Warrior Pose (22 page)

I can almost see them: The salaryman in his conservative black business suit walking silently in front of his wife, their two children obediently following behind. Giant pines tower around them. Snowflakes swirl in the breeze and drift into snow banks. The sun begins to set. Temperatures plummet below freezing. The family huddles together as the darkness descends, awaiting their inevitable fate.

It's a modern-day form of
seppuku
, the ancient ritual of suicide originally reserved for Samurai warriors who had failed a great task and therein lost face.
Seppuku
was an elaborate ritual performed in front of spectators. The Samurai would draw a sharp blade, called a
tantō
, from a finely designed gold sheath, and then plunge it into his abdomen, eviscerating himself. Through the courage of this act, “face” was posthumously regained.

When the news of the death-walk up Mt. Fuji spreads to Tokyo, many Japanese feel the salaryman has shown great courage and earned dignity for himself and his family. The tragedy provides the evidence I need to convince the producers that the story needs to be told. The report on Japan's economic bubble bursting—and the fallout from that—finally makes
Nightly News
.

As the story is picked up by global media, the bubble completely bursts. Throughout the country, suicide rates soar as Japan's economy collapses. Sadly, the ancient texts have been proven right again. Greed has taken a terrible toll. I can't help but think of the time in al-Amadiyah when I realized my small bottle of Tabasco, ball of twine, and pocketknife were all I needed, and catching a scrawny chicken would have made my day.

But I also wonder: Am I practicing my own form of
honne
and
tatemae
as I continue to hide the truth of my pain? The long travel distances while I'm on assignments in Asia have continued to test me and brought deeper pain to my back. Vicodin has lost some of its punch. I've doubled my dosages of Valium. I dissolve the pills under my tongue at various points throughout the day, and often take a few extra to feel relaxed. Still, I'm getting more and more uptight. I snap even more quickly at someone if they disagree with me or get in my way. I'm always embarrassed afterward, but then it happens again. By the end of any given day, all I can think about is a bottle of good wine, a hot bath, and another dose of drugs to help me sleep.

Poverty and Prosperity in the Philippines

Institutionalized crime, corruption, crushing poverty, pollution, and disease. They plague the third world, and the Philippines has them in spades. The capital city of Manila is huge, hectic, and hellish. It's 1992, and more than 11 million people live here, virtually on top of one another. Most of the country's wealth is held in the hands of the privileged few. There is hardly a middle class. Tens of thousands live in complete destitution. Many families are forced to find shelter beneath bridges or in abandoned buildings, or build shacks from whatever discarded materials they can scavenge. Typhoid, malaria, and dengue fever abound.

Smokey Mountain dumpsite is just outside Manila, in the hot and humid rolling hills and steep ravines of what was once tropical forest. The dump is enormous, with more than 2 million tons of waste decomposing at temperatures so high it frequently catches fire. Thick plumes of toxic smoke rise up from the smoldering filth,
which is how the dumpsite earned its name. The stench is so heavy it burns my nose and eyes.

Smokey Mountain is home to vultures, wild pigs, dogs, snakes, gigantic rats—and human beings. Scores of squatters live on its edges, surviving on what they can scavenge from the rubbish. They rush in like clockwork every time the gigantic Dumpsters arrive, competing for position as hydraulic motors lift the rusty collection bins into the sky and fetid trash comes raining down. Children clutching tattered plastic bags scurry beneath the legs of the adults and snatch what they can, stuffing it quickly away then dashing off to safety.

“Look, there! Those little kids. Focus on them!” I say to my crew the moment I spot the two smallest children in the dump. We catch them on camera in the middle of the crowd of scavengers as a line of huge trucks rumble in and disgorge their contents. The tiny pair are masters at quickly identifying anything of value, especially food that has yet to fully rot. They dart in, deftly seize a prize before any grown-ups can beat them to the punch, stuff it in their bags, and quickly make a swift and artful getaway.

We hurry after them as they retreat deeper into the dumpsite, clutching their bags of loot. Plumes of rancid smoke from embers of rotting trash rise up around them from beneath the porous surface. Hungry vultures stare from the branches of barren trees, beady eyes protruding from the ruddy skin of their featherless heads. Their sharp hooked white beaks, designed for tearing flesh from the bone, glisten in the hazy sun. A wild pig snorts and roots in the filth, pausing briefly to glance at the children with disdain.

Following these kids through Smokey Mountain is like watching little angels navigate Dante's inferno. Our presence makes them nervous and they speed up. Almost losing us, they dart down a steeper ravine, where the trash is more firmly compacted from aged, thick roots and grass shoots holding it together in steamy layers. Now they disappear into a small, musty cave they've clawed in the rubbish.

Once we catch up, we begin coaxing them out with the help of our interpreter. Eventually they come to the entrance and stare at us with caution. It takes time to gain their trust and learn their names.
Adalin is five years old. Her brother, Junaz, is barely four. Their ragged clothing is as filthy and fetid as everything else in the dump. Yet, despite the coat of oily sludge covering their faces, their gigantic, dark eyes and plump cheeks show through, making their beauty and innocence inescapable.

“Is this your home?” our interpreter asks my question in the native Filipino tongue of Tagalog.

“Yes,” Adalin says, quickly shoving something foul and gooey into her mouth. As we reassure them they've done nothing wrong and are not in trouble, they tell us more. We learn their mother died a few months ago, and they never knew a father.

“It's okay,” Adalin says defensively. “We are happy here.”

It's hard to believe these children have survived this long. I can't imagine them making it through the coming rainy season when the monsoon brings torrential rain and floods the ravines. As I think back on all the childhood comforts I enjoyed, it's nearly impossible to comprehend the tragedy of such destitution and hopelessness, especially when the victims are so young and innocent. Like Alejandro smoking his
basuco
in the dry Bolivian riverbed, I want to hold them in my arms, hug them closely, and take them home with me for a new life. Just as we finish filming, we hear the roar of more trucks arriving at the dump. Adalin and Junaz grab their plastic bags, slip past us, and scurry back into the inferno.

Smokey Mountain is a symbol of the immense poverty and suffering created under the regime of deceased dictator Ferdinand Marcos and is also a continuing source of national shame. When Marcos fled Malacañang Palace in 1986, his wife, Imelda, left behind 15 mink coats, 508 gowns, 1,000 handbags, and 3,000 pairs of shoes. She and her husband were reported to be worth 35 billion dollars, most of it from pocketing international aid. They enjoyed cozy relations with the CIA and American multinational companies that profited greatly from the Philippines' desperate work force and readily exploitable resources. Now, six years after their downfall, Imelda is returning to
run for president in what can only be characterized as an incredible act of hubris. I'm here to do background reports and cover her controversial return.

We're lodged in the historic Manila Hotel, a 500-room, five-star palace in the heart of the city. Priceless antiques are elegantly on display in its spacious ballrooms. Ceilings and walls are paneled with polished cherry-brown hardwood. Expansive foyers are lit with finely cut crystal chandeliers. Plush carpets patterned in burgundy and green designs accentuate shiny marble floors. In times past, this magnificent structure housed Ernest Hemingway, James Michener, and John Kennedy. The Imperial Japanese Army occupied it for a time during World War II. General Douglas MacArthur lived here from 1935 to 1941 as he waged his campaign against the Japanese.

To my delight, my suite is the very one MacArthur called home those seven years. Gazing off my wide veranda toward Manila Bay, I'm awestruck at the privilege of being here. Me, sleeping in General MacArthur's room, paid extremely well for work I would still do for free. But thinking back on where I was this morning, I'm reminded that precious few in Manila ever enjoy such luxury. As I use my pocketknife to scrape the filth of Smokey Mountain from the soles of my boots, I think of Adalin and Junaz peering out from their hole in the dump. The stark contrast to the opulence of my surroundings sends a surge of embarrassment through my bones.

NBC News keeps a permanent room here in the Manila Hotel, filled with editing equipment. Walking down the hall to view videotape after a day at the dump, I feel my back burning more intensely than usual. My legs start to feel like noodles again. I'm wobbling so much that I have to keep a hand on the wall to steady myself. It's been seven years of chronic pain. This pain, however, is new. It's not another ice pick attack. No, this time it's more subtle—yet much more overpowering. I can feel my whole body quivering with agony.

I'm sitting with my editor now, looking for scenes to add historical context to the story of Adalin and Junaz. We log video of workers laboring under the sweltering skies at plantations, homeless families living under bridges, children who look like they haven't eaten in weeks. We flash through file video of the downfall of Marcos:
huge crowds protesting at Malacañang. Imelda's high heels lined up beneath the mink coats in her massive closet. Police attacking demonstrators. I hear myself snapping at the editor to speed up, then I snap at him to slow down.

The pain in my body suddenly soars to a deeper level. The back of my neck is on fire. My arms throb and sting. Lightning bolts flash down my legs. The thick muscles along my spinal column spasm and knot. I grit my teeth and squirm on my chair, desperately seeking a comfortable posture. The images on the viewing screen start to blur. Then, as the edges of my peripheral vision turn dark, I feel something pop at the base of my spine. It's so excruciating it knocks me off my chair and onto the floor. I roll over to one side and scream like a wounded soldier. In this moment of agony, I finally realize the inescapable truth: The game is over. I plead to my producer, “Get me a doctor!”

He and the editor struggle to help me back to my room. I have to crawl most of the way down the corridor. I can barely climb onto the bed. I beg someone to bring my travel kit from the bathroom, fumble to open the Vicodin and Valium, pour several pills into my mouth, chew them into a pulp, and gulp them down with a glass of water from the nightstand. Then I curl up in a fetal knot. As I wait for the drugs to kick in, I can't understand it. After all the rigorous challenges in mountains and deserts, war zones, and riots, my back gives out while I'm sitting on a padded chair in a luxury hotel.

I wait for the doctor to come. Ten minutes goes by. Twenty. I keep waiting, moaning out loud while forcing myself not to scream. Thirty. Forty. It's an hour before a local physician arrives and gives me a shot of morphine, choosing the same shoulder I almost chose long ago in al-Amadiyah when I nearly shot myself up. The plan is to stabilize me, get back to Hong Kong, and take it from there. I'm woozy and disoriented as two hotel employees help me out to the front of the hotel and into a waiting limo, laying me across the backseat. The driver speeds to the airport, where a wheelchair is waiting. Thanks to
our local “fixers,” who are masters at working the system, I'm rolled to the front of the line at customs and an official quickly stamps my passport with barely a glance. Before I know it, I'm lifted onto a commercial jetliner for the long trip back to Hong Kong. A minute later and I would have missed the flight. I can't remember the rest of the trip home.