Cheating in Spanish-Era Philippines: A Time Traveler's Guide

(SPOT.ph) First off: adultery is a crime. And not just any crime—it’s considered as serious as murder or poisoning a village chief. You could even land in trouble without concrete proof, based solely on suspicion, so caution is advised. If you’re meeting up with your lover, stick to secluded spots surrounded by thick foliage to keep things discreet.

But if you’re unlucky enough to get caught, brace yourself for some harsh consequences. The punishment is no joke: either death or slavery.

That said, there’s a way out if you’re resourceful. Diplomatic solutions or financial compensation can smooth things over. If you’ve got jewels or gold, you might be able to settle things with the offended husband. The terms are usually sorted out with input from the parties involved and village elders. With the right offer, your mistake can be forgiven, and everyone moves on. Your lover may even stay with her husband as if nothing happened.

Also read: What Does Philippine Law Have to Say About Posting Screenshots?

What if you can’t afford to pay?

Your best bet is to turn to a friend, ideally one with deep pockets. You could borrow the required sum from them, but keep in mind that this comes with strings attached. Until you repay your debt, you’re essentially their slave.

But what if you don’t have anyone to help? Then things get grim. You’re looking at death or, if you’re lucky—which is hardly the case—enslavement. And it doesn’t stop there. Your immediate family, relatives, and even slaves could also suffer the same fate. So before jumping into forbidden love, think about what it could mean for your loved ones.

Now, are these rules only for the poor? Not quite. No one—even village chiefs—is above the law here. But as always, the rich often have an easier time settling fines upfront. Their relatives can also pitch in to contribute toward their ransom. So unless they’ve squandered their generational wealth somewhere, a chief might get away with adultery.

Moral of the story?

If you’re poor, steer clear of adultery—or at the very least don’t get caught.

Things can get more complicated, though. (Cheating always has been.) What if your lover’s husband is a Moro or Pintado chief and he catches the two of you in the act? Well, you’re in serious trouble. He has all the right to kill both of you right there and then.

But what if he’s a poor marksman and fails to take you both down with his spear? If that happens, you’ve got a chance to run for it. If he kills his wife, the situation can escalate further. He might declare war between his entire clan and yours. And if, by some stroke of luck, both you and his wife manage to escape, you’ll need to—as usual—compensate him with a set amount of gold. Pay up, and you might even walk away as friends, no hard feelings.

Now, let’s flip the script. What if you’re the betrayed husband? If your wife decides to leave you after all the drama, she’s obligated to repay double the dowry you gave her during your marriage.

But let’s say, for whatever reason, you decide to reconcile, only for her to later have a child with her lover. Well, if the guilty pair have paid you the required compensation, the child legally becomes yours. That means the child is entitled to inherit your property—whether it’s your fields of crops or your prized carabaos.

One more thing to keep in mind: if you’ve got a bone to pick with the Spanish missionaries—especially those overzealous priests who won’t stop preaching about Jesus—you really don’t want to get caught committing adultery. Why? Because they’ll take it as divine intervention. If you’re arrested and sentenced to death, a priest by the name of Pedro Chirino will likely see it as proof that his God is “a God of Justice.”

Also read: The Top 10 Songs About Infidelity

Your misstep might even become the perfect excuse for them to convert your entire village. Remember that time when “a Spanish-speaking negro” killed his wife and her lover on the island of Panamao? (Where I’m from, we call the island Biliran.) The missionaries called it “deplorable”—not because of the act itself, but because the murdered man was “a reputable man” killed by “the hand of a negro.” They twisted the tragedy into a moral lesson, claiming it was “sufficient to lead all to do penance.”

Both Father Pedro Chirino and Father Francisco Vicente made a trip to the island to deliver confessions. We know all this for a fact because Chirino wrote about it. According to him, the adultery and murder were orchestrated “by the Divine hand” to soften the hearts of the locals and bring them closer to God. He even ends his account with a triumphant “Glory be to our Lord Jesus Christ, from whom all things proceed.” Talk about God moving in mysterious ways.

So yes, adultery gets written into history.

It’s even officially recorded under “crimes” in the index of Blair and Robertson’s The Philippine Islands, 1493-1898, a massive 55-volume collection of historical texts about the country. Is that really how you want future generations to remember you?

Even those in power couldn’t escape this stain. Take Alonso Fajardo y Tenza, for example. His brief biography in the chronological list of Philippine governors includes the grim detail: “kills wife for adultery, 1621.” Then there’s Auditor Vega’s son, forever infamous for his own adultery. Vega, the very man tasked with upholding justice, sided with his son and was publicly denounced by priests during mass for his corruption. Their legacies are etched in infamy, preserved for posterity.

But unconsummated affairs—the ones that burn quietly in the heart—leave no trace in history. That electric moment when you lock eyes with your neighbor’s wife, the silent yearning for a life that could have been, the vivid daydreams of past lives where fate aligned differently—all of it will remain undocumented. No entries of “infidelity”—or, as it will be termed in the year of our Lord 2024, “micro-cheating”—will appear in Blair and Robertson’s index. After all, how could the written word ever capture such internal turmoil, such thwarted desires? These fleeting, fiery struggles belong only to you and time.

Seek solace in the fact that you won’t face enslavement or execution. You won’t even be charged with a crime. You’ll only feel shackled by societal expectations, bound to stay loyal to your wife even if the love has faded. And every time you exchange stolen, longing glances with your neighbor’s wife, knowing you can’t act upon your desires, you may feel as though your soul is withering.

If you ever find yourself time traveling to my era, I highly recommend giving Taylor Swift’s “illicit affairs” a listen:

And that’s the thing about illicit affairs

And clandestine meetings and longing stares.

It’s born from just one single glance

But it dies, and it dies, and it dies

A million little times.

------------

Jade Mark Capiñanes teaches media and writing and is the author of a collection of short fiction called How to Grieve published by Everything’s Fine.