Penman for Monday, May 19, 2008
THIS SAGA began with me booking our airline and hotel reservations in Dumaguete a month in advance, on the Internet, as soon as I knew I was going to be a panelist in this summer’s writers’ workshop in that southern city. (That’s typically me doing the predictably Capricorn thing; with 2008 shaping up to be the busiest year of my life travel-wise, I’ve made online bookings for flights, hotels, and shuttles all the way to December; that way I lull myself into thinking that all these nice things will actually happen as they should, without a wayward asteroid or a bathroom fall to spoil the fun.)
So I had every reason to believe that the universe would simply follow the dictates of the Internet when I chose to fly to Dumaguete early in the morning of May 12 on PR291 (Air Philippines, ticketed by Philippine Airlines), in time for me to catch the writers’ workshop at 9:00 am—where, jolted by two cups of coffee, I would launch into the usual disquisition on plot and character before a roomful of fellows probably even sleepier than I was. At least that was the plan.
As it turned out, it took less than an asteroid to remind me that Nature (as Thomas Hardy suggested) was indifferent to man and the Worldwide Web. About a week before May 12, I got a call from PAL Reservations, telling me that PR291 had been canceled for unspecified reasons, and that Beng and I had been moved to the afternoon flight, PR293, departing at 1:00 pm. I was mildly annoyed—I prefer to fly early in the morning, to avoid the midday traffic and to be able to enjoy a full day in a new place—but not surprised; with luck I could still catch the afternoon session and earn my day’s keep.
On May 10, I got another call from PAL, saying this time that our 1:00 departure had been moved to 2:40. There goes the workday, I thought, but at least I could just stroll along the boulevard in the late afternoon, chug a couple of beers, and enjoy the sunset.
By 11:30 am of the 12th, Beng and I were checked in (I’m also one of those early-bird freaks; being claustrophobic, I try to get an aisle seat as close to the front as possible). Holding Seats 3E and 3F, all was well with the world—at least until about 2:15, when, instead of a boarding call, we heard an announcement saying that PR293 was canceled, because of bad weather in Dumaguete. It looked sunny right where we were, at least until that moment, but I wasn’t about to argue with how the Almighty dealt the weather cards (“God has his reasons,” a friendly fellow passenger named Eric would say to me, shrugging his shoulders).
We all moaned and groaned, but thinking ahead I had Beng collect the baggage while I made a beeline for the Air Philippines ticket office, where they said we would be rebooked for the next available flight the next day. I felt proud to grab something like Stub #3 in the waiting line—only to be told, when it was my turn to be served, that I had to go to the PAL office across the hallway, since my ticket had been issued by PAL. Cursing under my breath I dashed over to the other queue—and got Stub #822; I looked up at the monitor; they were still serving customer #741.
Flash forward to a couple of hours later. Glassy-eyed from monitor-gazing, I’m finally talking to an agent, who tells me that all flights to Dumaguete are booked till May 15; but—for a surcharge—I could go via Cebu early the next morning, and take the ferry from there to Dumaguete via Tagbilaran. The idea appeals to me; I’ve become obsessed with just leaving, period, and getting to Dumaguete has now acquired all the urgency of one of those TV-trekker challenges.
Beng and I go home to Diliman, shower, work, then suddenly it’s 1:30 a.m. and time to scoot back to the airport. Maybe it’s just really dark, but I can’t see a drop of rain. Our plane takes off as scheduled at 4:30; I’ve texted some friends for help, and as soon as we step out of Mactan at 6:00, a van comes along to scoop us up and bring us to the ferry terminal, which we catch with more than a few minutes to spare. We settle into our seats, I text the workshop folks to announce my now-certain arrival, and at 7:00 the Weesam fastcraft revs up for the commute to Tagbilaran. A light drizzle is falling, but I think it’s just pretty.
Midway through our two-hour journey it becomes clear that the weather gods are feeling naughty, and our ferry starts pitching and rolling in huge arcs; through the portholes the ocean looks like a sudsy carwash. People start praying and puking; the crew hands out barf bags. Highlights from my 54 years flash before me (ie, my tomcat Chippy when he was a baby). We straggle into Tagbilaran and everyone cheers in relief—at least until the crew announces that the onward leg to Dumaguete is now canceled, because of bad weather. We could try again tomorrow.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve already lost a day, but then I remember Eric’s line and decide to take things in stride. Beng’s never been to Bohol; it’s too rainy to see anything like Baclayon or Loboc, so—after checking into a cheap hotel near the pier, beside a funeral parlor—we do the next best thing and hit the local mall. At the Book Sale, I find the perfect companion to my Crime Fiction course, and Beng picks up a P200 pair of Harry Potter specs. We’re happy campers—at least until we return to our hotel, to find that a karaoke marathon has just begun beneath us.
We stroll along the waterfront, and find a dampa-type resto called Joving’s By the Sea. I order the local tinola, and one slurp of the smoky fish soup tells me why we were delivered here. A light rain starts falling peacefully in the gathering darkness, but I say, it’s just God giving us a final rinse.
The next morning we’re back at the terminal, and take another rollercoaster ride to Dumaguete. Our hotel, Bethel Guest House, turns out to be a clean, well-lighted place—but our room’s on the fourth floor, and the elevator’s out of order. We march up, then down, then an SUV comes by to bring us to the workshop, which is taking a break that day at Antulang Beach, about 30 kilometers away—the last ten of them on a dusty, corrugated road that wrings the last drop of perkiness out of me.
“Hello, fellows,” I mumble when we get there. “I feel like a dirty sock that went through the washer on the ferry, then the dryer on the road!”