PINATUBO Ch.1--ENIGMA

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ONE

ENIGMA

December 1991
Los Angeles International Airport

         As I stand in line waiting to check in for my flight to the Philippines, I am drawn to a woman at the e-ticket machine. She is very striking and unusually tall for a Filipina; five-foot eight probably, and all legs. She wears a white leather jacket over a matching short skirt that accentuates the long and slim limbs. There is something vaguely familiar about her. I feel as though I’ve known her from somewhere, but I cannot remember where or when.

         She looks to be in her early thirties, with tawny complexion, almond-shaped eyes, and very nicely shaped nose. Her cropped hair either came from an expensive Beverly Hills wig store, or was just primped by a Hollywood salon hair stylist. If that’s her real hair then it’s definitely the kind that comes in a bottle because my race does not come in strawberry blonde. Many Asian women dye their hair now, getting their nose lifted, and looking more Caucasian. I’ve tried coloring my hair light brown once, but it turned orange instead.


         Aboard Philippine Airlines Flight 201, the woman who has captivated my attention is seated on the opposite side of the cabin to my left. She seems vacant as she gazes out the window, her hands folded in her lap. I gaze furtively at her, studying the symmetrical face that I feel I should recognize. I’m really jealous of her beautiful nose. I wonder if it’s natural or rhinoplastic. I don’t have anything against people who want to improve their appearance through cosmetic surgery. My ethnic Asian nose certainly could use some surgical lifting. This brings back an unforgettable experience when I was thirteen years old. I remember how my mother got so furious one night when she found me gasping and snorting in my sleep. She woke me up as she removed the clothespin that clamped my nose. "What are you trying to do? Kill yourself?" She spoke softly but with undeniable displeasure in her voice.

         Growing up in the Philippines, there were times when I was so gullible and naïve in my self-conscious days. Boy, did I get even with those pretty girls who made me believe that I could lift my nose with the clothespin technique. My revenge, however, resulted in a two-day suspension from school for punching one of the girls in the nose. But my suspension was not as severe as the verbal spanking I received from my mother. It was amazing how she could admonish her children effectively with merely a long and meaningful stare, followed by a softly delivered sermon. But honestly, there were times when I wished she had literally spanked me instead because her saintly method was much more difficult to take. My father also reprimanded me in front of my mother for punching the teen princess. Secretly, however, he and I exulted with high fives, and he congratulated me for being the brave and triumphant avenger that I was. "No one will mess with you again," he had said. "Remember always ...you should never let anyone bully you into doing something that is harmful to yourself."

         A beauteous Filipina flight attendant interrupts my walk down childhood memory lane and brings me back to real time. Her pearly smile, her graceful movement, and her expertly applied makeup remind me of my cousin Corona—a perennial beauty pageant contestant. She must have entered a hundred of them. It paid off because she supported herself through college through her winnings. The Philippines has more than 7,000 islands, and there may be just as many beauty pageants; the title for "Miss Philippines" being the most coveted and most prestigious in the country. It is a major part of the Filipino culture where beauty queens are admired, respected and treated like movie stars. Ambitious young and beautiful women consider it their ticket to social and career ascension. Unlike in the U.S., Asian-Pacific airlines seem to continue the old practice of hiring only beautiful women as stewardess, as is evident here.

         “Would you like anything to drink?” the attendant asks with the sweetest of smile.

         “No, I’m good, thank you very much.”

         She walks the aisle like a feline on a runway. She must have been a fashion model at one time. I look out the window and see my reflection. I’ve been told I’m very pretty. “Downright super gorgeous,” a panhandler even said to me once. I would never call myself a beauty pageant material; not under this five-foot-four frame, cheekbones and lips that project higher than my nose, and a critical attitude about beauty pageants.

         I throw a furtive glance at the woman I feel I should know. I see the man next to her tries to strike up a conversation, but she looks unresponsive, only smiling and politely nodding. The man gives up and turns his attention to the book in his hand. She pulls out a slim pack of cigarettes and shakes one loose; then perhaps knowing she can’t smoke in the cabin, she looks at it longingly then puts it between her lips without lighting it. She glances up, looks around and our eyes meet. I smile, but she returns it with a piercing stare that surprises me. Something about that stare that brings back a feeling of deja vu. I am now positive that I have seen that face before.

         I drag my gaze away from her, turn my head back toward the window, and look out into the distance. The outline of immense mountains is disappearing as the sky begins to darken. Almost immediately, the Pacific Ocean and the sky merge with the cumulus clouds into one empty canvas. I think of the pine forests in the Philippines, and the heady, exotic scent that has always enchanted me. I brace myself, and smile at the thought of being home again.

         My smile quickly vanishes when I remember that the home I’ve known for many years will not look like the same home anymore. I close my eyes and replay the images from Mount Pinatubo’s recent eruption in my head: how the volcano has retouched the landscape of this once lush tropical place; and how light pumice dust covers everything, giving the area a mystical, winter-like appearance with an eerie look to it. I see visions of Mount Pinatubo with all its monstrous glory, wispy steam still breathing gently from its throat, and black smoke spewing into the sky. In the foreground, horrible images of ash-buried homes and what used to be lush meadows and woodlands now totally obliterated and transformed into a lunar landscape.

         With thoughts of Mount Pinatubo lingering on my mind, I turn the light off overhead, recline my seat as far back as I can, hoping for a good night sleep. I have not been sleeping well since my mother stunned me with her revelations and declarations of forgiveness to those who’ve trespassed against her.

         My mother’s most recent trip to the Philippines early this year was a traumatizing experience for her. Mount Pinatubo erupted, which might have totally destroyed the family home--the house that our father built--where I was born, and where all my siblings grew up. But something more earth shattering, something strange and mysterious, happened at that time that drastically changed her. All of a sudden, after so many years after Papa’s death, Ma decided it was time to forgive Papa for his extra-marital affairs and fathering illegitimate children. And this one was a total shocker: she also has forgiven those who murdered our father.

         It’s never been a secret to the family that Mama harbored some deep emotions and bitterness over Papa’s alleged affairs with other women. What really happened during her last visit to the Philippines that strangely affected her? What’s all this forgiveness about? And does any one really care much anymore?

         I wonder what discoveries await me back in my native land.

--o0o---

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PINATUBO Ch.2-William, the Vulcanologist  (E) Mary meets William, a USGS vulcanologist who monitors Pinatubo's seismic activities #1141109 by writeartista