The men are nearly all excellent dancers, but the women are hampered somewhat in the ordinary “round dances” by their foot gear. They don’t wear shoes—nor stockings either. At least, they didn’t in those days. They thrust their bare toes into little slippers called chinelas and cuchos, which look for all the world like fancy bed-slippers. There are two kinds: cuchos being considered very “dressy” and having heels which clatter on the floor, while chinelas are heelless and make a scuffing, shuffling noise.
The first dance of the evening at any baile is the rigodon which is really the national dance of the Philippines. I am not going to try to describe it because I know I can’t, though I have danced it hundreds of times. It is the real ceremony on such an occasion. It can be likened to an old-fashioned quadrille, but the square is made up of as many couples opposite each other as there is space and there are couples. There are a number of graceful and somewhat intricate but stately figures. It is a dance unique and, as far as I know, confined to the Philippine Islands. I’m afraid we made but a poor display in our first attempts at the rigodon, but by dint of watching others night after night both my husband and I became most proficient at it. I always had for my partner the most conspicuous illustrado in any community, while Mr. Taft conferred the honour of his attendance upon the lady of highest rank. This was important as a recognition of the established formalities.
We left Lucena pretty much exhausted and slightly aghast at the prospect of sixty consecutive days of such strenuous festivities. Our route on the map lay like a tangled thread throughout the archipelago, and its immediate trend was toward the Equator, further and further south. Every point marked as a stopping place meant a full programme of business and festivities, but, hot as it was, not one of us willingly would have turned back. There was strong fascination in the very names of the places we were bound for.
First came Boak on the island of Marinduque. Who wouldn’t endure a little discomfort for the sake of seeing Boak? This province could not yet be organised because it was not sufficiently peaceful for the successful introduction of civil government. The Commissioners, after endless interviews with Army officers and with leading Filipinos who were eager for the restoration of normal conditions, promised to return to the province on the way back to Manila and complete its organisation if, by that time, certain stipulations should have been complied with. This meant the bringing in of a couple of hundred insurrecto rifles and the gathering together of properly accredited representatives of the people from all parts of the island. We left behind us a disappointed but a determined town, and when we returned nearly seven weeks later we found such a difference as proved the wisdom of delay.
The Commissioners were really walking in the dark. Only through personal investigation could they learn the exact conditions in any town or province and this investigation had always to precede any definite action on their part. This made the proceedings long and arduous for them and drew the days out endlessly for the rest of us. Romblon, Masbate, Iloilo, Bacólod; each with its distinct problem, each with its own impassioned orators, and each offering boundless hospitality; we left them all in better condition, we hoped, than we found them and, certainly, we carried away from each in turn a feeling of great friendliness and gratitude for the courtesies they so enthusiastically extended.
From Bacólod, in oriental Negros, we set our course straight south to Jolo, to the Sulu Islands, to the realm of the comic opera sultan, and we woke up one brilliant morning to find ourselves in the prettiest harbour imaginable and in the midst of scenes which we could not believe belonged to the Philippine world. We were in Moroland. Straight before us, in the curve of the beautiful bay, lay a little white city, surrounded by bastioned walls which looked age-old, and backed by soft green hills and groves of tall coconut palms. A high white watch tower at the end of a long pier reminded one of piratical days and of Spain’s never-ending troubles with her Mohammedan subjects. Off to the right, against the farthest shore, was the strangest collection of habitations I had ever seen. To be told that the Moros live on the water is to imagine them living in boats, but these were houses built far out in the water, perched up on frail wooden stilts and joined together by crooked and rickety bamboo bridges.
The harbour was full of curious small craft; high prowed and beautifully carved war junks, long, graceful praos and slender canoes with bamboo outriggers, nearly all carrying sails of fantastic design and brilliant hues. Indeed, there was colour everywhere. Everything afloat was decorated in gaudy silks and pennants, the American flag predominating, while all the Moros who wore anything except a loin cloth were attired in costumes which were lively and strikingly original. These were made, for the most part, of rich silks of native weave in stripes or plaids of vivid, crude greens, reds and yellows, and from neck to ankle the more elegant ones
