Part 2--Filipino Hospitality

It amazes me how quickly a group of Filipinas can create a home. After we left the weaving demonstration, we wove our way up the mountain road to Hunduan’s municipality center perched at the top of the mountain. The drivers ushered us out of the jeepneys. The SITMO coordinator called out our names on the megaphone, telling us which hotel we’d be in. Once we knew where we were headed, they herded us back into the jeepneys according to our hotels, and the group split up for the afternoon.

Our “hotel” stood two stories, with a view out onto the rice terraces below. It had two large dorm rooms upstairs with about twelve bunk beds in each room, and another large dorm room below where the men stayed. The tiled floors were clean, the walls had a fresh coat of paint, and the rooms were filled with sunlight. The women quickly divided themselves into two groups—for the most part the younger women (twenty and thirty- year-olds) went into one room and the older women went into the other. Somehow I ended up with the mothers.

As soon as beds were chosen, the women set up camp. Shoes went off, slippers (flip-flops) went on. A mixture of Tagalog and Ilocano (two Filipino dialects) broke out as the women pulled clothes out of their suitcases. One woman went downstairs to heat water for coffee. A few minutes later she walked upstairs with a small tray, glasses full of hot water tinkling against each other. Everyone brought snacks out of their bags—mostly made from processed white flour—and passed them around to each other. There were egg cookies and garlic croutons; I had even brought the nations’ favorite cracker: Sky Flakes, a brand of saltines. The woman in the bed next to me said it best: “Filipinos love to eat!” she laughed, as she popped a cracker in her mouth.

The women hung wet towels and underwear from the top bunks, claimed pillows and blankets. A group began to play cards in the corner—some even gambled—and another group settled in the corner near me, sprawled on their beds, chatting. One of the younger women brought out her DVD player and started to watch a movie. I lay in bed, talking and watching our new home unfold. Strangely, it seemed as if we’d been there a week.

“So, what do you think of the Philippines?” a woman asked me.

“I love it,” I said, “but I especially love Filipinos. I think they’re very generous and community is very important to you. We’re not quite like this in the States.”

I thought about my home in Colorado, and everywhere else I had lived back home. Though I’d lived there for seven months, I hardly knew my neighbors, and I would never stop in at someone’s house without a day’s advance notice—sometimes a week’s. Here in the Philippines, my next door neighbors expect me to join them for dinner every night. They invite me over for coffee, constantly feeding me even though I never pay them. In fact, I’ve had to stock my house with instant coffee (which I don’t even drink) and little snack items so that when people come to visit I’ll have something to offer them.

“Yes, we really value hospitality here,” the woman said, as she leaned over to hand me her bag of Pringles. “It’s our most important thing.”

I reached over, grabbed a chip, and ate it. “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”