The Most Dangerous Day of My Life

1. Cardboard

In 1991 my friend Catherine called me 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 before, 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 lumber all over the world. But I was a novice when it came to judging the efficiency of a sawmill, much less the operations of 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.

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 had boarded the flight in Korea were now transformed into an excited welter of high-pitched vowels and the bursts of rattling glottal stops that I now recognized as Tagalog, the lingua franca of the archipelago. Stepping out the door any recollection of Korea’s wintry chill was dispelled by the hot and muggy Philippine night. I was undeniably in the tropics now.

Around me tired travelers streamed off the late-night flight. The yellow immigration counters were worn through revealing a gray plastic substrate. Overhead signs directed us into two queues: “Filipinos” or “No Smoking.” The official that examined my passport fumbled around in his enclosed podium trying to locate the right stamp. Eventually, tiring of the search, he made do with whatever came to hand from his official jumble.

At the baggage retrieval I was confronted with a tumult of household appliances, children’s toys, and electronics. The luggage carrousel looked as if Santa’s toy factory had gone into overdrive inundating the passengers with an avalanche of consumer goods.

All around me Filipinos were grappling with cardboard boxes, lugging their bulky possessions on to carts. Next to me a doctor offloaded a locked plastic cooler, presumably carrying medicine. Occasionally, suitcases appeared amongst the welter of boxes. With relief I located my suitcases and passed through customs without trouble.

Outside in the womb-like ambience of Manila’s tropical night, I spotted a waiting driver holding up a cardboard sign. Relieved to see evidence of my expected arrival in this disorienting tropical miasma, I introduced myself. Mark, the driver, shouldered his way through the crowds to an oversized pick-up truck. Mark hoisted the suitcases into the bed of the truck.

A cardboard sign attached to the windshield announced that the vehicle belonged to DENR – an acronym unfamiliar to me. The Philippine Department of Environment and Natural Resources, Mark informed me, was the local USAID contractor under whose auspices I would conduct my timber survey. Trying to emphasize the similarities between Manila and my hometown, Mark volunteered that his pick-up truck, had been purchased in Portland. I told him it looked vaguely familiar.

Beyond the cultivated lawns of the Ninoy Aquino International Airport, the road gave way to squalor. Potholes and broken patches of asphalt shook the truck. Shanties and primitive shelters squeezed the traffic into a narrow track. In the roadside shadows I glimpsed huddled figures poking listlessly at the smoking garbage. In the smoldering darkness the headlights glinted off sweaty bodies of half-clad children scattered about on bits of torn cardboard. They slept in the haphazard angles of utter exhaustion with tangled limbs extended to the very edge of the causeway.

2. Quezon City

My employer, DENR was located in Quezon City, a gritty part of town dominated by government offices and a large “barangay”. This tightly packed slum sprawled over a huge tract of land originally planned to house a visionary new government center. But after the demise of the corrupt Marcos regime, Manila was swamped by a tidal wave of impoverished Filipinos hoping to benefit from promises of the so-called “Yellow Revolution”. By the time I arrived, an unplanned urban jungle had overwhelmed much of the neighborhood leaving only narrow lanes that wove crookedly through this haphazard slum.

Rather than stay at one of the luxury hotels in the wealthy district of Makati, I opted to stay at a modest hotel in Quezon City. The hotel had the advantage of being close to the DENR, but it was also conveniently located at the edge of the Batasan Hills barangay – the huge slum that dominated Quezon City. To most visitors the squalor and chaos of the barangay were enough to send them scurrying to the safety of the more salubrious venues in Green Hills or Makati. Instead, I opted for an older hotel sporting a noisy chorus of air conditioners, an indispensable poolside bar, and a decidedly eclectic clientele.

Batasan Hills barangay with government offices in background

3. The Barangay

Although intimidating at first glance, I soon became accustomed to the acute poverty of the barangay. I developed a rapport with the loitering youths, relying on them for advice on food stalls and restaurants. Their rickety shacks had no running water or sanitation. Instead, they huddled in the dank passages and discussed the strategies of electronic games. Here at the raw edge of society social progress was not measured by the acquisition of TV’s, refrigerators or even a motor scooter. Here it was battery power and the ubiquitous jangle of “Gameboys” that marked the frontiers of modernity.

On the weekends, I was left to my own devices. Navigating the alleys, I discovered that the Batasan Hills barangay served as a major transit center for the bustling fleets of jeepneys that carried Filipinos to destinations throughout the archipelago. Amazed, I just watched the noisy chaos, as these colorfully modified jeeps went careening through the traffic. The brightly decorated Jeepneys were lengthened to accommodate a seemingly infinite number of passengers hopping on and off the moving vehicles. After watching this honking danse macabre with extreme trepidation, I finally sought advice from my local acquaintances. 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, downtown? 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 macabre images of the Virgin Mary, bleeding hearts and crowns of thorns. The implication was that surviving a trip in one of these souped-up Jeeps was clearly nothing less than a miracle. With a firm push my guides thrust me into the swirling carousel and on to a departing jeepney. I was on my way! Having solved the first part of my dilemma, I was soon confronted with its corollary. How was I going to find my way back? I resolved to query the Virgin Mary 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 dominated the waterfront – literally and figuratively. Manila was almost entirely destroyed during WW2, but much of it had since been restored – mostly by Imelda Marcos. The old part of town is quaint, including the unusual Hobbit House whose staff are affected by dwarfism. In the sultry heat, I managed several hours of exploration, ending up in Makati where the DENR 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 air conditioners and the friendly government “minder” (who was convinced I worked for the CIA) was much more genuine.

4. Tacloban – the Real Thing

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.

Wandering down a darkened street past knots of shadowy figures huddled around a flickering candle, I hear a guitar and the plaintiff sounds of someone singing, “Kodachrome, Kodachrome…Give me that live, bright color, Kodachrome”.

5. Carabao rule.

The locals concede that Marcos, the powerful dictator that ruled this country with his cronies, had a 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 now suffice. The monuments to dictatorial efficiency are gradually being reclaimed by the twin forces of inertia and corruption.

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, once an Imelda Marcos hide-away, still has secret tunnels. Whence they cometh, or where they lead — no one knows anymore.

Out of town, past the police roadblocks, the carabao preside. Contrary to the flashy marketing, here in the Philippines the Swamp Buffalo, or Carabao is “The Real Thing”. Jeeps will rust, Portland Cement crumbles, and even Nike hesitates. But in Tacloban the slow, muddy, and dumb carabao sets the pace. Cinderblocks barely hold their own in the town. Bamboo shanties sprout up in the narrow spaces between the crowded docks and the looming jungle. Narrow dirt paths lead 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 ducks waddle between the cars. In darkened doorways old men gaze dreaming of lost opportunities. There’s a curious yearning in the air – for the bad old day of Marcos and Imelda.

Tacloban was Imelda Marcos’s hometown and in her heyday, she built her own personal Shangri-la just south of this gritty Visayan town. Today, the once extravagant estate is surrounded by a tall wire fence intended to discourage both visitors and locals from looting the luxury goods with which Imelda furnished her palace.

From a dilapidated bamboo guard post a bored Filipino guard struggled to withstand the scorching heat and cope with this pesky visitor. A voluntary donation and a bottle of San Miguel quickly changed the guard’s demeanor and soon tales of fabulous wealth, extravagant parties and exotic beasts flowed from his parched lips.

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. Originally, many of the hidden glades, with their sagging umbrellas had been connected by pink plastic “Princess phones” installed on nearby palm trees.

Having come this far to chase down these lurid stories, I decided to slip into Imelda’s nightmare garden to see if any of the local gossip was still wriggling through the bushes. Sure, enough I found dead animals decomposing in the very pools that had once sheltered them.

At the first glade of decomposing deck chairs, I spotted a pink protuberance resembling an ancient “Princess Phone.” When I lifted the receiver, nothing emanated from the brittle plastic handset. It was once rumored that these lines had connected to a hidden fiber optic network. Today the pink plastic shards stand in mute testimony to their builders’ hubris.

As I made my way back through the eerie solitude of the overgrown palace, I nearly panicked when a troop of monkeys came hurtling through the canopy, swinging along the concealed telephone wires.

I didn’t stay long. The day was hot, and the overgrown gardens concealed dangers I wasn’t prepared to confront. The lofty fence that guarded the place was real enough. However, it was unclear whether these precautions were intended to keep people from entering or preventing the “pets” from escaping. When I emerged from the enclosure the guard ruefully confided that most of the valuables had since been looted. Only the animals had been left to die on their own. Like Tacloban all that remained of Imelda’s ruined palace were scattered bits of decomposed plastic opulence.

6. Mindanao

Mindanao posed a significant challenge in terms of fulfilling my contract to inspect the ISO 9000 certified milling operations in the archipelago. Mark was insistent that conducting inspections on Mindanao was both difficult and dangerous. He observed that no government representative had ever audited their compliance with the ISO 9000 norms. But, I insisted, it was precisely this lack of oversight that obliged us to inspect the ISO 9000 certified timber operations. Reluctantly Mark conceded the logic of my argument. “I will have to get permission from the State Highway Patrol as well as arrange a military escort”, he objected. But faced with my obstinacy he retreated into his office to start the convoluted process of coordinating our trip with all the local government offices along the way. By the end of the week, we were aboard a rattling propeller plane flying southwards over the Visayan towns of Cebu and Boracay. Before we left Manila our team had grown with the addition of several well-armed “guides” and considerable military ordinance. I began to feel a bit apprehensive about what I was getting into. My hesitation grew as we picked up a second military escort that would accompany us as we drove across Mindanao through towns whose loyalty was only assured during daylight hours.

Mindanao is a vast tropical jungle covering some 36,700 square miles. It is the second biggest island in this archipelago of more than seven thousand islands. This untamed island has it all: towering peaks, majestic waterfalls, crocodile infested swamps, sea gypsies, pythons, poisonous sea snakes and dangerous terrorist groups like the Moro Liberation Front. Since Europeans first made landfall here some 460 years ago, they have relied on their superior arms and a militant Catholicism to hold the jungle at bay. Despite the introduction of modern machinery and weapons, this delicate balance of power persists to this day.

As we travelled further from Manila and deeper into Mindanao the writ of law becomes more tenuous. 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 recently reignited forcing us to take alternate routes to travel south from Cagayan d’Oro, past the Islamic province of Sultan Kudarat and through Davao City to Zamboanga which was situated at the end of a long peninsula jutting out into the Sea of Borneo.

7. First Contact

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. While getting to Davao City and Zamboanga still pose significant challenges, these are insignificant compared to the 9000-mile voyage endured by the Spanish Captain Don Alonso de Arellano and his crew of twenty in 1563. Sighting Zamboanga’s rocky beach after nearly 70 days at sea, they became the first Spaniards to reach the Philippines by sailing west from Mexico. In so doing, they broke the Portuguese monopoly on the spice trade that began 1497 with Vasco De Gama’s circumnavigation of the Cape of Good Hope.

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, and the myriad local sultanates that ruled these treacherous waters. By 1569, the Spanish had bult a fort on the Zamboangan peninsula to solidify their grasp on trade and 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.

The evening we arrived the air was sultry, and the hot afternoon sun was melting into a fragrant dusk. A wide dusty lane led past the entrance of the hotel revealing a scattering of small shops, sun bleached billboards and the red tile roof of Zamboanga’s city hall.

The town had two hotels. At one end of town a 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 a rocky beach. 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 this remote corner of the empire.

Behind the cascade of bougainvillea, the shadowy teak interior revealed a wide lobby filled with aging green velvet armchairs. Beyond, a voluptuous veranda led to the massive, curved stairs that lead to the second floor. Off the side of the lobby was a separate room that housed that imposing centerpiece of colonial life: the club. Replete with its spotless bar and stuffed hunting trophies. a Somerset Maugham passage came 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 beach full of lanterns, and shadowy figures going about their mysterious business. After the long dusty ride across Mindanao, I resolved to quench my thirst and watch the colorful catamarans returning from the Borneo Gulf and the Celebes Sea.

8. Sea Gypsies

Out in the harbor a bevy of Bajao catamarans, slid silently up the darkening beach. The Bajao live a simple life on a flimsy craft comprised of two parallel catamarans held together by a square bamboo platform. The “Sea Gypsies” as they are sometimes called, spend most of their existence on this bamboo deck and rarely set foot on land. They have survived for centuries using their ability to dive to the base of the reef. Using primitive blades, they swim up from the murky depths to eviscerate their unsuspecting prey from below. When their catch is sparse, they search for 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.

Facing out beyond across the strait to Basilan Island, I watched as the Philippine Army launched a deadly artillery barrage at the Muslim guerrillas entrenched across the Sea of Borneo. With the light fading fast I watched the last half-hearted tracer bullets crisscross the night sky like two exhausted fighters muttering some final insults under their breath. A warm breeze redolent with the smell of Bougainvillea wafted across the veranda.

9. Chit chat.

Given the remote location, the guests assembled at the hotel were mostly 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 enjoying a memorable honeymoon. At the bar a group of tennis players just off the courts replayed their matches. Huddled near a television broadcasting the evening news was a group of older businessmen vociferously arguing with the television announcer. A young Filipino couple occupied a small table near the veranda. A lively group of tourists from Manila crowded up to the bar and began discussing what they had seen during their tour of downtown. Glancing out across the water, they paused briefly as the reality of the violence struck home.” I’m glad” one of the women observed,” that we’ve got a military that can keep the Moro Liberation Front out of Zamboanga.” There was an uncomfortable murmur of agreement from the group before they switched to less challenging subjects. 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 soon we were soon chattering away in German about a wide variety of subjects – not the least of which was the menace presented by the deadly firefight. After a while Juergen left to complete some adoption papers he needed for the next morning’s meetings with the director of a local orphanage.

10. Ignacio’s tale

Moving inside, I was approached by a smartly attired Pilipino businessman who invited me to join his table. Seated on either side of him were two burly men carrying bulky duffel bags. It didn’t escape my attention that the two “duffel baggers” appeared to be larger than the typical Filipino and they radiated an acute watchfulness. No doubt they weren’t social companions but were bodyguards. Between them sat an elegant, and yet friendly young man who was beckoning me to join them. Not wishing to offend, nor eat alone I accepted his invitation. 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 in Zamboanga Province it was wiser to anticipate that which never occurs, than not to anticipate that which does occur. 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?” With that, Ignacio 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 based 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. And I have an interest in their continued success fishing these rich stocks of fish.”

“But what do you have to do with the Russian Pacific fishing fleet? Russia’s state-owned fishing fleet has all but collapsed. Why does the fate of this derelict fleet interest you, I asked?”

“I am buying the fleet,” he admitted, grinning 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 he was purchasing the entire fleet, a motley congregation of trawlers, seiners, freezer trawlers, liners, trap setters and even factory processing boats. In addition, 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 Philippine government, the Russian authorities in Vladivostok, other Russian oligarchs or even the Chinese inter-island shipping cartel. Zamboanga might seem like a nice out-of-the-way place to get things done. But you should stay on your toes over the next few days 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 equivalent 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 billion-dollar heist was responsible for the unusual electricity rippling through 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.

11. High Caliber Orange Juice

Ignacio and his entourage were already seated near the back of the dining area. I began to nod in acknowledgment, but he urgently waved me over to join him. It didn’t escape me that his 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 Philippine Army and the Moro Liberation Front”, he muttered under his breath. This was the first I had heard of high-level military 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. The guerillas included the Abu-Sayyaf, a contingent of combatants from the interior of Mindanao and Basilan Island. Finally, these fighters included pirates from the islands of Sulu and Jolo that controlled the Celebes and Borneo Seas. A more volatile mix of guerrillas, pirates and national troops could hardly be imagined, and they were planning to negotiate upstairs!

We ate breakfast rather hurriedly casting furtive glances up the stairs lest we be surprised by any dramatic exchanges. I noted all the heavy mahogany furniture between us and the main staircase. But there was no way that the “duffel bag boys” could take on the fire power we’d seen ascend the staircase. As for the Stinger carried by the Abu Sayyaf fighter, I could only hope that it was more for show than actual use.

Despite the sunshine streaming in through the veranda windows I felt a chill run down my back. The hustle and bustle of breakfast was not enough to dispel a general nervousness that emanated from the big conference room upstairs. Even Ignacio’s heavy-set companions had appeared on edge as the heavily armed groups filed through the lobby and marched noisily up the wide mahogany staircase.

12. Fatal Rendezvous

As soon as the fighters and governmental representatives had disappeared into the conference room all the guests fled. I wished Ignacio success on his negotiations and bade him fare well as we hurriedly parted company. As nine o’clock approached I made my way through the crowded lobby towards the front door. Juergen was also in the crowd, and he excitedly informed me that he was expecting to receive the adoption papers for the orphans he planned to take to Germany. It was crowded and noisy in the hotel lobby as we approached the glass door.

At that moment I saw Mark enter the driveway in the distinctive DENR truck and begin making his way towards me. I was about to run out and jump into the truck when I realized I was still clutching my hotel room keys. The key was attached to a big wooden ball whose sole purpose was to prevent guests from carrying it off and subsequently losing the keys.

Holding the keys aloft I yelled to Mark letting him know that I had seen him and would return quickly. Amidst the confusion, I turned to Juergen and showed him the keys before sprinting back to the hotel. Tossing the keys to the concierge, I quickly re-exited the glass doors to bid farewell to my German friend. I had no trouble spotting him since he was the only blonde in the crowd beside myself. Rejoining him I reached out to shake his hand and wish him success. But in that instant a sharp crack pierced the air, and then another. I looked around to see what had occurred, expecting to see a car door slamming shut, or an exhaust backfiring, but to my shock Juergen’s hand slipped from mine and he tumbled to the pavement. I reached down to help him up, assuming he had merely stumbled in the confusion. But then I saw the blood running down his temple. In my dawning comprehension of what had occurred, I hesitated and in that instant Juergen was swallowed up by the crowds of urgently shouting guards and shocked passers-by.

13. Sparrow team

“This is very dangerous”, Mark said as he brusquely grabbed my arm and pushed me into the truck. “It’s probably a two-man ‘Sparrow team’ and there may be others still looking for a good target of opportunity.” Looking out the back window, I stared at the confused mass of people trying to spot anyone that might be peering back at us. But I soon lost sight of the deadly scrum as Mark drove rapidly, weaving through the narrow streets with clouds of dust billowing up behind us.

On the way, Mark explained that the Abu-Sayyaf had developed an assassination strategy that involved two assassins sidling up to an intended target while they were surrounded by a tight crowd of pedestrians. When the would-be assassins were an arm’s length away, they would pull out a pistol and shoot the intended victim in the head. In the melee that followed the assassin would pocket the gun and calmly mingle with the excited crowd. In the confusion the shooter would disappear, and no one would even be able to identify the perpetrator. Often, when the opportunity arose, or the political value was sufficient the team would take advantage of the chaos to shoot a second victim. No wonder Mark had been so urgent in his efforts to exit the scene. He was, of course, driving a clearly marked government vehicle. It had only been a few weeks prior that a guerrilla brigade had successfully bombed a public market in Davao City killing scores of unlucky shoppers.

How did all this random violence affect our project, I asked. Mark explained how a lone pick-up truck representing Manila’s authority in the semi lawless jungles of Mindanao was an easy target. He advised that we should keep a low profile, especially after the shooting I had just witnessed.

But what had instigated the initial violence, I asked? Quite possibly it had been occasioned by the cease fire negotiations, Mark theorized. If the demands by the guerrillas were being rebuffed what would be the most effective way of putting pressure on the government? The killing of any European tourist would undoubtedly cause a big furor not just in Mindanao, but across the Philippines and beyond. Tourism was one of the Philippines’ most important sources of income and employment. And it would collapse as Europeans fled to safer destinations. For our immediate safety, Mark recommended that I stick with my original plan to inspect the remote sawmill that I had originally planned to audit. News of the shooting would probably not have reached these jungle outposts, and it was unlikely that the Abu Sayyaf would pursue us into the wilds. In the meantime, Mark would conceal the truck and await my return after nightfall when we could make a hasty retreat back to Manila.

Ten minutes later we raced onto the airfield and came to a skidding stop in front of a Cessna 150 that was evidently waiting for us. No doubt word of the killing had already spread throughout the city. Given the strong presence of Philippine Muslims on the island, Mark was much relieved when he was able to deliver me to the airfield where I was relatively safe, or so I thought.

14. Jimmy

My legs were still a bit wobbly as I exited the Toyota. In my mind I was replaying scenes of Mark careening though the crowded streets with people and dogs scattering out of our path. I remember looking back at the hotel entrance and seeing Juergen sprawled across the steps. I saw blood pooling around his head as the crowds of on-lookers converged upon him. Then I remembered the urgent tug as Mark dragged me into the Toyota pick-up. Thinking I had just avoided an inglorious end of my career as an international timber cruiser, I soon realized that I had escaped one disaster only to end up in another.

Mark drove out into the middle of the grass airstrip to a Cessna 150 that stood idling near the edge of the jungle. Skidding to a halt next to the plane, Mark turned to me and declared, “Change of plans, you’re going with Jimmy; do what he says, keep your head down and you’ll be fine.” And with that he slapped the wing of the idling plane, jumped back into the truck, and pealed out of the airstrip as if he had a pack of banshees on his tail.

With that hurried introduction I turned to introduce myself to Jimmy. Ignoring my proffered handshake, he grinned at me as if this was the opening move of a particularly competitive game of rugby and he was up for some excitement. “Hey, look, I don’t care who you are, but I hope you have some experience flying. We may need it.”

By this time, I was recovering my equilibrium and I suspected that Jimmy was having fun with me. He certainly had that “devil may care” attitude that was typical among bush pilots. Well, I thought, I can match this bravado. I did indeed have flying experience. Having completed the entire flight school curriculum, I was all but fully certified to fly. Coming in from my last solo flight, I had realized that the cost of maintaining my pilot’s license was more than I could afford with a new wife, a baby, and a marginal income. So, without further ado, I abandoned my flights of fantasy in favor of more pedestrian pursuits. But like riding a bicycle, flying was a skill that once acquired was hard to forget. In a pinch, I should be able to land this Cessna on any dirt airstrip.

“Sure!” I replied.” I’ve logged plenty of flight hours on this aircraft. But why do you ask,” I countered? Jimmy sized me up for a moment and then with an Australian drawl, he drew his ace card.

Wearing a baseball cap, and a Levi jacket covered with pins and insignias, Jimmy was the epitome of what I called a Philippine ‘cowboy’, complete with fancy cowboy boots, the oversized belt buckle, and the requisite aviator glasses. He was straight out of the casting room for a jungle drama.

“Well, ya see, we’ve been having a spot of trouble with the natives, and they’ve taken to shooting at old Jenny here.” Jenny, it seems was Jimmy’s nickname for the timber company’s Cessna. This two-seater plane was the logging company’s principle means of supplying their forest camps, and Jimmy was their flamboyant aerial taxi driver.

“Oh, come on.” I responded, getting tired of Jimmy’s efforts to put one over on me. “Did you really get shot at? Did they hit the plane?” With that Jimmy grinned once more and gestured for me to inspect the floor of the cockpit. Sure enough, there was a neat hole in the floor. Reflexively, I twisted around to inspect the ceiling and there was a matching hole through the top of the cabin. “Well, if you don’t believe me yet take a gander at this.” With that he twisted the belt buckle so I could see the face of it and indeed there was a vertical groove gouged out of the front of the buckle. Finally, he removed his baseball cap and showed me the hole in the brim where the bullet had grazed the tip of his nose. Needless to say, his demonstration overcame my skepticism, but increased my trepidation about aerial tours of Mindanao.

15. Mail Call
At this point he informed me that he would need to deliver the payroll to one of the camps since they had not been able reach the timber operation for several weeks and moral was slipping. “Still want to go?” he quipped. With some reservations I agreed. Anyway, how difficult could one more stop be?

Without any further consultations, we radioed the office, which also served as the air traffic control tower, and taxied off to the macadam strip that was Zamboanga’s only runway. In minutes we were airborne and out of sight of the airfield. We made a wide turn over the Zamboangan peninsula and flew out towards the Celebes Sea, passing over Basilan Island and following the coast to the slopes of Mount Apo.

As we flew northwards, Jimmy pointed out the myriad of tiny islets, the impenetrable jungles, and the slopes of Mindanao’s steep mountains. “That double peaked mountain is Mt. Abo; the logging camp is located on the northern slope. But before we can land there, we’ll have to drop off the payroll at our current logging operation which are right below us. That’s where your help will be needed.

Looking straight down into the jungle I could now see a narrow runway carved out of the dense jungle. Running along a long ridge the airstrip was bordered by palm trees that hemmed in the usable portion of the runway.

“That seems to be a straightforward strip. A bit short. But given we’re lightly loaded, and you’ve landed here before, I’m confident you’ll manage it. So, what role do I play in this mail drop?”

“Did you look at the runway?”

“Sure…”, I started to say. But then I saw it. The runway had been thoroughly mortared, and the surface was pockmarked with dozens of impact craters. I stared at Jimmy. “How are we going to offload the payroll if we can’t land”, I asked?

Jimmy grinned at me. “That’s where you come in, Mate”. The guerrillas, it seems, didn’t take a shine to the clear cutting, because it exposed their camps, and provided the Army with convenient penetration routes. In response they had bombed the airstrip knowing it would hold up the payroll. That, in turn, would start a slow exodus of the men until there weren’t enough men to run the camp and the whole operation would be shut down.

Pointing over his shoulder, Jimmy said, “See all those bags lying in the back of the plane?” Still not catching on, I asked, “what are those for?”

“That’s the payroll. There’s about $15,000 lying back there and if it doesn’t reach it’s intended recipients there’s gonna be a lot of pissed off loggers after us, not to mention the guerrillas who’ve already gone to considerable trouble to throw a spanner in our plans.”

“But how do we give them their payroll, if we can’t land?” I protested. “For being such a smart lad, you’re taking quite a lot of explaining to get the picture. Now, shut up and get in the back. I’m going to fly in low over the airfield once to make sure our reception party is in place. On the second ‘go round’ you’ll slide open the back door and as soon as we’re over the runway you’ll start heaving those bags out as quick as a rabbit. I will be flying at the lowest air speed I can manage which means that the stall warning will be blaring like a banshee the entire time we’re wobbling over the air strip. Ignore it and keep heaving the sacks as fast as you can. On either side of us there will be Toyota pickups with machine guns mounted in the back. Don’t waste time trading pleasantries with them; they’re here to discourage our Abu Sayyaf friends from shooting at us. You’ll know that they’re ‘ours’ by the fact that they’re firing into the jungle. Should they be firing at us it means we arrived too late… “. Grinning at me, he turned forwards to check the altimeter.

” Still game?” I heard him ask as he took the Cessna into a steep climb that slide-slipped into a near vertical descent. The jungle became a blur as it rushed up to meet us. “Open the door!”, Jimmy yelled, and I complied with terrified alacrity. The door flew open as the wind threw me back against the rear bulkhead. Dazed and sprawled on my back amongst the bags, I could see the cleared strip rushing towards me. “Now! Throw the bags!”, Jimmy demanded. I grasped the nearest bags and began to frantically heave them out the cargo door. From the corner of my eye, I saw what appeared to be a vehicle speeding along below the plane as bags tumbled helter-skelter across the dusty airstrip.

“Hurry up!” Jimmy yelled over the screeching of the stall warning. “I’ve got to clear the palm trees at the end of the field …” That put the fear of God into me, and the bags flew out of the open hatch. “Are you done yet”, Jimmy called, the urgency clearly audible in his voice. The plane was beginning to wobble as it lost airspeed. Glancing up through the cockpit window I saw the palm trees directly ahead of us. Two more bags flew out the door and I yelled, “Done…Go!”

And with that, the Cessna screamed as Jimmy forced the plane into a steep climb up into the sky. I tumbled backwards and from my sprawled position I saw through the open hatch as the wing clipped the top of the palm tree, before clearing the jungle and leveling out into a clear blue sky.

16. Timber cruising Philippine style

Jimmy turned around in his seat and grinned at me. “Are we having fun yet?” I felt as if I had just volunteered for the 8 second bull ride at the local rodeo. And Jimmy did this every day!

At several thousand feet we leveled off and watched Mt. Abo glide by. Neither one of us said much for several minutes. Attempting to regain my composure, I asked whether our next stop would be as difficult? “Nah”, he replied, “it’s all in a day’s work. Our next stop should be smoother. Anyway, the Army has agreed to lend us a troop of jungle soldiers just to keep things from getting too exciting.”

“Oh, wonderful”, I thought. The next time I’ll have to charge more for my services…

About 30 minutes later we put down on another dirt airstrip. A company of Philippine jungle fighters lounged in the shade of the ubiquitous palm trees as we taxied up. A corrugated building housed the local administration of the timber company. Inside one of the managers was communicating with the base in Zamboanga to confirm our safe arrival. A few hours earlier, I wouldn’t have given much thought to this radio chatter, but now it felt like we’d successfully flown through the eye of a particularly vicious typhoon. The captain broke off his conversation as our small group assembled. “Welcome to the Mount Apo administrative center.” Grinning, he announced. “We’re glad your flight in was relatively uneventful.”

17. Hand signals

Outside I was introduced to the local foresters and to the captain of the troop that was to accompany us into what seemed like impenetrable foliage. Before departing, the captain explained that while the risk of encountering an especially pugnacious detachment of guerrillas was slight, we should still observe the commonsense rules of engagement. Hand signals were important to communicate, especially if the danger was near. Raising a hand in the air was the signal to cease all movement and watch the captain for further instructions. A downward signal signified that we were all to crouch as low to the ground as possible. The soldiers were interspersed with the foresters including myself. In the middle of the group the “radio operator” threaded his way through the low hanging branches covered with mosses and colorful epiphytes. Walking in single file we pushed deep into the tall palm grass, gigantic ferns, Ipil Ipil (a larger jungle shrub), and various fantastic orchids. Above us a dense canopy of tropical trees shielded us from the blazing sun.

Wandering through the forest I calculated the quantity and diversity of tree species. I measured the girth of these gangly jungle giants and looked for signs of human disturbances that affected the fragile canopy. Happily surveying the forest, time passed in a blur.

18. An urgent conversation

Suddenly I became aware that our radio man was in urgent discussions with the captain, who looked distressed by what he was hearing. Then the radio man suddenly turned and looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face. His confusion quickly dissipated as the captain urgently motioned for us to crouch down into the foliage. Immediately, we all “vanished”. The only clue to our presence was the long antenna wiggling up from the thick bush directly behind me.

Suddenly I felt the captain thrust the handset through the bush at me. I was taken aback. Who would be calling me here in the jungle? How was I going to communicate? I didn’t even speak Tagalog.

19. Cynthia – a phone call

Half a world away and several hours before dawn the world was bathed in deep shadows. The dog was asleep on the cool kitchen floor and a faint ticking from the wall clock punctuated the otherwise silent house. Then the phone rang.

Cynthia reached out to answer the call, thinking groggily that it might be me calling from Asia. Picking up the receiver, she paused as the hollow sound of an international connection rippled down the line.

“Mrs. Thayer? Is this Mrs. Thayer?”

This was definitely not Jim, she thought. Coming to her senses abruptly she asked, “Who is this?” A male voice responded, “My name is Josh Miller. I’m attached to the American Embassy in the Philippines.” A cold flush of anxiety rippled down Cynthia’s back. “Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? Oh my God, Is it Jim? Is he OK?”

There was a pause. Josh continued, “Well, we think he’s ok, but we can’t seem to locate him. We know your husband is working on a USAID project, and we’re pretty certain he’s alive. But we can’t seem to locate him.”

“What do you mean, you can’t find him?” Cynthia was rattled. How could they lose her husband? Afterall, he was working on a government contract.

Josh broke into her thoughts, “Earlier today, we received information that Abu Sayyaf – a local guerrilla group – had planned to assassinate him while he was in Zamboanga.” Josh explained how they had tried to get word to him, but before they could reach him, he disappeared in a government truck. A German tourist who had been standing next to him was killed instead. “We think it was a case of mistaken identity since both were blonde and blue-eyed – a rarity in that part of the world. They had both been seen together minutes before the shooting, but in the ensuing chaos your husband disappeared.”

Cynthia reflected for a moment. This was so typical of Jim to avoid an unforeseen calamity at the very last minute. She had always maintained he had a guardian angel that looked over him when he was in the greatest danger. Now this guardian angel was not just shielding him, but it was also helping to hide him. She clutched the receiver which was stretched fully extended from the wall socket to the sofa. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the possibility that Jim had finally run out of luck.

On the other end of the phone call Josh’s voice kept up its insistent barrage of questions. More urgently, he now insisted,” Your husband is missing, but we don’t think he’s dead! Do you have any idea of where he might be?”

Cynthia gathered her thoughts and tried to recall what Jim had said the last time they had spoken. Cynthia took a deep breath, “The last time I heard from him was last week, “she replied. “He told me he was off to do some timber cruising in Mindanao, and he might be out of touch for a few days.”

“We’ve checked the hotel and his luggage is there, but he’s not. Do you have any idea of where he might be” Josh asked. “We’ve alerted the Highway Patrol and all the police stations between Zamboanga and Cagayan d’Oro, but they’ve not reported seeing the DENR truck, nor the driver. “

20 – the squawk box comes to life

Twenty minutes had elapsed as she listened to the frantic activity that had enveloped Josh’s office. He had left the line open through the simple expedient of laying the receiver on his desk. As a result, Cynthia could hear the unintelligible babble of Tagalog mixed with snatches of English. Slowly the sounds of activity rose and with growing impatient Cynthia began shouting into the receiver in a vain attempt to get someone’s attention.

Finally, a man’s voice came back online, and he apologized for the delay, but, he explained, they were on the verge of making contact with a troop of rangers in the vicinity of where I was purportedly conducting my timber audit. So far this had turned out to be their best lead, but they were having difficulties keeping the line open.

In the background I could hear the squawking of radios as the base camp’s operators searched up and down the frequencies for evidence of the troop’s presence. The operators were constantly switching from send to receive as they searched the thickets of frequencies sizzling with the hisses and pops of empty radio air space. Unfortunately, our position buried deep in the jungle made it hard to establish contact, but after several sweeps of the air waves our operator finally located a faint signal. Hearing the faint responses, the radio operator in Manila zeroed in on our frequency. Turning up the volume and narrowing in on the signal finally produced an audible babble of Tagalog.

The relief of making radio contact was soon replaced with palpable nervousness as the Captain’s frantic hand signals to hide reminded us that while we were noisily squawking through the silent jungle while the guerillas were close by probing for our whereabouts.

Meanwhile Cynthia listened to this cacophony with little understanding of what was occurring. But then Josh picked up the receiver and explained that the base camp’s radio operators were fine tuning their connections. He hoped that the frequency which had produced the brief burst of unintelligible voices, was indeed their base camp and not the guerillas who were also trying to locate the group. Jimmy was almost certain that they had made contact with the right group.

As the signal finally resolved into an audible voice, the radio operator urged me to say something in English so that the base camp could confirm that communications had been successfully established.

21 – Alive

Crouched in the tall grass and hoping that no guerrillas were close enough to put a bead on us, I reached for the receiver.

I heard Cynthia say, “Jim, are you there?”
“Are you OK?”
I stared at the receiver; it was my wife on the phone!

“Sweetheart… I’m OK! I assured her.

“Puzzled, I asked, “How on earth did you get through to me? I’m deep in the jungle and one of the soldiers protecting us just handed me this receiver.”

“Oh God Jim, it feels heavenly to hear your voice and know that you’re alive!”

“Alive”, I responded? “Why wouldn’t I be alive?”

“Oh, Jim! Thank God you’re alive! We were afraid you’d been assassinated. Cynthia’s voice was full of anxiety.

I was confused. “I’m unhurt “, I explained. “It wasn’t me that was attacked; it was a German guy that was killed. It had nothing to do with me…” I explained. Seriously, Cynthia how did you hear about the shooting?”

There was a pause as she collected her wits about her. “I got a phone call this morning informing me that you were still alive, but they couldn’t find you.”

I was having breakfast I explained. I just happened to be nearby when the attack occurred.” But even as the words came tumbling out, I could feel the doubt fluttering around my stomach, like poisonous butterflies.

“Jim, you don’t get it! The guerrillas tried to assassinate you this morning!”

Slowly, I realized that she only knew the half of it. She had no idea of my flight into the jungle, the high-speed drive to the airfield, nor the jaw dropping aerial delivery of cash, or even the tense negotiations going in the hotel. If all these events were somehow connected, then it was I that was unaware of the full extent of the danger.

Given the somewhat constrained circumstances Cynthia and I cut our conversation short with promises to fill in all the gaps once I had returned to Portland. Having completed the timber cruise before my momentous phone call, we carefully retraced our route back to the air strip. Unfortunately, by that evening the main elements of my near assassination were being discussed by one and all. This was deemed too bold of a provocation and DENR decided to fly us back to Manila the next day.

I don’t know what happened to Ignacio’s secret purchase of the Soviet fishing fleet. Upon reviewing the draft report, I discovered that all mention of extortionist shipping fees by the Chinese interisland shipping cartel had been excised. Documentation of the extensive illegal logging, likewise, had disappeared. I was reluctant to set the record straight having seen the consequences of such candor. I decided that one close call was enough. My guardian angel agreed.

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.

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

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 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.

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.

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!

The Most Dangerous Day of My Life

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