Cryptonomicon

Once, long ago, there was a city named Manila. There was a girl there. Her face and name are best forgotten. Bobby Shaftoe starts forgetting just as fast as he can.

Chapter 8 PEDESTRIAN

RESPECT THE PEDESTRIAN, say the street signs of metro Manila. As soon as Randy saw those he knew that he was in trouble.

For the first couple of weeks he spent in Manila, his work consisted of walking. He walked all over the city carrying a handheld GPS receiver, taking down latitudes and longitudes. He encrypted the data in his hotel room and e-mailed it to Avi. It became part of Epiphyte's intellectual property. It became equity.

Now, they had secured some actual office space. Randy walks to it, doggedly. He knows that the first time he takes a taxi there, he'll never walk again.

RESPECT THE PEDESTRIAN, the signs say, but the drivers, the physical environment, local land use customs, and the very layout of the place conspire to treat the pedestrian with the contempt he so richly deserves. Randy would get more respect if he went to work on a pogo stick with a propeller beanie on his head. Every morning the bellhops ask him if he wants a taxi, and practically lose consciousness when he says no. Every morning the taxi drivers lined up in front of the hotel, leaning against their cars and smoking, shout "Taxi? Taxi?" to him. When he turns them down, they say witty things to each other in Tagalog and roar with laughter.

Just in case Randy hasn't gotten the message yet, a new red-and-white chopper swings in low over Rizal Park, turns around once or twice like a dog preparing to lie down, and settles in, not far from some palm trees, right in front of the hotel.

Randy has gotten into the habit of reaching Intramuros by cutting through Rizal Park. This is not a direct route. The direct route passes over a no-man's land, a vast, dangerous intersection lined with squatters huts (it is dangerous because of the cars, not the squatters). If you go through the park, on the other hand, you only have to brush off a lot of whores. But Randy's gotten good at that. The whores cannot conceive of a man rich enough to stay at the Manila Hotel who voluntarily walks around the city every day, and they have given him up as a maniac. He has passed into the realm of irrational things that you must simply accept, and in the Philippines this is a nearly infinite domain.

Randy could never understand why everything smelled so bad until he came upon a large, crisp rectangular hole in the sidewalk, and stared down into a running flume of raw sewage. The sidewalks are nothing more than lids on the sewers. Access to the depths is provided by concrete slabs with rebar lifting loops protruding from them. Squatters fashion wire harnesses onto those loops so that they can pull them up and create instant public latrines. These slabs are frequently engraved with the initials, team name, or graffiti tag of the gentlemen who manufactured them, and their competence and attentiveness to detail vary, but their esprit de corps is fixed at a very high level.

There are only so many gates that lead into Intramuros. Randy must run a daily gauntlet of horse-drawn taxis, some of whom have nothing better to do than follow him down the street for a quarter of an hour muttering, "Sir? Sir? Taxi? Taxi?" One of them, in particular, is the most tenacious capitalist Randy has ever seen. Every time he draws alongside Randy, a rope of urine uncoils from his horse's belly and cracks into the pavement and hisses and foams. Tiny comets of pee strike Randy's pant legs. Randy always wears long pants no matter how hot it is.

Intramuros is a strangely quiet and lazy neighborhood. This is mostly because it was destroyed during the war, and hasn't been undestroyed yet. Much of it is open weed farms still, which is very odd in the middle of a vast, crowded metropolis.

Several miles south, towards the airport, amid nice suburban developments, is Makati. This would be the logical place to base Epiphyte Corp. It's got a couple of giant five-star luxury hotels on every block, and office towers that look clean and cool, and modern condos. But Avi, with his perverse real estate sense, has decided to forgo all of that in favor of what he described on the phone as texture. "I do not like to buy or lease real estate when it is peaking," he said.

Understanding Avi's motives is like peeling an onion with a single chopstick. Randy knows there is much more to it: perhaps he's earning a favor, or repaying one, to a landlord. Perhaps he's been reading some management guru who counsels young entrepreneurs to get deeply involved in a country's culture. Not that Avi has ever been one for gurus. Randy's latest theory is that it all has to do with lines of sight--the latitudes and longitudes.