I had proposed a follow-up article to Vice, one that focused on Gumboc’s repeated threats to reinstate martial law, but he had gone quiet on the issue. Even a Muslim uprising in the southern city of Marawi, which had resulted in a locally imposed army rule and suspension of civil rights, had failed to expand beyond the region. What money I possessed was the result of a book proposal that Ann, my longtime editor, had felt moved to fund because my marriage had fallen apart, even though she was concerned that the book might not sell. I had won a National Book Award ten years ago and Ann’s constant hope was that my next book might perform equally. The advance was small but adequate. I had been able to let go of my teaching appointment at Columbia, one class, where the students asked questions like: “Are there still jobs for journalists?” To which I’d thought: This job, teaching journalism to people who will never find work.

For my book, I was researching the plight of Timicheg, a chief of the Bontoc tribe of Northern Luzon. Timicheg had lived his short life in the early part of the twentieth century, first among the fierce peaks and diving ravines of the Ifugao region. He and his tribespeople had been discovered by an American businessman, Richard Schneidewind, and brought to America to entertain the throngs of visitors that flocked to Coney Island, visitors in search of something new. The Bontoc were novel, naked but for loincloths and wraps and intricate tattoos. They formed their village in an enclosure in the shadow of the Wonder Wheel, on display for whoever might stop by. At precise times throughout the day, they would perform a ritual slaughter on an unfortunate dog procured from the local pound, butcher it, cook it in a pot over an open fire, and eat it. The Bontoc took their sleep on mats in the chilly air. The next day, they would awake and begin it all again. They could no longer stalk deer through the forests and mists of the Cordilleras, but, as they were promised money and safe passage home after a time, they consented to the yapping dog, the banal ogling of the tourists, and this strange diet. At home, dog was rarely on the menu. The Bontoc were headhunters, although this practice—the most intriguing—was only ever described. Schneidewind provided each bloody detail with a booming voice that competed with the organ-grinders and carousel music and reveling crowds. Timicheg’s tribe was not the only one on display in the United States. Other headhunting groups were touring in the Midwest and California. This was to illustrate the colorful ways of the backward Filipinos and justify America’s occupation of the islands. Why exterminate all the brutes when you could display them and make a profit?