Main entrance to the cemetery, photo courtesy of Henson Wongaiham

A Sunday outing with Uncle Gregorio.

The air-conditioner in Uncle Gregorio’s car sputtered in a lame attempt to reach the back seat where I sat with two of our three daughters. Since the Chinese Cemetery was on the far side of town, we’d left the baby at home with the maid. The weather was too hot for a baby born in Seattle.

We’d left behind the gated villages of Makati and the colonial charm of Uncle Gregorio’s house in Malate and were driving through the poor barrios in the north of the city. Our destination: the Chinese cemetery founded in the late 1800s by my husband’s great-grandfather, don Carlos Palanca y Tan Quien Sien.

As we approached the cemetery, Uncle Gregorio slowed and children ran along beside us. “Watch car, sir?” they shouted. “Watch car?”

Alighting from the driver’s side, Uncle Gregorio raised his chin at one of the boys. Then, leaving his car under the protection of a proud ten-year-old, he led us toward the gate while the boy whipped out a rag and rubbed a spot on the windshield.

photo courtesy of Glenn Martinez

Manila’s Chinese cemetery was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. No grass, no grave markers or tombstones. It was a city for the dead with streets and street names and full-sized houses. Some of the marble and granite “houses” had balconies, kitchens, chandeliers, sinks with hot and cold running water, chairs, tables, bars and flush toilets. (See BoyWander’s blog).

Inside a mausoleum, photo by Henson Wongaiham

“These houses are used once or twice a year on All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day,” Uncle Gregorio said. “The families of the departed bring boom boxes, playing cards, dice and plenty of food, and they party sometimes all night long.”

modern mausoleum, photo courtesy of Henson Wongaiham

“I’m just glad my great-grandfather can’t see this,” my husband grumbled, shaking his head.

Taking my daughters by the hands, I followed Uncle Gregorio up one street and down another. The sun radiated off the concrete and marble and bounced back in our faces. “I’m thirsty, Mommy,” the oldest whined.

I looked at Eugene. Hadn’t we seen enough of these ostentatious mausoleums? Uncle Gregorio, who’d lived in the Philippines all his life, looked like he could continue sightseeing under the hot afternoon sun for another couple of hours. He wasn’t even sweating. 

“Let’s go to the temple now,” Eugene suggested, reading my thoughts.

Chong Hock Tong Temple, photo by Henson Wongaiham

Chong Hock Tong Temple, at one end of the cemetery, was shaded by a big tree. We felt a

Great-grandfather’s statue, Chinese Cemetery, Manila

little better in the shade, though not exactly cool. We paid our respects to the statue of Eugene’s great grandfather. Then we walked around to the side of the temple (See Traveler on Foot.) where the original rules of the cemetery were carved in stone. My husband translated them for me:

1. No one can be refused burial on the land.
2. The poor will be given land free of charge.
3. The rich should be frugal and simple in their burial, and the burial should conform to Chinese traditions. These traditions are:
   1. There should be no obstruction between the grave mound and the sky.
   2. One plot for each body
   3. Grave site design should be simple and dignified.
   4. Family members who wish to be buried together can own up to two plots.
   5. To discourage displays of opulence, the unit price of lots beyond two are set on a geometric progression.

The rules were in a shadowy, outdoor part of the temple. Moss grew on the stone-engraved characters. They obviously hadn’t been read for a long long time.

Next week’s post: “My Interracial Marriage”