WHERE IS DAVAO?

Evening Star, Issue 22578, 20 February 1937, Page 9

WHERE IS DAVAO?

A FLEETING VISIT [Written by Noea Wilkinson, for the ‘ Evening Star.’] On a Japanese ship of only 8,000 tons we sailed steadily north-west from Cape York through a maze of innumerable islands. Bouro, Ceram, Bachian, Talaner, Talantse—have you heard of these? No, nor had we. But do the Moluccas and the Sulu Sea stir some dim and hazy memory? Then come north of the Equator, come north of the Celebes, and there you find the Sulu Archipelago, its hundreds of islands trailing down towards Borneo. And there is Mindanao—large enough for you to find in the atlas, and in the south-east corner away at the head of a long inlet is Davao. All night we crept up the Gulf of Davao. At 2 in the morning we anchored, The familiar vibration ceased. The unusual stillness of the boat lured us on to deck. A brilliant, starlit sky overhead, the dark, mysterious rim of mountains clear-cut against the horizon, odd lights agleam on land, and a blaze of lights from two nearby boats, and the warm, velvety night held us in a spell * Thus we found Davao by night. What of the day? We had read somewhere that Davao Was the agricultural centre of Mindanao, that its port had been opened for trade only in 1926. But cared we for such facts at 3 o’clock in the morning? Were wo not but a few degrees from the Equator, in new seas, in sight and sound of an island strange and unknown to us, in the thrall of the feeling that only strange lands, strange sects, and the tropical night can provoke ? Day broke. The clouds hung low, hiding the mountain tops. The , wide, spacious harbour was hemmed in by hills, the hills were backed by mountains high and rugged and veiled. Mount Apo, said the guide book, was the highest mountain in the Philippines, but the crest was hidden. Vegetation, dense, green, and luxuriant, pressed down to the shore line. Drab clusters of native huts perched on stilts stood here and there in small clearings. An outrigger canoe bobbed precariously up and down on the water, and four , barges, flat and sombre, approached the boat. The noise of winches, the babble of strange tongues filled the still, steamy air. The Malita took us ashore and deposited us into a medley of strange sounds, pungent smells, and crude colours. To the left in shallow water rode many outriggers with sails of brown or white. Lorries of Manila hemp bore down upon us. We dodged behind cases and barrels bearing strange, undecipherable signs, and splashed through wet streets to wrestle with the question of cars, pesos, and hours. Around about us stood darkeyed, brown-skinned people, who enthusiastically joined in our business arrangements, although their comments thereon we could not interpret. Off we whirled in a Ford VB. through streets hemmed in with dilapidated weatherboard houses and open shop fronts. Stilts, shutters, partitions—these formed the homes. Many seemed little more than a roof and a floor perched on stilts. Of private domesticity there was none. Here was a man at his sewing machine, here a woman washing, here the family sitting idly together, and here, beneath the floor and round the stilts, the children and fowls congregated together. Colours, harsh and crude—magentas, reds, pinks, and bright blues—filled the streets. American cars and slow-moving pedestrians became somewhat entangled with each other. A water buffalo with small boy astride moved along at a pace more suited to the island, but bright, yellow buses overtook him, honking their superiority. The main heart of the town was entered; the buildings improved, and some order emerged from the haphazard, colourful confusion of the other streets. But out of the town and over the river and into the country we went. The sky remained grey and overcast. The clouds trailed low over purple mountains. Over the lowlands and far us the mountain slopes stretched the tangled, tropical vegetation. The steamy air was still. The road undulated between walls of thick, green vegetation, with its matted mass of undergrowth. Occasional clearings appeared, showing a huddle of native homes perched precariously on stilts. Here and there a pedestrian, with large, straw sombrero and shirt of pink or blue, passed, fowls and chickens scuttled across bur path, a woman with a great bundle of washing balanced on her head swung slowly into view, or perhaps a man carrying with care a fighting cock in hig arm. There a woman pumped water from the well, there went a bride clad in white satin—satin in the jungle!—and again and again well-kept cars flashed past us bearing their Filipino owners to the town. The road wound on, with now closelyplanted hemp plantations on both sides and now more carefully spaced coconut palms. Then again hemp, and then once more coconut, and always in the background the dense, crowded, tropical growth, the deep purple of far mountains. A turn of the road and we saw ramie grass being cut by hand. Its fibre provides a silky thread which is spun into shirts such as our Filipino driver is wearing, or which makes the so-called grass-linen. Another undulation and a turn, and we were deposited within the precincts of an abaca factory. Our lethargic minds groped after the word. Yes,- Yjes! Of course! —Manila hemp! Had we not driven past plantation after plantation of it? Had we not definitely declared it at first to be banana? We blenched slightly as we thought of our ignorance, but were comfortingly assured that both plants belong to the same family. Here the fibres were being split by native labourers and thrown on to a moving belt which transferred them to higher regions, where they were dipped in water as they entered the machine which tore them into finer shreds. The human interest in the factory was considerable. Living quarters appeared above and alongside the working sheds. Faces, old and young, looked out at ns from the open partitions above, and groups of bright eyed, gaily-cottoned youngsters stood _ below, while crouching over the running water beneath the factory women ceaselessly pounded cotton garments. Alongside the washing stood trays of turmeric roots. You have tasted it in your curries perhaps? Then a flutter of brown hands, and the Ford departs to bear us off between more and still more abaca plantations to a coconut factory. There is no waste with the coconut, said the alert American manager, as he piloted us round the factory. Our sleepy minds tried to absorb the tale of the coconut. There was something about doormats and soap, fish-nets and margarine, oil and vinegar, fuel and linoleum, and seven kinds of desiccated coconut. Wo imbibed details ns to piece-work, Filipino labourers, Japanese overseers, and American trade. Wc be-1

held the pile of coconuts slowly diminishing—at the rate of 1,500 a day, while in the heat Filipinos worked husking the coconut. We watched the white-capped girls paring and washing the coconut, and saw the men drying and grading the desiccated coconut, while we heard future plans for planting vanilla vine and ginger, and thus extending the scope of the factory. And as xvo drove away we sir- the attractive white, airy houses of the Japanese overseers, surroundeu uy smooth green lawns, cool pools, and brilliant flowers and shrubs. Then the more drab, more dejected homes of the Filipino inhabitants. The road led us back to the town. Again the green, steamy vegetation closed in upon us. Here and there a lorry load of hemp was passed, and hero the water buffalo drew his primitive cart laden with cocoanuts. Bright shirts, large straw sombreros caught the roving eye. The town grew near, the noise and confusion of the street life surrounded us. Wo struggled to bring our thoughts back from the steamy lethargy of the country side as wo tumbled out at the the entrance to a native market. The vivid hues of tropical fruits and vegetables, the pungent smells of fish and other things tnoro strange, the whiff of strong cigars, assailed us. Baskets—in rows in heaps, in festoons ; pottery of all kinds, shapes, and sizes; hats, tobacco, cotton goods, and shoes, fowls, and still more baskets—a confusion of sights, sounds, and smells —that was the market! Then the jetty once again, with its queer collection of strange cargoes, its mixture of colours, tongues, and peoples, strange signs ana unknown destinations, and one known quantity, the waiting Malita. Thus in tno warm, steamv, indolent atmosphere of noon we left Davao.