Unexpected Encounters in the Philippines

It was a bright morning in 2006 when I boarded a Cebu Pacific flight to Cebu City, marking only my second trip outside Davao since I’d arrived in the Philippines a year earlier for an international development assignment. My destination was Dumaguete City, where I was to attend a workshop at Silliman University. The thought of reconnecting with other foreign development workers—some of whom I hadn’t seen in months—made me genuinely excited.

The flight itself felt special. The crew greeted us with warm smiles, and soon we were soaring above the lush hills and winding rivers of Mindanao. From my window seat, I gazed out at the long stretches of white beaches below and the unmistakable Chocolate Hills of Bohol in the distance. It was breathtaking—one of those quiet moments where you feel completely present.

Upon landing in Cebu, I opted for a scenic countryside bus ride to Dumaguete rather than a boat. The ride was long, and I found myself dozing off until a gentle tap on my shoulder stirred me. A soft voice asked, “Hey, you look new here. What’s your name, and where are you from?” I turned to find a woman with a vibrant yellow ribbon in her hair, her face full of life despite her age. There was something disarming about her presence.

I introduced myself and said I was from Kenya. She paused, then asked innocently, “Is Kenya near Chicago?” I smiled, suppressing a laugh, and politely explained. She was curious and warm and, as it turned out, incredibly helpful—offering to show me around Dumaguete.

By the time we arrived, it was already evening. We hopped onto a tricycle and rode through town to Silliman University. She dropped me off at the campus gate with a cheerful goodbye and a promise to meet again the next evening. I hadn’t expected to make a friend so quickly, and certainly not one so eccentric and kind.

The following day, the conference began in earnest. It was good to reunite with colleagues from all over the Philippines—Manila, Leyte, Iligan. We shared stories, meals, and laughter as we reflected on the challenges of our work and the lives we were living so far from home.

True to her word, my new friend called me at 6 PM. She was waiting by the gate in a dark Range Rover, her driver Rodgers behind the wheel. As we drove to her home, just outside of town, I listened to her stories—some amusing, others veering into topics like food, which I couldn’t quite relate to. Her home was large and well-kept, and filled with dogs she lovingly called her “children.” Her husband had passed, and her actual children lived abroad. Despite the oddity of being surrounded by barking dogs, I admired her sense of purpose and resilience.

That evening, she offered me cold orange juice—a small but deeply appreciated gesture after days of tropical heat. She chatted with energy and humor, and before I knew it, she was inviting me out again—for “ladies' night.”

When Wednesday arrived, I found myself sneaking away from my team’s outing to keep my promise to her. She picked me up promptly, and we went to a coastal club bathed in soft lights and mellow music. She ordered white wine; I opted for a soda. Each time she stepped away to freshen up, her perfume lingered a little longer. And then came the question that caught me off guard: “Do you like me?” Before I could fully react, she added, “On Saturday, I’d like you to meet my son… then we can plan our marriage.”

I didn’t know what to say. It felt surreal. Was she joking? Was she serious? I chose not to respond and let the moment pass. We danced a little more, then she dropped me off at campus. That was the last time I saw her.

On the day of my departure, I realized I had lost my phone. I couldn’t call anyone, not even her. As the plane climbed above the clouds on my return to Davao, I looked down at the islands once more. Dumaguete had given me more than just professional growth—it gave me an unexpected story, a brief but vivid human connection, and a glimpse into the complexity of culture, friendship, and solitude in a foreign land.

Even now, the memory of that trip returns to me in flashes: the warm breeze on the Boulevard, the laughter of my colleagues, the strange comfort of her home filled with dogs, and the bittersweet realization that I might never see her again.