Rebels of Mindanao (11 page)

The farmer and his lame wife lived directly across the street from Thornton's house, at the end of a two-acre cornfield, in a shack against the hollow block wall the farmer was gradually constructing around his
cornfield and his mango tree to keep the young men out. His wife sold their crop of sweet corn, roasted one ear at a time to passersby from the window of their shack. The farmer rotated crops, one year corn and the next year peanuts, which his wife would fry slowly with garlic in a pan, add some salt, and sell, one small paper bag half full for five pesos. They would have sold mangos from their tree also, if they had any. At one time they had considered the old tree to be their retirement fund, since the harvests of the golden crops would be greatest when the aging farmer would no longer be able to work the cornfield. But the gangs of shabu-addicted thieves always beat them to the crop. To secure his future and his mango tree, the farmer would invest any pesos left in his wife's cash box after they purchased necessities to buy a few more hollow concrete blocks, which he cemented into the extending wall. For the last ten years the war was waged between the farmer and the marauding bands of mango thieves. With the farmer now nearing retirement and looking forward to securing his pension, the wall was nearing completion, but rather than stopping the marauders, it just made them more inventive. They hid behind the wall, and when the farmer was in one corner of the field hoeing corn, they struck at the tree from the opposite corner, trampling the corn seedlings from every direction until the farmer's basic existence was threatened. He gave up the idea of ever having a retirement funded by the mango tree.

With that Thornton paused. After sitting in silence, Elaiza said, “Maybe we can do something to help change that.” The story made Elaiza think. “Let's get moving, Kapitan Tomas.”

Thornton liked the way Elaiza said his name, not Thornton or Thomas like everyone else, but a name she conjured, with a flourish of old Spanish music. “So be it. We're on our way to Agusan.”

T
he group of Elaiza's young cousins from Davao City made their trip look harmless, but Thornton worried about them being in the line of fire should the group be attacked or stopped and examined for ransom potential. Occupying the low-horsepower, brashly painted jeepney-an open-air public transport adapted from old American jeeps that legally carries twelve or illegally as many as can fit in it-they slowly rode up the long, winding incline out of the Compostela Valley and into the province of Agusan del Sur. Travel became hazardous as the oncoming traffic careening in downhill spirals toward them had trouble maintaining control of their vehicles. The saddle they eventually crossed over was the watershed where streams first flow north into the valley of the Agusan instead of south to the Gulf of Davao.

Thornton wondered if unseen adversaries knew where he was, whether a rebel noticed him among the colorful band of natives and whether they believed this apparently tranquil domestic scene was
posed, if they were watching. Today's trip may have been a dumb idea, Thornton thought, but since he had encouraged Elaiza to recruit men from her extended family to join STAGCOM, he had to make the trip so they could get a look at each other. Of course the Otaza clan, the Manobo family on her mother's side, had heard about Elaiza's prestigious position with the American Embassy and knew she was involved in some things she could not talk about. Exactly what she was doing they were not sure, but she traveled to other countries, and anything “overseas” was a goal they all dreamed about. Anything was better than working in the rice fields or banana plantations in the steamy heat along the banks of the Agusan River.

A young boy, skin burnt almost black by the tropical sun, hurried along the side of the road, happy with the flapping stack of dry coconut fronds balanced on his head, and proudly taking them home for the family cooking fire. Thornton watched other images roll by. A thin, evenly brown young girl trotted behind her mother, followed by a single member of an indigenous armed force mounted on a horse of acceptable character and carrying a newer looking M-16 rifle. The single component of military dress signifying his membership in any kind of organized unit was his floppy camouflage hat. But everyone in the jeepney knew that the rebels, in this area the NPA, the communist New Peoples Army, controlled this province in central Mindanao. The NPA owned this land.

The jeepney continued north, more slowly now as an eight-wheeled trencher leased by the Japanese multinational Marubeni was laying fiber optic cable alongside the main highway and obstructing progress. Eventually that cable would bring Internet access to the inhabitants of the tree houses along that road. The hope was that the next generation of children would become just as literate and able to compete for overseas jobs as their brethren in the big cities. If they had been hooked up to the Internet today, they might already have the news that Thornton did not, and the villagers might not be quite as happy as they seemed to be, waving at the stranger as he passed by in the jeepney.

Bringing the kids from Davao along on a holiday junket was meant to serve as a cover for Thornton. But some eager NPA patrol might take an opportunity to make a name for its leader if they had any idea that an American was in their domain.

There was no obvious place to stop and eat, until they found an unnamed roadside stand with only a dirty, hand-painted sign advertising “Grilled Chickens” in Visayan and English. Fresh lemon grass gave a sweet aroma to a rich fish soup with rice. A few extra kilos of steamed white rice were served cold with smoky-tasting taro root. Three street chickens, somewhat burned, were torn apart by greasy fingers and eaten by hand. Lunch for about a dozen Otakans, Otazas and Thornton added up to a total cost of $19.37.

Thornton shaded his eyes to watch a large bird soaring high above rice fields bounded by banana trees in the near distance and a mountain range on the horizon.

“That's Kabayan, the only Philippine eagle living in the wild.” Elaiza followed his gaze. “A few more are in captivity, near here in Malagos. Eggs are being incubated there. Maybe someday they can release more. When I was in school, we had projects to save the eagles. Even the President came down to see.”

“It's so quiet and peaceful.”

“It won't be if you guys mess it up.”

“Maybe we can keep it this way.”

“What do you really think will happen, Kapitan Tomas?”

“We'll win another war. I'll get the money. What do you think will happen, Elaiza?”

“It will be like it has always been. Foreigners come and go, and we are left to fight each other over and over again, brother against brother.”

As they drove on she grew melancholy, and Elaiza told Thornton her story. The flood of ‘89 took all their crops with it, and forced the family for the first time to work for others, in this case the Sime Darby group and their Chinese partners who planted coconut and rubber trees on what was left when the water went down. The Otakan family started over. While her father worked on the new dam, Elaiza's mother sold dried fish and sundry items in her
sari-sari
store by the road, in exchange for gold flakes found by her customers in the clearer streams rippling into the Agusan. Elaiza was the youngest child, and slept with her hand on her mother's breast, seeking security stolen by the flood. Sometimes she pinched her mother's breast when the bad dreams came.

The next year, just as normalcy was returning, things got worse. The Otakans were playing a May Day softball game against the Otaza family, a happy rivalry and a great excuse to roast a pig. Elaiza's mother hit a long ball, and struck her head on the plate sliding safely home. As she lapsed into and out of consciousness, Elaiza sat fearfully beside her, touching her still beating breast. It took almost two months for the brain to swell until, without the relief of an unaffordable operation, the unavoidable end came. Elaiza's father continued to work on the dam, and the eight children had to be portioned out among older uncles in nearby villages. It would be a long time before Elaiza felt secure enough to slip her small brown hand under anyone's shirt again.

Elaiza continued to reminisce. Eventually, their troupe reached the dam on the Agusan River, the dam that Elaiza's father had helped to build with pride as the foreman of a carpentry crew using bamboo moulds to shape the concrete now holding back some of the river's force. Their northward journey ended, and the cousins spent the remaining morning in the village, Elaiza reminiscing about her youth, Thornton absorbing a new life, so foreign to his past and so full of uncertainties. Backed up against the dam where the road abruptly ended, Thornton thought maybe he had traveled as far in life as he could without turning around, in more ways than one.

Elaiza's extended family in Agusan were curious about the big white guy and why Elaiza had brought him there. Thornton, Elaiza, and the noisy children who were along only for the ride clambered up the steel grill steps on the side of the dam as though it was a tourist attraction. As a matter of concern, Thornton tried to observe the opposite shore, obscured where the brown water disappeared beneath overhanging palms. It was quiet except for bird noises and the gurgle of the water floating illegally-cut logs downstream to some secret saw mill.

Walking near the dam on a sticky mud path, Elaiza showed Thornton the coconut wood house built on stilts where she had once lived with her family. They climbed the ladder to the single room, where the bare hardwood floor of native yakal had been polished smooth by generations of bare feet. An open window framed palms standing quietly in regular patterns. Dark brown smiling children climbed up the closer trees, holding on to the trunks with their hands and grasping branches
with their toes, smiling back, wanting to be a part of the extraordinary event of a blond stranger in their domain. On the hard-packed dirt floor below the raised hut, women in knee-length sarongs, hand-woven in twists of black and red with bright white strands, and younger girls comfortably topless until they went into the village, were chopping the tops off coconuts to collect a refreshing drink of coconut water to offer their guests. Outside the house, eggplant, okra and a few stalks of corn grew in an area fenced off with flat bamboo sticks wired together. Half a dozen skinny goats with fat udders stretched full of milk nibbled at underbrush outside the fence. In some villages, the goat owners made a kind of cheese from the rich milk, but here it was reserved for the young goats, to get them to an age where they could be roasted over an open fire for birthday parties.

Although Thornton found the day interesting, he was worried about time, about when the Abu Sayaf would make their next move, and asked Elaiza, “Why did you bring me here? Couldn't we recruit these guys in a civilized place?”

“No. Being here is important. If you want the Otazas to work for us, you had to come to them first.”

Pedro Otaza, wearing floppy sandals, blue shorts and an almost white tee shirt, sat with his four brothers on logs or stools eating rice from a common bowl and scooping up pieces of fried pork with their fingers, laughing and smiling about whatever one of the others said, and drinking beer from cans while passing around a bottle of cheap brandy. The younger Otazas trusted Pedro to handle the planning. Elaiza introduced Thornton who shook hands with each of the Otazas in return and took a long swig of the brandy they offered.

“I hear that you and your brothers know how to shoot?” Thornton said to Pedro.

Pedro stood up with his .22 rifle and moved to the outer edge of the circle of people, took aim and a small bird fell from a nearby tree.

“We shoot birds with our .22s to feed the dogs. It's not difficult. We're good shots. We also have experience with knives, with our bolos.”

Thornton asked, “How do you defend against an upward thrust?”

Pedro stood up and drew his bolo while Thornton tested him. “This is thrust, parry, slash.” Pedro adequately countered the standard moves
in their mock combat, a stab from above defended by a raised forearm, a forward thrust parried and deflected.

“But have you actually fought other men?” Thornton asked.

Pedro showed Thornton his left hand. It had a fresh cut deep into the meat between his left thumb and index finger and had been sewn back together with a piece of cotton cord of the same texture and tensile that Americans would use to sew up stuffed turkeys at Thanksgiving.

“Sometimes you have to defend with your bare hands. It's better than being stabbed.”

Thornton looked at Pedro's wound. “Who fixed that for you?”

“I sewed it together myself. Luckily, I'm right-handed and could use my fishing net needle.” Pedro tightened the cord, poured brandy over the wound, and caught the run-off excess in a cup. He looked for a moment at the few drops of blood in the brandy, and drank it. “No reason to waste good Tanduay.”

“If his brothers are like him, I think we have our team,” Thornton later told Elaiza.

“He'll drive the jeepney back to Toril. It will give you a chance to get to know each other. His brothers will do whatever he says.” Elaiza had already talked with Pedro.

When it was time to start back, family members respectfully pushed into the jeepney. One of Elaiza's young cousins, the pubescent Jenyvie, crowded into the front seat and sat on Thornton's lap. She was fascinated with the strange guy she saw as a great albino
carabao
in dark sunglasses, but also wanted to escape the squeeze of the other dozen or so cousins pried into the back rows of seats with their parents. Elaiza debated with the curious child in Visayan and after a few minutes the girl squeezed over the seat and joined her cousins.

As they drove on, the tinny sound from the jeepney's radio entertained the travelers with Karaoke-suitable Rod Stewart sound-alikes, interspersed with news from the province capital. Things were heating up again in Zamboanga since the well-publicized arrival of the U.S. advisors now engaged in a joint military exercise—named Talon Vision—with the Philippine Army. The happily singing load of kids and cousins were oblivious to the news, which Thornton listened to closely. All the radio stations in Davao City were reporting the elevated threat of terrorist
activity and Mayor Fuentes had announced a red alert for the upcoming holiday parades. Task Force Davao and the local police would be putting up roadblocks and opening the trunks of every passing car to check for explosive devices.