From Ninoy to Makati

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The plane landed with a lurch and a holler of a Filipino accent exclaiming, “Hoo! Alright!” from the enthusiastic passenger behind me.

As I stepped off the plane, I noticed the humidity, though not overly. The temperature itself was pretty mild, as was the décor of the Manila airport. As airport agents directed the flow of passengers along the hallways straight for the immigration counters, I peeked out to see the layout of the tarmac, trying to see if I could find a memorial or marker for where Ninoy had been assassinated. This was to no avail, and as I found later, my flight may not have even docked at the terminal where it happened.

What did strike me was the large blue sign, with white block letters proclaiming a watch for Bird Flu. Just beyond was a pseudo checkpoint with a camera apparatus and a sign next to it stating that exiting passengers would be observed for fevers. The person manning what I assumed to be an infrared camera was happily distractedly chatting with two of the attendants nearby.

I at this point, continued to look for my parents, as I thought they were going to come find me somewhere near baggage claim. My passage through the immigration checkpoint would have been smooth, had I actually been able to hear the person inside the booth. Moments after walking through the checkpoint, putting away my freshly stamped passport I heard my name paged overhead; this was expected. I came to the information desk to claim my page, which repeated a few more times, and was immediately greeted by Tito (uncle, though here, an expression of respect rather than blood relationship) Rudy with a hug and broad smile, who happened to be standing right next to me (though I faintly though as I saw him from a distance that this was, indeed, Rudy).

Rudy was my father’s fraternity brod, and has become quite the successful businessman in Manila. I later thanked Rudy for greasing the wheels of our visit, which elicited a lot of laughs, because “greasing the wheels” is taken here quite literally as handing out bribes. More appropriate would’ve been the term pulido, which means smooth operator. This is precisely what Rudy is: he knows the right people, treats us well, and is making everything for our visit run smoothly.

Rudy introduced me to his son, TJ, and host of other folks in the terminal area who were very cordial. He then introduced me to Tita (aunt, again, respect rather than related) Pinky, an airline security director who, along with TJ, waited in vain with me for my baggage, which I had a sinking suspicion would not successfully make the transit from Carolina to Chicago to Hong Kong (now switching airlines) to Manila. Rudy left to tell my parents, who I saw in the distance beyond the customs agent and we exchanged waves. After scouring the baggage conveyor for my luggage, Rudy, TJ, Pinky and I set off to fill out a baggage trace with Cathay, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw the miraculous had indeed been accomplished and my bag had made it to Manila but somehow escaped my eye. Embarrassed and apologetic, I embraced my parents, and set off in Rudy’s shuttle van to my latest first expedition into the heart of Manila.

The area surrounding the airport looks quite industrial, with metal skeletons and fences lining the ever jammed, but chaotic roads. Pulled over on the side of the road, I saw the first example of the legendary Filipino Jeepney, the love child between a jeep and a bus which is the artistically distinctive means of public transit through the Philippines. As I said, the roads were a chaos stream: mad drivers, bobbing and weaving through narrow gaps like NASCAR drivers, except with prolific honking. Small shops lined the way as huddled groups of people, some parallel to traffic, some dodging it, enlivened the otherwise mechanical landscape from the airport to Makati. It reminded me of the traffic insanity and noise of Athens, from three and a half years ago.

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