Palawan plane ride

(Dunkin Donuts) The aswang- With two women in Palawan and the aswang and how hot it was that night. Nipa Hut on the mud flat Passion can turn you into its slave

Tuesday night Gabriela, Maria and I went to Dunkin Donuts on Pasay Rd. in Makati. Gabriela and I were craving chocolate donuts, but we didn't have any Pesos handy. So we called Maria. Maria, being of a somewhat affluent mother, always had some money on hand. "Ano ka, you only call me cause you don't have money?" Maria said as we talked to her on the phone. "Sigue, come pick me up. I want to get out of the house anyway," she quipped as Gabriela and I high fived our apparent fix. It was past midnight. It is said that Manila is very dangerous at night, and being a foreigner or balikbayan it was doubly dangerous. Or so they say. The ride to Maria's was a bumpy one, especially in a VW bug with bald tires. Gabriela had sold the bug to her roommate, but since she was out of town, we pretty much had free use of it. As we went through San Antonio Village, I noticed that the night life was pretty much still happening, kids playing in the street, grown men playing chess, even some teens shooting hoops.

We got to Maria's at 1 a.m. Dunkin's was another ten minutes from Maria's place. "Hoy, pare, What's up duude?!" Maria said as I met her at her gate. "We need you Maria," I said as we gave each other a customary hug and kiss on the cheek. "You ready for our trip to Palawan?" I said as I lifted the front seat so she could squeeze in the back. "I've got a ton of books for the Vietnamese refugee camp on Palawan." "It would be lovely to have you," I said as I played like I was deeply interested in her."Bastos talaga " Maria said as she blocked my pseudo advances toward her. "You Americans can think you can score with any Filipina, let me tell you something Johnny boy, not with me, no way," Maria said in her best Olongapo girl accent. "If you ain't a Navy, you ain't gonna get me," she said as we laughed in the car.

It made me wonder, that little scenario we pulled in the back of the VW. Here was a sophisticated Manila girl, talking shit on her fellow Filipina, but it was something that wasn't really funny, but it made me think just the same. I was an American, yet I was a Filipino. The Americans had maintained a presence in the Philippines since 1898, when they defeated Spain, and later, Emilio Aguinaldo in the Philippine American War. The Americans have maintained US military installations in the Philippines ever since, William Howard Taft couldn't even find the islands on a map. I read somewhere that the Olongapo girl, or at least what is perceived as the Olongapo girl, is a Filipina prostitute, who goes with and often marries Americans to get out of the country. Some however don't really want to leave the country, but rather, enjoy just plain getting fucked, with whomever and wherever they can get it. They are supposedly largely uneducated, and speak English with a high degree of unsophistication. Their intonations are usually high pitched, and their grasp of the American English language is limited to how the servicemen speak, usually down at the gutter level. A Manila version of the Olongapo girl, the Mabini girl, can be found in Mabini, near the U.S. Embassy on Roxas Blvd. But obviously they were trying to improve their lot, and I couldn't find fault in that.
We got to Dunkin Donuts without incident, sans a cigarette vendor who ran off with my 5 peso bill. About three Dunkin Donut employees were outside the store, on strike. They had a banner across the sidewalk and were trying to solicit donations from passersby. "Kumusta ka ang pangalan kay Jesus DeLeon, nag we welga kami para sa mataas na sweldo namin ," Jesus said as I got out of the VW. "Please don't cross the picket line," he pleaded as we all got out to go into the store. "It just makes things harder for us."

When Gabriela started to explain what was going on, Jesus overheard and walked over, and explained to me in very proficient English what they were trying to accomplish. "You from the States?" Jesus asked as we shook hands. "California" I said as I lit up a blue seal. "I haven't been here since 1986, and I am just hanging out," I said as I held Maria's arm. "Why you on strike?" "We're on strike because these fucking intsik owners won't raise our salaries by a measly 25 pesos a day. 25 pesos, that's about $1.25 in dollars. What's your minimum wage in the States? $4.00 an hour $5.00 an hour? An hour's worth of your wages is a whole days of our wages. We make about $5 a day. That's one meal for one person at McDonalds. " Can you imagine, they don't even want to raise us 25 pesos a day. That's one donut."

I could understand his plight, and it made me think hard about working and money and the whole trip. This guy was a college graduate, and he's frying donuts for a living. I shuddered the thought. We crossed the line regardless. Once inside the store, the remaining employees were eager to help us. I ordered a chocolate donut and a ham and cheese croissant. Maria ordered the same thing. Gabriela just got two chocolate donuts. As we left the store, I gave Jesus 20 pesos for his efforts and to soothe my conscience. The donut was good but the croissant was a little greasy, and the ham seemed a little peculiar. But I was hungry and ate the whole thing. Only later would I find that crossing the strike line at Dunkin Donuts a mistake.
The rest of the night was uneventful. We listened to the radio and kicked back with Jazz FM. We packed our bags because we were leaving for Palawan at 7 a.m. It was somewhat difficult to coax the two girls to take the trip with me, but when I offered to pay for the tickets, they were eager to accompany me. It was all for good cause anyway.

Friday morning was a little hectic. As I called the taxi and prepared our supplies, the women were busy taking a bath and fixing their bags. We left for Manila Domestic at 8:30 in hopes of arriving by 10 am. We hit traffic on Buendia. The boulevard was thick with jeepneys, taxis, and busses. The air, a dusty dirty blanket of black soot. A mestizo in a shiny new Mercedes was not letting us merge into the left turn lane onto Baltao St. I was getting peeved, coming from the freeways and highways of Southern California, I looked at the driver and gave him the "What's up!?" look of inconsideration. He looked back and flipped me off. The universal language of fuck off. It sends the message so simple, yet so elegantly. The taxi driver laughed and made his own turn lane out of the number one lane. "Watch this" the driver said as he effectively cut in front of the Mercedes. The taxi driver laughed as he explained the driving finesse of the Philippine wealthy. "Because they have the money, and because they live in Forbes Park or Dasmariñas village, or even Ayala Alabang, they think they own the road," Gaspar said. "And you know something, I think they do." "The only way for the rest of us to redeem ourselves is on the street. Us taxi drivers, it explains why some of us drive like we do. Others, the mechanics, they get them when the rich bring their cars in for service. And still others, like the car nappers, they just rob them of their cars. But it really doesn't faze the rich too much, because they have millions."

We finally arrived at Manila Domestic Airport just after 10 a.m. It was much smaller than Ninoy Aquino International, and there wasn't a crowd of people waiting outside the gate. The lobby was cleaner and looked better maintained. We got our boarding passes from the PAL ticket agent. "Thank you Mr. Virata," the agent said as he took our check-in bags. he didn't pay any attention to the beautiful woman that were accompanying me on the plane, and for this, he received two strikes. He was strikingly tall for a Filipino, about 6 ft 3 inches. He was very well groomed and nattily dressed. His face was finely chiseled, with high cheek bones and a prominent nose, and a strong chin. But there was something about him that struck me as peculiar. I couldn't figure it out until we were in flight.

The trip to Palawan took about an hour. It was the first time I flew to outer islands in the Philippines and I absolutely loved the view from the 737. I always loved the view of the islands from the plane. I could differentiate from the deep and shallow parts of the ocean. The waters were a very light green around the dozens of islands I could see from the plane, and then dropped off to a very dark blue. Sometimes a reef stretched from one island to another, with only a very narrow strip of blue separating them. All separate islands, yet all related. The islands themselves were a thick mass of green, with an occasional brown patch of road snaking through brush. From above, the islands seem at peace, everything together and in sync.
I truly wondered what God was thinking when he created the island chain that is called the Philippines. Because he created a beautiful country. It only seems that the people fucked everything up.

Pablo, the checker at the counter was now the flight attendant. As he served coffee and soda, I noticed that he was very effeminate as he placed the napkin and poured the soda in the clear, plastic cup. He was very delicate as he passed the snacks out, and he was especially gentle with the manongs on the plane.

"Mr. Virata, would you care for anything to drink?" he asked me as he folded my table out. "Yes I would like a Sarsi and a 7up," I said as I put my headphones on and watched him move. Gabriela looked at Maria and were whispering about something, and laughed. I didn't pay them any mind, because they were always making chismis, and because I couldn't understand Tagalog, they would say, "too bad, bummer man," their favorite expression. Pablo looked and acted like the guy who cut my hair in Makati, and I realized the peculiar thing about him was that he was gay as well. He was very good looking, and he smiled a lot. His job suited him well. He did his job well. Women in the States would drool over Pablo.

"Tita, did you drop the Ralph Lauren or what?" Gabriela turned to Maria as she lit up a cigarette. Being in somewhat cramped corners amplified everything around you, and the strong scent of perfume, especially when it is poured on, like the woman in the seat behind us poured it on, can make you feel uneasy in the nose and throat, and in the head as well. The smell was overwhelming, and Gabriela, being sensitive to all things unnatural, like anti-perspirant, lipstick, and makeup and perfume, was really getting worked over real good from the woman in the seat behind us.

She was an overweight older lady wearing a tight, loud, minidress and black pumps. Her flabs were hanging out of the dress. Her jewelry, faux gold and piled on. Her face was distorted through all the makeup, and her perfume, well it was on so strong it made Gabriela want to puke. The woman in the seat behind us, she was a typical traveling Filipina. She was probably a "green card holder," and was returning from the U.S., because only in the U.S. does an ugly Filipina wear so much in excess, in excess to the point that everything, from the faux jewelry, to the black pumps, to the makeup, to the cheap perfume, can be found in any major magazine that advertises ladies cheap health and beauty products. She had a fake Louis Vuitton handbag, and long fake fingernails, and she was reading Cosmopolitan, the magazine for fake women with fake tits. She was the essence of the unstylish Filipina. A recent returnee that buys not out of necessity, but out of the fact that her friends in her barkada purchased the same junk when they had gone abroad. She, the type that would go far out into the desert of California, halfway to Las Vegas, just to shop at the Polo Shop, just because that is where her friends went when they came to the States. She, the type that would buy desert property in Las Vegas if her friends did, just to gain the acceptance of her peers, the same peers who talk behind her back about her philandering husband, or her daughter who has had multiple abortions, or her son, who is always high on Shabu. She, the type who is caught up in the act of catching up, but will never catch up nor will she be the one who sets the standards of the Filipina mind. The material mind that sometimes pervades the Filipina mind. Just to impress the "friends" at the country club or at the mahjong table. She, the woman in the seat behind us.

"Excuse me miss, do you think you can put your seatback forward so I can have a little room to move out of my seat, its very uncomfortable for me and you reclining your seatback has made it more so for me," The woman in the seat behind us said as she moved about, trying to position her bulging body into the minuscule seat. Her movements caused our row of seats to move a little more than a normal plane ride would move a seat.

"I'm sorry miss, but I cannot move my seat upright because it would cause me discomfort. I'm sorry," Gabriela said as she whispered something to the fact as to how this woman had the nerve.
"Miss, I'm asking you nicely, do you think you can move your seatback upright so I can move about a bit, It's very hard for me to position my reading light, and I want to read my magazines," the woman in the seat behind us said as she continued to pursue her goal of getting her way. It was getting a bit interesting, and I wanted to see which of these two very different Filipina women would prevail in getting what they wanted. I was rooting for Gabriela, but the woman in the seat behind us was very persistent. "You know if you were my daughter, I would have taught you some respect for your elders," the woman in the seat behind us said a matter of factly as she finally settled into her seat, a full 15 minutes into what was a one hour flight. "So what, are you saying my parents didn't teach me manners?" Gabriela said as she stood up preparing to get into a verbal confrontation with the woman in the seat behind us.
"Speak for yourself, Puta. have you looked in a mirror lately?" I mean just look at your pathetic self. Look at that bag, and those baduy shoes, where did you go shopping, Baclaran for those shoes? and what about that ugly face, who does your makeup? and where did you get that dress, K Mart?" At this time Pablo came about and tried to break up the verbal abuse. "Excuse me girls, but we are on a plane here and you both need to be considerate of others. Please, miss, and ma'am, let's stop this now," Pablo said as he maneuvered behind me to give him space to move Gabriela's seatback forward. "This is just twenty more minutes flight and soon we'll be on the ground so please, lets work to be considerate of the others flying today." At this point, Pablo got some reinforcements in a stunning flight attendant and the purser. "Diyos ko naman!, ang hirap hirap talaga," Gabriela fumed as she reluctantly settled back into her seat. Pablo had given the woman in the seat behind us what she wanted, and although she was so gaudy and baduy, Pablo was right in doing so.