The hardest lessons I've been learning this summer.

I am beginning to get convinced that 2006 may not be my year at all. Although it’s not even halfway thru and summer’s barely even over, in the last 2 months I have been subjected to a greater number of unfortunate events than I have ever experienced in my entire lifetime before then.

Last March, I got held up—for the second time, mind you, although this time I had a gun pointed at the back of my head—and lost my phone in the process. Then just this April, I felt for the first time in my life how it is to be treated as a delinquent student. If you’ve been keeping abreast of the happenings in my life via my blogs (funny, but I do get some fan mail, ahehe), I haven’t exactly been a model student this last year. Therefore, the day after I get back home in Manila after my stint here in Singapore, I will have to report back to the Neurosurgical department of my home hospital (PGH) and do a repeat 2-week rotation with them, and I will also have to retake an exam in Pharmacokinetics within a few days of getting back.

Now, if you think I haven’t been subjected to enough stress this summer, you’re right. For some reason, the powers that be don’t think that I deserve to be living the happy, carefree life I have been living and enjoying ever since I arrived here in Singapore 2 weeks ago. Last May 1st, 2 days ago, I was again reminded that life is not all peaches, and I was also forced to learn one of the hardest lesssons I have had to learn.

May 1st being a holiday, my Indonesian roommate, Indra, and I decided to head over to Batam Island in Indonesia where we planned on spending the day at one of the beaches there. Before then I was really looking forward to sunbathing at a beach in a country I’ve never been to, but while waiting to board the ferry which would take us to Batam, I just had this nagging feeling that something bad was going to happen. I mentioned it to Indra and she was, like, “Oh please don’t be like that. You’re scaring me.” Now, even though I tried to assure her that nothing has ever really happened whenever I’d get that disquieting feeling—“Probably just my nerves,” I told her—I myself couldn’t really relax.

Like I said, I’d sometimes get that nagging feeling and nothing always came out of it. It was different this time, however. When we reached Batam and I had to go through immigration, that nagging feeling only proved to be a peephole into another world of unfortunate events, the door of which had been opened for me to have no choice but to go through. Because I was too stupid to bring any identification with me (yes, scoff at me now, will you?), the immigration officer didn’t allow me to go through. It was just my luck, as some friends of mine have been able to enter Batam from Singapore before without being asked for ID. My Indonesian roommate Indra tried to persuade them to let me through, telling them that I was a medical student and there was no chance in hell that I would be staying as an illegal immigrant in Indonesia. But, well, they were just doing their job, and I couldn’t blame them.

What was beyond doing their job, however, was what made the hour-and-a-half long wait for my ferry back home to Singapore the longest hour and a half in my life. Well, ok, I can say that it was comparable to my first hold-up incident. Nonetheless, I felt harassed, terribly harassed, most probably because I was a female all alone in a foreign country (my roommate had already left me alone), and at least one fuggin power-hungry immigration officer couldn’t resist the urge to power-trip with me. There was this one particular officer, whose nameplate read Freddy Redy or some fuggin arse-hole name like that, who kept on sitting on the chair in front of the one I was sitting on and who kept on asking me questions. I kept cool and maintained a nonchalant façade, despite the fact that I would’ve probably peed in my pants (well, my skirt, actually) if I hadn’t peed before my trip to that effin island.

I could understand why he wouldn’t give me my passport until it was time for me to board my ferry. Hell, like I would kill to be an illegal immigrant in Indonesia, but ok, hands down, I guess that’s reasonably part of the whole package of being denied entry into another country. What made me effin pissed was that the few times I asked for my passport, Mr. Fuggin Freddy Redy would sneer at me mockingly and say, “Only at 12 o’clock,” while waving my passport in the air.

Then he’d ask me questions like, “So what’s your nickname?” Hell, like I wanted to make friends with him, but just so I wouldn’t offend him, I said, “Pearl.” “Are you married?” “No.” He looked me up and down. “But you have a boyfriend?” I lied through my teeth, “Yes.” “Where? In Singapore?” It took me a moment to think about an answer, but I ended up saying “No, he’s in the Philippines.” Then, he opened my passport to the page with my picture, ran his fingers over my picture, and said, “You’re very beautiful.” To which I replied, “Putang ina mo!” Haha! No, of course, as much as I wanted to tell him that, I only blurted out those words in my head. On the outside, I acted like I heard that sort of thing all the time.

Then he asked, “Why you look so sad?” I just looked at him as if to say, “No, you arse! Can’t you see I’m bursting with ecstasy at being denied entry to your country, getting my hopes up of being tanned at the end of the day, being harassed by an arse like you, and wasting 30 dollars which I could’ve otherwise used to buy the pumps I’ve been eyeing at Charles and Keith or the bikini I saw just this morning or even gifts for taking home to my family?” But again, instead of risking incurring the wrath of this immigration god-wannabe, I only said, “No, I’m just disappointed.” “Oh, you’re disappointed!” Disappointed. He relished the word as if it was the most exciting thing he’d heard all morning.

Then he left me alone for a good 45 minutes, during which time I prayed the hardest that I could, while trying to stay alert as my imagination was starting to run wild and I was beginning to fear that terrorists would suddenly appear and take the whole ferry terminal hostage. I thought of my dad, and how I regretted not telling him about my plans to go to Batam even though we were chatting just the day before. If I had told him, he would have given me all the reminders which I would probably be too proud and know-it-all to hear. In spite of that, I would probably have thought of packing all my IDs and other documents, which would have prevented this incident from happening in the first place.  More so, I regretted not telling him where I was planning on going because if anything ever happened to me then, then he wouldn’t have an idea where I was and he would go crazy worrying about me and he definitely doesn’t deserve that kind of stress from me.

Later on, Mr. Fuggin Freddy Redy, in his good-heartedness, came and sat again on the chair in front of mine and said, “Don’t be sad. I sing for you. What song you want me to sing? C’mon, I entertain you.” Then he mentioned the title of some love song—I can’t remember what it was, but it was in the likes of Celine Dion or something like that. I said, thanks, but no, you don’t have to sing for me. Then he said, “You want to come back to Indonesia? Come back tomorrow, and I will help you. Just call me. You want to come back to Indonesia?” Crap. I just said, “Yes, one of these days I will.” “How about tomorrow? Just call me and I’ll help you.” To which I said, “No, all I need are my IDs and documents, right? I shouldn’t have any problems the next time around.” And he was, like, whatever.

When it was finally time to board, he was nowhere in sight and I had to ask another immigration officer to get my passport. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate Indonesia and the Indonesians now. This other immigration officer was pretty nice and very professional, as well as this young immigration officer who told me his wife was a dentist and who lent me a pen and assisted me in filling up my disembarkation card. Moreover, one of the porters of the ferry I rode, when he saw my Philippine passport, asked me, “Pilipino ka?” I was pleasantly surprised and instead of saying, “Obvious ba?” I asked him, “Why? Are you Filipino?” “No, I just have plenty of Filipino friends.” A really nice man.

Well, thankfully for Mr. Fuggin Freddy Redy, his fellow Indonesians reinforced my belief that one cannot always liken a peach with an apple despite their being in the same basket. As with them, there are asshole Filipinos and there are nice Filipinos. And yeah, as much as I have come to love them now, there are also asshole Singaporeans as there are nice Singaporeans.

Unfortunately for me, my string of unfortunate events didn’t end when I boarded the ferry which would take me back home to Singapore. Of course, I was still praying like crazy even while inside the ferry, but when the ferry suddenly stopped in the middle of the ocean, you can just believe me when I say that I felt like I was eviscerated as I imagined men with guns suddenly barging in and telling us that we had been hijacked. Of course, nothing of the sort happened and apparently the ferry only meant to avoid some floating debris.

I was only able to breathe deeply and my adrenaline only started to dip when I coasted through immigration in Singapore with no problems. I then planned on spending the rest of the day on one of the beaches in Sentosa, but I ended up shopping and having to head for home as it was getting late and it would’ve been pointless to try to get a tan at Sentosa. Also, my Uncle Boom, who works with Sony here in Singapore, probably took pity on me and told me to have dinner with him. So naturally I had to go home and change out of the clothes I wore to Batam and out of that harrowing experience.

As luck—or outright stupidity—would have it, I ended up locking myself in my room. That’s when the dam broke. It took a while for me to cry like a baby before I thought of calling the owner of this flat up so he could send someone over to free me.

May 1st of this year was definitely one of the most taxing days of my life, and come dinnertime I ate the most I have ever had in one sitting in months (courtesy of buffet at Uncle Boom’s favorite Indian restaurant).

Now, as I sit here reflecting on all the unfortunate events of which I’ve seemingly had more than my fair share, I tell myself that it’s not all that bad. Ok, admittedly, if I could go back in time to prevent those things from happening, I would. But things happen for a reason, and they always lead to better things at some point or another.

Besides, I always tell myself, it could always get worse. In the case of my second hold-up incident, I also had with me then my passport, plane tickets and a few thousands of pesos. Luckily for me, the fuggin good-for-nothing hold-uppers only asked for my phone. In the case of me having to repeat neurosurg and retaking my pharm exam, well, I’m just thankful that they’re not flat out flunking me. And I can only just imagine how much worse a scrape I would’ve been in last May 1st.

As I said, these things happen for a reason, and if these things don’t kill you, they’re supposed to make you stronger. Believe me, the summer’s just barely past halfway over and yet I already feel exhausted. I just console myself with the thought that there are a lot of things to be learned, and little by little, my supersaturated brain is taking them all up.

This Saturday, I will be traveling to Malacca, Malaysia with some friends. This time, I’m bringing all the effin identification I can stuff into my bag. And well, just now, my roommate told me to be careful over there, as several weeks ago a woman’s face was slashed open by terrorists in that area. Dumbledoo.

My friend Tannia says that things like this come in threes, and she chalks up her belief in this to her own experiences and her mom’s. But one thing I do know with these unfortunate events—either they’re totally preventable, or they’re totally out of your control. My repeat neurosurg rotation and pharm exam, as well as the incident in Batam and my locking myself up in my room, they fall under the forner category. The thing with the terrorists in Malacca, well, that sort of thing I’ll just leave up to God.