Time for Philippine air companies to pull their socks up?

What is it about some businesses that make them believe all their customers are chronically short of a brain cell or three?

 

I am checking in at the Philippine Airlines counter at Beijing’s Terminal 2 (the old grotty one, not the brand spanking new gem that is T3). On the desk is a notice that advises passengers that due to the introduction of a new deal aimed at giving passengers a better service, they are now required to check in earlier.

 

What? Come again? I get a better service if I check in even earlier? Who thinks up these half baked ideas? And worse, who the hell in management then agrees with them going public?

 

It’s like the Phil’ Air web site. You book your ticket and then finally after what feels like hours you get to the start of the payment process; only to find that your visa card which you can use for just about every other transaction on the internet is not allowed as it wasn’t issued by a South East Asian bank. This, we are told, is better customer service because it protects your security! (As it happens, when I finally get over to the Phil’ Air office in downtown BJ to hand over real cash for a real ticket - well, a real piece of paper anyway - I am quoted a price considerably cheaper than that quoted on their web site, so all’s well in the end I suppose.)

 

Anyway, back to BJ’s T2 where Phil’ Air has been allocated a set of desks as far as possible from the main entrance. Tensions between China and the Philippines are still not resolved as those canny Filipinos don’t really fancy the Chinese laying claim to territory they have regarded as their own for many years. So petty things, like allocating them the worst check in desks, are now par for the course.
 

A bored looking Chinese handling agent is sitting playing with his computer screen. I hand over my passport and the Chinese agent starts bashing away on his keyboard.

And then he sits back and looks puzzled.
And presses a button.
And pokes it again – over and over… until he realises that he has forgotten to put blank tickets into the ticketing machine which is why nothing emanates as a result of his finger stabbing.

 

At last the machine wakes up and a ticket appears. “Here you are Mr Javier … sorry for the delay.”
“Errr - I’m not Mr Javier. Maybe that ticket belongs to another passenger?”

 

Your favourite blogger’s passport is once again inspected, just to make sure that I'm not Javier masquerading under another name. Obviously disappointed to find I am who I say I am, the ticket gets torn in two and the whole process starts from the top once again. Maybe this is the new deal that the above notice is referring to and this is indeed why passengers are advised to check in earlier? Or maybe the canny Capital Airport management puts their not-so-bright employees on the Phil’ Air check in leaving the crème de la crème to look after the better airlines?

 

 

My theory actually begins to gain credibility after we are told when sitting in the cabin waiting for take off that there will be a slight delay as they are “waiting for a piece of paper”. The so-called bit of paper they are waiting for is the official loading sheet without which an aircraft cannot take off. For some inexplicable reason the airport authorities haven’t handed the loading sheet over, so we wait… and wait… until 90 minutes after we should have left someone nonchalantly walks into the aircraft and hands over the offending sheet. Amazingly, though we – the passengers – have not been told what is going on, someone has the bright idea of accessing the Phil Air web site on their smartphone which informs us that departure time has been put back by – yes, you guessed it… 90 minutes!

 

We taxi out onto the apron and wait in the queue for getting onto the runway for take off. But the moment the aircraft in front of us has taken to the skies our captain regrets to inform us that owing to a technical problem with the steering we will have to return from whence we came so that the engineers can check it out.

 

We sit for another 45 minutes while all kinds of weird and wonderful servo noises rise through the body of the aircraft. Packets of peanuts are handed out to the more complaining of the passengers, except that they soon run out, leading to more complaints from the passengers who lost out in the scrimmage. Eventually, with the passengers getting restless, the crew take it upon themselves to start serving out the lunch trays. No sooner has every passenger been served a tepid meal (the auxiliary power had to be switched off for a while, hence the ovens were not running at their correct temperature) than we are told that the fault has finally been put right. But now of course we cannot take off until everything has been cleared up.

 

 

The Phil Air web site informs us that we will take off exactly five hours later than we should have done … and so it turns out to be.

 

Naturally, no sooner are we in the sky than half the planeload wants to visit the loos, so long queues develop along the aisle of this not-so-pristine Airbus A320. I wait till the queue has run its course and then go to inspect the plumbing myself. And wish I hadn’t. A thick brown scum has coagulated over the years under the loo seat, making me wonder if anyone has ever bothered to clean it. As they say, the picture below doesn’t do it justice. But I determine not to avail myself of Phil Air’s plumbing facilities in the future.

 

 

Apart from that, the flight is pretty uneventful. There are only overhead TV screens showing very second rate movies and hardly anyone even bothers to open their headset bags, let alone view the “entertainment”. Eventually, however, we arrive in Manila – 5 hours late – and the captain hopes we had an enjoyable flight and wishes us a good stay. “Mabuhay!” he signs off – literally "long live” – an expression used in welcoming guests and showing hospitality and something I am destined to come across on many occasions over the next few days.

 

Inside the terminal, a girl band plays to us as we wait for our luggage with one of them calling out Christmas greetings to anyone who stops to listen. A nice touch which after our flight makes a welcome change.

 

 

Manila’s traffic is as hectic as ever – a combination of expensive 4x4s, swanky limousines, bog-standard cars, jeepneys (which I blogged about the last time I was in this country), motorbikes and motor-trikes – which are the standard method of transport for shorter journeys. Motor-trikes come in a variety of shapes and sizes – this one is a standard design for the Laguna area (about two hours south of Manila central) into which you can just about squeeze two bottoms in the passenger cart as well as having two passengers riding pillion. The height of it has obviously been developed for slightly shorter Filipinos and your favourite blogger sits with his head jammed to one side wishing desperately that the journey would end, however long or short the journey happens to be.

 

 

The next day it is time to fly to Busuanga island in the Calamianes chain, north of Palawan. We fly from MNL terminal 4 on Zest Air in an MA60 plane which is so designed that you can hardly see a thing out of the windows except for one of the engine housings, unless you look sharply downwards.

 

The MA60 is a turboprop made by China's Xi'an Aircraft Industrial Corporation and was designed to operate in rugged conditions with limited ground support and has short take-off and landing capability. But its safety record is pretty poor, with Indonesia – not renowned for its own air safety track record – actually banning the aircraft from using three of its airports, after one of the planes crashed and killed 25 people in May 2011.

 

In January 2009, an MA60 operated by Zest crashed at Caticlan airport while trying to land. The aircraft caught fire and suffered extensive damage to its wing, landing gear, undercarriage and one engine; and several passengers were injured in that accident. Another Zest MA60 overshot the runway while trying to land at Caticlan in June 2009.

 

 

On this journey we are flying at around 16,000 ft so we can catch glimpses of the myriad islands passing underneath.

 

 

The airport at Busuanga is a tiny air strip stuck out in the middle of nowhere – a good 45 minutes drive from the main town of Coron. But everyone is terribly friendly and is made to feel very welcome. Mabuhay!

 

 

Here there are very few private cars and only a handful of jeepneys, but hundreds of motor-trikes. This variety is much better than the ones to be found in Laguna with a design that lets two people sit in the front, two people in the back and another two pillion passengers. That’s seven people carried by one motorbike engine! A couple of days later I am sitting in one with six adults and two kids. I have no idea how long the engines of these Kawasaki bikes last, but the strain they are under must be phenomenal.

 

 

Like the jeepneys, many of these motor-trikes are personally decorated – some more successfully than others!

 

 

Naturally there are refuelling stops all over the place such as this one… No, that’s not coke. It’s petrol, sold for 30 pesos per bottle.

 

 

On the return journey from Busuanga we are told there is a slight delay following a tropical storm that has passed by within the previous 24 hours. Everything is running late and some passengers who were grounded the previous day are desperately trying to get aboard our flight.

 

We sit it out in the airport until we hear an announcement that departure is expected in about an hour’s time. We continue to sit it out, only for another announcement to be made half an hour later that the flight has now been cancelled. Would all passengers return to the check in desk.

 

I get to the front of the queue where I am asked if I have an onward connection. The implication is clear. Those with onward connections will be given priority for whatever arrangements they can make. I do indeed, I declare (forgetting to point out that my onward connection is actually a bus journey!) And sure enough, a select handful of us “onward connecting passengers” are bumped over to competing Air Phil Express (which flies Bombardier Q400s – previously known as Dash 8s).

 

Another passenger tells us that in the 14 flights she has flown with Zest Air, all 14 have been delayed for one reason or another. So why does she continue to fly with Zest? It turns out she is an intern and Zest are much cheaper than the competition. But she always hopes she will be bumped over to another airline as she has been today.

 

 

Unlike Zest Air’s total lack of service, Air Phil Express offers the option of purchasing a cup of tea – well, that is a cup of warm water and a tea bag. No milk or sugar on board unfortunately. But after such a wait, anything warm and wet is appreciated.

 

We finally get in to Manila – this time landing in Terminal 3 which is pristine and totally unlike the other three terminals in the capital.

 

 

The Philippine Tourism Authority has been in creative mood and around the baggage claim area are a number of advertisements extolling the virtues of the country for tourists.

 

 

Even the loos are pristine – not as gleaming as the ones in Beijing’s Terminal 3, it has to be admitted, but clean all the same. And not a (Chinese) slogan in sight!

 

 

Two days later it’s back to Terminal 2 to take Philippine Airlines back once again to Beijing. It’s the same plane as before; the loos are as disgusting as ever; and the main feature film only has a soundtrack in Chinese as the crew cannot work out how to switch it across to the English channel. But the flight is only a quarter full, we are served copious quantities of drinks and the food isn’t at all bad. We take off 15 minutes earlier than scheduled and arrive in Beijing 12 minutes ahead of schedule.

 

We start the very long taxiing from the runway to the terminal, but after 10 minutes come to a complete halt in the middle of the apron.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, please stay seated, the captain intones over the speakers. It appears there is a fault with the steering and we need to be towed to the gate. Now where have I heard that before? But the tow truck soon arrives and minutes later we are deplaning into Terminal 2.

 

Even if one hasn’t seen all the signs in Chinese, you can still tell we’re back in China. “China Inspection & Quaratine Imformation” a sign reads. Oh yes; I’m back in China alright!

 

Start of a new chapter in Brian’s autobiography

Finally the moment has arrived. As I trundle off across the Pennines towards Manchester Airport, I realise this is what I have been working towards for the past six months. I am on my way to live and work in China.

The Qatar Airways flight to Doha is unmemorable, save for spending 45 minutes circling the airport waiting for permission to land, which annoyingly cuts down on the transit time for stretching one’s legs, this being one of the reasons for taking Qatar Air in the first place. I have kept back some UAE dirhams to exchange into Chinese currency at Doha Airport, since on trying to change them in the UK the rates quoted there are pure daylight robbery. Alas, Doha Airport has no Yuan at all and so I will have to rely on the small amount I already have to keep me going for the coming few days.

My second, connecting flight is on a 777 and I get a window seat. That means either trying to climb over two other people (who don’t speak a word of English) to go stretch my legs, or making do where I am. Qatar Airways’ policy is to keep all the window blinds tightly shut so that passengers can catch up on their zzzzs prior to landing, which means that despite not arriving until the middle of the afternoon local time, I totally miss out on the spectacular views of the Himalayas.

Beijing Terminal 3, built in time for the Beijing Olympics, is ultra modern – a far cry from Terminal 2 which is badly showing its age. And totally unlike the airport at Doha I have left eight hours previously, the toilets here are pristine. So clean you could almost eat your lunch off them. A whole army of cleaners follow you around wiping every surface you so much as look at lest you leave some mark in your wake.

 

The immigration queues are long, but efficiency and politeness are once again so much in contrast to those at Dubai airport which I have regularly suffered over the past umpteen months.
 

Once you have been dealt with by the officer and are handed back your passport, you are invited to press one of three buttons showing you thought the service you have just received was good / medium / bad. I am reminded of the motorway service stations in the UK which have big smileys outside their loos – but there it surely must be rare indeed for the good-button to be pressed at all. Not so at Beijing Airport!

After picking up my baggage, I wander out into the great throng of meeters-and-greeters and easily spy a large blue notice-board with ‘Mr Brian’ spelled out in LARGE WHITE LETTERS and cowering underneath, an intern from the company I am about to start working with. This is Yang’s very first foray to the airport to meet a foreigner and she is bashfully shy. But after first leading me to the wrong floor and then trying to go down an Up escalator, we arrive at the taxi rank and spend a few minutes cramming my two large suitcases into the small boot of the Hyundai Elantra taxi. But the taxi driver is obviously charmed by Yang’s smile and ignores the foreigner in the back of his cab while chatting her up for the whole of the journey.

The apartment that comes with the job is of a reasonable size, but redolent of university student accommodation. I am asked to sign an inventory list written half in Chinese and half in English. I can easily identify the ‘Rifrigerator’ and the ‘Bash Towel’ as well as the ‘Bustbin’ and ‘Bet’, which of course has its own “Mattess’. But I am at a loss to know what the ‘Pun’ is or, for a few seconds at least, the ‘Smoke-Extra-Ctor’. But never mind; this is to be my new home-from-home for the foreseeable future.

There is a bedroom, living room, kitchen, hall-diner and of course, a bathroom. Helpfully, in case I am not able to find it, there is a large notice just outside the bathroom …

… but I am left wondering what any visiting female friends might do, except perhaps sit there with crossed legs, as there is no equivalent notice for them.

Most mod cons are also provided, including a washing machine which has all its instructions in Chinese.

Later in the week I cause a huge amount of mirth in the office when asking someone which button controls the temperature of the wash. Chinese washing machines only use cold water, apparently. If you want a hot wash, you have to boil it on the stove!

The neighbourhood is also awash with restaurants of every description, with some even boasting a westernised name in addition to the Chinese name above the door.

The following day at the crack of dawn (well, 0830) I meet Yang again and we whiz off right across the city to the northwestern-most extremes, way beyond the Summer Palace on a 55 minute taxi ride to find a hospital which specialises in giving foreigners the requisite medicals before they apply for residence visas. Yang hands over a stack of the readies and I am given a large sheet of paper to fill in, together with a dozen barcode stickers after which I wander from room to room handing over my barcodes in exchange for having blood extracted, eyes tested, throat inspected, chest x-rayed, stomach ultra-sounded, prodded and poked and measured …. until I emerge at the other end with my sheet of paper covered in illegible signatures, offer up my passport for scanning, and wander out into the daylight once again.

As I had been told not to eat anything for 12 hours before the tests, Yang has thoughtfully bought for me four chocolate cakes, together with a can of Nescafe drink. But given the high temperatures of Beijing summers, my first attempt at unwrapping one of the cakes leads to a rash of brown stains on my shirt and trousers, so I give up the unequal task and slurp out of the tin instead.

The taxi driver we have hailed for the return journey obviously has no clue where he is and when I suggest to Yang that it appears we are travelling north west out of the city she has a long conversation with the driver who stops to ask not one, but three different groups of people how to get back into town before grudgingly admitting that he is going in totally the opposite direction. How do you know Beijing so well, Yang asks me? She obviously does not understand the principles of navigating by the sun, so I point out that we passed a signpost to the Summer Palace ten minutes back and she is well impressed.

On our return, I am informed that I now have the rest of the day off and that we will meet again the next day. So I set to exploring the immediate neighbourhood around my apartment block.

A seven minute walk away is a metro station with the catchy name of Huixinxijienantou. Ten minutes away a large supermarket. Another two minutes on, an even bigger hypermarket owned by a Japanese company which does its utmost to impress its customers by being Japanese in every way possible. I walk down the aisles of the crockery and home gadgets department and at every aisle junction a smartly dressed Chinese assistant bows deeply to me Japanese-style and says Ni Hao. At first this is quite quaint and brings a smile, but by the 15th Ni Hao it is beginning to lose its appeal. Should one bow back in return like the Japanese or ignore them like the Chinese? And why are they saying 你好 instead of こんにちは? It is all so confusing.

The next day at the requisite hour I meet Yang once again who takes me to meet my new boss. We talk about this and that for a few minutes after which I am led out into the main office, where I will work, to meet some of my new colleagues. They all talk in whispers – it feels a bit like a library – and later I am to discover that to allow for concentration, no one talks and everyone sends MSN messages to one another. Even a girl sitting immediately next me or opposite me will talk to me via MSN Messenger. Quite weird.

Everyone is called Chan or Chang or Chen or Cheng or Yang or Wang or Wen or Xing or Xin and so I am getting all these messages from girls all of 2-3 meters away from me but have no idea at all who has sent me what!

Later in the day I am wandering through another supermarket when my eyes are attracted by a special offer (the Chinese love special offers). A kilo of lychees for a mere 13元 (that’s about £1.40). I buy a large handful of them and am given a glance by the cashier as if to say is that all you’re gonna buy? Everyone else is cramming these lychees into large plastic bags as if there is no tomorrow. Back at my pad I tuck in and find they are absolutely scrummy. I should indeed have bought more.

Of course, China does have its downsides as well. Facebook is blocked here, as is the downloading of Yahoo Messenger (although I have it already installed, and find I can use it); IMDB is blocked for some unfathomable reason; and my blog site too is blocked – presumably because it is run by Google who are definitely out of favour with the authorities here. But I have worked out a way of getting these blogs up online, albeit that it does take a little longer to do.

I go for a walk near Tian an Men square which, naturally, is the first stop on every foreigner’s tour of Beijing. This is the only place in Beijing where Chairman Mao’s official picture is on display, and everyone appears eager to be photographed with the great leader looking over their shoulders.

I am approached by a pretty young thing who asks me if I am a visitor, if I speak English, that she is learning English and if I would like to pass some time with her by enjoying a coffee in a nearby shopping mall. But I have already read about this scam where unsuspecting foreigners are led to what looks like an ordinary café from the outside, but where they then find the bill comes to an exorbitant amount.

I decline gracefully, saying I am meeting someone, but I have to admit that she gets 100% for persistency. So you wait for your fren with me in café no? she asks hopefully. I tell her that much as I would love to spend some time helping her practise her English, it would have to be here on the street corner, not in a coffee bar and before I know it she is off practising her charm on another foreigner – this time an American who looks old enough to be her great grandfather; and off they go chatting away like old friends. Ah well, they say there’s no fool like an old fool!

One of the problems here for foreigners is that very few people speak English. Although it has recently become mandatory for schools to include it in the curriculum, it is difficult to find anyone apart from hookers, coffee bar scammers and the educated middle class who speaks much English. And this determines me all the more to start knuckling down and learning some Putonghua – the people’s language.

My thoughts drift back to school French lessons when we were required to learn all about ‘La plume de ma tante’. I open a text book which promises to teach Chinese the easy way with books and audio tapes… Lesson 1:

Dave: 你好吗？
Lin: 我很好。谢谢。你呢？
Dave: 我也很好。谢谢。
Lin: 再见！
Dave: 再见！

I somehow suspect this is going to take a little time….