Tingle

Chapter 2

Kei Valmoria Bughaw

Returning to the big city, I don’t think of the possibility of death. I expect it to be nerve-wracking—and it is—but not life-threatening. There is the danger of capture and subsequent torture. But aren’t the chances of the same happening while in the mountains equal? When you’re fighting against the state, every day could be your last one.

I’m nervous nonetheless. The trek from camp is grueling and the subsequent motorcycle ride even more so. It has been raining for a week and mountain roads are slick with mud. Every lurch threatens into a full crash, only prevented by the rippling muscles and strength of our wiry habal-habal drivers. They drop us off at the port of Butuan and we pay them extra for a bottle or two of Malyorca or Kulafu liquor.

Anya and I queue up for ferry tickets in our—what does she call it—pang-legal clothes. How can I describe them—nondescript but passably fashionable? Blue jeans, locally branded T-shirts, backpack. And oh, don’t forget our good underwear, reserved for special occasions like military offensives and urban incursions. SO-EN’s the brand. Anya gets them every time she goes home to Cebu. According to her logic, in case we die or get captured, at least we’re wearing decent underwear. Imagine how humiliating it would be if our bodies were exposed and our panties found to be old and with loose threads. Excuse me, the NPA are normal human beings who have quirks. Anya’s obsession is good underwear to die in. Yes, yes, we must look presentable even when we’re dead.

As we stand waiting for our turn to be served, my black SO-EN panties bite into my inner thighs, which are clammy with sweat. I fidget. It’s my first time to come down after I had decided to take up The Cause. I’ve been here six months now. I hadn’t been nervous at the start; I was excited. Fired up with political resolve. Ready to die for my country. Does my anxiety now mean that I have lost this resolve?

Maybe not. But maybe it’s because I wasn’t truly a guerrilla then, part of a group that the US labels as a terrorist, an enemy of the state. I hadn’t recited the ritual words: Kinabuhi ma’y ihalad. Even one’s life is offered. I am ready to die for my cause. But then later, they tell me, be ready to die, yes, but don’t die needlessly.

Needlessly. It equates to (1) Losing your balance and falling off a ravine; (2) Accidentally getting shot by a newbie dismantling a rifle; and (3) Getting captured by attracting attention at a ferry ticketing office.

Captured. r***d. Killed. In that order. Ninety percent of the time. The state forces never admit it but there are whispers from unofficial sources. Embalmers. Doctors doing the autopsies. Witnesses. And of course, loose talk from the mouths of drunken soldiers boasting of how they defeated their filthy communist enemies. Even devout Catholic soldiers find nothing wrong with treating the women guerrillas like trophies of war. I don’t see why they should. Doesn’t religion indoctrinate them that rebellious women (doubly rebellious in myself) should be put in their place and punished?

Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply your sorrow and your conception; in sorrow you shall bring forth children, and your desire shall be to your husband, and he will rule over you. – Genesis 3:16

Filipino men have lived with this verse in mind for the last four centuries. A girl worth marrying or fighting for is a simpering girl who gives birth to his children, cooks his meals, and washes his clothes. A pretty face and sexy figure would be a plus. If these last two were absent, well, then, what are the w****s and queridas for?

The RMG boys leaning on the gateposts of the terminal complex see Anya’s mestiza coloring and features. She has a high nose and peachy-pink complexion from some far-off ancestor impregnated by a Spanish conquistador. She attracts attention everywhere she goes. Even I, sometimes, just can’t help staring at her.

It’s worse in the mountains. With the masa burnt from working the fields, Anya stands out. There, the military look for us among the barrio folks citing her fair skin. Have you seen the mestiza amazonas, with their beautiful hands and noses? Sound like they’re looking for Miss Universe or Binibining Pilipinas contestants. Oh but, didn’t Maita Gomez go underground in the ‘70s, after she had been crowned as Miss World Philippines?

My mother watches all the live telecasts of Miss Universe. At seven, I know that a figure of 36-24-36 is sure to land a woman in the top fifteen semi-finalists. Anya probably has that. But my vital stats are likely to be something like 30-26-32. But you could be a model, my mother insists. Whatever, Ma.

Here at the port of Butuan, there are many mestizas. But Anya is prettier and more voluptuous. Her doe eyes and pinkish rosebud lips make people do a double-take. Nondescript clothes don’t hide these. Feminist principles don’t erase them.

Sure enough, the catcalls come. She laughs them off, generously says that the catcalls could be for me too. Nah. I have fair skin, not as fair as hers, but no curves. Surely I couldn’t be the object of the attention of the boys with RMG patches.

Regional Mobile Group. These are the elite of the Police Force. They join the military in operations against insurgents—us. To them, we’re nothing but that. The victors write history and the ruling class writes labels. I keep my face away. I hate the sight of fatigues. My skin crawls. This must be how prey feels each time they see their predators.

Relax.

Anya smiles at me. I must be showing a bit of my alarm. The policemen are approaching.

“Hello there, gwapa. Wanna hang out later? The ship for Cebu doesn’t leave until ten.”

The brutes, with their M16 rifles and shiny boots, spell death to me. Headlines run through my head. Activist Found Dead in Davao, NPA—AFP claims. Autopsy Report Shows Dead Guerrilla was r***d. My hands itch to snatch the rifle and start shooting.

Ever have that feeling, when you want to wrest away a weapon and start c*****e? Most of us meet arrogant or sexist soldiers or policemen sometime in our lives. The feeling starts like a tingling in my hands and travels up to the shoulders. Then it travels back down and propels your arm to reach out and grab the firearm. The only way to stop it is to curl up your hand in a fist.

Anya is smiling at them.

“Sorry, we’re tired. And I’m married.”

“You’re married? How come you married so young? But that’s okay. It’s easier to catch a leashed chicken.”

I look at the man speaking. His face is pale. Perhaps a slap would give it some color.

“This other one is pretty, too. But suplada. Smile a bit there, sweetie.”

I force myself to smile. The jerk is a big man, solidly-built, almost six feet tall. The other one is shorter but leaner, more muscled. He just stares and smiles. He looks like one of those maginoo but medyo bastos types that girls swoon over. A gentleman with an edge.

We are saved from further conversation when a group of loud, noisy tourists come up to the queue. The two men leave us without further ado and saunter to the blondes. “Hello, Ma’am. Welcome to Butuan. Are you American?”

We get our tickets and rush up the gangplank, where stewards stare at Anya.

“You’re so gwapa, Miss.”

I know these types too. Mostly jerks looking to score and chalk up a conquest of a mestiza.

Anya ignores them completely. She’s no stranger to those either. While my knowledge comes from observation and a social science background, hers comes from firsthand experience. First boyfriend at twelve and just went on from there.

We get to our bunks without further incident. Anya promptly lies down and closes her eyes. She squeezes my hand.

“Bay, I’ll take the second shift ha?”

We have been walking for hours, traversing through the thickets and groves of the Agusan mountain ranges. She had slipped on a slimy stone and suffered each step she took since three in the afternoon. I will keep watch for now. She’d wake up later at dawn to relieve me.

This mission is important, we’re told. We don’t really know for sure what kind of data we’re carrying in the external hard drives deep in our backpacks. But the arrangements and instructions are strict. Do not transact with anyone except the designated contacts. In case of imminent or certain capture, switch the bags or, if aboard the ship, throw them out to sea.

I suppose Anya and I were chosen for this mission because we used to be urbanites. Anya’s been in the mountains longer than I and she has a lot of travel experience. The type that we’re undertaking. She’s really happy about this. Challenge daw.

A man carrying a big box suddenly dropped his burden. He picks it up and apologizes.

“Sorry, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Get out of the way! Official business! Police coming through!”

I peer out from my bunk. Pushing through the throng of passengers and cargadors are the same two policemen we had met earlier. Only now, they are followed by six more. Every one of them looks snappy and constipated.

Crap. Something’s wrong. One of the newcomers, the squad leader, most likely, belts out commands.

“Start at the upper deck. Move!”

I shake Anya awake.

“Hey, buddy. Looks like trouble.”

She sits up immediately. Her eyes suddenly alert. She gestures to our backpacks.

Quietly we take out the two hard disks, one from each of our bags, and proceed to sit on them under our mattresses. No one notices. Everyone’s too busy talking.

“What’s going on?”

“Are there criminals?”

“Or fugitives!”

Anya and I share a look. Is there a traitor among the habal-habal drivers? It’s not impossible. Selling a nameless rebel to buy a sick child’s medicine? It happens.

I feel incomplete without my rifle. Defenseless.

Anya smiles at me. She’s really something. Can nothing faze her?

The police are coming back down the aisle. One for each row of bunks. The one on our row is the lean maginoo-pero-medyo-bastos guy from earlier. He looks like he’s trying his best to be fierce and impressive. He must be the same age as Anya and me. Twenty-one forever. He comes up to us.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Hi! What’s the matter?”

Anya’s charm is on.

“There are rebels on board, we’re told.”

“Really? Scary!”

“No need to be scared, miss. We’re here to protect you. May I check your bags?”

“Sure!”

Anya opens her pack. He stoops to search it.

I stare at the shiny M16 slung over his shoulder. I wish mine were as new. I think it’s from a soldier slain in 2002.

Mr. Lean turns to me.

“You don’t speak much, no?”

“She’s a shy one, sir. Here, let me.”

Anya takes my backpack and opens it herself. The policeman rummages through it.

“You have a laptop. Why?”

I find my voice.

“I’m a computer science student.”

“I see. Nice course.”

He searches my eyes. He’s not as stupid as I thought. I stare back with a questioning look.

“Is there something wrong with having a laptop, Officer?”

His tongue trips on his words.

“Umm, not really. Just that NPA big shots carry laptops daw.”

“Do I look like an NPA big shot?”

Anya giggles like a giddy teenager. I smile. The officer does, too.

“Not really. Pretty girls like you two?”

I laugh then. If Anya can do it, so can I.

He stands up.

“Salamat. I’d love to chat but . . . trabaho.”

He strides off to the next bunk. Then looks back with a wink.

“Happy trip!”

We chorus our gratitude. Happy, happy. Cheer, cheer.

Anya starts folding our clothes and stuffing them back into our backpacks. The flat little hard disks stay under our mattresses. She squeezes my hand and goes back to sleep. A few minutes later, the ship sails out from Butuan, leaving Mr. Lean and the RMG hotties behind.

The girls in a nearby row of bunks call them that. A bunch of teenagers probably on a family vacation. They look like quadruplets to me. Four times the normal quota of decibels of one giddy teenaged girl. One sounds like a Bisaya Kris Aquino. The cloying colegiala tones make me want to jump off a cliff. I think of the cold seawater and shudder.

“Nakita ka atong yummy policeman!”

“Which one?!”

“They were hot.”

“Such biceps.”

Happy, happy. Cheer, cheer. They remind me of my classmates from college.

It hasn’t been a year since I graduated. But six months in the mountains seem like decades. I’ve learned more in that half-year than in the sixteen years I had spent to finish a degree. Apart from learning to dismantle a rifle, I now know how to cook and eat wild plants and animals, and integrate into the fabric of rural existence. The rebel poet Emmanuel Lacaba said that’s the only way to be a people’s warrior: peel the hundred layers of burgis selfishness.

Sounds a bit self-righteous, even condescending. Well, it’s true anyway.

I remind myself to refrain from overdoing my political spiel to non-leftist family and friends when I meet them in Cebu. There’s a lot of intellectualism where I come from. I wouldn’t win debates by talking down to them (which I still am prone to do, despite the constant criticism). Typical elitist intellectual.

I don’t forget my urban roots. But the city’s now an enemy territory, the outside world. Familiar to my pre-guerilla eyes but unfamiliar to ones now identifying tree species in the Agusan jungles.

One of my psychology professors once discussed the concept of the Uncanny, of how the unfamiliar became familiar and vice versa. I suppose my uneasiness is just that. Or should I call it fear? A fear of death? Even in one oath-bound to lay her life for her chosen cause, it exists. As it should.

The rest of the passengers are asleep now. I look around at them. Do they fear death too? Each ferry trip in the Philippines is a death challenge. Every other year, a ferry connecting the hundreds of islands in the archipelago sinks, and people die. Each one of them sleeps in a suspension of fear, the deepest under the layers of sleep and exhaustion. The paranoia on top, under a thin trust on the professional experience of the captain, the soundness of this old Japanese-made ferry, refurbished locally like the rest of its fleet.

But with a slight change in the to-and-fro motions of the ship, with a strong gust of wind and slam of a big wave, sleep leaves. Around the time we near Camotes at three in the morning, most of the passengers are wide-eyed and uneasy. The ship is rocking and making straining noises against the waves.

The boat is sinking. Group yourselves into twos!

Remember that grade school game? How many people fit into one life raft? And where are those damned rafts? Are they really unsinkable?

For shame. Just this morning I was brandishing an M16 and feeling powerful. Who’s this person fearful of being trapped in a sinking ship? Who’s this girl who can pull the clip from a hand grenade but cannot float?

Hell. I never learned to swim. Two months ago, in an old village in Surigao del Sur we heard tales of ugly, enchanted fish that thrive in the deep. People drown in those rivers and are never seen again. Cousin of the piranha? They couldn’t say. They have never seen piranhas.

“You okay, Bay?”

Anya wakes up and places her hand over mine.

“Luspad ka, murag kalag!”

Apparently, I look like a ghost with my pale face and lips. Well, sure, we’d all be ghosts if the ship went down.

I stare at Anya. I feel the urge to put my arms around her. Lately, I feel this urge more and more often. I want to reach out now and hold her hand. But I hold back because well, what if she pulled away? She might think I’m a lesbian!

Though . . . well, there was that one time. This particularly pesky guy kept asking for her number. She suddenly grabbed my hand. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m with my uyab.”

I felt weird, hearing her say that word. Sweetheart. I tried to catch her eyes but she wouldn’t look at me. I wanted to ask her. We never spoke of it again. I assumed she said it only to throw him off.

A trash bin rolls over to the railings and empties half its contents into the heaving sea. I suddenly wish to do the same. I stand up to go to the restroom but change my mind as soon as I see that walking is futile. Those who do are crashing to-and-fro into bunks like drunks.

Anya is not as affected. She’s a water baby, a strong swimmer, and often goes out to sea with her uncle, a fisherman from Talisay, against her father’s wishes. She deftly takes out the hidden gadgets from under our mattresses and puts them into a small watertight container. Then she slips it into her belt bag.

There’s a typhoon, we hear from the radio. But it’s going way up there, near Northern Luzon. The Coast Guard lets all Cebu-bound ferries from Mindanao sail. I shouldn’t be anxious. But I distrust anything coming from a state agency or institution. The typhoon could change track. It happens. Remember Ruping?

“Try to get some sleep.”

Anya gently pushes me down. I close my eyes and think about how Mao traversed the swollen Yangtze one time or another during the monsoon. Or how Che crossed the storm-beaten seas to Cuba.

What conceit. Mao? Che? I tell Anya and she laughs with me.

“You could settle for local, you know. Think of Joma crossing the rivers of Sierra Madre.”

“I just don’t want a . . . what do you call it—”

“A senseless death?”

“Senseless is unconscious. Okay. I just wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. Not down with a sinking ship.”

Anya slaps my arm. I’m hilarious, she says.

After two hours of swaying and rocking, the seas finally calm down as we come into the strait of Mactan. In less than an hour, we are docking at Pier 1, Cebu City.

Anya and I discuss our exit. Obviously, based on the information relayed by Mr. Lean Policeman last night, state agents are to be expected around the pier scrutinizing passengers. There is no other way to leave the ship but separately. Robinson’s Plaza in Ramos is our rallying point, an hour and a half after alighting. Enough time to take a circuitous route. We take our bags and go for separate gangplanks. I squeeze her hand in farewell.

I should’ve used a baseball cap. Or shades. I should’ve known that someone would recognize me, a born and bred Cebuana. Aside from that, I’m a “personality,” formerly a leader of a student organization that the military called a communist front.

A few meters from the port gate, three men approach me. One speaks.

“Are you Miss Marianne Esma?”

“Ngano? Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you. I used to watch you giving speeches in front of Gaisano Metro. You were gone a while, Marianne.”

“Huh? Are you sure it’s me?”

“Siempre. You were my favorite among the leaders, you know. Shouting ibagsak in your pencil skirt uniform.”

There’s a gloating tone in his voice, and a distinctly lecherous one. I feel the blood and adrenaline rush to my head. You won’t get to f**k me, asshole. I’ll die first.

The others take me by both arms and propel me forward. I struggle to get free.

“Where are you taking me? Take your hands off me! I will scream!”

“Just come with us. We just want to ask a few questions. You won’t get hurt.”

“Where is your warrant?”

I feel a metal-poke against my side.

“Shut up and just be a good girl.”

I shut up. I look around and ahead. There’s a crowd bottlenecked at the gate. I see Anya slinking through the crowd. She doesn’t look behind her and walks off briskly. That’s my girl. She has the disks.

Is it the fear of getting r***d and killed later that makes me risk being killed right then and there? Because at the gate, where two guards are standing, a scream bursts out of me.

“Help! Kidnappers!”

One of the guards’ arms is within reach. I grab it and swing behind him.

“Sir! Help me!”

“What’s the meaning of this?”

The pier guard c***s his shotgun.

The face of the man who spoke to me is a mask of fury. He’s wearing shades but his mouth is half-open in a snarl. His voice, though calm, shakes in rage when he replies.

“That’s our niece, sir. She ran off from home with an addict. We just came to fetch her.”

“Do you know these men?”

The guard turns to me. I shake my head vigorously.

I have the upper hand. The military men could not reveal themselves. Arresting me without a warrant is illegal detention and a*******n. They should’ve abducted me outside the gate. But maybe, they didn’t really know whom they are supposed to pick up. Maybe it’s just my luck that Mr. Intel-guy-during-rallies recognized me. They were probably just told to spy on the disembarking passengers. If they really had me for a target, those RMG hotties would have arrested us already at Butuan. I’m counting on this and on another fact: the military usually abducts activists and suspected guerrillas on the sly. If the guards call the nearby waterfront police station, their mission would be exposed.

Frisk them, my shield says to the other guard, who approaches the three.

Chaos then ensues. The three men start running towards Plaza Independencia, shooting back at the pier guards who promptly give chase. Policemen come out of the station. One of the guards shout to them: “Kidnappers!” They take out their guns and shoot back.

People start to stampede, running away and into the buildings for shelter. I gladly plunge into the crowd. None of them notice that I’m limping, that I have a wound in my left leg. I’m not sure if a bullet had hit or just grazed me. I hide my leg with a windbreaker that I draped over my arm.

I go into a small eatery some distance from the pier gate and ask the store owner if they have a restroom. She points to the back. She doesn’t pay me attention. She’s busy craning her neck over the throng to watch the commotion.

I go inside the toilet stall and look at my leg. There’s a hole in my pants, showing the wound on the outer side of my thigh. I take it off (happily it’s a loose fit) and examine my leg. There’s no exit wound. The bullet is still inside! Explains why there’s no blood. Damn. Anya will have to take me to that doctor friend of hers in Banawa.

The wound isn’t too painful, but then I’m just probably numb from shock. I take out a big scarf from my pack and bind it up. Then I change into a fresh pair of jeans and apply some blush and lipstick. Fast, efficient adrenaline-induced intervention. I have never felt so alive.

I try my best not to limp when I go out of the restroom. It’s a good twenty minutes after. But again, no one notices me. I buy a Sprite at the counter and ask the store owner about the chaos outside. She’s chatty.

“Three men tried to kidnap a girl. They got away. There was a van waiting for them. Ready to fly. It appeared out of nowhere.”

“Anyone wounded or killed?”

“One of the pier guards was wounded. Now at the hospital daw.”

“And the girl?”

“Gone! No one really had a good look at her. Weren’t you outside earlier?”

“Yeah. But I was in a hurry to pee. I didn’t see what happened.”

“Too bad. I saw them kidnappers running and shooting at the guards. Just like in the movies!”

I laugh, thank her, and slowly walk out towards the taxi queue. To my relief, one is waiting. I think of Anya. I hope she’s safe and waiting for me. I can see her face, smiling and barely concealing her anxiety.

“Robinson’s please, manong.”

“Okay. Good thing you came out late. A shootout occurred earlier.”

“I heard. Kidnappers kuno.”

I let him supply the rest of the story. It’s almost the same version as the one from the eatery. I cluck and make the appropriate reactions.

“Did you have a good trip, ma’am?”

“Oo, manong. Hadlok for a while. Seas were choppy for four hours. But overall—okay.”

“Good to hear, ma’am. It’s hard to travel during the stormy season. It was around this time last year when Princess of the Stars sank.”

“Yeah. But won’t we all die, sooner or later? Pero it’s not my time.”

The taxi driver laughs and I laugh along with him, just a little bit, lest I bleed through my temporary bandage. I’m not that sissy, skinny colegiala the military men thought I was. That girl’s dead.

I can’t wait to tell Anya. I’d start by telling her she was right about wearing our best underwear.