Watching the anguished faces of the depositors of the troubled First Savings Bank on the news and in Dong Puno Live last Thursday night made me relive that nightmare all over again. I felt their worry, their sadness and especially their regret. Why did I have to bank there?
But nobody could see through the future. If I did, I would have stashed my money elsewhere. Or I could have blown away every centavo of it on things good – and even bad. I would have given it away to people I liked – even to people I didn’t like. Anywhere – except to see it vanish into thin air in an instant.
What was more painful was the fact that in my desire to hang on to it, I went through unimaginable experiences that could be translated into eight seasons of a telenovela– but set in America.
Unfortunately for me, I never knew the value of converting my weak peso into dollars. You can accuse me of not loving my country enough, but I was never guilty of economic sabotage through dollar salting.
During the third quarter of 1997, in fact, when the exchange rate suddenly rose to $1-P35 (from the previous $1-P26), I wanted to kick myself in the head because all I had with me was $20, which was what remained from my 1996 US trip.
I was in desperate need of dollars that time since I was just wrapping up what remained of my contract with ABS-CBN and was all set to migrate to America.
Even at that point I had speculated badly. I was leaving in early 1998 and since that was going to be election year, I thought the Ramos government was going to do something about the exchange rate for the sake of the administration bets.
I refused to buy American money at P35 per dollar in my hope that the exchange rate would improve in favor of the peso. Obviously, it didn’t. By the time I was leaving, the exchange rate had gone up to $1-P38.
At that point, I didn’t want to touch my money in the bank and bring it to America with me where its value would shrink to just this much. And so I left for the States with just $620 – the bulk of which was borrowed from a friend.
In the US, life was difficult for me from Day One. It became more miserable when I moved to the East Coast to study. While mother was generous enough to fork over the Harvard tuition money, the rest I had to provide for myself: food, books and the apartment. Transportation money? I had feet. I walked to school (from one city to the next) and back.
Going to work where I stacked cans and later drove a forklift, I took a bike – a pink bike borrowed from the young daughter of a friend – and pedaled away at 2 a.m. (I was on the graveyard shift) in the biting cold of spring.
What was tough was scrounging around for food. Before I was able to find my own place, acquaintances (they eventually became very good friends) were kind enough to take me in and provide me shelter for about a week or two.
The trouble was, they never bothered to leave food on the stove – all the while thinking that I would help myself to the fridge and to the pantry. But I’ve been brought up not to touch anything without the permission of the owner. When my hosts would return in the evening, that was the only time they would cook and at dinnertime I always amazed them with my ravenous appetite. If only they knew that was my first meal for the day.
When I finally had my own place, I learned to subsist on grape jelly sandwich and Philadelphia cream cheese that sold for 80 cents a stick.
So that I could eat well, I cleaned the houses of other people for a free meal. Filipinos have an old Tagalog word for my station in life at that point: Busabos.
But after a while, the situation improved. Somehow I was able to save enough money to pay back my $600 loan and had enough left to buy myself a 32-inch TV set.
Eventually, I was able to afford vacations to Manila and in one of my trips here, I stayed long enough to do the Gawad Urian and supervise its production.
I was still in Manila when I was told about the bank run. I remember calmly accepting the news – but only initially. But when I went to bed that night, depression crept in and I sadly recalled the meals that I skipped and all my deprivation in the US – all because I didn’t want to touch my money here in the Philippines.
I had lost practically everything I earned working many years for ABS-CBN.
And now that we are in a fiscal crisis, the government wants us to help pitch in. Hah! I dutifully pay my taxes, but I don’t seem to get anything in return.
Of course, Mrs. Arroyo was not yet the President that time. But I hope you understand my bitterness when I say that all administrations in the Philippines are the same: They don’t care for its citizens.
At that point, I had no one to run to. No one in power would listen. the government should have protected us depositors in the first place.
And the Central Bank of the Philippines? I’d rather not make any comment.
(On Tuesday, my experience with PDIC.)