Under Angels' Wings: Manila
The ATM ate my credit card—Ninoy Aquino Airport, Manila, Philippines; Saturday, July 30, 2011, 6:00 pm
Immigration is easy. My backpack is waiting for me on the baggage carousel. The buckle on my waist strap is broken but fixable. Now I need some local cash.
The Bank of Philippine Islands ATM machine draws my credit card into its reader and asks my language and type of transaction. I follow the prompts, enter my PIN, and take the receipt when it comes forth. Then the screen pronounces that this machine is not providing cash for non BPI members at this time followed by these ominous words: "Credit Card Captured.”
The local BPI branch is feet away but it's closed. The time is 6:30 Saturday night. A security guard says he knows the branch manager. "Wait here," he says and walks to his guard station where I see him use a telephone. When he returns, he says, "The bank will be open tomorrow. I'll call the manager and ask him to get your card. Then you can come back and get it." Well, that answer will have to do. But before he walks away again, I ask for and write down his name, his mobile number, the branch manager's name, and the branch number. That will do better.
Not willing to risk a second credit card, I go to a currency exchange window to trade U.S. dollars for Philippine pesos. Aware of the time and concerned that this window will also soon close, I hurriedly extract my last folded and creased $100 bill from my money belt … and tear it in the process. The currency exchange clerk won't take it. Even after taping the pieces together, his supervisor says no way. "Damaged goods," is the effect of her message. I exchange a $50 that had been in my wallet, hoping the 2,000 pesos it brings will be enough for taxi fare.
The Bank of Philippine Islands ATM machine draws my credit card into its reader and asks my language and type of transaction. I follow the prompts, enter my PIN, and take the receipt when it comes forth. Then the screen pronounces that this machine is not providing cash for non BPI members at this time followed by these ominous words: "Credit Card Captured.”
The local BPI branch is feet away but it's closed. The time is 6:30 Saturday night. A security guard says he knows the branch manager. "Wait here," he says and walks to his guard station where I see him use a telephone. When he returns, he says, "The bank will be open tomorrow. I'll call the manager and ask him to get your card. Then you can come back and get it." Well, that answer will have to do. But before he walks away again, I ask for and write down his name, his mobile number, the branch manager's name, and the branch number. That will do better.
Not willing to risk a second credit card, I go to a currency exchange window to trade U.S. dollars for Philippine pesos. Aware of the time and concerned that this window will also soon close, I hurriedly extract my last folded and creased $100 bill from my money belt … and tear it in the process. The currency exchange clerk won't take it. Even after taping the pieces together, his supervisor says no way. "Damaged goods," is the effect of her message. I exchange a $50 that had been in my wallet, hoping the 2,000 pesos it brings will be enough for taxi fare.
Boquiren, the taxi driver—Manila, Philippines; Saturday, July 30, 2011, 6:45 to 9:00 pm
The same security guard recommends that, instead of a metered taxi, I take a Nissan fixed-rate taxi to my destination at the PhilDHRRA guest house in Quezon City, one of 16 municipalities that comprise greater Manila.
The service desk is in the car rental building, a small edifice about 60-feet long, where a dozen other service desks for various companies are located. The space for each company is about the size of a bank teller’s cubicle in the United States.
A friendly, smiling clerk tells me I can pay the fare with a credit card, so I pull out my spare card. When I speak of my destination, she says the driver knows it well. I sense someone at my shoulder and look to see a smiling man with a neatly pressed white shirt with a sewn-on company insignia. This man, the driver, says he lives near my destination. This is a good sign.
The good sign lasts a long time. A long, long time. Long enough to make me wonder if it's a good sign.
The ride is one-and-a-half hours, through pouring rain, through stop-and-go traffic, through parts of the city that cause the driver to reach and lock all four doors. The adage "I can't do anything but accept and ride along" comes to mind.
We pass some time with conversation. He says his name is Boquiren, which means “field” in English. He has three children: two boys 19 and 17 in college, and a girl 15 in secondary school. His wife doesn't work outside the home. "It's better for the family," he says.
He says he is paid a commission of 15 percent for each fare. I paid the clerk 740 pesos, about $17.50 in U.S. funds. His commission would be 111 pesos, $2.63. We’ve been in the car for about an hour.
Boquiren wants to know when I will return to the airport, and I tell him my flight is on Tuesday. Then, considering the distance we’ve already traveled, I add, “But that I'm thinking about staying near the airport Monday night.”
He expresses disappointment. Monday is his day off. "Mr. Robert, you are my guest here,” he says. “I want to serve you. I will talk with my manager tomorrow. I will work Monday so I can take you to the airport."
"Do you park this car at your home at night?" I ask.
He laughs. "No. I take it to the airport."
"How do you get home?"
"On the jitney," he says, referring to the small, short commercial buses that make up a large percentage of vehicles. Most of these are silver with red or green or brown adornments. Others are a blend of many colors throughout. "Three jitneys," he adds.
"How long does it take you to get home?"
"Two hours."
"What time do you get off work?"
"Seven at night. I start at nine in the morning."
I look at my watch. "It was almost seven when we left the airport. It's after eight now."
"Yes, Mr. Robert."
"And you have to go back to the airport to return the car yet tonight?"
"Yes, Mr. Robert."
"You will get home very late."
"Yes, Mr. Robert."
"What time do you leave for work in the morning?"
"At six. I have to be there at nine. It sometimes takes three hours.”
"And you ride on three different jitneys to get there?"
"Yes, Mr. Robert, and I walk. When it rains (which is much of the time), I get my shirt wet."
We drive in silence for many more minutes. The buildings and traffic go by but the scenes don’t change. Manila is one very large, very crowded, disheveled city.
At about 8:30, he pulls over to the side of the road in. "That's where I live." I look through the rain drops that cover the passenger side window at a dimly lit narrow alley. "It's a squatter neighborhood," he says. "I want you to visit, Mr. Robert. On Monday, my day off. Then I will take you to the airport. On Monday or on Tuesday. Either day. I will take you."
"How far is your home from my destination?"
"Very close. We are almost there."
“I would want you to come and get me so that I can find your home.”
“Yes, Mr. Robert. I will do that. On Monday. You call me.” He writes his mobile numbers—two of them—on my receipt and also directs my attention to the office number, just in case I need it.
Within three blocks, we turn. After another block, we pass a low-security checkpoint where Boquiren exchanges his drivers’ license for a plastic pass. The guard uses a manual lever to lift the arm blocking the road. And we drive another two blocks to PhilDHRRA, my place of lodging that had been recommended by Filipino friends of a friend in the U.S.
Entering this gated community, the ambiance changes to nicer buildings with more vegetation. My destination seems nice enough. But the ride. It was so long. Have I made a good choice or a bad one?
I look down a dark, narrow path. Through a plethora of jungle plants. Through the rain. "Please wait. As long as you have to take the car back to the airport, I might ask you to take me back to a hotel near there."
"Yes, Mr. Robert. I wait."
"Come and wait inside."
He follows me in. Rey, the manager of PhilDHRRA who has previously booked my reservation via email, greets us. He’s very pleasant and soft-spoken. The place is clean. My assigned room is nice, albeit small ... very adequate. I choose to stay.
Boquiren confirms, "You visit my home on Monday. I'll come here and meet you. We will walk together." Then he leaves.
Rey asks, "Does he live near here?"
"Yes," and I tell him where.
Rey's face shows concern. "I wouldn't walk there." He hesitates. "You might. You're American. Maybe it would be okay for you."
"I'll see," I say. "Right now, I'm going to bed." It's been a long day and tomorrow I need to see about getting my credit card back. Will I really need to go all the way back to the airport tomorrow? Three hours, round trip, in a cab? What choice do I have?
The service desk is in the car rental building, a small edifice about 60-feet long, where a dozen other service desks for various companies are located. The space for each company is about the size of a bank teller’s cubicle in the United States.
A friendly, smiling clerk tells me I can pay the fare with a credit card, so I pull out my spare card. When I speak of my destination, she says the driver knows it well. I sense someone at my shoulder and look to see a smiling man with a neatly pressed white shirt with a sewn-on company insignia. This man, the driver, says he lives near my destination. This is a good sign.
The good sign lasts a long time. A long, long time. Long enough to make me wonder if it's a good sign.
The ride is one-and-a-half hours, through pouring rain, through stop-and-go traffic, through parts of the city that cause the driver to reach and lock all four doors. The adage "I can't do anything but accept and ride along" comes to mind.
We pass some time with conversation. He says his name is Boquiren, which means “field” in English. He has three children: two boys 19 and 17 in college, and a girl 15 in secondary school. His wife doesn't work outside the home. "It's better for the family," he says.
He says he is paid a commission of 15 percent for each fare. I paid the clerk 740 pesos, about $17.50 in U.S. funds. His commission would be 111 pesos, $2.63. We’ve been in the car for about an hour.
Boquiren wants to know when I will return to the airport, and I tell him my flight is on Tuesday. Then, considering the distance we’ve already traveled, I add, “But that I'm thinking about staying near the airport Monday night.”
He expresses disappointment. Monday is his day off. "Mr. Robert, you are my guest here,” he says. “I want to serve you. I will talk with my manager tomorrow. I will work Monday so I can take you to the airport."
"Do you park this car at your home at night?" I ask.
He laughs. "No. I take it to the airport."
"How do you get home?"
"On the jitney," he says, referring to the small, short commercial buses that make up a large percentage of vehicles. Most of these are silver with red or green or brown adornments. Others are a blend of many colors throughout. "Three jitneys," he adds.
"How long does it take you to get home?"
"Two hours."
"What time do you get off work?"
"Seven at night. I start at nine in the morning."
I look at my watch. "It was almost seven when we left the airport. It's after eight now."
"Yes, Mr. Robert."
"And you have to go back to the airport to return the car yet tonight?"
"Yes, Mr. Robert."
"You will get home very late."
"Yes, Mr. Robert."
"What time do you leave for work in the morning?"
"At six. I have to be there at nine. It sometimes takes three hours.”
"And you ride on three different jitneys to get there?"
"Yes, Mr. Robert, and I walk. When it rains (which is much of the time), I get my shirt wet."
We drive in silence for many more minutes. The buildings and traffic go by but the scenes don’t change. Manila is one very large, very crowded, disheveled city.
At about 8:30, he pulls over to the side of the road in. "That's where I live." I look through the rain drops that cover the passenger side window at a dimly lit narrow alley. "It's a squatter neighborhood," he says. "I want you to visit, Mr. Robert. On Monday, my day off. Then I will take you to the airport. On Monday or on Tuesday. Either day. I will take you."
"How far is your home from my destination?"
"Very close. We are almost there."
“I would want you to come and get me so that I can find your home.”
“Yes, Mr. Robert. I will do that. On Monday. You call me.” He writes his mobile numbers—two of them—on my receipt and also directs my attention to the office number, just in case I need it.
Within three blocks, we turn. After another block, we pass a low-security checkpoint where Boquiren exchanges his drivers’ license for a plastic pass. The guard uses a manual lever to lift the arm blocking the road. And we drive another two blocks to PhilDHRRA, my place of lodging that had been recommended by Filipino friends of a friend in the U.S.
Entering this gated community, the ambiance changes to nicer buildings with more vegetation. My destination seems nice enough. But the ride. It was so long. Have I made a good choice or a bad one?
I look down a dark, narrow path. Through a plethora of jungle plants. Through the rain. "Please wait. As long as you have to take the car back to the airport, I might ask you to take me back to a hotel near there."
"Yes, Mr. Robert. I wait."
"Come and wait inside."
He follows me in. Rey, the manager of PhilDHRRA who has previously booked my reservation via email, greets us. He’s very pleasant and soft-spoken. The place is clean. My assigned room is nice, albeit small ... very adequate. I choose to stay.
Boquiren confirms, "You visit my home on Monday. I'll come here and meet you. We will walk together." Then he leaves.
Rey asks, "Does he live near here?"
"Yes," and I tell him where.
Rey's face shows concern. "I wouldn't walk there." He hesitates. "You might. You're American. Maybe it would be okay for you."
"I'll see," I say. "Right now, I'm going to bed." It's been a long day and tomorrow I need to see about getting my credit card back. Will I really need to go all the way back to the airport tomorrow? Three hours, round trip, in a cab? What choice do I have?
God answers—Quezon City (Manila), Philippines; Sunday, July 31, 2011, noon
The answer to that question comes the next day at noon during Mass at Our Lady of Pentecost Catholic Church. The gospel is the miracle of loaves and fishes. The affirmation prayer is: “Nourish Your People, Oh, Lord.” And the responsorial psalm is: “The hand of the Lord feeds us; He answers all our needs.”
Okay, God. I’m calling for your help here. I need cash to pay for my lodging at PhilDHRRA.
God speaks through Rey shortly after Mass with instructions about how to find an ATM at a Citibank branch just a block outside the security gate. Recognizing the name of that U.S.-based bank raises my hopes.
Then Rey suggests that I walk a bit farther tomorrow and talk to someone at the nearby Bank of the Philippine Islands.
Okay. That’s settled. There will be no travel back to the airport today. Rather, rest and writing is on the docket.
Okay, God. I’m calling for your help here. I need cash to pay for my lodging at PhilDHRRA.
God speaks through Rey shortly after Mass with instructions about how to find an ATM at a Citibank branch just a block outside the security gate. Recognizing the name of that U.S.-based bank raises my hopes.
Then Rey suggests that I walk a bit farther tomorrow and talk to someone at the nearby Bank of the Philippine Islands.
Okay. That’s settled. There will be no travel back to the airport today. Rather, rest and writing is on the docket.
Stories within this chapter:
The ATM ate my credit card (posted August 11, 2011)
Boquiren, the taxi driver (posted August 11, 2011)
God answers (posted August 11, 2011)
PhilDHRRA (posted August 11, 2011)
The banks on Katipunan Road (posted August 11, 2011)
Waiting for Boquiren (posted August 11, 2011)
Boquiren Family (posted August 11, 2011)
Sweet reunion (posted August 11, 2011)
Did anyone miss the flight? (posted August 11, 2011)
PhilDHRRA—Quezon City (Manila), Philippines; Sunday, July 31, 2011, early afternoon
Sunday is Rey’s day off but the rain is falling steadily, so he’s decided to accomplish office chores. Not in a hurry, he’s more than willing to sit and chat.
PhilDHRRA is a United Nations Non-Governmental Organization, he states. The acronym stands for Philippine Partnership for the Development of Human Resources in Rural Areas. With a network of 67 groups in this island nation, the NGO, according to its web site, “envisions a society that is characterized by democracy, equality, national sovereignty, economic prosperity, cultural autonomy, gender equality, and environmental sustainability.”
This facility in Quezon City (Manila) opened in 1998. Rey started working here then as a maintenance person and has held various positions. He assumed managership within the past year. He’s also the director of AsiaDHRRA with an office on the second floor for that purpose.
The building is called the Partnership Center. It has three floors, with the lower area being a communal and dining area. Function rooms and meeting rooms are on the second floor. And the third floor is for lodging. Rey lives on the premises.
A pamphlet identifies the Partnership Center as “A place where visions & actions can be shared & harmonized. … A comfortable place to stay for transients & live-in activities. … An affordable venue for seminars, workshops, meetings & special occasions w/ complimentary coffee & mints.”
Most of the guests are Japanese and fishermen, Rey says. They are adults or students at the nearby University of the Philippines and Loyola University after which this gated community, Loyola Heights, is named. “Most of the people stay here two or three weeks while looking for less-expensive apartments.”
Then he asks, “How did you hear about us?”
I acknowledge the legitimacy of his question, especially considering its distance from the airport. “A Quaker friend in my home city knows Quakers here, and they recommended it,” I reply. “Is PhilDHRRA affiliated with a church?”
“No,” he replies, although the neighborhood enjoys a strong Catholic influence and that is his religion as well as many of his staff. “I go home for vacation during Holy Week,” he adds.
Home for Rey is the Philippine island of Antique—“An-tee-kay,” he pronounces it. He flies in and out of Iloilo City, which he recommends as a nice place for me to visit when I return. I consider the idea, and we turn our conversation to that possibility.
Rain continues to fall throughout our conversation. It’s a lazy, casual afternoon in a part of the world that is 12 time zones—exactly one-half of the world away—from my home in the U.S. And yet the conversation is like any I might have in my own backyard.
PhilDHRRA is a United Nations Non-Governmental Organization, he states. The acronym stands for Philippine Partnership for the Development of Human Resources in Rural Areas. With a network of 67 groups in this island nation, the NGO, according to its web site, “envisions a society that is characterized by democracy, equality, national sovereignty, economic prosperity, cultural autonomy, gender equality, and environmental sustainability.”
This facility in Quezon City (Manila) opened in 1998. Rey started working here then as a maintenance person and has held various positions. He assumed managership within the past year. He’s also the director of AsiaDHRRA with an office on the second floor for that purpose.
The building is called the Partnership Center. It has three floors, with the lower area being a communal and dining area. Function rooms and meeting rooms are on the second floor. And the third floor is for lodging. Rey lives on the premises.
A pamphlet identifies the Partnership Center as “A place where visions & actions can be shared & harmonized. … A comfortable place to stay for transients & live-in activities. … An affordable venue for seminars, workshops, meetings & special occasions w/ complimentary coffee & mints.”
Most of the guests are Japanese and fishermen, Rey says. They are adults or students at the nearby University of the Philippines and Loyola University after which this gated community, Loyola Heights, is named. “Most of the people stay here two or three weeks while looking for less-expensive apartments.”
Then he asks, “How did you hear about us?”
I acknowledge the legitimacy of his question, especially considering its distance from the airport. “A Quaker friend in my home city knows Quakers here, and they recommended it,” I reply. “Is PhilDHRRA affiliated with a church?”
“No,” he replies, although the neighborhood enjoys a strong Catholic influence and that is his religion as well as many of his staff. “I go home for vacation during Holy Week,” he adds.
Home for Rey is the Philippine island of Antique—“An-tee-kay,” he pronounces it. He flies in and out of Iloilo City, which he recommends as a nice place for me to visit when I return. I consider the idea, and we turn our conversation to that possibility.
Rain continues to fall throughout our conversation. It’s a lazy, casual afternoon in a part of the world that is 12 time zones—exactly one-half of the world away—from my home in the U.S. And yet the conversation is like any I might have in my own backyard.
The banks on Katipunan Road—Quezon City (Manila), Philippines; Monday, August 1, 2011, morning
Katipunan Road is a busy boulevard. It’s the last major thoroughfare Boquiren and I traveled Saturday night. Somewhere a few hundreds to the left is his home.
On this Monday morning, Katipunan Road it’s no less crowded with cars, trucks, and jitneys. Pedestrians and vendors in pushcarts skirt around cars parked haphazardly on sidewalks. Uniformed security guards often step forward to stop traffic so a car can re-enter the road from one a few designated parking spots. Motorcycle taxis flit about, and people ride them without appearing to pay.
At the BPI bank branch that’s about ten minutes by foot from PhilDHRRA, an armed security guard politely opens the door for me. I explain my situation to a greeter near the door who directs me to a long table on one side of the room, kitty-corner from the row of tellers. He pulls out a chair and indicates that I’m to sit and wait for assistance.
A woman customer comes to sit close by on my right, then a man customer sits close by on my left. Pretty young customer service women in bright red, high-neck blouses and black slacks bustle about on the other side of the table. Occasionally, one sits at a computer terminal that’s recessed into the table. There’s no computer terminal opposite my chair.
That doesn’t seem to faze Christine, the clerk who comes to my aid. I explain about my card and ask if we can call the BPI branch at the airport.
In the course of the next several minutes, she makes three phone calls on two different phones, one wired and one wireless that she picks up from another service station; uses both of the two computers diagonally across the table to my right and to my left; and also speaks with another customer who approaches her and stands above the chair where the man to my left is sitting. Simultaneously, that man is speaking a clerk diagonally to my right. When Christine turns to talk to me, the four of us are engaged in two conversations with their words and our words crossing paths with each other. Meanwhile, the woman to my right—and very close to my elbow—sits patiently for someone to assist her. In reality, the scene is more like that of a cocktail party than a financial institution.
Yet, we are successful. She hangs up from speaking with someone at the airport branch and tells me that my card is okay. “But I want to speak with him directly,” I tell her, repeating one of my requisites from early in our conversation. She nods, gets the cordless phone, dials the number, and hands it to me.
The man on the other end of the line isn’t the branch manager, but he does have my credit card in his hand. He reads my name and describes its appearance. We confirm the last four digits. Yes, it will be waiting for me at the airport branch when I fly out the next day.
With that accomplished, I ask Christine’s help to use my remaining credit card on the ATM machine. We go outside together and try the card. It won’t work, but at least the machine gives the card back.
So I walk part way back toward PhilDHRRA to the Citibank. There, I confirm with a teller that they accept that type of card. And it works in the ATM. With cash in wallet, I go back to PhilDHRRA.
“I have good news and good news and good news,” I tell Rey. He looks at me quizzically. “My card is safe. I have cash to pay for my room…” He smiles. “…And I’m going to stay here all three nights.”
Then we dial Boquiren’s mobile, and I make an appointment to visit him that afternoon at 4:30.
On this Monday morning, Katipunan Road it’s no less crowded with cars, trucks, and jitneys. Pedestrians and vendors in pushcarts skirt around cars parked haphazardly on sidewalks. Uniformed security guards often step forward to stop traffic so a car can re-enter the road from one a few designated parking spots. Motorcycle taxis flit about, and people ride them without appearing to pay.
At the BPI bank branch that’s about ten minutes by foot from PhilDHRRA, an armed security guard politely opens the door for me. I explain my situation to a greeter near the door who directs me to a long table on one side of the room, kitty-corner from the row of tellers. He pulls out a chair and indicates that I’m to sit and wait for assistance.
A woman customer comes to sit close by on my right, then a man customer sits close by on my left. Pretty young customer service women in bright red, high-neck blouses and black slacks bustle about on the other side of the table. Occasionally, one sits at a computer terminal that’s recessed into the table. There’s no computer terminal opposite my chair.
That doesn’t seem to faze Christine, the clerk who comes to my aid. I explain about my card and ask if we can call the BPI branch at the airport.
In the course of the next several minutes, she makes three phone calls on two different phones, one wired and one wireless that she picks up from another service station; uses both of the two computers diagonally across the table to my right and to my left; and also speaks with another customer who approaches her and stands above the chair where the man to my left is sitting. Simultaneously, that man is speaking a clerk diagonally to my right. When Christine turns to talk to me, the four of us are engaged in two conversations with their words and our words crossing paths with each other. Meanwhile, the woman to my right—and very close to my elbow—sits patiently for someone to assist her. In reality, the scene is more like that of a cocktail party than a financial institution.
Yet, we are successful. She hangs up from speaking with someone at the airport branch and tells me that my card is okay. “But I want to speak with him directly,” I tell her, repeating one of my requisites from early in our conversation. She nods, gets the cordless phone, dials the number, and hands it to me.
The man on the other end of the line isn’t the branch manager, but he does have my credit card in his hand. He reads my name and describes its appearance. We confirm the last four digits. Yes, it will be waiting for me at the airport branch when I fly out the next day.
With that accomplished, I ask Christine’s help to use my remaining credit card on the ATM machine. We go outside together and try the card. It won’t work, but at least the machine gives the card back.
So I walk part way back toward PhilDHRRA to the Citibank. There, I confirm with a teller that they accept that type of card. And it works in the ATM. With cash in wallet, I go back to PhilDHRRA.
“I have good news and good news and good news,” I tell Rey. He looks at me quizzically. “My card is safe. I have cash to pay for my room…” He smiles. “…And I’m going to stay here all three nights.”
Then we dial Boquiren’s mobile, and I make an appointment to visit him that afternoon at 4:30.
Waiting for Boquiren—Quezon City (Manila), Philippines; Monday, August 1, 2011, 4:15 to 5:30 pm
When walking to the BPI bank that morning, I recognized the landmarks near Boquiren’s squatter settlement, so I knew I could find it easily enough. But can I find Boquiren? “Just ask for Boquiren,” he had said. “Everyone knows me.” Still, I asked him to meet me at the large pedestrian overpass that was the most major landmark, situated at the entrance to his community.
I arrive at 4:25. He’s not there, nor did I think he would be.
His work schedule had changed, he had told me over the phone that morning. He is working today, Monday, and Tuesday will be his day off. If his departure from work is anything like what he and I experienced Saturday night, he could arrive well after the appointed time, so I commit to waiting up to two hours.
For the next 45 minutes, I kill time by walking back and forth, climbing the overpass and looking at traffic below, watching people, taking photographs, and trying not to attract the attention of armed security guards at a nearby bank.
At one point, I speak with a man at a small vendor kiosk that sells everything from mobile phones to potato chips. “Do you know Boquiren?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone knows him.”
“Have you seen him today?”
“No. He’s working.”
At 5:15, a young man approaches me and in an indistinct accent says, “You’re my father’s passenger.” I don’t understand him, and he repeats. After a third time, I get it. “I am Patrick, his oldest son,” the young man adds. “He is late from work. He is coming.”
I suggest that we move away from the curb so I can hear him more easily, but our accents are foreign to each other, and we soon settle for tacitly standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
Then a short, attractive, smiling woman comes up to him. “This is my mother,” Patrick says. She introduces herself as Shirley, we shake hands, and her smile broadens. “He is late, but he is coming. He wants you to wait.”
After a few minutes, another young man and young woman hop out of a motorcycle taxi. They smile and wave. “That’s my other son, John, and his girlfriend,” Shirley explains.
She moves to the curb to speak with them. Then they get into another motorcycle taxi and ride off. Shirley beckons for us to come to where she is, to where she can see the traffic better. It becomes apparent that her husband will be coming from the other side of the boulevard, which surprises me because he and I arrived here from the other direction—the direction of traffic on this side of the road—Saturday night.
“There he is,” Shirley says excitedly, tugging at my sleeve. She turns to run up the stairs to the overpass.
“She always goes to meet him,” Patrick says.
“That’s good. It makes for a good family.”
He smiles, understanding completely.
Boquiren is out of his crisply starched and pressed shirt and looks much more comfortable in a white t-shirt and slacks. He’s clearly happy to see me, and so we begin the walk to their home.
I arrive at 4:25. He’s not there, nor did I think he would be.
His work schedule had changed, he had told me over the phone that morning. He is working today, Monday, and Tuesday will be his day off. If his departure from work is anything like what he and I experienced Saturday night, he could arrive well after the appointed time, so I commit to waiting up to two hours.
For the next 45 minutes, I kill time by walking back and forth, climbing the overpass and looking at traffic below, watching people, taking photographs, and trying not to attract the attention of armed security guards at a nearby bank.
At one point, I speak with a man at a small vendor kiosk that sells everything from mobile phones to potato chips. “Do you know Boquiren?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone knows him.”
“Have you seen him today?”
“No. He’s working.”
At 5:15, a young man approaches me and in an indistinct accent says, “You’re my father’s passenger.” I don’t understand him, and he repeats. After a third time, I get it. “I am Patrick, his oldest son,” the young man adds. “He is late from work. He is coming.”
I suggest that we move away from the curb so I can hear him more easily, but our accents are foreign to each other, and we soon settle for tacitly standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
Then a short, attractive, smiling woman comes up to him. “This is my mother,” Patrick says. She introduces herself as Shirley, we shake hands, and her smile broadens. “He is late, but he is coming. He wants you to wait.”
After a few minutes, another young man and young woman hop out of a motorcycle taxi. They smile and wave. “That’s my other son, John, and his girlfriend,” Shirley explains.
She moves to the curb to speak with them. Then they get into another motorcycle taxi and ride off. Shirley beckons for us to come to where she is, to where she can see the traffic better. It becomes apparent that her husband will be coming from the other side of the boulevard, which surprises me because he and I arrived here from the other direction—the direction of traffic on this side of the road—Saturday night.
“There he is,” Shirley says excitedly, tugging at my sleeve. She turns to run up the stairs to the overpass.
“She always goes to meet him,” Patrick says.
“That’s good. It makes for a good family.”
He smiles, understanding completely.
Boquiren is out of his crisply starched and pressed shirt and looks much more comfortable in a white t-shirt and slacks. He’s clearly happy to see me, and so we begin the walk to their home.
Boquiren Family—Quezon City (Manila), Philippines; Monday, August 1, 2011, 5:30 to 7:00 pm
A gentle rain is falling and umbrellas are up. The concrete alley surface glistens with reflection of late afternoon sky. People stop to buy meat, fish, produce, rice, and snack foods from small shops that probably front living spaces to the rear. We step aside to let an occasional motor scooter go through. Two little girls see me holding a camera and want me to take their picture.
After about two hundred yards, Boquiren announces that we are here. Shirley is already stepping through the doorway as he stands aside to let me enter ahead of him.
Three women greet us. Jessa Marie is their teenage daughter, a beautiful young woman with long, black, rich Filipino hair, olive complexion, and a smooth, natural smile. Vicki is Shirley’s sister; she’s come to have eye surgery at a charity hospital. Lala is Boquiren’s sister who lives here with the family.
And Boquiren’s given name is not Boquiren. It’s Romulo. Boquiren is the family’s surname. “I say Boquiren because it means field and that’s easier for you to remember, right?”
Romulo invites me to sit in a pale blue plastic chair. He sits in another to my right. And Patrick takes a third. The four women, now including Shirley, take a cushionless, wooden bench. Across the room, that is, about five feet in front of Romulo and me, a television plays a sit-com with the lines spoken in Filipino. The electricity for the TV comes from a cord and a union box that hangs from near the ceiling.
Behind the women, a concrete stairway ascends to an upper level. Behind us is a small food preparation area with a modest set of dishes and cookware. On the other side of the wall behind my back is the third room, which is Lala’s bedroom. It must be about five feet wide.
“Our home was this size when we moved in,” Romulo says, gesturing toward the front of the house across from where we’re sitting and the two walls on either side. The space is about eight by sixteen feet. “When there was just two, we don’t need much. Two plates. Two cups. Two forks. When we had a family, we added more room.”
“I quit working when Jessa was born,” Shirley adds. “I wanted to be a mother with my family.”
“Which is still working,” I state, and Shirley smiles, confirming that, yes, her role is every bit as important as bringing in extra money.
Shirley came from the Philippine island of Bohol, about an hour by air to the south. It’s been four years since she’s been back there for a visit.
Bohol is a prettier place than Manila, they say, but Romulo won’t consider moving there. “It would mean splitting the family,” he says in reference to the higher education available to his children here in Manila.
These are happy people, and they’re glad for the opportunity to tell stories and to listen to mine. We connect in that way. Yet, the gist of our economic disparity is not foreign to them. They have TV. They watch scenes of luxury living. Patrick is studying restaurant management; he wants to work in the U.S.
I ask if I’m keeping them from their evening meal, and Romulo says no. “I have coffee when I get off work,” he says. “It relaxes me. Do you want some?”
I decline as Shirley gets up to pour a cup for him.
With a slight break in the boisterous part of our conversation, Romulo leans toward me as if to speak a confidence: “I earn 300 pesos a day driving cab. The boys are in college. We can’t afford rent. That’s why we live here.”
“How much does it cost to send them to school?”
“Tuition is 5,800 pesos. That’s for one ….” The conversation spreads with simultaneous talking while the family determines if that amount is for a semester or a trimester. “There are three sessions,” Romulo says, confirming that we’re talking about trimesters—nearly 18,000 pesos per year.
“And for Jessa?”
“She’s in secondary school,” says Shirley. “We only pay for books.”
When there’s not enough money, the family borrows from a neighborhood cooperative, which charges an interest rate of two percent. When the family has extra income, they loan money to their neighbors.
“Banks charge six or seven percent and there’s too many papers to sign,” Shirley says.
“And Indians come through and want to loan money, but they charge too much interest,” Romulo adds.
“What time did you arrive home last Saturday?” I ask.
Romulo replies that he slept at the airport. “They change the schedule on the first and the fifteenth,” he explains. “I had to be at work at 5:00 the next morning. And Tuesday is now my day off. That’s why I told you to meet me at 4:30 today … after I get off work.”
“Does your company provide a place to sleep?” I ask.
He laughs. “No. We sleep on the bench outside.”
The conversation turns lighthearted again then lulls. I sense they might be hungry, so, after about an hour, I suggest that it’s time for me to go. The family gives me a gift: a small turtle made from several colorful seashells. I take a photograph, and Romulo takes one with me in the shot. Then he offers to walk me back to PhilDHRRA, and Patrick goes with us. It’s a nice walk. No rain.
At PhilDHRRA, we confirm that I’m leaving the next day and that Rey will call a local taxi to take me to the airport. Romulo can enjoy his day off.
I go to my room and fetch a souvenir for them: a postcard with an illustration of Michigan. I point out where I was born on the east side of the state and my home city of Kalamazoo. Then they ask about the various icons: the automobile in Detroit, the snowmobile in the Upper Peninsula, the sand castle on the shoreline, the robin that’s the state bird, and the apple blossom that’s the state flower.
I settle into my slumber that night thinking about the happiness they exude while living in conditions that most people I know would find untenable.
The next morning, I read a passage from A Course in Miracles: “Projection makes perception. The world you see is what you gave it, nothing more than that. … Therefore, seek not to change the world, but choose to change your mind about the world. … Everything looked upon with vision is healed and holy. …The power to give it joy must lie within you.”
If that wasn’t enough confirmation for positive brotherhood among all people, a friend in Michigan sent this passage from a Daily Word meditation: “I see myself and others as one in Spirit. We are one; there is no separation. There is no judgment. There is only the realization that we are each made of the same ‘stuff’ in our unfolding universe. Today, in this very moment, is where life resides.”
After about two hundred yards, Boquiren announces that we are here. Shirley is already stepping through the doorway as he stands aside to let me enter ahead of him.
Three women greet us. Jessa Marie is their teenage daughter, a beautiful young woman with long, black, rich Filipino hair, olive complexion, and a smooth, natural smile. Vicki is Shirley’s sister; she’s come to have eye surgery at a charity hospital. Lala is Boquiren’s sister who lives here with the family.
And Boquiren’s given name is not Boquiren. It’s Romulo. Boquiren is the family’s surname. “I say Boquiren because it means field and that’s easier for you to remember, right?”
Romulo invites me to sit in a pale blue plastic chair. He sits in another to my right. And Patrick takes a third. The four women, now including Shirley, take a cushionless, wooden bench. Across the room, that is, about five feet in front of Romulo and me, a television plays a sit-com with the lines spoken in Filipino. The electricity for the TV comes from a cord and a union box that hangs from near the ceiling.
Behind the women, a concrete stairway ascends to an upper level. Behind us is a small food preparation area with a modest set of dishes and cookware. On the other side of the wall behind my back is the third room, which is Lala’s bedroom. It must be about five feet wide.
“Our home was this size when we moved in,” Romulo says, gesturing toward the front of the house across from where we’re sitting and the two walls on either side. The space is about eight by sixteen feet. “When there was just two, we don’t need much. Two plates. Two cups. Two forks. When we had a family, we added more room.”
“I quit working when Jessa was born,” Shirley adds. “I wanted to be a mother with my family.”
“Which is still working,” I state, and Shirley smiles, confirming that, yes, her role is every bit as important as bringing in extra money.
Shirley came from the Philippine island of Bohol, about an hour by air to the south. It’s been four years since she’s been back there for a visit.
Bohol is a prettier place than Manila, they say, but Romulo won’t consider moving there. “It would mean splitting the family,” he says in reference to the higher education available to his children here in Manila.
These are happy people, and they’re glad for the opportunity to tell stories and to listen to mine. We connect in that way. Yet, the gist of our economic disparity is not foreign to them. They have TV. They watch scenes of luxury living. Patrick is studying restaurant management; he wants to work in the U.S.
I ask if I’m keeping them from their evening meal, and Romulo says no. “I have coffee when I get off work,” he says. “It relaxes me. Do you want some?”
I decline as Shirley gets up to pour a cup for him.
With a slight break in the boisterous part of our conversation, Romulo leans toward me as if to speak a confidence: “I earn 300 pesos a day driving cab. The boys are in college. We can’t afford rent. That’s why we live here.”
“How much does it cost to send them to school?”
“Tuition is 5,800 pesos. That’s for one ….” The conversation spreads with simultaneous talking while the family determines if that amount is for a semester or a trimester. “There are three sessions,” Romulo says, confirming that we’re talking about trimesters—nearly 18,000 pesos per year.
“And for Jessa?”
“She’s in secondary school,” says Shirley. “We only pay for books.”
When there’s not enough money, the family borrows from a neighborhood cooperative, which charges an interest rate of two percent. When the family has extra income, they loan money to their neighbors.
“Banks charge six or seven percent and there’s too many papers to sign,” Shirley says.
“And Indians come through and want to loan money, but they charge too much interest,” Romulo adds.
“What time did you arrive home last Saturday?” I ask.
Romulo replies that he slept at the airport. “They change the schedule on the first and the fifteenth,” he explains. “I had to be at work at 5:00 the next morning. And Tuesday is now my day off. That’s why I told you to meet me at 4:30 today … after I get off work.”
“Does your company provide a place to sleep?” I ask.
He laughs. “No. We sleep on the bench outside.”
The conversation turns lighthearted again then lulls. I sense they might be hungry, so, after about an hour, I suggest that it’s time for me to go. The family gives me a gift: a small turtle made from several colorful seashells. I take a photograph, and Romulo takes one with me in the shot. Then he offers to walk me back to PhilDHRRA, and Patrick goes with us. It’s a nice walk. No rain.
At PhilDHRRA, we confirm that I’m leaving the next day and that Rey will call a local taxi to take me to the airport. Romulo can enjoy his day off.
I go to my room and fetch a souvenir for them: a postcard with an illustration of Michigan. I point out where I was born on the east side of the state and my home city of Kalamazoo. Then they ask about the various icons: the automobile in Detroit, the snowmobile in the Upper Peninsula, the sand castle on the shoreline, the robin that’s the state bird, and the apple blossom that’s the state flower.
I settle into my slumber that night thinking about the happiness they exude while living in conditions that most people I know would find untenable.
The next morning, I read a passage from A Course in Miracles: “Projection makes perception. The world you see is what you gave it, nothing more than that. … Therefore, seek not to change the world, but choose to change your mind about the world. … Everything looked upon with vision is healed and holy. …The power to give it joy must lie within you.”
If that wasn’t enough confirmation for positive brotherhood among all people, a friend in Michigan sent this passage from a Daily Word meditation: “I see myself and others as one in Spirit. We are one; there is no separation. There is no judgment. There is only the realization that we are each made of the same ‘stuff’ in our unfolding universe. Today, in this very moment, is where life resides.”
Sweet reunion—Ninoy Aquino Airport, Manila, Philippines; Tueday, August 2, 2011, afternoon
My taxi to the airport arrives at the appointed time of 1:15 pm. The traffic seems a bit less dense than it was Saturday night, yet the drive still requires more than an hour even though the driver takes shortcuts through less-traveled narrow streets.
At the airport, I tell him where I need to go.
“I can’t go there,” he replies. “I’m not an airport taxi. I will park in the parking lot, and you will walk there.” He points to a row of buildings that look somewhat familiar. “Go there.”
Okay. I ride with him to his parking spot so I can be sure to find him again.
I leave my full backpack in the taxi, which proves to be a good decision, but carry my smaller pack with laptop and camera and other essentials, like my passport. To trust is one thing. To be foolish is another.
The buildings aren’t so familiar after all, so I ask an absolutely gorgeous young woman at an information service booth for directions. She directs me to go up a pedestrian ramp that is close at hand.
I’m four steps up the ramp when a voice says, “Sir.” It’s an armed security guard. “Where are you going?” He moves to stand between me and my route up the ramp.
I explain about the ATM machine and my credit card Saturday night, my phone call to the bank branch officer yesterday, and my intended destination today.
He moves to a nearby concrete railing, takes a sheet of paper from his pad, tears it into a smaller note. On it he writes: “PASS CONTROL OFFICE PCO” and circles the last three letters. “Take this to the Pass Control Office. It’s up the ramp,” and he steps aside to let me by.
At the top of the ramp, I spy the car rental office, the Nissan fixed-rate taxi service, the line of metered taxis that I had eschewed Saturday night, and, most importantly, the BPI branch—inside the terminal.
But what and where is the Pass Control Office? Not knowing and having my destination in sight, I head for the first entrance. The armed security guard there, with a few unintelligible words, turns me away and points me in a wayward direction. I try the next entrance and harvest the same curt results. At the third door, I walk right in, lay my pack on the scanner belt, pass through the security arches—without having to remove my shoes or anything from my pockets—and enter the terminal.
What and where is the Pass Control Office? I don’t know and, at this point, I don’t care. The BPI is one hundred yards away, and I beeline to there.
A woman clerk looks at me and intuitively asks, “Are you Mr. Robert?”
“I am. I believe you’re holding my credit card.”
A man behind her turns and smiles in my direction. He’s the same man I spoke with on the phone yesterday. He has my card in his hand. He asks for my passport and compares the name there with the name on the card.
He then opens a book with records of transactions. Are they similar to mine? Does the machine eat credit cards regularly? Following his instructions, I print my name and sign my name. He compares that signature, too. Then he returns both my passport and card. I thank him. Reunion is a good feeling.
Back down the ramp, I approach the first security guard. I want him to know that I’ve come back—just in case he wonders later. “I got it,” and show him the card. Then, I’m out of there. Back to the cab. Then on to a different terminal to catch my outbound flight.
PS: I never did go to the PCO, nor did I call the credit card company to tell them my card was “lost or stolen.” It wasn’t. It was in safe hands, albeit not my hands. Why complicate the situation?
At the airport, I tell him where I need to go.
“I can’t go there,” he replies. “I’m not an airport taxi. I will park in the parking lot, and you will walk there.” He points to a row of buildings that look somewhat familiar. “Go there.”
Okay. I ride with him to his parking spot so I can be sure to find him again.
I leave my full backpack in the taxi, which proves to be a good decision, but carry my smaller pack with laptop and camera and other essentials, like my passport. To trust is one thing. To be foolish is another.
The buildings aren’t so familiar after all, so I ask an absolutely gorgeous young woman at an information service booth for directions. She directs me to go up a pedestrian ramp that is close at hand.
I’m four steps up the ramp when a voice says, “Sir.” It’s an armed security guard. “Where are you going?” He moves to stand between me and my route up the ramp.
I explain about the ATM machine and my credit card Saturday night, my phone call to the bank branch officer yesterday, and my intended destination today.
He moves to a nearby concrete railing, takes a sheet of paper from his pad, tears it into a smaller note. On it he writes: “PASS CONTROL OFFICE PCO” and circles the last three letters. “Take this to the Pass Control Office. It’s up the ramp,” and he steps aside to let me by.
At the top of the ramp, I spy the car rental office, the Nissan fixed-rate taxi service, the line of metered taxis that I had eschewed Saturday night, and, most importantly, the BPI branch—inside the terminal.
But what and where is the Pass Control Office? Not knowing and having my destination in sight, I head for the first entrance. The armed security guard there, with a few unintelligible words, turns me away and points me in a wayward direction. I try the next entrance and harvest the same curt results. At the third door, I walk right in, lay my pack on the scanner belt, pass through the security arches—without having to remove my shoes or anything from my pockets—and enter the terminal.
What and where is the Pass Control Office? I don’t know and, at this point, I don’t care. The BPI is one hundred yards away, and I beeline to there.
A woman clerk looks at me and intuitively asks, “Are you Mr. Robert?”
“I am. I believe you’re holding my credit card.”
A man behind her turns and smiles in my direction. He’s the same man I spoke with on the phone yesterday. He has my card in his hand. He asks for my passport and compares the name there with the name on the card.
He then opens a book with records of transactions. Are they similar to mine? Does the machine eat credit cards regularly? Following his instructions, I print my name and sign my name. He compares that signature, too. Then he returns both my passport and card. I thank him. Reunion is a good feeling.
Back down the ramp, I approach the first security guard. I want him to know that I’ve come back—just in case he wonders later. “I got it,” and show him the card. Then, I’m out of there. Back to the cab. Then on to a different terminal to catch my outbound flight.
PS: I never did go to the PCO, nor did I call the credit card company to tell them my card was “lost or stolen.” It wasn’t. It was in safe hands, albeit not my hands. Why complicate the situation?
Did anyone miss the flight?—Ninoy Aquino Airport, Manila, Philippines; Tueday, August 2, 2011, evening
The first about being in a different airline culture is the smartly dressed flight attendants with identical uniforms styled from fashions of 30 or 40 years ago.
Then, it dawns that I’m not hearing messages from the U.S. Homeland Security Office telling me the current color code for danger.
Also absent are monitors that report flight arrival and departure status. At my assigned flight gate, no signs confirm that my flight will, indeed, leave from that gate. Fortunately, an attendant there says it will.
So I hang out, receive a very nice head-and-back massage from a professional in-terminal clinic, eat very good lasagna from a food kiosk, and invest time on my laptop.
At the time of assigned boarding, I return to the gate and see no activity. So I hang out some more, watching Game 5 of the National Basketball Association championship between the Los Angeles Lakers and the New York Knicks … from 1972. You read it right … 1972. Wilt the Stilt Chamberlain, Elgin Baylor, Happy Hairston, Jerry West, Pat Riley, Bill Bradley, Dave DeBusschere, Phil Jackson, Jerry Lucas, Earl the Pearl Monroe. The uniforms were short and the play was slow by today’s standards. And did the white guys and the black dudes with huge ‘fros really wear their hair that way back then?
Another 15 minutes go by, and I observe a few people showing boarding passes and entering the skyway. There was no announcement. There still is no announcement. I walk up and do the same. Yes, it’s time to board.
Not many minutes later, the cabin attendant announces over the PA system that the aircraft doors have been closed, all electronic gear must be shut off, and … and the plane is moving. Now? I look at my watch: 9:00. I look at my confirmation: the plane is to depart at 9:10.
Gosh, I hope no one missed the flight.
Then, it dawns that I’m not hearing messages from the U.S. Homeland Security Office telling me the current color code for danger.
Also absent are monitors that report flight arrival and departure status. At my assigned flight gate, no signs confirm that my flight will, indeed, leave from that gate. Fortunately, an attendant there says it will.
So I hang out, receive a very nice head-and-back massage from a professional in-terminal clinic, eat very good lasagna from a food kiosk, and invest time on my laptop.
At the time of assigned boarding, I return to the gate and see no activity. So I hang out some more, watching Game 5 of the National Basketball Association championship between the Los Angeles Lakers and the New York Knicks … from 1972. You read it right … 1972. Wilt the Stilt Chamberlain, Elgin Baylor, Happy Hairston, Jerry West, Pat Riley, Bill Bradley, Dave DeBusschere, Phil Jackson, Jerry Lucas, Earl the Pearl Monroe. The uniforms were short and the play was slow by today’s standards. And did the white guys and the black dudes with huge ‘fros really wear their hair that way back then?
Another 15 minutes go by, and I observe a few people showing boarding passes and entering the skyway. There was no announcement. There still is no announcement. I walk up and do the same. Yes, it’s time to board.
Not many minutes later, the cabin attendant announces over the PA system that the aircraft doors have been closed, all electronic gear must be shut off, and … and the plane is moving. Now? I look at my watch: 9:00. I look at my confirmation: the plane is to depart at 9:10.
Gosh, I hope no one missed the flight.