The Saints of Tacloban

It's 8:30 at night in Manila, and I'm lying around in my hotel room. It's a drag, but it's my fault. I decided to write a tune that had been stuck in my head and completely forgot about looking up information about the city. Now, I have nothing to do besides attending the conference, which only meets for several hours each day. The rest of the time is mine to spend in the room... doing nothing. There's not much to do in the city that we don't have in Japan, anyway, or so my band mates had told me. Instead, I'm sitting around trying to find a wifi signal in my fancy hotel. At least they have satellite TV.

After half an hour with no luck, I give up on the wifi and flip on the TV. My English is pretty good, but I don't feel like struggling with the news, so I turn the channel to something else. Cartoons are alright, but I don't like Scooby Doo. I change the channel again. It's some law show with too much drama and a pretty face. No, thanks. A documentary about... basket weaving? None of it really appeals to me, so I toss the remote away, peel off my clothes, and jump into the shower.

There's a banging noise suddenly, so I shut off the water, thinking it might be someone at the door. I listen hard for a while, but the banging sound is gone. Instead, someone is freaking out in the room next door, yelling at the top of his lungs in Tagalog. Well, I've finished washing anyway, so I step out and dry myself off with one of the towels hanging in the bathroom.

When I return to the main room, the documentary that I'd left on has stopped. In its place, there's a blue screen with white letters, an emergency broadcast. It switches between English and Tagalog. The awkward robotic voice announces that a huge typhoon has formed and is expected to hit the Philippines in the next few days. Evacuations are in effect for certain parts of the country, but Manila is just under a watch. Still...

The phone in my pocket rings. I glance at the screen. Who the hell is Shim?

"Hello?"

"Ey? Taka? It's me, mate. Shim, from Sick Puppies?" I struggle to follow with his accent. It seems almost like a completely different language from the English I know. "Did you hear about it? The typhoon, I mean."

"Yeah... I'm looking at it right now."

"I just finished talking to my agent. He said he's going to send a jet here to take us all to Hong Kong to resume the conference. Is that alright?" he pauses suddenly, like someone is asking him something and he's answering. "I guess anything's better than here, though. The storm's gonna be pretty bad."

"Really?" I say, feeling a little relieved. "Then, it's good that your agent is doing that... thanks."

After hanging up, another call comes through. I don't even have time to think. I don't recognize the number but answer anyway.

"Um... is this Takahiro?" a man asks with difficulty from the receiver. His accent is very thick, almost impossible to understand. "It's Ling. Did Shim call you yet?"

"He said his agent will send a jet for us."

"He told me, too. I'm just wondering if you want to come down to the first floor with your stuff. You can stay in our room tonight. Being on the top floor is dangerous, especially if we have to go right away tomorrow."

Ling seemed kind of cold at the conference, so I'm not exactly expecting this. He's right, though. I should be ready tomorrow. From the sounds of things, it's best to be prepared for the worst. "Yeah, sure," I say. "Thanks."

"I will wait by the elevator," he says, hanging up.

I gather all of my stuff, which isn't much, and take the elevator down to the first floor. It seems to take forever. As he promised, Ling is waiting right there, across from the elevators. He is still wearing his clothes from the conference, a plain t-shirt and some athletic pants. His hair looks shorter, buzzed closer to his head, but the uncertain little bow he gives me is the same as when we were all just introduced to each other a few days ago. He takes one of my bags and leads the way toward his room.

"Were you sleeping or something? You sounded a little surprised," he says, like his mouth is struggling to form the words in English.

"Oh... well, it's just that I wasn't expecting..." I'm not sure where I'm going with this, since I can't bring myself to be so direct. I recall the stuff I saw on the news about Fish Island and some of the other tense political affairs between China and Japan. I thought it was pretty stupid to fight over such a pointless island, but... "I mean... I'm Japanese."

He laughs and claps my back with a strong hand. "And I'm Chinese. So, what?"

I'm not sure what to make of that statement, so I stay quiet. We finally reach his room and he opens the door, revealing a few of his band mates. They're lounging around like they've been here all day with nothing to do. I guess I looked like that just a few minutes ago, too. They both nod to me in the same awkward way that Ling did. They all wear similar clothes. One wears a black tank top and some shorts. Another wears a polo and some fitted khakis. They don't look like people in Japan do.

Sometimes, it's hard to remind myself that we're really different. They don't seem to fit the image of China that my classmates and TV projected. Since meeting them at the conference, it put into perspective that people are just people, regardless of what stereotypes exist of them. It makes me feel a little immature that I was expecting such huge differences.

"You... are..." one of the guys begins, looking at me and struggling with the English. "Eh, Ling! Zenme shuo..."

"Dui, dui!" the other guy says, smiling suddenly.

"They said that you are not how the TV describes Japanese," he says.

"I was actually thinking that about you guys too," I admit, laughing a little.

"Did you hear what the Americans said about us?" he says, laughing too. "They thought Asians can't grow hair on their faces."

I brush the little patch of hair on my chin, the only thing I don't like shaving off. "Well, I guess I'm not Japanese, then."

"And I am not a Chinese," one of the guys says, tugging at his long beard.

"Hey, you know, I heard your music before," Ling says suddenly. "It's a little softer than I'm used to, but your- how do you say it? Lift? - are really good. It's memorable."

"Ah, riffs?" I offer. "Thanks! I got a chance to hear some of your music the other day, too. I was thinking that maybe we could do a collaboration after the conference. Do you think your band mates would like that?"

"We haven't been active much lately, so any new ideas would be welcome." He translates for his band mates, who seem to agree. We spend the rest of the evening talking about music, with Ling translating for us.

It doesn't feel like the typhoon is really so close. It doesn't seem like the whole city might get destroyed. And, to my shame, I haven't even been thinking about it...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Come on!" Shim calls from outside the room. "Let's go! The jet will be here in an hour!"

I don't see what the big rush is if the jet's so far away, but Shim doesn't seem like the kind of person to flip out unless there's a reason. I finish brushing my teeth and hurry out the door right after Ling and his band mates. Shim looks like he hasn't slept at all, but he's all on edge already. His hands keep playing with a long necklace that dangles near his waist, smacking his stomach as he walks.

"We're going to take the limo to the airfield," he says hurriedly as he walks. I have to almost run to keep up with his pace. I didn't realize the height difference was so... well, different. "If we're quick, we might have a fair go."

"A... what?" I hear myself say just as we throw open the front doors and the limo pulls up. One of the Filipino representatives from the conference is sent to turn in our room keys.

"It means that we might have a chance, mate," he says, taking my bags and tossing them in the back of the limo. I climb in behind the Americans, watching more of the foreign rock band representatives taking seats in the back. Soon, it's almost full. There's barely any room to stretch our legs, since some of our bags won't fit in the back. Shim climbs in last, and we begin speeding along the street. A radio program is playing over the speakers, most of it too fast for me to catch. The only words I can pick out are "evacuation" and "typhoon."

"Shit, shit, shit," one of the Americans says, his leg bouncing up and down as if trying to break off his body and escape. The Filipino guys are also looking freaked out, their eyes darting back and forth like they can't see much of anything. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Damn," Shim says under his breath. He doesn't look as flustered as everyone else, but he's flinging the necklace around so hard that it seems like it'll fly off into space if he lets go.

"What's going on?" I say, but everyone is already pretty much talking over me. Ling looks as confused as I feel, not to mention the Korean girls, who barely speak any English at all.

"The typhoon's moving too fast," one of the Americans, a guy with super long, curly hair, tells me. "It's going to hit before we can leave, so the airport here is already closed. The jet will pick us up on the airway, but we might run into problems. The locals are being evacuated today and tomorrow only, so they're desperate to get onto the first plane they see. A whole mob of them already attacked the passengers of another plane."

"Oh," I say. We're all desperate to get out, but I can't even imagine how the local people must feel. This is their home. Even if they leave, they won't have anything to come back to after the typhoon passes. I swallow the lump in my throat.

I notice Ling is staring at me expectantly, so I explain the situation to him in the best English I can muster while the westerners talk loudly over us. He nods and turns to explain to his band mates in Chinese. One of the Korean girls looks at me, waiting for me to address her.

"Do you speak Japanese?" I ask in my mother tongue, thinking of all the Korean pop bands that sing in Japanese. It's just a hunch. She nods, much to my relief. I translate what the American told me for her. I'm careful to say it slowly and in the simplest way I can. After all, I don't know how well she can understand me.

The girl turns to her friends and, in turn, translates to Korean. To my surprise, their expressions don't change at all. They take the news even better than the rest of us, mostly men, do... assuming that the girl understood and caught the urgency of everything I said.

"We're coming up to the airfield," Shim says, his face pressed against the glass. "Get ready to run, mates!"

Why are we running? My hand tightens on the seat beneath me.

I can hear it before I see it. A crowd of people surrounds the limo, yelling so loud that I can't hear the radio anymore. I don't understand what they're saying, but I can tell that it's not good. The limo slows down a little to avoid hitting anyone. Still, some people are so insistent that they refuse to move. Their bodies are little more than speed bumps beneath the tires. Some gunshots ring out over the noise. I hope they came from the police.

The limo rolls through an open gate, where officers are holding back a wall of civilians using tall, clear riot shields. The wall of men, women, and yes, even children, claws at the smooth shields, looking for a break. The police and military servicemen holding them back are straining against the chaos, shouting for order. Their voices are lost in the screams. My heart jumps up into my throat.

"Let's go!"

I don't even know who says it, but I'm suddenly out on my feet in the middle of the runway with musicians of all shapes, sizes, and colors running past me. Their movements are a flurry of arms and legs, bags and long hair. I feel like I can't breathe, much less move. The jet is idling nearby, an aluminum set of stairs propped up against the side leading up to the open door. It looks so small. Shim and the Americans are already scrambling up the stairs with their bags, barely finding the courage to make an orderly line. Some other musicians are filing in behind them, already pressing in on the backs of those in front of them.

"Get to the back of the plane and make way for the others!" Shim screams over the roar of the engine. I can barely hear him over the shrieking wall behind us and the engine growling in my ears.

"Don't just stand there!" the Korean girl from earlier yells into my ear. She pushes one of my bags into my hands. "Get going!"

...But I can't bring myself to move. I don't know what's wrong with me.

"Are you stupid!?" she says, shoving me toward the jet harder than I expected. "GO!"

The only people left are other Asian musicians, I realize. Like me, they were dazed by everything that had happened. Most of them are looking around dumbly. They look so small and vulnerable, almost like kids. If someone doesn't tell them what to do, they'll just stand here until they get trampled by the crowd. Ling is yelling at his band mates to move, but he's mostly overseeing everyone else's escape. He's not actually going anywhere. I feel the weight in my legs lift.

The Korean girl band is waiting for the last member to join them before they get on the plane. They want to go together. One of the girls is watching us with pleading eyes, her over-sized bag weighing down her arms. I can move, and now I know what to do.

"Don't worry about me!" I shout, running toward the trunk of the limo. "Go with your friends!"

Before I even know what's happening, I'm digging bags out of the trunk, flinging them onto the ground where the remaining musicians are standing uncertainly. The Korean girl shakes her head like she can't believe what she's seeing and leaves. I don't wait to see her get on the jet. There are only a few more bags...

Another gunshot rings out across the empty airfield. I look up as I slam the trunk closed. The whole gate surrounding the airfield is packed with people. The mob is screaming. Not in unison... more like a mass of noise rolling over itself and colliding until there is no respite from the sound. Some people scale the tall fence. Others climb over police officers and military servicemen who are trying to help us escape.

By now, the musicians who have been standing around uncertainly are running with their bags up to the plane. There is a holdup as the musicians shove each other to get onto the jet. I'm the last one, I think.

The screams from behind are coming closer. One of the Americans is poised at the lip of the jet where the stairs and the door meet.

"Everyone, get in! Don't bother with your bags! Just get in and sit down, damn it!" he screams, reaching down to help me up. I take his hand, but the shock and fear in his eyes tells me that it's too late. To his credit, he tries to pull me in with just one arm, but I'm not even on the stairs by the time the crowd reaches me. I let go. "No! Taka!"

It's no use taking the whole plane of musicians with me.

One of the other Americans nods at me solemnly, acknowledging, before slamming the jet's door closed. The man with my ankle screams a feral, desperate scream, throwing me to the ground to pound against the door. A few more men join him at the door, but the plane is already revving up to get away.

A group of boys, no older than 13 or 14 at most, shout at me angrily, raising fists to hit me. I raise my hand to ward off their punches. Ling appears as if from nowhere and breaks up the bunch. A hand reaches out toward me. It's the Korean girl from earlier. I take it.

"Let's go!" Ling shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. The three of us run across the airfield, following the flow of people rushing the plane. They scream and flail their arms, calling for the jet, even though it's already in the air, straining higher and higher until it disappears through the clouds.