The Most Dangerous Day of my Life.
1. Cardboard
It was in late 1991 when my friend Catherine called me out of the blue to ask if I was interested in working on a USAID project in the Philippines. She and I had worked on several projects examining the sustainability of our Northwest forests, but beyond that I had little experience with the operational end of the forest products industry. I had toured a dozen or so sawmills, from small operations using portable saws to ISO 9000 certified operations that sold their dimensional wood products all over the world. But I was a novice when it came to judging the efficiency of the industry, much less the efficiency of the Southeast Asian wood products firms.
Nonetheless, I eventually agreed to apply for this US government sponsored project, and by the end of the year I was reading up on the peculiar relationship between the United States and the Philippines and packing my bags for a three-month sojourn in the Philippine archipelago. In Oregon we were basking on the last of the summer heat, as I boarded my local flight to LAX. Los Angeles was a frenzied mass of travelers coming from everywhere and headed out to god-knows-where. Fifteen hours later I would be landing in Seoul’s Kimpo International Airport in the middle of the night. Fall was setting in and it was cold and drizzling as I smoked a cigarette waiting outside the nearly deserted concourse. My reading material included Stanley Karnow’s “In Our Image: America’s Empire in the Philippines”, and the newest version of SimCity that challenged the user to create a functional economy. Little did I know how relevant this game was to be to my analysis of the Philippine economy.
Eight hours later we arrived at some god-forsaken hour of the night. As the door swung open a warm muggy air filled the plane with a warm redolent fog whose moist tendrils groped each of us as we descended into the tropical night. The disciplined planeload of international travelers that had boarded the plane in Korea, now oozed out of the plane with all the dignity of toothpaste bursting from its tube.
Rummaging in the overhead bins I managed to extract my black Kevlar shoulder bag from where it had been squeezed behind an oblong cardboard package tightly bound in pink plastic string. The subdued voices that boarded the flight now became an excited chorus of high-pitched vowels and rattling bursts of glottal stops. It was my first encounter with Tagalog, the most widespread language used in the islands. Outside, the hot and muggy Philippine night enveloped me; I was in the tropics.
Around me tired travelers streamed off the late-night flight. The yellow immigration counters are worn through revealing a gray plastic substrate. Signs direct you to alternate choices:
“Filipinos” or “No Smoking.” The official fumbles around behind his enclosed podium trying to locate the right stamp, eventually tiring of the search he make do with whatever official stamp emerges from his official jumble.
At the baggage retrieval I am confronted with a tumult of cardboard boxes announcing a major influx of household appliances, children’s toys and electronics. The luggage caroussel looked as if a consumer goods manufacturer had shipped its entire annual exports to the Philippines on our flight.
All around me Filipinos were grappling with their cardboard loads lugging the
hand addressed boxes unto carts. Next to me a doctor offloaded a locked plastic
cooler, presumably carrying medicine. Suitcases occasionally appear amongst the
welter of boxes. With relief I spot my own two dark blue hard shell
suitcases and pass through customs without trouble.
Passing through throngs of waiting Filipinos, I finally spot the driver outside in the womb-like ambience of Manila’s tropical night. He is holding up a cardboard sign with my name on it. Relieved to see something familiar in the seething tropical miasma, I introduce myself. Mark, the driver, shoulders his way authoritatively through the crowds of arrivals and throngs of expectant relatives. to a brand-new oversized pick-up truck with a large canvas canopy covering the back. My heavy suitcases are hoisted into the truck. A hand-lettered piece of
cardboard stuck on the windshield announces that the car belongs to DENR – an
acronym that means nothing to me. “DENR”, Mark informs me, is the Philippine Department of Environment and Natural Resources and will be my local employer. Perhaps wishing to help me find local affinity, Mark volunteers that this pick-up truck, a donation from the US government, was purchased in Portland. I tell him it looks vaguely familiar.
Outside, the cultivated lawns of the Ninoy Aquino International Airport give
way to squalor. Potholes and broken patches of asphalt shake the truck. Shanties and palm trees line the streets. In the roadside shadows I glimpse an open fire burning with huddled figures poking listlessly at the coals amidst the gnarled and smoking garbage. In the smoldering darkness the headlights glint off the sweaty bodies of half-clad children sleeping strewn on bits of ragged cardboard. They sleep in angles of utter exhaustion scattered haphazardly right at the edge of the asphalt roadway.
2. Quezon City
My employer, the Philippine Department of Energy and Natural Resources, is located in Quezon City, a gritty part of town dominated by government offices and a large shanty town. This favela sprawled over huge tracts originally reserved for a visionary new government center, but subsequently occupied by the vast number of people that descended upon the capital at the time of the so-called “Yellow revolution” that forced the Marcos regime to abdicate and flee the country. At the time I was there this jungle of rickety shacks had overwhelmed much of the neighborhood leaving only narrow lanes that wove through the maze.
Rather than stay at one of the luxury hotels in Makati, I insisted on staying close to the DENR in Quezon City. I found a more modest hotel near the government center where the DENR was located. The hotel had the advantage of being located close to “work”, but it also was situated at the edge of the Batasan Hills barangay – a huge slum that covered miles of Quezon City. To most visitors the squalor and chaos of the barangay would have been enough to send them scurrying off to the safety of the more salubrious neighborhoods of downtown Manila or the opulent accommodations in Makati. To the surprise of my hosts, I informed them that I preferred the more authentic ambience of the suburban slums. Nearby, I located a modest hotel with the indispensable pool-side bar and a fleet of noisy air conditioners. From my perspective this authentic Filipino oasis was closer to the real culture than anything I might find pool-side in Makati. Being an adventurous sort, the dangers of sauntering though this rough district were negligible. A quick hike down some dubious alleys landed me at the center of a major transportation hub frequented by swarms of jeepneys, headed in and out of Manila.
Although intimidating at first glance, I soon became accustomed to the acute poverty of the Batasan Hills barangay. Adopting an air of purpose and a watchfulness of my surroundings I learned to traverse the alleys and even developed a passing acquaintance with their regular inhabitants, relying on them for advice on food stalls and restaurants. None of the homes had running water or sanitation, but all the young men loitering in the dank alleyways were more than willing to engage me in discussions about the virtues of their “Gameboys”. It was not the refrigerator, or even the nuclear power plant that defined progress at the rough edges of the electrical grid; here it was the electronic jangle of Mario Brothers that marked the furthest reaches of civilization.
On the weekends, I was left to my own devices. Having successfully orienteered my way through the barangay’s jungle of alleys and thoroughfares, I soon found myself at the chaotic highway intersection that seemed to serve as a transit center for the bustling fleets of jeepneys that swerved in and out of traffic.
For a moment I just stood and watched the noisy chaos, as these uniquely modified Filipino jeeps went careening through the highway interchange. The brightly decorated Jeeps were lengthened to accommodate a seemingly infinite number of passengers that hopped on and off, their drivers barely slowing their frenetic progress through the noisy traffic. After watching this honking danse macabre with extreme trepidation, I finally sought advice from my Mario Brothers associates. Much amused at my confusion, they brought to my attention the barely visible exchange of coins that kept this kaleidoscope in motion.
“Where you want to go? EDSA, Makati, Green Hills? Where you go?”
“Downtown”, I retorted and they frantically pointed at a Jeepney that was beginning to pull away from the curb. It was luridly covered with Catholic images of the Virgin Mary and a bleeding heart pierced by a crown of thorns. I stared at the juxtaposed images wondering which applied to me. But then my associates pulled me back from my reveries and shoved me towards the departing jeepney. They gestured for me to jump on, and soon I was on my way. Having solved the first part of my dilemma, I was soon confronted with its corollary: How I was going to get back? I resolved to query the Virgin Mother on this thorny matter since she carried so much sway in these parts.
Downtown was a mix of 16th century churches and fortresses. On the bay the huge American compound dominates the water front – literally and figuratively. Manila was almost entirely destroyed during WW2, but much of it has since been restored – mostly by Imelda Marcos. The old section of town is quaint, including the Hobbit House whose staff are all vertically challenged. In the sultry heat, I managed several hours of exploration, ending up in Makati where the DNR staff had originally wanted me to stay. But the luxury hotel accommodations seemed out of touch with the rest of Manila. My modest accommodations in Quezon City with its rattling AC and the friendly government “minder” (who was convinced I worked for the CIA) was much more genuine.
3. Tacloban
Like some gigantic kaleidoscope, the icons of American commerce loom over the rusty, dusty shanties of this Visayan town. Like some cheap afterimage, American commercial brands loom over the shabby streets. Clashing in brightly colored billboards, Coca Cola and Pepsi do mortal combat for the hearts and wallets of the impoverished citizens of Tacloban. Without a hint of irony Coke proclaims, “It’s the Real Thing”, suggesting that soda pop may be the only way to transcend our litter strewn existence in this obscure tropical backwater. Down on the slippery quay the charcoal smoke and smell of rotting fish obliterates any notion of an effervescent release from our mortal toils.
They concede that Marcos, the powerful dictator that ruled this country with his cronies, had vision. The reminders are powerful: a graceful bridge here, straight roads through the jungle, an impressive cultural center in the capital, the memory of once efficient satellite communications where radio transmissions must now suffice. The monuments to dictatorial efficiency are gradually being reclaimed by the jungle. As Percy Bysshe Shelley once observed, “Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and level sands stretch far away.”
They say, Marcos laid fiber optic cable through the islands in a secret operation, but now the roads have vanished and few know the locations of the cable. It’s rumored that an island offshore from tawdry Tacloban, once an Imelda Marcos hide-away, has secret tunnels. Whence they cometh, or where they lead — no one knows anymore.
In Tacloban’s harbor outriggers rest along rickety wharves that stretch into the darkness. Knots of faces appear, illuminated by flickering kerosene lamps, smoking cigarettes and calling to me, “Hey, Joe!” Even at night the air is oppressive. The smell of fish, oil and durian invade my nostrils. No breeze stirs the boats, no waves lap this island sea, no breeze brings relief. Wandering down a darkened street past knots of street vendors huddled around a flickering candle, I hear a guitar and the plaintiff sounds of someone singing, “Kodachrome…Give me that live, bright color, Kodachrome”. As I pass into the shadows, Bob Dylan’s plaintiff lyrics ask, “How many roads must a man walk down?”
Out of town, past the police roadblocks, the carabao preside. This muddy buffalo, reluctant to emerge from the primordial slime is “The Real Thing”. Jeeps rust, Portland Cement crumbles, and even Nike hesitates. Slow, muddy and dumb, the Carabao sets the pace. Fish, coconuts and guerrillas are the harvests, and they all come to you if you wait long enough for the Carabao to arrive.
Cinderblocks barely hold their own in the town; on the outskirts thatched shanties crowd the roadside. Narrow dirt paths lead down through a maze of rickety structures built on poles and interspersed with coconut trees and muddy streambeds clogged with flotsam. Toddlers play with bottle caps, little girls use bunched grass to sweep dirt floors and in darkened doors old men lean and gaze. A line of ducks brave the traffic amidst the swerving cars honking in irritation. Not all are so lucky; one dog cavorts mid-stream in deadly agony.
Amidst the palm trees and the thatched huts, almost unchanged since Magellan’s visit, a basketball hoop hangs from a rubber tree and boys jostle for the ball. There’s a curious yearning in the air – for the bad old days.
Tacloban is Imelda’s hometown and in her heyday she built her own Shangri-la just south of town. It’s a 10-minute drive by jeepney. The driver fills the short ride with an excited monolog recounting the fabulous wealth and extravagant parties that this compound hosted. It’s clear to me that no one’s been by to visit this out-of-the-way citadel of kleptocratic wealth in quite a while. Confidentially, he confides in me, his head lowered and his voice barely audible above the ambient rattle and roar of the jeepney that most of the valuables had since been repurposed. His eyes sparkle, as if he had personally led the assault upon the fabled pleasure resort.
“You not believe what they find! Imelda, she collects wild animals from the jungle and we find lions, tigers, elephants and even serpents in the garden.”
The estate was surrounded by a tall wire mesh fence and guarded by a sleepy Pilipino whose job it was to discourage people from entering. He sat ensconced in tiny palm leaf structure shaded from the fierce mid-day sun but covered with the dust left by passing vehicles. A small gratuity was enough to lift the prohibition against entry into this dangerous jungle property. According to the guard’s account, there were many swimming pools scattered across the huge estate and wild animals still hunted along the once manicured pathways. Some pools had exotic and rare fish, but most were surrounded by marble sunbathing decks. All were connected by lurid pink “Princess phones” installed on the palm trees scattered throughout this man-made Eden. This was no mobile network; it was an analog system hard-wired across the garden and even into to the beach furniture. I lifted the receiver from one of the pink phones, but nothing emanated from the brittle plastic handset. If these lines had once connected to some long-forgotten fiber optic cable, today they stood in mute testimony of their builders’ hubris. As I made my way back through the eerie solitude of the overgrown palace, a troop of monkeys came hurtling through the canopy, swinging along the concealed telephone wires.
Time had not treated Imelda’s estate well. Most of the animals have perished. Some died trapped in the sludge at the bottom of the empty pools. No doubt the neighbors had long since killed most of the wildlife including the fabled “lions and tigers”. I saw no trace of these prior denizens, though the isolated nature of the gardens did offer a unique ecosystem in which they might have survived. Thus, I did keep a careful eye open for feral pigs and snakes that might pose a threat to the curious intruder.
I didn’t stay too long. The day was hot and the overgrown gardens masked a potential violence I wasn’t prepared to confront. The twelve-foot fence and soldiers that guarded the place were real enough. It just was not clear whether these precautions were intended to keep people from entering or preventing the “pets” from escaping.
4. Mindanao
As we traveled further from Manila the writ of law became more tenuous. We flew across the Visayas, a welter of islands near the center of the Philippine archipelago, to reach Mindanao. From there we drove in convoys since the Moro National Liberation Front controlled much of the jungle and many of the towns we passed through. The open warfare between the Philippine National Army troops and the Moro National Liberation Front had only recently tapered off forcing us to take alternate routes to travel south from Cagayan d’Oro , through the Islamic province of Sultan Kudarat and onto Davau City and Zamboanga on the southern coast facing the Sea of Borneo.
After several days of bumpy and dusty roads we finally arrived in Zamboanga, one of the Philippines’ larger towns, but also the most isolated – both geographically and culturally. Establish in the 16th century by an intrepid group of Spanish explorers. By 1569, they had built a fortress to defend against the Moro pirates that frequented these waters. In 1635, an influx of Spanish officers and soldiers along with large numbers of Visayan laborers settled on the Zamboangan peninsula, serving as a base from which Spanish settlement and trade might expand.
Located at the end of a long and narrow peninsula that extends out into the Sea of Borneo, Zamboanga became a trading hub for the Malay, the Chinese, the Spanish, the Bajau and the myriad local sultanates that ruled these dangerous waters. The indigenous inhabitants of the area speak a curious mixture of Spanish and Malay, often referred to as “Bamboo Spanish”. Using a flurry of hand gestures combined with Spanish and Tagalog, I found that I could communicate basic concepts in this obscure tropical patois.
The evening we arrived the weather was hot and sultry and the hot afternoon sun was melting into a fragrant dusk. The town had two hotels from which to choose: the modern white concrete monstrosity looking like a budget-priced hotel on the French Riviera. The other hotel was situated in the older part of town, overlooking the harbor. Built from solid teak timbers, the rambling hotel was covered with cascades of red Bougainvillea flowers. As we drove into the circular driveway I was instantly transported to another time – when English and Dutch colonialism ruled the back of beyond.
Here behind the façade of a slowly crumbling hotel stood what remained of that inveterate symbol of British colonial life: the club. As I scanned the voluptuous garden with its wide verandas and the massive, curved stairs leading to the second floor, a Somerset Maughn passage comes to mind:
“The club faces the sea; it is a spacious but shabby building; it has an air of neglect and when you enter you feel that you intrude. It gives you the impression that it is closed really, for alterations or repair and that you have taken indiscrete advantage of an open door to go where you are not wanted.”
The expansive lobby with its oversized front desk slowly disappears into the gloaming. Fading sunlight sinks behind the night flowering bushes that line the entry. Looking past the lobby to the veranda one can see the harbor full of lanterns dancing on the waves, and shadowy figures going about their mysterious business. After the long dusty ride across Mindanao, I resolved to quench my thirst with a double gin and tonic and watch the colorful catamarans coming in from the Borneo Gulf and the Celebes Sea. A warm breeze redolent with the smell of Bougainvillea wafted across the veranda.
Directly below me scores of catamarans are being pulled up on the beach. Further out in the harbor a fleet of fishing vessels lay at anchor. In the distance, Basilan Island is visible on the darkening horizon. As I watch, tracer bullets arc across the darkening sky as if to signal the final evening salvo between the warring parties.
I choose a table overlooking the moorage for the Badjao fishing boats. These flimsy craft are comprised of two parallel catamarans held together by a bamboo structure upon which the fishermen and their families survive. Their only modern implements are a long-bladed knife and a plastic jug with which to carry their precious store of fresh water.
For centuries, the Badjao have maintained an independent sea-faring existence in the maze of islands scattered across the South Pacific. They have survived using their ability to dive to the bottom of the reef and walk along the bottom of the ocean. Using their knives, they attack their unsuspecting prey from below. They are also known for their skills in finding pearls, especially the rare black pearls found in these tropical waters.
As civilization continues to encroach upon their fishing waters, the younger generations have begun to migrate onto land, losing their special skills and their unencumbered lifestyles. But here at the tip of Mindanao and close to the lawless stretches of water around Borneo, the seafaring Badjao still thrive.
Ensconced at the hotel bar, I was musing at the unique circumstances that allowed me to witness the modern precision of warfare, while observing the unhurried existence of an ancient nomadic peoples going about their daily existence, as they have for eons past, and maybe for eons to come. Behind me in the hotel the veranda lights switched on revealing a decidedly more modern tableau of guests arriving, businessmen enjoying their gin and tonics, and the hotel staff hurrying back and forth bearing fruity libations. The group assembling for cocktails was mostly comprised of Filipinos, as one might expect in this off-the-beaten-path destination. Along with a smattering of Chinese businessmen, I noticed a young French couple whose body language suggested that they were enjoying the connubial bliss that accompanies a recent betrothal.
Presently, a smartly dressed European pulled up to the bar and ordered a San Miguel. Judging from his central European accent I guessed him to be a German. Being a native German speaker myself, I accosted him, and we were soon chattering away in German about a wide variety of subjects – not the least of which was the deadly beauty of the distant firefight. After a while Konrad left to complete some paperwork, he needed for the next day’s meetings with the director of a local orphanage.
Left to my own devices again, I began to look around the veranda. It was then that I noticed a well-dressed Filipino flanked by two very athletic companions. Each was sporting a duffle bag designed to carry a full complement of tennis gear. Upon closer observation, I soon realized that the gear being carried was a good deal heavier than tennis gear! This did not particularly alarm me as it was not unusual to see business men accompanied by armed body guards.
Even as I scanned the group, the businessman caught my eye and gestured for me to join them. Since I was unattached and was facing the prospect of eating dinner alone, I was more than glad to join them. The conversation that ensued was both startling and edifying.
After brief introductions, during which my host was eager to hear about my efforts to survey the Philippine wood products industry, I eyed the previously mentioned duffel bags and asked what sort of business he was engaged in. Throughout the conversation with “Ignacio”, I noticed that his companions continued to scan the lobby and the grand staircase that ascended to the hotel’s meeting rooms and guest rooms. My host acknowledged my apprehension with a smile. “Zamboanga is a beautiful place, but like so many beautiful things it comes with unforeseen danger.” By way of explanation, he explained that here in Zamboanga Province it was wiser to anticipate that which never occurs, than not to anticipate that which occurs. With that he proceeded to share one of the most extraordinary tales, I had encountered in this steamy jungle.
“Do you see those fishing boats anchored out there?” And he pointed towards a cluster of gray trawlers bobbing in the swells beyond the sheltering breakwaters of the port.
“That’s the Russian Pacific fishing fleet out of Vladivostok”, he said with a twinkle in his eye.
“They’re a bit far from their home waters”, I suggested.
“Not in the least”, Ignacio countered. “These trawlers fish all over the Pacific, especially in the rich waters of the South Pacific.”
“But what do you have to do with the Pacific fishing fleet of the recently collapsed Soviet Union, I asked?”
“I am buying the fleet,” he grinned at me. I had heard plenty of stories of ex-Soviet managers dismantling and selling the state assets of the Soviet Union, but this was my first encounter with an actual transaction.
Ignacio went on to explain that not only was he purchasing the entire fleet, a motley congregation of trawlers, seiners, freezer trawlers, liners, trap setters and even factory processing boats, but he was also purchasing the services of the crews. This latter detail had become apparent when Ignacio had visited the boats only to discover that no one could operate these boats unless they could read Russian and were familiar with the operation of these unique vessels. Ignacio, it seems, was completing the transfer of the fleet’s ownership along with negotiating long term contracts for the entire crew. No doubt the Captain and senior Russian officers would soon be in the market for a nice chalet in Switzerland.
“So why haven’t I seen groups of Russian sailors swaggering around the town?”, I asked. Ignacio assumed a somewhat furtive look at this question. Raising his eyebrows, he retorted, “There are numerous parties that feel they have a stake in this transaction whether it’s the Philipino government, the Russian authorities in Vladivostok, other Russian oligarchs or even the Chinese inter-island shipping cartel. Zamboanga seemed like a nice out-of-the-way place to get things done. But you might want to stay on your toes in case the negotiations don’t play out as planned.”
After pointing out the magnitude of the deal, I began to feel the hairs prickling down the back of my neck. These assets were, after all assets of the Russian Federation and what I was witnessing was the modern equivalents of massive white-collar piracy. Reflecting upon the size and boldness of this acquisition, I wasn’t surprised that Ignacio sensed danger. But if I thought this multi-million-dollar heist was responsible for the unusual electricity rippling through around the mahogany lobby, I was soon stripped of that delusion.
By this time, I had consumed enough gin and tonics to help me get to sleep. Why would anyone, especially a well-dressed fishing magnate, want to hurt a harmless economist, with little more in his pockets than the black pearls acquired the previous evening? Nonetheless, my dreams were filled with images of speeding boats rattling off volleys of machine gun fire and Badjao divers attacking me from the deeps. I awoke early, grateful that my dreams had not materialized and that all seemed at peace amongst the tropical flowers and birds that greeted me on the veranda.
Ignacio and his entourage were already seated near the back of the dining area, and as I began to nod in acknowledgment of his presence, he urgently gestured me to join him. Surprised, I joined him away from the lobby area. It didn’t escape me that this location was shielded from the lobby area by several stout pieces of mahogany furniture – a useful place to seek shelter if all hell broke loose. But why would it break loose? The only potential combatants I could see were sitting next to me with their duffel bags unzipped for easy access.
“Of course, when we agreed to assemble in Zamboanga to close the deal, we had no idea that we would be landing in the middle of tense negotiations between the Pilipino Army and the Abu-Sayyaf guerrillas”, he muttered under his breath. This was the first I had heard of high-level negotiations, right here in the hotel!
Apparently, the Philippine government representatives, including the Philippine Army, the Philippines Special Forces and the Zamboanga Highway Patrol had agreed to meet with the guerrillas, including representatives of the Abu-Sayyaf, a contingent of combatants from Basilan Island and a pugnacious delegation of fighters from the islands of Sulu and Jolo. A more volatile mix of guerrillas, pirates and national troops could hardly be imagined, and they were planning to negotiate upstairs!
