The Hermès and the Have-nots

If there is one place on earth where economic inequality is most unabashedly in-you-face within the confinements of four walls and under one roof, this place would indubitably be the airplane.

This is nothing new. Air travel has always been about the haves and have-nots. If you've got the dough, you whizz pass check-in and security on a red carpet, sip on champagne in the exclusive airline lounge, then get pampered with caviar and premium service in the privacy and luxury of a First Class suite until you reach your destination waking up in silk. For the less well-off, air travel means claustrophobia, numb rumps, armrest wars, dog food, and long lines for the filthy loo. And for the even less moneyed? They don't travel at all.

The airplane is a replica of a highly stratified society in a nut shell - a perfect cross section of the socioeconomic pyramid constituting of the powerful Elite (the Top Crust), the Bourgeoisie (aka. Wannabes) and, underneath them all, an overwhelmingly large base of Proletarians (the mass working class). Take a stroll from nose to tail on any given flights dispatched between Hong Kong and Dubai, and no sooner will you see the economic divide between the haves and have-nots - with the front end taken up by loaded Arab families (probably with their hands on oil reserves), affluent Asian holidaymakers, and then - with merely a curtain in between, throngs of migrant workers and contract laborers at the rear trying to make ends meet.

What makes an airplane distinct from society is the extent of this socioeconomic disparity so shamelessly conspicuous that it verges on the offensive. As passengers traveling in coach straddle towards their cramped quarters in the back, they are forced to first marvel at the opulence of First and Business Class, only to gawk with lust and envy at something so close yet so distant and then silently lower their heads in submission to their humble destiny. Like a wide-eyed dreamer wandering in a Hermès boutique, you can touch, feel, and dream - but snap back into harsh reality once you find out the almighty price.

Sure enough, a city has readily distinguishable neighborhoods separating the rich and the poor, but few are as concretely demarcated and as boldly segregating as the curtains that erect tangible boundaries between the haves and the have-nots on an aeroplane.

A grandiose mosque in Surabaya

None is as illustrative as my recent flight operated from Surabaya, Indonesia. With only days until the Eid al-Fitr, an important Muslim holiday marking the end of the Ramadan, hordes of the powerful and the elite are fluxing out of the country for vacation overseas. The second-largest city in Indonesia, Surabaya boasts a population with an ever widening economic gap, where Indonesians of Chinese descent invariably make up the Top Crust.

Indonesian-Chinese in Surabaya can be very wealthy. And when I say wealthy, I mean seriously wealthy. Think fair-skinned tai-tais with characteristically high, puffy hairdos, heavy makeup, and branded handbags. Hence the reproduction of Surabaya society on the airplane takes on an extra racial dimension - where the darker masses (mostly migrant domestic helpers and some middle class) are filling the back, the fairness-obsessed Indonesian-Chinese occupy the front end.

So what is it exactly that makes this group of high-spending travelers so unforgettable? 

Their accessories. The universal Asian symbol of status.

Literally, I thought I have stepped into a private underground showroom of Hermès.

Kelly, Birkin, Kelly, oh, yet another Birkin. Okay, more like a Hermès “wonderland” - since in reality it will require serious charm and winning the lottery to even cajole a Herbag out of the staunch gatekeepers of this prestigious marque.

12 H - an exceptionally rare turquoise calf leather; 18 K - an equally coveted baby blue. Of course, Mrs. So-and-so seated in 12 H protects the lush leather handles by wrapping them with a signature Hermès silk scarf. And Mme. So-and-so in 18 K keeps her precious tote in a canvas bag before gently placing it into the overhead bin. But the real show-stopper really is 14 G - crafted from the most valuable saltwater crocodile hide - which Ms. So-and-so can care less about tossing into the overhead compartment. This epitome of a luxury, one-of-a-kind, hand-crafted bag instantly puts a neighboring Gucci to shame.

… And what about the lonesome Longchamp? Save it for the groceries.

Morning traffic in Surabaya, a city of extremes

"Check out that overhead compartment," my good friend and colleague snickers, his head motioning towards the treasure chest, "there's hundreds of thousands dollar worth of goods in there alone." It's true. Within a mere half hour during boarding, I have handled enough Hermès bags to pay off a mortgage.

Half of the passengers in this cabin are related one way or another, and as families they are traveling altogether on Business Class from Surabaya via Hong Kong for a holiday in New York and San Francisco. With each Business Class round-trip ticket between Indonesia and the US valuing at the fifth digit in US Dollar, it takes no genius to calculate the extent of damage a vacation as such causes to a family's savings.

For the Have-nots, it is beyond a lifetime's worth of slaving and savings. For the Haves, it might just be another Hermès in the closet.

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!]

A hands-free masterpiece

Less than an hour prior to our approach into Sydney's Interational Airport, the call light illuminates. I drop my task on hand and peer at the call light indicator. 11A. Mrs. Williams has finally risen after a night of rest. A tall brunette in her late-thirties, she stands with her hands up, her duvet disorderly crumpled along the side of her still-fully-deployed flat bed. Her hands are red, the color of a terrible rash; her seat tinted with a faint crimson against the teal color of the fabric; her face twisted in agony. That cannot be blood... can it? 

"How... may I help you Mrs. Williams?" I ask apprehensively as her previously friendly and courteous disposition seems to have faded in the face of distress. She spins around in her shapeless sweater and unflattering beige track pants. Well, at least they used to be beige.

"Oh..." I murmur as I take in the unsightly view of the derriere, furrowing my brows at the same time. Her whole backside is now smeared and covered in red streaks, strokes, and haphazard blotches.  

- "I woke up and then I noticed this..." still dumbfounded, she shrieks, "there must be a crayon or something in my seat!"

Kids at play in Darling Quarter's new playground

So through the many hours of twists and turns in the warmth of her duvet, a stray red crayon left over by a faceless kid on a previous flight that eschewed the aircraft cleaners has been diligently working a masterpiece right on the contours of her arse.

It reminds me of Charlotte of Sex and the City 2, who melts down after her daughter playfully smacks two huge wet red handprints on her buttocks (a white, probably Valentino, pencil skirt that she sashays in around the kitchen, baking cupcakes). So it's not Valentino that Mrs. Williams is concerned of here. It is the prospects of her humiliation sashaying around the baggage claim area and the city with a red Down Under that appears as though her own child has taken revenge on her in her sleep.

Sure enough, I find chunks of red crayon in the seams of Mrs. Williams' seat. 

- "Do you guys have sleeper suits or something that I can change into?!" She grumbles. We unfortunately do not. Apologies given, we offer to wipe her track pants down with soda water as best as we can while she hides in the lavatory and offer laundry compensation.

Fresh ideas for a kiddie prank anyone?

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!] 

How far can the "extra mile" go?

A decently dressed Caucasian woman stands inside the lavatory with the door wide open, gazing blankly at the toilet bowl. At the busiest peak of our meal service, a colleague of mine nominates me to go check up on her. What can it be, and how is it that a guy assists a woman in the loo? 

- "I... dropped my phone into the toilet," the lady utters. She almost seems too composed for a tragedy of this sort.
-"Oh no," I immediately react empathetically, "I hope it's not an iPhone!" I later thought that was one of the most stupid remarks I have ever made. Any mobile phone dropped in a john deems a tragedy, albeit a comical one.
I peek into the gaping black hole for any signs of her device. Wow... that is a huge serving of urine, lady. A gallon, maybe. But no phone is in sight. Embarrassed, we both stare helplessly at the pool of still liquid, she still in disbelief of her loss and I wondering to what extent "going the extra mile" extends.

Truth is, the phone has already slipped through the throat of abyss, and chances of retrieval is near zero. In situations like this, is my role one to put up a heroic show of rescue, or one to provide emotional support while delivering the bad news? Failing to think of anything more comforting to say, I choose to be the bearer of bad news, like surgeons who could not resuscitate a dying patient. "I'm afraid it's not very likely that we could fish the phone out as it's a huge vaccuum tank underneath..." The lady grimaces at the image of her cellular buried in a pit of feces.

-"Do you think that the phone will still work even if I get it back?" Good call, and we all know the answer. "Is there anything that we can use to see if it's in there? Something... long? " Well, for reassurance purposes it doesn't hurt to at least try. I dash to the galley to fetch a foot-long plastic stick - but here's the catch - will I have to get down and dirty, or is this completely out of my scope of responsibility?

I gingerly hand over the stick, and the lady seems reluctant to take it. Uhh... Just at this state of limbo, my colleague comes into rescue. She passes her a pair of plastic gloves along with the stick, "I'm sorry we can't help you to dig in the toilet as we are handling food." Simple and straightforward, and my colleague rushes off the scene back to her task.

I linger uneasily as the woman pokes at the black hole flooding with her own urine. Learning something new each day, I think to myself, phew. In efforts of not seeming apathetic before disappearing, I add, "I'm really sorry that this happened." And off I go, lamenting over the hundreds of contacts and messages and photos now interred in a pile of inflight crap.

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!] 

Blood, sweat, and tears

[This is an unpublished entry from Feb 2011 that is now finally finished and published, May 2011] 

I wake up to my morning call last week sensing that a system crash is imminent. It is the second day in a row I get up before dawn, put on my hospitality face, and go to work anticipating another day that consists of rushing from the second I board to the moment I haul my body out the aircraft. Before this day were countless similar days and weeks that, in reminiscence, seem to merge and compile into a vertical slide down an infinite chute where the only sound of time ticking came from my body's time bomb.

This downward slip was rarely interrupted by sufficient proper rest, made worse by poor quality sleep. The last few months saw two seasonal peaks, where Christmas and Chinese New Year arrived practically unseparated this year. Coincidentally, I flew record hours during this period of time, with my total number of flying hours well above the monthly average. Looking back, I see a nebulous mosiac of thousands upon thousands of faces I have come across within the matter of weeks - holiday makers, boisterous tour groups, overseas students, all too many children and infants, and hordes of mainland Chinese. Somewhere in this mosaic I vaguely see myself, eye circles deepening.

And crash I did.

I collapse in bed after a 12-hour flight, jolting awake after only three hours to a missed call thinking it was an alarm for my next flight. Sometimes I see myself at work in my sleep. I see the onset of depression. The stress of this race against time inflight every day - of handling full-load passengers, of exceeding duty free sales target, of winning our supervisors' fancy - has all but little by little wringed me into a tight rope so tense and thin it finally snapped. My dwindling physical health, as indicated by insomnia, a frequently upset stomach, confused body clock and perpetual fatigue, along with my crippled sanity, have reached its threshold - I could no longer go on like this.

Yes, I have bumped up my bank savings during this period; I have achieved record sales and reached new heights in my career as a Elite Sales Team member. But this did not come without buckets of blood, sweat, and tears. And how many passengers - sitting in their seat receiving their meals and drinks from a graceful flight attendant - ever think of us as more than just waiters and waitresses going on holiday?

Hong Kong welcoming the new decade

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!] 

What juice?

Sometimes passengers do come up with the most nonsensical... requests. They could be entertaining at times, but usually so stupid that they make you scratch your head wondering if he is serious or is just playing funny. Next thing you know you will be rushing back to the galley sharing with your colleagues what a moronic thing you just heard. 

On my flight back from Bangkok, a Pakistani vegetarian passenger is upset that he is not given his drink of preference while consuming his special meal, which as an industry-wide practice is served prior to commencement of the regular meal service. By the time my cart arrives at his row, he has nearly finished his meal. I politely offer him some coffee, tea, or other beverages.

"Why do I have to have my meal first?!" The passenger blurts out furiously, "Why can't I be served with the drinks?! Am I supposed to have my drink after my meal?!" Whoa. Point taken. Due to a very short flying time and the sheer number of special meals on this flight (this flight connects from Colombo), our flight purser did not take drink orders to be delivered at the same time with the special meals. Instead, a glass of water or juice is first given and passengers are offered second drinks as our carts arrive.

Slightly taken aback by the passenger's reaction, I empathsize and explain, and once again offer him our selection. What more am I to do? Still raging, the passenger glares and asks with the top of his lungs what juices we serve. 
- "Apple juice, orange juice, and tomato juice."
- "What?" As if in disbelief, he demands again, "what juice you have? Is that all there is?" 
Alright, no time and patience for this nonsense. Just get the drink, move on. To make myself clear, I repeat, "apple juice, orange juice, or tomato juice (smile). Which one would you like, sir?"
-"You don't have strawberry juice??"

Strawberry juice?
Okay, mango juice, guava juice, even breakfast juice I've heard from passengers before. That I can understand and forgive, especially from Filipino passengers who are accustomed to the former two in their country and... maybe Aussies for the latter one. But 'strawberry juice'?? I know it is delicious but does this moron really think he would ever get strawberry juice on an airline, and in Economy Class? I pass him his orange juice and move on.

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!] 

Feature Photographs: Zaanse Schaans, Netherlands

Step back into the 18th century in this picturesque 
living neighborhood that defies imagination

Industrial mills quietly spinning along the river

Where endless fields and waterways meet the clear blue skies

March 2009

It's Happy Hour Hell all the way up from Down Under

There ought to have been some lounge music, a giant projection screen, perhaps some sombreros, or even some artificial fog. TV screens there are many; but the only fog seen is probably in the form of steam rising from my head.

Ding. 
- "Can I have a Scotch with soda, please."
- "Certainly. I will be right back." 
Ding. 
- "Yes, how may I help you, sir?
- "Yeah, I'd like to have a Whiskey with coke," the man turns to his neighbor, "you gettin' anything?" He pulls out the wretched menu card and runs his finger through the list of spirits that really should not be there.
- "Give me a Cognac."

I tread back to the galley, my mind regurgitating orders after orders of cocktails like a broken printer. I line out a stack of plastic glasses, unlatch the carts and retrieve the bottles one by one. Ding. Before I even get to the ice drawer, the attendant bell chimes again. Ding. My colleague returns from the cabin, herself with a handful more orders. Ding. Another bottle of Chivas Regal emptied. Ding. I poke my head out and squint at the call light indicator. Row 62. Again. I swear he's already had his fourth drink. Ding. I take in a deep breath. Patience... I remind myself.

With a tray balancing five cocktails, I make my way out into the cabin. It is late afternoon in Melbourne; no one seems to be sleeping. 260 passengers in coach, 90 percent Aussie, 100 percent alcoholic, 2 cabin crew. The rest are on their rest shift. Two pairs of hands and two pairs of throbbing legs that have trampled back and forth the 40-rows-long cabin nonstop for the past four hours. That's roughly 10 continuous laps around a football field - speedwalking.

Ding. I strain my memory trying to match each drink with its owner. It doesn't help that this horde of middle-aged men all wear the same grey polo and black trousers. They are supposedly a group of police officers or something connecting to another city for training. Disciplined or not, to me, they all look like any other monsters who are obviously not into sobriety and are having too much fun with the idea of all-day 'free-flow' booze. 

Ding.
- "What can I get for you?" My question is becoming as much a rhetorical question as my passengers' own. Somewhere in my mind I am thinking of my meal - all cold by now - if only I could just eat something.
- "Can I have a Gin Tonic?" Rhetorical question.
- "Sure." I try to catch my breath and feign a smile that is fast fading.
- "Hey, Rob," he taps on his mate across the aisle, "Gin Tonic?" He nods. "Make it three - one for me, one for him, another for him." As if he's buying everyone a round.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Oh, the lovely chime that never fails to strike a nerve. Two Bloody Marys, three Gin Tonics, a Brandy - oh, and what? A Campari Soda with a dash of orange juice. "What's next," I roll my eyes at my equally exhausted colleague, "Sex on the Beach?" I start understanding how Aussies manage to survive on weekends when all shops, malls, food courts, even supermarkets, close at five - if they open at all. They probably stay home with their stash of booze.

I never consider Australian flights to be the most arduous of all. That is in large part due to the fact that Aussies generally carry a friendly, complaisant attitude emanating from the laid back culture from Down Under. As a result, they are relatively easy-going and polite. But here is the twist. Aussies are also extremely heavy drinkers. The difference between flights taking off midnight and those departing midday is that rather than carrying loads of sleepy travellers, we have a stadium full of alcohol-thirsty beasts eager for an all-day Happy Hour 30,000 feet from Up Above.

And for better or for worse, they don't get drunk.

When I signed up for this job, bartending was hardly the first image that came to mind. I am only a few tumbler shakes and a couple of juggling tricks away. Long before our second meal service commences, the entire cabin's stock of red and white wines have been depleted. No surprise, considering that each passenger is capable of downing a bottle each, in addition to a month's worth of cocktails. 

Growing increasingly weary, my colleague and I begin to double - sometimes even triple - the shots, deriving pleasure from each drop of vengeance, only in the hopes that a stronger drink could postpone the next. By the end of the flight, nothing sounds better than a Long Island Iced Tea. But I will call it a day. Enough spirits for me.

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!]

How I 'saved' a life: Head-on with my first inflight medical emergency case

"Help! I think my mom just died!"

As I am tidying up the galley-top, just about to finally have a minute of silence, a young African American woman suddenly flings open the curtain and cries out. Her lips and body frame tremble, her eyes bewildered, and tears threaten to well up behind her spectacles. With less than a quarter year of flying under my belt at the time, the news of a casualty on board hits me like a shooting star - the kind that hurls by so quickly you wonder if it was real before you even remember to make a wish.

It is in the graveyard hours of the night, midway through the twelve-hour flight to Los Angeles, when half of our set of crew retire for respite and the majority of passengers are beginning to drift off. I am alone in the galley. The most junior crew member at that time, I have yet to encounter more than a few real life first aid situations, let alone handling one that allegedly involves death of a passenger.

I sprint out to the cabin where the girl's mother is seated. My mind races through day after day of first aid drills back in training school. In the dark, I see an elderly lady sitting still - so eerily still - with her head slightly tilted backwards, eyes shut and jaw lifelessly hanging.

Feature Photographs: Mamallapuram, India

The five monoliths, called the Pandava Rathas, or Five Chariots, proudly stand 

as one of Southern India's most well-preserved UNESCO World Heritage Site

Women and children cooling down in a pool of seawater at the Bay of Bengal

Intricate and detailed relief carvings inside the 

Mahishasuramardhini cave temple, Mamallapuram

June 2010

 The sights and sounds of urban Chennai traffic

Baring it all in India: An epic journey into the hands of the unknown

I enter the massage room, an austerely furnished, dimly lit rectangular space that, with its wooden floor and furniture, exudes an almost medieval aura. I notice a wooden massage bed - a wide, bare, burnished plank, really - devoid of padding or linen that massage lovers so commonly come to expect, and think to myself - this is going to be interesting.

My masseur, a tall, handsome, neatly groomed man around my age, motions me to undress over at the corner with a shake of his head that I have already become accustomed to across India. There stand a simple dresser and a full-length mirror facing a big wooden armchair, the latter two diagonally placed. I awkwardly strip down to my underwear, "...um, do I wear anything?" As if caught by surprise, Shaju fetches a thin, long strip of champagne-colored cloth from the dresser. Uh-oh, I wonder... yes, it is a loincloth - an obsolete piece of garment whose name is long forgotten and only retrieved from my memory of college Introduction to Anthropology 101. 

Thankfully, Shaju does most of the work for me, because I'd embarrass the hell out of myself figuring how to don a loincloth. Tying the strings behind my waist and with the fabric hanging on the front, Shaju asks me to remove the underwear and wiff - he firmly tugs the cloth back through my thighs and voila - I see in my reflection my first G-string. It is silky, and comfortably it feels nothing like a wedgy.

I wait anxiously for my next command. Rather than heading to the bed, Shaju props me down on the chair in front of the mirror and then strips off his shirt. Oh, I did not see that coming. I gaze curiously at the mirror as he sploshes palmful after palmful of oil onto my hair, followed by vigorous rubbing and pounding on the scalp. I am starting to like this as a warm up. Pretty much naked, I attempt so hard to keep a straight face as, in the mirror, I suddenly see the reincarnation of the fabled Nude King in an Invisible Robe - sitting in his throne, thankfully not parading in town.

Distress from my previous two days of noises, the chaos of Chennai streets and a tiring flight gradually melts away as a delightfully warm aroma of coconut oil envelopes me. Shaju taps my head with loosely interlaced hands, then with medium pressure he repeatedly glides both palms from crown to shoulder and forearm then back again. By now, my upper body is glistening with oil. I wonder if the whole treatment will be carried out seated. Just then, Shaju invites me over to the wooden bed, and this is where even more of the unknown awaits.

'Sudden Spokesperson Syndrome'

Time and again I run into male passengers with what I coin the "Sudden Spokesperson Syndrome" (SSS -or 'Asses'). The subjects are typically white Caucasian, middle-aged, almost always unmistakably American, and traveling alone on business. As implied by its name, the syndrome does not occur frequently; it is triggered only when an attractive, young, Asian single female traveler is involved.

The first symptoms of SSS are immediately apparent starting at boarding. On a recent Bangkok flight, I showed a Thai passenger to her seat at the exit row. Decently outfitted in business casual attire, softly pretty in the face but downright sexy, she instantly lit up the white man - gray-haired and nearly two decades her senior - seated adjacent to her. Eyes observing her closely behind his glasses, he simultaneously sat up straight, adjusted his collar, and stashed away his newspapers. Not long after, he tried engaging her in small talk - kicking it off with a sarcastic joke, as always. Such a straight American bar thing to do.

Next thing I know, as I was on my way to answer call lights, Mr. SSS stopped me on my track and said with a stern face and his head cocked, "the lady sitting next to me would like to have a blanket." And so I guess he has suddenly become his new Asian female friend's spokesperson. There is nothing wrong about impressing a lady - it's just the certain condescending tone and patronizing attitude mixed with his trying-too-hard gentleman demeanor that makes me roll my eyes. Puh-lease. The lady can perfectly speak for herself, and maybe that's why she embarrassingly smiled at me.

And so I played along with it when I distributed meals. I purposefully made eye contact only with the Thai lady as I recited the entree options. Once again, as expected, Mr. SSS turned to her before I finished and asked, "which one would you like?" Then after that, "We would like to have two glasses of red wine." As if he's already hooked her up at a bar. She speaks English, let the lady speak for herself!

Feature Photographs: Auckland, New Zealand

Mushrooms atop Mount Victoria overlooking the city of Devonport, Auckland, New Zealand 

 The Auckland skyline by night, Auckland, New Zealand

Little terrorists

Children may be cute and charming, but they turn into miniature terrorists once they get onboard an aircraft. Not only do they terrorize flight attendants, they terrorize their very mothers, who inevitably bear the brunt and blame for the misbehavior of their offspring.

If anything, excessive children inflight are considered a liability. They wail, scream, run amok in the cabin, poop in their seats, and do a fantastic job making a mess. Think Preston, Porter, and Parker Scavo from Desperate Housewives.

Mothers usually show up at the galley at the busiest time to ask us to rinse out their baby bottles, usually caked with clumps of formula, and ask us to warm up some milk. Without a microwave, that process takes some creativity. Sometimes we even babysit when their exhausted mothers take a break in the toilet. I, having only held a dog, am not sure if any mother would ever want to entrust me with handling a baby.

Undeniably, Western babies stand out most with their big, watery, blue eyes and Goldilock's hair. Unfortunately, they are also the most destructive class of terrorists. Comparatively less restrained than their Asian counterparts, Western children go about restless doing their thing under little supervision from their parents. They crawl and play around the bulkhead, tossing crayons all over the place, and turn the busy aisles into a playground for tag. Some parents, equally disregardful of the public space, leave the area scattered with toys, papers, plastics, and trash spilling across the aisles. Are they always like this at home?

The flight I just came back from, Perth, was full of Aussie offspring. The aisles are our primary work space. And the same children, big and small, ran merrily up and down and interrupted while we were out with scalding hot coffee and food carts that could just easily squash them. Every time I turned around, especially when I was in a hurry, there were always those same girls bumping behind, leaving me with no choice but to squeeze pass with tray loads of trash and drinks. At one point I no longer played nice; I glared fiercely at them. Their parents didn’t seem to mind their safety, let alone that their kids were causing major disturbance. Even more amazing... some parents let their children squirm around the floor and pick things off the carpet straight into their mouth. If only we had 3D spectacles for dirt, grime, and germs in the cabin - I think I'd be seeing a rainbow.

And how about those children who don’t run rampant? They wail and they cry. (To be fair, some well-disciplined children really set excellent exemples - like I once did when I was a kid!). A Vancouver flight I once did last year haunted me till today. With over 25 infants and kids in Economy Class, the wailing lasted for 12 hours and seemed to be contagious. No, it did not look like a McDonald's happy birthday party in the cabin - it was a field of landmines where one detonated bomb ignites a string of nuclear explosions.

Nonetheless, when you have Preston, Porter, and Parker Scavo, you’ll occasionally also meet a Lynette Scavo, the Supermother. I’ve once had a mother who dexteriously changed her baby’s diaper during landing with both seatbelts on. And it’s not uncommon to have a mother who travels alone, and survives, with two kids in both hands and another hanging on her back, plus the luggage. Props up to moms.

Making landfall in Typhoon Koppu

I have always secretly thought passengers clapping their hands upon smooth landing rather lame these days when flying has become even more common than walking. But today, I did not think so. Because I, following the lead of my passengers, applauded for what seemed to be another chance to live.

September 15th is a day I shall never forget.

Each summer comes the typhoon season, fierce tropical cyclones ravage the Pacific, taking along their tracks a substantial toll on local economies, sometimes even lives. Unlike every office-bound Hong Konger who wishes every weekday to be a Typhoon Signal No.8 day, flight attendants dread the news of another approaching typhoon - ominous for disrupted flight schedules, undeserved standby duty, one too many belligerent passengers, and lastly, hazard for flying.

On Sep 14th late-evening, our flight departed Sydney on an Airbus-33B, carrying some 280 passengers on a 9-hour journey back to Hong Kong. Hours before duty start, the Hong Kong Observatory hoisted the No. 8 gale warning as Koppu intensified into a typhoon after leaving three dead in the Philippines. Eight hours into the flight, the magnitude of the typhoon was progressively felt as we approached Chep Lap Kwok International Airport.

“Cabin Crew, please be seated.” This was the usual command from our Captain, signaling our final descent. No sooner did I buckle up our aircraft made the first of many hair-raising dips. At 5am local time, the morning sun was nowhere to be seen. Outside my tiny lookout window was an infinite pitch black crisscrossed by sheets of rain violently beating against the metal shell. Positioned at the rear end - the shakiest part of the entire plane - I was in for a tormentous ride.

The last time my flight got disrupted was when a typhoon caused a complete standstill at the airport last summer, turning my Rome-bound flight the next day into a raucous nightmare full of disgruntled, blood-thirsty Italians. Never have I actually landed in a typhoon. And No.8, it was.

The descent seemed to drag on forever. The engines roared, deafening as our aircraft fought vigorously against powerful currents of winds. I searched for any signs of runway lights outside - but none to be seen. Then the aircraft gave an alarming jolt, sending us in the back gasping. Passengers screamed. Then came a series of nerve-wrecking shakes, our bodies bounced like dummies. Did we just land? I had hoped one of the bumps was our actual landing. Turned out we were not even close.

By now, passengers had begun to puke. Heart-rending sounds of vomiting echoed throughout the cabin. I squeezed my eyes shut, clenching my seat tight as I fought off motion sickness but still felt my breakfast rushing towards my throat. My two colleagues were staring wide-eyed, stiff in their seats, all of us startled by the severity of turbulence and the fearful prospects we faced.

My heart pounded. We all remember the China Airlines flight that flipped over and caught fire upon landing hard in a typhoon back in 1999 (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuoeYaR4MP4). I peered at my station door, reviewing my evacuation procedures. Will I really need to evacuate? We trust our Captain’s judgment; and landing in typhoons is not uncommon. Suddenly, just when we thought it would soon be over, the engines blasted loudly and the aircraft hurtled back in ascent. Our first attempt to land had failed. We exhaled - almost in relief - but then dreaded in horror another landing.

Ten minutes later, we geared up for the second attempt. This is it. We did not have enough fuel to divert to Taipei, and landing in nearby Guangzhou or Macau would have made no difference. Then Whoosh. The aircraft leapt several meters at a time, sending all of us breathless. “WWwwaaaaaa!!!” Passengers shrieked in terror, their voices hollowed out as the innards seemed detached many skies above. It was like riding the Drop Zone, Vertigo, and Lightning Falls 3-in-1. Every dip was followed by more gut-wrenching sounds of vomiting.

I momentarily shut my eyes in prayer; I knew deep down that today was not my last. The cabin fixtures trembled; our aircraft seemed to be eroding away as ferocious winds mercilessly engulfed us. And that instance it occurred to me that our aircraft and our entire existence appeared so miniscule in comparison to the power of Nature.

Finally, after what seemed forever, our aircraft touched down. My colleagues and I stared blankly forward as the aircraft glided into safety. The breath we have been holding for the past hour finally got released. Passengers who were ‘still here’ slowly burst out in an applause. It was only then that I snapped back to reality. I slowly loosened my grip on my seat, my palms drenched in sweat, and for the first time joined in an applause.

My colleagues embraced as tears of joy, anxiety, and relief burst out. I immediately took out from my wallet the pictures of my mother and my loved one and and placed them close to my chest. I survived! My teary-eyed colleague, in her 20 years of flying, admitted she has never been so terrified in her life.

Still struggling with motion sickness, I tended to the passengers as soon as we were safely parked. Those in the far back, mostly mainland Chinese and Taiwanese, had their faces flushed with tears. The cabin reeked of puke. The aircraft still wavered against the wind on ground. The look of shock remained. “Do... do you encounter this often...?” asked one lady who was holding two bags of vomit and whose voice was still shaking. “No, not at all. This was my first!” My colleague, a mother with a baby boy, then added, “I have landed in a typhoon No.8 before, but it was nothing like this one.” She later exclaimed, “for the first time, I realize that we really put our lives on this job.”

Ironically, this was also our inflight manager’s last flight before retirement.

The OJ Diary

After take off from Surabaya this morning, our galley begins the set up for pre-meal beverage service. 'Colorful drinks' - as we call it in avian jargon - consist of apple juice, orange juice, and water. Sleepy from the early hours, none of us speak as we split up the task; until the moment we see what comes out of the first carton of OJ. "Eww!" Our section leader grimaces as glass after glass of the unidentifiable substance causes my partner and I to crack in laughter.

By now, most of us crew know what to expect of juices loaded in economy class. Unlike those served in Business Class - fresh squeezed orange teeming with juicy pulp and all its natural goodness - at only literally a few HKD a pack in wholesale, the orange tetra-packs are often off limits to crew consumption, not for any reason other than its unworthy taste and appearance. Whether loaded from Penang, Bahrain, or London, they all claim to be 100 percent from concentrate from a fruit we are all so familiar with. Yet with all the permutations in manufacturing and the resulting variance in hues, taste, and consistency, these orange juices often come full of surprises. Like that OJ from Bangkok that glows in a neon orange and never fails to dazzle me.

Nothing, however, comes close to the orange juice supplied in Surabaya, Indonesia today. A lethargic brown, like a badly oxidized glass of fresh pressed apple clashed with pumpkin. To make matters worse, it has 'cells' - the Indo-English term for pulp - beige, debris-looking material that float atop like dandruff.

Barf, that's what it looks like.

'Eww, this carton must be spoiled." Ceci examines the carton while I pour from another. Mine comes out identical. Neither have expired. Still frowning from disgust, Ceci interphones the other galley to discuss the contingency, only to find out that her fellow purser has dared to take a sip and confirmed its serviceability. Maybe that's the way it is.

Still, it is against my conscience to even call this orange juice. How will I respond if a passenger inquires? Reluctant to put it to test, I enter the cabin with my trayful. 'Is this pear juice?' An excited young dude in the first row asks. 'It's orange juice' - I think I made a face, but then I add assertively - 'from Surabaya.' Way to go for shifting the blame. Eyes widened, the dude glides his hand to the neighboring apple juice. Row after row I observe the passengers' facial expressions and can barely hold in my laughter. I slur over the OJ as I introduce the drinks. As expected, the apple juice goes fast. Props up to those few passengers who took the orange juice without much hesitation. The rest is flushed down the toilet.

An inauspicious seat number? Nice try.

Back in January, as the Year of the Ox approached, a surge in in- and outbound holidaymakers added a much welcomed boost to the presently dire airline business situation. For the many flight attendants manning the overflowing departures during this festive period, it means the craziest time of the year spent away from families and friends. As for the superstitious Chinese public, it means a particularly sensitive time when all things perceived or happening seem to portend either a year of fortune ahead or bad luck. Or so it seems.

"Excuse me, I refuse to take my assigned seat. It's on row 34." Amongst a rampage of requests for pillows, blankets, and newspapers so typical of a Malaysian flight, this complaint struck me out of the blue. What's wrong with 34? A "four," the unlucky number most abominated by the Chinese. Still, you've gotta be kidding. It's 34, not 44. "Ma'am, I'm sorry you're not happy with the arrangement, but this is an absolutely full flight." The last thing we need is to endeavor a seat change on an already notoriously stressful and strenuous flight that is Kuala Lumpur. "Chinese New Year is around the corner," the woman snapped, adjusting her spectacles, "it is inauspicious for my husband and I to sit on row 34," Geez, tough luck, shall I say? Are we to move somebody else into your misfortune? "I can try my best to find you another seat, if any. But we can't promise you anything."

"Madam, there is only one vacant seat at row 39, would you like to take that?" After going through the entire passenger seating list, I returned to the woman only for a much anticipated response. "I need two seats together to sit with my husband." Ugh, lunch is getting started, I have no time for this. I informed my purser of this trouble-maker, who then confronted her to explain the situation. Problems as such could be sorted out on ground by the ground staff, but once in midair, they spell trouble.

The woman was less than pleasant. Her husband, though mostly silent, hissed at times. The woman's persistent babbling and struggle with the cabin crew has already garnered a curious audience around. "What nonsense!" The purser stormed into the galley and went on to attempt what nobody wishes: finding passengers kind enough to give up their original seats. Needless to say, it was a royal pain in the neck.

"Madam, I've arranged two seats for you," the purser, whose normal duty was by now entirely interrupted, collectedly announced the good news to the couple. Taken aback by surprise, and instead of being thankful, the woman lashed out, "you know, you really didn't need to do all that, just forget it!" Confounded, even offended, the purser refused to falter at such irrationality, "Madam, I have gone out of my way to entertain your every request, and if these efforts are not appreciated, I really don't know what more there is that you would want from us." At that, the woman grumbled, "upgrade us to Business Class."

Ah-huh. That explains it.

The No. 1 outlandish request that we hear all too often by cheap title-holding wannabes. Nice try. "Madam, if you would like to pay the outstanding fare of an upgrade ticket, you are more than welcome to join our Business Class," the purser beamed. Might I add, we accept a variety of credit cards. The woman, upon hearing this, shushed like a quail. Case theretofore considered closed.

Top 5 Pet Peeve Countdown: Moments When You're Just Gonna Lose It

Let's face it. Every job comes with its own fascinating range of nuisances that, on certain days when your mood just ain't up for fascination, can simply t-i-c-k you off. How many times have you stood over a broken printer and wished it'd fit through the office window? Well, day-to-day inflight workouts come with its whole score of nuisances that can put even the most hospitable flight attendant to test when a flight is full house and stress is ringing high.

Captured here is a Countdown of Top 5 Pet Peeves on which I believe all cabin crew will find common ground. Again, these are pet peeves - obnoxious, petty acts that passengers unknowingly do to make our lives just a tad more difficult. So, here's a friendly little hint, if you will: DON'T DO IT.

Pet Peeve No. 5 - A moment when I wish I have a third hand (to slap someone)
Often times we carry out a "pre-poured" service in Economy Class, where the crew carry tray-loads of juices and water and pause at each row for self-help service. "Care for some apple juice, orange juice, or water?" "Apple Juice." Then the passenger just sits, mindlessly waiting for you to extend a third arm and hand him a glass. If you haven't noticed, there are more than a dozen glassfuls of liquids on the tray and it requires at least two hands to bear the weight and balance. "Sir, please help yourself." Behind this polite response really is a whole lot of fierceness. And if that's not irritating enough? Try having a passenger hand over a ball of trash as you go with your tray of juices. Um, if you haven't noticed, I only have two hands. They're both in use.

Pet Peeve No. 4 - A moment when I wish I have legs of steel
Now, let's say the aisle extending from rows 54 to 70 is at least 40 feet long. Someone in row 55 requests for a pillow. You search at the nearest spot and finds none, trek all the way back down to the galley and hunt for one, then return to the passenger. "Actually, can I have two?" Make up your mind, lady. You return with another pillow, next her partner decides he wants one, too. There you go again, and that's a distance of 240 feet covered in just a matter of five minutes. Multiply that by hundreds of passengers and requests. No wonder, we crew often say "I just walked from Hong Kong to Vancouver." It's meant to be taken literally, in terms of miles by the fourth digit.

Pet Peeve No. 3 - A moment when I wish you'd just wet your pants
It's midway through the meal service. I'm bending up and down, reaching left and right, tugging in and out of the food cart when at the next moment I stand up, a passenger towers at the other end of your food cart, quietly demanding passage to the toilets. You've gotta be kidding me is usually what first comes to mind. Timing, people, timing. We're in the middle of the cabin, am I to drag my cart all the way down just to let you pass? First, this "runway" discriminates against full-figured bodies while the cart is in the way. Second, the cart is one heavy cow that is more difficult to maneuver than most think. Third and more importantly, little do passengers know, I must keep up to pace with the other aisle or else slews of consequences ensue. To avoid falling too far behind, I usually continue service until his or her presence becomes unbearable. Next time that happens, just be reminded that as I smile letting you squeeze through, I am really despising you.

Pet Peeve No. 2! - A moment when you wish you can BAWL
- "Sir, would you care for fish with rice, beef with potatoes, or pasta?"
- "Chicken."
Seriously, Jesus Christ. For the umpteenth time I repeat the menu as I go row after row; my smile is fading and my throat drying fast. Please don't make me repeat it once more than necessary. "Sir, we are serving fish, beef, or pasta today. Which one would you prefer?" "No chicken?" I suck in a deep breath, but really I'm throwing fits inside. For some reason, passengers who commit such crimes are always inevitably Filipino. I look to the other side of the aisle and fantasize leaving him without food. "Sir," I tear out a spare menu card as my voice incrementally raises, "(now read and listen!!!) IT'S FISH, BEEF, OR PASTA," still with a smile - an awkward one at best. The passenger then studies my menu in slow motion - even though he already has one - still searching for his imaginary chicken. "No chi..." "NO."

Pet Peeve No. 1 - The moment when you seriously lose it
Once again I go row after row, this time collecting trays. There's masticated food, melted ice-cream, greasy cutlery, sloshing liquids, displaced dishes and simply nastiness. But it's all good as this is just normal daily routine, as long as the trays fit snugly into the cart slots and nothing gets stuck ('coz that will classify as a disaster, not a nuisance). That's until I arrive at the next row where two - sometimes even three - passengers had stacked individual plastic-ware and trays into one neat pile. This, my friends, tops the list and warrants some speechless implosion.

Most passengers who commit this crime do so to free up and stow away their folding table; others do so with intentions to make our lives easier. But thanks, you've just tripled our workload, as trays only fit into a cart the way it comes out. I dare say that not one crew has shunned such obstacles in their flying career, and different crew react differently. Some deliberately and glaringly pick through and separate individual dish and tray before the passengers' eyes as a way of saying f-you; others mutter curses as they dump the pile on the floor and sort out the dirty mess. Either way, we will despise you forever. Please, try not to stack the dishes.

Pride or Avarice: the contemporary Chinese struggle

Once again, the Chinese have made international headlines. But this time it isn't for the whooping success or the glory of hosting a prodigious Olympic Games - rather, it is the mounting scandal of tainted milk that has made such newfangled pride ephemeral like fireflies and undid all renewed optimism towards all things "Made in China." Since previous food scares involving eggs, freshwater fish - even soy sauce, this privation of ethics, driven by greed of the minority few and tainted by unrestrained capitalism - has put the nation to shame over and again.

This greed and obscured superego, unfortunately, does not trouble only the big guys in the factories, but trickle down to the very civilian that travels across the globe. The obsession for all things "free" and the maximization of value for personal gains, regardless of one's actual need, can be said an ugly human nature; it may also be said to be a reality in contemporary Chinese society.

Once, a mainlander came to our galley and asked for twenty-six - that's twenty-six! - packs of playing cards. Twenty-six? Yes, these are souvenirs that we give upon request for enjoyment inflight, but twenty-six? We barely even carry half a dozen in the galley! "Er shi-liu? Nin ganma na-me tanxin??" A senior colleague actually chastised the man. "Twenty-six? Why are you being so greedy?" The passenger then sheepishly adjusted his request: "Na-me... geiwo liangfu haole (well then... just give me two packs then)." Not surprisingly, in my experience, 9 out of 10 passengers who ever requested for free playing cards on my flights are Mandarin-speakers. Not one ever opened the packet inflight.

The fear for missing out, or letting potential gains slip through one's fingers, takes various shapes and forms. Once, a mainlander seated among a whole tour group demanded for a pillow, and all crew feared exactly what drama was to ensue. When one pillow comes in sight, no matter how discreetly the crew tries to hide it, there immediately ignites a centenary Battle for Pillows. One Chinese notices the other getting a pillow, then no way in hell will he be left out. "Ehhh! Geiwo yi ge! (Yo! Gimme one!)" The crew flees, only to succumb to what's inevitable, and returns with the precious few remaining cushions that are oh so difficult to gather in the cabin. Before the pillow actually makes it safely to its primary suitor, various strong arms - accompanied by aggressive outcry and frankly plenty of rudeness - have reached out and grabbed them from her arms. More raucousness follows among those who feel they got cheated. There are only so few pillows on a short flight. Do they really need the pillow? No.