Mostly, the suppression of those stories was the handiwork of p-r operators, some say funded by the CIA, to keep US approval ratings among Filipinos high even as the US government was actually doing its best to make sure the Philippines regretted kicking them out.
The Philippine Senate rejected any extension of the RP-US Military Bases Agreement on September 16, 1991. We served notice to the US government on December 6, 1991 that it had to complete the withdrawal of all US troops within one year.
Smarting from that virtual rebuff, the Americans completed their pullout a full month ahead of schedule on November 24, 1992.
In fact, the withdrawal was almost perfunctory. The cataclysmic eruption of Mount Pinatubo earlier on June 15, 1991—the biggest volcanic eruption of the century—had buried Clark Air Base in Pampanga so deep in lahar it could no longer safely operate as an airfield for high-maintenance tactical aircraft.
Nearby Subic Naval base in Zambales was less affected but also suffered severely diminished operational capability.
The Mount Pinatubo eruption had negligible effect on the facilities of Camp John Hay in Baguio. However, it robbed this rest and recreational facility of its chief clientele: US servicemen stationed on these two frontline combat support bases who were on leisure furlough and were regularly shuttled to Camp John Hay to play golf and sample Baguio’s bustling nightlife. If Subic and Clark closed down, Camp John Hay would lose its raison d'etre, it's very reason for being.
I covered the turnover of Camp John Hay for the Gold Ore in the 90s. It wasn’t just one occasion, but a long drawn-out season of physical dismantling and ‘deactivation’
Yes, the American flag was ceremonially lowered for the last time from that giant flagpole in front of the Main Club (now the Manor), there was that.
But for several more weeks before and after that ceremony, US civil engineering specialists (called “Seabees”) dismantled and hauled off everything removable from Camp John Hay including (literally!) all the kitchen sinks.
It is claimed that the US left behind $1.3-billion worth of assets when they pulled out from these bases. If that’s true, most of that must have comprised of those drydock repair facilities in their Subic naval port—because I certainly didn’t see that much left in Camp John Hay.
In the last days of Camp John Hay under American control, I took a long stroll along Sheridan Drive, the longest road in the base that extended from “Checkpoint Charlie” (which was the US servicemen’s code for the Main Gate) all the way up to 19th Tee, where the Forest Lodge is today.
(Let me digress a little: I don’t know how they did it, but Sheridan Drive was totally obliterated from the map. That is criminal. Sheridan Drive is reflected in the oldest maps of Baguio City, and to completely erase a public NATIONAL road would have required an act of Congress, of which there was none.)
Lugging two cameras with me, my aim was to preserve the last images of a “before turnover” Camp John Hay that I can compare with “after turnover” images later.
This was 1991—shortly before the era of DSLR’s and digital imaging. So I was shooting with color slide film (Kodak Ektachrome) on the Gold Ore’s Nikon FE2 camera, and some ordinary Agfacolor “negative” film on my personal Minolta X370.
The shots were beautiful, showing the fairways of the “front nine” tees, between the Halfway House, which was just a short ways above “Checkpoint Charlie” and Mile-Hi, where the present Main Club is now.
Then I shot the “back nine” tees, which was from Mile-Hi, crossing over to just across where “Tsokolate de Batirol” is—that notorious par 5 “dog leg” hole—then pivoting clockwise back towards 19th Tee.
The Ektachromes were spectacular—the greens were vibrant, the tall pine trees glistening when the beams of sunlight shone through their thickly-needled boughs.
Back in the day, I turned in my Kodak Ektachromes to my friend Ramon Ang (of Mountain Studio) who sent my rolls down to Manila for processing. Baguio studios could process “C-41” negatives—the kind that allowed you to print “positive” copies on ordinary photopaper.
But color slides required a different process “E-6” that can only be done by color labs in Manila.
So while “one-hour photo” was all the rage back then for ordinary film, for color slides the turnaround was 2 weeks.
When I got my slides back, I proudly showed them to my editor-in-chief Peppot Ilagan (I was still associate editor then) who gave me his signature sour look, “WHEN did you shoot these?”
“Two weeks ago,” I said.
“That is NOT what it looks like now,” he retorted.
“What do yòu mean—that’s impossible—I was meaning to take my ‘after turnover’ shots maybe 2, 3 or even 5 years from now yet. But TWO WEEKS?? How can things change that fast?”
“Why would I lie to you?” Peppot said gruffly, “why don’t you go back there and see for yourself. This time just shoot ordinary film.”
I loaded the Nikon with an Agfacolor 200 roll and grabbed a cab. As soon as I jumped out of the cab at the main gate (taxis weren’t allowed to enter Camp John Hay back then), I couldn’t believe my eyes.
The whole Camp John Hay golf course was a landscape of dried yellow and dying brown! What the hell happened? I shot the full roll, and reloaded two more film canisters after that.
It was a Monday, and we didn’t “bed the paper” until Friday. So after I got the prints from Mountain Studio “non-rush” I showed them to Peppot again Friday morning.
He took a look at the brown landscape images and said to me, again in his usual growling mood, “WHEN did you shoot these?”
“Last Monday THIS WEEK!” I said.
“That is NOT what it looks like now.”
I wanted to slug Peppot for trying to make a fool out of me, I thought. It was all I could do to keep from snatching that unlit cigarette he always had in his mouth, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?? These pictures are just four days old! Did the grass regenerate as soon as I turned my back?!”
“Why would I lie to you?” Peppot said, impersonating himself, as he sat back in his swivel chair like he was enjoying every moment of my annoyance.
“Why don’t you go back there and see for yourself. This time, I don’t care what kind of film you shoot,” he said.
Against my better judgment, or maybe just to humor the guy, I grabbed the Nikon again and jumped on another cab, “John Hay!” I yelled.
As soon as I got off at Checkpoint Charlie again, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
The whole Camp John Hay golf course was greener than a meadow in springtime!
I dragged myself back to the Gold Ore office in Harrison Road, Peppot broke out in guffaw as I staggered through our huge swinging glass front door with a confused look in my face.
“I swear to heaven, Pepps, it WAS GREEN two weeks ago, BROWN four days ago, and GREEN today! What the hell is going on??”
Peppot finally lit that cigarette, took a couple of puffs before settling back in his swivel chair, “Well, since you don’t smoke pot like the rest of us senior media guys, I think we can safely assume you’re not hallucinating.”
“I know!” I said, “but how can double transformation happen like that, practically right before my very eyes, and I even captured evidence of everything on film—lots of film! And yet everything keeps turning out exactly as you said.”
“Why would I lie to you?” Peppot said for the third time, but this time with quiet empathy.
“Stick to the story, Joel,” Peppot said seriously, “you stumbled on to something nobody wants to talk about. Lose the camera. I did not train you to become a photographer. I trained Erik de Castro to become a photographer.”
(Erik de Castro, the Gold Ore’s photographer from 1979 to 1983, under Peppot Ilagan, went on to become Reuters chief photographer until his retirement 5 years ago)
“You, on the other hand, I trained you to become a journalist. A journalist WRITES journals, not shoot photographs. A camera will not help you discover the truth. You asking the right questions from the right people and processing the answers you get—THAT is what will enable you to find out the truth.”
A couple of weeks later, I had the story. From several sources inside the base, I learned that the Americans had sprayed the whole golf course with defoliant. Feeding into the same normal sprinkler system that was already in place, they used a milder formulation of some chemical most likely not too different from the “Agent Orange” they used to defoliate vast tracts of lush vegetation in the Vietnamese countryside, in an effort to expose the vegetation-concealed Ho Chi Minh trail.
This turned the grass yellowish to brown. But apparrently, the unsporting Americans did not want the morphing to be too obvious. They wanted it to stretch over a considerable period.
So a contractor was hired to spray the whole golf course with green vegetable dye, using several passes of sprayers loaded on golf carts. I took pictures (defying Peppot again) of some white golf carts with obvious green oversprays on their side panelings. The idea, evidently, was to ensure that the grass deteriorated at a slow but irreversible pace, but beyond any effort to save it. This was supposed to make the Filipinos rue the day we booted out Uncle Sam, by making us think if we can’t even keep grass alive, how can we “re-develop” Camp John Hay properly.
If only they had known—we REALLY did not need any help proving that we can’t develop Camp John Hay properly. Just look at it now.
When the BCDA took over control of Camp John Hay, their bewildered groundskeepers couldn’t understand why “green” grass instantly turned into mulch when you stepped on it. They took to resodding the grass in several square blocks at a time, but the new grass just seemed to wilt up within days. Nothing they did could coax the new grass to take root.
How could it? The soil itself was laced with plant poison, watering and even moderate rains did not wash it away. It only blended it more with the soil causing it to seep deeper and wider—finally reaching the complex root systems of the surrounding stands of pine trees. Try counting how many dead and dying pine trees there are in Camp John Hay today.
When I turned in my manuscript, Peppot read it and said, “We can’t print this. Too many anonymous sourcings.”
“But only the local personalities, it’s a cultural thing. We Filipinos are only brave incognito, come on, Pepps!” I tried to defend my story, “but you can see I named all the American officials, everyone that Angel identified,” I said, namedropping a mutual friend who we both suspected to be a CIA “double agent.”
“You found out the truth. You’ve done your job,” Peppot said.
“But isn’t finding out the truth only HALF the goal? What about telling the story about the truth?” I asked.
“Finding out the truth has no deadline,” Peppot said, “and neither does telling the story.”
“So what do I do now?” I said flabbergasted.
“Stay ready to tell the story…THIRTY YEARS from now.”
It was 1991.*
