The last port

The last port. Manila Bay is wide and grey at dawn, and the city rises behind its old walls. The galleons that once left here for Acapulco are long gone, but the sailors still talk about them as if they sailed last year.

Before evening mass, girls sell sampaguita garlands at the church doors. The flowers are tiny and white, threaded so tightly they look like beads. Inside, the incense was so thick I could barely see the altar. I came out smelling of jasmine and myrrh and did not mind at all.

A boatman took me south along the coast to a village where they distil ylang-ylang in a copper still behind a house. The flowers are yellow, drooping, almost untidy. The oil is creamy and bright as noon.

On my last night the captain shared rum and a square of bitter chocolate from Mindanao. He said the voyage is not over, it only changes hands. I have painted the ship from the harbour wall, sails furled, and left the rest of the page empty.