'Benabays of Waterlilies'

 

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ANOTHER auction of Southeast Asian pictures was held in Sotheby's Singapore last Sunday. The works of National Artists Fernando Amorsolo, Ang Kiukok, Hernando Ocampo and Arturo Luz went on the block. The realized sales fell within the estimated price range. The Philippine lot -- this also included works done from the time of 19th-century master Felix Resurreccion Hidalgo to young contemporary artists Marcel Antonio and Geraldine Javier -- was interesting but fell short of being exciting. Only a 1979 painting of fish by Ang Kiukok moved me. Amorsolos, already dime a dozen at auctions, were all done past his prime in the 1950s. The Hidalgo, a small insignificant landscape, and three early works by Romeo Tabuena looked like tourist art.

Rival auction house Christie's has a small but finer selection up for auction in Hong Kong next month. This includes early works of Bencab and Luz; reliable sources describe these as paintings "to die for."

Auction catalogues are indicators of changing tastes and also gives you a feel of the art market in the region, although what sells and what is good don't always come hand in hand. I was drawn to some works by Miguel Covarrubias (1904-1957) because I thought, at first, that he was some unknown Filipino artist; he turned out to be Mexican and lived in Bali before the war. He illustrated books by Pearl S. Buck and Marc Chadourne. These two names rang a bell because there is a Pearl S. Buck foundation in a dingy building in Ermita, and Chadourne published a travelogue "Extreme Orient" in 1935 that had a section on the Philippines. I found a copy of Chadourne in the great Paris flea market Clignancourt two decades ago and, at the time when my French was still current, I did a rough translation of a chapter on the Benabays [Binabae] of Waterlilies:

"Rafael, a young mestizo, is my benevolent guide and friend. With him I discovered the best, as well as the worst, that Manila has to offer, like the time we encountered the benabays of 'Waterlilies.'

"We bathed in the phosphorescent sea in Cavite Bay where the water was warm like living liquid rolling under the interminable arch of the palm trees. While traveling, my companion was slowed down by the allure of the cabarets, their red lights and entrances with green leaves. [In one place] we espied moving forms, whispering voices near the hedge of a seeming cloister.

"Dos pesos, señor, for short time.

"Behind the palisades and the Chesterfield billboards were bamboo huts which offered a clandestine asylum ... At the entrance of this obscure alley, a sign reads, 'Waterlilies.' We are tempted to go in regardless of the large, sinister, wooden house at the end of the enclosure.

"A low voice beckons from the shadows. During these few seconds our hearts beat faster as we anticipate the sight of these small Oceaniennes [did he mean Filipinas?]. We imagine them walking past us one by one, a bit sunburned.

"Dressed in white dresses they go into the trees. Over the branches, leaves and roots of a banyan tree, the moon shines on their muslin [clothing], and not their figures. There are five, perhaps six, who run and assault the car. Three of them stretch their arms to snap at our jackets.

"Anda conmigo, muchacho ... come along sweetheart.

"Sweet voices, very sweet, feline, very suave. Not bad. From whence come these sirens?

"Then I heard a hoarse and sneering intonation which was near masculine, so we were put on the alert. A small necklace of the fragrant ylang-ylang passed my nose, waved by the bony fingers of a hand, a large hand that strokes me slightly on the neck and starts to envelop my shoulder. I can't see the strange contour of the head that approaches. It was long-headed and covered with a mop of hair, a bonnet of black horsehair like a horse's mane and tail. With their gesticulations and twists they seemed like great apes falling from the trees.

"'Gosh,' Rafael growled, 'we fell in the house of the benabays!' The motor of the car whined with a scared anger, which heightened my friend's panic. The benabays came between us and the exit. They made sweet calls and giggles, which sounded like the high-pitched voices of castrates. They encircled the car, imprisoning us. The car wouldn't budge, its wheels stuck in the sand. Then a horse-like figure the color of a cigar comes out of the blue and I see a fixed angular Malay gaze.

"It's a man! Aquiline, near handsome, he has a full chest, the cleavage of a woman that you often see through a dress, but his teeth and gums are black due to betel chewing. Yuk! He laughs but it later turns to an anguished cry when the car starts to move. We rush out of the place.

"Later I wonder, were they really men? Maybe they were just ugly women? Rafael says the poor things were probably driven out of their barrios by society and so they took refuge in this abandoned cabaret. We get back to the road and look back at these poor hermaphrodites who were ostracized from society like lepers."

Was this a pre-war transvestite bar? Was it located in Cavite? Did Chadourne make all this up to spice up his book? More research will fill in the gaps in this footnote to the yet unwritten history of prostitution in the Philippines. In the meantime, I should accept the offer of newly arrived Alliance Francaise director Olivier Dintinger to polish my rusty French.

Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.

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