Ferdinand’s Blue Hawaii
Ferdinand’s Blue Hawaii
By Cesare A.L. Syjuco
Published in: The Manila Times, May 07, 1986
THE YEAR IS 1989. Hawaii has been successful in its turbulent bid to sever itself from its affiliation with the 49 states of the union. As blood runs from the veins of this island paradise, its tourist economy lies virtually in shambles. National guardsmen are withdrawn after weeks of bitter street-fighting, suffering heavy casualties against a determined population. Secession has been won at a hefty price. And at the head of this new nation is the architect of the uprising itself, a rejuvenated Ferdinand Marcos, president-on-the-loose.
In his speech of acceptance, Marcos vows redemption for his triumphant subjects, promising unparalleled greatness for his infant nation. He quotes liberally from the writings of democracy's great ideologues, pledging himself and his family to the upliftment of the common lot, and waging war on American decadence. He dons the robes of the liberator, swearing a new golden age founded on the basic tenets of freedom and the right of the individual to his aspirations. He also decrees a dusk-to-dawn curfew and suspends the writ of habeas corpus.
In her first official act as Governor of Metropolitan Honolulu, Imelda Marcos orders that the sand on world-famous Waikiki Beach be dyed a lush royal blue. Gifted with enormous experience in matters of infrastructure, she then orders the construction of a vast complex rising from out of the breakwater - including a cultural center, a trade center, a coconut palace, a film center, a huge five-star hotel, a monument to the Dole Pineapple, and a lavish skating rink for paraplegics. At great expense, she imports an all-weather mauve sunset from Nairobi, and charges Vice-Governor George Ariyoshi with its upkeep and maintenance Poets read aloud from under every tree, and the lyre replaces the ukelele. Honolulu’s altered beauty moves the world to tears.
And even as grass skirts and sensual smiles arouse white men at the airport, concerned Hawaiians are wired at the genitals and plugged into electrical outlets. A martial state lingers indefinitely, growing sturdy roots and spreading branches. The most basic human rights are habitually violated in the name of security, and a reign of terror is the law of the land.
Local warlords swear allegiance to one man, maintaining the status-quo under duress in exchange for absolute power over their constituents. Suspected dissenters vanish into the night, arbitrarily plucked from their homes and families. Their bodies pepper the plantations in shallow graves, decapitated and mangled. Men with guns and questionable allegiances cruise the countrysides, dealing sudden death at weddings, wakes and christenings. The Hawaiian night, once clear and festive, becomes a dark shroud from which the frightened population emerges only to replenish its meager stocks at daybreak.
Marcos’ multilingual cronies control every facet of trade and industry from hogs to surfboards, leis to aphrodisiac, sunshades to Pearl Harbor paraphernalia. While a despised few prosper beyond reason, the nation itself goes hungry. Witchdoctors and bellydancers, tiki-god carvers and tourguides take up arms and retreat into the hills, even as a traditionally-happy people shed their grins and rapidly degenerate into a shameless breed of hapless survivors.
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Crime is the national pastime.
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Small bands of marauding vagabonds prey on unsuspecting vacationers, armed with clubs and poisoned spears. Retirees are bludgeoned to death for their dentures and cameras. Malnourished juveniles sell themselves to prostitution. Churches and temples are looted. Youth gangs extort protection-money from terrified shopkeepers. Public conveyances are waylaid by brazen highwaymen. A demoralized citizenry lives from day to day in a state of perpetual seige.
THE YEAR IS 1990. Imelda still sings occasionally for her dinner, but almost exclusively now for arrogant visiting dignitaries. Despite her efforts, the foreign aid is slow in coming amid persistent talk of massive squandering and divestment. When returning hero Jack Lord is murdered in broad daylight as he alights from an aeroplane, the world cringes in revulsion and horror. And while Marcos men are quick to blame the misdeed on a renegade group of disgruntled Hollywood extras, world leaders rise as one to openly condemn the dictatorship. The foreign aid stops altogether its sources in mindful of Ferdinand’s empty threats and Imelda’s faltering falsetto.
The President resorts to increasingly heavy taxation. Tariffs are doubled many times over in support of a dubious space program purportedly under the management and guidance of the President’s lovable ward, Little Aimee. Exorbitant building permits render sandcastles unaffordable. And when controversial attempts at taxing sunbathers yield insufficient revenue, oil rigs are let loose on the country’s legendary beaches in a concerted effort to milk the land at the roots. The ground itself is plundered.
THE YEAR IS 1991. Ferdinand's Blue Hawaii languishes in utter decadence, deprivation, and intellectual rot. Isolated from an increasingly distrustful international community, the Marcos regime initiates a self-serving defensive program built on wishful thinking and self-reliance. Hawaiian-made bullets fell Hawaiian-bred patriots. Hawaiian warplanes and artillery open fire on defenseless Hawaiian villages and suspected rebel outposts. Hawaiian soldiers keep angry Hawaiian citizens at bay. A tropical paradise now teeters precariously on the brink of civil war.
Mammoth crowds gather everywhere to demand Ferdinand's immediate ouster but are promptly dispersed by battalions of anti-riot militia brandishing long nightsticks and automatic weapons. Teargas cannisters are lobbed and watercannons trained mercilessly on doddering old men, women and children. Priests and nuns are earmarked for liquidation or are summarily marched off into detention.
Mobs clash in the streets with agents of the regime, hired goons prowl the neighborhoods, and snipers fire unprovoked from the rooftops. Undaunted, the same determined population that propelled a sweet-talking Ferdinand Marcos into power barely two years ago, press ever onward, demanding his head.
Worldwide primetime television laps it up, even as the Marcoses cry foul in harmony. Mass resignations paralyze the regime. Soldiers desert their ranks as the vestiges of still another petty dictatorship crumble in a matter of hours. The airports are packed with Marcos henchmen scrambling over each other in a determined bid for self-preservation. The forces of good and evil are locked in preparation for final historic showdown.
And then in the dead of night, the phone rings in Ferdinand’s bunker hideaway. An old friend has come to intervene, and once again, the course of fate is thwarted.
THE YEAR IS 1992. From an Inca ruin, a twice-exiled Ferdinand Marcos and his wife Imelda survey their surroundings in Lima, Peru.
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Cesare A.X. Syjuco, “Ferdinand’s Blue Hawaii” (page 1 of 1), The Manila Times, May 07, 1986
