Doobie's Odyssey: Civet Coffee, Brothels, and the Andaman Sea

INTRODUCTION

An eleven-year-old sugarcane cutter in the central Philippine island of Negros, when asked if he found time to play, put it starkly, ‘Play is only for the rich children…,’ An estimated two-thirds of Philippine children work.

- Robin Broad & John Cavanagh, Plundering Paradise: The Struggle for the Environment in the Philippines.

El Nido, The Philippines

January 24

I fought to keep myself above water for what could very well be my last breath. I had been at sea for hours now, or at least it felt that way. Somehow I had gotten separated from the rest of my group while snorkeling among uninhabited islands in the Philippines. I found myself in open water, miles from the mainland, with the only nearby land being a sheer limestone cliff, offering no hope for escape from the pounding surf.

Where could that beach we landed for lunch be? I asked myself. I could see other islands way off in the distance; I guessed them to be a few miles away, but considering how slow—or nonexistent—my progress against the tide was, the islands might as well have been on another continent. The prospect of swimming there seemed unlikely, to say the least.

How many more minutes could I last? My limbs were going weak, and I was having trouble just staying afloat.

As I began to entertain the idea that I might not make it out of this adventure, I thought back to one innocuous question two years earlier that had prompted me to quit my job, pack my bags, and travel halfway around the world to the beautiful land of Southeast Asia…

State College, PA

So, will you really come visit me? The inquiry came from Angie, one of my closest friends from Penn State, who was set to join the Peace Corps for a two-year stint in some yet-to-be-named location.

The idea of a trip to some exotic locale excited me much more than my day-to-day life as a social worker. Arranging services so senior citizens could avoid moving to nursing home facilities was rewarding, but I had grown to hate the job’s monotony: for every hour I spent visiting my clients, I spent six hours making phone calls and doing paperwork. I was ready for something new.

This wouldn’t be my first trip overseas: after graduating college, I had visited Europe on two separate occasions, both trips taken with little preparation. No shots or visas were required, and I was able to fly stand-by, thanks to my uncle, who worked for a major airline. Moreover, I stayed with a friend who had served as my tour guide. I hoped to follow this model once again. I had some romantic idea that I would meet a local—preferably a beautiful, young woman—who would drop everything and volunteer to show me around. With this in mind, I kept my itinerary open. My fear of commitment, lack of decisiveness, and copious consumption of cannabis all likely contributed to my lackadaisical approach to preparation for the trip. Even though I refused to do any planning, Zach, a mutual friend who had agreed to come along, sketched out an itinerary. Once we learned that Angie would be stationed in the Philippines, Zach researched the vast region of Southeast Asia, listing places he would like to visit, and he encouraged me to do the same. My insistence on keeping our options open forced Zach to independently lay out a preliminary plan that would take us through Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, and of course, the Philippines.

My lack of planning extended into all areas. As our tentative departure date in December approached, I had done nothing: no plane ticket, no visa, no immunizations, no itinerary, nothing. I could hear the frustration in my friends’ voices as they walked me through the necessary steps. Angie told me that I needed to schedule immunizations, mentioning specifically Japanese encephalitis, a disease that can cause coma or paralysis, and required a set of three shots, each a week apart. This would delay my departure by several weeks. Zach explained that in order to get my visa, I would need to prove I had purchased a round-trip plane ticket; a standby ticket would not suffice. Moreover, the application process would require mailing my passport to the Philippines’ Consulate. Honestly, I doubt the trip would have ever happened were it not for my two dear friends.

Finally, by the end of December, everything had come together, and I was ready—or as ready as I’d ever be.

PART ONE: THE PHILIPPINES (ROUND ONE)

A young student leader shares his witty definition of democracy in the Philippines: ‘Here, democracy means off the people, buy the people, and poor the people.’

- Robin Broad, Plundering Paradise.

Chapter 1: Chaos in Manila

Tokyo, Japan

January 10

While enjoying my first cigarette in more than a dozen hours at the smoking lounge in Tokyo’s Haneda Airport, waiting to depart for the final leg of my journey to the Philippines, I pulled out my flight itinerary. I had told Angie and Zach, who would be picking me up at Manila’s Ninoy Aquino Airport, that I would arrive on Friday, but right then it was Thursday morning. How could the flight from Tokyo to Manila take more than 24 hours? Something was wrong. Looking over my flight itinerary, I discovered that, sure enough, I landed on Thursday, not Friday. Checking the clock, I realized I might have enough time to call Angie to explain that I would be arriving a day earlier than expected. Shit! Her phone number was safely secured in my backpack, stored in the belly of one of the enormous planes.

I lit another cigarette and pondered my options. Maybe Angie would look at my flight schedule and ascertain the correct date of my arrival. This seemed unlikely, as she would have mentioned the misunderstanding during our last conversation. Then I remembered that I could just call my parents, as they had Angie’s number. (In an effort to save money, both Zach and I were attempting to undertake our adventure without using cellphones. Although I had brought a phone in my checked luggage, it would only act as an alarm clock.)

Unfortunately, the calling card I purchased did not have instructions in English, and I could not figure out how to use either it or the phone. My flight, on the other side of the airport, was departing in less than an hour. I gave up, hoping Angie or Zach would realize my error and be there to meet me.

~~~

While waiting for my flight, I got my first introduction into the daily chaos that typifies much of Asia. An airline attendant made an announcement, calling for the elderly and those with children to pre-board the plane. Instead, every waiting person rushed and squeezed their way forward, giving no consideration to seniors or parents with infants. I sat back and laughed, trying to figure out what the hurry was. After all, the aircraft would not be leaving until everyone had gotten on. Unless this was some sort of new concept: only the first hundred people in line would be allowed to travel—a no-holds-barred, mini-UFC challenge to see who would be fit enough to get a seat.

~~~

Several hours later, the plane touched down in Manila. And, once again, I witnessed the same pandemonium when trying to get through customs. The concept of a queue did not exist there, as people pushed and shoved their way forward, angling to be the first one to pass through this obstacle. This time, I shared their impatience: I wanted a smoke.

~~~

Outside the airport, I walked to the pickup point: arriving passengers stood on one side of a large paved area, and waiting family and friends stood on the other; a street, several lanes wide, acted as the dividing line. This whole scene confused me, as beat-up pick-ups and dilapidated cars got boxed in: ready to go, but surrounded by idling vehicles on all sides.

I did not see either of my friends; so, with no other plan, I sat, chain-smoked, and watched the madness. Sometimes cars would pull up and be unable to fit everything inside the vehicle, forcing them to bungee-cord baggage to the top or the back. I wondered how long these people had been away to require so much stuff. Here I was, traveling for a third of a year with only a few bags. As I smoked, I pondered the trouble involved in transporting so much luggage. (I would discuss this with Angie later. She explained that the biggest source of income in the Philippines came from overseas workers: there are more than 10 million Filipinos working abroad; so, in fact, many of these people may have been moving indefinitely or returning after spending years away from home.)

~~~

My encounter with the phone in Japan had discouraged me, and I had hoped to avoid a similar situation; however, after several cigarettes, I began to entertain the possibility that my friends might not be coming to meet me for another 24 hours. Luckily, the public phone had instructions in English, stating that I could use it by simply putting in change. I dropped in some coins and dialed what I thought to be Angie’s number. I tried numerous combinations: with and without the country code, including and excluding the 011 that indicated an international number. Nothing worked, and I quickly tired of the task. Patience was never one of my virtues; I had never even finished a measly nine holes of golf before giving up in frustration, declaring the game pointless.

Now, most rational people would have asked someone for help. However, caution overrode my impulse to request assistance. Zach and Angie had both warned me to be careful, as scam artists preyed on Westerners, especially ones freshly touched down, lost like a house cat out in the wild.

There I was—in Manila, a city with with 13 million inhabitants, making it the largest in the Philippines. The Philippines was so poor that in 2016 the GDP per capita was a meager $7700. According to the World Bank, 30 million Filipinos lived in abject poverty, unable to satisfy their basic needs. This kind of poverty breeds crime. I’m not sure exactly what I was afraid of: someone stealing my change or running off with my list of phone numbers?

To confound matters, I made the mistake of assuming that everyone only spoke Tagalog, the language most commonly spoken in the area around Manila. In fact, the Philippines has almost 90 million English-speakers—more than Canada and the U.K. combined.

Anyway, I gave up in disgust. Fuck it! Angie and Zach would be here tomorrow, I told myself. All I wanted was a refreshing, ice-cold beer. That would help cool me down, not only mentally, but physically, as the thermometer must have climbed above ninety degrees, with the humidity hovering close to 100 percent. I knew I had to find somewhere to sleep, so I began to think about the best solution, taking into account that I was in a totally foreign land and did not even have a guidebook. (In fact, my parents had given me a pocket guidebook on the Philippines for Christmas. I had it in one of my bags but forgot about it at the time.)

I decided to ask a nearby policeman, and he radioed someone on his walkie-talkie. Several other officers approached, all speaking rapidly, presumably in Tagalog, discussing the situation. The cop I had initially approached, who spoke minimal English, asked me to follow him and led me to a stand for a luxury hotel. He left me in the custody of a woman who, in impeccable English, asked, You need a room, yes?

Yes.

How much can you spend?

Here the possibility of a scam came. Unfortunately, I had no idea what would be reasonable. I had been informed that things here were ridiculously cheap. I heard that one could live like a king in Southeast Asia on twenty bucks a day. So how much of that should I set aside for a room? Five or ten dollars? What was that in Filipino pesos? Not wanting to commit to anything, I replied meekly, As little as possible.

We have rooms for 2500 pesos. We will give you a free ride there. It comes with TV, Air-con, private bathroom. She went on listing amenities, but I had stopped listening after the price.

Wow! I interrupted. That’s way too much.

She repeated her question, Well, how much do you want to spend?’

"I don’t know. I don’t need anything fancy—just a room. That’s it."

Oh. She paused and thought for a moment before continuing, So, at a guesthouse?

Being unfamiliar with this term, I responded with a noncommittal response, Maybe. I don’t know.

Would you like me to call them for a price?

I guess.

She went over and discussed the situation with her colleague. I sat down and pondered my stupidity. I knew, or thought I knew, that I was being scammed. Two thousand five hundred pesos! That was over 60 dollars, the amount I had budgeted for three days. Plus, that did not include any other expenses for the evening: food, cigarettes, and drinks. But I dreaded the prospect of leaving the safety of the airport area for the streets of this sprawling metropolis. Who knew what sort of ghetto lay outside? With darkness approaching, I became determined to have something set up before leaving.

The English-speaking woman returned and said her co-worker knew of a place that was only 1500 pesos, but the cab ride there would be 500 pesos. Initially I thought that since the fare of two taxi trips and the price of the guesthouse would be the same as the hotel, I might as well take the luxurious option. But maybe that was part of their con. Perhaps the rooms at this guesthouse would be much cheaper, and they just did not want me to figure this out. I opted for the guesthouse.

The women offered to hail a cab. I realized then that I had not seen any taxis at the airport—none whatsoever. It astounded me that in such a large city, especially at the airport, which should be thronged with travelers in need of rides, this service would be neglected. Lost in thought, the voice of the woman snapped me back into the present moment. She motioned me over, standing by a silver, four-door, luxury car. Leery of entering an unmarked cab, I hesitated. But since I had seen no other taxis, and this was an official post in front of the airport, I threw my bags in the back seat and climbed in.

I tried to calm down, relax, and take in the surrounding scenery. A sadder sight is difficult to imagine. Signs of poverty abounded. Indeed, when foreign dignitaries (President Johnson in 1966 and the Pope in 1981) had visited, barriers were constructed bordering the streets the guests would be using to prevent them from seeing the horrible conditions in the city.

Trash and debris littered the streets. People lay on benches and sidewalks, many of them children, dressed in rags and with bare feet, obviously homeless and malnourished. All my suspicions and fears dissipated as my heart went out to these poor souls. What chance did they have? In a city of 13 million, with hordes of unemployed, who would even think of hiring someone in such a condition?

I had read about the poverty in Manila before my journey, but to see it firsthand was something different entirely. In a city where close to a million people are homeless, where a quarter of the residents are squatters, where thousands scavenge Smoky Mountain (since closed), a large garbage dump in Manila, for bits of recyclable trash to sell for change, hoping to get enough food to survive another day, what could I possibly do to help?

Much of this poverty can be traced back to the days of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos. Ferdinand Marcos, although initially elected president in 1965, held on to his position of power after he declared martial law on September 21, 1972, exaggerating threats from Communist and Muslim insurgencies. Approximately a decade and a half later, there was much speculation that his government was involved in the assassination of his political opponent, Benigno Aquino. This angered the People Power Revolution, and they overthrew the Marcos regime in February 1986. Marcos and his wife fled, with the assistance of the American government, to Hawai’i.

During his two decades of power, he enriched himself, his family, and their friends at the expense of common Filipinos. In the 1980s, largely as a result of Marcos’ policies, the Philippine government claimed the dubious honor of becoming the world’s most IMF-indebted of the lesser-developed countries.

For centuries capitalism has proven to be an excellent system for making the rich richer and the poor poorer. Marcos’ crony-capitalism took this to a whole new level. His wife’s collection of hundreds upon hundreds of shoes, in a country where many do not even own a single pair of footwear, serves as an arresting display of the couple’s disconnect from their people. An entire book could be filled with examples of his corruption, pilfering, and downright robbery. Instead, I will cite just a few striking examples of Marcos practicing a sort of reverse Robin Hood: robbing from the impoverished to line his own pockets, along with those of his associates, and various American businesses (an excellent way to encourage them to look the other way, in regard to his undemocratic practices):

- Marcos commissioned the $2.2 billion Bataan Nuclear Power Plant, funded by major international banks (with help in the form of both loans and guarantees from the U.S. government’s Export-Import Bank), and built near an earthquake fault not far from Mount Pinatubo and other volcanoes… the plant has stood idle since completion. … the power plant is said to be beginning to deteriorate. The Philippines government seems unsure of what to do about it, except to keep repaying the quarter of a million dollars in daily debt service on the international loans that financed it as, in the U.S. courts, they pursue Westinghouse for fraud. - Robin Broad, Plundering Paradise.

- In response to war crimes committed by the Japanese during their invasion of the Philippines during WWII, From 1956 to 1976, Japan paid U.S. $550 million of reparation to the Philippines in the period of twenty years… not a centavo was given to the war victims in the Philippines. … Company [Japanese] M, which was close to President Marcos, sold a fertilizer factory to a Filipino company as Japan’s reparations valued at U.S. $90 million actually cost about $75 million. President Marcos and his cronies got the U.S. $15 million as kickback (rebate) by brokering this transaction. - Jintaro Ishida, The Remains of War: Apology and Forgiveness.

- Marcos had amassed over 10 billion dollars by the time he fled from office, even though his salary amounted to only $13,000 a year! Indeed, after he left office, 60 percent of Filipinos were living below the poverty line, and the country was in debt $27 billion.

Interrupting my thoughts, the cab driver informed me that we had arrived at our destination. I saw what at first appeared to be trashcan fires, but were, in fact, street vendors grilling food on portable carts. Barefoot children ran amongst cars and pedestrians, playing to their hearts’ content. The sight of these kids calmed my nerves. Why could I not have flown in during the day? Sunlight would have given a much brighter perspective on this whole situation.

I exited the vehicle with fear and trepidation to climb up a few cement steps, entering a rickety, dilapidated building. I informed the clerk that I needed a room.

1500 pesos, he replied.

My jaw dropped. The woman at the airport had not been lying. The clerk pointed to a price guide on the desk. You go see the room. He blurted out several sentences in Tagalog, and another employee materialized to guide me. I began to hoist my giant backpack, but the clerk insisted I leave it in the lobby to ease my burden. Being distrustful, I grabbed the smallest of my bags, containing the most important items, and followed the small Filipino up a few flights of stairs.

He opened the door to a tiny, dark, unkempt room that looked remarkably similar to a jail cell, except that a TV stood on a table in one corner. (I would later discover that it was only a decoration, as it did not even work.) An antique air-conditioner clogged up the only window, blocking any sunlight from entering. The twin bed lacked sheets. A patchwork of stains provided an almost-polka-dot pattern on the mattress. On the positive side, I saw no bugs, and there was a bathroom.

At this point, all I wanted was to have a few beers and relax. I really did not care about the condition of the room. It’s okay, I said. We returned downstairs where the clerk and the cabbie were still conversing. I’ll take it.

The clerk’s face lit up like a slot machine paying out the big prize. I explained that I would have to go to a money machine. The clerk, speaking in Tagalog, barked some instructions to the other employee, who motioned for me to follow him. We wandered through the streets. As we passed a bank, I yelled at the Filipino and pointed to the ATM. After withdrawing a few thousand pesos, we returned.

I paid and returned to my accommodation. I immediately noticed that the bathroom had many problems: first, the toilet had no seat, so I would have to squat; secondly, I could not locate any toilet paper; and, finally, there was no shower stall, so the shower head just sprayed out water, which presumably would drain down through a hole in the middle of the floor.

I headed downstairs. Being accustomed to hotels in the States, I asked the clerk for toilet paper. No, sir. No toilet paper. I looked at him, confused. We can get for you, he offered.

Okay, thank you. Where can I get a beer?

We can get for you. He motioned to the other employee, currently sitting down on a bench.

How much for a six pack?

40 pesos, responded the employee.

No. No, the clerk laughed jovially. 40 pesos each. For six…, His voice trailed off as he got out a calculator.

Again, I suspected I was being scammed. I had already spent twice my daily budget on this dump of a room and still more on the cab ride. How could a single beer cost a dollar? I replied, It’s okay. I’ll go get it. Where is it?

The employee led me out onto the stoop and pointed at a place across the street. I thanked him and went on my