How I Got My Knife

I lusted after my landlord's machete, or bolo knife, as machetes are called in the Philippines. There was always a bolo lying about to cut one's way through the lush undergrowth, or open a coconut, or butcher a goat. I loved the long sinuous curve of the blade and the feel of the handle carved from the black horn of a water buffalo. It was a knife with heft, with gravitas. A weapon to warn off pesky salesmen.

I was told a Filipino bolo would never rust because it was made from iron mined near the surface. But I could not find a bolo knife in the local stores. My landlord Adring said I would have to wait till the feast day of St. Anthony to buy a bolo knife. What? The nearest town was named San Antonio. They held their annual festival on St. Anthony's feast day, when itinerant merchants would make their way to San Antonio. That wouldn't happen for a few months, but Adring said I could borrow his. He also promised to go to the festival with me to make sure I got a good price.

I was living in the Philippines in the early seventies, not by choice, but at the behest of my commander-in-chief, Richard Nixon. I worked at a little Navy communications station facing the South China Sea, trying to get dirt on the North Vietnamese. That's all I’ll say about that. It was all very hush-hush. I worked a rotating schedule of two days, two evenings, and two nights with three days off. As a lowly enlisted man, my home was a bunk on the third floor of a large barracks. Tall palm trees waved outside my louvered windows.

Living on a U.S. base in a developing country was like living in a minimum security prison. It wasn't bad, but snce we were free to come and go, some friends and I rented the upstairs of a house out in the barrio. That's how I got a landlord. Adring was great. In fact the Philippine people as a whole are the friendliest, most cheerful group I've ever met. Parents never used physical discipline on their children. Someone told me that when a child misbehaved, he or she was shamed by his or her elders until he or she straightened up. It seemed to work well. Everyone was happy. But the newspapers carried daily stories of murder and mayhem. It was a country of  few rich and many poor, always a recipe for violence.

Back to my bolo knife. My time in the Philippines was coming to an end, but I still didn't have my own knife. The war was going so well that the president said I could go home six months early. Some friends organized a farewell party down on the beach not far from our house. There were open bamboo shelters where the food was set and where people lounged after a dip in the warm sea. There was a goodly mix of Americans and Filipinos, several of whom I had never met before. The food was good, the beer was flowing. One contingent was passing around a marijuana cigarette. Suddenly a young Filipina women was screaming that her wallet was missing. She said she had left it on the bench and now it was gone. Everyone started looking around the shelter and under the benches.

After a bit, one of the Filipino guys said he had to go. As he waved goodby, his jacket fell open and the girl's wallet fell out. As she gathered it up, she said "Mahiya," the Filipino word for shame. The alleged thief tried to explain that he must have picked it up accidentally. No one believed him. He stood there abashed, ashamed. Suddenly he snapped and picked up the ever-present bolo knife and began swinging it wildly. There's not a lot you can do when someone's wildly swinging a bolo knife in your face. But one brave soul caught him from behind, and wrestled the knife away. The thief ran off into the jungle.

That put a damper on my party. Everyone was upset. We gathered up our things and walked back to the house. I felt a bit dispirited by the abrupt end of my party and by seeing a bolo knife pass before my eyes. Darkness falls quickly in the tropics and I decided to go to bed early. As I dozed off, I heard a big crash, followed by yelling and the sound of running feet, in that order. Adring came to our door. "That was______." I forget the name of the thief. I had never met him before.
"He's acting crazy. The men are looking for him. Everyone is angry. Lock your door."

Were they angry at us? I knew there was an undercurrent of resentment against the American influence in the Philippines, something else I learned from the papers. Even though we were a cash cow, some disliked how we appropriated their land for our bases and took many of their women back to America as wives. There was more running and shouting in the street. I imagined bolo knives hacking through our flimsy door. It would make a good story for the newspapers.

But soon things settled down and the only sounds the rest of the night was the occasional dog bark or rooster crow. I learned later that the thief made his apologies and was forgiven. As for my bolo knife, I got it; three in fact. One I gave to my brother. To prevent the knife cutting our relationship, he gave me a British penny for it. The second, our kids left out in the woods one day. I have a rough idea where it is. It may turn up yet, rust free.The third is pictured below. I use it mostly for splitting kindling and for running off pesky salesmen, though I must admit, it was a salesman who brought it to me on St. Anthony's Day, 1972.

Sell crazy someplace else. We're all stocked up here.