fullman*

You don’t know what it means to be Filipino until you’ve met Filipinos abroad. Our sense of hospitality is amplified when we are in foreign lands: we cook improvised sinigang, with lemons replacing tamarind, to feed fellow Filipinos, even if they are virtually strangers. We once met a Filipina in the northernmost part of Sweden, and after the initial excitement she nonchalantly invited some of us to do our laundry in her home. We don’t let go easily of our faith as well. We troop to and fill up Catholic churches abroad not only to fulfill religious obligations but also to satisfy our desire to gossip.

Airports are fascinating laboratories of our diasporic quirks. In a short lay over in Brisbane, and due to the airport’s frustratingly disorganized state, I met a Filipina mother who, with tons of bags and two kids, was also struggling to find the Qantas flight to Melbourne. It turned out that we have to transfer to the domestic airport, which was about a few minutes away by train from the international airport. Taking the train, however, meant that we might miss our flight, so we decided to get a cab instead. I helped her with her luggage while checking in, and she paid for the cab. Nifty. But it turned out that she didn’t have enough Australian dollars, and I hadn’t had my money changed yet, so she gave the driver an additional 500 pesos. He politely refused, and took whatever Ozzie money she had.

The meeting was still pretty charming at that point, and her kids – one was five years old, the other was three – were really cute. Then she became seriously inquisitive, an adjective that only Filipinos could ever justify. Indians are argumentative, but inquisitiveness is a patented Filipino trait.

“May asawa ka na?” she asked. Brutal, straight to the point.

I could have given her my routine answer and tell her that same-sex marriage is not yet legal in the Philippines, but she might run away and take the cute kids with her. One of them refused to use the escalator until I held her hand, while the other one was pretending to be a Boeing plane. My morbid belief that I would die in this trip evaporated when they started giggling. No way I would let her take away her kids from me.

I said that I am not yet married.

“Ay, bakit?” she inquired.

Would she faint if I said that I am gay? Or that I am actually going to Melbourne for a huge gathering of fellow baklas and lesbyanas in the Asia-Pacific region? She’s probably the type who’d think that the lesbian and gay version of the Olympics is a huge Chinese garter convention. Or a global bahay-bahayan, with household roles reversed. Or twisted.

“Busy lang po sa work,” I said. The truth, when partially told, is still truthful. Work does pose a serious threat to romantic opportunities. Duh.

“Marami akong dalagang nurse na irereto sa’yo. Mag extend ka na lang ng stay mo at maghanap ng trabaho dito,” she persisted.

Ate, the only time I would allow your dalagas to get near me is when I need medical attention. I wanted to tell her, “Ate, bakla ako, bakla, bakla, bakla!” But how could I, when the three-year old girl wants me to call her princess? So I just smiled and laughed nervously. She just went on and on, until we finally had to board the plane.

It turned out that we were all seated in the same row, making me promise to myself that I would do my best to pretend to be sleeping, an act I perfected when I was still a kid. My new friend went to the toilet, leaving the kids arguing about who should get the window seat. My little Boeing plane, who’s older, wanted to get it, but the little princess was there first. Boeing plane was really furious. Having been born in UK, I thought he could only speak in English. But, mad as he was, he was suddenly scolding his sister in clear and concise Tagalog, stressing each syllable: “A-yo-ko na sa-yo! Hin-di na ki-ta ma-hal!”

I had to intervene. It was a bit heartbreaking that all I wanted to do was to tell them that everything would be fine. And so I did, while Ate was still in the toilet, and suggested that they could do a half-time each, with princess occupying the seat during the take-off and Boeing boy before the plane lands. It was a good compromise, according to the flight attendant, who was touched by the fight that she gave the kids some giveaway toys from Qantas. They were already quiet when their mother returned, though Boeing boy was still a little furious, and I resumed my play-acting to avoid further questions, my head falling a bit to one side of the seat to make it more credible. When I “woke up” we were already about to land in Melbourne.

It turned out that there was mix-up and all the bags from Manila were left behind. I had to endure Ate  while waiting for the next flight, which had our luggage. She was busy with the kids, so it was not really bad. Cute kids plus nosy mother sort of evened things out.

Until Ate’s husband and Tita arrived to pick them up. The luggage would arrive in a couple of hours, and in that short span I already became part of the family. I now have Tita’s and Kuya’s phone numbers and their Tito’s number in Manila. Tita urged to me stay longer in Melbourne, find any work, and migrate. She also went out of her way to give me candies and maps.

Tita took pictures of me standing, me with the family, me with the two kids, me seating alone, smiling stupidly. Allegedly, the pictures would be scrutinized by Filipinas looking for a husband, an act which, like Ate’s incessant questioning, can aptly be described as an effort in futility.

Tags: Australia, Melbourne, Overseas Filipino Workers, Overseas Filipinos

This entry was posted on Monday, January 28th, 2008 at 10:06 pm and is filed under Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.