“Please sit down, she says. “You don’t look well.”
She seems to be speaking from far away. Her face looks fuzzy. Then my knees give out and I do sit down. Soon after, I get the hell out.
Then I am finally too ill to continue traveling. I stop in Davao, or maybe it is General Santos City, and check into a little hotel. A local doctor gives me some pills and an ointment for the sores.
I keep wanting to leave my room and continue the trek. I get up, move to the door, and things start to blur out. Next thing I know, I am back in bed. Somebody must be bringing me food, because I wake up and see the empty plates, though I have no recollection of eating.
After a couple days of this limbo-like existence, I feel better. I venture out to the town plaza and bump into a scruffy Australian guy named Floyd. Who knows what the hell he is doing there. It seems advisable not to ask many questions.
We drink sugar cane wine and chat with his Filipino acquaintances. One young man, a tough looking dude named Romy, has a bandaged forearm resting in a sling. On some recent occasion, he’d flung it up to protect his head from a machete blow.
“It was a disagreement over a business deal,” Floyd explains.
“Uh huh.” I let the subject drop.
Floyd offers me a cigarette, and I light up. I don’t enjoy his company much, but am too lethargic to move on. A return to my dreary hotel room offers few attractions. The atmosphere is sultry, and everything seems to progress in slow motion. A military policeman wavers up out of the humidity.
“Excuse me,” he says.
He snatches my cigarette and takes a puff. I gape at him with astonishment.
“Just checking,” the cop says.
He returns the cigarette and saunters off.
“What was that all about?” I say.
“He was finding out if you had dope mixed in with the tobacco,” Floyd replies nonchalantly.
Just what I need – jailed in the middle of nowhere! I instantly repudiate all cigarettes, especially those offered by shady acquaintances.
I can’t expect the authorities here to be as tolerant as my friend, Rick, from college. During the summers he worked as a security guard at a baseball stadium. He’d sneak up on suspicious groups of kids in the center field bleachers.
“Get rid of the joint, the security guard’s coming!”
“The hell with that,” Rick would say. “Give me a toke.”
Floyd indicates Romy’s wounded arm.
“An American did that to him,” he says.
“Oh?” I am instantly alert.
“Romy actually started it,” Floyd says. “He threatened the guy with his machete. But the American got it away from him and let him have it.”
Romy leers at me. He is a mean guy, all right. Just as well he is incapacitated.
“Come to think of it,” Floyd says, “that American guy looked a bit like you. No wonder Romy is upset.”
Finally, I arrive in Kidapawan where I hook up with a group heading out to the Foundation.
27: The Last Miles
One guy in our group is going to visit a relative at the Foundation. He is a mooch, and I avoid him. Another man, Gil, is a security guard with an official looking blue shirt and a military carbine sporting a crudely chopped down stock. He reminds me of the cop we met on Panay – the same type of affable shiftiness, scraggly mustache, and modest potbelly.
A couple of taciturn women bring up the rear. Since no transportation is available, we hike several miles to the Foundation through the Arakan Valley. As the day becomes hotter, I drift into automatic mode, simply placing one foot in front of the other, paying little attention to where we are heading. My sores itch furiously.
The terrain has a raw look with occasional spindly trees poking up from the fields – as if the area has recently been deforested. Farmers walk along the roadside with big, curve horned carabao.
Conversation is minimal, primarily the Mooch bellyaching and trying to hustle me for money. Immune to my polite refusals, he finally receives a direct “get lost” and moves back with the women.
My fever is acting up, joining with the harsh sun to sap my energy. In my mind, I return to Wyoming with its hot, sweaty trails. Wyoming is mountainous, this area is flat, but the mind-numbing tedium is the same.
To relieve his boredom, Gil begins twirling his rifle like a cheerleader’s baton. I drop farther away so as to avoid the coming mishap. Sure enough, the damn thing comes apart in mid twirl, hitting the ground and scattering pieces of itself everywhere. The clip springs out; bullets litter the dirt. I help retrieve the cartridges.
“You won’t tell Mother about this, will you?” Gil says with obvious embarrassment.
“Excuse me?” I say.
“The Foundation director,” he says, “everybody calls her ‘Mother.’”
This seems rather odd, but no more so than anything else. For a transcendental instant, my perspective shifts, and I am looking at the scene from the viewpoint of somebody kicked back in an easy chair with a cold brew. There’s Tyler, I observe, in the middle of nowhere scrabbling on the ground for bullets. He looks pretty ragged. Then I pop back to Mindanao.
“Don’t worry, Gil, I won’t say anything.”
“Thank you,” Gil says.
I gesture to the mooch.
“I don’t know about that guy,” I say. “You might have to pay him to keep his mouth shut.”
I almost add, “Or else you can just shoot him,” but lethal violence doesn’t seem like anything to joke about in Mindanao.
“I don’t care about him,” Gil says, “but a bad word from an American could really hurt.”
“If she asks about you, I’ll have only good words,” I say.
He smiles broadly. “You’re okay, Tyler. Mother will like you.”
“I hope so.”
“She’s been out here a long time with no outside visitors,” Gil says. “Then two Americans arrive, back to back.”
“There’s another American?”
“Yeah,” Gill says. “He came to the Foundation a couple days ago.”
My heart jumps into my mouth.
“Is he still there?”
“He was when I left for town yesterday,” Gil says.
Damn, if I hadn’t stopped those couple of days, I would have caught him! Maybe I still can. Excitement pushes aside my fatigue.
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
Gil shrugs.
“I let him fire some practice rounds.” He pats the carbine with affection. “Let me tell you, he’s a much better shot than I am!”
I try to pick up the pace, moving alone up the road, but the group sticks to its slow plod. They recede into the hot air behind me like a ghost procession. Then, after charging ahead for several minutes, I slow down again and let the others catch up. My burst of energy is spent.
Besides, what am I hurrying for? Whatever I am supposed to see at the end of this road will be there, whether I run or walk.
We finally arrive at the Foundation. The others disperse while Gil and I walk on toward the administration building. Two women came out. One is middle-aged, tall for a Filipina, and dressed in a flowing Indian type garment. At first glance, she reminds me of Indira Gandhi. The other woman is young and pretty.
They walk toward us. Then they pause and exchanged a few words. The younger one turns and beats a hasty retreat back inside the building.
28: Sweet Gloria
One is carried away by what is beautiful, charming, adorable. – Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
Not exactly the red carpet treatment. I look morosely back down the trail, contemplating the long return trip. But then the older lady approaches and offers her hand.
“Welcome,” she says in perfect English. “Please forgive my assistant. We had another visitor recently, and she thought that you might be him.”
“Oh, really?” I say. “Is he still here?”
“No – he left some hours ago.”
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p; Disappointment washes over me. My final reserves of energy desert, and my knees feel suddenly weak.
“Is something wrong, Mr. ...”
“Tyler Lakatos.” I force a smile. “Just a little tired, thank you.”
I fumble out my map and display the notations on it.
“I met Carmin on the boat to Zamboanga,” I say. “She suggested that I come.”
She peruses the writing. “Yes, Carmin. She is well?”
“Very,” I say.
This seems to clinch things.
“Please come in, Tyler,” she says. “Or perhaps you’d rather cool off first.”
Something cold and wet, like the nose of a giant dog, brushes the back of my arm. I jerk around to see the vast, curve-horned head of a carabao. I practically jump out of my skin, to the great amusement of all.
I attempt a lame recovery. “This animal sure ‘nose’ who I am!”
Gil hefts my bags and carried them toward the building.
“Go on,” he says, “take a ride.”
Pulling together the last shreds of my dignity, I climb aboard the carabao. Two little kids fight for the ‘honor’ of leading the beast.
“Be nice,” I say. “Take turns.”
I feel like Hannibal crossing the Alps atop some war elephant. The carabao walks with stately decorum, its great muscular back conveying its strength. After some minutes of this procession, we reach an embankment at the bottom of which runs a stream which has widened out to a swimming hole. I dismount and tramp down to the water. Are there crocodiles in the Philippines, I wonder?
A group of early teen-aged girls is splashing around and giggling – looking over at me, then giggling again. One of them tries speaking with me, to a chorus of titters from the others, but her English is poor and our communication is limited mostly to smiles and gestures. I wade in and throw cool water on my face.
Refreshment explodes over me, washing away layers of sweaty fatigue. This place seems to be a corner of paradise, complete with nymphs. Some boys call over, wanting to join us, but I pretend not to hear them. It is wonderful to be the center of attention for so many females.
What next – can these people tell me where Jon went, or has he just done a mysterious fade out? I need rest and food. But if I leave soon enough, I still might be able to catch him. Maybe I can hire a guide, or ...
I look up to see a cute, petite Filipina with short hair standing at the top of the embankment. The same girl who’d retreated into the building. She has her arms crossed and her face wears an expression of curiosity – and maybe a bit of interest, too.
Jon instantly blows out of my head. I forget the other girls, they are too young for me to be ogling, anyway.
“Hello!” I call.
She smiles and waves. “Hello, Tyler.”
In moments I’ve stuffed my shoes back on and am climbing the embankment. The route is slippery, and a fall is a distinct possibility.
Please don’t let me make a fool of myself again! I pray silently.
I reach the top safely, thank heaven.
“My name’s Gloria,” the girl says.
She shakes my hand. Her small, dark-complexioned hand seems impossibly dainty in my uncouth paw, and a thrill runs up my arm. Her eyes are warm and friendly but contain a hint of sadness deep within them.
“I’m going back to the office,” she says, “if you want to come.”
“Sure!” I say.
She gestures toward the carabao which stands dumbly grazing nearby.
“Do you wish to ride?” she says.
“No thanks,” I say. “Once was enough for that.”
She leads the way. Exactly where does not matter. The office building or Timbuktu would be fine, as long as she is going there with me.
“Mother likes you,” Gloria says.
“Glad to hear that,” I say. “Was she impressed by the way I handled the carabao?”
Gloria laughs. “You do not have such animals in America?”
“No, but I’m sure people would like them.”
As we walk, Gloria gives a brief sketch of the little world I’ve entered. The Foundation director, Mother, is a colorful personality. Her full name is long and complex and immediately blows out of my mind. She is from a distinguished Moslem family and has made the Hadj to Mecca. Now she runs this place, an educational foundation for children, most of whom are orphans and government wards.
If somebody else was giving this information, I would have listened more closely; but since it’s Gloria speaking, I pay only minimal attention to the details. Her comments are just an excuse for me to look into her face, watch her lips moving, and enjoy her voice moderating the hot atmosphere. She has the typical clipped Philippines accent, but every sound that comes from her mouth is wonderful.
The main building is a model of efficiency. A kitchen / dining area occupies one end while a large common room takes up much of the rest. Two Spartan bedrooms, one of which has been set up for me, and a small office open out into the common area. Gloria leaves me alone; I crash on my cot for a few hours.
Dinner is a simple meal shared with Gloria, a young man named Ping, and Mother. Ping has some official capacity, but I don’t ask about it, preferring to remain in clueless American mode. Besides, with Gloria around I don’t give too much of a damn about anybody else.
My first Indira Gandhi impression of the director seems appropriate. She is a woman who enjoys exercising authority and being the center of attention. I play along with her little power trip, determined to stay on her good side.
She has a mystical bent, and is searching for some deep meaning behind my arrival – the first Westerner to come here. Well, the second, actually, but she prefers to discount the first one. I can offer no insights about my sudden appearance. Anyway, an aura of mystery might impress Gloria.
Afterwards, I enjoy a wonderful shower. When I get out, I have to wrap myself into a ridiculous silk toga-like garment as all my clothes are being laundered and won’t be ready until morning. My getup looks ridiculous, and I am glad that nobody will see me in it.
I enter the common room. Except for a couch and a few chairs along the walls, the place is empty. A single lamp provides dim illumination, while outside is black and mysterious. The bats must be swarming now, and Gil will be out patrolling with his carbine. Hopefully he’s put the thing back together properly.
I move to the main window and light a cigarette, blowing smoke out the screen. Mother hasn’t specifically banned smoking inside the building, but I don’t want to cause any problems. The closed door of the second bedroom is only a few feet away, so I try to be quiet.
Then the door creaks open and Gloria emerges. I straighten up and fumble with my toga.
“Can’t sleep?” she asks.
“Uh, I had a nap earlier,” I say.
“I can’t sleep, either.” She gestures toward the bedroom. “Mother is tossing around so much. I think she likes to be in charge even when she’s sleeping.”
Poor Gloria. She must have lost her room to make way for me and has been forced to bunk in with the director. I feel awkward in my outfit – like a carabao in a china shop.
“That looks like one of Mother’s old saris,” Gloria says.
“Yes, it is pretty sorry,” I say.
Gloria laughs softly, and moves next to me at the window.
“Can you see anything out there, Tyler?”
“Uh, not much. It’s pretty dark.”
“Over there,” she says, “I think I see somebody. Probably one of the guards.”
She is brushing right up against me. As she stretches to look out the window, one breast actually touches my arm. Hot male arousal blasts through me.
God! With only this loose drape covering my body, nothing will be left to the imagination. I mean, there’s a time and place for everything, but this could be really embarrassing.
What will I say if Mother suddenly comes out? “Hi Babe! How do you like my flag pole?”
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I desperately try to control my lust. What is the un-sexiest thing I can think of? I conjure up an image of the war loving captain I’d met on Sorak San, his harsh face leering in the campfire.
No, that’s no good – Kathy had been sitting right next to me. I start getting aroused again. Then Gloria solves the problem.
“You remind me of him,” she says.
“Who?” I pant.
“The first American man who visited us.”
My ardor vanishes, replaced by icy dread. Outside, a gray figure passes in the darkness.
“He was frightening,” Gloria says. “I’m glad he left.”
“Frightening?”
“Oh, not you, Tyler.” She touches my arm, but I feel no electric thrill this time.
“Where did he go?” I ask.
“He just wandered off. He said he wanted to discover new things out in the forest.”
I attempt a drag on my cigarette, but it is dead. The conversation dies out, too, and the possibility of a romantic interlude fades. I retreat to my room. There is an oval mirror on the wall, but I avoid looking into it.
29: Festival Day
“Reflect how you govern a people who believe they ought to be free and think that they are not.” – Edmund Burke
The next day, a festival is being held at a settlement some miles down the valley. Dignitaries arrive in a jeep and pick up the director. She wants me to go with them, but, fortunately, the vehicle is full.
So, I get to walk with Gloria, Debbie, and Ping. Debbie is Gloria’s sister, and she came in with the jeep. She is nice, and ordinarily I would have been interested, but I decide to observe a basic law of the universe: If you chase two rabbits at the same time, you’ll surely lose both.
Besides, Gloria is sticking to me like glue. She looks adorable in her red flared slacks and yellow top. We stroll along talking about ourselves, our pasts, and our future plans – or lack thereof. Ping and Debbie join our conversation occasionally. They all have infectious good natures and smiling demeanors.
As Bob West said, “It’s hard to feel depressed in the Philippines, even for somebody like you, Tyler.”
Thanks, Bob. I wonder how he’s doing up on Manila blazing through the bar scene. I’m quite content where I am.
I’d thought that Gloria was about my age, but I learn that she is thirty-two and a widow. Her husband was a gunshot victim. Now I know the reason for the melancholy deep within her eyes.