Some said that a man is entitled to one fear in life. Mine is on flying. Not
only that height scares me awfully, I also don.t trust airplanes. This has been
my dilemma each time I go home. The last one was exceptional. My problems were
compounded and embarrassing.
On my right was the island of Camiguing. The plane was already flying low and
minutes later, amidst the cloudless afternoon; the coastline of Butuan was upon
us. I could see clearly Masao River below and down to the left was the
meandering mighty Agusan. I was home.
The plane touched down with horrifying thud from tires hitting the pavement.
The engine sound was deafening as it revved to maximum. The plane shook almost
to pieces and my seatbelt tightened. I heard squeaking and rattling while the
plane fought back to break speed. My fear started to come into play. There were
many 'if and what may' in my mind.
We zoomed past a number of side markers and our plane was still in high speed.
I had a good grip what marker zero meant. With this speed we could be plowing
down the rolling hills of Bancasi and even farther to the highway. I saw from
the left window the terminal building. I recalled from previous visits that
this was where the runway ended. Our plane though it slowed down a bit was
still in moderate speed.
"This is it," I thought almost in panic.
The plane abruptly stopped. It revved up its engine again and turned around.
This was where I actually affirmed the relationship between fear and bladder.
Fortunately, I was wearing some sort of a fisherman's vest. I usually wore this
in travel because of its multi pockets. It was convenient for travel documents
and personal things. This time however, it served another purpose. It was
hanging down halfway above my knees and appropriately hid the wet spot of my
Dockers khaki trousers. I planned to change at the terminal the moment I got
hold my luggage.
I was virtually suffering when I stepped down the plane. Aside from the
discomfort with my pants, my gout was also having a picnic with my right foot.
It could be the delicious hot chili I ate during the five-hour wait at the
Manila airport terminal.
I struggled to maintain a fairly dignified posture when I walked on the tarmac.
I tried to smile and waved to waiting crowd like everything was okay. The
afternoon heat was ferocious. I perspired like a pig. My pants did dry up a
little but left some unsightly watermarks in most peculiar places. I just can't
take off my vest regardless of how hot the temperature was. This was also the
time I noticed an odd smell from down under.
It was beyond my knowing that people were waiting for us. There was a melee of
acquaintances some with cameras and flower leis at the baggage area. It was a
warm unexpected welcome. There were more outside. I didn't have a chance to
claim my luggage. It was brought directly to my hotel. I was not able to change
as planned.
We were led to the car of Pabing Garsuta and off he drove us to Luciana
Convention Center. In the car I felt a burning itch around my neck. It was the
lei of flowers they gave me at the airport. The spores were sticking to my
sweaty neck and I was allergic to it. This added another problem on the ones I
already had. It was really not my day.
I was seated at the long table inside the center. The officers of the alumni
seniors and my class association were beside me. I restricted my movement to go
around because of my aching foot and also fearing to expose into view the
obvious stains on my pants. I also resisted scratching my neck. I was extremely
uneasy. I craved for a good cool bath.
I could not however resist going near Elsa at the opposite table with her
sister Charito. It would be impolite to ignore my friend from Toronto. I was
however careful to maintain distance after I shook their hands. I also managed
to hide my predicament well. Elsa talked about my essay, "The Immigrant." I was
flattered. This was the only good thing I had since arrival. I thought that
none would bother to click-open that page, let alone read it.
The city was talking about pet projects the next day. One of about half a dozen
was the International Port of Masao. There was no mention made about our
airport. I knew that there was a plan to build a new one before. This was
possibly shoved off the shelves. Maybe it was only a dream and Masao Port was
also in the same context. It didn't spur much my interest. I presumed that it
would fade away through time as the proposed new airport.
I realized that the city was actually serious when Masao Port project was put
on public bidding. But why Masao Port and not the airport instead? I believed
that the airport was more consequential than building another seaport just
barely twenty miles away from the existing one in Nasipit.
There are pros and cons on this. My barriotic reasoning insist that Masao Port
when built is chiefly to satisfy our pride of ownership. This is what it's all
about. Our conceited ego impels to crave possession on this project regardless
of logic. We want to be always second to none in the region and won't ever
compromise to lesser option. I begin to wonder what our feeling be if Nasipit
or any towns nearby builds a better airport. They seem at a glance catching up
well these days.
Furthermore, we had been broadcasting awareness that Mazaua was a global
seaport long before our time. Magellan scenario is in the same link. This
historical declaration is too coincidental to overlook relevance with the
proposed international port.
This project immortalizes the glory and grandeur of centuries gone by. There's
nothing awkward about this. But are we so hipped about events of long ago that
we are to incline ourselves to ignore present practicality?
Meanwhile, our airport continues to resemble a railroad outpost in a far-flung
prairie town. It's supposed to be a gateway to reflect assessment on us and
the city itself. It's to quantity first impression towards the conduct and
attitude of local inhabitants. It's a show-window to our community and into our
homes. It has to be better than what we have.
The so-called restaurants at the side of the parking lot are not of help either
These are in essence displeasing eyesores. It matches the likes to hangout
places of misfits in big cities. Washrooms are seemingly designed for customers
to throw-up after eating. It deserves to be bulldozed away and be replaced with
something special where dining is genial and pleasurable.
The kind of airport we have repudiates our bragging rights. It degrades the
ability and competency of a city that is headed for greatness. It implies
negative impression towards our lifestyle. It exemplifies mediocrity that the
only quality in our airport today is the ever-smiling face of Tony Cupin.
Others may have intellectual explanation to justify Masao Port over our
airport. Mine is merely a ground level musing of an old man. It's even personal
for I certainly like going home with a dry pair of pants. And yes, that darn
runway is too short.
Merry Christmas!
