Adventurous Philippine journey

The Philippine town of Angeles City surrounded Clark Air Force Base and provided an assortment of business activities: handmade wares, beauty salons, clothes made specifically to our measurements, and prostitution.

During Clark layovers, the flight attendants stayed in a white cinderblock motel encircling a welcoming swimming pool. It was the best place in town. Three meals a day came to less than five dollars and our per diem allowance was twenty-five dollars. We always made extra pay while at Clark, but ended up spending most of it on clothes and gifts.

When we wanted to buy certain outfits, we went to Rosa’s, a seamstress who catered to flight crews and the military. We would show her pictures of a certain dress, have our measurements taken, and pick out the material. The outfit was often completed before our next flight.

At the local spa, we had haircuts and styling, nail manicures, and facials. And we had body massages. After standing in high heels for many hours, I loved to have my feet rubbed. The hard kneading almost bruised my heels and inner soles, but it felt wonderful.

Photo:

Wearing a formal dress made in the Philippines.

The first time I experienced a massage, I lay nude on a cotton-draped table. A small cloth covered my torso. As the young masseuse rubbed my body, she touched me high between my thighs, stroking in places I had never explored myself. I sat straight up on the table, bright red with embarrassment.

“Stop!” I shouted.

Throwing her black hair over her shoulder, she and the other girls giggled at the awkwardness I felt. They were comfortable with their bodies and didn’t mind touching parts of other women’s bodies. From then on, I limited massages to my back, arms, and feet.

At the local market we bought hand-woven baskets, monkey pod bowls, and shell placemats. The soldiers liked the paintings on black velvet, Elvis and Christ being the most popular.

On one flight to the Philippines we had an unexpected layover of one week. Mandy and I decided to visit Baguio, a city in the mountains, eighty-five miles from the base.

It never occurred to us to ask permission. We left our metal suitcases in the room and took off with just our small in-flight bags.

Leaving the designated lodging was against airline rules. When at a layover station, we were “on call” at all times. If we were going to be away from the assigned hotel for more than four hours, we were to notify the captain. This was the time before cell phones. Telephone calls in foreign countries were irregular and not dependable. We were taking a huge risk.

Mandy and I caught a jeepney from the base to the Angeles City station where we boarded a bus heading to Baguio. People, animals, and packages filled the vehicle. There were even men on top, holding onto ropes that wrapped the crates and luggage.

I sat on an aisle seat beside an older woman. She wore a bright yellow dress with puffy sleeves and held half a dozen parcels on her lap. Mandy sat in front of me, next to a young mother with two babies, an infant and a toddler.

There were live chickens contained in empty feed sacks piled in overhead racks. Pink piglets squealed in tiny crates and packages were everywhere.

We sat on slatted wooden benches and kept the windows open for fresh air. The woman next to Mandy bared her breasts and fed both children as we climbed steep, twisting mountainsides to the Camp John Hay Airbase.

We took hairpin turns with no guardrails and crossed narrow bridges. When we came to a stream, everyone exited the vehicle and waded across while the bus was driven to the other side. Then we took our seats again.

We passed numerous flooded fields and saw the ever-present farmer, wearing a cloth skirt and working his water buffalo. They toiled as a team to cut furrows through the rice fields. The sinewy farmer draped the rope harness around his shoulders as he guided the primitive plow through the mud. For thousands of years farmers have used these same methods to work the mountain terraces.

Finally, after three hours, we arrived at the 5,000-foot Hay Airbase. It was resort-like, with a beautiful golf course, an elegant hotel, and charming cabins. The air was clean and cool and smelled of pine trees.

As we stepped from the bus, I noticed my body hurt from the long, bouncing ride. The slats of the wooden seats left red horizontal marks on my back and cut notches into the flesh along my spine.

Once our overnight luggage was placed in a stone cottage, we left to shop the local market, famous for carvings created from monkey pod wood. We perused the many tent-covered stalls and bargained with local merchants. I bought a three-foot carving of a water buffalo for twenty-five pesos, or a little more than six dollars, and had it delivered to my cabin.

At another open booth we met some Negritos—small, dark men with tightly curled black hair. They looked similar to African pygmies and were known as tough Filipino warriors.

“This is the way we kill birds and small game,” one of the Negritos said.

He demonstrated his hunting techniques by hitting a target twenty-five feet away with darts from a blowgun.

On our return to the hotel we passed a water buffalo tied to a tree. Two men in loincloths stood by it. As we wondered what they were up to, the scene before us suddenly shifted.

With a slash of his knife, one man severed the buffalo’s throat artery. There was no noise; the buffalo just stood, dazed, with blood gushing from his neck. Then he collapsed to his knees and the men pushed him over on his side. Before he had even stopped breathing they started hacking into his stomach, removing the innards, and slicing off the hide.

With a nudge from Mandy, we continued to our cottage. As there were no locks on the door, some employees had entered to bring us hot tea. A blaze from the fireplace warmed the room and my monkey pod carving sat in the corner. We freshened up and walked to the celebrated restaurant, located inside the hotel.

While waiting for a table, two wealthy Filipinos asked if we would like to join them. We sat at a white-clothed table with Fermin and Rosito, business contractors with the U.S. military. They were married men and just wanted company. Fermin wore a shiny silk suit and Rosito had on a cashmere blazer. They both wore turtleneck shirts underneath their jackets.

As soon as the waiter came, they each ordered balut, an Asian delicacy. Fermin wanted us to sample the unique dish. Mandy and I ordered a simpler fare and talked with them about local customs.

When the balut arrived, I almost choked. In Fermin’s steaming bowl a tiny duck embryo floated, cooked just before hatching from the egg. You could clearly see the shape of the duck fetus, its little wings, feet, and beak. Rosito’s duck arrived still in its shell.

Rosito pierced his warm egg and sucked the juice. Next he peeled off the top third of the shell and showed us the tiny duck inside, already coated with feathers. He added salt to the balut and took a bite. I could hear the crunching of the bones. More salt, another bite. We weren’t about to share in this delicacy. In fact, we didn’t stay for dessert but excused ourselves and returned to our cottage.

Photo:

Canoeing in the Philippine mountains. Mandy sits in back; I’m in front.

The next day Mandy and I hired local fisherman to take us canoeing. We wore sleeveless dresses, as slacks were rarely worn away from home. They paddled us in dugout canoes through a thick jungle forest. We passed small villages surrounded by towering palm trees, where native women went about their daily duties: cooking over fire pits, washing clothes in the river, and hanging them on bushes to dry. On our way back to Hay Camp, we listened to the chatter of monkeys and saw colorful birds high in the trees.

Mandy and I decided to go first class and take an Air Force bus back to Clark. It had padded seats and air conditioning. My buffalo carving sat in one of the blue plastic seats, secured by some scarf material I had purchased at the market. Forty-five years later, I still have the carving. Many children have ridden it throughout the years, and at Christmas time it sports a red satin bow.

When Mandy and I arrived at the base hotel, no one had missed us. We told stories of our Baguio journey while enjoying our last day of sunbathing. We lay on chaise lounges around the swimming pool and heard tales of the other flight attendants’ adventures. The next day we returned to work and flew a planeload of soldiers to Hawaii for a week of R&R.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-27