The Filipino Art of Walking

The Filipino Art of Walking

There’s definitely something about the way people move in the Philippines, which elevates walking to a new level of endeavour. Neither the hip-displacing Olympic sport nor the torments of power walking have any relevance here - I’m talking about ordinary everyday pedestrian walking. At times I’ve found a quiet perch and sat mesmerized for a time, by the simple elegance and grace of the average Filipino engaged in walking. Even people shouldering heavy burdens, taking the most prudent trajectory and measured steps in order to manage their load safely, have something of this quality about their movements.

This week, our family was manoeuvring its way through the food court of a busy mall. Mama and the two children were ahead of me, weaving through throngs of people, when I became lodged behind a women walking rather slowly. It would have been possible to have gotten around and ahead of the woman, but in a society which consistently promotes and exudes courtesy, I decided that this was both unwarranted and just plain gauche.

At first the Western style of walking, that of leading with the head and accelerating into the myriad tasks of the day, belched loudly in my ear (Is it any wonder that we Westerners never get to smell the roses as we roar past, detaching their downy petals, like a semi-trailer overtaking a cyclist?). Haven’t we all witnessed the desperate and life-threatening overtaking manoeuvre of the motorway driver who accelerates into a traffic space, then breaks hard before slicing inside a second car and taking the exit ramp?

So, it was time for me to sample the Filipino art of walking, but where to start? Well, the first step became immediately obvious – I had to slow down, or risk bowling the poor woman over! That’s when everything began to change…. Within moments, my movements assumed a more sensuous flow, rather than stomping along like a petulant two-year old. As my hips and spine took a rest from being hammered into the pavement, I imagined my torso elongating, while the sensation in my feet became more akin to paddling across shagpile in ugg-boots.

My eyes no longer assumed the wind-blown alertness of the family mutt, lapping the wind from the open car window. Instead they gently opened and closed – as might the portals of a cud chewing jersey cow or those of a carabao, semi-submerged in a mud bath whilst waiting out the afternoon’s heat. Eyes that now had time to notice things. Small things, curious and intimate things – like the gentle shay-shay of the woman’s hips and the way her spine balanced so delicately above them.

About fifty years of age by Western standards, though in the Philippines that could mean sixty or even seventy, unquestionably however, she was well-versed in walking. Hallelujah - thank you Lord! Once again an opportunity had been placed before me. – I was 'grasshopper’ to her inscrutable ‘master’. “But how master?” The second most obvious course of action was to step into her steps much as a tentative string of soldiers might, picking a way through a minefield. That’s when I first heard the voice.

There were the louder, more insistent voices of food vendors touting their wares, but this was a still, small voice. You know - the one that beckons just before you finally surrender, slide down the flanks of your high horse and genuinely beg another person’s pardon, thereby acknowledging your mistake. Call it the universe, a guru, higher power, the big guy, God - in fact anything that allows us to acknowledge that our flea-circus egos are not in charge.

I only became a Christian a little over a year ago (still in nappies you might say) but even so, opening the conversation wasn’t too difficult – “Yes Lord, I know I‘ve been a stranger today, but I’m here now and I’m ready to try it your way.”  I began to reflect. “What’s the rush? My family will survive my absence for sixty seconds. My meal won’t taste any better if I hurry toward it. I really do need to apologise for the way I spoke to my eldest daughter this morning – Lord, show me how to be a more compassionate dad?

Yet to experience this entire transformation I wasn’t required to sign up to a wellness clinic, attend counselling sessions, or be shackled to a lycra-clad personal trainer - goading me to perform painful feats of endurance beyond the fading, physical limits of an aging body. I had simply taken an introductory lesson in the Filipino art of walking.

“The answer, Grasshopper, is always behind us.

We need only to slow down for it to catch our heels.”

“Thank you Master.”