• By ebotpandayan
• Posted in Uncategorized
• On June 8, 2020
• 14 Comments.

Cherie Gil and The Second Rate Trying-Hard Copycat

“You don’t dare make that suggestion! I don’t care if you want to sit in the same row with your daughter, but you don’t suggest that it’s me who should sit somewhere else, Bitch! Give me a break!” I was short of breath after that mouthful. Cherie Gil was the only other person who could deliver this with the same passion and intensity, leaving you stunned for what seems like an eternity. Teeth clenched, eyes narrowed, and squinted, scaring the living daylights out of you. “You’re nothing but a second-rate, trying-hard copycat!”

My second-rate, trying-hard copycat happened to be that obese middle-aged woman sitting beside me on my flight to Doha. At the window seat was her teenage daughter, who was plump, going obese in a couple of years, a clone of her mommy. This flight from Manila to Doha was supposed to practice physical distancing. Still, the flight attendant said the flight was full, and it was impossible to leave all the middle seats empty. Two friends, Edgar and Loreta, who also live in Vienna, were on the same flight with me and had aisle seats in their respective rows; a vacant seat separated each of them from the person sitting at the window.

“But I’ll let you know if there are vacant seats I can find after everyone gets settled,” she assured us. She came back shortly to say that she saw two empty window seats, and we could transfer if that was what we wanted, to which I said, “I’m okay, I’m staying.” The woman sitting beside me said she was with her daughter and that her husband and son were seated behind us, and they must remain close to each other. Why not start your own airline? I wanted to say. “If there were someone to move out, it would be him,” she told the stewardess as she gestured in my direction without even looking at me. I tensed up and spoke. “Excuse me, I specifically asked for this aisle seat near the front door. You can stay there where you are, but you don’t make that suggestion!” If only she had bothered to ask me politely, then maybe I would gladly give up my seat, but she decided to play the prima donna, used to getting her way. I am a prima donna myself, and I could be a mean one. She had to go to the bathroom quite often, and she would ask me to excuse her every time she did, but she never thanked me. Bitch!

ECQ Season, The Sequels, and Canceled Flights

What a trip! It had all the elements of a thriller movie. It all began when the Philippine President, upon the advice of his cheerleaders, extended the first season of the COVID-19 lockdown in the country. No one could leave the country, nor could inbound or outbound flights take place. A directive was eventually revised to take effect the following day, allowing foreigners to leave the country. Walter could leave on March 19, his birthday, while my return flight was still scheduled for April 28. Okay, good, I told myself. I could have joined the repatriation program organized by the Austrian Ministry of Foreign Affairs for Austrians stranded in the country. I decided against participating because the Lockdown would be lifted on April 15 anyway, so I decided to stay. Ending the Lockdown did not happen as scheduled. Another 15 days. The constant extensions of the Lockdown were testing my patience and sanity, and I longed for the day when I could finally leave.

Meanwhile, the repatriation program came to an end, leaving me tense and worried that I could never leave the country, and adding to it the fact that my medical supplies were running low. I could get them from local pharmacies, but they were unsure how long they could keep stocks to meet my needs. Uncertain times, they told me. They were also much more expensive compared to what I would pay in Austria. My only consolation was that I could leave on April 28, only to be frightened some more when my travel agency in Vienna emailed me, telling me that my flight had been canceled and rescheduled for April 30. A difference of two days won’t kill me, so book me, I said. It was canceled again, and my agency booked me for May 12. You see, the Lockdown is again set to last until May 15 — it would be Lockdown, Season 3. The constant changes and uncertainty of my return journey were taking a toll on my patience and sanity, and I longed for the day when I could finally leave.

I began collecting items I would take with me to Vienna: pasalubongs (presents) such as ripe mangoes, suman (rice cakes), salted eggs, Sky Flakes, corned beef, ensaimadas, garlic peanuts, and the like. These items, including rubbing alcohol in plastic containers, have become highly sought-after and valuable essentials in Austria, selling at exorbitant prices. In my hometown, you can obtain them from supermarkets or pharmacies, if available. Each person was allowed to get two, provided they were in small amounts, 50 ml, if I remember correctly, and one with 100 ml. Like the face masks, rubbing alcohol was always out of stock. The scarcity of these items in a foreign country during a pandemic was a constant reminder of the challenging times we were living in. I was fortunate to have a sufficient stock of Nonino Grappa.

I had to unpack again when my May 12 return flight was canceled and moved to June 2. That was the final straw that broke the camel’s back. I was that camel, but I felt more like a raging bull. I was angry and frustrated with the grim reality of facing a couple more weeks of despair and boredom, uncertain about what lies ahead in this land of scorching heat. I could not remember the month of May being that humid and hot. The following days saw me evolving into a chipmunk while waiting for my departure. I was nibbling packs of Sky Flakes day in and day out, cramming down the ensaimadas, polvorons, and suman until I noticed a caravan of ants collecting Sky Flake crumbs all over my bedroom floor. I nearly developed a lockjaw eating Filipino cornic non-stop. My cook had a party with the salted eggs, which I had prohibited her from even looking at. I learned how to bake mango crumbles, baking a tray each day of the week, perfecting the art of baking until there was no more mango left on my trees. Despite the challenges, I found ways to adapt and make the most of my extended stay.

The senior citizens, considered a high-risk group, were still prohibited from going out. I defied the order, telling whoever stopped me that at 71, I was the youngest in my household. I live with two cousins who were 78 and 81 years old, respectively, not counting my cook, who, in March this year, turned octogenarian. “Unless you want to do the shopping for me” would be my curt reply all the time, or “I supervise a home taking care of the elderly, that’s front-liner to you!”

I was no longer surprised when the May 15 deadline for lifting the Lockdown did not happen and was moved to June 1 for yet another 15 days. I was cool with it, no violent reaction this time. I was already accustomed to promises from land decision-makers not being delivered, so I won’t let myself be a victim. 

That Significant Day in June

And then it was June 2; there was no bad news from my travel agent, such as a canceled trip or anything of that sort. Sighs of relief. Did the 11th-hour shopping spree—everything my hands could get on. Suman, checked, cornic, checked; mangoes, checked; polvorons, checked; rubbing alcohol, checked; ensaimadas, checked. No salted eggs this time! I was raring to go.

The 11th-hour visitors, my best friends Nancy and Anastacia

I’d been told by friends to be at the airport six hours before departure time. I live in Bulacan, a province in Central Luzon, 37 km away from Manila, so I needed to leave the house by 10 a.m. It did not happen. As always, I was missing something essential: my home quarantine pass. You don’t leave your house without it. Everyone in the house at that time searched high and low, but no luck. Someone said that I should empty my body bag, which was, in fact, the first thing I did before searching somewhere else. Then repeat the process for the nth time. Wadafak? That little piece of essential shit was there, folded between the torn pages of my Senior Citizen’s purchase slip booklet. I was about to climb into the car when a big, familiar white van stopped at my gate, driving two good friends, Anna and Nancy, who wanted to see me before I left. They thought all the while that I was going late in the afternoon. After a brief chat and the usual photo ops, we bid each other goodbye. See you in 2030, I said.

Social distancing with my friends at NIA

Halfway to the bypass toll gate, panic mode struck again. I left my cell phone in the house, I said, yelling out loud, jolting Wyatt, the person driving the car. Before I could even suggest that we go back, Wyatt was already doing a U-turn on the highway. It was when we were driving back that Nestor, a friend who was with us in the car, remembered someone seeing the phone on the table and asked who the owner might be. Not his, he said, and soon forgot someone asked until the time when I said I couldn’t find my phone. Nestor phoned home to say I left my CP and that we were coming back to get it. “He took it with him!” the person on the other end of the line told him—this after a frantic search involving everyone in the house, including the gardeners. I didn’t remember taking it out. Indeed, it was in my bag.  I have become a confirmed disaster.

The Flight to Doha

Our flight took off from NIA at 6:30 p.m., after I had waited for about 4 hours. Edgar and Loreta, who were coming from different provinces in Luzon, were at the airport as early as 9:00 a.m. At the same time, Sylvia and Peter, a Filipino-Austrian couple—friends of mine and Walter’s—arrived at the airport at 4:30 a.m. after a long car trip from Vigan City in the northern Philippines. They had been informed about the Military checkpoints halting travelers crossing the borders to Manila. Proper documentation was required, including a health certificate, a travel permit from the Philippine National Police, and the Home Quarantine Pass. After imploring the intercession of some essential people in their town to expedite the processing of the required papers, my friends were all set to travel the long way to Tipperary, which was in Manila. It was smooth driving, arriving at the airport in record time without anyone stopping them on the road—two weeks of stress for nothing. Fake news, cried the carrot man of America.

The last time I visited Hamad International Airport was in November 2019, when I was catching a connecting flight to the Philippines. I recall comparing the place to a large metropolis, bustling yet serene and well-organized. You don’t need to worry if you get lost or cannot find your gate; friendly staff will always be available to show you the way or answer your questions. I remember the duty-free shops, the jewelry stalls, the boutiques, the coffee shops, and the trains that take you to your terminal gate. Amazing airport.

The airport (Doha Airport to many Pinoys) that I remember as the airport that was alive and pulsating with so much energy was a picture of a typical rural village when we arrived that late night of June 2. It was dull, comatose even, no activities going on, no passengers hustling through the crowds lest they miss their flights; duty-free, jewelry shops, and boutiques were closed; empty and nothing to sell. A couple of coffee shops were open, so we sat in one where a friendly Pinay staff member attended to us. We had tea and coffee, cookies, and chips, and lingered there for a long while, hoping to stay until our connecting flight arrived ten hours later. Until then, that would be a heap of cookies, chips, and a caffeine overdose. Loreta found a room where passengers can lie down and sleep — it’s called The Quiet Place. We saw three elderly Pinays wrapped in blankets in the first row, snoring. The sheets looked familiar to me. I always find it difficult to sleep when traveling, especially in a crowded room where snoring rules. I was about to pass out when I heard people chatting in Tagalog. The three Pinays whom I had seen earlier in wheelchairs were now up and engaged in an animated conversation, comparing notes about the quality of their sleep. I kept sighing loudly so they could get the message that they were not alone in the room, that the room was called The Quiet Place, but it was a futile attempt; either they were deaf or didn’t care. “Pinoy kasi” (Filipinos, that’s why), so you give up, which I did. My friend and I decided to leave the place. The Pinays smiled at us, asked if we were going already.

“Ingay nyo kasi! “(because you’re noisy), I replied with contempt. Not the best time to ask any reigning Miss Congeniality!

Our aircraft hovered in the skies over Vienna for a long, terrifying moment. Thick clouds, rain, and a hailstorm. We had to fly over Bratislava three times and back to Vienna before the pilot could manage to land. Having collected our carry-on luggage from the overhead bin, we were ready to step out of the aircraft, but not after a long while. No information was given as to why, and when we were finally allowed to get out, it was only 20 passengers at a time. Because Edgar, Loreta, and I were seated in the first row immediately after the Business Class Section, we were among the privileged 20 passengers. We were fortunate to be sitting right after the business class section. We could smell, see, and feel the difference every time the flight attendant opened the curtain briskly; the whooshing sound was a reminder of our economy flying status. “Sorry! For business class only. The economy toilet is at the very end of the aircraft.” Then the curtain was drawn in one swift hand motion, making us feel more marginalized than ever.

We were already on the jet bridge when we were asked to stay still until further notice. No one had a clue as to the reason; no one knew, not even the security officer standing at the entry point. The storm caused a brownout, disrupted the computers, and fixing them was taking a long time. Meanwhile, many of us, including myself, felt the urgent need to go to the bathroom. The security guard won’t let us out, and the aircraft door shut. My kidneys could explode any time, so I ran towards the aircraft, where I saw a passenger standing behind the door, waiting to get out. I motioned for him to open the door. Once he did, I rushed into the first business-class toilet I saw, hurled some incoherent words at the stunned flight attendant. Relieved, I opened the door and saw a long queue of passengers, including Sylvia and Peter, waiting for their turn.

On the way out, I heard a furious captain talking with airport authorities. He was angry that there was no information about the delay. Indeed, it was a grueling, long wait. It was not after they let us out that we knew the truth. A Swiss carrier landed before us, and airport management thought it better to let the passengers claim their luggage. Once the last passenger had left the area, the next airline passengers could collect their belongings. Observe social distancing, the sign on the wall advised.
Walter was almost in tears when he saw me emerging from the customs area. He said he was worried that something unfortunate had happened. The arrival board flashed the information several times that our aircraft was approaching, and yet it never landed. And no one was telling them the reason for the delay.

My original seat number on our flight to Doha was Seat 18D. My friends were seated right after the Business Class Section. Loreta, a traveling companion that day, motioned me to join her because both aisles in the row where she was seated were free. The middle seat stayed free.

The paper that allowed me to take the COVID-test

The COVID-19 Test

I had a COVID-19 test appointment scheduled for 1:45 p.m. at a clinic located at the airport. I registered for it while still in the Philippines. I had an option: take the test, and if the result was negative, I wouldn’t have to undergo the mandatory 14-day home quarantine. I was given a throat swab test after paying 190€. The procedure took less than one minute. No painful nose swab test, as what other people who opted for a two-week mandatory home quarantine warned me about, and scared me. I would get the result by email. Sylvia and Peter did it and got the results as early as 8 a.m. the following day. Negative! It was already noon time the next morning, and I had yet to hear about mine. I was worried and called my sister and friends, who assured me that they were sure I had passed the test. I wasn’t optimistic, though.

Three days before my departure, my right tonsil became inflamed, causing some discomfort, which is usually a bad sign that I was catching a severe cold and, eventually, a cough. Rinse a glass of warm water with salt was the usual advice I got from herbal doctors, but I decided against it. I settled for Bactidol instead—a bacterial mouthwash. I found a bottle of antibiotics in my medicine kit and took them three times a day. I am still taking them to date until the regimen is over. Not content with that, I purchased a throat spray to expedite the recovery. I blamed the inflamed tonsils on the scorching heat outside, the freezing room temperature in my bedroom, and eating lots of ice cream and mango crumbles. I would bake one every day, not wanting the mangoes picked from my trees to go to waste. They ripen so fast.

My phone rang at 3 p.m. from the clinic, informing me that there was an issue with my email address. They have sent me an email several times, yet they were unable to reach me. I gave them my century-old email address. That I gave them the wrong email address puzzled me no end.  I admitted my mistake—that the email address was incomplete, so let me correct it. The caller had just hung up when I realized that it was still the wrong address. I called back immediately. Finally, the much-awaited email from the clinic arrived. Negative! I don’t remember the time when I felt so negative and yet so positive at the same time.

Walter was very delighted. I could read his mind. Let the garden work begin.