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CALL it serendipitous or divine, but I found myself washing down
chicharon with beer across the table from a Bureau of Customs fellow
on the eve of the People Power anniversary. I hadn’t met the man
before, the same way that he didn’t have a clue about who I was.
The two of us were just part of a group that was trying to drink
away the boredom of an uneventful Sunday evening. We had common
friends, in other words, and even more common sentiments in life.
As drinking sessions with strangers go, we
started by engaging each other in a lot of small talk. I’d play a
Rick Astley song and the others would wistfully share what it
reminded them of. Mostly high school stuff, because I suppose you
have no business listening to “It Would Take A Strong, Strong
Man” beyond high school. The BOC guy would request some Motown
music every now and then, which actually surprised me. I always kind
of thought that people who worked at the bureau only listened to the
Spice Girls.
When new acquaintances get more comfortable and
tire of all the cheesiness of adolescent life, they move on to more
serious subjects—like work. And that’s exactly what we did. And
because nobody wants to hear about what journalists do—I mean,
what’s so exciting about snooping around and filing your
story?—we basically spent the entire evening with the BOC staffer
talking and me asking probing questions.
Obviously, my interest lied chiefly in the
automotive section of the bureau. It’s the section in charge of
examining the value of all motor vehicles coming into the country
and then appraising how much import duties should be levied upon
them.
“The automotive section only has five people
but is easily the biggest revenue generator for the bureau,” our
BOC guy said. “Food, electronics, apparel and others are nothing
compared to cars and auto parts.”
I then asked what I now realize was a stupid
question, like asking if the Pope is Catholic: So is there really
rampant corruption in the bureau? After probably wondering what drug
I was on, he emphatically said yes...of course. . . definitely
. . . hello, are you serious?
“Yes, I am, as a matter of fact,” I told
him. “Please enlighten me: How do BOC personnel make kickbacks
from imported vehicles?”
With all the patience a parent has for a
toddler, he broke it all down for me.
“As a general rule of thumb,” he said,
“the multinational car companies with manufacturing operations
here pay the correct duties. Everything is above-board. Usually,
it’s the importers of European luxury cars who don’t play by the
rules.”
“You mean the gray market?” I asked.
“Not just the gray market but even those
legitimate authorized importers of European brands,” he countered.
He then enumerated to me the names of these companies, not realizing
that I regularly dealt with these firms as part of my job as a
motoring writer. The sad thing is, even those companies I actually
look up to in terms of professionalism are also apparently willing
accomplices in this web of corruption.
“Okay, so what exactly goes on during the
dirty deal?” I pried.
“Let’s say a luxury German SUV comes in,”
he commenced. “Its actual market value, for instance, is P4
million, according to the Kelley Blue Book, the motor vehicle
valuation guide that we use. If we’ll do it the right way, its
import duty should be P1.2 million, or 30 percent of the actual
market value. That’s the amount the importer should really pay us.
Now to make more money, the easiest thing for the importer to do is
to pay lower duties. They can’t make more money by pricing the
vehicle higher, because really, who’s going to buy it? So the
importer then undervalues the vehicle, with the knowing cooperation
of BOC personnel, of course.”
“Interesting,” I quipped while opening a
third bottle of beer. “Go on.”
“The importer then dictates his preferred
value for the imported vehicle,” my new BOC friend resumed. “If
he says he wants the value to be just P1 million, then the import
duty that he’ll pay us will just be P300,000.”
“Impressive,” I marveled. “But again, how
do you make your kickbacks?”
“Notice that the importer is able to save
P900,000 in import duty,” he calmly explained. “He will now have
to pay us 30 percent of that savings. So in the end, he saves
P630,000 in taxes, while we pocket P270,000. That’s just for one
vehicle.”
“And where does the P270,000 go from there?”
I inquired with my eyes now much wider than when we started our
conversation.
“It’s split four ways,” he replied
matter-of-factly. “It goes to four individuals: the examiner, the
principal examiner, the principal appraiser and the collector. The
higher-ups are taken care of by the collector.”
Dear Lord. No wonder we’re this messed up.
When I asked him if he was entirely comfortable working in a
venomous pit like the one he had just described, his face
saddened—like that of somebody who had just sold his soul for the
world.
“You know what?” he shot back. “I was once
very idealistic when I first joined the bureau. Probably more
idealistic than most of you are. But the whole system will eat you
up. Refusing half a million pesos in kickbacks is easier said than
done, believe me. And we know we are all just pawns here. When
government wants to look good in public, the Ombudsman will run
after the rank-and-file employees, like me. But these same employees
have no choice. How can you say no if the ones brokering the deal
are some of the most powerful people in the land? Of course, you can
say no, but there goes your job, too. What do we do? We have
families to feed. You probably don’t know this, but many of us in
the bureau don’t even get the minimum salary.”
“Let’s say a righteous BOC commissioner
comes along and cleans up the bureau,” I hypothesized. “He then
implores everyone to be honest and then offers P50,000 a month in
salary to each one. Will that solve things?”
“First off,” he said, “if a person is
righteous, he probably wouldn’t stand a chance of getting
appointed BOC commissioner. Secondly, people there make P50,000 in
kickbacks in a week, so I doubt you will find many personnel who
would be sympathetic to your idea.”
“But wouldn’t you sacrifice a bit in
exchange for a better, moral Philippines?” I challenged.
His prolonged silence told me everything I
needed to know about the future of this country.
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