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But those days were long gone. Legazpi Mines now belonged to the government.


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Duan rubbed the bruised calf of his leg where the Spaniard had kicked him. They are monkey people. Bat people. But they climb and jump better than I can. I do not lie. He lunged at Duan as if about to kick him again, then stopped himself. Both men stared at each other, breathing heavily. Zamora spoke after a long silence. Then you must promise to leave me alone with them.

There were no trails, just clumps of thorny bush and vines, trickles of waterfall, walls of rocks and trees. The shrieking of birds and monkeys filled the air. The journey would take at least another four to six hours, Duan informed Zamora. Maybe ten.

Animal Farm By George Orwell

The thick mud made the going excruciatingly slow. It started to rain, gently at first. The steady patter of raindrops grew into a roar as the forest darkened.

Commission on Filipinos Overseas

Zamora and Duan huddled together in the rotted-out cavity of a colossal tree trunk, forced to wait until the downpour ceased. The rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Zamora and Duan crept out of the makeshift shelter, carefully wending their way through the dense, thorny bush until they reached a small clearing. Zamora collapsed on the muddy jungle floor and flung out his arms in joyful surrender. All that green. Humid, pulsating, unforgiving, alive with predators and scavengers.

Zamora heard the triumphant screech of a monkey-eating eagle, imagined it pouncing on a startled tarsier. A yellow python uncoiled—swallowing an unsuspecting cloud rat, then a furious, screaming wild pig. He blinked in wonder as they fattened and gorged on his blood. Trees towered two hundred feet above him— Kekem, lunay, nabul, balete.

A tingling in the loins, a fire in the belly you can only imagine. Ilang-ilang, waling-waling. Pungent perfume of wild, monstrous lilies and orchids in bloom. Pungent perfume of heaven, stink of fungus and mildew, bed of earth. Voracious green of dampness and rot.

Dream Jungle

Green that lulled but also excited, green of exhaustion and thorns. Enchanted green of Lorca the poet. Ominous green of Mindanao rain forest. Zamora would gladly die here, alone.

The Filipino Revolution

Just hours ago his knockout Teutonic goddess of a wife had sat up in bed and yelled out his name. She caught him just as he was about to sneak off in the gray light of dawn. What is so important? Sonny, his bodyguard, waited to drive him to the heliport. Sorry, baby. Gotta go. His name uttered again. This time softly. She turned away as he approached the bed. But instead he left the room and fled down the stairs. Celia stood by the front door, ready with his bag and a thermos of black coffee. Good morning, sir. Her face betrayed nothing—though surely she had heard it all, heard Ilse railing at him just moments ago.

He raised his voice. Zamora did not regret intimidating her. Her discomfort and unease excited him. He owed her a visit.

He had not visited her in a long time, and he missed her. Celia was the yaya in charge of his infant son. She belonged to him.

She was ordinary-looking but young, with lovely, burnished skin and a taut body. At first Celia used to run and hide from him. It became a game with them, even after the night Zamora took her to the poolhouse and deflowered her. Celia was seventeen then; she is nineteen now.

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She once made the mistake of daring to say she loved him. Minamahal kita. It amused Zamora to watch Celia, in her nervousness and haste, fumble with the lock on the front door. She finally got it open. The Mercedes idled in the driveway, Sonny at the wheel. Zamora stepped out into the rising heat. If only you were here. Fire ants swarm across my face, minuscule spiders bite through the cloth of my pants, I feel eyes.

Not animal or insect eyes, but human eyes peering through the leaves at me.