FN Blog - Seven heads are better than one!

Last night while walking around Greenbelt, I smiled as I felt the first chilly breeze signaling the start of the ‘ber months, meaning December would be upon us before we knew it. I couldn’t help but be transported into the mood and spirit of Christmases past.

Oh all right, I was pressured by this week’s topic, so I forced myself to feel the holiday spirit. While racking my brains to come up with something to write, it occurred to me that the Christmas season always means a yearly influx of balikbayans. And in the light of all the OFW brouhaha (no, this is not yet another entry about you-know-who), I remembered something I wrote for my CW241 class in non-fiction in UP in 2003 under Jing Hidalgo, a piece about one of my most memorable Christmases ever. Here’s an excerpt:

CHANGI AIRPORT: December 25, 1991. Because of crazy flight schedules during the holidays, I had no choice but to fly back to Manila from Singapore on Christmas Day. Because all the Pinoys I knew in this city-state had flown home, I spent Christmas Eve alone with nary a taste of noche buena, the perfect way to culminate my four-month stint as a foreign model in a country where I resembled the population more than in my own.

At the SIA check-in counter, surprise, a sea of acid wash denim: Pinoy OFWs proliferated, lugging balikbayan boxes upon boxes, presumably filled with “imported” goodies.

  

They seemed to multiply by the minute—gum-chewing (not banned yet then), bleached blondina lounge singer types in mini skirts and platform shoes preying on unsuspecting passengers who were traveling light, asking brazenly, “Hoy, Miss, ‘yan lang ba ang bagahe mo? Pakisuyo naman o! Sama mo na ‘to’ng kahon diyan!” ; burly construction workers raiding the tobacco and liquor kiosks, hoarding Marlboro Reds by the reamful and bottles of Remy Martin V.S.O.P. brandy; frail, mousy domestics locked in a tearful embrace with their young Singaporean wards who now called them Nanay.

Stuck in a slow-moving kilometric line and deafened by the shrill takatakatak cacophony of various native dialects, my annoyance was overshadowed by my realization that the familiar Filipino atmosphere at the check-in counter was strangely bringing me tidings of comfort and joy.

Once we boarded, the chatter became louder. Palengkera-type women yelled about nothing in particular across the aisles. “Hoy mare, saan ang upuan mo?” screamed 21A. “12H! Ikaw, sino’ng katabi mo? Heto o, ’yung Kano!” she shouted back. “Ay, ‘day, ang guapo, chikahin mo na!” her mare replied. You would have thought a celebrity was on board from the glare of their camera flashes at the pre-take-off Kodakan that elicited strange stares from anyone who was not Pinoy. “What on earth are they taking pictures of?” I heard an American woman grumble. The festive mêlée had reached boisterous proportions. The poised Singapore Airlines flight attendants in their slim sarong kebayas were visibly miffed.

SIA FA’s in their sarong kebayas.

But before I could turn into a snooty snob, I found myself eavesdropping on and touched by the woes of a maid who had left her then one-year-old son to work abroad. She was coming home for the first time in four years to a five-year-old she barely knew. “Papaano na kung ’di na niya ako kilala?” she wailed.

On the seat beside me, a be-mustached construction worker, tipsy from freeloading on all the free alcoholic beverages, invited me to join him and his kumpadres in Las Piñas for Christmas merienda. “Samahan mo kami, mayroon akong biniling bagong karaoke! Kantahan tayo!” I’m sure he meant well, but I politely declined. “Don’t even tell him you’re a model,” I reminded myself. I tried to be a Scrooge. I rolled my eyes and sighed, put on my headset and buried my nose in a book. But the jovial ambiance persisted. It must have made the non-Pinoys on the plane wonder why everyone seemed to know each other. I smiled to myself, remembering how I found out in the last four months that a Pinoy abroad is every other Pinoy’s friend, and as I only knew too well by squatting in my professional OFW friends’ flats, mi casa, su casa.

The fiesta mood continued on for what seemed like an eternity. The women made lamyerda, walking up and down the aisles freely to each others’ seats in true pangangapitbahay style just to chit-chat, to the chagrin of the flight attendants who tried to politely point out to them that the fasten-your-seatbelt sign was on. Although it seemed to me that they barely knew each other, I caught them showing each other precious photos of friends and family like long-lost friends.

The men at the back of the plane played pusoy dos with the airline’s free playing cards, combining the game with noisy tagay-tagay drinking rounds that exploded in boisterous laughter and cheers every now and then. Please, I prayed quietly, I hope no one makes latag a banig, recalling a story once told to me by a Cathay Pacific flight attendant about OFWs insisting on sleeping on the floor on the mats they had hand-carried.

Just before the racket became too much to bear, I took a deep breath, sighed and decided to try to put myself in their brand new Reebok hi-top shoes. Then, I understood. The last three hours in their countdown to coming home was too unbearable for them to be left alone to their own thoughts. They had probably suffered enough solitude while toiling away for years in a lonely, unfriendly place. I guess they needed to be distracted by familiar Pinoy company to allay their nervous tension. Who knows how long it had been since they spoke to anyone in their native tongue?

The Duty Free cart produced brisk sales—last minute pasalubong shopping almost had the flight crew at a standstill, with unending demands for more perfumes, cigarettes, liquor and chocolates. The OFWs proudly brought out hard-earned dollars painstakingly stashed away in small denominations tied together with rubber bands. They happily pointed to whatever merchandise they could afford in the in-flight shopping catalog, turo-turo style. Suddenly there was a noticeable shift in the flight attendants’ demeanor—they became overly attentive and even began flashing real smiles.

Visions of pasalubong heaven

“Five minutes to landing,” announced the pilot over the P.A. system. “It is now 11:55 a.m. The temperature outside is 32ËšC. Again, on behalf of the staff and crew, I would like to thank you for flying Singapore Airlines. Have a nice day and by the way, Merry Christmas.”

To my utter bewilderment, everyone started applauding and cheering as the plane began its descent. The DH to my left squeezed her seatmate’s arm in excitement. The photo album-toting women hugged each other. The macho construction worker beside me was in tears. The sight of our filthy, polluted skyline dotted with a contrasting mixture of towering skyscrapers and shanty scrap iron roofs held in place with old tires was actually bringing them—joy.

Approaching NAIA, with a long row of shanties lining the perimeter. Courtesy of www.panoramio.com/user/102014

What I had once declared to be the ugliest aerial view in the world was giving The Happiest People in the World sheer glee. These weary, meager dollar earners whose regular remittances were saving our economy were dying of anticipation, merely minutes away from being reunited with the families they left in pursuit of a better life. I had only been away for four months but I had a semblance of how they felt.

By the time I trooped with them to the NAIA Arrival Hall welcomed by the eagerly awaited strains of Ang Pasko ay Sumapit from the blind rondalla band, I had become infected. My heart was brimming with joy, and I felt extremely proud to be Pinoy and coming home with these unsung heroes.

Ang Pasko ay sumapit…

At that moment, I realized that cliché or not, whether rich or poor, male or female, burgis or baduy, for any Pinoy in the world, when it comes to celebrating Christmas Day, there is truly no place like home.

Mabuhay ka, Maritess!