Those who say President-elect Joseph Estrada's plan to get rid of the pork barrel allocations is a mistake argue that these funds help equalize matters for places like the Eastern Visayas. Without these discretionary pots of public money made available to legislators, they say, such areas would continue to suffer from underdevelopment and a lack of access to services of national agencies.

There is, however, a flaw in that argument: like other remote places all over the country, most of the towns and barangays of Eastern Visayas remain poor and decrepit despite having been recipients of projects and purchases paid for by pork barrel allocations.

And talks with suppliers and contractors who do pork barrel projects, as well as with Congress insiders, only confirm what critics of the funds have been saying all along: the allocations have become magnets of greed, and it is the very poor who pay.

The term "pork barrel," says US pundit William Safire, is derived from a practice during pre-Civil War days in the United States when masters would give their black slaves salted pork in barrels. In 1919, a US journalist wrote: "Oftentimes, the eagerness of the slaves would result in a rush upon the pork barrel, in which each would strive to grab as much as possible for himself. Members of Congress, in their rush to get their local appropriation items…behaved so much like Negro slaves rushing to the pork barrel."

Eighty years later, the scene in the Philippine Congress does not seem much different. In early 1998, newly appointed Finance Secretary Salvador Enriquez told reporters that up to 45 percent of pork barrel funds may have been lost to "commissions," especially in the case of money set aside for school and other instruction materials. Enriquez, who had headed the Department of Budget and Management (DBM) before becoming finance chief, also said kickbacks from public works projects make up, on average, 30 percent of the total project cost.

Not all legislators, of course, take a cut from pork barrel projects and purchases. But those who do have all but tainted what were supposed to correct the failure of the budgets of national agencies and help out impoverished rural areas. And while Estrada may have difficulty in abolishing pork altogether without the repeal of the laws that provide for some of the allocations, critics of the funds say reform at the very least is needed.

For all the vaunted noble intentions of pork proponents, the decisions regarding which projects get how much money seem to depend primarily on how big a cut congressmen receive rather than the actual needs of the people. Paradoxically, projects that undoubtedly would have the most impact -- those aimed at improving health, alleviating poverty, or upgrading the quality of education -- appear to be also those from which the most amount of money can be lopped off to benefit private individuals rather than the public.

The cuts or kickbacks are called other names—commissions, rebates, and discounts—and the amounts involved pale in comparison to the grand larceny politicos also pull off in transactions concerning government corporations. But the euphemisms and the comparably small sums do not change the tragic nature of what takes place: robbery done by the powerful on the very poor.

Congress watchers say what takes place is a practice that inevitably leads to a slew of money-saving tactics by suppliers and contractors who have to factor in "commissions" for some legislators and their ilk. The results are substandard projects or products of questionable quality. Thus, freshly delivered medicine to local health centers reach their expiration dates all too quickly, and roads and bridges never seem to be near completion, or are already in need of repair a few months after they are finally finished.

In one Eastern Visayan district, for example, an engineer supervising one of the many road pavement projects there confesses that he reduced the amount of cement necessary for the work by 20 to 30 percent "to save on materials." He does this by leaving the center portion of the road hollow. This means only gravel was poured in then covered by a thin layer of cement. The engineer also says that sometimes, he even has to reduce the width of the road "by a few inches" in the name of "saving."

A foreman of a construction company building a seawall in the same district, meanwhile, admits he is using "small stones" in the inner portion of the wall. "That's not supposed to be done," he says, "but no one can see it, anyway." And like the engineer supervising a road project, the foreman says he also reduces the amount of cement by 20 percent.

Before Estrada came along, the only person who dared to wrest the pork barrel from the clutches of legislators was the late President Ferdinand Marcos. He did this by proclaiming martial law in 1972 and abolishing Congress, thereby getting rid of the allocations that had been in existence in the Philippines since the 1920s.

In 1990, the Eighth Congress, which assumed office after Marcos's fall, gave each legislator an annual allotment of P12.5 million for infrastructure projects, purchase of equipment and materials, and other activities as proposed and identified by the representatives. This became known as the Countrywide Development Fund (CDF).

When the Ninth Congress was elected in 1992, legislators got more and the practice of allocating pork barrel funds in the annual budget became institutionalized. In the beginning, representatives were given at least P50 million to divide among themselves each time. By 1998, the new "special purpose funds" and insertions in agency budgets were providing legislators at least five different sources of pork barrel allocations.

One of these is the "special purpose" School Building Fund that used to be part of the budget of the Department of Education, Culture, and Sports (DECS) for the construction of schools. The creation of this fund in 1995 entitled each legislator to allocate P4.5 million per year for the construction of school buildings in his or her district.

Also starting in 1995, the lawmakers gave themselves an annual P500,000 each for the construction of farm-to-market roads; the money was to be taken from the Department of Agriculture's GATT-Related Adjustment Measures Fund. And since 1996, the lawmakers have allotted for themselves a yearly P30 million each from the Public Works Fund (PWF). Like the CDF, the PWF is released to the implementing agency upon submission by proponents of their list of projects.

In addition, each lawmaker has at least P15 million in Congressional Initiative Allocations (CIAs) a year. CIAs are budgetary items incorporated in allocations for various agencies over which legislators have the power to direct how, where, and when these particular appropriations are to be disbursed. Most of these funds are inserted (that's why they are called congressional insertions) in the budgets of DECS, the Departments of Public Works and Highways (DPWH), Interior and Local Government (DILG) and Health (DOH). The higher the "stature" of the legislator, the bigger his CIAs. Senior committee chairs, for instance, are entitled to CIAs of about P100 million per year.

As in most government transactions, there is much paper-pushing and backroom wheeling and dealing involved in apportioning the pork barrel funds. Once Congress approves the General Appropriations Act (GAA), the DBM begins the process of allocating spending authority to the different agencies.

First, the DBM issues an allotment release order to the concerned agency, advising it of the amount of money available for the first half of the year. This release order gives the agency authority to contract goods and services. Then the DBM issues the Notice of Cash Allocation (NCA), which means the money is actually transferred into the bank account of the concerned agency.

CDFs and other special purpose funds like the Public Works Fund and CIAs are released by way of a Special Allotment Release Order (SARO), which the DBM issues to the implementing agency. Under the budget law, a copy of the SARO must be furnished to the concerned legislator.

Releases of CIAs and other special purpose funds are at the discretion of Malacañang. The decision normally takes into consideration the government's effort to control the budget deficit. In many instances, though, Malacañang also uses the release of the pork barrel allocations to influence policy decisions of Congress.

A special provision in the budget law, however, ensures that CDFs are automatically released once legislators submit to the DBM a list of projects and activities they want funded by their CDF allocations. According to the National Budget Circular No. 444 issued by the DBM in July 1995, CDFs can be used for:

• Infrastructure projects, including roads, bridges, waterworks, electrification, school buildings and other public buildings;
• Livelihood projects including those covered by existing programs of government agencies;
• Projects geared toward improving the health, social, and economic conditions of the community;
• Calamity assistance to a province or municipality such as repair or rehabilitation of structures and relief assistance, provided that the proposed assistance is supported by a presidential proclamation or certification from the National Disaster Coordinating Council (NDCC) specifying the area as a calamity area; and
• urchase of equipment.

The deadline for the submission of the lists usually falls around February for the first semester allotment and August for the second semester. The SAROs and the NCAs are usually issued in March and September.

It is during these months that the House of Representatives building in Quezon City suddenly attracts particular types of visitors: contractors and suppliers aiming for slices of the legislators' pork. The feeding frenzy that ensues, however, is two-way, and it is obviously the lawmakers who are always in control of the trough.

Congressmen defending their pork insist that the process is "transparent" enough since, they say, government agencies that implement the projects are the ones who have full control of the planning, costing as well as selection of a contractor or supplier for these.

But a study on CDFs presented to the College of Public Administration at the University of the Philippines disputes this assertion, and points to the lawmakers as the ones who have complete control of project implementation. It also says the implementing agencies only participate in the planning if requested by the lawmaker.

Often, the proponent legislators themselves choose the contractors or suppliers for the projects. Their choice almost always prevails despite the objections of the implementing agencies, if they have any, the study notes, adding that "such situations facilitate corruption."

There are even "industry rates" supposedly followed by suppliers and contractors. And according to a supplier of educational materials who counts legislators among her biggest clients, the congressmen who identify the projects to be funded receive the biggest share of the cut.

The educational materials supplier says she had been willing to give congressmen the benefit of the doubt when she was just new on the job. After all, she says, she used to be a government employee herself, and until she stepped into the Congress building to make her very first sales pitch to a lawmaker, she had yet to have an experience that would have made her lose her high regard for government officials.

"When we were new, we were really serious with our presentation," recounts the supplier. "We stressed the benefits the congressman and his constituents could get from our product."

Unfortunately, the first congressman she presented her product to was not at all interested in the materials she was selling. Less than two minutes into her spiel, the legislator, who was then on his second term, interrupted her by asking "Magkano ba (How much)?" The supplier told him the price, but the congressman repeated his query. That was when it hit her, says the supplier; she was being asked how big a cut the lawmaker would receive.

"Sir, 30 percent ang binibigay naming rebate (we give a 30 percent rebate),"she remembers telling him shyly. She still wasn't used to bribing people, she says, especially legislators whom she had often seen on television. The supplier says she could not look at the congressman in the eye because she was so ashamed of herself; at the same time, she also felt embarrassed for the lawmaker. "Totoo pala ang tsismis (The rumors are true after all)," the supplier recalls thinking. "Tumatanggap pala sila (They do get cuts)."

That was four years ago. Today the supplier claims "pera-pera na ang usapan (money is the point of discussion)" whenever she tries to convince a legislator to buy her products. She says she has learned to accept this reality. "We show the materials sample and then it's straight to 'Sir, the discount is 40 percent.'" According to her, the kickback rates for educational supplies have now also increased to between 40 and 50 percent.

"Sa totoo lang," she says, "no one accepts 30 percent anymore—although sometimes we start at that rate hoping that when the legislator, especially a neophyte, negotiates for a higher rate, he'd stop at 40 percent and won't reach 50."

But the educational materials supplier observes that veteran congressmen bargain hard for a bigger cut. "If you offer 30, they will ask for 50 and won't let go," she says. "So we're forced to give 50 percent."

Suppliers say the legislators like to have their "commissions" or "discounts" in cash because checks or other modes of payment may leave paper trails. The payments are made either at the congressmen's homes or offices, in hotel lobbies (the lobby of Sulo Hotel in Quezon City is said to be a favorite), or restaurants. Congress insiders and suppliers say some legislators prefer having the payments routed through third parties. But others have no qualms about accepting the commissions themselves.

Women suppliers often bring big bags when they go to the Batasan building to deliver the commissions. When they enter the premises, their bags are full of money - sometimes amounting to over P1 million - usually tucked inside brown envelopes. After the suppliers have made the rounds, the bags are noticeably flatter. "A million in P1,000 bills is about a foot high," says one supplier. "By the time I am headed back to my office, I have only a half-inch pile of bills left."