Everyone in the Philippines is armed. Every store, factory, warehouse, restaurant, and pet shop has a uniformed guard out front. Actually, I haven't been to the pet store yet, as I don't want to see what I am probably eating. Each guard is strapping either a crappy looking wheelgun or a well worn 12 gauge pistol grip pump gun on a sling. I take that back. Not all the guards carry a gun. But they do all have a holster, even if it is empty. And six bullets snugged each into a little leather loop on his belt, cowboy style. Even the guys without pistols carry the six bullets. Perhaps, in the event of a large gun battle, they anticipate a fellow guard's need for spare ammo? My favorite is the boatyard guard who only has four of his six bullets. Maybe he misplaced them? Loaned them out to a friend in need? Did he already use two of those things on somebody today? Whatever the reason, I straighten up around that guy.
The guards come in two flavors: white uniform and blue uniform. All the uniforms are so similar in style as to be indistinguishable from one another; perhaps there is a central armed guard uniform distribution center somewhere in the city? The unis are pretty snappy, actually; fancy gold badges and buttons, a whistle, epaulets, name tags, embroidery. Just the right combination of flash and paramilitary style to let you know you're in the former sovereign state of Ferdi and Imelda.
There are several armed guards on rotation at the shipyard. There is always a guy at the gate, usually one wandering around the yard, and one on our boat, I guess to make sure that the yard workers don't make off with any of the big stuff. Normally they just stand around getting in the way, but several times as I have been struggling to get a large load of something up the two stories of stairs to get on the boat, or I am staggering around a corner with something unwieldy, the boat guard is the only one paying enough attention to lend a hand, as everyone else is engrossed in burning, cutting, grinding, sanding, or hammering something. Except that one kid who wanders the boat forlornly with the hame made broom, tackling the Sisyphean task of sweeping up, in face of the fact that forty dirty dudes with power tools and arc welders are just going to continue thrashing it day in and out.
Most of the yard guards are quite friendly and unimposing, all smiles and good cheer. I guess it is easy to be happy when your job is to stand around and watch as others around you sandblast, heft sheet steel, and haul the effluent dregs of assorted waste tanks in old paint buckets. There is one exception, a dour, serious looking fellow I have yet to see crack a smile. Whereas I will mug and goof off at some of the other hard cases around the boat until they smile, this guy, the armed guy, I leave to his own cranky devices. Instead of wearing a holster, he just sticks his revolver down the front of his pants, mobster style. Maybe the source of his unhappiness stems from his lack of a holster. Let’s face it, even the guys without guns have a holster.
So the other day I climbed down the scaffolding from the boat to find my crew in a tight little knot around one of the guards. Isn't it funny that boys up to no good, when gathered in a group, always appear the same, no matter their age, maturity level and surroundings? Since I like to be up to no good myself, I climbed down and stuck in my nose.
One of my friends was holding a chromed Smith and Wesson .357 revolver that the guard was trying to unload. Neat. Can I see? Wow. Feels light. And loose. Flimsy. Almost...shoddy. You did say this was a Smith, right? Yep, says so right there on the barrel. Wait a minute...Are those letters...routered? Because they are a little off. What about the stamp on the other side? Hmmm. Shows uneven fading and again, like the letters, something just isn't right. Let's take a closer look at this thing. Well, nothing fits snugly, the trigger is mushy, The wood grips are hand carved, the cylinder fit is sloppy, I'm pretty sure this is some sort of poorly chromed alloy instead of steel, and, oh my, the cross hatching on the end of the ejector rod, is that done by hand? Did you make this in your basement?
Turns out that bogus handguns are just as prevalent as pirated movies in this country. I told my Chuukese friend Madison that if he bought the gun 'for his cousin' as he was contemplating, I would pistol whip him with it. Not much of a threat considering that the thing would probably fall apart.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Where There's Smoke...
…There’s probably a small Filipino man swathed like a ninja, smoking a butt, sporting fake Ray-Bans, wielding an oxy-propane cutting torch, burning what would seem to be important hunks of steel off the boat.
34
I tried to keep 34 low key. I didn’t mention it to anyone. Somehow they knew, perhaps from my passport. No one really said anything until lunch. We were eating at a Japanese place. I stepped across the way to buy some treats for the boys at the bakeshop, not really intending to state the reason. When I returned, I was presented with a special dish, the Fruits of the Looms Salad. Don’t ask why in the world it was called that; many things get lost in translation out here. I had been craving fresh greens and salads on the crossing, so this is what the boys opted to order.
The salad was tasty, but the best part by far was the singing. Here I am trying to be low profile about the day (no one wants to make the birthday boy take the hatches off the poopie tank, and I, as the new guy, am not looking for special treatment), and I turn around to find the entire Filipino staff massed behind me to sing happy birthday. Imagine the Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra scene in Christmas Story and you will get a good idea. The rendition was so outstandingly bad that they stopped in the middle, started over, got to the middle again, and pretty much gave up. As lunch continued, we could hear them in the back practicing for the next time some dirty white dude came in for a birthday. Each of them individually came up to me afterwards and said, “Happy Birthday, sir.” It was very touching and most memorable.
Then I went back to the boat and took the hatches off the poopie tanks.
The salad was tasty, but the best part by far was the singing. Here I am trying to be low profile about the day (no one wants to make the birthday boy take the hatches off the poopie tank, and I, as the new guy, am not looking for special treatment), and I turn around to find the entire Filipino staff massed behind me to sing happy birthday. Imagine the Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra scene in Christmas Story and you will get a good idea. The rendition was so outstandingly bad that they stopped in the middle, started over, got to the middle again, and pretty much gave up. As lunch continued, we could hear them in the back practicing for the next time some dirty white dude came in for a birthday. Each of them individually came up to me afterwards and said, “Happy Birthday, sir.” It was very touching and most memorable.
Then I went back to the boat and took the hatches off the poopie tanks.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Land Ho
I wonder if Macarthur felt this way when he steamed into the Gulf of Leyte. Somehow I don’t see him as shirtless and blasting Golden Earring, but who knows, maybe he was into that sort of thing. Anyways, we’re here; spent yesterday cruising through passes between Philippine Islands. Dodged every size boat from outrigger canoes with two stroke engines to big car ferries last night on the ten to two, moving from the radar to the binoculars to the tiller to make sure we were on course, not of the collision variety.
Arrived in Cebu this morning and squeezed into a drydocking facility. The shipyard is…functional. Ought to be interesting to spend the next month or so here. I’m not going to use the word squalor. Wait, yes I am. Shanty shacks of rusted corrugated and discarded boat fragments along the drydock slips serve for cooking, eating, and maybe some sleeping. A fine sheen of some petroleum product floats atop the water, and assorted garbage collects upon the banks, but that does not stop folks from bathing, washing clothes, and scrubbing their teeth in it. I am getting a bit ill typing this and thinking about it, actually. Dogs roam the shipyard making out as best they can. A guard tower consisting of a tin shack affixed atop a rusted water tower gives the armed guard sweltering inside a commanding view of the area where our boat is tied. Other boats are moored along the edges of the slip, and maneuvering within the strict confines is a tight squeeze. We pull up right behind a military patrol boat that has completed repairs and is getting ready to leave the yard, already bristling with guns and a new coat of navy grey paint.
The most striking feature about the yard is its workers. As we squeezed past other boats under repair, work ceased and heads poked out along the shoreline, the shanty shacks, the assorted decks of the large ferry boat under repair beside us, including, most comically, a hole cut out of the hull near the waterline. I got the impression that I was being scrutinized by a clan of thrift store ninjas. The workers are, of course, Filipino, but you cannot tell by the way they are done up. Most of them wear a t-shirt on their head, by poking their head through the head hole and tying the sleeves behind the head, allowing the body of the shirt to gather around the neck. They complete the look by pulling the bottom part of the t-shirt’s head hole over nose and mouth, exposing only the eyes, which many of them cover with sunglasses. The idea is to provide some protection from the sun and assorted dangers of the shipyard.
Said dangers are myriad. This place is not, repeat not OSHA approved. Welding grinding, cutting, painting, winching, scaffolding, hoisting all occurs with a lack of protection that would make an American job safety manager go apoplectic. No ventilators, hearing protection, eye protection beyond cheap plastic shades, or steel toed shoes. There are some hard hats around, but for the most part, a t-shirt on the head ninja style suffices. That is not to say that these guys are careless or in considerable danger, just that things aren’t run to stringent U.S. standards. Part of the reason we’re here, I guess.
Into Each Life...
…A little rain must fall. Luckily it was not accompanied by eight to ten foot swells. The sea stayed surprisingly calm. Despite the fact that the ship was heeling over due to the intense wind, she plugged along at a steady 9.5 knot speed, unhindered by the sheets of rain hitting the boat sideways. First inclement weather we’ve seen. Happened to be on my watch, and I was glad of it, as, after we got through it, we were treated to an excellent lightning show that lasted for hours. The whole sky would light up every minute or so. Some of the flashes were far enough and high enough that they were indistinct and just lit up the distant clouds. Others were low enough that they were vivid bolts unwinding across the sky in horizontal discharge patterns that left afterimages like Chinese dragons on my retinas. Under the sway of Mike the mechanic’s favorite band, I cued up AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck”, pulled my chair outside, and marveled at the show. Better than commercial T.V. by a long shot.
Reciprocation
Never in the history of hand held work implements has there been a tool more aptly named than the reciprocating saw. For those not familiar with this device, also know as a sawzall, it is a hand held tool, either battery operated or in this case 220v wall plug driven, with a blade projecting out of the front. When activated, the motor retracts the blade into the body of the tool and then forces it out to its original position on a straight line, thus reciprocating. It will do this as long as you hold down the trigger. Fast. Different jobs and intended cutting material call for different types of blades.
For the last four days straight, I have been burning through heavy duty fire/rescue metal cutting blades like wine coolers at a high school house party, trimming about an inch width of quarter inch thick plate steel all the way around every exterior door frame hole in the superstructure of the Odyssey to make room for new, wider doors. Thirteen of them. I won’t go into the math, but trust me and my now constantly vibrating hands when I say that this is a lot of plate steel.
It was around the third day that I began to formulate an understanding of and develop a relationship with the saw. With my back to hundreds of miles of clear blue ocean and sunlight, my face to the task of cutting steel, the edges of a theory became tangible. Not so much a theory as a simple truth.
The reciprocating saw does exactly that. It reciprocates. Yes, on a basic mechanical yank the blade back and forth at a thousand RPMs level it reciprocates, but also on a deeper, more metaphorical level. The reciprocal saw gives back to you what you give to it. I know this sounds corny, but I’ve had four days of hard sawing to consider it.
I’ve always claimed that the reciprocating saw was my favorite power tool. I think I was in love more with the idea of the saw than the actual use of it: a portable tool that hacks through metal. It appealed to my petty larcenous high school hijinks tendencies, and it was handy for light demolition work; deconstructing, if you will. Pick it up, plug it in, cut through a pesky nail or framing two by four at an odd angle, impractical to reach with a less maneuverable tool. Somewhat unique amongst power tools in the free form, swashbuckling way you can wave it around, use it upside down, push cut, pull cut, curve or angle the cut. A power tool wild card. Handy for a short, finite job.
There’s nothing short or finite about enlarging a hole in plate steel, millimeter by millimeter. Or thirteen of them. Thus, through hours, days of constant companionship with the reciprocating saw, I began to understand just how aptly named it is, and my theory was born and verified.
In the beginning I was eager and sloppy, and the saw responded in kind, wandering all over the place and jumping about in my novice hands. When I say jumping I mean that, as the saw retracts and then springs forward again, if you have pulled it out of the cut or bent the blade at an odd angle, when the blade tries to shoot forward again, it will not return to the cut but ricochet the whole tool back at whatever body part you are holding behind it at the time.
It only took a few instances of this to pass from the eager sloppy phase to the nervous jumpy phase. Again the saw picked up on my mood, giving me reason to be nervous, heating up through continuous usage to temperatures necessitating a thick leather glove, pelting me with hot metal shrapnel, and, as mentioned before, eagerly jumping backwards at me when I mishandled it. Scary.
On to the angry, aggressive phase of the learning curve. Determined to dominate the saw, I began mashing and pressing, forcing it into the metal until the motor slowed and protested. Sparks and smoke flew, the stench of hot metal permeated the air, and saw blades dulled at an alarming rate. Progress was, unfortunately, no faster, fatigue was higher, and the extra force applied made not only for wasted blades but the sloppy cutting of a second grader marked down for not staying in the lines. Mike the Mechanic sighed when he saw my work and, in his wonderful, broken English, he asked me, rhetorically, I think, “Why you cut this one like this way? Now too wide for door. Who this guy cut like this?”
On the third day, the seeds of harmony were sown. A beautiful morning, a new blade, a fresh arm, and a positive outlook all combined to give me the patience to pay attention to the saw, listen to it, let it guide me. Light, steady pressure, a firm but not overzealous grip, and the blade followed the line by itself. If I started bending the blade, the saw gave me hints; by paying attention to them I was able to get back on track before the whole saw came jumping back at my face. By the fourth day, the saw was even showing me sweet spots where it liked to be held to cut the most efficiently. It was reciprocating. Zen metal cutting.
Things were going so well by this time that I had trouble relinquishing it to anyone else so they could take a turn with it. I was becoming possessive, protective, covetous. In fact, I wonder where that thing is right now…
For the last four days straight, I have been burning through heavy duty fire/rescue metal cutting blades like wine coolers at a high school house party, trimming about an inch width of quarter inch thick plate steel all the way around every exterior door frame hole in the superstructure of the Odyssey to make room for new, wider doors. Thirteen of them. I won’t go into the math, but trust me and my now constantly vibrating hands when I say that this is a lot of plate steel.
It was around the third day that I began to formulate an understanding of and develop a relationship with the saw. With my back to hundreds of miles of clear blue ocean and sunlight, my face to the task of cutting steel, the edges of a theory became tangible. Not so much a theory as a simple truth.
The reciprocating saw does exactly that. It reciprocates. Yes, on a basic mechanical yank the blade back and forth at a thousand RPMs level it reciprocates, but also on a deeper, more metaphorical level. The reciprocal saw gives back to you what you give to it. I know this sounds corny, but I’ve had four days of hard sawing to consider it.
I’ve always claimed that the reciprocating saw was my favorite power tool. I think I was in love more with the idea of the saw than the actual use of it: a portable tool that hacks through metal. It appealed to my petty larcenous high school hijinks tendencies, and it was handy for light demolition work; deconstructing, if you will. Pick it up, plug it in, cut through a pesky nail or framing two by four at an odd angle, impractical to reach with a less maneuverable tool. Somewhat unique amongst power tools in the free form, swashbuckling way you can wave it around, use it upside down, push cut, pull cut, curve or angle the cut. A power tool wild card. Handy for a short, finite job.
There’s nothing short or finite about enlarging a hole in plate steel, millimeter by millimeter. Or thirteen of them. Thus, through hours, days of constant companionship with the reciprocating saw, I began to understand just how aptly named it is, and my theory was born and verified.
In the beginning I was eager and sloppy, and the saw responded in kind, wandering all over the place and jumping about in my novice hands. When I say jumping I mean that, as the saw retracts and then springs forward again, if you have pulled it out of the cut or bent the blade at an odd angle, when the blade tries to shoot forward again, it will not return to the cut but ricochet the whole tool back at whatever body part you are holding behind it at the time.
It only took a few instances of this to pass from the eager sloppy phase to the nervous jumpy phase. Again the saw picked up on my mood, giving me reason to be nervous, heating up through continuous usage to temperatures necessitating a thick leather glove, pelting me with hot metal shrapnel, and, as mentioned before, eagerly jumping backwards at me when I mishandled it. Scary.
On to the angry, aggressive phase of the learning curve. Determined to dominate the saw, I began mashing and pressing, forcing it into the metal until the motor slowed and protested. Sparks and smoke flew, the stench of hot metal permeated the air, and saw blades dulled at an alarming rate. Progress was, unfortunately, no faster, fatigue was higher, and the extra force applied made not only for wasted blades but the sloppy cutting of a second grader marked down for not staying in the lines. Mike the Mechanic sighed when he saw my work and, in his wonderful, broken English, he asked me, rhetorically, I think, “Why you cut this one like this way? Now too wide for door. Who this guy cut like this?”
On the third day, the seeds of harmony were sown. A beautiful morning, a new blade, a fresh arm, and a positive outlook all combined to give me the patience to pay attention to the saw, listen to it, let it guide me. Light, steady pressure, a firm but not overzealous grip, and the blade followed the line by itself. If I started bending the blade, the saw gave me hints; by paying attention to them I was able to get back on track before the whole saw came jumping back at my face. By the fourth day, the saw was even showing me sweet spots where it liked to be held to cut the most efficiently. It was reciprocating. Zen metal cutting.
Things were going so well by this time that I had trouble relinquishing it to anyone else so they could take a turn with it. I was becoming possessive, protective, covetous. In fact, I wonder where that thing is right now…
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