MANILA NIGHTFALL

It must have been around nine or ten at night when a much older friend and I stepped out of the Jai-Alai fronton at Taft Avenue. My left-hand pocket was sort of bulging from my evening’s winning. I was never gifted with odd making, but my winnings were courtesy of some hangers on at the fronton. Only a short time since becoming an amateur, word soon got out that my sponsor to join the fronton's rank as amateur was one of Manila Jai-Alai's major stockholders; the wife of whom was a very close friend of my mother.

And for those professional players lingering in the dreaded purgatory — on suspension for having been caught as party to game fixing — an option to have it lifted and get reinstated is to befriend someone connected to an owner. No guarantees, of course; only hope to get back to the swing of things in this lucrative profession. And so through whispered allusions from a select group of hangers on, I soon learned the nuances of various hand and body signals used by the players while warming up. Interpreted properly, such gestures could yield a substantial windfall, indeed.

And on that particular night, coming out of Jai-Alai at Taft Avenue, the usual plan was to head over to Aristocrat Restaurant for a chicken barbeque and rice meal while enjoying some live bossa nova music played on one of those Yamaha organs with bass pedals on the floor. As my friend and I looked for a taxi, suddenly, there was a burst of gunfire which could only come from a machine gun. I turned to look at a wall up behind me to see the dotted line the bullets pierced.

More gunshots followed. My friend pushed me to the ground for safety, but I fell forward so awkwardly that I ended getting dirt in my mouth. The police were chasing some demonstrators from the U.S. Embassy; most of whom ran through Rizal Park towards Taft Avenue where the Jai-Alai fronton was. As the melee subsided we hurriedly got a cab to get us out of there and straight home as quickly as possible.

An hour or so later after getting home, there was a blackout in most parts of the city, including our neighborhood. Rumors circulated thereafter that the blackout served a sinister purpose: under the cover of darkness, some militant youths were being abducted from their homes. This series of events heralded a turbulent time spurred by the beginning of Marcos’ second term in office.

A couple of days after that gunfire incident, at about five in the morning, before I left our house for my Jai-Alai training session, I grabbed my passport and slipped it inside my backpack. And right after the training session that morning, I walked over to the U.S. Embassy dressed casually in my white T-shirt, denim jeans and sneakers. Slung over my shoulder was my backpack of sweaty clothes; with my right hand was my Jai-Alai cesta. The embassy had just opened that morning and I was directed to the office for visa application. I was suprised how unusually uncrowded the embassy was on that particular day.

I filled-out a form, slipped it between the pages of my passport, and dropped it in a tray. Within about five minutes, my name was called. The embassy vice consul behind the window looked at me from head to toe as I approached his window, and stared a moment at my cesta.

“Why do you want to go to America?” he asked.

“No special reason — a high school gift from my father before he died.”

He scribbled something on a piece of paper and without looking at me said, “Okay, have a seat. You may even go upstairs to the cafeteria for breakfast if you want to. This will take a few minutes."

And just liket that, in less than a couple of minutes my interview was over.

“Thanks!” I told him as I walked over to the stairs leading to the second floor cafeteria, which was practically deserted. I had a hamburger and fries. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I finished the meal. Wanting some more fries, I got up to order another. But as I was fumbling for some loose change, the stout Filipina cashier took a closer look at me and asked for my ID.

“An ID? But you didn’t ask for one earlier,” I argued as if her earlier oversight won me cafeteria privileges for life.

“You’re not a dependent are you?” she asked with brows furrowed.

“Why do you ask?”

“Polo player maybe, but a Jai-Alai player? They have no balls,” she said leaning her head forward and then letting out a hearty laugh.

She charged me for the fries but gave me a refill on my coke for free. She then told me that embassy staff members, American citizens, U.S. military personnel and their dependents were the only ones allowed in the cafeteria. But since it was a vice consul that told me to go up there, she considered me the guy’s guest.

When I went back down to the visa application office, the interviewer waved me over to his window. He handed me my passport with a U.S. visa stamped on it and dryly bid me a safe trip.

My mother was completely astounded when I showed it to her when I got home. During the past few months, she and Fraulein had been preparing the necessary papers for me to present when applying for a U.S. student visa, which was supposedly scheduled in another month or so. But there I was with a passport and a tourist visa. Told her I would just apply for a change of status — from a tourist to a student — once in the States.

Many people I would later talk to about my stroke of luck in securing a U.S. visa quite easily would have their respective take on it. Personally, not that I possessed hypnotic charms, but I could only attribute it to God’s will; plain and simple. Ironically, the concept of God according to my indoctrination to Catholicism, I had already cursed out of my consciousness due to an overwhelming angst I was deeply harboring at that time.

My last view of Manila’s horizon was similar to the photograph above as my Air France flight took off from Manila International Airport and headed towards Tokyo, a couple of weeks after getting my visa.

There were very few passengers on board; no one was seated next to me or the entire row along mine so I cried without embarrassment. I knew I was leaving many friends behind and may never see any ever again. Most were under the impression that I would only be away a few months.

None of them, including my relatives and immediate family members realized the severe depression I was suffering from since the death of my father; an experience akin to a spiritual death it was. Had I stayed in Manila, I would have literally killed myself slowly without my even knowing about it.

I terribly missed my father but the culture that nurtured me as a youth didn't allow me to even admit it.

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This entry was inspired both by the photograph I took of our massive flag at Baywalk set against a Manila Bay sunset (featured above) and Noemi’s entry, The Taboo on Grief and the Filipino Culture.

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