Kitchen Spanish

"SIGUE suya conmigo para habla bueno-bueno con aquel mi tia."

That's a line from "Cuentos Filipinos" (Filipino Stories) by Jose Montero y Vidal, first published in 1876 and now available in an English translation from the Ateneo de Manila.

Readers who speak Spanish know that the grammar and syntax aren't quite right but that was the version being used by the indios, the natives of the Philippines. Translated, it means: "All right, follow me so you can have a good talk with my aunt."

There's much you can learn from the book about daily life during those times, but what most fascinated me were the snatches of conversation in the stories, giving us an opportunity to eavesdrop on something called "español de cocina." That's "kitchen Spanish," the term used by the Spaniards to refer to the natives' version of Spanish, so labeled because it was associated with the household help.

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As in many places occupied by foreign powers over a long period, several areas in the Philippines developed what linguists call creole languages, hybrid languages that combine the colonizers' words with local ones.

The Summer Institute of Languages' (SIL) website (www.ethnologue.com), one of the most comprehensive databases of the world's languages, lists Chavacano as a creole language in the Philippines. Also called "bamboo Spanish" by the Americans, Chavacano has a predominantly Spanish vocabulary but with a Philippine-type grammatical structure. SIL lists several variations of Chavacano, spoken in Manila, Cavite, Davao, Cotabato and, of course, Zamboanga. The line I quoted from Montero's book is probably an example of Ermitano (or Ermiteno), spoken in Manila.

Montero's book is filled with Spanish, Tagalog and Chavacano terms, giving color and life to his stories and glimpses into how languages were developing at that time. We learn that Chinese food was already popular then, at least in Manila, with people able to go to pansiterias serving, what else, but pansit as well as, note the Spanish spelling, tajo and jopia (noodles, bean curd and mongo cakes).

As with the 21st century Filipino, clothes were important, bought from sinamayeras, vendors who sold not just the abaca-silk blend called sinamay, but also clothes like tapis, guinaras, cambayas and camisas de pinya. The sinamayeras were usually Chinese mestizas, who were said to "love to dress well and who by nature delight in festivities, pleasantries and lively occasions."

'Republica de chichirico'

Merrymaking was described as "gaudeamus," a Latin term actually meaning "let us rejoice." To mark special occasions, whether graduating from school or a death in the family, there would be a catapusan, which today means "the end" but which in the 19th century also referred to a dance -- and did they dance, from the graceful balitao of the Visayas to the frenzied habanera borrowed from Cuba.

Gambling was already popular, including betting on horse races and a host of card games: monte, llampo, panguingui and tapa-diablo. We learn that the Spaniards were often at the mercy of their cooks, who would gamble away the marketing money.

The cooks and houseboys were called bata, child. Strangely, niño and niña, originally referring to a little boy or little girl in Spanish, had evolved to become terms of endearment in the Philippines, used to refer even to grandmothers and grandfathers!

We learn how race is an important divider, with Montero's characters often identified according to specific racial categories. His first story's heroine, Enriqueta, is described as an española filipina, the child of a peninsular father (a Spaniard born in Spain) and a filipina, a term reserved at that time for Spaniards born in the Philippines.
A young single woman was called a dalaga while her male counterpart was a bagong tao, a new person. Alternatively, the Spanish term soltero was used to refer to bachelors.

We read of a vain breed of such solteros, especially the men from small towns who go off to study in Manila and then return home transformed, dressed like Europeans and more: "... they look at their boots when walking and speak in a pompous way although unable to rid themselves of the habit of pronouncing F as P and vice-versa." The pretensions to wealth and good breeding are described by a quaint Spanish term: "chichirico."

Life in Manila was expensive, so imagine some of these rural dandies grouping themselves, not into a barkada but a republica (of chichirico?), so they could share the rental costs, expenses at the palenque (market) or tiangi (flea market)... maybe even their camisa de pinya.

'Chino español?'

From Montero's book, we see that the Philippines in the 19th century was a linguistic hive, the result of an intermingling of different cultures. Particularly intriguing was the way Hokkien or Minnan Chinese, the language spoken by immigrants from Fujian, was insinuating itself into the conversations of the natives and into kitchen Spanish.

The line I used to begin today's column was taken from a conversation between a Chinese man named Chang and Quicay (yes, nickname for Francisca), a cigarrera or a woman working in a cigar factory.

Chang, a ladies' man apparently, had noticed Quicay and began following (these days, maybe stalking) her. She notices and asks him, "Cosa quiere suya conmigo (What do you want with me)?" to which he answers, "Mia quiele platicalo (I wish to speak with you)."

Now, this is indeed bamboo Spanish, and I mean "Chinese Spanish" here, with the "r" in Spanish words changed to an "l," as we see with the word "quiere" (to wish) becoming "quiele."

That's not all. When Quicay asks Chang why he wants to speak with her, he gets quite direct, explaining that he found her to be "magandan dalaga," a pretty woman. Flattered, Quicay exclaims, "Aba!" Chang takes that as a cue to further affirm, in 19th century Chinese Tagalog, that she is beautiful: "icao mariquit."

Quicay, who is as kikay as a coquette could get, replies, "Kansia," which is the Hokkien term for "Thank you" (actually kamsia), telling us some Chinese terms were familiar even to a cigar factory worker.

Chang is emboldened by Quicay's responses to his overtures: "Mia quiele mucho con suya y tiene cualtas para puede compla saya y candonga." That was a rather audacious proposition: "I like you very much and I have the money [cualtas!] to buy you a skirt and a carriage."

Chang the bolero apparently gets his way as Quicay offers the "habla bueno-bueno" with her aunt. (I wonder, tia or tia-tia?)

Bueno-bueno, get the book at National Bookstore and read to find out what happened not just to Chang and Quicay but to the other protagonists in the short stories, from a Jolo sultana to the pirate Limahong. Keep an eye out for the dynamism in languages but note, too, how the characters-bored expatriates and scheming businessmen, martyred wives and feckless husbands -- seem to endure through time.