“The Old Walled City,” said General Wright, and I knew at once that I should love the old Walled City.
“The oldest parts of the walls were built in the seventeenth century,” continued our animated guidebook, “and the fort on the corner is Santiago. The big dome is the Cathedral and all the red tile roofs are convents and monasteries. The twentieth century hasn’t reached here yet. To all intents and purposes the Walled City is still in the Middle Ages.” The truth is that only part of the walls are really very old—some parts have been built within seventy years.
The river was full of strange craft; long, high prowed, cumbersome looking boats, with rounded deck-houses roofed with straw matting and painted in every conceivable colour and pattern, which, we were told, were cascoes—cargo boats which ply the length of the Pásig and bring down the coconuts and sugarcane and other products from the middle provinces. The only visible propelling power on these cascoes—and the only power they have—are natives, naked to the waist, armed with long bamboo poles upon which, having fixed them firmly in the mud at the bottom of the river, they push steadily as they walk the length of the narrow running board along the outer edge of the deck. I should say they might make a mile in about two hours.
Then there were the curious little bancas; narrow canoes, hewn out of single logs and kept on an even keel, usually, by graceful outriggers of bamboo.
Across the river from the Walled City is the Custom House, and there, in a few moments, we drew up at a slippery, low, stone landing and climbed ashore. My feet, at last, were on Philippine soil.
If I had, for the time being, forgotten that a war was going on I was immediately reminded of it. The Custom House was in the hands of the Military Government and it was surrounded by khaki-clad guards who all stood stiffly at attention as my husband and General Wright passed. All our necessary luggage had been released and put into the hands of orderlies to be delivered, so we were free to start at once for home.
My husband had written me that the Philippine horses and the Philippine cockroaches were just about the same size, but I was hardly prepared for the diminutive turnout to which he proudly escorted me. Two little brown ponies, no higher than my shoulder, and with very shaggy manes and foretops, were hitched to a Victoria which had been built to fit them. When I stepped in and sat down, with Charlie on my lap, I felt twice my natural size and it seemed impossible to me that there was still ample room for Mr. Taft.
On the box were two stolid little men, dignified by the titles of coachman and footman. They each wore white linen trousers and thin shirts which hung outside, making them look as if they had forgotten a most important act in the process of dressing. Their bare feet were thrust into heelless red carpet-slippers, while on their heads were wide, flopping, shapeless straw hats which they did not trouble to take off at our approach.
The streets were full of such conveyances as ours, and others of varieties even more astonishing. Maria, with Robert and Helen, followed in a quilez—a miniature, one-horse omnibus affair into which the passengers climbed from the rear. Then there were calesas, caromatas, carretelas and carabao carts.
The carabao carts interested me particularly, and there seemed to be more of them than of anything else. The cart itself was nothing—just a few planks nailed together and balanced upon a pair of heavy, broad, wooden wheels—but the beast attached to it was really extraordinary. The first carabao I saw had horns at least six feet across. Indeed, they all have very long horns, and how they keep from obstructing traffic in the narrow streets I never did understand. They do obstruct traffic, as matter of fact, but not with their horns; only with their slow motions. Nobody can possibly know just what the word slow signifies until he has seen a carabao move. Great, grey, thick-skinned, hairless beast; his hide is always caked with mud, and he chews and walks at exactly the same pace while the half-naked, sleepy driver on the cart behind him gives an occasional jerk on the thin rope attached to the ring in his nose.
It was some time before I came to know calesas, caromatas and carretelas apart, though their only likeness lies in the fact that each has two wheels and to each is attached one busy little bit of a horse. The calesa and caromata are the better class vehicles, while the carretela is a plebeian public carryall in which there always seems to be “room for one more.” I saw dozens of these packed with Filipinos; the driver—always and inevitably smoking—sitting close up behind his horse and lashing it continually while it struggled sturdily along and looked every minute as if it would be lifted off its feet by the overbalancing weight behind it. It was something of a shock to see many women, in carretelas and on the street, smoking huge black cigars; while I noticed, immediately, that the men, as a rule, smoke only cigarettes.
I didn’t look for speed from our little brown creatures, but I was yet to become acquainted with the Philippine pony. We started off over the rough cobblestones at a pace that was truly terrifying, and everybody else seemed to be going at about the same rate. I expected a collision every moment. Wheels passed wheels without an inch to spare, and without an instant’s slackening of speed. My heart was in my mouth until we got through the maze of narrow streets
