Thrilla In Manilla and more from the Philppines

Arriving in Manila was a relief. Not that the traveling was particularly hard or uncomfortable. In fact, the meal served on the flight from Xiamen to Manila was the best plane-food I’d had in a long time. I always find it strange to come to new places at nighttime. So much of the definition of a city is hidden by the darkness. Of course, cities like Tokyo, Shanghai, Beijing, and even Chengdu can leave quite an impression at night. Glaring lights in the form of mostly incomprehensible symbols leave pulsing images on the back of your eyelids. But none of this was to be found on my first night in Manila. Not only was my trip from the airport to Carey’s largely through residential and military areas, but I landed in the beginning of a typhoon.

That the typhoon was just beginning was not obvious. Once in a taxi, I watched sheets of rain plaster the streets. I was thankful that the taxi driver seemed comfortable driving. He spoke decent English and was happy to talk about the recent flooding, international politics, and the city. The limits of his English stopped him from providing too much depth, but I at least quickly got the impression that the Philippines is far more westernized than China and that they like Americans, particularly Obama.

Carey’s apartment was in a high-rise situated next to some open fields in a developing part of Manila. It reminded me of the high-rises I had seen under construction outside of the city in Chengdu- tall, identical buildings that, at least in their current state, looked out of place. The inside was well decorated and spacious for one person. Many thanks to Carey for letting me sleep there for the night! The greatest thing about Carey’s place was uncensored and fast internet. I could finally access websites and send messages without restriction or trepidation.

To my surprise, I woke up to a high-pitched, continuous howl. Although the typhoon had passed at night, the remnants of the storm included gale force winds. The wind was so powerful that it was blowing through the air conditioner’s exhaust system right above my head. Fortunately, Carey also had a very comfortable leather couch in a quieter part of the apartment. After another catnap, I looked outside to see stopped traffic and motorcyclists battling the wind to stay upright. After a brief wander in the direction of some shops that Michelle had mentioned, I found a bookstore and Krispy Kreme. There was no better way to kill the morning before my trip to Coron than coffee, donuts, and a book.

The afternoon was not destined to run as smoothly. There were significant delays on all flights due to the typhoon. Additionally, the main power was cut at the terminal which caused limited lighting and no air conditioning. Combined with the fact that all passengers with canceled flights were put in lines normally reserved for check-in to reschedule, it was a mess. Thousands of people with luggage, children, more luggage, and more children waited in endless lines. The fact that none of the refrigerators and non-essential water sources (faucets in bathrooms or drinking fountains) were working in the entire airport made a bad situation worse. There was little food available and bottled water seemed to be running out.

Downstairs at the gate was no better. People were forced to sit on the floor and lean against walls as customer service representatives announced delay after delay. The situation came to a focal point when an old man on my flight started shouting at a service rep to the point where she broke down in tears. I was almost motivated enough to get up and explain politely that this poor woman had no control over the flights but, to my complete disbelief, the complaint actually ended up changing the flight schedule. There is hope for belligerent travelers after all! After the showdown between the old Filipino man and the Cebu Pacific representative, which was kindly translated for me by an American fellow, there was a quick announcement that our flight was boarding. Getting out of the oven that the waiting area had become was a huge relief.

The flight itself was uneventful, except that I distinctly remember a sense of excitement as soon as we got in the air. Flying over Manila revealed shanty towns bordering mudflats and small houses packed together covering the landscape with faded pinks, yellows, and greens. These small homes were in stark contrast to the large, white churches that rose up sporadically and overlooked the city. The landing in Busuanga was bumpy and loud. When we got off of the plane, we were greeted by six workers and escorted into a small building housing the only gate. We were only 150 miles southwest of Manila, but it felt like a different country. The ride to the guesthouse only reinforced this feeling. It was on a road that alternated between concrete and dirt and wound through rolling hills. As the sun set, I wondered what awaited me. And I once again approached a new place at night.