Survival of the Fittest (or the Unfits rather) at the Airport

• By ebotpandayan
• Posted in Uncategorized
• On November 13, 2019
• 5 Comments.

I survived the long flight from Vienna to Manila with a stopover in Taipei that one Christmas season. Saw familiar faces at the transit lounge. Boarding the transit flight to Manila was always a horror. Oh, you know, the long queue, especially when flying with hundreds of Filipinos anxious to get home!.

Announcements on who should get in first get ignored. Anita is a work colleague’s sister, and she was on the same flight as me. Anita was on crutches, so I told her that she had priority, but she was too shy to do it. She said children first, and those in wheelchairs. And those with crutches, I said. She finally relented and took the priority lane, but stepped aside to give way to an airport attendant pushing a wheelchair carrying a passenger. Then the next wheelchair came up from behind, and the next one after that, and another one—with passengers who didn’t seem to need assistance, I thought. I wonder why the number of physically challenged passengers on flights to Manila increases every time I go home? Hmm, a bright, albeit dirty scheme to get on board ahead of the others next time I fly.

I did not even have to fake it when the opportunity knocked. Thanks to my severe gout attack a couple of days before my flight. I didn’t want to postpone my trip, lest I get fined or, worse, have no flight on a preferred date. It was the Christmas season, and this was the time of year when almost all Filipinos living in Vienna made their annual yuletide exodus. I called my travel agent and asked if she could arrange wheelchair assistance for me. Done, she said, all the way to your final destination, which is Manila. In Taipei, one of the flight attendants told me that a wheelchair assistant would be waiting for me. I thought I would be embarrassed to be seen being pushed in a wheelchair, quite the spectacle. “Hey, look, the Emperor of China!” On the contrary, I enjoyed the particular assistance. So did Walter, my travel companion. Like me, he was able to breeze through the immigration and security lines quickly and was put right up to the front, ahead of other passengers. The wheelchair was entirely justified in jumping the queue.

There was likely a shortage of wheelchair assistants at the Taipei airport, as one person was pushing two wheelchairs side by side simultaneously. I was in one, and an older Filipina woman was in the other. I tried not to have eye contact with her lest she recognize me as the passenger sitting behind her during the long flight from Vienna to Taipei. She was farting all the time, which Walter and I initially ignored. She may not be making a sound, but the vile smell she could not hide. It would linger for a while every time she did, which could knock you down or kill you. We almost died.

“No, this is too much,” Walter said in German. He stood up to get something to revive him. I was left to handle the situation, meaning confronting the offender when she did it again, which she did.

“Go to the toilet! “I yield, pushing the back of her seat to startle her. She did not say anything, perhaps surprised that someone had noticed she was contaminating the recycled air they breathe inside the plane. It must have been a struggle for her to hold the farts, but Walter and I were like drugged until it was time to catch our connecting flight.

The woman tried to make small talk with me as our wheelchair attendant parked our wheels in a corner and excused himself for a while, saying he would be back shortly.

“I live in Vienna,” she started.

“Same here,” I said. “Retired,” I replied quickly when she asked where I worked. I told her where. She lit up and asked if I knew this person and that person, who were employed in the same workplace and were friends of hers. I knew them, and you can bet I will warn them not to travel with her or sit behind her should they wish to reach their destination without an oxygen tank.

It was a big joke that we would be on the same flight back to Vienna months later. I froze when I saw her, comfortably perched in a wheelchair. She recognized me and waved.

“You did not request a wheelchair? “she asked me, wondering perhaps why, when she saw me with a walking stick.

I was not disabled or anything, but I thought it would be convenient if I could pretend I was after discovering and enjoying the privileges accorded to a disabled traveler.

“Not necessary,” No need, I said when the ground flight stewardess at the check-in counter asked if I needed wheelchair assistance. I can manage, I told her. An Airport security officer asked me to take off my shoes, but then they let me pass through the scanner when they saw me wearing high-top All-Star basketball shoes. Removing and tying back again the shoelaces would be quite a challenge for me, they agreed.
“Should we get you wheelchair assistance, Sir?” That would be nice, but no, thanks, I can manage, repeating what I said when checking in.

“Oh, you’re sitting near the business class,” the flatulent woman said when she asked me about my seat number.

“I am five rows behind you,” she said.

“Poor you, but I hope you’ll be comfortable,” I feigned, and at the same time, felt sorry for the passengers who would be sitting next to her.