(Philippine Refugee Processing Center, Bataan, 1985,
since destroyed in the eruption of Mt. Pinatubo)
. . . for Roel, my driver
He would squat in the shade
All day beside a hulk
Hoisted off some beach
Where boat people had run
Aground. Brushing away
Children from the local
Village come to beg, he
Would gossip with a Khmer,
Or Lao, or Vietnamese.
While I did my research
With tapes and interviews,
He did his own less formal
Kind. Sly inquisitor,
He led his subject on
With simple English
Sentences, a smiling
Dumb-show for the rest,
Talking of unimportant
Things at first, thus drawing
Out more serious concerns.
Later, he would tell me
Of this one or that who had
Come to pass the time
With him, telling a tale
Of dark beach rendezvous,
Gold passing hand to hand,
Fear, hunger, pirates, storms,
Relief of gaining land.
One man told of giant
Fish with giant fins who
Rode beside their boat like
Guardian ancestors.
Another said a gull
Soared in the wind before
Their boat thirteen full
Days, guiding them to shore.
Now he came each morning
With bags of rice and crumbs
To feed the gulls here in
The main square of the camp.
Meeting me one evening
With the car, Roel seemed down.
"What's up" ? He sighed.
"Ma'am, these are lucky ones.
America to them
says, Come. To us, so poor,
it shakes its head.
Even, Ma'am, the children
From Morong, my mother's
Village, come here every
Day to beg for rice and
Pesos from these refugees.
Oh, Ma'am, if only I . . .'
I winced, held out my hand.
"Roel, please don't. Don't cry."
But now here came the beggar
Children shouting down
The track. He slid apologetic
Eyes away and turned
A stiff, disowning back.
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