The flight back to Manila was at past 10 eyem Friday. Expecting to arrive Manila after about two hours (or more?), we planned of hitting the nearest mall to the airport until before 4 peyem or we will miss the flight back to Davao.

Thinking about home was a relief. Not that I don't like Puerto Princesa but because Davao--despite all the countless deaths of criminals in the making and their uncles,those who have already been made--is still different.

It's a lot better than Puerto Princesa. Or Manila. Or Cagayan de Oro. Or General Santos. It would be unfair to compare it to Cebu, or Cotabato City. You put all those cities together and they will still pale in comparison to Davao. I sure can narrate my reasons for saying and I am certain that all of you will agree to the fact that only in Davao can one person drink water straight from the faucet without the fear of getting you know what.

The excitement of making it to Davao on time and making it to two separate gatherings of student writers the next day was curtly interrupted by an inaudible whisper coming from the hidden speakers of that PAL plane, seconds after it came into a halt. That the voice was inaudible--from the captain who was whispering something very important---sounded even more worse when it blended with the strumming of the ukelele from one of the tourist guides seated at the back, just a seat from me.

The only thing clear were the words (and statements) "hydraulics...we will wait for the (spare) part to be flown here from Manila...we would like to ask you to disembark..."

Problem was the next flight to Palawan was at past 2peyem. Simple math told me to wait for more than four hours until the spare part arrives.

So I found myself back to Puerto Princesa Airport even without leaving at all. I found myself, along with more than 300 passengers, stuck in a room with multicolored chairs and a colorful box that housed a television set, the only one inside the departure area.

The TV looked so misfit but I only noticed it when it was turned on by one of the airport staff. It beamed Rudy Fernandez grappling a gun with the square-faced Max Alvarado. Looking at the screen I noticed something was terribly wrong. It was not too long for me to figure out that its screen's color looked like the hair of one of the Japanese passengers. Fuschia.

With nothing else but that, it was more entertaining to watch the dark clouds outside blind the sky.