Carpe Diem

The sun was happily out that day, and I was wearing some cheap black sunnies from The Bay, black wool sweater over black cotton shirt, my trusty black leather jacket, denim pants, and leather shoes. Despite the rising temperature, the wind breeze maintained a 7c, making our body heat dissipate quickly.

Quick long strides towards the entrance. Surprisingly, the people were rowdy, some are ostensively obnoxious, while some in their 5-syllable per second Mandarin, and the rest trying to hold back their reactions for the stench emmanating from a group of people who appears to hate taking a shower. The International Village was littered with stalls whose dewey-type cabinets display various asian products humbly priced at a comfy range of C$10-C$100. For instance there was ”The Ronin” selling a self-mounting brass knife encased in a dragon’s body at C$10. I kept their brochure, which offers an outright discount of 30% upon presentation together with the item you wish to buy. The discount was more than enough to pay the 7% GST + 6% Provincial tax.

A variety show held at the International Village atrium was among the main event in the celebration. A mixed nuts of talent showcase–as there were production numbers which were totally contemporary, which were followed by a traditional dance, then a live band presentation playing an unknown music to me, then returns to semi-traditional presentation again. Surely it was the worst show ever to be hosted by a dear 40’s fellow trying to look neat in his white suit and over-sized leather shoes.

Big events are never without a raffle. Among them would win you a Honda City and another an entertainment showcase. There’s a counter just next to the elevators where you could answer the questionnaire containing 30 trivial questions (info bits from tele-novelas were asked too).

If only I could understand and speak Chinese, I could belong to this crowd. Which makes me really wonder how my perception of my ethnic roots were suddenly obscured when I encounter a culture which is different but not unknown. Am I a product of a pseudo-Chinese culture in Davao? Was it with my association with chinese friends made me think that their culture was part of ours? It struck me most when I felt comfortable mingling with them, when it didn’t really bother if some people thought I was chinese.

A week passed, and I still feel comfortable being a Filipino, introduced as a local of Davao City. For my first few weeks here in Vancouver, it isn’t so much of a shame to be a Filipino–despite receiving cold stares from fellow Filipinos who wouldnt return my smile back.

In a multicultural city such as Vancouver, people’s sense of ethnicity may appear to have dissipated, but I think, it is instant recognition of what’s akin to one’s culture and what isn’t gives Vancouverites a daily reminder of their roots.     

My coming to Vancouver wasn’t easy;it required patience, courage, trust, and most especially the intrinsic goodness in people. A cousin promised to hook me up with a friend she knew in Vancouver, and to the last hour, her email arrived. Her email was brief, direct to the point and contained little info: Sis Benny (778) 882 xxxx 803-425 Carnarvon St, New Westminster. This would be plan (A)  With no known family to connect with immediately upon arrival, I naively booked myself online in a modest hotel along Main St and East Hastings a day before my flight. This was plan (B).

However, the service attendant at CANN strongly advised against proceeding with my plan A. I just thought, how worse could it get in comparison to Manila? I gave her a wry smile before saying “I appreciate the concern. Thank you.” At a second thought, what if I call up Sis Benny, as a matter of courtesy? She was totally unware of my plan (A), but I surely wouldnt want to diss my cousin by not contacting her at least–besides, she will fetch me at the airport by 10:35AM despite not having heard from each other yet.

I gave it a thought, and decided to go with Sis Benny, no matter the place.

I got out of the Airport as soon as I had my trolley filled with my luggages. Queued for a cab, instructed the cabbie the address, and in no time, I was staring at some unfinished road works, giving me a nostalgia of Melbourne when I was there during winter last year.

At this time, I was phoning Benny and heard her for the first time. She was calm, and seems to have everything under control.

At half past two, there was I at the foyer getting assistance from the cabbie and Frank, the apartment manager. It was during this time when I saw a woman wearing a long skirt and denim jacket over green woolen sweater, clutching a DVD player raising a bunch of keys. “Ah, you are Dexter?” “Yes” “Here’s the key to my apartment. Kumain ka and take your rest.” After that, she was rushing to the next building, not far from where we were.

I entered the apartment, took off my shoe, carried my luggages inside, opened her fridge and found a tartarine pie. I didnt bother opening the other containers, I was anxious to touch things that weren’t mine. I got myself a nice slice of the pie, ate it in less than 2 minutes. Right across the table were four couch-cum-bed covered with tea cloth (or so I think, i’m not good with fabrics). I laid there for half an hour, and making sure not to fall into deep sleep. She will arrive from her work at 5:30, so I decided not to sleep until later.

She was back at a quarter before 5. It was getting dark, drizzling, and cold. I don’t recall so much after that, but in no time, I was eating chicken and rice, and we were talking about my cousin LG. It was a lovely evening. I just couldnt start to imagine how things would have been like if I didnt phone her up.

I took a seat on the second row that is just across the immigration officer. The ticker board flashed 467, making me the 8th person who will be served next. The immigration officers are surprisingly young; there were four of them ladies and with no one older than 33, of the four, 2 are chinese. There were at most four nationalities that I could identify among landed immigrants. As per appearance of passport, there were at least 4 chinese, 3 koreans, 1 indian and 1 filipino (excluding me).

The other migrants didnt do much of a scene, except for funny things that migrants have to do when the immigrant officer asks for it. Because the counter was chest-high, the adults would have to raise their children high enough to allow the officer a precursory glance. Some takes a split second, while others have to hold them high and long enough for the arms to start shaking.

While the Indian migrant breezed through the entire process, there was this Chinese lady who, I should say, raised the immigration officer’s alarm. When she was asked about her husband, she couldnt give a straight answer why her husband didnt show up for the interview. The officer thought that the husband was just about the airport, but it turned out later that they were on a separate flight; the husband coming from mainland China and they from a place outside of Canada. What’s even odd is that when asked about the date of her arrival in Canada, she answered “Yesterday”, but when the officers checked, she landed in canada a few days ago. I thought she was just dazed after crossing the international dateline, and for having her biological clock disrupted, but geez! can’t she even tell how long she’s been on air? Though petty, these things added to my anxiety as my turn draws near.

It was during these cinematic moments when I got the chance to observe just a few more couples. A Filipina woman went alone to the immigration counter alone, with the caucasian husband refusing to approach. She did a bit of explaining in the best english she could muster. Apparently, all these were garbled for the officer that she motioned the husband to join them. To a surprising reaction, the husband motioned his exasperation about the situation by a quick yet hard brush of his hair with his fingers. All of us looked at him, 2-second shock: is it totally necessary?

At long last it was my turn. I handed my travel documents to the immigration officer and beamed her a smile. She confirmed three details from the CPR and then later told me to sign the document to complete the immigration process, with me as a landed immigrant. Then I asked for a form should I wish to nominate an address which is different from what I earlier wrote. Then I also asked her what to do if I will exit the country in less than a year. Then I also asked her how I could apply for an SIN. She was very good at answering, I’m impressed. I left the counter with her still trying to explain a bit of details. I don’t think I was being rude, I was just in a hurry as I remember, I phoned up someone to fetch me at the airport which was supposed to be 2 hours ago.

I headed for the customs counter and the lady officer simply asked for the amount of money that I have and on what form. I handed her my traveller’s check, and she noted the series and added the total money that I have with me. There was perfectly no need to show her some wad of cash; just the traveller’s check, a toothy smile, and a leap of heart would do exactly just fine.

I spent a minute or two near the escalator landing, where there were airport officers chatting about. I simply needed to organise my documents in a black leather folder which will contain my birth certificate, my Certificate of Permanent Residency (COPR), passport, and two photos. In Canada, they call the Certif of Permanent Residency as “CPR”. What came to mind is a very fervent wish that it wouldn’t have to be applied on me if the immigration officers says “Turn around please. You do not meet our immigration requirements, you will be deported and you will be boarded on to the next plane that flies out to the Philippines ASAP!” Fortunately, it wasn’t as dramatic as how I thought it would be. There was no heart-pounding, no butterflies in the stomach, no loud music and synthesizers on the background, nothing, just the deafening sound of shoes brushing against floor, as others plodded around. 

I handed out my passport and immigration card snappily to the immigration officer. He asked how much money am I bringing in. I obliged to answer “At least eleven thousand US.” Asked me about the equipment or tool that I declared. “It’s my laptop I needed for work.” The immigration officer retorted “Nah, that’s ok.” He had this gray thinning hair, his eyes calm, but not weary, his arms big but not brawny. I observed every scribble he made using a red felt-tip marker on my immigration card. He caught me staring at the card and smiled for then he smiled before saying “Welcome to Canada. After this, you proceed to the Immigration Counter. That one there or maybe the other one at the end of this hall before claiming your luggage.” I already had my immigration card and passport when I said “Thank you” in the most Canadian-intonation way I can. And how was I supposed to know? remember I had a brief moment sitting beside airport officers at the escalator landing, enough for me to catch a bit of their intonation?

I circled the luggage carousel to find a pool of push carts stacked neatly. I grabbed one and in no time was filled with all my luggages.

I docked my cart near the immigration centre’s entrance and decided to bring with me the trolley bag and my backpack–these were the items that didnt have baggage claim stickers, so anyone with an impure heart can sneak it out of the airport gates.

Right before I could start snaking again for the queue, a petite malaysian looking woman approached me. She was Thuy. For under 10 minutes, she gave me all the things that she knew would help me, including a strong warning about not staying at East Hastings and Main Street after mentioning to her that I had a prior booking at the Hazelwood hotel. It was kind of her to say that, to say the least. But soon after that, I observed how consistent she was with her service. And I noticed that she wasn’t as detailed with the others. Makes me think, then made me frown later.

I dashed to counter 372, where a chinese-looking woman asked for my travel document, some recent photo and my CPR. She asked how much money I have in cash and gave her a range of what I have. She wrote it in and sticked a priority number onto my CPR while telling me to sit down and wait until my number is called. It was 12:30 in the afternoon and I feel sourness in my stomach. I had to use the washroom to relieve myself. I left the facility disappointed for using such a dirty stinky toilet. I suddenly felt I was in the Philippines. I returned to the immigration centre and drummed my fingers on to the black leather document folder while waiting for the immigration officer.

I have always been fascinated with airports. Not only do they come in distinct architectural designs, they also have peculiar personalities, which I find enticing to explore. I must say that I’m only exposed just a fistful of airports in my entire life, but it’s precisely this reason why I’m drawn to getting to know them better.

The lastest airport I’ve been was the Vancouver International Airport (Airport Code: YVR). While our Cathay Pacific airplane was taxi-ing around the tarmac, I tried to peek through the window to get a glimpse of the aiport from afar. To my disappointment, it was just a curtain of mist and hints of dew on the ground.

Alighting the plane was as quick as when we went in, and in no time, we were snaking around the airport on our way to luggage area, which gave me a bit of time to have my first, second and third impression. The hallways of the arrival area was a meter shy of Davao City’s International Airport. It was in fact like a causeway which leads you to a pair of escalators and a lone staircase. While Manila’s Centennial airport greets you with daylight glare, Vancouver International airport meets you with intricate ironwork of ceiling joists and lattice which hangs pretty low, that gives you a feeling of bumping your head in one of these. It was a massive ironwork to match the floor which immediately reminds you that Canada is known for their lumber. But to an untrained eye, the arrival area could easily be mistaken for a lumber yard. Leading to the lower level were the immigration gates with tickers at the top, greeting you twice which reads “Welcome…Bienvenue”. Turning to the left would be a set of streamers of bilingual messages. Since I have limited French reading skill, I can only read the english words and it’s french echo–direct french translation right after the english word. At the moment, I perfectly remember “sortie” as the french echo of exit. The queue was short and in a moment I was infront of the immigration officer and trying my best not to smile sheepishly.

It’s the 9th of February 2007 at 6:00 in the morning along South Superhighway. The clouds were overcast and the windshield catching mist as our car sped at 80 miles per hour towards the airport. My brother was catching his 8 o’clock morning flight to Palawan, while I was getting a lift towards the Ninoy Aquino International Airport. We were quick at the Car Park 2 of Terminal 2 (Centennial Airport) and in no time was tugging my 30kg bag, my black laptop trolley bag, which slings a 7kg backpack, my 11kg box of books and other wonders, and of course my trusty Samsonite nylon sling passport pouch cum card + money holder of striking, yet decent, orange flap over gray.

As I sensed my bro’s anxiety of not having checked-in for his flight, our farewell was brisk and almost very formal. I didn’t watch him walk out from where my luggages were, as you see, I’m not good at goodbyes; so I pretended to frantically look for a push cart, which was very scarce in the domestic arrival area. I had to seek a porter’s help to get me across the other end of the airport, where I could catch an airport cab for Ninoy International Airport–which turned out to be the most expensive ride I had in my entire life. I paid Php 150.00 for a stone-throw distance of 500 meters.

So there was I. Wearing plaided black woolen long-sleeves over a black Bench Body chinese cotton tank-top which I neatly tucked in my equally-colored ribbed pants (which I got from Folded and Hung at Glorietta shop in Makati a couple of days ago, so who got curious if I washed it before wearing…place your bet). To complete the outfit, I slid a black leather belt (Van Haussen) to match with my 3-year old black Rockport shoes. From one arm to the other, I slid my beige polyester round-neck jacket around my back and left the zippers undone. I had my black and gray scarf inside my backpack, in case it gets too cold.

Slipping another 20 pesos to the taxi driver to unload my things to a new cart while studying my e-ticket once more for any details I missed. I was in luck! The 1315 hours flight to Hong Kong, which I announced to some turned out to be the arrival in Hong Kong International Airport. So, when I checked in at Cathay Pacific, my boarding time was 1045 hours. I wasn’t too early to check-in then, in fact, I was just on time.

Queueing up at the Immigration border at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport used to give me the jitters each time I get out of the country, but not that day. I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I’m exiting the country anyway, what else could the immigration officer do to keep me from leaving?

When I reached my turn, the immigration officer greeted me, and I curtly returned the favor. Face straight, my eyes fixed at my passport. As soon as she had my passport, she was quick in scanning and found my Canadian immigration visa. Then she grabbed her green stamp, and then I heard it…the heart-stopping thud of a date stamper dropping like a mighty gavel in a court house. I’m free to exit the country.