Seeker

by Rita Pomade

  Soon after leaving Hong Kong, Bernard felt an unwelcome vibration coming from somewhere on the Santa Rita. Once moored at the yacht club, he set to work finding the problem and finally declared: “It’s the shaft.” He hired a Filipino fisherman to dive under the boat to remove the shaft while he stayed below deck to plug the hole as soon as the shaft came out. With shaft in hand, we hired a donkey and cart to take us to an area in Manila where we’d find a machine shop. The ride in the donkey cart was a visceral and unforgettable experience.

  We passed gangs of street children abandoned by families who couldn’t feed them. I was told older boys often acted as parent figures and looked after the younger ones. They wandered the city in small packs and slept huddled together in rubbish-strewn alleyways or along the polluted waterfront. These street kids formed makeshift families for survival. I wondered what happened to them when they grew up — if they grew up. We passed beefy, big-bellied middle-aged Western men with slim, under-aged girls, maybe as young as thirteen on their arms. I later saw them in bars and restaurants when we walked about the city. These young girls were either thrown into the street or sold by their families.

  While in Manila, I took local buses known as jeepneys to explore the city. These eccentric-looking buses were originally constructed from surplus jeeps left behind by the U.S. military after the Second World War. Enterprising Filipinos stripped them, extended their length, and decorated them in brilliant colours, turning the discarded vehicles into works of art on wheels. One of my bus stops was Makati, the upmarket sector of the city with its clean streets and elegant shops. This area, crammed with towering skyscrapers, art museums, and luxurious houses in gated communities, was the business and financial district of the city. It was a shocking contrast to the scrap metal and rubbish shanties that housed the majority of the city’s people. Every bank had a heavily armed guard at the door. The Philippines was not a relaxed place under the Marcos regime.

  Back at the yacht club we had a visit from a yachtie we’d met in Taipei. He’d sailed out from Taiwan before us, was now anchored in Puerto Galera, and suggested we go there for our next port of call. “A protected bay and beautiful,” he said. And then he asked: “Meet any pirates on the way down?”

  Pirates! It never occurred to me that we would encounter pirates. Until that moment pirates for me were guys in filthy shorts with rags on their heads brandishing sabres. And suddenly I woke up. “Yes, we did encounter pirates. They boarded us just as we were about to enter San Fernando!”

  “They’re hard to catch,” he said. “They keep crossing the line. When the fishing is good, they’re fishermen. When it’s bad, they look for other fish.”

  He went on to inform us that in the north they’re Christian. They steal but they let you live. Once you reach Mindanao, you’re in Muslim waters. There you’re seen as infidels and have very little chance of surviving.

  I wondered, as he talked, if we should go back the way we came, but I was determined to continue this journey.

  “Lots of guerrilla fighting in Mindanao,” he said. “The weapons come in from Indonesia, and the guerrillas are well armed. They’ve been fighting a religious war against the Philippine government for years.”

  It was a dangerous area, but if we wanted to continue on our route, we’d have to take the Palawan Passage, which meant sailing past Mindanao. He suggested we get some weapons to protect ourselves.

  “See Father Brown,” he said. “He deals in arms and gold.” He went on to tell us that Father Brown was a church unto himself with a fairly large congregation. His parents had been missionaries and were killed in China during the Boxer Revolution. He was going to make sure this didn’t happen to him or his flock. For years, he had been gathering weapons and hoarding food while he waited for the revolution he was sure would happen. On that day he would leave his bunker style accommodations and lead his people to a secret hideaway in the mountains where they would be out of harm’s way.

  Enlightened by our sailing buddy, we decided to pay a visit to Father Brown. We arrived at an unremarkable whitewashed cinderblock house, hidden behind dwarf, bushy-topped palm trees, situated in one of Manila’s middle class neighbourhoods. Six Dobermans, salivating and pulling at their chains, lined a narrow pathway. Nearby was a bitch in heat that the males couldn’t reach. To this day, I can’t pass a Doberman without remembering that scene and feeling a slight chill.

  At the front door a burly henchman led us inside. We were in an empty grey hallway composed of heavy steel and cement. Suddenly a huge slab of concrete slid to the side to reveal a large room with a man sitting at a desk at the far end. I assumed this was Father Brown.

  “Enter,” he said.

  We walked through the opening in the wall.

  “Stop and state your business.”

  We explained to him that we had sailed from Hong Kong, were travelling south, and needed weapons to fight off pirates.

  He eyed us for a moment before getting up from his seat, and then strode over to greet us. He was a short, stocky man, strongly built. I was sure he’d had his hand in a drawer on a gun when he first saw us enter because he shut the drawer before he stood up to greet us. After asking us a few questions about our sail from Hong Kong, he offered to show us around his bunker. We were first taken to his store of food — endless containers of provisions preserved in a special gas. He told us that, because of the way it was stored, it could last for ten years and was enough to feed 10,000. He then showed us his arsenal of weapons and asked us to choose. We were at a loss as to what to pick.

  “Why don’t you start with Molotov cocktails?” he suggested, and spent some time showing us how they’re made. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and off his property.

  After the demonstration, he showed us several models of sling shots from which the Molotov cocktails could be hurled. He recommended a stainless steel number that gripped tightly around the wrist. “Try it on and see how it feels,” he said.

  It felt like a prosthesis. I hated it. “Very nice,” I said.

  We exchanged some of our gold bullion for local currency and told Father Brown we’d have to think about what we might need.

  Neither of us had ever used a weapon, nor had we a desire to. In any port we entered, Customs would confiscate our arms. They would be returned when we left, but we didn’t want the bureaucratic hassle. Most of all, we felt that, should we be attacked, any attempt to fight off pirates would be an excuse for them to retaliate. They had bazookas and Kalashnikovs picked up in the Thai markets, originals and clones from the Viet Nam War. They also knew how to shoot. We didn’t.

  In the end we worked out a strategy. The yacht had both engine and sail. The pirate boats had small outboard engines. We were always on two-hour watches, so why couldn’t we keep an eye out for a suspicious boat coming in our direction and turn the other way? We had a big engine and plenty of fuel. They’d have to eventually turn back for lack of fuel, and we could always come back by sail.

  We now had to figure out what to do with Father Brown. We’d already used a good deal of his time, and he wasn’t someone you wanted to annoy. We decided to tell him we’d settle for making Molotov Cocktails and would buy two slingshots. In spite of our nervousness, all went well. We explained about not wanting to declare weapons. We exchanged a bit more gold for dollars, and he seemed satisfied with the trade.

  One last bit of business remained to be done before we left Manila. I couldn’t control the sadness I felt about Jonah leaving for Middlebury College in Vermont. The four-mile cab ride with him to Manila’s International Airport took less than ten minutes. I wanted the ride to last longer. I wasn’t ready to let go of my son. He had wanted to go to Harvard, but I didn’t let him apply. Knowing he’d be on his own, I wanted him in a smaller, more personal school. We’d had some words over this. I hoped he’d be happy at Middlebury.

  After Jonah left, Bernard and I discussed sailing to Puerto Galera, on the nearby island of Mindoro, but I wasn’t ready to leave
. I wanted to see more of Luzon.

  “Let’s visit Baguio,” I suggested. I had heard about the healers of Baguio, the psychic doctors who used faith to heal and did surgery without medication or physical invasion. Baguio was in the northern part of Luzon, and I thought it would be interesting to check it out.

  “It’s only seven hours by bus, and we’re already on the island. We’ll never pass this way again.”

  “Who’ll watch the boat?” Bernard asked.

  “Stefan,” I said. “He’d like the responsibility, and it will give him some time on his own. It’s only for the day. We’ll leave early and take the night bus back.”

  Bernard appeared annoyed. “Why don’t you go with Stefan? I have things to do here.”

  “This is supposed to be our adventure. Remember?”

  His lack of interest in anything but the yacht frustrated me. I remembered a man who loved new experiences. Now his whole world had shrunk to our forty-five foot home.

  “Would you like to see Baguio?” I asked Stefan.

  “Sure,” he said. “Not much happening here.”

  The two of us took an early bus to Baguio the next morning. I had already discovered that the Philippines was far richer in history and diversity than I could have ever imagined, but it hadn‘t prepared me for what I witnessed on our bus ride. I had done no reading about the country, and knew about the faith healers only because of a documentary I’d seen on TV. I thought the bus ride to Baguio would be nothing more than a necessary inconvenience to our destination. I’d never heard of the rice terraces of Banaue. And even if I had, I couldn’t have imagined the awesome sight that opened before us as we climbed higher into the Cordillera Mountains.

  For hours we travelled a mountainous road that took us through endless miles of carved steps flowing up the mountains in evenly spaced rows that climbed so high into the sky they felt like stairs to heaven. The Cordillera Mountains rose 8,000 feet, and each foot was manicured to a fine precision. Shadows on the terraces shifted the velvet green mountain ranges from emerald to hunter green giving the surface a luxurious texture.

  I imagined this grand tableau to be the brain child of a brilliant sculptor who had conceived his masterpiece for the pleasure and spiritual enlightenment of the viewer. But in reality, this extraordinary feat of engineering was accomplished around 2,000 years ago by the Ifugao people who still tended the rice fields on these terraces with the same care as their ancestors had so many generations before. In recent years the terraces have started to deteriorate, but I’m grateful to have had the chance to see them intact.

  Baguio, a pleasant city of flowers and evergreen trees, seemed flat after our spellbinding trip through the Cordillera Mountains. The sight of the rice terraces was so spiritually uplifting that I lost all interest in the healers of Baguio. I needed time and distance to process what I had just seen. Sometimes on our way somewhere we discover a totally different reason than imagined for the path taken. It’s happened to me many times, and has led to unexpected epiphanies in my perception of the world.

  Stefan and I wandered about the city, and passed a number of houses advertising faith healing, but I had no desire to visit them. I wasn’t ill, so what would have been the purpose?

  I felt at loose ends having lost my original intent and wondered what to do next.

  “How about the marketplace,” Stefan suggested. He was thinking food, but once we entered the downtown area, we found ourselves amidst cultures that neither of us could have imagined. Aside from the Ifugao, the Bontoc, Kalinga, Tinguian, and Ibaloi people also made their home in the Cordillera Mountains, and many of them were splendid craftsmen. They dyed and wove their own cloth for clothing, and their basketry was exquisite. Stefan enjoyed the hand carved utensils and small pieces of sculpture. I bought several hand dyed cloth woven by the Ifugao people as a keepsake of the rice terraces of Banuae.

  One of them adorns the back of my couch. When anyone comments on the vibrant colours in the fabric, I relive that moment when I first saw the majestic terraces, now a UNESCO protected site, but crumbling from neglect. One day this eighth wonder of the world will be nothing but rubble, and even the memory of its existence will disappear. I treasure my cloth and think what a privilege it was to have been there.

  A few of the older men milling around the market were heavily tattooed. When I asked about them, I was told that they were most likely Kalinga, a people who lived to the north of Baguio. Until early in the twentieth century, when the practice was outlawed, it was their custom, as well as that of several other northern tribes, to cut off the heads of their enemies. Every head cut was rewarded with a tattoo, and every man desired as many as possible. Tattoos represented status and courage, and an easier time finding a wife.

  The ritual had a revival during the Second World War. The Kalinga were fierce warriors, who fought on the side of the Americans, and were valued both for their bravery and knowledge of their terrain. For every Japanese soldier killed by a Kalinga tribesman, a tattoo was etched into the warrior’s skin. The Japanese knew about their wilderness skills and head hunting past, and feared them. The old men I saw in the marketplace were veterans from the Second World War.

  For a long time, Filipino men were ashamed of this part of their history, but pride in heritage is growing. And in parts of North America some men of Filipino descent are asking to be tattooed in the multiple designs of their forefathers.

  Another surprise the marketplace held was the abundance of fresh produce overflowing the stalls. It was in sharp contrast to the meagre selection of produce I had seen in Manila. Baguio’s outdoor market was awash with every imaginable kind of fresh produce. It was hard to understand how there could be so little available only hours away in a country as fertile as the Philippines. I later learned that, under the corrupt government of Ferdinand Marcos, a proper infrastructure for moving goods from one part of the country to another had never been established. Walking in the cool mountain air of Baguio with its clean streets, stately pines, and well-tended flower gardens felt like I was in a different country.

  Exhausted but content, Stefan and I took a late evening bus back to Manila, and a taxi to the yacht club. A day after we rested up, the three of us said goodbye to the island of Luzon and set sail for Puerto Galera, leaving behind Manila with its sordid sex trade, bands of street kids, and gated, fortified wealth.

  Chapter 13

  IN NATURE’S OWN CATHEDRAL

  The Philippines

  I long to embrace, to include in my short life, all that is accessible to man. I long to speak, to read, to wield a hammer in a great factory, to keep watch at sea, to plow. I want to be ... in open fields, or on the ocean ... wherever my imagination ranges.

  — ANTON CHEKHOV

  Sailing into Puerto Galera, the sea, unsullied and transparent blue, lapped against a pristine white beach that led to lush, dark green mountains behind. It was my first inkling that the Philippines was a diamond in the rough waiting to be polished for the world market. Years later, when Puerto Galera was singled out as one of the most beautiful bays in the world, I wasn’t surprised. I felt lucky that I was there when the area still had its primordial glow unmarred by hotels, night clubs, and the creeping sex trade.

  I had envisioned the Philippines as a few undeveloped islands, and thought our visit would be a stop-over en route to more interesting destinations. Instead, I found myself in a fascinating country made up of thousands of islands stretched-out along the China Sea. Many, like Mindoro, had wide beaches with fine, silky sand and rugged mountains dense with tropical vegetation. Others in the north had rocky shores and green rolling hills. Each island, different from its neighbour, reflected a wide diversity of cultures, languages, and religions. Some anthropologists believed there were even unexplored islands where people lived in the Stone Age.

  Five or six Taiwanese-built yachts were already in the bay when we arrived. When not doing repairs on the Santa Rita, Bernard helped the less mechanical boat owners. He offered
his services and stayed for drinks. The arrangement was all about good will and bonding sealed over bottles of local beer, but I resented that he never charged for his work. We had some gold and savings, but they would eventually run out, and his uncanny knack for fixing just about anything was a skill that could keep us afloat.

  “Why don’t you charge?” I asked repeatedly.

  He’d shrug offhandedly as he always did when he didn’t want to answer.

  Finally, when I’d badgered him once too often he shouted: “You don’t charge friends.”

  “Why are they friends?” I shouted back.

  “It’s too bad you don’t like this kind of life,” he replied.

  I stopped asking. I saw no point in escalating tension, and he was partially right. I loved sailing, but not the social life. Hours of technical conversations buoyed by limitless booze bored me.

  As I had done in Hong Kong, I wandered off on my own, and spent days exploring the bay, astonished by the variety of sea life. The coral reefs surrounding the island were like a gargantuan aquarium. Among its inhabitants were small fish shaped like boxes that must have carried curious scaffolding beneath their skins, schools of tiny squid that glowed florescent in the night and colourful angel and clown fish that I’d only seen in residential fish tanks. I witnessed fishermen making and eating brochettes of these little critters, their scintillating colours turning rust brown in the fire. It saddened me to see their beauty defiled, but for the locals, these fish were not exotic creatures but every day fare — and perhaps a treat. Their diet, and ours while we were there, consisted of rice, fish, coconuts and an occasional bit of tough chicken.

  For anything more substantial, we’d have to go to Makati, the swanky, protected enclave in the centre of Manila, or be near farm land. As I had seen in Baguio, the country had fertile farm land, but no infra-structure to carry produce from one place to another. Without a developed tourism industry and no infrastructure in place for moving goods, the Filipino people had little opportunity for a more varied diet or a better life. The few outsiders I saw consisted of the middle-aged Western men I’d seen in Manila, their big bellies protruding over Bermuda shorts, strolling the beachfront with their young girlfriends, or the well-travelled recluse who’d found a small piece of paradise and had settled discreetly into the landscape.