The Harbormaster of Cebu

500 years ago today at this hour, Magellan sailed into the port of Cebu. Here is my version of the story from an imaginary Cebuano man’s perspective (1,499 words):

The sun was coming down on the waves and the boats of Cebu’s port. The sun was so hot on Tuko’s shoulders that it was as if the heat had weight, robbing him of his energy and awareness. As he walked across the sand, he adjusted his red and black linen wrappings that hung around one shoulder and across his chest. He wanted to sit in the shade and drop the wrap from his torso to feel the breeze. But the colorful wraps showed his importance just as much as the gold band wrapped above his elbow. And he couldn’t let himself go unrecognized in front of the fishers, traders, and travelers passing through his Raja’s port every day and night.

Further out in the water, there were ships of various kinds: local balanghays and foreign jiongs. Here at the shoreline, he passed his eyes over many smaller boats: bangkas, balutos, paraos. Small boats of different shapes painted in many different colors. Some with masts and sails, others just paddles; some loaded with new cargo from the market, some bustling with outsiders unloading foreign cargoes. Some boats were half in the water, and half on the sand. Many of them had prows painted with eyes, so they looked as if resting on the beach like lazy sharks. Some were just offshore moored with a rope. A few, empty and unused today, were resting on stilt ramps parallel to the shore. Some of the painted eyes were even paired with gaping mouths full of teeth; a fierce face to announce a sturdy boat. In the midday heat, Tuko nearly daydreamed that he was staring the boats down, assuring them he and his sons wouldn’t let any one of them sneak away with Cebu’s market goods before their riders paid their dues to the Raja.

Along the beach as he walked, he spotted one of his sons, wearing colors similar to his, and standing at the side of a decently-sized baluto with its cargo covered in rice mats. A few young men on the boat had hardly just pulled ashore. One older one among them was still in the boat wearing an overly polite smile and offering Tuko’s son a jar. Unlike his companions (presumably his sons) the older man had a soft belly, wrinkles around his eyes, and hard darkened skin that could only have come from years and years of hard work on boats. Tuko’s son was ignoring the man’s offering and pointing behind him, probably asking what their cargo was and how much of it they had.

“Kamanghuran!” Tuko called to his youngest son to announce his presence. But he kept his eyes on the boat owner as he approached.

The adolescent turned to see his father and greeted him, “Maayong hapon, Amahan.” Seeing no further acknowledgement, he took a step back from the boat.

“Maayong hapon!” the man said, his full attention on Tuko now. “My friend, I want to give you some Tuba! My sons made this themselves— you’ll like it very much, I promise!”

Tuko recognized the man; he had seen him before, and probably his baluto boat, but nothing about it stood out. None of the younger men with the boat looked particularly familiar either, but they quietly stood around as if waiting to simply get to work unloading. Tuko couldn’t remember the man’s name but his face was familiar enough and they all were respectful enough. He accepted the jar, hardly looking at the man. He sniffed the wine inside, and finding it acceptable he took a light swig.

Tuko nodded to the man curtly and said flatly, “Maayong hapon,” wishing him a good afternoon.

He turned away and loosely waved his finger at his youngest son inviting him to walk with him into the shade of the coconut trees just up across the sand. The boy glanced one more time and the strangers but followed his father. Before he could speak, Tuko put the jar of wine against his chest and told him, “enjoy your Tuba.”

Just as Tuko was passing into the shade, he was startled by a sound like thunder. He felt it in the air. It seemed to rattle the trees in front of him and linger in the water behind him. It jolted his body to the bone. He turned around to look out to sea while his hand was already on the hilt of his sword by instinct. His son had tripped over himself jumping at the sound and was sitting in the sand looking around with wide eyes. Out in the water, outlined against the green horizon of Mactan’s forest, were three dark ships. Smoke puffed out from their sides, rising among many white sails. The largest of the sails were each marked with two red lines crossing in the center. Was it black powder on Chinese jiongs? Tuko wondered… Was that an accident? He hadn’t seen much black powder himself but he had heard how dangerous it was.

He could see men moving on the ships. A smaller boat detached from one black ship and started coming through the smoke cloud towards the shore. Without looking down at him, Tuko grabbed his son by one arm and pulled him to his feet, then started walking back into the sunlight towards the water. The family they had been talking to before, along with hundreds of other people along the beach and on other boats, were all frozen where they stood, staring out at the dark ships.

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A short time later, the boat scraped up onto the sand of Tuko’s harbor. It was occupied by a handful of hairy, pale men in clothes cut differently than Tuko had seen before. They carried wooden spears. One among them, empty-handed but wearing a sheathed blade at his belt, had less pale skin and looked considerably less strange than the others, though he was dressed the same as them.

“Selamat pagi!” the stranger called.

“Selamat pagi,” Tuko replied in the Malay language with an audible but expressionless voice. The stranger climbed out of his boat carefully and continued speaking in Malay, quite clearly.

“We wish only peace, and we come at my master’s wish to honor your Raja.” As the Malay stranger spoke, one of the men behind him clambered onto the sand. This one was young; he moved with strength but not finesse, and his beard was thinner than his companions’ beards. Extending an open hand towards the younger one, the first stranger went on, “this one comes to represent our master, and I will speak for him, as they come far from away, and do not understand the languages of our peoples. If we may meet your Raja, these others will stay here with our boat until our return.”

Tuko leaned over to his son and instructed him, in their own language, to run ahead to the Raja. To the stranger, he asked in Malay, “where does your master come from?”

Tightening his lip, the stranger replied, “my master comes from very far, he serves a great Raja. We will tell your Raja all about my master’s people.”

The younger stranger spoke something in a language that Tuko had never heard before. He had no idea what the boy could be saying.

Stifling a sigh, the Malay speaker said, “my companion here knows my master even better than I. He will tell your Raja the many wonders of their home, and the of the priceless gifts they offer.”

“And your home?” Tuko asked.

Pausing a moment, “…I have served my master and his family for half of my life. My master found me in Malacca city. At his side, I have seen all the wonders under the sun, and all across the sea. My master calls me Henrique.”

Tuko looked over the strangers one last time. He nodded to Henrique, and turned to lead them up the path through coconut trees towards his Raja, Humabon.

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This is part 4 of Retelling Magellan’s Philippines
Next chapter: “Meeting the Raja”
Previous chapter: “The Nothing-Nothing People, Waray-Waray”

Photo source, the official IG account of a replica of one of the ships: https://www.instagram.com/p/CJijq1-B_bU/

historical sources:

Antonio Pigafetta in both the Haklyut Society Edition and the Dover Edition.

Francisco Albo in the Haklyut Society Edition