Planet Panic

by Pam Pastor

  May 10, 2014

  Mad about Moonpools

  Two foreigners walked by Amber Ultra Lounge and saw the line of people waiting for Moonpools and Caterpillars.

  “It’s a band,” said one of them.

  “It must be a really good band,” said the other.

  Dudes, you have no idea.

  I was fifteen when I first heard Moonpools and Caterpillars on the radio. I was hooked. I bought the Lucky Dumpling cassette tape and eventually the CD (and another CD when this jerk from school borrowed mine and lost it).

  My brother, cousins and I had started our band around that time, and we covered “Soon” and “Ren,” two of my favorite Moonpools songs. I never stopped listening to Lucky Dumpling, playing the entire album over and over for almost twenty years, long after the Filipino-American band stopped performing.

  Kimi Ward Encarnacion, Jay Encarnacion, Tim De Pala and Gugut Salgado had gone to Manila for a show in 1996, but I didn’t know about it until it was too late.

  Eighteen years later, on their Facebook page, there were little clues that one of my biggest musical dreams might just come true.

  I quickly sent them an email. “Are you really, really coming here!?” And then I told them how much I love them and how I learned to play the harmonica because of “Soon.”

  It was happening. Three shows, two in Manila and one in Cebu. I bought tickets for both Manila shows. Then I made a Moonpools bracelet.

  A few weeks later, Joey Dizon of Pinoy Tuner helped me arrange a fun email interview with Kimi.

  Then, one night, I was surprised to see this post on the Moonpools Facebook page:

  “Dreamed last night that hardly anyone showed up in Manila and right before we played SOON you all took off because there was a break dancing hip hop circle forming down the hall. I forgot my harmonica and Pam from the manila inquirer brought hers but it was giant …”

  I was in Kimi’s dream? I thought I was going to puke from excitement.

  Kimi sent me an email, “Hi Pam … Will you be at the Manila shows??? Bring your harmonica!”

  We talked about Kimi’s dream and my harmonica again at their press conference.

  “It’s a regular-sized one, I promise,” I said.

  “What key is it?” Tim asked.

  “It’s C,” I said.

  Kimi said, “That’s it!”

  And I was so happy I got the correct harmonica that I started blabbering. “Oh my god, so I was right? Because I just guessed.”

  They laughed.

  I couldn’t believe they were really in front of me. After the press con, Kimi signed my harmonica.

  “What does it mean? Why did she ask you to bring your harmonica? Does that mean she will make you play it?” friends asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  The first show was incredible. I jumped, screamed, sang along and fought the urge to cry. I waited eighteen years for that night. I couldn’t believe it was happening.

  As they started to play “Soon,” Kimi asked the crowd, “Did anyone bring a harmonica?”

  I knew it was my cue to whip out the harmonica that was hiding in my bag but I didn’t.

  After the show, Tim asked me, “Where were you? We were looking for you.”

  “I wanted to watch her do it!” I said to Tim.

  Sure, going onstage to jam with my favorite band would have been an unforgettable experience but I didn’t want to be selfish. Like me, many of the people in the audience had never seen the band perform live before. And Kimi’s “Soon” harmonica solo is one of the most anticipated highlights. I didn’t want to rob them of that moment.

  I had an amazing time. And three days later, after their show in Cebu, I got to do it again.

  Jill and I went really early to make sure we were front and center at the second Manila show. We felt giddy when we saw Kimi, Jay and Tim wearing the Philippine flag-inspired loomies Jill had made for them. And when they started playing, I jumped, screamed, sang along and this time, I let the tears fall.

  When I bought the tickets to the shows, I knew I was in for a good time. But I had no idea that I would also get the chance to get to know the people behind the songs I’ve loved for close to two decades.

  After the last show and the impromptu meet and greet, as the band relaxed with their family and friends at a nearby lounge, Kimi gave me a long and tight hug and said, “I consider you a friend.” I almost bawled. Cynics say you shouldn’t meet your heroes. But I did. And I had the pleasure of realizing that on top of being talented musicians, they are delightful people, warm, kind and so much fun. What a great gift.

  April 12, 2014

  Fasten

  your

  seatbelt

  Flights and funny smells

  Singer Rachael Yamagata once wrote about how flight attendants never seem to see her. It’s odd. They serve everyone food but forget to give her her meal, even when she makes an effort to be seen.

  Unlike Rachael, sometimes I wish flight attendants couldn’t see me.

  Like the time we were flying from Madrid to Amsterdam and the flight attendant stopped demonstrating the safety features of the plane to tell me to shut off my Nintendo DS and pay attention. It was embarrassing. I felt like I was back in grade school and my teacher had confiscated my Polly Pocket pencil case. One, I know the safety features spiel forward and backward and two, doesn’t she realize the Princess needs saving?

  Or like the time Jill and I were sitting quietly on a Delta flight from New York to LA. We were watching The Kids Are All Right on the little screens (we had paid $6 each to watch) and eating a bag of Chex Mix. Suddenly, a flight attendant stood in front of us, asking for the bag of Chex.

  What the hell? I thought.

  She smelled the bag and then handed it to another flight attendant who smelled it, too. Flight attendant #2 shook her head.

  Sniffy McSmelly returned the bag to us and said, “A passenger has been complaining about a funny smell. We think it’s this.”

  Jill and I smelled the bag of Chex. It didn’t smell funny. It didn’t smell at all. But go ahead, lady, blame it on the Chex Mix.

  But it soon became clear that the flight attendants didn’t really think it was the Chex either. Because they spent many minutes bending over seats and making passengers stand up so they can keep searching for “the funny smell.”

  I cannot count the number of times I’ve been stuck inside a plane with people who smelled funny. How come nobody ever complained about them?

  Then again, sometimes it helps that flight attendants see you.

  On a flight from LA to Japan, we were seated beside an asshole who refused to turn off his phone. He kept texting and checking his phone, hiding it under the jacket on his lap whenever a flight attendant walked by.

  What was so important that it couldn’t wait until we landed? And why was he acting so guilty? My imagination started to go wild, wilder than Lindsay Lohan in a club at 3 a.m.

  What if he’s a terrorist? What if he’s trying to detonate a bomb? What if he’s communicating with other terrorists on the plane?

  Well, I wasn’t letting this aircraft go down without a fight.

  The next time he started tapping away on his phone, I tried to sneak a peek. But it was in Chinese. Or Japanese. Damn it.

  I nudged Jill who was sitting on my other side and we agreed that it was time to tell the flight attendants about the guy.

  But we didn’t want to tell our flight attendant. She was grouchy and scary. She was blonde, her eye makeup was smeared, and her false lashes looked like angry spiders ready to attack.

  Soon, a tall redhead came down the aisle, teapot in hand. “Tea, anyone?”

  Bingo. She looked like a strong mom who wouldn’t tolerate bullshit. And, more importantly, she looked like she could kick serious ass.

  “Tea?”

  She looked at us and Jill tried to communicate with her by discreetly pointing towards the guy and making texting signals with her other hand
.

  “What?”

  The flight attendant looked confused. And scared.

  Jill continued her attempts at sign language while I resisted the urge to laugh.

  The flight attendant finally understood. The fear disappeared from her face, and she was in front of the guy faster than you can say text.

  “Are you using your phone?”

  The guy, who I think does not understand English, had hidden the phone again and was shaking his head and trying to look innocent.

  But the flight attendant was too smart for him.

  “That phone which you are hiding under your jacket, have you been using it? Turn it off. Turn it off. OFF. OFF. OFF.”

  She didn’t stop until she saw him turn it off. I wanted to bring out pom-poms and cheer her on.

  Then she turned to me. “If he brings it out again and uses it, and I’m pretty sure he will, call me.”

  I nodded.

  He didn’t bring it out again.

  Pam—1, imaginary terrorists—0.

  January 2, 2011

  Bonamine is my best friend

  We had been warned. Sleep early. Get up early. Get on the boat early so the waves would be calm.

  Did we listen? Of course not.

  We drank until late, woke up late and hungover, and got on the boat late. The waves were anything but calm.

  Minutes into the bumpy boat ride to Caramoan, my stomach was churning. “Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke,” I chanted in my head, trying to soothe my insides into behaving. My mantra seemed to be working until the little girl in front of me started throwing up.

  Soon, I was hurling into a plastic bag while Jill patted my back. I stopped vomiting long enough to see Jill grab her own plastic bag so she could puke, too. I patted her back.

  We spent the next hour or so alternately vomiting and patting each other’s backs. It was as if our stomachs were in sync. Okay, your turn. Okay, your turn. Okay, your turn. Okay, your turn.

  The water was so rough that our boat couldn’t dock safely. We needed to transfer to smaller boats, the boatmen said. Two persons to a boat.

  I took one look at the tiny boats lurching in the waves and said, “No way.”

  I turned to Jill who looked as pale as Casper and said, “Screw the boat, let’s just swim.”

  She nodded.

  “Manong, lalanguyin na lang namin,” I said.

  Jill and I are strong swimmers, I thought. This should be a breeze.

  I took off my shirt and whipped off my shorts, too dizzy to care that I was just wearing panties with my tankini top. I stuffed my clothes and my flip flops into my backpack, handing it to a friend who was about to ride one of the small boats.

  I watched everyone else leave on the boats. I was raring to go, I was eager to jump into the water so the icy plunge could stop my dizziness.

  Then one of the boatmen spoke, pointing to the concrete steps that were just meters away. “Ma’am, hindi pa ’yan ’yun ha. Doon pa. Kakaliwa kayo.” He gestured wildly, trying to indicate distance.

  Another boatman spoke, “At ingat kayo, ma’am, maraming sea urchin dyan.”

  “Manong, boat na lang please.”

  I could deal with the distance but not the sea urchins. If it’s a choice between being seasick and getting poked by one of those spiky things, hand me the barf bag, I pick seasickness.

  Jill and I got on the tiny boat, laughing at ourselves. “Lalanguyin pala ha.”

  We docked not at a port but what looked like a busy village, with kids playing in the streets and men standing around a sari-sari store.

  I was still barefoot and just wearing my tankini top and panties. I didn’t care. I was too relieved to be on dry land to feel shame.

  But someone else was embarrassed for me. I looked up to see our friend Kitkat running towards me, a towel in her arms.

  The boat ride back to CamSur was much smoother. I popped enough Bonamine to tranquilize a small cow, and I spent the entire trip knocked out, with half my body hanging outside the boat, snoring as the waves lapped at my hair.

  June 29, 2015

  A tale of two Pulags

  My first Mt. Pulag experience was traumatic.

  It was wet and it was freezing, so wet and freezing that we were trapped in our tents as early as 6 p.m.

  There would be no socials, no watching friends get tipsy, no hilarious stories to tell after.

  Instead, there we were—Jill, Giff and I—squeezed into a tent for two, waiting as our mountaineering guides braved the rain and went from tent to tent, handing out food rations.

  We ate chicken teriyaki, buttered vegetables and rice from plastic bags that we passed around. When dinner was done, there was nothing left to do but prepare for bed and sleep.

  My preparation took extra steps because I was an unfortunate soul who climbed a mountain—warning, too much information coming up—while I had my period. Giff said our friendship reached new heights that week—not because of the altitude but because he saw the wings of my sanitary pad.

  We also sealed our bond that night by—again, warning, too much information—peeing into the same garbage bag. It was so cold we couldn’t go outside to pee.

  Disgusting, I know. I’m sorry.

  By 7 p.m., we were trying to force ourselves to sleep, willing the sun to rise faster. Our tent had been positioned on a campsite slope—we had no choice, there were a lot of campers that weekend. That meant that we kept waking up with our bodies on the bottom half of our tent. We would push ourselves up, wincing as the wet and icy tent floor hit our backs again, making us shiver. We huddled together in an attempt to create warmth, resisting the urge to cry.

  Every time we’d wake up, we’d ask Giff for the time, wailing at his every response. 8 p.m. 9 p.m. 10 p.m. The clock wouldn’t move fast enough.

  Just before dawn, a cheerful-sounding Rollie went around the tents, trying to wake everyone up for the trek to the summit.

  We had been cold and wet and miserable for ten hours. “Go away!” we yelled at him. He laughed and went off in search of the sea of clouds.

  Hours later, we got ready to descend the mountain. It was still raining, and I was the idiot with no raincoat so they fashioned one for me out of an enormous clear plastic bag, the kind you see on the shoulders of street vendors, filled to the brim with kropek and fish crackers. They punched holes in the bag for my head and arms and made me wear it.

  “Mukha kang chichirya,” Giff said, gleefully, clapping his hands in delight. All I could do was glare at him.

  I wore my kropek raincoat all the way down that mountain.

  “Never again,” I declared.

  Five years later, I ate my words because my friends convinced me to climb Mt. Pulag again.

  It wasn’t raining. In fact, it was so hot during our trek that the sun burned my back and neck. This time, it wasn’t the weather that challenged me. It was the trek.

  We were so slow, and we kept taking so many breaks that the rest of the group dubbed us “Team Ambagal,” inspired by Ambangeg, the trail we were on.

  When we finally made it to the campsite, we had a tent big enough to roll around in and enough thermal clothes to keep us toasty.

  I still didn’t get to see the sea of clouds, though. While my friends trekked to the summit before dawn, I was left alone in our tent, feverish and terrified, with Blair Witch scenarios playing in my head.

  “Never again,” I said.

  But the truth is, I’ve said that every single time I’ve climbed a mountain. And I keep doing it anyway.

  Despite my whining and groaning, I kind of love climbing mountains. I love how it helps you really appreciate the small things you usually take for granted: fresh air, the sun, a smooth path, water, your own strength.

  February 12, 2013

  Terrified in Toronto

  “Warning! Stay away!”

  I opened TripAdvisor to check on the hotel that would become my home in Toronto for a few days and those were the first words
that greeted me.

  Apparently, just a couple of weeks before my trip, there had been a string of robberies at the hotel.

  “I was robbed while I slept,” wrote one reviewer, saying people lost their luggage, laptops, phones, passports, wallets and watches.

  “Unsafe!!! Thieves broke into my room. Room tip: Do not stay here!!!” another posted.

  I could have waved off these reviews as the work of competing establishments but the Sheraton’s general manager actually replied: “The hotel is actively investigating two independent reports of thefts from guest rooms this past weekend.”

  The reviews were true. Naturally, I was nervous. But the decision on where to stay is never up to me when I’m traveling for work.

  I sucked it up and got ready to face potential robbers, all in the desire to visit the set of Hannibal. I arrived in Toronto alone on a cold, snowy night, ready with my battle plan.

  Step one: Barricade the door.

  Step two: Use the shit out of the hotel room safe.

  Step three: Bring my laptop with me everywhere no matter how much my back hurts.

  I barricaded the door every night, strategically placing a chair and a folding luggage rack against it in hopes that they would deter criminals from entering my room.

  But no robbers made an appearance. Something else gave me a fright during my short visit—and I don’t mean Hannibal.

  It was my second night in Toronto and I had just dozed off when I was jolted awake by the fire alarm. It wasn’t a wailing siren, it was a constant, maddening beeping. “Probably a mistake,” I thought sleepily.

  But it wouldn’t stop. Then, a disembodied voice spoke: “Attention, attention. There’s a situation on the ninth floor. The fire department has been alerted. Please remain calm, stay in your room and await further instructions.”

  Holy crap. I was on the twenty-seventh floor. If there was a fire on the ninth floor, how would I go down? I had visions of myself rappelling down the side of the building.