Warrior Pose

by Brad Willis

  The only hard evidence I have for this economic crisis is an interview with an American economic expert in Tokyo documenting increased layoffs, widespread psychological depression, and a growing rate of suicide. I’ve been pitching the story on the morning conference calls with 30 Rock for days. No takers, everyone wants more texture and some definitive proof, and all I get is tatemae. Finally, in a small article buried in a newspaper from Shizuoka Prefecture on the foothills of Mount Fuji, a tragic confirmation: A salaryman who lost his job walked up into the deep snows of the mountain with his wife and two young children. They never returned. They chose death rather than public humiliation and loss of face.

  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 rep
orts 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.

  When I wake up in my bed the following morning, I feel like a tank rolled over me. My head is spinning, and the pain is overwhelming me again. I reach for my pants on the floor, fumble with the pockets, and find the vial of morphine tablets the Manila doctor gave me. I swallow one, then curl up on my side, gazing out my bedroom windows at the Hong Kong skyline as the drug kicks in. I can hear my breath sounding slower and louder than usual as a woozy sensation of pleasure floods my whole body. The city begins to blur, and I slip into a coma-like haze.

  CHAPTER 12

  Fusion

  SAN DIEGO has long been a mecca for sports medicine and some of the best back surgeons practice there. It’s also where my two sisters and mother live, and they have found a top neurosurgeon and arranged for me to have an emergency evaluation and immediate surgery. It’s going to be a long, tough flight out of Hong Kong, and the pain is so deep that, even after five days of bed rest, I don’t see how I’m going to make it. I shake the morphine vial. Plenty of pills. I’ll have to medicate myself all the way.

  My current girlfriend, an American named Pamela, has been living with me here in Hong Kong for more than six months. I’ve been on the road so much that we’ve hardly seen one another. I down three morphine pills as she helps me get ready for the trip. Then I cinch my elastic brace as tight as I can get it around my lower back and limp out the front door, with an arm over Pamela’s shoulder for support, as our driver pulls up in the bureau’s old Mercedes to take me to Hong Kong International Airport.

  Halfway there, I’m so doped up I throw up out the back window the entire way. I’m still in a stupor as they put me in another wheelchair and push me to the boarding gate, where I say good-bye to Pamela. A flight attendant helps me into a first-class seat for a seventeen-hour flight to San Diego. Sitting next to me is a glamorous American fashion model who just finished a photo shoot in Asia. As we gain altitude, she leans over and says, “Excuse me, I recognize you from the news. I’m sorry to mention it, but you don’t look so well. Are you okay?”

  I’d love to be a fascinating flight companion and engage her in spellbinding conversation, but I can’t even sit up straight. I begin to slur a polite response, and then suddenly become sick again, all over both of us. Flight attendants rush to the rescue. I lapse into another haze.

  An acrid stench, like there’s something dead in the room, forces me awake in the early light of dawn. It takes a few minutes to realize it’s me, smelling almost as foul as I did after months in the Gulf without a shower or change of clothing. My mouth tastes like Smokey Mountain dump. My temples are pounding, and I feel like my head might explode. Where am I?

  As I squint at the room and try to focus, it looks like a quaint bed-and-breakfast, with dark oak antique dressers and nightstands, a flowered quilt, fluffy throw pillows, and powder blue walls. Every muscle in my body aches. My lower back is screaming. My left leg alternates between complete numbness and throbbing pain. Where am I?

  Slowly, it all begins to come back to me: collapsing in Manila; throwing up all over someone during the flight from Hong Kong; my sister Valerie picking me up at the international airport in San Diego. I’m in the guest room of her historic home in Coronado, a small island in San Diego Bay connected to the mainland by a gently curving blue bridge. I have two siblings, Valerie and Pam. Both live here in Coronado. My mother, Doris, is here as well. It has long felt like home base to me even though I only lived here briefly between the jobs in Dallas and Boston.

  I can barely get out of bed. Groggy. Dizzy. My back on fire. Nauseated. Everything blurry. Hobbling to the bathroom for a drink of water, I have to steady myself by holding the wall, the
n the doorframe, now the sink. Dry heaves. My head is pounding. I grab a toothbrush from a porcelain rack on the wall, squish a load of toothpaste into my mouth, and brush like crazy, but I can’t get the terrible taste to go away. Then I run a hot bath. My back is so shot it’s a struggle to get into the wide tub. Drying off and dressing myself afterward is a Herculean task. If I weren’t still so stoned on morphine it would be impossible, but the drug also makes me feel woozy, off-kilter. That reminds me: Take another pill. The nightstand. My wallet. The pill jar. One or two? Two.

  We have an appointment to see a surgeon at the Neurosurgical Medical Clinic in San Diego, so after breakfast, which I can barely eat, Valerie helps me into her car. As we cross the Coronado Bridge, a sense of emptiness drags me down, like gravity might pull me right through the floorboard. My thoughts usually spin a mile a minute, but now my mind is an empty void and there’s a dull ringing in my ears. I’m trying to be jovial but can’t stay with the conversation. I catch myself staring into space like a zombie.

  At the doctor’s office I can barely pull myself onto the exam table for an X-ray. Afterward, my sister and I wait in a lobby while a technician reads the results. I hurt so much that I have to fold my head down toward my lap and grit my teeth while we wait for the doctor. “You’re going to be okay,” Valerie says in her usual upbeat and loving way as she reaches for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. I just grunt, trying not to be sick again. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, we’re ushered into the surgeon’s office.

  Dr. Sam Assam is silver-haired and dignified, like an actor playing a seasoned physician on one of NBC’s prime-time drama series. I hear my words slurring as I slowly tell him the whole story; the slip from the ledge, the years of pain, the medications, the snap in my back as I sat in the Manila Hotel. I spare him details of the scene I caused on the airplane.