“You haven’t yet had balut? They are good for your knees,” and she chortled as our Filipino friends burst into laughter.
“I don’t get it either, Jeannie,” said Nigel with his British accent as he cocked his head. Glynn laughed but looked away.
“I know what balut is,” I said, “I just don’t get the reference.”
I’ve been known to put into my mouth the things I don’t know and do know – swan, mule, fish intestines – and have ranged the spectrum from Margaux and Ardbeg at Michelin stars to being veggie-curious. I have personally skinned the hindquarter of a wild boar, and as of a recent snorkeling dip while living here in Boracay, have snatched a sea urchin from the Pacific floor and licked the freshest uni. But the idea of slurping up a half-egg-half-duckling-sometimes-beaked-and-feathered poultry straight out of the shell after dousing it in vinegar – how one eats balut – just hadn’t appealed to me. And here I was lunching on the neighboring island of Panay at Irene’s beachfront resort, suspecting an innuendo in her words. Irene is the sister of Mic, Glynn’s friend and Nigel’s local sweetheart – friends I had met only five days before at sunrise on a beachside bench resembling an opium bed.
Lunch had not included the half-canard but instead was a feast of char-grilled chicken and bangus, or milk fish, and pots of stewed sweet chili prawns, plus steamed rice ever-present in Filipino meals. Glynn is a Boracay resident but Nige and I are English and Korean foreigners, and the table looked like a United Colors of Benetton spread ready to chow. The prawns were so delicious that I asked for the recipe and learned of the magic sauce that is banana ketchup. Platter after platter
covered the long table, and I was humbled by Irene’s welcoming generosity. But
still curious. And savoring my meal. Per usual, I was one of the last ones at the table.
“We say balut is an aphrodisiac,” explained Irene.
“Ah, I live alone and will have no need of that but thank you,” I smiled.
(End of entry)
The conversation that continued ---
“You are staying tonight, no?”
What?
“Glynn didn’t tell you?” Nige chimed in.
“You can have the room with two beds,” Irene said quickly.
“Okay, I need to go have a word with him,” I excused myself.
And as I got up from the table to find him, I thought – why
not stay the night? The people here are kind. They are open. I can trust them.
… didn't they just practically kidnap me?
I found Glynn playing with Mike and Daniela, Mic’s children
from her previous boyfriend.
“Glynn."
"Yes?"
"Did you know we were staying here?”
“Yes, I mean, no, well, Nigel told me he wants to stay here
on the way here. … Is that okay with you?”
“I'm okay with staying but I don’t want anything to happen
between us, okay?”
“Okay.”
"I trust you."
"I trust you."
You trust me? I laughed inside.
But then I thought again that trust is a two-way street.
Every relationship is a two-way street. I had heard from another local friend
that it is common for Filipinos open their homes and meals at dinnertime to
strangers walking by. The very fact that Mic introduced me to her children and
sister, that we were invited to have a meal and stay there, that people that
had met that day were having conversations in earnest and amongst it some jokes
– were all extensions of kindness and warmth that the island bestowed onto its
people and even to a passerby like me.
Perhaps to readers’ disappointment but to the relief of my
friends and family, nothing happened, and I slept safe and sound. But as we left the next morning, I
thanked the family – “Maraming salamat po,” or thank you so much - in the language
touching closest to their hearts, for they had touched mine.
