“I was asked to come here and give a talk on the essence of being a producer. But as I arrived here today, I thought I’d share something a little different with you all. Something you can take with you.”
I could hear a quiet murmur in the audience but still couldn’t see them. Jerry told me it was a packed house so that was nice.
“I lost my mother at nine and my father at nineteen. I’m an only child without a single confidant in my life. I’ve known tragedy and I’ve known heartache. I also know what it’s like to live the American Dream. I drive a Lexus LS 600 and my bills are always paid. I don’t worry about healthcare expenses. And yet none of it can match the void left in my soul by a society bent on greed, violence and getting ahead at the expense of others. Don’t chase what I have; it’s hollow, at best. Appreciate this moment in time because you may not have another. You’ll forgive me for ending this so abruptly but… what I really wanted to say to you all… to people… to humanity, is – goodbye. It was a good ride while it lasted but… I don’t need you anymore.”
I heard some gasps and talking in the room.
“Thank you for this evening, but I have a plane to catch.”
CHAPTER
13
Sitting in the airport, the trip seemed daunting but the anticipation of a new adventure left a healthy supply of butterflies in my belly. I was positively giddy. Ahead lay a seventeen-hour flight to Manila, an eight-hour jeep ride to a ferryboat, which, a day later, would put me at the docks of Cebu, near the location where my land was nestled. I picked an island close to the mainland just in case I got stir-crazy and also for medical attention if such were ever needed.
Working in the film business for more than a decade left me with very identifiable mental defects, one of which was the inability to not look at real-life situations and ponder whether they would make a good movie. Every event became a plot point in a screenplay and people were characters written on white paper. Some were fascinating and some needed a re-write.
One such person had just sat down next to me, fighting to control a half-dozen screaming kids. I kept reading the Voltaire paperback in my hands but still felt her looking at me. I never understood how it is one could feel another person looking at him but my radar was definitely picking up signals. A quick glance up revealed that I was right. She smiled politely.
“You are going to Philippines, no?”
“I am. Yes.”
“I’m going Manila. You?”
“Cebu. Off the coast, actually.”
She nodded.
“Ah, Cebu is very nice. You like there. I was in Cebu three years ago. They have a different dialect than my place. You speak Tagalog? That’s our national language.”
Conceding the obvious, I nodded “no.”
“Oh, you must learn. Very important. You are white so they will take advantage of you there.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem in the place I’m going,” I said with a smile.
She wasn’t even listening.
“We learn English from grade school. It’s required in our place. They teach university using English.”
“Interesting.”
“We Filipinos are very fond of Americans since
MacArthur liberate us from Japanese during the war.”
Would this lady ever stop talking?
“You not married?” she asked.
“No.”
“You have a special person there in Philippines?”
“No.”
“Maybe you find a girl there.”
“Doubtful. But thank you.”
She looked at me strangely, probably hoping her seat on the plane wasn’t next to mine.
“It’s not good to be alone,” she said, before shouting at her children in a strange dialect.
“Well, I hope all Filipinos are as welcoming as you,” I lied.
• • •
Stepping onto the ramp and through the door hatch of the plane, I began to feel nostalgic. Our layover was in Japan so this would likely be the last time my feet would stand on American soil. The thought gave me pause and I stood in the door long enough to catch an impatient jolt from a gentleman behind me as his carry-on luggage hit me between the shoulders.
“Sorry,” he quipped, not meaning it.
I moved aside and let him filter through to coach as I turned left and ducked into first class. I shoved my backpack into the overhead bin and sat down.
How long would I mourn America, the land of my birth and the only culture I knew? Was I having second thoughts? There was still time to run, I thought to myself. People were still filing onto the plane. Sure, it would be embarrassing but this was my only chance.
Turn around! Do it!
Sudden fear gripped me like a vise. My throat was already dry and I began to sweat. A strange thing happens when your adrenaline is racing: little things around you begin to take on profound meaning and you wonder why you’ve never paid attention to them before. A young flight attendant had leaned over to close the bins in front of me and I noticed her wedding ring. This woman who risks her life to make me comfortable on a flying machine is someone’s wife. Someone loves this woman and prays for her safe return every day. My heart beat even faster. She noticed my panic.
“Are you okay, sir? Would you like a magazine?”
A magazine? Lady, get off this plane and race home to your husband. He loves you!
“Sir?” She said, concerned.
“Water. I could use some water.”
She smiled and pointed to the complimentary bottle of water stuck to the side of my armrest.
“Oh, duh. Thank you.”
I took a giant swig from the bottle, almost finishing the whole thing in a single gulp. Then I heard the plane’s door being latched.
“No!” I thought to myself. “It’s too late and I haven’t even made my decision yet. This flight attendant lady distracted me!”
The captain’s screechy voice came on.
“Welcome aboard. We have a non-stop to Nagoya, Japan. Expect some bumpy skies in the first hour or so. Arrival time in Japan should be around nine o’clock in the evening, which is about thirteen hours from now. For those of you continuing on to the Philippines, it’ll be an additional four hours to Manila. Enjoy your flight.”
An electronic pop from the intercom and that was that. It had become official. I was leaving the United States of America to live on an island off the coast of the Philippines.
Holy crap! was the thought running through my mind. I’m actually doing this!
My internal monologue was so loud that I wondered if others beside me could hear it. We began to taxi the runway and I felt nauseous. Could it be that a fantasy spawned in a fifth grade nurse’s lounge might actually come to fruition? I was going to find out soon.
• • •
Two hours into the flight, my mind began to settle. Yet the familiar mechanical hiss of the plane never quite allowed me to be at ease. I looked down and found that my fists were clenched. It’s a rare occasion when I can actually sleep during any mode of travel and this was no exception. I shared the front of the plane with a businessman who had been punching something into his Blackberry since we took off, as well as an Asian guy in wire-rimmed glasses. Neither of them looked like they wanted to be here. I relaxed my head on the pillow, reclining a bit, to see if sleep would elude me once more. It did not.
I dreamed of Delores and her kids again. When I woke up a couple of hours later, it took about thirty seconds to get my bearings and understand that I was on a plane heading somewhere. Looking up at my personal, flat-panel TV, I saw a crude computer graphic of a plane cresting the Canadian coast. My back was sore and many more hours lay ahead. When you hate to travel as much as I do, visualizing the destination can help to get you through. I had seen blueprints of the house and tiny web photos of the island itself but I couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to actually stand there and gaze upon it. That thought managed to soothe my ach
y legs for the duration of the flight to Japan.
It was dark when we landed in Nagoya and boy, was I relieved to stretch my legs! Inside the terminal I stumbled two very weak legs into the restroom across from a Hello Kitty gift shop, where I found the urinals full. Undeterred, I stepped into a stall to find a plastic toilet seat… on the floor. It looked clean, but foreign. That’s when it first hit me and Toto that we weren’t in Kansas anymore. The bizarre Japanese directions, and equally bizarre stick-men cartoons, didn’t help matters. After a quick squirt, I went back to await the one-hour layover. Despite being delirious from travel, I kept a positive attitude. In a short time, I’d be in my new country of residence with a world of possibilities ahead.
The smooth, four-hour flight felt like twenty minutes. As the pilot hovered for our final approach, I saw the Manila Bay glistening with lights from buildings and streets at one o’clock in the morning. All the activity below reminded me of flying over New York City. Things seemed so peaceful, and urban, from this altitude. Don’t Filipinos ever sleep? The descent seemed to take forever but we finally touched down at Ninoy Aquino airport at 1:18 am. I was home.
CHAPTER
14
I stepped out of the plane’s hatch and headed down a beige corridor leading to the terminal. The place smelled different than I would have thought. It was fragrant, and sweet, but definitely foreign. I began noticing the posters and cardboard advertisements in the airport hallways – they were for products I’d never heard of and the models didn’t look like anyone I knew. I was also the only white person in sight.
At the end of the hallway I came to a large, open room full of crowded travelers. I could see the luggage carousels but they were behind metal bars and a turnstile. I’d been told we had to go through a checkpoint before we could get our bags but I had all my personal items shipped to the island in advance, with the exception of a carry-on backpack.
Turns out, it didn’t matter. A very pretty woman at the front desk told me I had to go through the line with my passport to get it stamped. After two hours of standing in an absurdly long line, I got my first passport stamp and headed through the gates, where an equally long line of taxis was waiting. A young boy spotted me immediately and ran over.
“Backpack. I’ll carry. I’ll carry.”
Not having been born yesterday, I realized this kid was trying to earn a little cash by offering to “help” me with my luggage. Since I hardly needed his assistance, I simply gave him two one-dollar bills from my pocket, the remnants of a trip to Starbucks back in Chicago.
How strange that seemed at this moment.
The kid smiled widely and ran back to his post. I nodded to the first cab driver that I saw. Without asking a question, or bothering to smile, he took my backpack and put it in the back of his cab. Then he stood there, perhaps waiting for me to speak. I knew from my research that nearly all Filipinos speak English, so I dove right in.
“I need a hotel close to here. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, early.”
“You want City Garden. Is cheap,” he said.
Maybe he mistook “cheap” for “close” but I hardly felt like arguing. The guy was nice and had work to do.
So far things seemed a bit foreign, for obvious reasons, but nothing too out of the ordinary – and then we pulled out of the airport carousel and into the street, where I got my first glimpse of the city. Yep, it was actually very out of the ordinary.
The first thing that assaulted my senses was the smell. My driver had his window cracked, which resulted in my getting blasted with this strange aroma which felt almost tangible. To best describe it, I’d say it’s a mixture of gasoline and barbecue smoke. I quite like it, though it was intoxicating and made my head spin as we whipped through narrow urban streets.
My eyes were trying to catch up. Everything I saw flying past my window was something I’d never seen before, so it was hard trying to comprehend everything. Herds of motorcycles and Pedicabs jockeyed for position on the cracked concrete street, each weaving in and out of a wide cluster of traffic. Despite being very late at night – or very early in the morning, depending on one’s perspective – there were people literally everywhere. Guys selling food from carts on the sidewalk; teenage girls walking in packs with their friends; and drunk people spilling out of bars and clubs. A night out in Chicago or LA had nothing on this place; it was excessively crowded, and noisy.
The next assault took place on my equilibrium, thanks to the cab driver. I would later come to discover that everyone in the Philippines, cabbie or not, drives like he is in the Indianapolis 500. It’s bizarre and frightening, yet I somehow felt safe in the taxi. What shocked my western brain the most was the fact that cars literally nudge one another out of the way – I mean, physically nudge other cars to merge. There are no lanes, just a strange game of chicken in which the right of way goes to the one who is least afraid to die.
After twenty minutes of sensory overload, we arrived at City Garden Hotel and I remembered that I hadn’t exchanged any Filipino currency yet.
“Sir, excuse me, but I only have dollar bills.”
He looked in the rearview.
“I can take Filipino pesos only. Sorry.”
I was confused and desperate.
“Is there an ATM where I can exchange?”
“A what?”
“Like a – place to exchange?”
He nodded.
“Hotel should exchange for you. Just pay your room. I’ll turn off meter.”
This ordeal took up thirty minutes of my time but the fare was paid and I retired for the evening.
The hotel room was small but ornate. There was an air conditioner unit in the window and the room smelled of old dust. When I sat down on the bed I felt the world fall away. It’s hard to describe the release I felt at that moment, but it was glorious. I laid back on the bed and flipped on the TV to see the evening news. A man on a motorcycle had apparently been hit by a bus. Unlike the evening news back in the States, they actually show dead bodies on TV over here. After a striking image of two legs under a bus and what appeared to be a head resting next to the front tire, I decided to flip over to MTV Asia where scantily clad Korean girls danced along with a rap tune. I changed the channel once more to see several commercials in a row for products and brands I never knew existed. Enough of that – I switched the TV off and closed my eyes.
I slept straight through for five hours until the alarm on my phone went off. Fumbling around on the side table, I managed to knock a lamp over before silencing the phone. I woke up in a daze, not sure where I was. After a few seconds it sunk in. Not only did I feel the impact of being in an alternate universe, I also felt like a stranger in a strange land. My senses couldn’t catch up.
Nearing the window, which overlooks a busy street, I witnessed car horns ablaze during morning rush hour. It was chaos in a haze of fog.
“How did I sleep through this noise?” I wondered aloud.
I needed to make final preparations for the last leg of travel, so I picked up the phone and dialed an agency I had been working with.
“This is Ted LaSalle again. I’m staying at City Garden in Makati. Can you send a driver? Thanks.”
CHAPTER
15
The car that the agency sent was actually a dusty, white van with bald tires. I exchanged pleasantries with the driver, who spoke only broken English, and settled in for a bumpy, six-hour ride. Very little was said during the commute so I just stared out the window and tried not to think about my aching back muscles. The scenery exhausted my eyes. It’s like when you take a bite of some food you’re not familiar with: the moment it hits your tongue, your mind revolts – that’s the feeling. The Philippines, from the city to the countryside, is both breathtakingly beautiful and horrendously ugly at the same time, depending on which direction your head is facing. The rice fields under a glistening sun were a pleasant sight that made me feel serene and removed from the current era. But across the street were row after row
of tin shed, bamboo housing along with countless Tanduay billboards, which is some kind of Filipino rum. The driver offered me something to drink and I accepted with only slight hesitation. He pulled onto the shoulder and talked to some guys standing in front of a storefront shack for about ten minutes before going inside. He came out with a glass bottle of Coke and handed it to me. It was only half cold but it would do.
That familiar aroma was always around, that scent of faint gasoline mixed with barbecue smoke. The countryside, or province, of the Philippines looked a lot different than remote areas in the States. Back home, the country is where you go to seclude yourself and get away from people. Over here, the dirt and gravel roads are almost as populated as the urban centers. Smoke plumed from shanty houses stretching as far as the eye could see. Though I was just in transit to a much different part of the country, it occurred to me that I could be happy in a place like this; not entirely comfortable, but happy. Little Filipino kids waved at me as we drove past. Things were uncomplicated here and that held great appeal.
We arrived at the docks late in the afternoon. It was still scorching hot. I handed my ticket to a physically imposing Australian man with a surfer’s cut.
“They call you Joe?” he asked.
“No, I’m Ted.”
“I mean the locals. They call you Joe?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
He grinned at that.
“They call all white people ‘Joe’ over here. Australian, German – whatever. We’re all American to them.”
I gave a weary, but intrigued, laugh.
“The people have been very nice,” I commented.
“That’s because you’re kano,” he told me while checking my ticket.
“What’s a kano?” I asked of the word that sounded like “kah-no.”
The Island of Ted Page 6