Silay, the Paris of Negros
It goes without saying that the Philippines have something for everyone. Whether you’re looking for shandy in a can, beans in a dessert, the world’s largest presidential doll collection or just an enthusiastic renewal of your gun licence, you can find it all here. Some days I wake up and the plethora of options freak me out a little. Some days I just end up staying in bed.
Not so last Sunday, when German volunteer, Elaine, and myself decided to explore Silay, the self-proclaimed “Paris of Negros”. Keen for a day of high European culture, breathtaking architecture, history, music and romance in the French quarter, we consulted the German Lonely Planet for guidance, downed a quick can shandy at the monster mart for some Dutch courage and headed off to Robinsons Mall to hook up with our contiki tour aka Baby Bong Jeepney the Fourth.
“Rock n’ roll, gay Paris here we come,” said Elaine as we found a seat, only to be confronted with a wall of sound that sounded very much like the speakers beneath us shattering into a thousand pieces. Sandwiched between fellow passengers, who sporadically broke into tears as strange frequencies tore at their eardrums, I tried to explain to the driver that even at 120 dB, there’s a world of difference between Air French Band, and Air Supply, Australian band.
Hay naku. Turn that s^&% off.
Luckily, it was all worth it when we made it to Paris, whoops I mean Silay. We de-jeepneyed at the church, where San Juan flipped us a peace sign that seemed to say “Je ne sais pas mais je suis tres Francais”. Around the corner we were confronted by a typical example of French cultural imperialism, where a “no to cha cha" sign served to remind us of their passionate hatred for Latin American dance.
In a leisurely mood, Elaine and I decided to wander the streets for a little, taking in the atmosphere even while the ringing notes of Air Supply bled from our ear canals. Very soon we were lost in a gorgeous French barangay setting, where passing minstrels belted out Hotel California on improvised karaoke machines and street mimes tried to run us over in their trisikads.
We decided to ask for directions at Pepsi's Sari Sari Carrefour, where we attracted a crowd of Parisian-Filipinos who wanted us to take their pictures. We obliged for a couple of minutes, before hitching a ride with a trisikad mime who, completely dedicated to silence, would respond to neither French, English, German, Latin, Visayan, Tagalog nor Ilonggo. Most hilariously, he also insisted on miming a sense of direction. While Elaine and I cleared the last few minutes of digital memory from our cameras, we were taken on a very convincing journey to nowhere, past several French Caribou idly chewing their cuds whilst being hit with batons. So masterful was our driver’s illusion, that when we pulled up at the local tire shop for a smoko we almost believed we were looking at the Eiffel Tower.
Lucky for us, divine support was close at hand. Just as the sticker on the cabin window said, Santo Nino stepped in to assist us in our wants, which at that moment was getting the hell out of the forty degree heat and into a bit of shade. At the Bernardino Jalandoni Ancestral House we found some cool respite, as well as the low down on Silay’s very own Joan d’Arc, the ever fragrant San Diego de Alcala.
San Diego de Alcala
Diego was not just any only Diego. Diego was a man of many talents: hermit, gardener, healer, grower of miraculous grapes and heroic victim of gangrene. I am sure he would have led the Spanish in combat had there been an appropriate occasion to do so. As it so happens, there wasn’t and so he did the next best thing by dying peacefully and leaving a fragrant corpse. The story of Diego’s life ends aromatically when, tragically contracting skin rot just like Shane on Home and Away, he:
Willingly and happily handed himself over to God... Diego’s body did not undergo decomposition and still emitted a pleasant odour after death. His uncorrupted body is now still enshrined in the Cathedral of Alcala, Spain.
Our guide wasn’t too fussed by Diego’s story, preferring instead to take us through Filipino history, grittily depicted in ken dolls. Elaine and I were suitably impressed, commenting time and again that “the dolls look like real Filipinos”. From Cory’s oversized afro, to Ninoy’s blood splattered face and Imelda’s glittering shoe collection, the sense of “wow, now I know what it must have been like to start my own ill-conceived coup d’etat” was ever present.
Personally, I found the brief history of the Filipino flag the most fascinating part of the exhibit. Its evolution from KKK to skull and cross bones, to the recognizable emblem we all know and love today was a real eye-opener. Any old idiot can design a flag, but it takes an ingenious Filipino to see an outlaw’s good idea and use it to inspire a nation.
The guide then carefully explained the nature of the house.
“The staircase. German. The roof, nice German one too. The walls, they’re from Hamburg. This nice jug. It’s from Bacolod. Very nice jug too, originally from Berlin.”
“Vive la France!” Said Elaine in German.
The Bakeshop
The next stop was the local French bakeshop, with the very cosmopolitan name of “El Ideal”.
And it was ideal, (if you use the term as loosely as I do). Chowing down on a parisian halo halo, reflecting that the ube paste and beans really were at the cutting edge of fusion French cuisine, my only care in the world was the strange odour emanating from the kitchen each time the door opened. It was quintessentially Eau de Philippines ie. the stench of rancid, three day old fat just crying out for a bit of Diego’s corpse to freshen the air. I’m sure if they could bottle it the Pentagon’s chemical warfare arm would be more than interested.
In the jeepney home I added that to my list of things to ponder, as the afternoon storm finally caught up with us, revealing in flashes of lighting crazy street signs by the roadside.
“Don’t stick your elbow out too far or it may go home in another car.” Warned one.
(If only, I’m outta here, my two-timing elbow thought resentfully.)
“Drive slowly, see Negros. Drive fast, see our jail.” Suggested another.
The jail, I thought, what an "ideal" plan. I’ll save that one for next weekend.
Not so last Sunday, when German volunteer, Elaine, and myself decided to explore Silay, the self-proclaimed “Paris of Negros”. Keen for a day of high European culture, breathtaking architecture, history, music and romance in the French quarter, we consulted the German Lonely Planet for guidance, downed a quick can shandy at the monster mart for some Dutch courage and headed off to Robinsons Mall to hook up with our contiki tour aka Baby Bong Jeepney the Fourth.
“Rock n’ roll, gay Paris here we come,” said Elaine as we found a seat, only to be confronted with a wall of sound that sounded very much like the speakers beneath us shattering into a thousand pieces. Sandwiched between fellow passengers, who sporadically broke into tears as strange frequencies tore at their eardrums, I tried to explain to the driver that even at 120 dB, there’s a world of difference between Air French Band, and Air Supply, Australian band.
Hay naku. Turn that s^&% off.
Luckily, it was all worth it when we made it to Paris, whoops I mean Silay. We de-jeepneyed at the church, where San Juan flipped us a peace sign that seemed to say “Je ne sais pas mais je suis tres Francais”. Around the corner we were confronted by a typical example of French cultural imperialism, where a “no to cha cha" sign served to remind us of their passionate hatred for Latin American dance.
In a leisurely mood, Elaine and I decided to wander the streets for a little, taking in the atmosphere even while the ringing notes of Air Supply bled from our ear canals. Very soon we were lost in a gorgeous French barangay setting, where passing minstrels belted out Hotel California on improvised karaoke machines and street mimes tried to run us over in their trisikads.
We decided to ask for directions at Pepsi's Sari Sari Carrefour, where we attracted a crowd of Parisian-Filipinos who wanted us to take their pictures. We obliged for a couple of minutes, before hitching a ride with a trisikad mime who, completely dedicated to silence, would respond to neither French, English, German, Latin, Visayan, Tagalog nor Ilonggo. Most hilariously, he also insisted on miming a sense of direction. While Elaine and I cleared the last few minutes of digital memory from our cameras, we were taken on a very convincing journey to nowhere, past several French Caribou idly chewing their cuds whilst being hit with batons. So masterful was our driver’s illusion, that when we pulled up at the local tire shop for a smoko we almost believed we were looking at the Eiffel Tower.
Lucky for us, divine support was close at hand. Just as the sticker on the cabin window said, Santo Nino stepped in to assist us in our wants, which at that moment was getting the hell out of the forty degree heat and into a bit of shade. At the Bernardino Jalandoni Ancestral House we found some cool respite, as well as the low down on Silay’s very own Joan d’Arc, the ever fragrant San Diego de Alcala.
San Diego de Alcala
Diego was not just any only Diego. Diego was a man of many talents: hermit, gardener, healer, grower of miraculous grapes and heroic victim of gangrene. I am sure he would have led the Spanish in combat had there been an appropriate occasion to do so. As it so happens, there wasn’t and so he did the next best thing by dying peacefully and leaving a fragrant corpse. The story of Diego’s life ends aromatically when, tragically contracting skin rot just like Shane on Home and Away, he:
Willingly and happily handed himself over to God... Diego’s body did not undergo decomposition and still emitted a pleasant odour after death. His uncorrupted body is now still enshrined in the Cathedral of Alcala, Spain.
Our guide wasn’t too fussed by Diego’s story, preferring instead to take us through Filipino history, grittily depicted in ken dolls. Elaine and I were suitably impressed, commenting time and again that “the dolls look like real Filipinos”. From Cory’s oversized afro, to Ninoy’s blood splattered face and Imelda’s glittering shoe collection, the sense of “wow, now I know what it must have been like to start my own ill-conceived coup d’etat” was ever present.
Personally, I found the brief history of the Filipino flag the most fascinating part of the exhibit. Its evolution from KKK to skull and cross bones, to the recognizable emblem we all know and love today was a real eye-opener. Any old idiot can design a flag, but it takes an ingenious Filipino to see an outlaw’s good idea and use it to inspire a nation.
The guide then carefully explained the nature of the house.
“The staircase. German. The roof, nice German one too. The walls, they’re from Hamburg. This nice jug. It’s from Bacolod. Very nice jug too, originally from Berlin.”
“Vive la France!” Said Elaine in German.
The Bakeshop
The next stop was the local French bakeshop, with the very cosmopolitan name of “El Ideal”.
And it was ideal, (if you use the term as loosely as I do). Chowing down on a parisian halo halo, reflecting that the ube paste and beans really were at the cutting edge of fusion French cuisine, my only care in the world was the strange odour emanating from the kitchen each time the door opened. It was quintessentially Eau de Philippines ie. the stench of rancid, three day old fat just crying out for a bit of Diego’s corpse to freshen the air. I’m sure if they could bottle it the Pentagon’s chemical warfare arm would be more than interested.
In the jeepney home I added that to my list of things to ponder, as the afternoon storm finally caught up with us, revealing in flashes of lighting crazy street signs by the roadside.
“Don’t stick your elbow out too far or it may go home in another car.” Warned one.
(If only, I’m outta here, my two-timing elbow thought resentfully.)
“Drive slowly, see Negros. Drive fast, see our jail.” Suggested another.
The jail, I thought, what an "ideal" plan. I’ll save that one for next weekend.
posted by Pinoy Zilla at 4:09 AM
1 Comments:
hehehee....it's cool to read a foreigners first hand experiences in living in the philippines and not just rely on what the media portrays the philippines to be. Very interesting in terms of adapting to a new and challenging environment.
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