My latest sojourn in The Philippines is not a vacation, as many people expect. Sure it is a tropical island nation (actually 7109 islands depending on the tide and the latest military adventures and creeping occupation of the Peoples’ Army of the Republic of China, and you can imagine how many beaches that means) but I’m not here as a tourist, I’m here as a family man. And a professional man. I have my computer, and my calendar, and more projects than a man my age ought to have – but what the hell, I have obligations, and I don’t want to be bored.

So I settle into my routines here in Trece Martires, Pilipinas, which begin to look a lot like my routines in Kanata. Only a bit more congested.

I downsized six years ago after my wife died, abandoning my 2500 sq ft house, unfinished basement, two car garage and too many yards of lawn to mow every week. I also abandoned my office downtown, 1100 sq ft of engaging space shared with my dearly departed roommate of 25 years, Ted Weatherill. I combined everything in a three-story townhouse (rental) in Kanata, 1750 sq ft. I converted one larger bedroom into my home office. As a downsizing project it was more or less an abject failure – I may have shed 30% of my previous space and associated stuff but I still had way more space than one man should reasonably expect to occupy. Except I had stuff I still wasn’t ready to part with, and, I find, I use almost every bit of that space, one way or another.

And I never intended to live in that space alone. I was supposed to have a new roommate, a live-in, a companion. As for most widowers, I’m told, living alone is not an option. The trouble was, the solution I had in mind had other ideas.

In my unstable state of mind – my year living dangerously – I went to The Philippines looking for Plan B¹.

And I found her, in Capitol Hills, Trece Martires, Cavite Province. Carmelita Balibalita Espino, the girl from Santa Rita (of which title a future book may be written).

Carmen lives in a tiny bungalow cheek by jowl with dozens and hundreds of tiny bungalows all of similar design and disrepair. But, Capitol Hills is a considerable measure above the many millions of other abodes called home by many millions of Filipinos.

Capitol Hills was a social housing project commissioned by Imelda Marcos in the 1970s for retired military personnel. It evolved into a model strategy to try to deal with the housing problem of millions of Filipinos living in squalid communities in ravines and woods and along roadways all across the country. Fifty years later The Philippines still have a massive housing problem.

As was her custom, Imelda built a mansion for herself there, by far the biggest place in the development, a walled 5 hectare property enclosing a building that looks like the Parthenon. (This was actually a comparatively insignificant property of more than 50 such mansions acquired by the kleptomaniac Marcos in The Philippines between 1965 – 1985.)  I don’t think she ever lived in Capitol Hills and nobody has but the security guards for fifty years. There is a minor mansion for her staff a block or so from Carmen’s little bungalow, now a broken-down haunted house, though still showing signs of past glamour; it can be yours for a mere 19,000,000 Pesos (roughly $475,000 CDN) but would need at least that much to renovate it. But why would you bother? You would certainly stand out in a gray and crumbling concrete² warren of tiny houses.

The idea of Capitol Hills was that the government would own the land and lease it to tenants at a nominal fee; the tenant would then occupy one of the tiny housing units but could lease to own the house from the government. Not surprisingly the project never benefited the squatters – they were never able to afford even these favourable terms – and it became an enclave for predominantly middle-class people (middle class by Philippines standards). The occasional large two-story buildings, wedged in with the tiny bungalows increasingly showing their age, are conspicuous and signal the occupants are professional people (doctors and engineers) or the benefactors of overseas spouses or Filipino migrants.

 ‘Capitol Hills’ is a classic real estate marketing device, a name to entice would-be occupants. But there are no hills to speak of, more like knolls, no doubt at one time grassy. Capitol Hills, Phases 1 and 2, is the main residential sector of the Lapidario Barangay. (Trece Martires is the memorial home to the 13 martyrs of Cavite Province, executed by the Spanish authorities in 1896; there are 13 barangays, each named after one of the martyrs.) There are some 225,000 residents in Trece Martires, including 12,000 in Lapidario. Capitol Hills is home to about 9,000 people, half of whom I swear are children, though you’d never know it except if you happen to be on the streets around 7:00 a.m. or 6:00 p.m., and this is because almost no one is on the streets during the heat of the day. 

Carmen bought her little place in early 2023 pouring whatever pension funds she might have had into bricks and blocks. She spent the rest of her resources renovating the place to give it a fresh new modern touch. New plumbing, new wiring, new tile flooring, new roof trusses – the previous trusses – buko wood (from coconut trees) – had almost completely disintegrated from termites, now replaced with aluminum struts. The roof only leaks occasionally: when Carmen took possession the roof was judged adequate so wasn’t replaced, only revulcanised at the joins and repainted. But gale force winds from the constant occurrence of typhoons seek out tiny openings and gradually lift the roofing material and open larger gaps, with the result of water finding its way into the walls of the house, causing a never-ending cycle of investigation and repair. Still, this is infinitely better than what the thousands and millions of Filipinos have to deal with living in squatters’ villages with only loose rusted corrugated metal sheets for roofs (battened down with old tires) and tarpaulins as a barrier against the elements. 

‘Villa Espino’, as I like to call it, comprises a terrace converted into a front room, a combined sala and dining room, a galley kitchen, two small bedrooms, two tiny bathrooms and a back utility room; in all about 850 sq ft. There is no yard. 

Carmen has carved out a space for me when the author is in residence. It is otherwise used by the eldest apo, Andrea, who is in her last year of high school.

Here is your author at work. I amuse myself with images of Ernest toiling away on The Old Man and the Sea, in his Havana or Key West houses, tossing page after page of discarded drafts into the waste basket, though for me, there is no need of a waste basket as there is not paper. It takes my full concentration to extricate myself from this bureau, trying not to get entangled with charging cables, nor knock over the fan, nor spill my coffee.

At any given time 7-10 people live in the Villa Espino. As queen of this domain, Carmen has sole occupation of the front bedroom and bathroom; everyone easily accepts my exceptional status as joint-occupant of that little bedroom. The back bedroom is occupied by 3-5 apos and occasionally some of their parents. Guests spread out on the couches in the sala and the front room.

Despite the confined space and constant distraction, I’ve actually been quite productive, pushing through Canadian Authors projects, writing and revising new material for a new service offering (a 360 Survey tool and executive coaching) for the Michel Perron Advisory Group, and producing two blog posts. 

With so many people available for dinner, we eat in shifts. But that’s not as congested as it sounds since Filipinos eat at any and every hour of the day. There is always food on the table and people have an instinct to take just what they need. Everybody looks out for everybody else. There are two rice cookers, always on the go. 

Unspoken – how does that happen – at dinner everyone waits until I’ve eaten. (Well, not always – the two eldest apos arrive home from school around 4:30, starving, and if dinner is ready they head straight to the table. I don’t mind – they’ve already asked for my blessing (taking my hand to their forehead) when they arrived home; how can I object?) I have mixed feelings about my privileged eating position, uncomfortable, yet at the same time, strangely satisfied – must be something primordial. So, first sitting is Carmen and me, except Carmen is so eager to finish and clean up I’m usually left alone to empty my plate – and I’m a savourer. All the while the remaining people wait. Next shift is the apos and any parents who happen to be around. Third shift, strangely enough, are visitors – typically extended family members. Last are the hired help and family assistants. There always seems to be enough food – like Jesus and the multitude – but then, rice, the national staple, is always available.

Cooking goes on all day long: breakfast prepared by 5:30 – usually hot dogs, chicken nuggets, eggs, fish, and the ever-present rice; merienda at 9:00 – chips, cookies, leftovers; lunch begins around 10:30 (but for me, 12:30) – noodles, grilled cheese sandwiches; more cooking begins at 3:00 for dinner anytime from 4:00 on (I insist on dinner not before 5:30 – a rarely get my way). It’s practically impossible to escape the smell of onion and garlic frying, followed by fish. I’m not fond of these smells anymore and I’ve never been fond of fish.

And this is our daily routine: Up by 6:00 (or in Carmen’s case, and her sister, Lita, up by 4:00); coffee for me with twitter and yesterday’s National Post on my i-pad while watching the organized chaos of the apos getting ready for school; Carmen and I then take a quick walk around the block before the sun gets too high in the sky; soon, daughter-in-law, Meilyn, arrives along with the hired help; quiet industry resumes as the clutch of women settle in to their routines of cleaning house and the endless laundry. It always amazes me how these tasks unfold with almost no obvious instruction. Chatter goes on all around me but I’ve learned to screen most of it out – it’s just white noise to me, especially as my Tagalog is still sufficiently rudimentary that I don’t know what’s being said. I try not to be paranoid but my ears perk up whenever I hear the words magandang (beautiful) or matandang (old). 

Before I know it, it’s lunch time, and time for my nap. Work resumes around 2:30; the dinner hour begins around 4:30. By 6:30 it’s getting time to watch Wheel of Fortune and then Jeopardy on You-Tube; it’s yesterday’s news of course, recorded by some dude in Thailand or Markham, but it’s almost like being back home. I play cards with the kids and chase the 7-year old to bed by 9:00: Brush your teeth! I chase myself to bed soon after that and dread Carmen and Lita stirring at 3:30 and Carlo (the cat) squawking for attention.

And it’s just another day. No wait, today (Friday) is shopping day and the excursion by tricycle to Waltermart.

Doug Jordan, reporting to you from Trece Martires, Philippines

© Douglas Jordan & AFS Publishing

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1. For more on my year of living dangerously, and on living in The Philippines, visit my blog posts at the time: Travels with Myself, Vol 1, and The Pilipiñas Packet.
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2. Why gray? because all the concrete is made from black and grey siliceous volcanic ash which which gradually reabsorbs Carbon dioxide over time and ages even darker. More prosperous houses have parged surfaces and painted to minimize this dreary darkening effect. ↩︎