Do you plan to sleep on this flight?” I asked her.
“Oh no, I’ll stay awake,” she replied with a bright-eyed resolve, her head bouncing from side to side, making her hair wave back and forth. I put a casual friendliness into my question to try to seem congenial. But really I was doing some reconnaissance. I wanted to see what kind of travel partner I would have on my nine-hour flight to the Philippines from Doha, where I’d stopped on layover. It looked as though my one chance of complete peace was slipping through my fingers, compliments of one incredibly cheery Filipina. She was like a happy doll whose pull string was way longer than the manufacturer’s specifications. From the looks of it, she was going to be happy for hours.
I wasn’t surprised though. In my experience, Filipinas are by far some of the nicest and happiest women I’ve met in the States. One of my closest friends and fellow founding member of the club, Jocelyn, is a Filipina, and she bubbles with the same effervescence as my neighbor on the plane. I’ve worked beside Filipinos in the hotel industry, and their customer service tact is, bar none, the best I saw. It’s almost as if they had a culture that bred joy and happiness, enough to be shared with anyone around them. (Granted, I’m sure there are grumpy Filipinos too.)
From the moment I clambered over her (“Hi, my name is Lyn,” she said, hardly noticing I’d straddled her clenched knees) to sit in my window seat, she’d begun to talk to me, at a very fast pace, at two in the morning. I wanted nothing more than to put on my blue Snuggie blanket and go to sleep. (Yes, I’m proud to own a Snuggie. And yes, even in my economic packing, it made the cut of essentials I truly required.)
“The flight is very quick, you know? Just five hours,” she informed me.
I was confused because I’d been told the flight was nine hours. Maybe time even bends its ways to this happy woman for whom nine hours only feels like five.
After chatting with Lyn for a few more minutes about her work in Doha, where we’d just departed, and her excitement about going home to the Philippines for the first time in two years, I put in my earplugs and rested my head against the window, on my way to a deep sleep. But when the flight attendant came by with her cart, Lyn kindly tapped me on the shoulder. I groggily opened my eyes to temperamental slits to wave off the offer. In the narrow view they gave me, I could still see Lyn’s bright smile and bobbing head. I gather she hadn’t noticed my closed eyes for the first twenty minutes of the flight.
Six glorious hours passed, and the light jingle of the food cart cramming its way down the aisle was my alarm clock. It was breakfast time, and we had chased after the rising sun filtering through pulled shades and open windows. Sleeping on a plane has its limitations. You take what you can get, for sure, but it’s not like sleeping in your own bed. Or sleeping anywhere you can actually get horizontal. Bleary, I started to come to. And there was Lyn, laughing while watching a movie. I’m fairly certain she hadn’t slept for a moment. The excitement she had about returning home had given her a surreal amount of adrenaline.
She turned her head slightly and noticed I was awake. I was mid yawn when she leaned over my armrest to see the world down below. It’s pretty odd to have a stranger welcome you from slumber while hovering over your lap. Part of me wondered how many times that happened while I slept. This was a query I didn’t really want an answer to.
That universal cockpit crackle rang throughout the plane, signaling our final descent into the Philippines. I looked out the window, with Lyn’s head right beside mine, as we passed by Manila, which reminded me of San Diego or Chicago, with its skyscrapers, city grids, and main traffic arteries crisscrossing the city, the whole nest resting on a promontory of land edging against the water. I was struck by how urban and modern the city looked in a pinprick view from a plane window.
By now, I was a master at deplaning. I had a routine for gathering my stuff, keeping the line going, and zipping out without a hitch. I’d also developed this amazing sixth sense for finding “Baggage Claim” in a variety of languages. I regripped my luggage and upped my pace out to the curbside to catch a ride.
The moment I stepped outside, it was so humid it felt as though I’d walked into a sopping-wet, invisible blanket. I could feel myself glistening within moments. I hadn’t minded the climates anywhere I went. But still, discomfort is discomfort. Now my only goal was to catch a ride that had a working air conditioner. That’s where Big Boy came in.
It’s not often someone introduces himself as “Big Boy.” But by the looks of the driver who zeroed in on me—I must’ve had that “I need a ride” look coupled with “I have money”—Big Boy was far from an apt nickname. He was skinny as a rail. I wondered whether he was trying to live into his self-assigned namesake, to let the Big Boy inside come out. No matter, he hefted my small bags into the car and we sped away.
It turned out Big Boy was once a big boy, “but my diabetes forced me to lose weight,” he told me on the ride into the city. We were on our way to Makati, the business district of the Manila metro area. Big Boy, in keeping with the relentless Philippine kindness, was cheerful, disarming, and chatty. After finally getting some sleep on the plane, I was awake and happy to chat back. As we talked, I kept seeing some odd, retrofitted, Jeep-like vehicles with people crammed inside and hanging all over them.
“What are those, Big Boy?” (I was getting a kick out of saying his name.)
“They’re called jeepneys.”
Jeepneys are the main mode of transportation around the city for locals. Imagine a mix between a miniature school bus without windows, a Land Cruiser without seats, and a military jeep without any creature comforts. Depending on how large the company was that owned the jeepney, some were uniform and commonplace, and others were pimped out with all sorts of colors, designs, and decals. Almost all of them had signs that read, “God Loves You,” “God Is Love,” or “Good Luck.” Jeepneys were originally made from leftover US military jeeps from World War II. At that time, they sat four people comfortably but were later extended to accommodate sixteen. A metal roof was added for shade, and jeepneys turned into public “buses.”
As I was looking at one of the jeepneys two lanes over from us, a couple on a moped rode by with a little girl, no older than two, smooshed between them. Moments later, with my face a few inches from the passenger window, a young boy, no older than eight, threw himself against our car with a loud thump. He pressed his face against the window as I stared and motioned with his left hand to his mouth. He was unbathed, not properly dressed for the current weather, and based on his hand motions, he was hungry.
First, the sound scared me. Then the hungry boy froze me. My face had never been that close to the face of a hungry child. His sweet, desperate eyes pierced my soul. Within moments, the car was moving again and I was looking back at this young boy, wondering if throughout my stay young children would be walking up to me on the streets, begging for food. I have a soft heart; that would be tough.
Years ago, Keith and I agreed that we would give money to organizations that help the poor, but not to individuals on the streets. He later amended that because it’s so hard for me to pass someone asking for money and not give it to him. So I try to always have a few dollars to give to anyone who asks. But while traveling, I was not to give cash to anyone. That was our agreement. Keith reasoned that it could cause safety risks for me. Even though my car had left the boy behind, I was torn between my rational agreement with my husband and my heart telling me to help.
My heart ached, and suddenly I didn’t feel like talking anymore. Big Boy looked at me through his rearview mirror, read my mood, and let quiet have its place during our drive.
As we continued to Makati, we passed some of the slums of the Philippines. Homes thrown together with whatever remnants the builders could find: tin, metal, cardboard, raw tree materials. Many of the “homes” didn’t have doors or even four sides. Just a roof with barely enough bits and pieces underneath to hold it up. Young boys played in a water hole, pulling up buckets of water from a well and pouring it over their heads. It made me feel a little better to know that even the locals thought it was hot and humid. The boys were having fun cooling off.
In spite of the rampant poverty, the Filipino culture is the happiest I’ve come across in the world. They are a grateful people. “In the States, you’re never happy with what you have. You always want more,” Big Boy said. “But in the Philippines, we’re grateful for all we have.” Many consider the Philippines a Third World country, but those who were raised here don’t seem to want to ever leave.
I said good-bye to Big Boy, rolled into my hotel, and did the usual drill. Within minutes I was in my room, unpacking my stuff and taking stock of my itinerary and my dwindling energy. That bed sure was looking good. My trek through the city and the happiness of everyone I had met was rubbing off on me. I felt light and hopeful, as if something great was going to happen.
I thought about the amazing gratitude and contentment of the Filipino people as I prepared for my interviews. Once I was settled and took a rain check from the bed, I flipped open my laptop and got on Facebook, where the club has an official page. There I posted a note inviting any of the local HWC members available to meet me at the Banapple bakery in the Ayala Triangle Gardens, behind the hotel. The bistro overlooks manicured gardens hemmed in by city streets that create the shape of a triangle. With wide walkways, symmetrically spaced trees with spindly trunks and massive canopies, and all kinds of art and flowers, the garden’s beauty flowed into the liveliness of the bakery. Even with the perk of beauty and a casual environment, I was inviting people to come meet me on a Thursday in the middle of the day, when most would be working. I wasn’t sure if anyone would show up. But as I hit enter on my keyboard to post the note, I was feeling lucky.