Tachypsychia: A Tale of Fight or Flight (A Rapid Journal Article)

TACHYPSYCHIA

A Tale of Fight or Flight

A RAPID JOURNAL Article

By: Celestino C. Macachor  

It was 4 o’ clock dawn on September 9, 1982 when I made a final check of my usual provisions consisting of two packs dice hopia, 4 tetra packs of Magnolia Chocolait, an ice bucket and a water jug. A pair of 20K veteran Saucony running shoes was on top of my checklist along with the rest of my survival kit that included a 14-inch pinuti and an heirloom .32 caliber Walther Model PP concealed under the seat cushion of the company car assigned to me. There were only four of us Sales Reps then covering North Mindanao that was then still a part of Cebu Sales Office. Al Santos covered Cagayan de Oro, Cas Jaldo in Iligan / Bukidnon area, the inimitable Vir Yu covered Misamis Occidental/Zamboanga provinces, and I covering the four Agusan / Surigao provinces now known as the Caraga Region.

I started covering the area on May 15, 1981.

This day, I was supposed to work in Surigao City, but since the schedule coincided with the city’s Fiesta celebration I had to divert my route to Tandag, Surigao del Sur. As a security precaution and in order to avoid the hassle and risks of retaining cash collections overnight, I usually defer coverage of towns during local holidays such as Fiestas when all banks are closed.

A five-hour drive to Tandag is grueling and there is always the ever-present danger of traveling roughly 300 kilometers over four provinces with cavernous rain forests, serpentine dirt roads and hundreds of dilapidated bridges. Due to the rough terrain and ages of government neglect, the area is a haven for NPA rebels and is teeming with an assortment of the meanest ugliest bad guys of your worst nightmare - from lost command mercenaries, renegade soldiers, armed fanatical cults to plain bandits.

I hit the road at 4:20 a.m. after a routine engine check of my 5-year old Toyota Land Cruiser. I inherited this trusty four-wheel drive from four previous assignees. A few months earlier, I replaced the corner window on the right rear side when a stray bullet shattered it clean through - barely grazed my right cheek and whizzed through the open driver’s window. This incident took place while I was slowly negotiating the rotunda of Bayugan, Agusan del Sur. A motley group of tipsy armed men at El Estrano Carenderia randomly took pot shots at whoever drove by. Badly shaken during this close call, I quickly pulled over the parking lot of Bayugan William Marketing and requested for a glass of water from Ester Burreros, the owner. Ester was horrified at the sight of the bullet’s entry point on the vehicle’s window. She confirmed that indiscriminate firing by gunmen at the El Estrano Restaurant occurred almost daily and suggested that I report the incident to the local police. But I was more in a hurry to reach my next coverage rather than file a futile complaint to the inept local police and drove on.

I realized that some soul-searching was in order after this near fatal experience. But still single and adventurous at 28 years old, nothing of the “Hallelujah, Praise the Lord” sort of spiritual renewal came to my wits. Yes, I did went to church, thank the Lord and observed the usual rituals, but the “bad-grass don’t die early” mentality was the more comforting explanation for my survival and my fixation for retribution and payback was the overwhelming motivation to keep covering the area despite the potential risks. That explains the Walther Model PP tucked safely under my seat.

It was quarter to five as I winded along the borders of Antongalon and Ampayon, the last two barangays of Butuan City - my home base. Nights are longer than days at the start of the “-ber” months. The dawn mists and thousands of “kamikaze” insects were in head on collision with my headlights. I felt guilty at the senseless carnage of these tiny bugs; I was an intruder in their nocturnal domain and my driving a fast Land Cruiser at this hour disrupted the process of natural selection. Tandag was more than four hours away yet. In this troubled area, such mundane activity as taking a leak is a security concern. I had to wait for the early streaks of sunrise to give me a 200-meter visibility before pulling over and relieving myself on the periphery of a vast rice field. It was a chilly September morning, the fog right in front of my face thickened as I sprinkled the moist carabao grass on the curb. “What a feeling!” I hummed softly Irene Cara’s Flashdance song while scouring my surroundings for anything suspicious. But for one brief moment I put my guards down, as I marveled at the tangerine skies reflecting on the paddies that came straight out of an Amorsolo masterpiece.

Butuan Valley faded from view and the landscape was now dominated by what remained of the majestic Toog trees that dotted the marshlands of Agusan del Sur. The site of the rotunda in Bayugan still gave me the chills; I slowed down at El Estrano to check for any unruly activity. There was none. The time was 5:30 a.m. and not a soul was awake at this early. Personally this town is a jinx. Every time I pass by Barangay Osmena about 2 km from the rotunda, it always reminded of another accident back in March 8, 1978 while I was still a salesman of Pharma Industries. There was a slight drizzle while I was trying to catch up for lunch with Gingging Momongan and Al Quinanola who were waiting for me in San Francisco the next town some 40 kms. away. In one of those accident-prone areas along the highway the Volkswagen car I was driving went out of control and fell on a 20-ft. ravine. The car turned turtle three times then rolled upright again and continued to skid toppling several banana trees before coming to a full stop. Except for a contusion on my thighs caused by my entire bodyweight resting on the steering wheel, I was virtually unscathed. “Bad grass...” well, now I know better with a renewed faith!

At around 6 a.m. I was already in Prosperidad cruising at a top speed of 120 kms. per hour. I pulled out a cold pack of Magnolia Chocolait from the ice bucket and started munching four pieces of dice hopia. That was my breakfast for the day. There was practically no time for a hot breakfast stop and I had to eat early since rough terrain was less than an hour’s drive away. The paved roads end in Barobo the next town after the San Francisco junction. Unlike Bayugan, which is pre-dominantly Boholano/Cebuano in ethnicity, San Francisco is an Ilonggo dominated town. This area gained international notoriety in the March 1982 issue of Newsweek magazine entitled Charlie’s Deadly Angels. Charlie is Col. Carlos Lademora an Ilonggo from Panay Island and leader of a band of former PC regulars and veterans of the Ilaga-Barracuda wars of the 1970s. They are popularly known in the area as the “lost command”. His group once operated around Cotabato provinces and fought fiercely with MNLF separatists. Up until the early eighties Col. Lademora and his “lost command” skirmished with NPA rebels in Agusan - Surigao provinces.

I remember meeting Col. Lademora while on relief assignment in September 1980 at the Esfa Beach Resort in Maasin, Leyte. Bebut Bernades and I have just finished our turnover at around six in the evening. Sales colleagues Jun Sembrano, Al Quinanola, Louie Libarios were also there enjoying the all-time favorite sutokil (sugba-tuwa-kilaw). Moments later, Col. Lademora arrived in a blue Toyota Tamaraw with an entourage of heavily armed men. He seemed to be a well-mannered officer with several strands of gray hair. At that time I guess he was probably in his late fifties. We tried to invite him to share kinilaw with us, he hesitated for a few minutes but joined the fray only after tying around his forehead a white bandana printed with what looked like Latin and Arabic inscriptions. His partly exposed chest was bedecked with an assortment of animal fangs, beads and a large medallion of St. Joseph and the Child Jesus. The colonel ascribed his invulnerability in several encounters to the power of his anting-anting. He packed a 1911 .45 caliber pistol in shiny mother-of-pearl grip. “Ladi” as some people fondly call him was having a fever, right by his side was a lieutenant, his personal doctor who was taking his temperature. We were a little wary of a jittery Commander Jessie seated on another table whose eyes were constantly sizing up all of us. After the customary introductions, he felt comfortable with our presence and continued reading the book Mossad.

The tough and charismatic colonel narrated to us his life story and lectured us on the evils of communism. To our delight he chronicled the Biblical and modern day military history of Israel until late in the evening. I presumed the Mossad (Israeli Intelligence) book commander Jessie was so engrossed with must be the Colonel’s collection. Early dawn the following day they checked out of the resort and we learned later that they took a ferry to Surigao via Liloan and went back to their base in San Francisco. A few days later, the newspapers reported a massacre of an entire barrio in Samar known to be sympathetic to NPA rebels allegedly by Charlie’s Deadly Angels.

Beneath the charisma, many believed that Col. Lademora was a ruthless man who had no qualms dispatching people who stood in his way. His ideology is a distorted mix of communist phobia and esoteric Christian-animist beliefs. Charlie’s Angels provided security to the Malaysian owned Guthrie Palm Oil Company and sowed terror in Agusan del Sur and Surigao del Sur provinces.

At around 6:30 a.m. I was already in Tambis, a gold rich Barangay between San Francisco and Barobo. This little community used to be the hub of gold panning activities by small time operators until the lost command took over the concession through terror, intimidation and murder. I drove slowly trying to single out the tiny hut made of falcata barks where several months ago I witnessed a heart wrenching tug-of-war between a hysterical wife trying to pull his husband. from two armed men who were forcibly dragging the terrified man from his house. Moments after I drove past the fleeting drama as it unfolded from the view of my Land Cruiser, a short burst of automatic fire rang out. As I glimpsed at the rear view mirror, the poor man was already slumped lifeless a few meters from his house. I have seen the worst in man’s inhumanity to man in Mindanao.

I had to slow down near the narrow Barobo junction at around 6:45 am and maintained a horse’s gaze to avoid eye contact with potential hitchhikers. I had a toggle switch installed inconspicuously that I could turn on and off with my left knee to fake engine trouble. It was at this junction that I was once stopped by this ugly Rambo wannabe with bandoliers of M-60 ammo and hand grenades that slung around his body like Rosary beads. The toggle switch “conked out” the engine and to my relief “Sylvester Stallone” got off grumbling and looked for another ride to hitch. I discovered this method to discourage hitchhikers and carjackers. At a checkpoint in Barrio Bayabas another hitchhiker who I mistook for a military man was clever enough to flag me down with his Army boots. When I asked him his unit, “CAT lang ko Sir!” he replied politely. “Oh, really, so you must be very well trained OK, jump you @#$%#&^ ! “ I fumed at the idiot as I slowed down to 30 kph. I looked back at the rear view mirror and saw him dusting off his shirt after rolling like a stone on the curb.

Typical of most towns in Agusan and Surigao provinces, Barobo is reminiscent of an Old West frontier town where armed men roam the streets freely. It is a crossroad where all sorts of characters congregate, some to trade their gold, some to sell goods, some are just plain predators hunting for potential victims to rob. The makeshift flea market stalls clogged the narrow junction. Turning to the right leads to Mangagoy-Davao, I turned to the left and proceeded to Tandag. My alert level was up beyond Barobo; the intervals of towns are few and far between. Skirmishes between the military and the NPA reach fever pitch during this season where the roads are at their worst condition. At this time of the year the monsoon rains are heavier than anywhere else and continues until April. The resulting flooding and erosion batter the roads that slow down travel and worse accelerate deterioration of vehicles. The potholes were bone jarring and the swollen rivers and their tributaries are forever altering the landscape.

I developed good survival instincts in my travels to the hinterlands of Carraga Region. In the war zone I tone down the radio, turn-off the air conditioner and heighten my senses. Keeping all your senses keen could spell the difference between life and death. With windows opened one can smell the toxic burning tires a hundred meters away which serve as an early warning of a fresh ambush. The dead silence after an ambush can be deceiving. A firefight lull could last one or two minutes, and one or two minutes is a lot of time if you happen to be speeding just at the exact moment when all hell breaks loose again between the warring sides - if you get caught in a crossfire, you’re dead meat! Quick reflexes and experience saved Sales Rep Ben Sun and Supervisor Jun Sembrano from being caught in the middle of an ambush on their way to the Iron Mountain one April day in 1989. At a blind curve, Ben barely had time to react to a V-150 APC backing frantically in front of his car while its .50 caliber machine gun was blasting away rebel positions from a hilltop. Ben later joked that he has already driven his Lancer backward at 120 kph. Jun Sembrano swore, “We’ve gone through floods and ambush in just one day! I will never go back again to that God forsaken place!”

Due to government restrictions, logging which used to be the number one industry in the area has been banned. However, illegal logging continues unabated in collusion with corrupt politicians, DNER personnel and military -police officials. Lianga turned like a ghost town when the biggest logging firm an American owned Lianga Bay Logging Company trimmed down its operation of their remaining concessions. Many former employees joined the NPA and some resorted to plain banditry. Passing by Lianga, I remember a fairly upbeat town back in 1977 while I was still a drug salesman. The lodging house that served succulent lobsters for dinner was almost crumbling. The sign of Dr. Aranas clinic just below it is fading and I learned later he died of a heart attack.

After several carefully planned leak and stretch stops I was finally at the junction of Tago and Tandag. I made my first call at the only customer in Tago, which is about 10 kms. from Tandag. It was already 11:35 in the morning at the outskirts of Tandag when I sensed unusual sounds of activity and the heavy traffic of vehicles and people out on the streets. And to my horror, the big streamer across the street confirmed one of my worse fears: “WELCOME TO TANDAG TOWN FIESTA SEPT.8-9, 1982”. How did this occasion skip me? I kept cursing myself for this gaffe. I didn’t believe the capitals of Surigao del Norte and Surigao del Sur celebrate Fiesta on the same day? Impossible! This meant no banks, cash retention, fully booked lodging houses and hotels, and the risk of getting robbed!

Given the precarious situation I was in, I tried to weigh my other options. To defer Tandag collections the next day was out of the question since I’ve already scheduled it for Surigao City. Besides, there was also the problem of lodging in Tandag. Diverting schedule to Mangagoy and Agusan del Sur would be counter-productive since new deliveries were only a few days old. Well, I consoled myself with the fact that other van salesmen carry more cash and that would make me a less attractive prospect. So I decided to pursue booking and collections and prepared to proceed to Surigao City in the afternoon where I’m assured of a room in Noy Doming’s house for the night. It’s been customary for dealers in the area to be open for business during Fiestas not only because of the opportunities of increased consumer traffic but also to be able to invite suppliers and salesmen that happen to call on their stores. After covering Bright Star and five other dealers, I had lunch at TT and Company another big customer at the invitation of Andy Tan the owner and former college classmate.

My last call was Frank Foodmart at the Tandag Public Market. I raised my alert level several notches higher since Frank the owner usually pays in cash and very often in full view of customers. I also made it a point to make Frank my last call because of his habit of foot dragging a routine transaction that could last more than an hour. This time I had to cut him short and dashed to my Land Cruiser. Out of habit I feinted to turn back to Agusan del Sur to mislead would-be pursuers. I made a looping diversionary route around the town’s perimeter road and drove straight to the highway leading to CARCANMADLAN (acronym for the towns of Carrascal, Cantilan, Madrid and Lanuza). This game plan has always kept me from harm’s way. But what I did not anticipate was the parade where I got stuck at the curve leading to Tandag Bridge. The thought of going to Surigao City via Carcanmadlan / Red Mountain route was not comforting either. But I had no choice, as this was the only shortest route to my next coverage.

The Red Mountain also known, as the Iron Mountain is widely believed to contain the largest untapped iron deposit in the world. Very few salesmen would take this circuitous route or as we fondly call the “Orbit”- meaning with Butuan as a starting point you make the roundabout route from Agusan del Sur, Surigao del Sur, Surigao del Norte then back to Butuan via Agusan del Norte. There is safety in numbers that is why salesmen always cross the Iron Mountain in a three or four vehicle convoy. For us Nestle salesmen, we followed the no rider company policy to the hilt like my predecessor former Sales Rep Al Quinanola. On solo orbit sometime in 1978, he was crazy enough to carve the Nescafe logo on a huge lime rock at the summit of the Iron Mountain. It was still very legible at that time. The dreaded Iron Mountain is a graveyard of hapless robbery victims. Some were unfortunate salesmen - this statistics is unnerving. The zigzagged roads are narrow and steep. The rocks almost razor sharp and deep below the precipitous cliffs is the Pacific Ocean that perpetually pounds powerful white surf on the rocky shores. It takes two hours to complete the climb to Iron Mountain with practically no human habitation. Only then can you take a temporary sigh of relief as it winds down to the fishing village of Hayanggabon where you can get your first glimpse of human beings.

I was still stuck in the traffic that came to a standstill to give way to the Fiesta parade. It was already 1:15 p.m. when I noticed two burly guys in crew cut leaning on the Land Cruiser. My instincts told me that this could be trouble. One guy was leaning at the left side window just behind me while the next guy was peeping inside through the corner-curved window at the left rear side. I saw him eyeing for the black nylon bag where I stashed more than P 200,000 cash collections for the day. I didn’t feel the adrenaline surge until I saw a conspicuous bulge on the first man’s waist. I’ve visualized this scenario several times and played up a variety of threat responses in my subconscious just to be ready. But the reality of a life and death situation staring at you straight in the eye triggered a different fight and flight mechanism. My mind and body chemistry changed.

While trying to assess the situation a strange phenomenon occurred. I sensed all movements around me were in slow motion; the leggy majorette twirling her baton was like a graceful pantomime act. Then my hearing deadened. The next phase I saw something like a video tape cueing fast forward playing my entire life from childhood up to the present with an all star cast ensemble of close friends and relatives. This sensation went on while at the same time I was keenly observing the body language of the two guys to determine the precursors of an assault. Instinctively I felt for the cold butt of the Walther under my seat. Then the visions slowed down when it showed the present situation and played fast again as it gave me options - the future. Scenarios like shooting it out with the two robbers, my escape route, proceeding to Surigao City to report the incident to the provincial commander, or taking the boat that evening to go home to Cebu to report the incident to family connections.

I completely lost any sense of time and space while all this was happening. Then everything froze momentarily for about a few milliseconds. Just as I predicted, they would wait for the parade to thin out before making a move. When I noticed the first guy directly behind my window about to clear the business end of the bulge on his waist I decided it was time to act. Fast! No way am I going to be a victim, I psyched myself. No way will I have to go through the humiliation of a polygraph exam(company SOP in case of robbery). The idea of NBI polygrapher Doy Allego putting those wires all over my body was a loser’s option. No way! Then fear turned to anger then anger to action. I can feel my heartbeat return to normal pace, then like clockwork precision I drew the Walther Model PP under the seat cushion pulled the slide rearwards ejecting a live round from the chamber and feeding a new one. As the slide slammed back into battery, the pistol was already right in front of my face and aimed it at the first guy behind the window. I beat the idiots to the draw! Like my favorite cartoon Roadrunner they scampered in opposite directions. I’ve never seen two guys run faster than the athletes I saw at the Abellana Stadium back in high school and lost track of them in a few seconds. I jackrabbit the Land Cruiser and sped off towards Tandag Bridge on my way to the Iron Mountain.

The Walther Model PP is a double action pistol, meaning the action of rechambering the pistol was unnecessary when I could have just pulled the trigger and shot them on the spot. When I decided to engage the two guys; it happened at a very fast blurring pace. I didn’t have the luxury of checking the miniscule chamber indicator protruding at the slide’s rear. Although I was conscious of habitually chambering the pistol my instincts at that moment was to be extra sure I chambered a fresh hollow-point before training my front sights on them. The sound of the slide slamming back into battery must have caught the frightened desperados by surprise and this gave them enough time to flee.

All these years I’ve mulled over that the slow motion tunnel effect was a unique personal experience until I read an article in 1997 from handgun guru, police officer and head of the Lethal Institute Massad Ayoob that calls this phenomenon - tachypsychia. Tachypsychia as Mas Ayoob explained is a natural defense mechanism, a function of epinephrine (adrenaline) in our body chemistry during a life and death situation. It allows the person to assess, decide and take action in real time while his percepion of time and space is warped in a slow motion effect. The exact opposite of tachypsychia is called cognitive dissonance - when a victim is immobilized and petrified in a life and death encounter. Well, that’s how he described it in scientific jargon, but the better explanation that I will always cling on to after all these years, this may sound cliche, is that Someone up There was with me on that fateful day on September 9, 1982.

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Author's Warning:

The Walther Model PP is the twin sister of James Bond's Walther PPK. It is a pocket backup pistol and not appropriate to carry around the badlands of Carraga Region. But chambered with a hollowpoint, it can be deadly at close range.

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