The location was chosen, Truman bluffed, to ensure the Igorrotes’ privacy. To safeguard that privacy, Truman invited the reporters to come along and witness the event. In reality, the location suited Truman because it lay outside the city limits, precluding interference by municipal authorities.
The only way to reach Blake Island was by boat. The steamer that left Seattle at 9:45 on the morning of April 23 was named the Dix, and she carried Truman, Moody, Callahan, the Igorrotes, a dozen newspapermen, a variety of Igorrote musical instruments, cooking pots, a bag of rice, and three mutts brought from the city pound, along with its usual mixture of nature lovers and trekkers. Truman called the reporters to gather around. That morning they would witness one of the most remarkable sights of their life; a canao, which was the name the tribespeople gave their native feast and dance.10 In the Philippines these could last for weeks without pause, but here, owing to the restrictions of the steamer schedule, the grand spectacle would last six hours.
On the island Truman selected a stretch of beach a short walk from the dock. Watched by the waiting reporters, the tribespeople threw off their “street dress”11 and the men got straight down to the serious business of preparing for the feast. The women collected water and began cleaning the pots. The men built fires and washed the rice for cooking. Then they “seized [their] native cymbals” and “plunged into a thanksgiving dance . . . they swayed to and fro with a rhythmic motion that indicated a lighthearted and care-free condition of mind. As the preparations for the slaughter of the dogs proceeded the dance changed, and, as the old braves seized a luckless pup and dragged him away to the block, the dance became animated.”12
Assisted by two of his countrymen, Fomoaley tied the snarling mutt’s feet to a wooden post. When they were satisfied that the dog could not escape, the men lifted the animal above their heads. The dog’s snaps and snarls turned to helpless yelps as it dangled upside down. Fomoaley took a knife from his belt and, with one deft stroke, slit the dog’s throat. The mutt let out an ear-piercing sound that was “brutal and revolting.”13 As it gasped its final breath, Fomoaley sliced the dog’s tail off.
W. P. Romans, the photographer sent by the Seattle Daily Times, stood close by, furiously releasing the shutter button on his camera. He knew the paper would never print his picture of the dog’s throat being slit but it was too good a shot to miss. He moved around the scene, capturing it from various angles.
“The dancers suddenly squatted, and, with eyes turned toward the cooks, broke into a song. Then the women and young boys leaped to their feet again.”14 The chief threw the lifeless dog’s body into a pot of water that was boiling over a huge bonfire.
Truman called to the women to follow him to a spot farther along the island.
When the showman returned, Romans asked where the women had gone. Truman replied that during the dog feast they were banished to another patch of ground, for their own less exotic feast of boiled rice and clams. Truman explained that dogmeat was a delicacy that the Igorrotes believed made them fierce, giving them strength to carry out their head-hunting expeditions. As such, women were forbidden from eating it, for fear it would make them aggressive. The only time women were allowed to taste the canine flesh, Truman said, was as a treat on their wedding day, when they needed fire in their bellies to carry out their conjugal duties. The reporters smirked.
The Igorrote men and boys gave thanks with a wailing song for the feast they were about to eat. When they were satisfied that the meat had boiled for long enough to fall off the bone in chunks, they gathered around, ready to gorge themselves. The Igorrote elders were the first to taste the lean dogmeat, picking it up with their bare hands and shoveling it into their mouths. Only when they had finished were the younger men allowed to partake in the canine feast.15 Friday never ate dogmeat. But that day he gnawed fiercely on a dog bone, then, barking wildly, he threw himself around on the grass in a spontaneous show of savagery for the benefit of the reporters.
The Igorrotes slaughtered the two remaining dogs, then threw them into the pot to cook. They feasted, sang, and danced with wild abandon. Friday and Tainan waved axes above their heads as they danced a jig. The boys were not beautiful according to American tastes, but their ever-smiling faces and tireless energy charmed the watching reporters.
Next the women reappeared. The tribal chief began to chant and the whole group formed a circle around him, beating tom-toms, singing, and writhing to the music. This, Truman explained, was a wedding dance. To American eyes, the Igorrotes looked possessed, as if by some strange spirit.
While the others danced and sang, Friday peered out from behind a clump of bushes, firing an imaginary bow and arrow at them and “hunting” them by creeping slowly forward until he was close enough to pounce. The Igorrotes were too busy to notice him, but the reporters weren’t. They laughed as he jumped out with a shout. Then Friday withdrew to a safe distance to begin the performance again.
Before concluding the festivities, the tribe ran races, threw spears and stones, and wrestled each other to the ground. An odd, American touch saw the winners of a singing competition rewarded with a box of cigars, which they sucked on contentedly. At five thirty in the afternoon, Truman signaled to the tribespeople to pack up, ready to catch the steamer Manette back to Seattle.
The event was the talk of the town the next morning when families across the city sat down to read their newspapers over breakfast. Unable to leave a good story alone, Truman had thrown in a homey promise: he was taking the entire tribal group to his family’s farm in Iowa for a vacation before the start of the summer season. Whatever would the good farming folk of Iowa make of the G-string–clad Filipinos?
Buoyed by his triumph, Truman announced that the Igorrotes were holding another huge dog feast and this time everyone was invited. It would take place in Madison Park in downtown Seattle the following Sunday. But the police had other ideas. They told the showman they would arrest him if he took a dog anywhere near the place. “Igorrotes Can Have No More Dog Say Authorities—Gentle Calves and Lambs Killed Daily but Fido Is Protected . . . the Igorrotes are pressing emaciated hands to depressed stomachs and wondering if this is after all the land of the free,”16 read the front-page story in the Seattle Daily Times. The reporter got creative, summing up the position of the Seattle Police and the Humane Society with a verse:
Backward, turn backward,
O child of Luzon!
Lower thy bolo and put thy shoes on.
Poor little Fido, just stand back of me,
And I will protect thee from this crueltee.17
Truman didn’t get his dog feast, but that didn’t matter: he got the publicity he craved.
Word spread about Seattle’s exotic new residents, and crowds began to descend on Pike Street, handing over their nickels and dimes at the door. The visitors included L. C. Mullgardt, a Harvard-educated artist and architect. As he left the Washington Hotel, where he was staying, and turned the corner, “a brazen tumult assailed his ears as he passed the temporary Igorrote camp on Pike Street. Entering, [he] saw the broad-shouldered, swarthy Igorrote men swaying in the mazes of their native dances to the ear-splitting accompaniment of brass cymbals. It was a weird but interesting scene.”18 When the show was over, Mullgardt stayed for a while and, with Julio interpreting, he engaged the tribespeople in conversation.
So taken was the artist with the Filipinos that he postponed pressing business engagements in Portland and San Francisco so that he could return to Pike Street the following day with his sketchbook. For the next five nights, he sat in the dimly lit front room gazing intently at the tribe, who danced and sang native songs. He worked quickly, sketching the tribespeople in charcoal.
A reporter from the Seattle Daily Times, there at Truman’s invitation, noticed Mullgardt’s drawings of the “strong and virile”19 warriors, and went over to talk to him. Explaining his fascination, the artist said, “Frankly, I confess that the more I saw of the Igorrotes after a most casual visit to them l
ast Tuesday, the more I became interested in them and the more fixed became my desire to picture them and to study their ways.”20 The reporter persuaded Mullgardt to let him print his sketches of the nearly naked Filipinos alongside his article in the paper.
Invigorated by the attention the tribe was garnering and delighted to have some money in his pocket again, Truman sent a telegram to Thompson and Dundy, accepting their latest offer and promising he and the Igorrotes would arrive at Coney Island within a fortnight. Finally, things were looking up for Truman Hunt and his Igorrote exhibition business.
But not everything ran to Truman’s carefully orchestrated plan. On May 10, just as he was preparing to set out with the tribe on their journey, he received word from the hospital that Falino had died of pneumonia.
Truman must tell the tribe, but how? He knew the Igorrotes well enough to know that the old man’s death, alone, in a Western hospital and on foreign soil, would hit them hard, not least because they couldn’t give the tribal elder a traditional burial.
The showman recalled the funeral of an Igorrote elder he had known named Som-kad´. The tribe had washed the deceased, then dressed the body in a burial robe and placed it upright in a chair which they positioned at the open door of the deceased man’s house with the corpse facing out. They lit a small fire underneath the body to overpower the odors that would naturally emanate from it. For several days and nights, the dead man remained there, in full view of those who passed. Family, friends, and neighbors sat with the body, singing soothing songs and going about their daily lives. The women swatted the flies away from the corpse and spun threads, nursed their babies, chatted and laughed, while the children played at the dead man’s feet. After a day or two, the men gathered to drink bá-si, the local alcohol, and to peacefully divide up the property of the deceased. They hunted animals—carabao, pigs, chickens, and a dog—to be eaten at the burial feast.21
On the day Som-kad´ was to be buried, the villagers gathered at the dead man’s home. One of the tribesmen lifted the corpse—by now “a black, bloated, inhuman-looking thing” with an odor “most sickening to an American”22—and carried it over to a coffin. “Streams of rusty-brown liquid”23 poured from the body. The coffin was lowered into the ground, then the men threw themselves onto the piles of loose dirt at the graveside. Using their bare hands, they scooped up the soil and buried the coffin in the shortest time possible—Igorrote custom dictated that if a crow flew over the grave, or a dog barked or a snake slithered past before the body was fully covered, a dire evil would affect the community. Next the men hurried to the river to wash. Depending on the wealth and status of the deceased, Igorrote burials were followed by feasting and funeral rites lasting from two to eight days.24
Short of furtively engaging in an authentic burial ritual, which would surely bring the police after them, Truman was at a loss as to what the tribe could do to honor the dead man. Maybe, he thought to himself, they could do something to mark the occasion when they reached Coney. He had no idea what, but he would come up with something.
The showman entered the front room of the Pike Street house. The Igorrotes had just finished eating and were smoking their pipes. Julio looked up. He could see from Truman’s face that something was wrong. Truman beckoned to his assistant to come over. Without preamble he told him the tribal elder was dead. The interpreter had known the old man was seriously ill, but the news of his death came as a shock. Weren’t American hospitals the best there were? Maria glanced over. Julio’s eyes filled with tears. As the oldest Igorrote traveling with them, Falino had had special status within the group. He was admired, and respected as Igorrotes believed a wise elder should be. The showman placed a fatherly hand on Julio’s shoulder. Do you want me to tell to the others? Julio shook his head, he would do it. What would they do with the body? Truman would have it embalmed and stored until he could make arrangements to return it to the Philippines for a proper Igorrote burial. Julio nodded.
The interpreter turned to face his countrymen and women and called to them to listen. Truman stood silently at his side. Falino is dead, Julio said abruptly. There was silence for a moment, then one of the women started to sob. Soon the room was filled with the unmistakable sound of grief. Truman closed his eyes, as if trying to shut out their pain. The showman left the house and went outside for a walk. He gagged as the smell of fish caught in the back of his throat. The tribe’s reaction to Falino’s death had stoked up old memories of dear Myrtle’s passing. He would find somewhere else to sleep that night.
When Truman finally returned to Pike Street, he told Julio to get his coat. Moody was taking him and Fomoaley on a special trip downtown. They would all leave for New York the following day. Julio didn’t feel like going out, but when Truman mentioned that he had arranged a sightseeing tour of the offices of the Seattle Daily Times, Julio could not resist. Since his arrival in Seattle, he had become a regular reader of the press and had taken an ill-concealed pride in the many stories the paper had carried about the tribe. Now he was intrigued to see how the publication was put together.
If Julio was fascinated by the workings of the paper, the journalists at the Seattle Daily Times were no less intrigued by the Igorrotes who had provided them with pages of colorful copy. The editor took them on a tour of the entire plant, from the copy rooms by way of the composing room, stereotyping room, the mailing and delivery rooms. At the culmination of their visit, Julio stood in open-mouthed wonder before the big presses of the Times as they thundered, printing that day’s paper. He was unable to make any comment except to exclaim, wonderingly, occasionally: “Quick.”25
The Dexter Horton and Company bank was next on the Filipinos’ itinerary. The telephone rang just as the special guests arrived, trailed by a reporter from the Seattle Daily Times. The bank manager, N. H. Latimer, rushed to answer it. He listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Fomoaley. The chief, upon hearing a voice emanating from “the stick,” took fright and dropped it. Laughing, the manager invited Julio and Fomoaley to follow him into the vaults. The men’s eyes widened as Latimer informed them they were looking at two million dollars’ worth of gold, silver, and currency. What would you do with the money if you owned it? asked Latimer. “If I had that money I would buy the Philippine Islands,” replied the Igorrote chief. “What would you do with the Philippines?” inquired the bank manager. “If I owned Philippines I’d be big chief,” said Fomoaley, his eyes glistening at the prospect.26 “The mere proprietorship of the Philippines and the homage that would be paid him was all the Igorrote chief coveted,” observed the reporter.27
In a nearby fur store, Fomoaley stroked the animal skins, exclaiming “All [is] big here in America. Big men, big women, big houses, big city, these big. Not like our deer,” he added, pointing toward an elk skin.28
Their last stop was a baseball game. Julio watched with interest and did his best to memorize the rules. “Maybe [the] Igorrotes will learn baseball. I think Igorrotes can understand how to play.”29 Turning to Moody, he asked, “You say Japanese play baseball? If Japanese play baseball then Igorrotes can.”30
That night Julio and Fomoaley described their day to their countrymen and women. Friday, who had learned to play baseball when he was living with the Fuller family and had “a good batting eye,”31 joined in as Julio explained the game. The tribespeople took comfort in having something to think about besides Falino’s death.
Truman woke them early the following morning. What lay ahead for the Filipinos was a vast transcontinental journey, in its way just as enormous as the one they had already taken across the Pacific. Two and a half thousand miles of railroad track led from Seattle to Coney Island. Their final destination was not an ethnological exhibit, or government-sponsored display. They were headed into the heart of America’s show land, into a place of sensation, shocks, and raucous laughter.
By the early 1900s, the circus, amusement park, and midway business was booming as blue-collar Americans sought ever more vivid distractions
from the daily grind. Ringling Brothers, and Barnum and Bailey were household names. Visiting fairs and temporary expositions held in towns and cities across America attracted people from all walks of life, and demand for new eye-catching exhibits was insatiable. As interest in these forms of entertainment soared, the trade had begun to attract characters ranging from the merely colorful to the blatantly corrupt. Many of the entrepreneurs of this world walked a fine line between legitimate business and hucksterism. Truman had an unusual pedigree for a sideshow man, with his background in medicine and government service, but over the next few months he would show himself to be just as talented at wheeling and dealing as those who had been born into the business.
Truman was gripped by a familiar sense of anticipation as they boarded the train in Seattle. He had negotiated with the railroad company to provide a private carriage for the Igorrotes at a discounted price. It would allow them to travel together and would afford them some protection from prying eyes and racist taunts. Anti-Asian sentiment ran high in the American Northwest, largely directed at Chinese immigrants but loosely applied to anyone who looked Asian, and Truman thought it was in everybody’s best interests to seclude the tribe from the other passengers. But that hadn’t prevented a constant stream of curious travelers from coming to the end of the car to peer in at the tattooed foreigners with their huge earlobe stretchers and odd-looking hats.
The Igorrotes gazed out of the window as the train trundled through one-horse towns and sprawling cities. Describing their train journey, Fomoaley later enthused, “We were carried for many days in houses that went on wheels and flew along like birds. And now it seemed as if the land would never end. We must have come nearly a hundred days’ journey in a week.”32
While the tribe sat smoking and speaking in low voices at one end of the carriage, Truman sat dreaming up publicity stunts at the other.
The Lost Tribe of Coney Island Page 7