The Roads To Pinagbitingan (Bottleneck)

THE ROADS TO PINAGBITINGAN
by
Carl Kuntze

Pinagbitingan (Bottleneck) is a fourth class municipality with a population of fifteen thousand, a hundred miles north of Manila. It has stagnated in time due to a lack of effective connecting conduits to neighboring towns. Its principal products were gravel, poor quality clay (used for crude native pottery), and antique reproductions. The last often announced by an incongruous sign, “Antiques made while you wait,” in front of craftsmen studios. It might seem significant of the character of the municipality. Agricultural fields surround the core of the town, where tenant-farmers sliced furrows into the soil with ancient plows yoked to carabaos (water buffalos.), cultivating rice in small tracts of land they did not own. The owners were absentee landlords, who were “entitled” to half of their harvest, investing almost nothing, just the seeds. The farmers invested their sweat, blood, and tears. One major typhoon, a single flood, could wipe out their crops, but they would still owe half their projected harvest. Thus, they were kept in perpetual bondage.

The municipal hall was a poorly maintained two story building made of stucco and wood. The redolent smell of its public toilets could be detected a block away. It made the quality of justice dispensed by its court dubious. However, legal cases are few, occasional domestic violence, petty theft, drunk and disorderly conduct. The Justice of the Peace had his own private chamber, where he watched pornography from his extensive DVD library.Despite the heat, he was clad in a long black robe, which got soaked in his perspiration because there was no air conditioning. He had delusions of being appointed to The Philippine Supreme Court. Only the judge and the mayor were honored with private offices. Members of The Town Council shared one large hall crowded with desks, jammed against each other, each with a nameplate with a pretentious honorific, pretentious because although they’d earned their degrees at local diploma mills, they were not certified by their respective licensing boards after having consistently failed their exams. Thus visitors to the municipal building were hosted by ersatz attorneys at law, or doctors of medicine, acting as clerks, collecting fees for permits, police clearances ( necessary for employment.), and
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licenses. Just adjacent to the municipal hall was a motor pool with a competent pair of mechanics, actually laboring on corroding parts of rusting automotive engines. The municipality’s inventory of vehicles consisted of one vintage pick-up truck, an equally ancient stationwagon, a MacArthur World War II jeep, retrieved from war surplus depots, and a prewar Cadillac hearse, which also served as an ambulance, which might seem appropriate, the town physician-surgeon had not seen a sober day since he graduated from college, a respected institution none too anxious to claim him as an alumnus.These vehicles, four limping wrecks, broke down continually, keeping the young mechanics busy. As a consequence, they developed superb mechanical skills, and could machine tool spare parts that were no longer available. They were the only conscientious employees of the municipality.

Why motor vehicles would be needed to negotiate the roads of Pinagbitingan might be mystifying to an objective observer. There were no roads either semantically or in actuality. Deep mud during the rainy season. Rutted dust bowls during the dry ones. Most of the population preferred to go on foot. There were tricyles, powered by muscular legs, from
the entrance of town to the Municipal Building. Pathways to residences could only be negotiated by walking. The only paved streets were those leading to homes of politicians who held office during the history of the town. The names of the current occupants of the government administration were ominous. The Mayor, Kabilanan (Two Face), The Town Treasurer,
Manunuba (Swindler), The Town Planner, Mabutas, (Full of Holes), The Sherrif, Maliksi, (Fast), the last, particularly virulent. The Sherrif was the enforcer for the local loan shark, aptly named, Pating (Shark). Another august personage was Bishop Morelos, a pedophile who kept two young altar boys in the sacristy, this “charity” looked upon benignly by the towns-folk, for they would be homeless without his “hospitality.” He absolved them of sin at the confessional, following their regularly performed fellatio on him. Mayor Kabilanan drugged himself daily into a stupor with shabu, a local version of crack. The town’s only physician, the single board certified professional, had a lot of time on his hands, most ailing patients preferring the ministrations of quacks and herbalists (herbolarios), constantly perused brochures brought to him by pharmaceutical detailmen, being quick to perscribe the “latest”drugs,
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perhaps killing a few patients in the process. His name, an equally intimidating: Mata (Kill)!

Municipal elections were approaching. They were about to be unsettled out of their complacency by the appearance of a new candidate, a patriarchal figure, referred to as Mang Asio (contraction of Anastasio). Any candidate referred to by a nickname was a threat. There was a single issue that emerges during this periodic civic exercizes, The Roads!

Of course, there were no roads, but there was an old World War II steel “Bailey Bridge” being flung across an irrigation ditch, usually bone dry in the summer, and an undisciplined mess during the typhoon season. It was not funded by the miniscule revenue of Pinagbitingan, but from loans gulled out of the much maligned IMF, USAID, The Australian and The UK governments. It had been negotiated by the town’s “Tourist Authority,” which overstated the charms of the locality, goosed into fruition with a thick ladling of bribes. “We share and share, alike,” as proudly announced by the town treasurer. Investigators who came to check on the project, returned to report to their respective agencies, hard put to suppress their laughter. Red-faced auditors, who approved the loans, decided to write them off. The town was reminiscent of Al Capp’s fictional “Dogpatch,” Arkansas, minus Li’l Abner. The amount squandered was so insignificant, that a loss was preferable to embarassment. The town, however, did not benefit from this windfall. Kept secret, the profit was divided among ranking municipal officials, and knowledgeable employees.

The Mayor, naturally, had a lion’s share. He was contemplating his purchases, on his next trip to Hongkong, still the major Asian shopping center, while sprawled on a foldout table at the town’s massage parlor, a rundown shack at the edge of town. His massuese was a grotesquely overweight woman with pendulous breasts and plump fingers. She panted and wheezed as she pounded and kneaded the mayor’s equally flabby torso. While she looked porcine, it was not her appearance that attracted him there. He liked the sensuous feel of her big breasts brushing against him, and her soft hands were more titillating than his wife’s sexual favors. He was lost in bliss when his panicky Town Clerk
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burst in, to his exasperation.
“What’s so important, it couldn’t wait until I got back to the office?” His “Honor” sat up,
dismissing his masseuse.

“We have a challenge to the administration?” Epitasio Corpus declared.

“What do you mean?” The Mayor demanded. He had “served” two terms and was looking confidently to a third. There had been no effective aspirant to the office. The few capable people of the town were not interested in public service, opting to commute to their jobs in more prosperous localities. The career grafters put a lid on real estate values. As long as they concentrated on looting the town’s picayune “treasury,” the cost of property remained pitifully depressed. Most people evaded paying taxes anyway, bribes, or euphemistically, “users taxes.,” being more advantageous Thus, there was an implicit mutually beneficial “understanding.” A principled man was a menace to this “arrangement.”

“There’s a new candidate orating in front of the municipal building.”

“And what is he squacking about?”

“The roads!”

“The roads!” The mayor echoed, his eyes widening. “Isn’t that a dead issue? Can’t we buy him off? Who is he anyway?”

“He’s a retired school teacher. A widower. His only two sons are overseas as OFWs (Overseas Foreign Workers, unable to find jobs in their own country, migrate to greener pastures.) He lives modestly on his retirement benefits.. His needs are spartan. He can’t be bought.”

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“Everyone can be bought,” The Mayor declared. “Has be any substantial backing?”

“No, but he’s presentable and articulate. He captivates an audience. Worse, they identify with him.”

“Can’t we round up a crew making a pretext of commencing construction of the roads?”

“That’s been done so many times, the voters aren’t buying it any more.” The Town Clerk replied. “Besides, there’s not enough money in the treasury.”

“Not enough money!” The Mayor snapped up bolt upright. “ What happened to our contingency fund?” The town clerk’s silence said volumes.” Oh! Then we’re in a crisis. Call a meeting of The Town Council. We’ll have to discuss how to manage our resources. I’ll just go home to change my clothes before going back to the office. We have to plan strategy.”

The streets leading to his house was a muddy bog. It had rained heavily the night before. He didn’t want to risk the official stationwagon, which he sent back to the municipal parking lot. It would be too humiliating a spectacle for public vehicles to be seen paralyzed, an implicit reproach to their administration, and a reminder of their remission. He sighed with disgust at having to struggle home through slime in an undignified fashion. It took him half an hour to reach home.

Mrs. Kabilanan was engaged with a muscular tricycle driver in their bedroom. The young man was less than half her age. He closed his eyes as his hips gyrated, drowning himself in the delightful concupiscence of her flesh. While she was a handsome woman, age had withered her skin into fine wrinkles. Still lean, her breasts had began to sag. She provided

many young men of the town their initiation into sex. Her eyes bulged, indicative of the hyperthyroid compulsion of a nymphomaniac. Her husband had ceased to be attracted to
her long ago, once his own appetites had waned, and she despised him for allowing himself to bloat with excess weight. He wasn’t morbidly obese, but where his flesh seeped out was unsightly. He was thankfully unaware of her extramarital activities. As he opened the door to his house, ever alert, her terrified sex partner abruptly ended his undulations, and withdrew his member from her as he scooped his clothing from the floor and dived out of the window, landing in the mud below with a thump. He scampered away, donning his garments over his mud-splattered body as he retreated, blinking mud out of his eyes. The adulteress lay still, pulling the bed sheet over her nude body. She hoped her husband wouldn’t come up to her bedroom.

A bit alarmed, he called out her name, “Lourdes, are you still in bed? It’s late afternoon.”

“I don’t feel well,Nick.” she replied, vexed that he had interrupted her dalliance.

“Where are the maids?”

“I gave them the day off.”

“I have to go out again. Will you be okay? I’m just going to take a shower and change. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Lourdes did not reply. She just stared at the ceiling. The corners of her mouth drooped. She could not risk another liaison that day. She did not expect him to kick up a fuss, but would rather keep up appearances. The mayor rolled up the cuffs of his trousers, donning rubber waders, in preparation for his return to his office. He regretted that he had postponed construction of a convenient paved pathway to his own house out of a
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distinctive Filipino cultural quirk (Delicadeza, which has no valid translation in other languages.). Once again, the closest would be “appearances.” It would be too brazen to
commence at this critical period. He struggled back to the Municipal Hall, symbolic of “A Man of The People.” One who feels their pain.

A crowd was gathering around “Mang Asio” at the civic square.He was clad in a native shirt made of natural fibers. The bottom of his trousers were stained up to the ankles from being immersed in muddy soil. His lined face portrayed wisdom, etched by unhappy experience. His well modulated voice resonated with indignation.

“We are still waiting. For eight long years this administration has promised us roads. Roads that would connect the community. Roads that would connect us to neighboring towns. Roads that would bring us prosperity. When will that promise be fulfilled? I shall tell you when! Never! Not while we have a gang of crooks in office.” Then he summed up his oration with that terrifying threat. “It’s time for a change.”

Then Mang Asio spotted the mayor approaching on foot. “I see our chief executive
coming. Let us ask him.” And indeed, part of his audience swarmed around Mayor Kabila-nan, some to entreat favors, but others to demand to know when the roads would be built. Unprepared, the mayor sprinted for the municipal hall’s entrance. His tormentors were blocked by security guards. Panting, the mayor ascended the stairs on his way to his meeting at the council hall.

His staff fidgeted nervously in the assembly hall as he prepared to address them. He cleared his throat, then spoke. “I don’t have to tell you what’s happening outside. Our positions are in jeopardy. A grass roots movement has emerged to supplant us from power. That we are going to lose this election is a foreground conclusion.”

A voice from the rear volunteered. “Perhaps we could do our own “tally” of the
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votes.” It came from Police Chief Maliksi.

“Thanks, chief.” The Mayor replied. “It’s a good suggestion, but with accusations of vote-rigging harassing the national government, that could be a delicate matter. We do not
want scrutiny from the legislators and investigative agencies, and be used as examples.”

“Then, what is this meeting about?” There was a concordant chorus. “If we expect to lose, what are we here for? Why the bother?”

“ If we don’t campaign, we’d be implicitly admitting misadministration. We can’t expect any more contributions from local businessmen who are miffed because we could not build their roads, but we still have a little left over from the last one. We also have residual printed T-shirts, and streamers to distribute. I know you’re all strapped for cash.” The Mayor tactfully omitted the reason for this, a lifestyle beyond their means. “But I’d appreciate a donation of your time, and effort. We certainly have some allies among the electorate. We’ll have fiestas and rallies. We owe the population a few meriendas (snacks). I’d like to thank all of you in advance. Let’s put up a good show.”

Mayor Kabilanan retreated into his office, amid the clamorous buzzing of his staff. They’d have to make new plans about their future. He did not regret the manner he mismanaged the town’s affairs. Only that he had waited too long to have built a paved road to his own house. Now, it was too late. He mused as he recalled a movie he saw some time ago.The Last Hurrah. Based on the last campaign of Boston’s roguish mayor J. Michael Curley, he had been portrayed with considerable elan by Spencer Tracy, who played a likable conman, fictionized as Skeffington, who had wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. Kabilanan was not as deliciously corrupt, having backed into office with good intentions, but he had lapsed into the indolent habits of traditional politicians, nicknamed “Trapos,” in the local vernacular. It could be significant that the term “trapos,’” was also a homonymn for “rags,” or something disposable. Inherited money was hoarded by oligarchs, who were
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reluctant to invest in anything risky, plunking down their money on tried and true cottage industries. They also brazenly avoided paying taxes, using legal loopholes. These were among insidious ills that impeded both the economy and society, stunting development. A politician can only work with what he had. Skeffington died after his defeat. He hoped he would not suffer such a dramatic end. He had to figure out what he wanted to do with his own life once he left office.

The aspirant to his position was in the premises of the local newspaper, churning out literature pointing out the failings in the incumbent administration on a vintage Heidelberg press . The editor had given him the use of his facilities for his skimpy campaign materials. The candidate’s surname was appropriately, “Recto.” which could translate to “Righteous.” The malicious may observe that it rhymed with “Rectum. ”Mang Asio was a babe in the woods, untainted and untried. He was similarly unacquainted with politics. He was unaware that the niggardly contributions collected by supporters for his campaign, were similarly disbursed by donors to the opposing side, “just in case.” Like Kabilanan, when he first ran for office, he wanted to do good, and there was nothing more dangerous to incumbents. The litany of “sins” he was itemizing in his circulars were valid. The municipality did not have the wherewithall to function properly. Civic employees lived on venality, being unable to subsist on government salaries. While it would seem immoral to justify their dishonesty, it was realistic to conclude that “that was the way things were.” Mang Asio’s campaign workers, mostly idealistic students who had to travel to other towns to attend their classes were un-able to recognize this. They believed in the possibility of change. Another reason they join political campaigns is the lack of diversion. There was very little to do in town.

Outside the of town’s ampitheater for cockfights, there was a recreation center with a miniaturized pool table made of wood, with wedges instead of billiard balls, and equally small cue sticks, and a pair of folding card tables, each with four matching folding chairs. The game of choice being mahjong, played by the matrons of the town. A pingpong table summarized the extent of what was available. There was a single movie theater, where
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caning in seats played host to armies of virulent bugs that feasted on the audiences’ thighs, giving the establishment the nickname of “Blood Bank” , or “Vampires.” The reel of prints arrived at the tail end of its circulation, which meant that portions of the sprockets of the film were torn, leading to frequent interruptions of the movie, when it broke, and the projectionist had to re-spool the film. Yes, the campaign would be the only show in town.

Amateur bands would struggle through the mud playing music off-key, the effort, perhaps, making them perform even more badly. One benefit for townspeople is that preparing campaign material redistributes money through their economy. Posters and streamers are crafted by hand. Extremely fine workmanship, that would have historical and artistic value, should anyone have the foresight to preserve them. But the event was recurrent, and therefore, undervalued.

The Bishop reclined in his couch as he was “serviced” by one of his altar boys. His was not an elective post, but his endorsement was always sought. The thought fed his ego. He fancied himself a “king-maker.” This term, he would support Mang Asio. The wear and tear of the bad roads on his twenty year old Ford sedan enraged him. It was not easy to shame the local swells into donating vehicles to the Diocese. While there were strict provisions about separation of church and state in the country’s constitution, clerics held an inordinate influence on its flock. Bishop Morelos sighed as he climaxed, and dismissed his young ward. They had sinned again. They would have their catharsis later.

Romanticized images of the candidates were plastered all over town. Even more provocative were the subtitles. Onofrio Kabilanan, Integrity, Reliability, and Experience!
with the counter-claimant’s, Anastasio Recto, Roadbuilder! A startling claim, for Mang Asio was neither an engineer, nor a technician. He was an academic. He never held public office, except that of a teacher. Kabilanan had proved to be an indolent mayor, but he had served in many positions of civic government before he ran. So, the choices were questionable. It was debatable that either could fulfill their promises. But it was a charade played out every
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four years, and the voters had no great expectations. The campaign speeches were predictable. The incumbent attacked his challenger’s inexperience, and he in turn, impugned his character. A man who did not keep his promises. So, for two weeks, it was the preoccupation of the town. As the polling date approached, the festivities in the town intensified. Not only were there political rallies, where food was served, but there was also a beauty contest, where nubile young women competed for the title “Miss Pinagbitingan of 1999.”

Both candidates had grave misgivings when requested to be among the judges, who would determine which of the dusky wide-eyed maidens would be awarded that honor.

“Is that a good idea? There are seven contestants.” Mayor Kabilanan complained to his secretary. “With one winner. We’ll not only offend the family of six losers, but all their friends and relatives.”

“And if you snub them,” his sober-faced secretary observed, “they’d be just as offended. I believe Mang Asio has already accepted. Sitting at the same counter would demonstrate to the people how tolerant, and liberal you are.”

“And he’d share the onus of their wrath,” Mayor Kabilanan smirked, placated. His speeches had found a different target. The absentee swells of the town. The paucity of
the town’s coffers could be blamed on the miserly wealthy residents who exploited them and gave little in return. It was better than attempting to besmirch a noble opponent as the retired schoolteacher. He had not been thick-faced enough to build a road to his own private residence, while the general population was inconvenienced. Those roads would be built in due time. He might win the election after all.

As elections neared, the candidates intensified their personal appearances, not just at political rallies, but any significant social gathering, and even surprise visits to potential
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voters’ homes. While the victory of the challenger was inevitable, such gestures were reciprocated. Mang Asio would not be a shoo-in. He’d face a formidable contest because of cultural quirks. (Utang na Loob), best translation: An inner debt. Quite a number of people owed the mayor favors.

The excitement of the campaign diverted Kabilanan from his drug habit. Interaction with people was a powerful stimulus. He was gratified at the reception he received from people flattered by approaches from high ranking politicians. He did not even resent defectors who were shifting to the other camp, hoping the curry their favor and hold on to their municipal positions. That he was venal was unimportant, he showed sufficient respect to the electorate to keep it hidden. He brought his wife to social events. Both formally dressed , they both looked like a dignified, but “humble” middle-aged couple, also, in deference to their constituents. This should add up to a few more votes. Both candidates had to earn their ballots.

Kabilanan wistfully yearned that he could have persuaded a celebrity, preferably, a popular singer, or a movie star to campaign in his behalf. But the last one who visited, ruined his finely tailored duds in the ever present mud, and also was felled by diahrea from the bad food at their rallies. He had to settle for amateur local talent. Fist fights were common at their political round tables. The town was fortunate that political arguments were not settled with firearms, as they were in the larger cities. Guns and ammunition were expensive. Muggers used knives and physical intimidation to “earn” their living. More prevalent were a variety of creative scams, one which was using candidate’s’ names in corporations for phantom fly-by-night businesses.

The day before the polling date, activities subsided, the exuberance of the electorate spent. It would be a day when voters reflected upon the issues, and the candidates prayed for divine intervention. People tend to get more pious at periods of indecision. A little more than half of the eligible voters cast their ballots. Given their volatility, neither candidate
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was a sure thing. The town had got along without major roads for half a century. Each one built by politicians for their own short-sighted benefit, was a measure of progress. Kabilanan stayed home to await the public’s decision, as did Mang Asio. Mang Asio lived alone, so he could count on a placid period. The incumbent mayor could not understand why his wife was agitated by his presence. He had the delusion that she would be delighted to have him home. He was still totally ignorant of her “sex education” classes. Like most husbands, he “would be the last to know.” Yet, he had more pressing matters to attend . Mang Asio, his opponent, reposed in his own home, alone, without his supporters. Forced to reflect in his solitude, a wave of panic swept over him. Would he be up to the job? He had never worked in an administrative capacity. He realized, it had to be different from the academic world, but his uncertainty passed. What restored his confidence were the furtive approaches by municipal employees sneaking in at night to “pay their respects”, hoping to ingratiate themselves, and perhaps retain their jobs. Both candidates would rest easily that night. Kabilanan, because he was reconciled to defeat, and Mang Asio, confident he could handle the job if called.

A blast of poorly executed Sousa Marches announced election day. Of the 60 % eligible voters, only half would rise out of bed to vote, the other half, convinced that their ballot wouldn’t matter anyway, and if they voted, their votes would be altered anyway. Voting day was a legal holiday. A steady stream marched to the polls. Those who voted wanted to be damn sure their candidates won. The heavy voting augured badly for the incumbent. They had a tenuous method of tallying the votes. The ballots would be transferred to “Certificates of Canvas,” then that would be “counted” by auditors. This circuitous transfer had always been challenged by the loser, each one of them protesting that they had been cheated. While there was the possibility of cheating at some precincts, most of the monitors were conscientious about their tasks, having been culled from the more substansial citizens of the town. As the ballots came trickling in, it became apparent that Mang Asio had won by a convincing margin. He would claim his office the following year, which was to arrive in a few weeks.The municipal staff would remain in place in their respective
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positions until he could appoint people to his own liking.

The new administration trooped in following the new year. They all seemed bewildered by their victory. There are no established procedures in running a town. Each position, even that of mayor is that of a trainee. Despite the relatively small size of the town, newcomers had to sift through the jumbled records accumulated by their incompetent predecessors. Mayor Anastasio Recto had coasted into office on one promise: That he would finally built the long yearned for roads. He commissioned a feasibility studio with a recent engineering graduate. Then the newly elected treasurer would review the books to find the funding to build the roads. It had rained heavily the night before the new team took possession of the municipality. People once again had to struggle through bogs. The young engineer, an earnest novice from The University of The Philippines, submitted a budget and his report, summed up as: Impossible and impassable! then retreated back to Manila. After examining the available revenue of the municipality, the treasurer decided even projecting collected taxes, if it could be done, there was not enough to fund construction. Plans for building the roads would “be shelved for the duration.” Already, the voting public was berating the new administration, many of their angry citizens waving their fists each time they passed the municipal hall. Mayor Recto hid in the cocoon of his office as life in Pinagbitingan resumed its normal cycle, and its residents settled with the reality that the roads would not be built that year.