes it every time she gets a chance.

It was a lazy morning and by the time we had everything stowed away, it was already nine o'clock and very hot. We went to town to buy more food, drinks, and ice.

When we returned to Playas del Sol, an itinerant vendor was standing in the shade of our cabaña. He politely waited until we got everything out from the car before showing us what he was selling. He had jamacas, a very compact hammock made from hand-tied twine. It was only a few bucks so I bought one. I didn't necessarily want to sleep in one but I thought it would be handy in keeping our stuff up from the sand.

I was hanging the hammock from the cabaña posts when I saw this young woman carrying a basket on top of her head. She had it effortlessly balanced and didn't need to hold it with her hands. It had been a long time since I last saw a woman do that.

She was walking towards us. She was petite, must have been only an inch or two over five feet, and had a nice figure. Her skin was deep brown, perhaps from the sun, and she was wearing an embroidered blouse of rough cotton. She looked like a typical chinita poblana, a Mexican country woman of mostly Indian blood, except she was wearing shorts instead of a skirt. She was a pretty sight to look at--good looking, nice figure, shapely legs, and walking like a model on a runway. The basket on her head made her walk in a sensuous manner, her hips and hands swaying gracefully to keep her balance in the soft sand. I noticed that all the men around us had turned their heads to ogle her.

She approached Barbara and showed what she had in her basket--pork and chicken tamales, she said. She had an intense look in her eyes but they looked like they were ready to turn into a twinkle anytime.

"Do you have salsa to go with it?" Barbara asked.

"Yes, of course," she answered. "It is good and fresh."

"Let me try one chicken," Barbara said.

I brought over a paper plate and a fork. The woman put the tamale on the plate and Barbara split the cornhusk wrapper open with her fork. She then poured salsa straight from the jar and started eating.

"It's good, I can eat another one. Do you want one, hon?"

"I'll try one," I said. I got another paper plate and asked for pork tamale. It was almost lunch time anyway and it was too hot to cook. All we needed was cold beer and our lunch would be complete.

I pulled the beach chairs into the shade and offered one to the woman.

"My name is Tony, this is Barbara. We're from Los Angeles."

"I am Lita," she said softly as she sat down. She had been staring at me for a while. I got a plastic cup and asked if she wanted soda or beer.

"Coke is fine, if you have."

I put ice in the plastic cup for her and poured her some Coke. I got a couple of Coronas for myself and Barbara.

After Lita took a sip, she said, "Dalawa na lang po ang natitira, bilhin na po ninyo para huwag na akong maglakad pa."

I was pleasantly surprised and smiled, "Pinay ka pala. Kaya naman pala napakaganda mo."

She lowered her eyes and blushed. I turned to Barbara, "Luv, she's Filipina. She says she has only two tamales left and was wondering if we want to buy them so she can go home."

"Why not, they're good--I'm sure you can eat another one."

We sat there in the shade eating our lunch. I offered a tamale to Lita but she declined saying she couldn't eat one--she made them every day. I gave her instead a mango we got from town.

"How did you get to Baja?" I asked.

"It is long story, take too long to tell."

"Oh, we got time," I said but Lita didn't say anything.

"Tell you what," Barbara said, joining in. "We'd like to invite you for dinner tonight. It's the Fourth of July and we'd like to celebrate a little bit. Then you can tell us."

Lita thought for a while then said, "Only if you let me cook."

"Nothing fancy, we don't have a lot of utensils here. I was just going to cook what we were able to buy in the market this morning."

Lita checked the icebox. "We have plenty--I bring what else we need," she said as she picked up her basket. "Let me go now so I tell my family about tonight--they are very good to me."

"Do you live far? I can drive you," Barbara offered.

"No, I can walk. The house I live is near entrance to this camp. Across street, on left, only house there."

"I'll see you later then--I won't start till you get here."

Meanwhile, the tide had rolled back in. People were now all over the beach frolicking in the surf. To the right, I could see Cerro El Machorro, dark, tall, and majestic. It hid San Felipe from our view. I imagine it was what fishermen used as a landmark in finding their way back to port. I wouldn't know--I have never been out to sea in San Felipe.

It was a lazy and peaceful feeling, sitting in the shade and listening to the surf. It's hard to imagine how a hot, barren, and remote place could have attracted settlers hundreds of years ago. But then some people tend to occupy niches and would gladly settle for a less abundant place to call home rather than struggle against other people in a more opulent location. I wondered if I had what it takes to live in such a place or if I would do what many of them do--cross the border to find better life in Alta California.

Barbara had gone to the water to cool off. You can't really swim very well in San Felipe, the water is shallow in most places. But you can sit on the sandy bottom and let the cool water splash over you and the strong waves rock you back and forth. It's a great place to pretend you're a seaweed.

By the time I got in the water, Barbara already had her limit of sun for the day. I stayed in the water for an hour while she dozed off on the beach chair in the shade of the cabaña.

BARBARA and I had already showered and changed when Lita arrived promptly at five o'clock. She was wearing a loose, lavender printed shift that draped beautifully over her body. It showed off her figure quite well. She had with her a wok and a small basket filled with vegetables. It seemed she was ready for some serious cooking and wasn't going to settle for anything less.

"Lita, you shouldn't have bothered," Barbara said.

"I want to cook good food this time--we don't have much what we cook here in Baja, we're too poor. And I want to practice, too."

"I leave everything up to you, then. I'll help--tell me what you want me to do."

Lita and Barbara were soon at work--Lita taught Barbara her recipes. I stayed out of their way and helped by washing the dirty dishes, pots, and pans.

It took them a while but when they got done, we had sinigang of mullet, beef fajitas, pepper fried shrimp, and steamed rice. We had more food than we could eat so I suggested they take some to Lita's foster family. Barbara and Lita wrapped food in aluminum foil and took them there. It was a chance to let her family know how good a cook she was.

While they were away, I managed to appropriate for our use a couple of wooden planks which I set across the two ice chests to make a table. I used an extra bed sheet for a tablecloth. I set the food, paper plates, napkins, and plastic flatware on our banquet table. It was beginning to look like a real party and I wished we had dinner candles to make it perfect.

A man selling fireworks out of the trunk of his car was making the rounds when Barbara and Lita got back. I bought a few each of the different kinds he had. Fireworks are illegal in most of California because they're dangerous. But what the heck, I was in Mexico and wanted to live a bit dangerously.

We ate dinner out of styrofoam plates using plastic flatware. Lita was a good cook--I especially liked her pepper fried shrimp which was lightly battered and crispy. I kept going back with my paper cup for additional helpings of her sour soup.

"Where did you learn to cook?" I asked.

"I cook at home when I was young girl. Then I live in Hong Kong, and now in Mexico. I learn all kinds of cooking because I always help whoever cooks."

"Where are you from?"

"I am Bicolana, from Daraga, Albay. I went to Hong Kong as maid. I was sixteen when I left home--I make false papers to show I was eighteen."

"That's interesting. How did you get to Mexico?"

She didn't answer but sipped her tequila instead. Like when I asked earlier, she evaded my question.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry into your life."

She looked at me and said, "I like to tell people my story but nobody believe me because it sound not true."

Barbara put an arm around her shoulder and said, "Tell me--I'll believe you." Barbara was a people person, one who easily obtained the trust of those she met. I was her exact opposite, I didn't trust anyone and nobody trusted me.

Lita began by telling us how she got recruited from her hometown in Albay by an agent from Manila. She didn't have enough money for fees and airfare so she signed a promissory note to pay an exorbitant amount for her expenses. The payments would come out of her pay once she started working in Hong Kong. She and several other girls were taken to a residence in Manila where they were briefed on how to behave and how to conduct themselves. More importantly, they were told how a company representative would come around every payday to collect the amount due on the loans.

Things went fine with her--she was able to send a little money home and save a little for herself even after making her monthly payments to the recruiting company. Her dream was to save enough to be able to buy a modest house and start a little dress shop in her hometown when she returned.

It had gotten dark and the camp generator was turned on. People began setting off fireworks and lighting firecrackers. I got mine out and was getting ready to join in the celebration when I saw two local boys looking enviously at everybody else. I called them over and said they could light my fireworks if they felt like it.

"Gracias, señor. Feliz Cuatro de Julio!" one said as they proceeded to argue about who was going to light which rocket. Soon the sky was filled with rockets bursting into multicolored sparklers that floated down leisurely. The pop-pop-pop of firecrackers came from all around. It was strange to see the Fourth of July being celebrated in another country but tonight San Felipe, with all its visitors, was an American town.

Lita continued with her story as we sipped more tequila.

"Everything fine until my master's wife visit her family in New Territories. Myamo came home one night and wanted a woman. He force me--I never been in bed with a man before. I was scared and wish to die. He did it again the next night and until his wife return home.

"I told her what happen but she laugh, say to me I only want money from them to make accusation. I went to Philippine Consulate and they tell me go to office that would help. I learn they could not because I cannot prove--I did not run away or call police when it happen.

"I become so sad. I do not know what to do, then later houseboy next door who was good person tell me he leave for America. A ship take a boat full of people to America. He give money for down payment and pay balance after he work in America.

"I ask to come but I do not know if I have enough money so he tell boat officer we are married so I only pay little amount for down payment."

At that point it seemed Lita wouldn't continue with her story. Barbara put more ice in her glass. I poured more tequila and lime soda for her. We watched the last of the fireworks as Lita continued with her story.

It took them four weeks to cross the Pacific. The ship's captain first tried to dump them off in Canada but a navy ship started trailing them when they got close. Their ship moved south but it was impossible to get close to the western shores of the United States--the Coast Guard must have been warned by the Canadian Navy. The ship's officers were getting desperate so when they got to Mexico they packed their load of passengers onto lifeboats and let them paddle by themselves to shore in Baja California.

Unfortunately, the weather wasn't very good. A few boats capsized and some people drowned. Most of those who made it to shore were apprehended and taken into custody. Lita was one of the few who managed not to get caught. Her brown skin helped her blend in with the locals--the Chinese didn't have a chance.

Lita was taken in by a friendly family who lived outside Ensenada. They hid her from the authorities but after a few weeks took her to San Felipe where they said she would be safer. They had relatives there who were just as poor but who understood how it was to hide from the authorities.

After all the fireworks had been lit and exploded, relative peace settled once more on the beach. We started putting things away--tomorrow we'd be on our way back to L.A. Back to routine, back to trying to make enough money to pay off bills and still have enough left for an occasional trip like this.

Unexpectedly, Lita came to me and said, "Manong, if you could be so kind can I go with you to Los Angeles tomorrow? I think I can pass the border checkpoint because they know I am not Mexican and they think I come with you for July 4th vacation."

I was flabbergasted. I felt sorry for her but I knew what would happen if we got caught trying to smuggle her in.

"It's not a simple task," I said. "If they get suspicious, they'll not only get you but also put us in jail. Barbara has a lot to lose because they can take her car away."

"Oh, I don't mind," Barbara said. "I think it's the best time to get her in because there'll be thousands of other people returning to the U.S. from this three-day weekend. The border agents will have their hands full and won't be able to scrutinize everybody as much as they normally would."

"Well, it's still a big risk--we should really think it over before we say yes or no. If we get caught, they'll take away my green card and kick me out of the country."

They didn't say anything more but gave me a pained and disappointed look. The mood turned dark.

"Let me take you home, Lita," Barbara finally said. "We'll get this settled somehow."

WHEN Barbara returned, she was sullen and quiet. I tried to make small talk but she kept ignoring me. Finally, she blurted out, "Dammit, why can't you have compassion for other people for once. Here's your chance to do something good and you refuse to do it."

"You know I can't take the chance--you're safe because you're American-born. You know what they would do to me if we get caught."

"You're so fuckin' gutless you can't even stick your neck out for one of your own kind. You know what she's been through? You haven't even tasted a fraction of what she's been through. How can you be so smug in your self-righteousness about what's right or wrong?"

"I can't take the chance…"

"Look, if you're so fuckin' chicken you can get out from the car before we get to the border. You can fuckin' walk across--you have papers. Why don't you let us take that chance? Just make sure you have enough money for bus fare to L.A. because I wouldn't want you back in my car… Gosh, I thought I knew you better."

With that she started crying and moved her sleeping bag as far away as she could from mine. Barbara tended to use colorful language when she gets mad but I had never seen her so agitated before. It bothered me because it seemed we truly didn't know each other very well.

I had a fitful night--I wanted to reach out and touch Barbara but she seemed so far away. I had nightmares about being left behind and walking all the way across the desert to get back to L.A. The sun was mercilessly beating down on me and I wanted water but there was none.

The next morning started out exactly like the last one--hot and muggy. I didn't feel like drinking coffee so I didn't make any. Nobody bothered to fix breakfast. I knew Barbara was feeling as badly as I was for her eyes were red from crying and she was unusually quiet. We packed our things and loaded them into her car in silence. So this was how relationships ended. I didn't know it would be so quiet.

I had a sick and empty feeling as we left the campground. I drove along the gravel road towards the main highway where I had to turn right to get back to California.

As I stopped at the corner to check for cross traffic, I saw through the already shimmering haze of the midmorning heat a lone shack across the road on the left--it looked so far from Daraga. I remembered my tocayo who vainly tried more than two hundred years ago to take his family north from here to give them a better life.

I wasn't sure whether it was because borders didn't make sense to me anymore or if I was simply scared of losing Barbara. Whatever it was, I crossed to the other side of the highway and turned left. When she noticed, Barbara reached out to touch my hand and started weeping. Her touch made me feel good again.

WE had Lita sit in the front with me, Barbara moved to the back seat. It would look better that way at the border. Lita only had one duffel bag--I thought it odd that one can move from one country to another with so very little. It made clear to me one doesn't need much in life except his own wits to survive.

We were quiet on the way back to the border. The long drive gave me time to reflect on what happened the night before--I began to understand how my dreams had shaped not only how others saw me but how I perceived them as well.

Barbara was right--the immigration officer was busy and only asked how long we've been away, where we've been, and whether we had purchased anything in Mexico. He entered our vehicle's plate number into his computer and waved us through when he found nothing.

When we got back on the freeway inside the U.S. I told Barbara I needed to stop in San Diego to do something. I got off the freeway and drove to the parking lot at the Amtrak station.

I got out of the car, opened the back door, and picked up my knapsack. I handed Barbara the car keys and gave her a long, lingering hug. I found it hard to keep everything in as I said, "Luv, I'm taking the train home."