Back on the flying cauldron, the restroom door rattles. A stern knock, then a feminine voice, exuding restrained professionalism. "Excuse me, sir, is everything . . . ah . . . hunky dory in there?"
Shit. And too much of it. I assess the non-existent toilet paper supplies, then improvise, navy SEAL style . . . and . . . there. Now we're out of hand towels. A strategic sacrifice.
The knocking intensifies. "Sir-" I pop out the door enshrouded by a blast of smelly fog, instantly disintigrating her practiced smile. "Oh!"
"Sorry." I plug my nose and plod past. I mean really. Sorry. There's not enough blue water in the whole wide world . . .
Somehow, I accidentally elbow the Lucky Turd in the struggle back to my assigned seat.
Leaning forward, I perch my head on the foldable plastic dinner tray, dreaming its a 600 Thread Count Egyptian cotton pillowcase at a four-star hotel. Must sleep . . .
. . . Not. Even with the lights out we're almost all wake and along for the ride in this flying tomb. Passengers queue like constipated golems for the front bathroom, more dead than alive. Even the plane's engines sound exhausted, like they're running less on jet fuel than our collective BO. But the Lucky Turd's conked out, again, snug as a sleeping bug in a rug.
We nudge past Kim Jong-il's Hermit Kingdom and scream into Incheon International Airport. It's a flat-out sprint through 'the world's cleanest airport' for my connection, then back up in the air.
After a Kimchee and asparagus dinner, an acute case of the silent-but-deadlies. Non-stop. The elderly Japanese couple next to me flag down the young attendant. They squawk in harsh tones, with what sounds like desperate pleas as the wife places her kerchief over her mouth and nose. Then POOF! They are whisked away towards the better seating in the front, beyond the vague mysteries of the first-class curtain. Sorry, but good for them . . . and me. More elbow room.
Midnight chaos reigns supreme at Manila airport. Incheon's sanitized order's been replaced by a menagerie of jetlagged bodies snaking chaotic lines to infinity. I pick a human clot and press forward. The airport customs agent stares stone-faced, immune to the constant hum of weird entreaties.
My mind's eye occupies itself, conjuring conversations. Uh, hello there fair customs person. As you can see, these are the papers for my authentic, game-bred prize-fighting chicken and he MUST accompany me on the next flight to Borneo or all hell will break loose in Sarawak. Yes, first class of course. After all, Juara is a champion.
After changing currency and a game of hide-and-seek at the baggage carousel, it's out to the street. A leprous vagrant opens his trenchcoat. "Cellphrones. Watches. Weed."
My brain locks up. How did he know I needed a good wristwatch?
He gyrates and points way off into the darkness of the city distance. "How about a disco, hookers and cocaine?"
"Ah, uh . . . I can't dance." I shrug and roll my luggage past as he shouts in Tagalog.
A twelve-minute taxi ride to the stopover hotel. Six-hours staring up at the dirty broken ceiling fan in a glorified cardboard box with communal restroom.
Early morning wake-up with the sweats. Now, this is humidity. A short taxi ride back to the airport gives me time to reflect and re-calculate. Last night's cabbie overcharged me 400%.
Not too shabby.
Fuck Hell. What was that? The lady in 2A screams first. We're forty-minutes into a puddle jumper ride in an 40-seat ATR-42 to Panay Island when the turbulence hits. Then . . . silence. Heart beats skip waiting for whatever's next: either a glib Well, that was quite the jostle back there, eh? or Holy Fuck! We're doomed!
Seconds later and we're still alive, apparently, so I order a couple of San Miguel's to quell the onset of the dry heaves and stare out the window at an island shaped like an atrophied dinosaur testicle floating in the Sulu Sea.
"Boracay." Björn, a jovial man in his fifties with a garish, seventies-styled leisure suit barely covering his pot-belly, clucks in a thick Swedish-Chef accent. "We're close." Or is it a thick Norwegian-Chef accent? Anyways, I still want him to be a Björn.
To get to Boracay you've gotta land in Caticlan, the north port "town" on Panay, Boracay's southern big brother island.
"Sadly, my work requires more and more travel to Manila." A sigh. "Precious time away from my Ludmila." Björn smiles and pulls out his fat wallet full of stock Christmas photos of his precious wife, who sports a magnificent Marg Simpson beehive haircut alongside two gap-toothed children dressed as zit-faced reindeer.
"You're a lucky man."
"Yes, but it's important work and the company's expanding at breakneck speed. We now supply all the critical cheeses to Heidiland in D'Mall. Gouda and Manchego mostly."
I hand the family photo back to him. "Ludmila must be very proud."
"Very. How about you? Family?"
No, I strangled the ol' wife and kids and family Shar Pei. They're buried right under the 'welcome mat' on the front porch. But something like that might get me tossed from the plane and that wouldn't fly at this air speed. "No."
"Oh, well that's good, too." His smile dissipates as he tightens his seatbelt. "Are you a white-knuckler flyer?"
"Not usually."
"Well, get ready. The runway is quite short."