MINDANAO JOTTINGS: DAVAO CITY, MY OASIS OF PEACE

Every chance I got, I traveled to Davao City. Every excuse I could find, I was on my way to Davao City.

The road being constructed began in the province of South Cotabato and ended in the province of Davao. Where the road construction ended, Davao City was a scant half an hour away.

Compared to Cotabato City, Davao City was paradise in so many ways. First of all, Davao City was much bigger and more cosmopolitan than Cotabato City. In fact, Davao City has the distinction of being the largest city in the Philippines as well as the world in land area, covering almost 603,000 acres.

In addition, Davao City was a minor tourist destination in the South. It had white, sandy beaches, five star hotels and restaurants, exciting night life and entertainment and many ethnic festivals. The province of Davao is home to Mount Apo, the highest mountain in the Philippines and the monkey-eating Philippine eagle.

But those were not the reasons why I took refuge in Davao City as often as I did. True, to a large extent it took my mind away from work and the daily construction grind. The biggest factor was, Davao City was as peaceful as a major city could get. The province and the city was predominantly Christian, and peace and order was not a problem in Davao City. I could leave two things behind in Cotabato every time I traveled to Davao City—my guns and my bodyguard.

When business reasons warranted a trip, I took the company vehicle, the biggest Ford pick-up truck then with reinforced shocks, and the company driver named Bong, who normally would be assigned to the construction site. I would reassign my personal vehicle, regular driver and bodyguard to help out in the camp.

The company had business associates in Davao City, and we would spend the evenings hitting the night spots. I remember going to several nice restaurants, a nightclub called the Marrakesh, and several massage parlors.

The massage parlors were not as plush and the masseuses not as comely as the ones in Manila, but they pretty much provided the same, er, basic services. After a nice invigorating massage, the massage included, for a small gratuity, a handjob called “sensation” in those days.

When it was strictly a personal trip, I usually flew to Davao.
For most of these trips, it was a junket with my girl friend Emma. We would stay either at the Insular Hotel, at that time the city’s premier hotel, or the Apo View Hotel, and spend a long weekend playing tourist.

We would go shopping, hit the beaches, dine at the restaurants and dance at the clubs just like any romantic couple. I enjoyed Emma’s company. She was very pretty, slender, educated, outgoing, articulate, even-tempered, passionate and fun to be with. I will always remember our good times, and I will always be grateful for her love and sweetness during those times. Those trips with Emma made Davao City even more memorable.

One time we took a regular bus on one of these trips. I found the trip uncomfortable, in fact downright miserable. There was construction in parts of the highway, we bounced all over the bus because of the rough road, and half the trip was in the dust. That was the first and last time we took the bus.

I guess it was different when I was working, and I could put up with it, but not when I was on vacation. Just like most people in the area, I found myself looking forward to the day when that road was finally complete and fully cemented from Cotabato City to Davao City.

MINDANAO JOTTINGS: THE BUSINESS OF SECURITY Part 1

Next to the logging and construction industry, probably the next largest industry in Cotabato was the security industry.

Heavily armed, uniformed security guards were everywhere. Almost every business establishment hired security guards—banks, hotels, schools, large restaurants and nightclubs, and so on. And remember that Cotabato City was already under Philippine Constabulary (PC) control.

For example, right next door to Imperial Hotel II, the hotel where I was staying, was a bank, Consolidated Bank. There were always at least four security guards posted at the front entrance—two outside the doors, and two inside the doors who had to unlock and lock the doors every time a customer entered or exited the bank premises.

In addition, there were many private and free-lance bodyguards and gunslingers all over the province, called “djangos.” It was not unusual to run into groups of armed men, half of them in army fatigues without any patches, and half of them in civilian clothes, and they would turn out to be a bigwig’s security detail.

One time, for example, we befriended the security detail of a Muslim Senator who was staying at the hotel. The head of the detail was a regular Philippine Army captain assigned to the Senator. The rest were either enlisted soldiers or “djangos.”

My company had its forward base camp at a town called Baguer. The camp itself was within a secure area of town, under the protection of the Baguer police department. In addition, Baguer itself was under the protection of a detachment of the regular Philippine Army, encamped probably a couple of miles away. For a long while, my friend Sgt. Bert commanded that detachment.

As a final layer of security, my company had its own security force. The decision was made to hire our own security guards, instead of contracting with one of the security agencies. The reason was simply one of economics. Hiring our own security guards cut down the security expenses substantially by more than half.

Quite predictably, half of the security force were former military and law enforcement people. The other half was something else. They were all former convicts and inmates of the nearby Davao Penal Colony. When I pressed the construction superintendent about the rationale and the prudence of having such men in our employ, he had a unique point of view.

He said that these men would be extremely loyal to a company that hired them, considering their “undesirable” employment status. He also said that there was an extra benefit to hiring them. He reasoned that the criminal elements had to be extremely stupid or desperate to try breaking into our compound or picking a fight with the company, knowing the company had that kind of security within its compound.

Of course I made it a point to talk to all these ex-cons. One of them was named Fred. In my conversations with him, I learned that he was sent to prison for murder, was originally meted a life sentence, but was paroled after 17 years for good behavior, and the fact that the prison was overcrowded. He had prison tattoos all over his body, including a giant flying eagle on his back. In addition to a company-issued firearm, he was armed with a razor-sharp machete slung over his back.

Eventually, he was even promoted to “roving” security. Every time extra security was needed, Fred got the assignment. He usually rode in the open cab at the back of the company pick-up, cradling his shotgun. He became a fixture in front of Imperial Hotel II with other body guards, security guards and drivers. Where else but in Cotabato City would you find a recently paroled murderer armed to the teeth in the main streets of the city?

It is hard to assess whether his presence actually deterred any violence that was threatened or contemplated against myself and other employees of the company. While I never really got used to the violence and danger all around me, I eventually got used to the security people, just enjoying the human presence and loyal vibes I felt from them.

MINDANAO JOTTINGS: INTRODUCTION TO BUSINESS 101, COTABATO STYLE

I had my hands full with the operational and administrative functions of the company—payroll, billing, procurement, repairs and maintenance of the vehicles, security and so on.

But one of my critical job functions was probably what I called public relations with regulatory agencies, or to be more succinct about it, graft and corruption. I knew I would have to meet with each one of the government agencies as well as local government officials and make the necessary arrangements with them to be able to conduct business with the minimum hassle from these agencies.

I had a rough introduction to this public relations business, though.

The Philippine highways were patrolled by the Metrocom, which was the military arm in charge of the national roads, the equivalent of the CHP or the California Highway Patrol in California, and similar agencies in other states.

Arriving in Cotabato, I found out that two uniformed Metrocom officers on motorcycles patrolled the whole breadth and depth of the province. When I inquired about them, my employees informed me that these two officers made their royal appearances in the construction site probably about once a month.

I left word with employees at the camp and with the chief of police of Baguer, the base camp, to contact me as soon as the Metrocom officers showed up at the construction area.

One morning, my phone rang much earlier than my alarm clock. My bodyguard had answered the office phone, and it was the base camp requesting my presence as soon as possible. No reason was given, but I knew it had to be major emergency for them to drag me out of the city into the construction site.

After a quick shower and breakfast, my driver, security guard and myself made it to the site in record time. As we approached the road construction site itself, I saw all our dump trucks neatly lined up at the side of the road. There, at the head of the column of trucks, were two Metrocom officers with their high boots and khaki uniforms.

After the proper introductions, we proceeded to the camp office. The two officers formally handed me violation tickets for each of the trucks, numbering close to about thirty at that time, not yet at full strength. Since the trucks were brand new, there were only a few minor infractions, like a busted taillight.

But all the trucks had no license plates, or tags. I explained to the officers that the company was currently negotiating with the Land Transportation Commission (LTC) in Manila, the government agency in charge of issuing such licenses, so that the trucks would be subject to a construction license, instead of a commercial license. That difference amounted to a several hundreds of thousands of pesos for the year.

The officers said they would call the LTC, and we would meet again the following day. At the meeting the following day, the officers told me that the LTC confirmed my story. However they pointed out that, by law, they could still impound the trucks for operating without a license on a public road.

I replied I would be amenable to an arrangement. They handed me a piece of paper, with a monthly amount and a list of other requirements. I negotiated the amount down, and only for the period that the trucks were without tags. Once we had the legal tags, the amount would substantially decrease.

As soon as we verbally agreed, the trucks started rolling out again. There was nothing in writing, other than the list he handed me. I can still remember some of the items they requested. In addition to the cash, the list included Sam Browne belts (imported, from the U.S.), a specific type of ammunition and some jackets . I telephoned the requirements to the home office in Manila, which approved of the arrangement and actually made the purchases for me.

I kept my end of the bargain, and so did the other two police officers. A few times we crossed paths on the road. I knew all was right with the world when the two officers, parked in the shade by the roadside and standing by their motorcycles, smartly brought their heels together, and crisply executed a salute as my vehicle roared by.

I thought they looked downright smart and resplendent in their high boots and Sam Browne belts.

MINDANAO JOTTINGS : JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE, OR YOU THOUGHT YOU HAD DIVERSITY PROBLEMS AT WORK

I grew up most of my life as a city boy in metro Manila. I only knew of Christian versus Muslim hostilities in Mindanao reading the newspapers and watching television clips. When I started working in Cotabato, I saw the violence and the animosity firsthand, even within my own company.

We set up our first base camp in a town called Baguer. It was a nice almost bucolic town, but the main reason why we decided on it was because it was a peaceful Christian town, and the chief of police was a no-nonsense guy who welcomed the business the road construction would bring to his town. Baguer went from a quiet, nondescript town to a bustling hub of construction activity.

Among other equipment, my company had a fleet of earth-moving dump trucks and stake trucks for long-distance hauls, bought from Hino from Japan. There was a long line of applicants for the numerous jobs available, but the premium jobs were still the drivers’s jobs.

A couple of months into actual operations, the construction superintendent proudly pointed to one of our trucks and said, “That is our first Muslim hire. He is an excellent driver and a good guy. And he is from Matalam.”

The significance of that last statement was not lost on me. Just as we were now operating out of a forward base camp, we were scheduled to operate out of a final camp out of the town of Matalam towards the end of the construction. Matalam was a Muslim town, and considered a security risk. We needed all the goodwill we could get for that stay in Matalam. I commended my construction superintendent for such a pro-active move.

A couple of days later, one of my assistant superintendents approached me with the Muslim driver in tow. My employee introduced the Muslim driver to me and said the Muslim driver had an urgent matter to discuss with me. The driver requested if I could pay him whatever salary was due him, so he could leave for his hometown.

I asked him if there was any problem. He said that he had been threatened that if he did not leave that day, they would shoot him. When I pressed him who made the threat, he revealed that they were drivers who were on the waiting list. I told him this was against company rules, and I would take care of the problem. He said he would just prefer if he got paid and just leave quietly.

There was no doubt in his mind, and there was little doubt in my mind, that if these guys made such a threat, they would carry it out. Some of them did not even need a reason to shoot a Muslim, much less if the Muslim was actually taking a job from them.

I had been informed that I had in my employ, several notorious “Ilaga” commanders or former “Ilaga” commanders. The “Ilagas” were the para-military Christian commando units that waged wars against the Muslims. By day they were farmers, drivers, mechanics, laborers, etc. At night, they suited up in combat fatigue or dark clothes, took up their weapons and conducted clandestine raids into Muslim villages or murderous attacks against a Muslim individual or family. It was brutal fighting with numerous civilian casualties and usually involved atrocities committed by both sides.

As I was figuring out how much was due the driver and actually counting out the money from my wallet, I was profusely and genuinely apologizing to him. He said, “ Please, sir. Do not worry and there is no need to apologize. I know you are a good guy and you run a good company. That is why I wanted to work for you. But I promise you that I will take care of these guys when the construction gets to Matalam.”

If I was not afraid operating in a Muslim-controlled town or territory before, now I was. I could only keep my fingers crossed that months from now, he would still be able to remember and distinguish the good guys from the bad guys.

MINDANAO JOTTINGS : AN AFTERNOON WITH A TOWN MAYOR

It was right after lunch, and I had decided that day to stay at the office in Cotabato City. I was hoping that it would be a quiet, uneventful afternoon, and I could catch up on some much needed paperwork.

Of course, I had no such luck.

My bodyguard came into the office, and announced, “The Chief of Police of Sultan Kudarat is here to see you.” The Chief of Police was in full khaki uniform with a holstered sidearm, complete with what we called then a Pershing cap. He was very polite but firm, and informed me that the Mayor of Sultan Kudarat would like to speak with me, in his office.

Sultan Kudarat was the next big town right outside Cotabato City, on the way to Davao City, geographically the first town on the road construction project. It was probably about thirty minutes away. It was not everyday I was invited by a town mayor for an official palaver, with his Chief of Police as my escort. I was actually curious what he had to say.

But the biggest reason for going was, the town of Sultan Kudarat, as well as its mayor, chief of police and the majority of its inhabitants were Muslim.

The mayor was once a politically powerful man, part of the Muslim political machinery that ran Cotabato. Now, he was reduced to running a second-class enclave surrounded by Christian towns and politicians. Still, he was not a man to be trifled with or ignored.

I asked the Chief of Police if I could bring my security along. He said, if you wish, but there is no need. I will escort you myself, and bring you back here. I decided against bringing Joe, my security officer, along.

And so off we went in his official Land Cruiser jeep, with a uniformed policeman as a driver. Our actual destination turned out to be the house of the mayor itself. It looked just like the other nice houses in the city, just a little bit bigger and probably more elaborately furnished than the others.

The mayor was a short, squat dark man in his sixties, I guessed. We shook hands, and he smoked while I nursed a soda the whole time we talked. He was a soft spoken man who spoke slowly and deliberately in fairly good Tagalog. It was evident he was educated, and he spoke and moved unhurriedly.

He said he had seen many changes the past years, and he was sure that the new road construction would bring even more changes than before. He thanked me for helping bring about progress in that part of the country. I said that this was just another of President Marcos’s many infrastructure projects, and we were just executing his plan. He made a crack about, yes, you guys work in the heat and dust and Marcos gets the glory. Well, I replied, we do get paid for it.

That eventually brought us to the whole point of the meeting. He hinted that after serving his people and the town for most of his life, he did not have much to show for it. He said if he would appreciate it if he could have some part in the construction project, not in an official capacity, but as a businessman.

I replied that his request was beyond my jurisdiction to fulfill, but I would look into it and get back to him.

I knew exactly who to pass the buck to. The following day, I had a meeting with the Number 2 man in Philrock, a very amiable, hardworking and efficient Kapampangan named Tablante. As usual, he was very helpful and decisive about the whole thing.

In a few days, Tablante and I watched the mayor’s three dump trucks
working alongside my trucks. His decrepit dump trucks were a stark contrast to my brand new, bright-red, smart looking Hino dump trucks zipping around the construction zone.

The conversation between Tablante and myself went something like this.

Tablante : “I don’t know how long those old trucks of his are going to last.”
Jay : “And he is slowing my trucks down. But I guess my fifty trucks
can co-exist with his three trucks.”
Tablante : “They are going to be a pain, but it’s a small price for us to pay,
Jay. Good work with the Mayor.”
Jay : “And thanks for handling it on your end, sir. Very smooth, as
usual.”
Tablante : “Yes, the Mayor was pleased with the arrangement. Dinner and
drinks and some fine women next week in the city, as usual?”
Jay “My treat, as usual. Looking forward to it.”

We shook hands and went our separate ways.

MINDANAO JOTTINGS: CATFISH AND WATERFALLS

Not everything in Cotabato was violence and turmoil. On the contrary, I have very many pleasant and happy memories of Cotabato. And they did not involve big business deals or personal triumphs.

Here is one example, which was simply a lunch break.

About half my working time when I was in Cotabato working in road construction involved actual field work. I would have go to the camp and the worksite with my driver, security officer and sometimes with the company chief accountant.

Most of the time, I would actually have to do some administrative function, like distributing payroll, checking on the paperwork at the company gas pumps, or meeting with some official of Philrock, the general contractor for the road construction with whom we had our contract.

The rest of the time was either trouble-shooting, or just mingling with the employees to keep tabs on things. I wanted to make sure the employees knew I was available and approachable, and many of them would take the occasion just to say hi or thank you, or actually discuss a particular issue.

On the whole, I was happy when I was on the road. I enjoyed being outdoors, although sometimes it was in the heat and dust, and sometimes in the rain and the mud, depending on the season of the year. I enjoyed the personal interaction, and it was gratifying to offer employment to people and sometimes help resolve problems.

I tried to make the field work as enjoyable and interesting as possible. I remember one particular day that will forever stay in my mind. We were several miles from base camp, so I asked the driver to scout around and find us some good lunch.

When lunch time came, we drove to a house where the driver had contracted the lady of the house to cook lunch for us We collected our lunch, which was unbelievably inexpensive. It was rice, fried catfish, vegetables and soda. Catfish is one of my favorite fish in the Philippines. For those of you that know fish, catfish are ugly creatures, but delicious.

My driver then took us to a secluded area that was nicely wooded with a small, gentle waterfall. We feasted on the lunch, and that was a great lunch for eating on the run in a road construction site. Then we all took a dip in the shallow pool with the waterfall cascading on us, frolicking like little children. Since we spent a lot of time on the road, we always had clothes and gear for emergencies like this one.

That was probably one of the best lunch breaks in my whole life. Where else can you take a two-hour lunch break with a nourishing, home-cooked meal, then take a dip in a natural pool and waterfall with a lush, sylvan setting?

In retrospect, the two-hour, 3-martini lunches I had in my corporate life pale in comparison with this roadside lunch.

Reluctantly, we drove back to work at the site. I don’t know about my two other employees, but that was a magical day for me, to be able to work and briefly refresh the body, mind and spirit in a land full of violence and turmoil.

MINDANAO JOTTINGS: A TALE OF TWO SOLDIERS Part 2

The Lieutenant

A mutual friend introduced me to Lieutenant Rudy. Lieutenant Rudy was the head of the Philippine Constabulary (PC) forces that maintained peace and order in Cotabato City.

Normally, a city had its police department to maintain peace and order. If a city’s police department was deemed inept or corrupt, the Philippine Constabulary would be ordered to take over the city’s police function, with the police department now reporting to the PC Commander. In the case of Cotabato City, it was probably a case of the city police being both inept and corrupt.

At the time I lived in Cotabato City, the political situation in the city was volatile. Cotabato City had just elected its first Christian mayor, Mayor Teodoro V. Juliano, who had unseated the powerful Muslim incumbent Mayor Datu Mando Sinsuat. His political enemies had sworn that Mayor Juliano would not survive his term.

Mayor Juliano moved about the city in a long convoy full of armed men. He rode in a custom-built, armor-plated vehicle that looked like the forerunner of the humvee. In front was a driver and two armed bodyguards. He sat in the middle row flanked by two bodyguards. Behind him sat another row of bodyguards.

Directly behind his vehicle was an armored car with a mounted machine gun. His security consisted of regular military soldiers, city police, his own security detail and free-lance gunslingers, called “djangos” in Cotabato City.

On top of that, there was always the possibility of another Muslim versus Christian conflagration, and open fighting could break out again.

Lieutenant Rudy had his hands full.

But we found time to have a few leisurely lunches. He would come to lunch in full battle gear, with grenades hanging from his uniform while we dined at the restaurant of the plush Imperial Hotel II. We would discuss politics, history, careers, business, money and delectable women.

I found Lieutenant Rudy to be intelligent, sophisticated and articulate. He was after all, a graduate of the Philippine Military Academy (PMA), the Philippine equivalent of West Point, and was now a commissioned officer of the Philippine military, attached to the Philippine Constabulary branch with a very visible assignment.

Aside from the military uniform and the grenades, and an occasional digression into military life, for me it was just like lunching with another business associate.

Less than a year into our relationship, I was out in the field, by the roadside. An army convoy approached, and in the lead jeep was Lt. Rudy. He was probably keeping an eye out for me, and as soon as he espied me, he ordered the convoy to halt, stopping right at their side of the highway.

He alighted from the jeep, and we walked to a shady part of the road. The conversation went something like this.

Lt. Rudy “Hi. Have you heard the news?”
Jay “No. What’s going on?”
“I have been reassigned. Just next province, to Davao. Just
for a while.”
“Why? What happened?”
“President Marcos caved in to some politicians who wanted
me out of Cotabato Province.”
“Why do they want you out?”
“Have you heard of the (name of Cotabato barrio)
Massacre that happened a couple of years ago?”
“No. That was before I got here.”
“Well, I ordered it.”

Briefly, he told me the story. Before being PC commander of Cotabato City, he was an army operational officer in Cotabato Province. One day, one of his patrols got fired upon in an outlying Muslim barrio in Cotabato. The patrol took cover, radioed the camp and waited for reinforcements. Lt. Rudy came personally with heavy reinforcements.

By the time Lt. Rudy arrived, the armed men had fled from the barrio. All that was left were old men, women and children. Lt Rudy then ordered the barrio inhabitants massacred.

I remember him saying, “We killed every living thing in that barrio—old men, women, children, and animals.”

“So what will happen to you now?”
“Nothing. I will just sit it out in Davao for a while. If it was
up to Marcos, he would give me a medal for the massacre.
But he has to play ball with these Muslim politicians.”

We said our goodbyes, shook hands and the convoy moved on through the construction site.

That was the last I saw of Lt. Rudy, and I have no idea what eventually happened to him. Within a year, I was back in Manila, and within a couple of years, I started life anew in a new land, the United States.

Occasionally I think about him—a dashing military officer, educated, intelligent, resourceful, articulate, passionate, ambitious and patriotic.
I always wonder though if he ever asked forgiveness for, or even noticed, the blood of innocent people on his hands.

MINDANAO JOTTINGS: A TALE OF TWO SOLDIERS Part 1

After all these years, I wish I could tell you their real names and true identities. But I have decided to be prudent, for their sake and mine, and keep their identities a secret. The names used are fictitious, but the stories are true.


The Sergeant

I met Sgt. Bert during a business meeting with the Governor of Cotabato. At that time, he was the head of security for the Governor. When he was introduced to me, he was dressed in civilian clothes, was almost good-looking in a rugged way with a steely gaze. One of my associates later whispered to me, “He’s a killer.” and proceeded to tell me a couple of chilling stories about Sgt. Bert.

Sgt. Bert was the Philippine Army equivalent of James Bond, Agent 007. It was not because of his suave conquests of women or his weapon gadgetry. It was because he had a license to kill. He was what I would call a military hit-man.

The next time I saw Sgt. Bert, he was in full military green BDU’s. He had driven into my construction camp, saluted smartly and shook my hand with a warm smile. He said he had grown bored with the security detail, had asked for field duty, and was now head of the army detachment camped about a couple of towns away. I was overjoyed with the news. Technically, he was in charge of the safety of my camp. He was equally happy to be back in his old stomping grounds.

We developed a friendship over the next months. He was a warm, family man, with a folksy sense of humor. He never asked me for anything, except for a company contribution when his daughter was a contestant in a beauty contest at their town fiesta. The way these beauty contests worked, whoever sold the most tickets to the coronation ball won, so it was mostly a monetary, fund-raising contest. I made sure his daughter won by a landslide.

In spite of our busy schedules, we had a few quiet talks together. Over some cold beers, he told me some hair-raising stories.

He confirmed his most talked-about exploit. Alone, he had crept several miles into enemy territory during the night, tracked down his prey, a ruthless Muslim killer and leader of a ruthless band, hacked him in the night, and managed to elude numerous pursuers and get back to camp safely. The chilling exclamation point to this whole exploit was the fact that he brought with him the head of his victim in a canvas sack (sako).

He told me another story of how he liquidated another Muslim rebel leader. This rebel leader somehow trusted Sgt. Bert. Sgt. Bert requested a face-to-face meeting with the Muslim, just between them, at a neutral location. Sgt. Bert described how he and the Muslim sat down on huge rocks, and started talking. Sgt. Bert’s marksman picked off the Muslim from concealment, with one shot.

He confirmed that he had gone out on “Ilaga” sorties, either as a combatant or a trainer. “Ilaga” is an Ilonggo or Visayan word for “rat” and the “Ilagas” were the fierce Christian para-military units who fought against the Muslims. Most of the time, they were led by former soldiers. The regular Philippine Army was routinely accused by Muslims of either training or actually leading or accompanying “Ilaga” units.

Sgt. Bert revealed that there had been several assassination attempts on his life. He recounted to me his closest shave. He had spent most of the day at a “sabong” (cockfight) festival, and was on his way home. He was only armed with a .45 and for footwear, was wearing only slippers.

He was ambushed by two men on either side of the road, one with an Armalite and one with a automatic handgun. He said the guy with the Armalite fired and somehow missed him. Sgt. Bert drew his .45, fired one shot each at the two assailants, and killed them both on the spot.

I do not even remember the last time I saw Sgt. Bert. I believe it was one of those random road checkpoints that he occasionally conducted. Since there were other people and complete strangers on that public road, we only nodded civilly to each other.

I do not know what eventually happened to Sgt. Bert. Within a couple of years, I was living a new life in the United States.

In one of our conversations, I remember asking him if he was afraid of dying, that eventually his old enemies would catch up with him. He shrugged his shoulders and uttered a common fatalistic line, “If that is the will of God.” Then he smiled his folksy smile, and said. “But they will have to be really good to get me.”

MINDANAO JOTTINGS: EYEWITNESS TO A RUB-OUT

The year was 1971, and the place was Cotabato City, Cotabato Province in Mindanao, Philippines. These were heady and exciting times for me. I was barely twenty-four years old, and I was Chief Operating Officer for a road construction company based in Cotabato City.

Cotabato Province was in the heart of Mindanao, with still a predominantly Moslem population. But steady encroachment by Christian settlers mostly from the Visayas had reached a point that the balance of power was shifting from Moslem to Christian. Cotabato was a very dangerous place, full of armed factions on either side of both the political, ethnic and religious divide.

The company office was in a suite at the Hotel Imperial II, at that time the newest and most modern hotel in the city. I had a chief accountant and two office clerks working in the office, together with a personal driver and security officer. I also lived in the hotel and my security officer slept in the office while I was in town, providing me and the office round the clock protection.

One of the guests at the hotel was another businessman who also had an office and a room at the hotel. His name was Architect Jovellano, who was working on a project in Tacurong, (I believe it was a new town market) probably a couple of hours away from the city. He employed a lone draftsman who worked in his office inside the hotel.

Architect Jovellano was an interesting character. He was not physically imposing, but he had a colorful background. He was actually a well-to-do resident of the city. A few years ago, one of the powerful Moslem datus took a liking to one of his teen-aged daughters and kidnapped her, intending to marry her, by all accounts forcibly against her will.

Jovellano did not take this laying down, marshaled enough military and private muscle of his own and retook his daughter. Fearful of retaliation and to prevent another kidnapping, Jovellano moved his family to nearby Davao City, about a couple of hours drive away.

Now fast forward to several years after the incident, and Jovellano was back in Cotabato City working. I would say that we were probably in that hotel about the same time for about three months. During that period, his daughters came for a visit from Davao and I met them and exchanged a few words of pleasantries with them. The daughters were gorgeous, and I can understand why the kidnapping took place. I should probably also mention that Jovellano’s brother Willy, who worked as a radio announcer at one of the city’s radio stations, became one of my business friends.

On that particular day, it was mid-morning and I happened to be at the lobby of the hotel, chatting with a business friend. Jovellano came out of the elevator, hurrying to conduct business for the day.

He was dressed casually but smartly in a batik shirt, which looks like a colorful Hawaiian shirt but with ethnic designs peculiar to Mindanao. He had a sidearm, a Magnum .38 tucked in his waist, and he was carrying an automatic rifle to his car. Some of the hotel clerks greeted him by name, I said hi to him as he breezed by, and he waved and yelled a general greeting to everybody.

The hotel had double glass doors , and standing at the lobby, you can actually see out through the glass doors into the street outside the hotel. As usual, they had a smartly uniformed doorman at the door, who actually opened the door for anybody coming in or coming out of the hotel, and warmly greeted known patrons of either the hotel or the hotel restaurant. The doorman opened the door for Jovellano, greeting him good morning.

Jovellano was parked almost right in front of the hotel, just a little bit to the right as you exit the hotel. I was probably the closest to the glass door other than the doorman.

Jovellano climbed into his vehicle, which was a Fiesta, a Philippine made Ford vehicle. The Fiesta had no doors that closed, but instead was open on both the driver and passenger side. Jovellano braced the rifle along the left side of the car, started the car and proceeded to shift to reverse gear.

At that moment, the first shot rang out. The doorman prudently moved from the glass doors to a few steps inside the lobby. I impulsively ran towards the glass doors at the first shot. As I was rushing towards the glass doors, I could see the people on the other side of the street, frozen in their tracks.

By the time I got to the glass doors, it was all over. A gunman had stepped out of the sidewalk and had shot Jovellano four times point blank with a .45. Jovellano was slumped backwards against the driver’s seat. There was a neat round red hole around his temple and his neck. There was a mass of blood around his mouth and jaw, and his chest. The front of the batik shirt now ran dark red with blood. The gunman must have shot rapid fire down the left side of the body—temple, jaw, neck, chest.

There must have been at least a couple of dozen eyewitnesses to the shooting, including several sales ladies in a store right next to the hotel. Predictably, only a handful offered any statements, and I was told that if by any chance it came to a trial, these witnesses would conveniently suffer amnesia.

Willy and I would chat about the murder sporadically. At one point, I asked Willy point blank if it could have been the Moslem kidnapper, who was known to Willy. Willy said he did not think so, and if he ever found out that it was indeed he, Willy would simply just retaliate in kind. There were many conjectures offered as motive. It could have been the present project. It could have been a past project. It could have been a business association that had soured. In short, it could have been anything.

In the end, it became just another of Cotabato City’s unsolved murders, unless they somehow solved it since I left for the United States. For me, it was just another sober reminder that, like Dorothy, I was no longer in Kansas. During my stay in Cotabato City, I received about a couple of dozen death threats directed either towards me personally or the company, and had somebody pull a gun on me several times.

Sometime that same day, I ran into Jovellano’s draftsman on his way out of the hotel. He had his light jacket on, and he had cleaned out his drafting tools from the office. He gave me a wry smile, and we wordlessly waved at each other.