(I was initially hesitant to meet up with Cesar Buenaventura. I remember interviewing him when I was a young reporter during the time of President Aquino and I thought he was this pompous, impatient know-it-all. I am so glad I agreed to meet with him for this conversation. Sixteen years later, I found this man who touched me with his wisdom and his true concern for the Philippines and the youth. He was curious about how someone young -- me -- felt about things concering the nation and my family, probably because he has seen so many wasted opportunities around him. I was teary eyed when he talked about his last lunch with his best friend, Jimmy Ongpin. I wish that Cesar Buenaventura's lessons would not be wasted on my generation.)
Corporate history is filled with stories of men constantly outdoing themselves to build the enterprises that would be the bedrock of the Philippine economy; of winners rewriting the rules and conduct of business; of thinkers and doers whose work would leave a permanent imprint on the face of Philippine business.
In many of these stories, the name of Cesar Buenaventura invariably comes up. Belonging to that generation of men who witnessed the country shake off the ravages of war to become Asia’s wealthiest, only to stumble later on to economic perdition, Buenaventura has the wisdom of the years and the insight that comes with having taken a personal stake in the writing of these stories.
Twenty-six years ago, Buenaventura, then president of Pilipinas Shell, was asked by bosom friend Enrique Zobel to become chairman of the board of advisers of the fledgling Makati Business Club. The bombastic Zobel had just delivered a speech categorizing the wealthy into three groups – the “profligate rich, the idle rich and the working rich” – vilifying those who chose to stay indifferent to the decay around them, and at the same time exhorting the rest to speak up on matters that concerned the nation. For Buenaventura, it was not a difficult decision. The year was 1981, and Philippines had already earned the reputation as the sick man of Asia. Poverty and despair gnawed at the social fiber of the country, yet the government was too absorbed in its own political affairs to care about the majority. The private sector had to speak up for the Philippines in one voice.
Not one to compromise objectivity out of fear or favor, MBC never curried the favor of any administration, from President Marcos down to President Arroyo. Buenaventura remembers the MBC squarely taking on the Marcos government when it spoke up against the 11 mega-projects of the administration. Back then, it was almost a taboo to question or criticize the government, which was known to be heavy-handed in dealing with its critics. Ironically, first to speak up and most vocal against the projects was Jimmy Ongpin, then president of Benguet Corporation and brother of Bobby Ongpin, who happened to be the trade secretary and main proponent of the projects. A friend of the Ongpins to the end, Buenaventura laughs on remembering Bobby asking him to please tell Jimmy to stop criticizing and to show support for Marcos and his projects.
Buenaventura’s association with the MBC and the individuals who would play pivotal roles in recent Philippine history brought him closer to many realities that he would not have appreciated from the confines of his office.
To this day, Buenaventura calls himself a “disciple of Ninoy Aquino” after seeing him undergo a “Gandhi-like transformation” in the years following his incarceration. “I would have followed him to the gates of hell,” he said, remembering the man whose life inspired him to do more for his country than fate would have allowed him to do.
Educated by the CICM sisters in Baguio, the young Buenaventura wanted to become a doctor but was prevailed upon by his father to become an engineer instead. In the 1940s, he was admitted to the University of the Philippines – a “heresy” for his former CICM teachers who expected him to go to a Catholic university instead. But egalitarian UP was the best that could happen to the teenage Buenaventura. Rich and poor, elitists and provincianos, came to learn about engineering and experience the joys of youth at the state university, paying little mind to the fact that by the end of their freshmen year, a third of the class would have disappeared. Due to UP’s strict winnowing process, completing engineering in the prescribed four years was an accomplishment in itself. Buenaventura was all too happy to be among the 25 students who finished college on time, and eventually moved on to place in the engineering boards.
Upon graduation, Buenaventura first worked with David Consunji, then a young entrepreneur who had just started his construction business. The two would eventually strike up a friendship that would last more than six decades, and would build an empire that would help change the Philippines’ metropolitan landscape. “I was Dave’s first employee,” Buenaventura recalls. “I remember that we had one pick-up, one mixer, and one driver. We couldn’t even get to the front door of AG&P. Our payroll was between P10,000 to P15,000 a week. We built houses and labs.”
Buenaventura eventually snagged a Fulbright scholarship, and went to the United States for his master’s degree, before becoming an engineering professor. He helped build the Walt Whitman bridge in Philadelphia, and though life in the United States was good, “I always dreamed of going back to the Philippines. I was expected to come home.”
Professionals who went to the US were usually expected to join government on their return, and almost always rose up the ranks, as in the case of Public Works Secretaries Buencamino and Dans. Civil servants, in the days before the war, were highly respected by the public for their competence and integrity. Buenaventura, along with Jimmy Ongpin, were among the first professionals to come back to join the private sector. He readily rejoined Consunji upon his return, and helped build the U.P. Chapel. “I remember I would pick up Lindy (Locsin) in my Volks. He couldn’t make up his mind then if he would be an architect or a pianist.” The U.P. Chapel was finished in 1955, and the joy Buenaventura felt on its completion was only erased when the beloved UP Chaplain, Fr. Delaney, passed away ten days after the chapel was opened.
In 1956, when cars had a sticker price of P6,000 and the exchange rate stood at P2-$1, Shell offered Buenaventura a job. Compensation would be P800 during executive training and P1,200 after the training phase. This dwarfed the P400 he got
from Consunji and the P400 that UP would have given him as an assistant professor.
Moving to Shell was an easy choice. It would be his corporate home from then on, being named as its president at age 45, and moving on to become chairman of the Shell Foundation following his 15-year stint as company president.
Shell acquainted Buenaventura with some of the biggest industrialists in the Philippines, among them Enrique Zobel, whose family partnered with Shell in building a refinery. Over time, Buenaventura and Zobel struck a deep friendship, one rooted in respect for each other’s competence and made stronger by their shared values, especially in matters that pertain to people. He still remembers clearing a road strike in 1966, when militant laborers closed down the Pandacan depot, and especially cherishes the lessons learned from it.
Shell also allowed Buenaventura the opportunity to tap the Philippines’ potentials as a source of petroleum. It was a difficult venture, starting off with a failed exploration that cost Shell some $150 million. “I remember apologizing to the Managing Director in London. He told me, Cesar, don’t feel bad about it. For every sixty holes that Shell dug, only one would contain oil, but that single hole will be able to answer for the cost of digging the other 59,” he recalls.
Fortunately, the chastened Buenaventura never let go of his dream to plumb the Philippines’ waters for prized petroleum. Eventually, his efforts would lead to the discovery of Camago and later on, Malampaya. Shell ended up spending over $2 billion to build the Malampaya pipeline, and today, Malampaya is an important contributor to the Philippines’ energy needs.
Beyond these, Shell allowed Buenaventura to take a direct hand in molding many young minds to create globally productive citizens and workers. “In Shell, we developed a cadre of professionals that shows that the Filipino can do it,” he said, reciting the names of Shell homegrown talent (Ed Chua and Ely Santiago, to name a few) who have made their mark globally for their competence and hard work. In fact, he is proudest of the fact that he has “left a group of people trained to take over and with long term careers, and who could rise beyond being president of this company.”
On leaving Shell, Buenaventura decided to go into consultancy, drawing upon his vast experience sitting on the boards of First Holdings, AIG, Ayala Corporation, and Benguet Corporation. He formed the BPE Partnership, which would combined his expertise and experience, along with those of his brothers Rafael (formerly the Bangko Sentral governor) and Linda Echauz.
This was when Consunji again crossed Buenaventura’s path. Now 73, Consunji presided over the largest construction company in the Philippines but had not yet addressed succession issues. Buenaventura saw the opportunity to set matters straight for his buddy. “I told him, ‘Dave, you should take your company public. You don’t really want quarrelling cousins in your board, do you?’”
With Buenaventura as advisor, DMCI Holdings went public in 19--, a step that would not just strengthen DMCI’s financial and corporate structure, but would once again reunite the two old friends in a single company. Eventually, “Dave said ‘now that you’ve taken me public, help me run this company.’” Buenaventura said yes to Consunji and to an extension of his corporate career.
Flush with cash, Buenaventura and Consunji decided it was time for DMCI to buy out AG&P, a move that would consolidate the operations of the two giants. It was, after all, the heyday of construction, and the friends were proud to conquer the company that once towered above theirs. Their timing, though, could not have been worse. Shortly after the purchase, the Asian financial crisis unraveled, bringing AG&P, by now found out to be worth no more than a shell, to its knees. Worse, it had an army of regular workers and no projects.
Consunji entrusted Buenaventura with the task of running AG&P, which went into receivership to pave the way for its eventual restructuring. The rehabilitation process was difficult, but Buenaventura once more rose to the challenge, reengineering AG&P to specialize in the hook-up, commissioning and fabrication of steel structures. Today, AG&P is again a proud and mighty company with 4,000 workers dispatched all over the world.
If Shell taught Buenaventura the value of harnessing the talents of people, AG&P taught him the importance of relating to them as human beings. “The most unpredictable commodity is not money and materials, but manpower,” he stated. “You need to share with workers so they don’t feel exploited. You have to make them proud of the company. You should not treat them as commodity.” In fact, he reveals, AG&P provides its people with meals three times a day, with no limit to the food they can consume. As a result, people are happy. “They feel well taken care of and they have pride in their work,” he says, as he unabashedly proclaims “I am very proud of AG&P.” In fact, he tells Consunji over and over again that he wishes DMCI would not let go of AG&P.
He perfectly understands, however, that there is a time to let go, and for Buenaventura, the time to wind down is now. “I’ve let go of AIM, of UP, and will soon let go of MBC. BEP has young people running it. We’re in the process of disposing of AG&P – at a profit, of course,” he ticks off. Of course, he will still help out DMCI in policy matters, plus there is still the Shell Foundation. Now that it has come very close to eradicating malaria in Palawan, thanks to the efforts of volunteers, Buenaventura will still have to keep close reins on its operations.
Besides, he says, “retiring does not mean letting go completely.” At 76, “I am still interested and can still contribute. I will help in the nature of what I’ve been doing in the last 58 years.” What matters the most, Buenaventura reckons, is that “I enjoy what I’m doing.” And for corporate Philippines, this is what truly matters. //
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