The Amerikan

My friend Maria and I went Puerto Princesa, Palawan to deliver a box of Vietnamese language text books in 1985, and at the time I had a twisted vision that the island was a barren waste, decimated by loggers who failed to practice conservation efforts. I never realized how beautiful it was. After a week at Duchess Inn near the refugee camp, we wanted to see more. We didn't just want to leave the island and head back to the hustle that Manila is. We spent a day at White Beach and another two in the camp, just communicating with the friendly Vietnamese people.
After a week Maria and I were still looking for adventure, and the front desk girl at Duchess Inn, our home for the week, had told us about Tanabag. So Maria and I decided to go. After packing our backpacks and paying the bill, we sat down at the Inn for one last breakfast. The menu was the same: French bread baked at the camp, and honey, and fried eggs and coffee. The eggs were a deep yellow and tasted different from those back home. The honey and the bread melted in your mouth.
"I've always heard about the Batac Tribe of Palawan," Maria said, as she attempted to break the silence. "Huh?" I said as I savored my breakfast. "Yeah, I'd like to see this tribe too. I heard they move from place to place and take their house with them," I said. "Now where is it that we catch the jeep?" Maria got the directions from the front desk girl and after, we stopped at the palengke to get bottled water and fresh batteries for my Mag-Lite. Tanabag was a good two hours drive from Puerto Princesa, and I figured with stops along the way, we'd arrive around 3:30 p.m. We made reservations ahead of time, and because we were traveling light, we were able to load up on extra water and junkfoodstuffs.

The jeepney was pretty ragged looking, and it definitely had seen some better days. It was a rusting hulk with no tail lights and bald tires. A front fender was missing and the back seats were torn to pieces. The driver, an overweight man in his late 20s was busy adding oil to the engine as his charge collected the fares. It didn't concern me that the jeep was filled to capacity because I got used to the way they fill jeeps back in Manila. But when I began to see people climbing atop the jeep and on the front bonnet, I couldn't help but wonder how we were going to manage on this two hour ride. There must have been 22 people in and on the jeep, along with various bags, crates of live chickens, bushels of bok choy. Two 100 pound blocks of ice wrapped in burlap and sprinkled with sawdust were lashed to the back of the jeep, on each side of the entranceway. The jeep was fully loaded.

Unlike the jeeps of Manila, this jeep was sparsely decorated. The only paint on it was that of the familiar PAL logo and signage, and it was small. But it was the only thing visible, because the rest of the jeep was tin metal. It had no mirrors of any kind. And no radio.

As we left, the man at the jeep station looked and started to shake his head at the driver. The driver had done it again. He managed to squeeze as many and as much cargo and people as his jeep could hold, maximizing his trip for maximum cash.
At the first stop, two people got off, but three more got on, so I figured we were in for something. A thrifty jeepney driver and an old, rusty pile of shit of a jeep. Just as we were about to leave the outskirts of Puerto Princesa, the left rear tire blew out and we hobbled to a stop. I looked at my Casio. We were exactly eight minutes into our trip. I stared in awe as I counted 16 people climb off the roof of the jeep. The driver pulled off one of his two spare tires, which also were bald and replaced the flat. We were running again in about twenty minutes. It was humid and dusty, and it was hot.

The road leading out of the city was semi-paved with gravel and sand. It was hard packed from all the vehicles it has accommodated over the years. It was a surprisingly smooth ride for such primitive construction. No asphalt, no cement, no lane markers. Just dirt and gravel. As we passed, I looked at the ocean and the opposing jungle. On one side, it was blue and sparse and empty. Palm trees beckoned out toward the sea, and an occasional Nipa hut dotted the landscape. On the other side loomed a thick mass of greenery. Vegetation, tall trees, dense bush, and high mountains. A cool wind blew off the rain forest toward the sea. It was refreshing and smelled real clean. Pure oxygen.

An hour into the trip we got our second flat tire. It was very hot. We were turning a corner when a loud "pop" disabled the jeep once again. The jeep started listing to one side and the driver pulled under some coconut trees. Again everybody got out. The woman who was sitting atop the wheel well when the first blow out occurred was sitting in the same spot, and as she got out she was complaining that the driver should get new tires. "Maybe it's not my tires, but it's your bad luck," Totoy, the driver said. "I think you've put a curse on my jeep. You've been sitting atop the only tire that has blown out, and the tires are all bald," the driver said as he wrenched on the spare. "Ano, spellmaker ba ?"

"Don't blame me for you being so cheap. It's not me that is causing the delays, it's this piece of shit jeep. It's cursed with PAL," the woman laughed as she squatted on the side of the road and lit up a cigarette. She seemed one hundred years old, but she still had her wits about her. And she smoked her cigarette with the cherry in her mouth. Insane.
The sun was really doing a number on us. People were getting irritated. Totoy mumbled something to himself as he wrenched the second spare off the fender. His stomach, which obviously had downed many San Miguels in its day, hung a few inches outside his shirt as he worked the tire off. The crack of his ass shone as he worked the flat off the axle. He was grunting, somewhat like a pig as he fought with the tire, getting a handle on it as he sat in the dirty, dusty road.

A scorpion scampered by, and Totoy, with a deft agility that seemed incapable from such an overweight man, expertly threw the lug wrench at it, smashing its head. The tail was stinging the hot metal, and the scorpion slowly stopped its movement. Retrieving the wrench, Totoy was boasting like he was some ace shot. "Magaling iyon!," Totoy said as he cleaned the wrench with an oily rag he retrieved from his back pocket. "It never fails, my shot is always on the mark," Totoy said as he began tightening the lug nuts. "Yeah, right pare, but how come you don't have any children yet, your shot isn't so good, Walang heirs naman, sino ang inherit ang jeep ba? This piece of shit you call a jeep?" laughed his charge, a short, dark, ugly man with no front teeth. "Pu tang ina, get out and walk, ano ayo ang jeep ko? get out and walk you little shit," Totoy said as he chased his charge around the jeep. I looked down at the scorpion, looking for signs of life. Big black ants had already swarmed over it and were devouring it, feasting on an enemy. The voracity of the feasting ants was unparalleled, except for maybe a feeding frenzy of sharks I saw on the Discovery Channel. My how nature works. I looked up toward the sun. It was blazing, and I was hoping for relief, anything but this cursed heat.

"I'm thirsty, John," Maria said as we sat in the jeep. "Let's get some cokes," she said as we waited inside the jeep. It started to really bake in the jeep, and the people still in it made the smell very pungent. I jumped out of the jeep and walked over to the sari-sari store across the road and bought two Sprites and a double bag of Chippys. Little to snack on but better than sitting and baking in the back of the jeep.

The driver was finishing up on the tire when another jeepney stopped. This jeep had chrome all over the place, and the rims were shiny too. The driver was wearing a pair of vintage WWII goggles and a scarf, but no shirt. His muscles rippled as he pulled himself out of his seat and into the street at Totoy's feet. The driver looked at the jeepney and started to laugh. "Totoy, Ano ka, cutting corners again? Why don't you invest in some Sime Darbys? You won't be getting flats every weekend you come out here," the driver said as Totoy finished the job and leaned on the fender, wiping the sweat off his face and neck. "Ano pare, let me borrow your spare?" I need it just in case, I've got no more spares. "Ano Totoy, you got 500 pesos I could hold until I get it back?" "And when are you going to learn not to take ice on a day trip?" The driver said as he fondled a nearly empty and very wet ice bag. "Ice is gone," the driver said as he wrenched the spare off his fender and gave it to Totoy. "And don't be late," "And next time leave Waling in the market. She's bad luck," he laughed as Waling, the woman who sat on the wheel which was always getting flat, threw a rotted tomato at him as he accelerated the jeep past us. "Sigue make fun, I'm sitting in the front now, no more in the back," she said as she gathered her stuff and kicked a guy out of his seat and took his place. Nine kms down the road, the front tire blew out.

Sometime around 7 p.m., we arrived in Tanabag. Surprisingly, there weren't any mosquitoes, and the horizon was brilliant. Stars were literally lighting up the sky. It was a full moon, and the reflection off the calm China Sea was striking. I thanked the driver and we got off. Our two hour ride took nearly six hours. I was so dusty and dehydrated. It was a very long day. "Come on Johnny boy, lets get settled so we can wash up. I feel so, ano ba, so icky naman." Maria quipped as she tied her hair up.

We went to the office. A rusty Coleman lantern lit the way. Two women and a man were sitting on the bamboo rail on the porch, playing pusoy and drinking beer. "Ako ang reservations dito," Maria said as she settled down on the bench next to the younger girl. "Ano ang pangalan, miss?" "de La Cruz" Maria said as we went through the formalities. "Ah yes, Mr. John de La Cruz and guest," Sophie, as she introduced herself, said as she had us sign the guest log. I stared at her as she spoke, eyeing her body and her lips. She was a very hearty young woman, about 22. Big legs and calfs on a stout torso. Her body seemed very strong, and built, not like a Manila waif, but a woman of the province, a provinciana. "How long will you be staying Mr. de La Cruz?" Sophie asked as she poured me some fresh mango juice. "The fourth and fifth Nipa hut are open, you can have whichever one you prefer," she said as we gulped the sweet nectar that mango juice is. "The one at the end looks good, and we'll be here for a few days, at least until Sunday," I said as we finished the merienda and started to walk toward the last Nipa hut "If you need fresh water sir, go ahead and ask Ferdie he will go to the market for only twenty pesos. The water here is not potable, so I advise you to get bottled water if you don't already have some. It's OK to take a bath in though," she said as she walked us to the Nipa hut. Have a good night and don't worry, its very safe here in Tanabag."

After unpacking, Maria took a nap, and I, a bit tired from the trip, but also eager to check out the waves, went for a walk on the beach. The stars were so many and so far, it looked as if I was looking through a wide angle lens. They went all the way to the horizon. I saw no lights, no airplane trails, nothing. Just a deep black void filled with little shining specs of light. The Nipa huts were situated on a point, and to the left of the structures was a pond with palm trees and brush growing in the water and on a little mound in the middle. It was probably fed by a freshwater spring, and fed saltwater at high tide. The beach was rocky with smooth sand scattered in between and little strips of bamboo jutted out in a circular formation. The air smelled of salt, and the breeze, a bit nippy. As I walked, I thought of the rest of our god forsaken civilization. Of the wars over oil, over territory, over religion. And on this edge, this edge of Palawan, looking out to sea, I couldn't give a flying fuck. Because here, nothing mattered. Just a vast sea.

Here I'm told not to drink the water because it's not potable, but this brackish water that comes out of the shower head, this rusty smelling gift of life is safe to shower in. Back off the edge, I take the water for granted. I won't drink it out of a garden hose in my town, but that water is even cleaner than the water coming out of the shower heads here. But its the price I pay for this slice of life, this cosm of the world that many people will never see. Life moves slow here. News is a week, 10 days old before it gets here, if it ever gets here. I smell the jungle, see the stars, hear the ocean lap at the land as I walk the edge of it, and feel the force of life. These people, these Filipinos, they have nothing, as we see from the West. They have no cars, no VCRs, no compact discs, no answering machines, no dust busters, no ballet class, no credit cards, no auto repair, no microwaves, no alarms, no hair dryer, no bills, no insurance, no savings, no sense of the future. They live for today, because they know that tomorrow is not guaranteed. They, without the possessions we deem essential, they live without, and live their lives as if its the last day of their life. Nothing is ever a problem. Its too simple.

"Hey Johnny boy wake up! get your ass up!" Maria said as she snapped me with a wet towel. "Let's get breakfast before the window shuts on us." I forgot that out here, there is no refrigeration, and the only way to get any food is to have Ferdie take a jeep back to the local market to get fresh vegetables and anything else we want to eat for breakfast. It was only 7 a.m., but the sun was already working up its fury in the tropics. I opened the window and looked out. Again I saw the ocean. It looked even more surreal than last night. "Unreal, I thought as I peered out into the vast and mighty South China Sea. It was like a lake, but I knew the China Sea was very deceptive and if you weren't careful, it would swallow you and never give you up. The water was a clear green, like Squirt, and very calm. The lapping that put me to sleep last night still sounded, like clockwork.

We were at the farthest reaches of the coast. Already the nik-niks, little black sand flies, were biting at my legs, and as I continued to slap at them, Sophie walked up and sprayed me with a thick oil. "It's coconut oil. They can't bite through the layer of oil, and besides that, if they land they're doomed anyway, so keep spraying," she said as she wiped the oil onto my shoulders and arms. She gave us the bottle filled with the milky-white liquid, and Maria took over. As she wiped my back and neck down with the oil, Maria gave me a little primer about Palawan and the history that she knew of it. The essence of the oil brought back memories of the beaches back home in Huntington. The oil smelled just like a bar of white Sex Wax. "Coconut oil?" I asked as Maria finished lathering herself to a gleen. "Yeah, at least it isn't toxic chemicals like Black Flag di ba? Grabe, spraying chemicals on your skin like that. Simple coconut oil. No warning labels about do not inhale or ingest or use near flame. Just pure oil that mother nature intended to be a natural remedy against the nik-nik. "I heard the nik-nik is more terrible than the mosquito," Maria said as she put on a pair of Ray Bans. "I heard they suck your blood and when once gorged, they suck more until they are overflowing out of their little insect mouths," Maria said, adjusting the Ray Bans on her nose. "And if you let them bite you at first, you'll be regretting it for weeks." I didn't know whether to believe her or not. I chose not to, and later paid the price. Nothing in this world comes without a price.

We went to the main hut where breakfast was being served. Our first morning in Tanabag, and the stress of Manila was slowly emanating from my body...and my mind. We sat at a long table that seated about 10-15 people. With the exception of a group of three Americans and one Pinoy, the table was empty.
"So, with the exception of the Vietnam War, the Philippines has not really engaged in any significant military action after W.W.II. Perhaps our country can teach your country a lesson in the strategies of world relations." He was an American. Probably in his early thirties. He was wearing one of those baduy polyester Hawaiian-type shirts only Americans would wear. Probably bought it in Baclaran. He was about 5'9" and his brown hair was receding well above his forehead. Bathed in some cheap musk oil. A total asshole just by the way he smelled.

Although I caught only the tail end of what was probably a meaningless discussion on the aspects of American military power in the Asian area of the Pacific Rim, I knew the guy was a total all American, think he's a do gooder, brainwashed right wing, we had to destroy the city in order to save it, American.
"Actooaly I believe that Da Pilapines was in......"Its actually Gaspar, acktully, just like it sounds," the American said to his Pinoy paré. "It's not actooaly. Don't destroy the one good thing we gave your country. Learn how to speak English correctly. And it's the fillapeens, not Pilapeens. Fi Fi Fillapeens, Got it? "Yes Dick, Fillapeens," Gaspar said as he dejectedly avoided eye contact at me, as I was getting teed at this American. I couldn't help it but I had to intercede.

"Excuse me sir," I said in my most believable Manila-Boy accent. "But I couldn't help but overhear you making an attempt to correct your friend's use of the English language. May I make a suggestion as well?" Maria looked at me and mouthed "Don't do this." I continued. I was pissed. Even though I was an American just like this guy, Dick, was, I was also a Filipino, and I wasn't going to stand for this guy's ignorance. "Sir do you know where you are?" I asked, continuing to fake my accent. "Yes of course, we are in the Philippine Islands, discovered by Magellen in 1492, controlled by Spain for 400 years and won from Spain by the USA in 1898. This is the Philippines. Village of Tanabag. On the South China Sea. On the island of Palawan, capital Puerto Princesa." Dick did his homework but he just didn't get it. "Your facts are good Dick, can I call you Dick?" I said as my accent became thicker, as if it took on a life of its own. "Let me ask you very simply, do you know where you are?" Dick was beginning to get a bit annoyed at my seeming prodding of his intelligence. He was smart, but his instant arrogance for all things American just pissed me off. "Yes," Dick said, "We are in The Philippines." Very simply he answered my question with a bit of consternation. "Very good," I said as I prepared my roast. Maria was getting nervous, and I assured her from under the table I had everything under control. Gaspar was getting fidgety as well, and very angry by the cold looks he was directing to me. "And in this country called the Republic of the Philippines, what kind of people live here, in this island nation of some 7,107 islands?" Dick seemed confused, and angry that such a pest as I would challenge his seeming knowledge of the country. "The people of the Philippine Islands are called Filipinos, primarily of Malay and indigenous stock, with a smattering of Chinese, European, American, and Middle Eastern extract. Being in such a strategic location as the Philippine Islands are, brings a diaspora of peoples to these islands," Dick said. "You're right, Dick," I said, "But Filipinos mostly live in the Philippines. Not Americans. As a matter a fact, there are some 58 million Pinoys in these islands, and it is very likely that 57.9 million of those Pinoys have never been to the United States, let alone another country. So it seems," I said as I began to state my position, "that the Filipino use for your English is basically meaningless. I mean, you said that we get a whole consortium of peoples coming to this country, so may I ask, how would Gaspar react if the next group he brought to this little beach were from England, the birth place of the English lingo? Or from Australia or Ireland, or India, or all the other English speaking countries in this world? Why push your corrections on him. To me, his English is fine. To other Pinoys, it is fine, but to you, why do you have to humiliate him, belittle him in front of his fellow countrymen? I mean we are in the Philippines man, and as long as we are on this rock, we will speak English however we want to. I was pissed and Maria started to ask me to apologize to Dick. "I'm trying to do Gaspar a favor with his English," I don't need some sermon from some snot nose college boy from Manila. We give you guys much concessions and you people don't appreciate anything we give you. We give you a hell of a lot and you should thank us for doing so," Dick said as he looked at me as if he demanded me to apologize to him for insulting him, his country, and his language. "Yeah right," I said as I lost the my "accent." Do you even know what the Framers of the US Constitution were aiming for as they wrote that document? Well, they were looking for a way to secure freedom for the people of the country, to ensure that no one man or political party would have total control of the country. Let me tell you something Dick," I said as I stood facing him on the other side of the table.

"Your dollars cannot buy democracy in this country. It can't buy peace and it can't buy freedom. Wake up Dick, this country is hardly modeled after the USA. You people tried, but as in Vietnam, your country has failed miserably to ensure democracy in this country. You think that Marcos is an anti-communist? He's pulled a fast one on your country. Take a look around. He controls everything in this country. Let me ask you something, how come he is still in power? In the American system, power changes hands every four years, eight if the current president wins a second term. Marcos has been in power for 20 years. Twenty years. With your money. Your country's taxpayer dollars. Marcos is a tough cookie. You supply him with the guns and gold, he buys his goons, and enforces his iron will on us. And the US continues to support him. Why? Because of two reasons. Clark Air and Subic Naval. Your "assurances" that peace remains in the region." Dick was red and angry and drunk. Early morning and already drunk. Gaspar was pissed as well and was very offended by me getting in his friends face. "Ano ka, Pare, let's just leave it alone and forget this morning," Gaspar pleaded as he lit a cigarette. "Di ba le na lang, Ang sirah American yoon," Gaspar said as he looked on at Dick. I looked at him and asked him how he could take this guy's carabao shit, how he could handle getting his English corrected for every little "mistake" he made while speaking. "He pays me in dollars, I don't want to bite the hand that feeds me and feeds me well," Gaspar echoed. I couldn't argue with that. "I've just one more thing to say Gaspar, and we're outta here. "Oh Yeah, uh Dick, I forgot to tell you one last thing. Your country's presence here in the region to ensure stability can't even ensure stability in the very country that is playing host to your military machine." As I got up to leave, I shoved the man a fresh beer.

Maria, who was silent through most of the whole argument, looked at me with disgust and took off toward the beach. Ominous clouds began forming off the coast, and the change in the wind indicated rain. She was sitting on a piece of driftwood on the beach. When I reached her, she buried her face between her knees. She was crying. "Maria, what is it?" I asked as I tried to console her. "Get away from me!" she sobbed as I grabbed her and embraced her. "What's wrong Maria, what is it?" I couldn't figure.

"You just don't get it, do you Johnny-boy. You don't have a clue," she said as I wiped the tears from her eyes. I was trying to understand, but, as I recycled the events of the morning, I couldn't see where I could have possibly gone wrong. "Gosh Johnny-boy, you're just like that man, you are as American as him!" Maria said as she again let the river of tears flow down her cheeks. "Sheesh, even though you're Pinoy on the outside, you are as American as the idiots in Subic. We don't have what your country has. We don't have money, we don't have a democratic style of government, we don't have free education, and we don't have freeways crisscrossing the land, let alone the cars," Maria said as she composed herself. "You want to know what we do have? We've got crime, we've got poverty, we've got corruption, we've got pollution, we've got high birth rate, we've got no morals, we have no standards, we have 'love hotels', we have racism and discrimination, we have disease, we have starving children everywhere. Everywhere you go in this country, you can find children everywhere, scraping for food, surviving any which way they can. We are survivors Johnny-boy. We often times marry, not because of romance or love, but for survival. We may despise the man and his family we have married into, but we do it to survive. It's just like our marriage to your country. We may not like every condition your country puts on us when we receive your country's financial aid, but we do it to survive, just like the hookers you see on the streets in the city. We have no real culture. Our culture has been prostituted Johnny-boy. Our culture is John Wayne movies, Dynasty, and all those other American TV shows we watch.
Here, if you don't have it, you'll never get it, unless you prostitute yourself by marrying some man for his money. In America, anybody can climb the mountain, and when they reach the top, it's always golden," she said as I noticed a different Maria from the hardened one of the last couple of nights. She left me at the beach, wondering.

That night we walked on the beach. I sensed Maria also wanted to leave the country. I could feel her sense of despair. I held her there for a long time. She cried and cried, and held me tight. It felt good to be held and it felt good just to receive this human communication. I kissed her on the forehead as we looked out to sea. It was a calm night, and the waves were gently lapping against the shore. It was quiet the rest of the night, and as we walked back to our Nipa hut, we held hands and hugged, and talked and laughed. It seemed that Maria was happy to have let all her frustrations out, and I was happy to receive them into my mind. I never really understood the situation from a Pinay point of view, but Maria, with all her pride and dignity of being a woman, in this country no less, opened up a whole new realm of thought to me. She taught through explanation, and though she offered no conclusions, she did leave the door open a bit.