by David Byrne
Sol’s History Lesson
I wash up and then bike to an apartment building a few blocks away where I meet up with a group of people I’d previously contacted via e-mail. They’re all arriving at film director Anto nio “Butch” Perez’s apartment. Across the street from Butch’s apartment is a former love hotel with a huge banner across the entrance proclaiming, Closed for the Glory of God. I am told the owner of a chain of love hotels, of which this is one, became born again and decided, being newly devout, that he of course had to close down his own establishments. Some of the other ones, I hear, are still operating, so he still has an income. He may be devout, but he’s not a fool.
Butch’s place is beautiful—a spacious loft apartment with tropical Zen decor and windows at one end offering a view over some tin roofs to the expanse of Manila Bay. “Not so many years ago this was one of the quietest places in town,” he says, “but now there are car stereos and burglar alarms, police klaxons and sirens, open-air karaoke on the bayfront, and more scooter traffic—the noise level is so much higher.” As a New Yorker I am used to the noise so it doesn’t seem excessive to me.
I am joined by editor Jessica Zafra (her magazines Flip and Manila Envelope, both in English, are wonderful), poet and columnist Krip Yuson, photographer Neal Oshima, restauranteuse Susan Roxas, performance artist Carlos Celdran, adman David Guerrero . . . and eventually even more filmmakers and writers wander in.
I describe the Here Lies Love project to everyone as best I can, which isn’t saying much, as I wasn’t prepared to make a pitch. The CD of demos I brought and especially the compilation of rough edits of video footage done to the music explain the concept much better than I am able to do verbally. The videos especially are well received. They’re mostly edited from stock and period news footage from the Philippines and elsewhere cut to specific songs. Some of these folks view them intently, with fascination, as if their own lives were being replayed, so theirs is hardly an objective view. Painful memories, some of them.
Sol Vanzi joins us. She lives on the same floor. She informally handles Imelda’s relations with local and international media. (Imelda returned to Manila from Hawaiian exile after Marcos died. She now lives in a nice apartment in Makati.) Sol also runs a Web site that collates Philippine news: http://www.newsflash.org. She’s sixty-one, she tells us, and she immediately sits down, cracks open a can of beer, and launches into a tirade during which she disputes all the conventional wisdom about the Marcos regime and Imelda. She just naturally assumes (rightly, I suspect) that she’s not addressing a group of Marcos loyalists. However, most of the others here seem to know her, so her rant is mainly directed toward me.
I would have assumed that the events at that time—the era of martial law—would have split Philippine society down the middle between the loyalists and the exiled and repressed. But it seems that here everyone knows everyone else, and almost always has, and everyone crosses paths often enough for a weird tolerance to have developed. People I would have assumed to be natural sworn enemies sit down to have a drink together. Things here are not as simple as they were in my preconceived picture. I’m glad I’m here.
Sol continues her monologue directed at me. She says that she instructed a video cameraman to hide in the basement of the palace when it was being overrun—this was minutes after the Marcoses fled—with instructions to record the state of things as they were the moment the family left. She claims that this video proves that the various stories of half-eaten tubs of caviar and other evidence of extravagant excess were “urban myths,” as she referred to them. It is evidence that these things were planted—by Cory Aquino and others in the opposition parties, or so she claims.
She also claims that it was the Americans who most likely killed Benigno Aquino when he returned to the Philippines to challenge Marcos in 1983. (I thought Marcos said at the time that it was the commies? Or that it was the insurgents, who were also allied with the commies?) Sol pushes on, claiming that Imelda was never poor as a child, which, to be fair, is a statement that could be seen as being relative: Imelda certainly wasn’t as poor as the people living in the shanties squeezed along the riverbanks in a lot of Philippine towns.
But by all accounts she did live in a garage as a child—with a car still in it—while the children of her father’s first wife continued to live in the main house. Things went downhill from there; for a while Imelda, her brother, sister, and their servant and pal Estrella lived in a nipa hut—a shack made of woven palm fronds. So, no, she maybe had had it better than many, but for someone from an important local family she was relatively poor. One could say more psychologically poor than economically, in that she was ostracized by the more socially acceptable part of her extended family.
Sol segues into a riff on how limited class mobility is in the Philippines. How if you are from a provincial town you are automatically handicapped, even if you are from a “good” family in that town. (This mirrors Imelda’s situation.) Sol implies, as do others, that it is almost impossible to rise above your station, as your class will be revealed by your accent. Even if that doesn’t give you away folks will probably ask you where you’re from, and then the game’s over. Shades of the UK, where your regional accent can limit your chances for success in some fields.
What I am learning, despite all her endless protesting and the refuting of claims that no one has even voiced, is that things are not as black and white here as I, or many other left-leaning Westerners, might prefer to think. The Marcos regime, though corrupt from the start, was no more corrupt, at least at first, than many others. Maybe even less, at the beginning. What distinguished the couple in some ways was that they did actually build clinics, highways, roads, bridges, cultural centers, and a high school for the arts, as well as instigate a health plan and many other programs that they promised in their campaigns. (That high school of the arts produced many of the creative types who are still active—friends of people in this room.) Similar programs had been promised by other politicians every time election season came around, but Marcos actually delivered. Ferdinand and Imelda were therefore truly loved by many Filipinos—at least at the start of their tenure—and, according to some, they continue to be loved in the provinces even during their ouster, an event which somewhat baffled the country folk. At one point (in the ’60s) the couple intentionally modeled their image on that of the Kennedys—posing for family snaps in Malacañang Palace wearing hand-tailored versions of native dress and generally looking young and glamorous—which they were. As was the case with the Kennedys in the United States, the public loved it. So did the international media. The Marcoses were featured in Time, Life, and publications around the world—they were a very photogenic couple. Everyone bought into the fantasy—just like the media bought into the Kennedy myth, which was being created at around the same time.
Of course, beginning with Marcos’s 1969 reelection campaign and then when martial law was declared in 1972 the scales began to tip, and the chicanery, censorship, human-rights abuses, murder, corruption, and lies eventually outweighed the love and good works. Here lies love indeed—love was bulldozed under or sent to a Swiss bank account. At first, when their power seemed more secure just after a sweeping election victory or after martial law was declared, it must have been irresistibly tempting to put that entitlement to use—as politicians tend to do. They wouldn’t need to do all that nasty, inconvenient, and time-wasting politicking anymore. One could argue that power and entitlement made things more efficient. But it seemed to me that soon enough the need to hold on to that power took precedence over almost everything else—as it usually does. The palace in the end became a miasma of schemes, intrigues, paranoia, and backstabbing.
Flexibility
A book I read claims that Filipino politicians don’t look on politics as a means to further their or their party’s ideological goals but simply as a means to hold power. Sometimes a politician will switch parties and ideologies, if he thinks he stands a better chance of winning as a can
didate from the other side. Marcos made one of these moves early on in his career, and it worked. While we in the United States might think of political parties as entities with firm ideological platforms and more or less consistent policies and agendas, here they seem to be more like a temporary set of allegiances that can be remade at will. Of course I began to ask myself if elsewhere things are much the same as they are here, though most other places make more of a pretense of ideological continuity. That might explain why people who I thought should be sworn political enemies here can hang out together.
Karaoke Nation
After Sol’s lecture a small group of us head out for a meal at one of Joel’s two chicken restaurants. We drive to one and a group of us seat ourselves around a little wooden picnic table outdoors. The restaurant used to be simply a tiny counter, a covered cooking area, and a few tables in back, but it has become very popular—the chicken and the livers on a stick and the garlic rice are all delicious. There is a covered area for eating too, but the whole thing is more like a patio with a roof than an indoor restaurant. The barbecues for cooking the birds are installed along the nearby roadside. I guess since Joel seems to be a well-known actor I was expecting a more pretentious place, but this is both delicious and casual. There’s a smattering of all ages, races, and types hanging out and chatting over their drinks and chicken. The menu consists of essentially whatever you see being cooked in front of you. If there were additional dishes available I didn’t see evidence of them.
On the way back to the district where my hotel is, Butch says he needs to stop at a karaoke bar to say Merry Christmas to his production designer and erstwhile muse, Marta, who is now “playing for the other team” and is there with her girlfriend. We are led by an attendant down a buttery-yellow hallway past a series of identical doors and the assistant opens one and there are four of Butch’s friends singing to a TV screen. We order beers but lamely fail to join in the singing festivities. Someone programs “Burning Down the House,” maybe in hopes that I will sing, but I just stare at the screen as a guy who looks like an ’80s Bon Jovi poses with a guitar while a model house burns in an image superimposed behind him. I guess I’m a bit of a party pooper, but this did take me by surprise. Marta, exuberant and very pretty in plaid pants, sings along with the song, though it seems my phrasing on that song was a little tricky.
Some claim karaoke was invented here in 1975 as the Sing Along System by a man named Roberto del Rosario. TVK/ Video karaoke clubs are everywhere and come in all shapes and for all incomes. Maybe it’s a way to allow everyone to sing. Even though I was a party pooper at the karaoke club, I know from experience that singing is therapeutic, and fun to do. They sing Western pop songs here—and some Filipino pop songs too, many of which are sung in English. For a Filipino, singing Western pop songs is not like singing a foreign song. Western pop, especially U.S. pop, is such an integrated part of Filipino culture that Filipinos feel it is their own culture too. And it is, in a way. Who, or what nation, can own the experience you have when you hear a song? There’s even a karaoke TV channel. Endless cheap corny videos with music playing and scrolling lyrics. You can stay at home and sing along with your television. Like some kind of radical conceptual art piece—but unlike conceptual art it’s super-popular.
Makati
The next day I bike up, or rather east and inland, to Makati, the district where Imelda lives now. It’s an area of high-rises, gated communities, and glitzy shopping malls—not really typical of the Philippines, but a source of local pride. One of these high-rise condominiums was taken over by a group of disgruntled soldiers in 2004, but they were soon ousted.
Biking here in this upscale neighborhood is not always easy—there are no bike lanes as there are along the bay area, and the fumes from the jeepneys and tricycles (a motorcycle with a sidecar that can hold maybe two passengers) are overwhelming. Foreigners notice the jeepneys right away. How can you not? They are super-colorful, freakish progeny of leftover U.S. Army jeeps that have morphed, elongated, and mutated into a kind of cheap, tricked-out form of public transport. Jeepney drivers adorn their vehicles with names and sayings: Lovely, Mama-Cita, Metal Mania, Pray For Our Way, Grandma’s Pet, Reconnaissance Patrol. This one reads Simply the Best, no doubt quoting from the Tina Turner song. There is a kind of jeepney wisdom.
The traffic sometimes devolves into borderline gridlock, but mostly things move along with a chaotic grace, and I of course make better time than most of these four- or even three-wheeled vehicles.
The Philippines, for many Americans, is the land where maids and nurses come from, and that’s about all they know about it. I have to admit I’ve seen quite a lot of men and women in medical attire. Filipinos are hopeful that Japan, for example, might employ some of their highly trained medical personnel, but the Japanese are notoriously uncomfortable dealing physically with foreigners, and the idea of being touched by one, God forbid! The Japanese instead prefer to develop robots to take care of their own mundane housekeeping and medical needs. Racism as a spur to technical innovation.
After riding around Makati, visiting a mall, and getting lost in a gated community (a white man of a certain age on a bike, like me, is naturally waved in by the security guards), I head back toward the bay to explore the landfill area where Imelda built many of her cultural projects, one of which—the Film Center—now hosts an all-Korean cast doing an Egyptian themed drag show. This large building is reportedly haunted, or cursed, as part of it collapsed during the rushed nonstop construction that Madame Marcos mandated, and it is rumored that some of the bodies are still in the concrete, haunting anyone who visits. I am told that Koreans don’t believe in ghosts, so that’s why their show is running here.
The grand Cultural Center and the Folk Arts Center are in this area as well, and those are still quite active. I visit the Cultural Center one afternoon to pore over their photo and video archives of the Marcos era. Surprisingly, there isn’t all that much here—most of it is at the university archives now, or in private hands. Who owns what footage seems unclear, which is worrisome, because in a way photo, film, and video archives are recent history. In many countries videotape that was used for news reports was erased and reused over and over, to save money—which means those outlets have no record of many events in the recent past.
Mythmaking
The next day I ride my bike through a funky shopping district (Quiapo) and then through San Miguel (a downtown neighborhood where Imelda lived with her family for a while). I get a tour of the Malacañang Palace—the Manila White House. I arrive a little wet from perspiration, but the guard, after I am identified, allows me to park my bike on the grounds behind a service building and he gives me a minute to dry off and get myself composed before beginning the tour.
Inside the palace I see the chair where in 1972 Marcos signed the declaration of martial law that suspended habeas corpus, and allowed him to jail political opponents and censor the press, keeping people in the dark for more than a decade—all in the name of maintaining order and homeland security. On the walls are numerous photos commemorating People Power, the mass movement that resulted in the ouster of the Marcoses in 1986. There are images of students giving flowers to soldiers, and lots of people wearing yellow. Yellow, it turns out, was adopted as an opposition color due to the pop song “Tie a Yellow Ribbon,” which was chosen and sung in anticipation of the return of Benigno Aquino, Marcos’s only serious rival, to the Philippines. Surreal, these pop-music connections—who would imagine a link between Tony Orlando and Dawn and a grassroots uprising that overthrew a dictator? It makes my head spin. Unfortunately Benigno “Ninoy” Aquino was gunned down at the airport as soon as he stepped from the plane . . . but Cory and her supporters stuck with the yellow from then on.
The large central room is filled with glass cases of memorabilia commemorating previous Philippine leaders—but there is a glaring absence. All the leaders are represented except for the Marcoses, who are relegated to a couple of (not insubstantia
l) back rooms. Their absence could be seen as a lacuna, a hole, in history, but these back rooms more than make up for it—they are stuffed with commemorative dolls, clocks, and of course paintings, many of them portraits that the couple commissioned themselves.
Looming over me are two famous paintings in which Ferdinand and Imelda had themselves depicted as the Ur couple of the Philippines—the Adam and Eve of tribal Philippine mythology, who, in the traditional legend, sprang from a piece of split bamboo, the strong man and the beautiful woman.
The idea inherent in these paintings was that the Marcoses were fulfilling destiny, facilitating a kind of rebirth and renewal of Philippine identity—symbolized by their embodiment of the primeval couple. To be fair, a rebirth did happen, to some extent, and these paintings make explicit the couple’s wish to also become part of the national mythology. The desire to find a slot for oneself in the collective national psyche runs deep. George Bush and Ronald Reagan were often photographed wearing western clothes despite one being a New England WASP and the other a Hollywood movie star. If a politician appears as a fighter pilot, a cowboy, or as Adam or Eve, the attraction and potency of these images are so powerful that we often respond as desired, even if we know it’s an act.
Ilocos, Land of Disco Dreams
The next day I catch a plane to the area of the country where Marcos hailed from, up at the northern end of the big island, where many people still cherish his memory. His son, Bong Bong (yes, his real name!), is now the governor of this province, and Imee, one of his daughters, is the local congresswoman. In my research it was said that this area, Ilocos Norte, is Philippine cowboy country—it has a somewhat harsher climate than the more tropical south, and disagreements were, and still are, often settled with guns. I spy on my local map a neighborhood on the outskirts of Laoag, the regional capital where I am staying. The neighborhood is named Discolandia, which sounds like it might be appropriate for my project, so I aim myself in that direction. I wander through a neighborhood of houses, roaming chickens, little bodegas. And then, just past the bus depot, sure enough, suddenly there is a whole zone of clubs. It’s daytime, so there is no music or activity at the moment, except in front of one club where I see an older woman carefully painting a young girl’s toenails. The door to another club is open so I ask if I can have a look. No problem—an older woman escorts me in and hollers something as she leads me farther and farther into the interior, which has a few scattered chairs on the dance floor and some Christmas lights dangling from the ceiling.
