DUNKED IN MANILA

Bill Fink's story of a year of work, basketball, romance, and other disasters in the Philippines

Monday, May 7, 2007

Tip Off


I dug in my bag for my hat. A couple local college students were scheduled to meet me upon arrival at Manila airport. To be certain they’d recognize me, I had faxed ahead that I would be wearing a baseball cap from my hometown Chicago Bulls. Hat on head, brim bent to a sporty angle, I charged out the doors and into my new life.

It began with a blast of hot, humid air and a scene from Beatlemania news footage. Outside the baggage area, a waving, shouting crowd pushed against every angle of a sagging barrier, seemingly about to burst right on top of me. I felt like I was the last Balikbayan box on a small carousel. I had to fight the urge to flee. Entire sections of the crowd erupted screaming, pointing and shoving each time they saw a relation emerge from the doors. My calm began to erode as I scanned the crowd for my college student hosts.

Suddenly, to my left, I heard cries of "Hey Joe! Hey Joe! Americano! Oy! Ssssssssst." When I turned, the group became frantic, one man climbing the barrier, trying to get to me first. As a security guard yanked the first man back, I noticed the taxi sign in his hand, and understood my new popularity.

I hesitated behind the barriers a moment longer, dreading my departure from the protected area. Already, a group of the taxi drivers had triangulated my exit point, and were jostling for position. With my head down and suitcase forward, I fought my way through the taxi mob, through the scrums of extended families, and out to the street. Where for the first time in my life, I saw horizontal rain. And no welcoming committee.

for more of chapter one, click here

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