Page 13 of Das Road


  Other water craft happened by. Some were outriggers like us, others were small boats sitting so low that the occupants looked to be free floating.

  “Masbate!” our captain shouted.

  The people in the other boats would gesture in some general direction, as if they were showing us the way to the corner bar. The trip was supposed to take five hours, and, sure enough, after five hours we reached land. The only problem was, we were still on Panay. We’d made a big horseshoe round trip!

  “That settles it,” Tyler said. “I’m going to Mindanao.”

  “You’re crazy,” I said.

  Tyler shrugged. “I take it you’re not interested.”

  “No way in hell!”

  I got back on the boat with the policeman, maybe we could actually get to Masbate this time. Tyler went his own way. We’ll meet again in Manila. Hopefully.

  24: Boat Ride to Paranoia

  “In undertaking adventures, it is much better to overdo than underdo and much better does it sound in the ear to whom it is related.” – Don Quixote

  “What the hell am I doing here?” I ask myself repeatedly during the boat trip to Zamboanga.

  A visit to Mindanao island made perfect sense when I was dancing down the street in Iloilo, or riding in that outrigger with Bob and the crooked policeman. I’ll just pop down there, I thought, and satisfy my craving for going off the beaten track.

  But now that I am alone, the whole idea seems nuts. Where is that beaten track, anyway? Make room on it for me, please!

  The sea passage isn’t difficult. Rather, it is the people on the boat that unsettle me – the sense of being on some Heart of Darkness type expedition.

  Below deck, on the big cushioned floor, I sit by a group of four unsavory looking Filipinos. It is the only space available, as I’d boarded late. All four are dark, hard-bitten young men with long hair. One of them has a scar running down his face. Periodically, they glance my way with suspicion.

  Smiling uneasily, I sidle as far away as possible and try to read my newspaper. A middle aged woman leans toward me.

  “Give me the newspaper,” she says by way of greeting.

  I hand it over.

  Damn, I have to get out of here!

  I retreat outside to the bow area and look about warily. A glassy ocean vista stretches to the horizon, the blaring red of a low sun lurching across it. This close to the equator, sunsets are supposed to be beautiful, but all this one brings to mind is a great deal of blood spread over the water.

  I wish Bob was here.

  But he isn’t. He’s proved repeatedly that he’s a ‘stand by you’ type friend, but this attitude has limits. It doesn’t apply when I am bound and determined to be an idiot. Besides, I am on a mission that Bob does not share.

  I am after Jon Glass, and Mindanao is just the sort of place to find him. I’ve had this goal in mind ever since I spoke with the PC secretary in Manila, but I’ve been lying to myself about it.

  This boat is no place for lies, though, only harsh realities have a place here. The skin diving and the Iloilo festival had been mere diversions, now I am on the main business of the trip. If Jon wants to lure me on, very well. I’ll find him and demand an explanation to his face. Before this is over, he’ll know that I am not someone to trifle with.

  At least I’ll make a go at it. In the oppressive atmosphere of the boat, my grandiose plans to trek Mindanao are shrinking rapidly. A quick return to Manila is making more sense all the time. I look up toward the small observation deck over the pilot house. I can’t believe my eyes.

  A young American guy is standing at the railing – in a Michigan State University T-shirt no less! He gazes forlornly out to sea, looking as apprehensive as I feel.

  “Hello!” I call.

  He glances down at me in astonishment, starts to retreat.

  “Michigan State, right on!” I raise both arms in a two-fisted V sign.

  He hesitates. I bound up the stairs.

  “Good to see an American face!” I pump the guy’s hand. “I’m Tyler Lakatos, lately of Peace Corps Korea.”

  The guy’s manner is reserved, almost a bit scared.

  “I’m Ken Hamilton,” he says, “Peace Corps Philippines.”

  Great name, like the man on the ten dollar bill. A rather awkward silence ensues.

  “So ... did you go to MSU, Tyler?” Ken asks.

  “No,” I say, “but I’ve heard it’s a great school. A friend of mine back in Manila graduated from State – Bob West. Did you know him?”

  “Afraid not, but with 40,000 students, that’s hardly surprising.”

  I tear open a pack of cigarettes and offer one.

  “No thanks,” Ken says. “I don’t smoke.”

  I light up.

  “Me neither, hardly, but out here a cigarette comes in handy.”

  “You’ve got that right.” Ken looks out at the murderous sunset. “On second thought, I will take one.”

  A friendly cloud of tobacco smoke whirls above us into the slipstream, and Ken’s attitude warms. He explains that he is traveling “incognito” because the Peace Corps director has banned visits to the restive southern Philippines. Any PCV who went there risked disciplinary action.

  Ken doesn’t specify what the “disciplinary action” is, but it can’t be as bad as other things that might happen – like getting on the unfriendly side of those four guys downstairs. And just how incognito he expects to be is unclear. Having the only white face, besides mine, on the whole boat seems like rather poor camouflage. Plus that MSU shirt.

  He wants to see Zamboanga, he says, but isn’t dumb enough to visit the Sulu Islands. Jolo Island is the current hottest spot. The Philippine air force has recently “bombed the shit” out of the place.

  “This whole area is screwed,” he says. “Settlers from the northern islands are pushing out the Islamic Moros and the tribal people, destroying the forests. Corruption, land speculation, you name it – and now this Moro guerrilla movement. It’s like the old Wild West.”

  I light another cigarette. At this rate, I’ll be up to a pack a day in no time. Things are going on here that I do not understand and cannot influence. Best to play the clueless foreigner, I decide, and just try to get along.

  “Is Bob West PC Korea, too?” Ken asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s a big guy, six two maybe,” I say, “fairly over weight, light hair.”

  “Oh,” Ken says quietly, as if speaking to himself. “It wasn’t him, then.”

  He flips his dead cigarette butt overboard.

  “There’s another PCV from Korea wandering around. He’s made quite an impression.”

  “Really?” My unease, which has been in retreat, presses in again. “Have you seen him?”

  “No, but some friends have. They didn’t enjoy it much. His name is, uh ...”

  “Glass?” My voice sounds distant to me.

  “That might be it,” Ken says. “You know, this is really stupid, but at first I thought that you might be him.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be headed?”

  Ken shakes his head. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he came down here, though. It’s weird enough for him.”

  I return below decks, my paranoia fully restored. I need to think about this new intelligence, but right now I have more immediate concerns. The guy with the big scar is observing me. I look at him and he glances away. I bury my nose in a book, but when I look up from it, the guy is watching me again.

  “You American?” he finally asks.

  “Yes,” I say, “just traveling around on my way back home.”

  He says something to the other three, who apparently do not understand English. They observe me silently, nodding. I begin to consider a return to the outside deck.

  “We fought in the mountains a long time,” the scarred one says, “against the Philippines army.”

  “Oh, really?”


  The others nod again, and I smile, wondering if they have weapons concealed under their clothes. Is a hijack in the offing, and, if so, who will get their throat slit first?

  The Filipino seems in a friendly mood, though. In halting English, he explains that they are former Moro guerrilla fighters who have recently accepted a government amnesty.

  “The fighting was very bad,” he says, “many killed.”

  I don’t ask about the scar. God only knows what horrors these guys have suffered, or have inflicted on others. There is no joy in them, and hardness attends their eyes – latent violence you don’t want to stir up. Never have I feel more like the naïve, spoiled American.

  “Well, good luck to you all,” I say. “I hope things work out.”

  Who knows what will happen if their grievances and those of others like them around the world remain unresolved – continuing violence, hatred, attacks on innocent civilians. The only certainty is that when people are treated like crap, you can’t expect them to turn you a warm and cuddly face.

  Their curiosity about me satisfied, the men withdraw back into their little group, and I begin to breathe a bit easier. The middle-aged lady who had grabbed my newspaper takes an interest in me next.

  “Are you staying long in Mindanao?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, “Maybe.”

  Actually, “middle-aged” wouldn’t be accurate. She is probably only late thirties, but has the prematurely old look so many women in Asian countries have – especially from rural areas.

  “Go visit my Auntie,” she says.

  “Where is she?”

  “You have map?”

  I pull out the one I got at the PC office, and she rumples it open vigorously. Nobody can say that she doesn’t have a forthright manner.

  “Give me pen.”

  I hand her my blue felt tip, the same one I used to decorate the wine house girl in Choon Chun. She circles the town of Kidapawan in the island’s interior, about two hundred miles from Zamboanga.

  “My Auntie runs a children’s foundation around here in the Arakan Valley.”

  She writes some information on the bottom of the map.

  “Tell her Carmin sent you,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  I don’t ask for more details. I have already decided to confine my Mindanao travels to the Zamboanga town limits.

  25: Zamboanga

  She could thaw the frozen balls of a Nestor or a Prium – Satires, by Juvenal

  The next two days go by pleasantly hanging out with Ken. Zamboanga is a nice little city. I feared the place would be a combat zone, but it is peaceful – on the surface anyway. Only the presence of Philippine soldiers and the “PC” reminds me that this is a potentially volatile place.

  PC stands for “Philippine Constabulary,” a military / police type organization with a tough reputation. I’ve see them from my second story hotel window marching by in their crisp uniforms.

  The highlight of the first day’s sightseeing is a visit to Tit’s Dress Shop.

  “Can you believe that?” Ken points to the window sign.

  “Guess they don’t have the same slang here,” I say.

  We go into the shop and speak with the owner, a young woman nicknamed Tit. She is quite friendly and gives Ken a cloth tag with the store’s name on it. He lovingly places it in his wallet.

  “Maybe you need some outlets,” I tell Ken when we are back on the street.

  Speaking of outlets, a couple of girls attach themselves to us at the coffee shop next to our hotel. They are both attractive, but one is especially cute. Anybody would be interested, even if they weren’t a hot-blooded Hungarian like myself.

  But the thought of yet another hooker depresses me. It only serves to highlight my current unloved status, and the consequent let down is more than I care to deal with. Ken’s eyeballs are popping out of his skull, though, and he is becoming competitive.

  “It’s okay,” I say, scarcely believing my own words. “I’m not really interested. Take your pick.”

  He picks both.

  The next day, we climb to the roof of one of the taller buildings to get a panoramic view. I discover a machine gun, complete with attached ammunition belt, positioned behind some sand bags.

  “Look at that!”

  We glance about nervously – not a soul around.

  “The soldiers are probably napping somewhere,” Ken says.

  Anybody could have opened fire on the town below. We get out in a hurry. The rest of the day I keep looking up toward the roof top.

  That evening, Ken and the two girls prepare to leave on a boat headed north.

  “Coming with us?” he asks.

  I hesitate. My paranoia has diminished during the past two days, allowing my ‘young and immortal’ persona to reemerge. Hell, I’d stared down a loaded machine gun, hadn’t I? All that nastiness the Peace Corps secretary mentioned couldn’t have anything to do with me. I’m a foreigner, I’m protected in my own little world.

  And my mission awaits, too.

  “No,” I say. “Think I’ll go out to Kidapawan.”

  Ken shakes his head. “Bad idea, man.”

  I shrug.

  He pulls a lumpy, gross looking object from his bag.

  “Durian fruit,” he says. “I was saving it for the boat ride, but let’s have some now.”

  I pick up the thing gingerly and whiff the husk. It had a pungent, almost rotten odor.

  “Smells like hell, but tastes like heaven,” one of the girls says.

  “Thanks anyway.”

  I hand the object back. My sense of adventure has limit.

  Chapter 26: Across Mindanao

  “Drift with the current ... if we do not find anything pleasant, we shall at least find something new.” – Cacambo, speaking in Candide, by Voltaire

  I wake up the next morning with two insect bites on my leg, which soon develop into dime-sized oozing sores. Because of this, or in addition to it, I become feverish and languid. The tropical heat takes an increasing toll on me as well.

  I’d intended to reach Kidapawan by the most direct route, but the trip soon becomes a semi-dream state meander around Mindanao. I just drift along, as if following a route planned by another person.

  Sometimes I slip into an almost mystical state of mind. Other times, the fever abates and everything seems crystal-clear normal, although it really isn’t. I obtain a wicked looking collapsible knife and keep it handy in my pocket.

  Travel conditions are often primitive. I ride in Jeepneys – surplus military jeeps with passenger compartments grafted on. Fifteen or more people jam aboard these contraptions which groan and creak along the narrow dirt roads. Sometimes rivers get in the way. No Bridge? No problem. The jeepney simply plunges in and drives to the opposite shore, water completely covering its wheels.

  If there is no road on the other side, the vehicle simply motors along the river bottom, up or downstream as required. Eventually we pick up some kind of track on the far side. Everything has a ‘far side’ quality, like a trip to some alternate universe. I can scarcely eat, which adds to my fantastical state of mind.

  Evidences of Jon Glass appear. He begins to fester in my brain as the insect bites are festering on my leg.

  I stop in a little barrio to watch a cock fight. A very crude, rough crowd rings the cockpit waving money around as the birds struggle with lethal fury. I see Jon’s moniker etched on the boards separating the mob from the combatants.

  I go snorkeling near a little fishing village and am disconcerted to find a stone fish reposing in the shallows. It is just a small, innocuous lump, like a durian with fins, but a spine on its back contains deadly poison. Nearby, a Filipino fisherman walks about the water, barefoot. I pull up my mask.

  “Be careful,” I say. “There’s a stone fish.”

  “Oh?” the fisherman says. “I thought you killed them all last week.”

  One day, toward dusk, I find myself stran
ded on a remote dirt road. It is an area of bucolic tranquility and destitution – bamboo houses built on low stilts, agricultural fields carved out of the hillsides. As I walk along, some ragged young girls come down from the fields, hoes over their shoulders. One talks to me in poor English.

  “How are you?” she said. “I didn’t think you’d come this way again. Can you give me another peso?”

  I give her some money, to the titters of the other girls.

  Men are waiting in the road. Transportation is coming, they say. A truck soon arrives and we pile into the back. As we grind slowly through the hills, darkness sets in and masses of little insect-eating bats swirl around.

  I cheer them on. “Get those damned bugs!”

  High up, flying with deadly purpose in the moonlight, formations of large fruit-eating bats pass overhead. The scene is like something out of a horror movie, enhanced by my fever and light-headedness. Fumes from the truck exhaust waft about, and the rumbling engine obscures any night sounds. A passenger lights a cigarette, and I see Jon’s moniker again in the match light, scrawled on the side of the truck.

  Ominous undertones of violence intrude wherever I go. A Filipino I meet on a Jeepney ride suggests that I visit a particular wilderness area to satisfy my ambition of seeing a pristine rain forest. He even provides a letter of introduction to the local authorities.

  The timing of my visit to this remote location is poor, however. I arrive at a modest, official building just as a group of armed men is forming up. They all have grim, apprehensive expressions. A woman comes out to speak with me. She is tense and distracted but tries to show me some hospitality.

  While I sit drinking a Coke with her, the armed patrol moves into the forest. What the hell is out there, anyway – bandits, guerrillas?

  “As you can see, we’re having much trouble now,” she says. “I’m sorry we can’t permit you to visit the forest.”

  “Yeah, too bad,” I say.

  I mop a handkerchief over my forehead. The tepid coke only makes the atmosphere seem more sweltering.

  “Not long ago another American went out on patrol with our men,” she says. “He did not return with the others.”

  My insect bites begin stinging like cobra venom. For a mad instant, I want to follow the patrol! I stand up, and the woman grasps my arm.