Firstly, let me say what a chore yet successful venture it has been for me to learn how to spell the word "Philippines". After many an incorrect posting in a Facebook message thread, or a poorly typed Google search, I am now the proud owner of the ability to spell this country. Success!
We were in the Phils (or the Peens, as myself, Liz and Sarah called them. Also abbreviated to the Peen....IS and a hilarious hashtag that I created but sadly never managed to get the others to catch on to: #chillyonmyphilly. "Too long, Ainsley, too long", came Liz's scathing reply) for a short two weeks. After an awesome time in Dumaguete and the surrounding region, we were headed by plane (via Manila) to Boracay. Sah basic of you! Says the seasoned traveler and tourist/crowd avoider. Well f*ck you, Seasoned Traveler. Boracay is the greatest and you are missing out on an essential life experience. More on that later, though.
I'm an anxious person. My anxiety rears it's head at different times, and in different forms, but one thing that consistently brings it on is flying. I don't enjoy it. I spent the better half of the flight home to NZ from Manila clutching at my arm rests in white knuckled terror, convinced that the plane was about to plummet into the ocean, sealing the deaths of myself and fellow passengers. I once convinced my friend Liz, while on a flight between Phenom Penh and Ho Chi Min city that out plane was going down. I wrote a death note to my family and sealed it in a plastic bag and everything. Did I listen to Candle in the Wind on my iPod and envision Elton John singing it to tearful friends and family at my boho chic funeral? Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. The point is, I don't like flying.
It was a joy, then, to reach the Philippines. A nation, it seemed, devoted to karaoke, Mother Mary, and providing me with top quality entertainment for all stages of my journey: check in, pre-flight, mid flight and beyond.
The morning of the flight got off to a cracking start, when, at 7.30 am, a mere 15 minutes before we had scheduled to leave our hotel, it was discovered that three loads of our washing was still at the wash house....somewhere across town. After a lengthy and pointed conversation the day before; Me: "Will the washing be here by 7 am?" Reply: "Yes." Me: "Are you sure?" Reply: "Yes." I was livid. I expressed my lividity with a benign smile towards the backpackers secretary and an internal monologue with myself about what my chances were like of fitting Filipino sized clothing, if pressed. (Answer: not good). Eventually, around 8am, our washing arrived, and the staff were able to breathe a sigh of relief.
After arriving at the airport all of a dither, we raced to the check in line, only to find a very relaxed and not at all pressed-for-time looking staff. An exchanging of passports and friendly hellos quickly escalated to a suggested exchanging of phone digits and Facebook pages (on their part, to be clear). Eager as they were to party with us that night, we sadly explained that indeed, this outbound flight we were scheduled for was no prank, we were truly leaving Dumaguete. One young employee then took it upon himself to perform what can only be described as a sensual dance piece, for the entertainment of (I'm guessing) himself, and upon his realising we were watching, embraced his audience and performed enthusiastically, his only props being some baggage tags, a desk corner and a smile. With the tinny sound of phone-speaker Raeggeton in our ears, and the image of the vigorously gyrating hips of a small Filipino man permanently burnt into my retinas, we left Dumaguete for good.
Upon taking our seats on the plane and expressing excitement about the air con ("Hey, they have air con!"), we were ready to go. It was a super short flight (50 minutes), so I figured I would have just enough time to get worked up about the possibility of a bird getting into one of the engines and killing us all, before we landed in Manila. But the staff of flight CB014 had other ideas. "We need three volunteers" beseeched the pint sized air hostess at the front of the plane. "Three volunteers, please." Anyone who knows me knows that the only thing I hate more than flying is the possibility of being asked to perform a complex mathematical equation in front of a large crowd. There is no way of knowing if this is what the lady wanted from the "three volunteers" but I was taking no chances and cowered low in my seat, while simultaneously shouting "THESE GIRLS!" and pointing at Liz and Sarah. Being the good sports (and competent mathematicians) that they are, the girls took their place at the front of the plane, alongside an old and slightly drugf*cked British guy. It turns out that they each had to sing a song, into the plane intercom, for us all to enjoy. Whether this was a serious competition, or just light entertainment I was unsure. The poor girls pleaded their case, and banded together to perform a rousing and heartfelt rendition of the ever classic and all time Kiwi favourite "God Defend New Zealand". They even did a bonus round in Maori, which I thought was very cultural of them, given that most if not all the Filipinos on our flight probably had no idea that the language even exists. The crowd clapped politely, and Liz and Sarah returned to their seats, in possession of shiny new toy fans. Win-win.
We touched down in Manila, had a short waiting period in which we lamented the fact that we had no time to buy any food ("but I'm staaaaarving!"), and were ushered onto another plane, this one bound for Boracay. High spirits abound, the gummy worms and M & M's (of course we had snacks, but that wasn't ENOUGH) were flowing thick and fast, and I could already see my tan and rum & coke waiting at the other end. It was only after waiting on the plane for close to an hour that it occurred to me that something wasn't right. We hadn't taken off, so we couldn't have crash landed (though I was suspicious), and there was no other reason to hang around before take off so long. A voice crackled through the loud speaker with an announcement which stated we were to be moved to a new aircraft. Herded like the mindless cattle we were (catatonic after too many gummy worms), we filed off the aircraft and onto a waiting bus.
As the bus started to move, I settled in for the journey. The bus stopped and people began to get off. I looked around to see if I could spot the old plane, only to find it looming up from the tarmac, 20 meters behind us. We had been spared a 2 minute walk, for which I was obviously grateful. if a little surprised about.
Of course, the journey didn't end there, with a van ride (with a suspicious cardboard box and an awful smell) a boat (of dubious quality) and cyclo (through streets flooded knee high) followed, but this post is getting very long, and I could stay here all night telling you about it. So although I still hate flying, At least now I know that if I was on ever on a plane that went down in the Philippines, at least I would die with the sweet sound of the New Zealand national anthem ringing in my ears.
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