Travel. Philippines. Airports. Humour.
Exchanging Money in the Banyo
Calling it a ‘Comfort Room’ doesn’t make it better
Location: Ninoy Aquino International Airport (MNL), Manila, Philippines
Date: about 25 years ago
Some cultures are more conservative in their language, others more direct. Americans say ‘bathroom’ or ‘restroom.’ Australians are a bit more direct and say, ‘toilet.’
The Filipino word for toilet is ‘Banyo,’ but in English, they will say ‘comfort room.’
Terminal 1 is for internationals. A football field of a room. Glass walls at one end exhibit masseuses and masseurs plying their trade. Glass walls at the other end hold back the hazy cloud of the smoker’s lounge.
A travel layover meant I had hours to kill in the airport.
The long-layover… we’ve all been there. Usually, because it’s the cheaper option, sometimes it’s the only option. But it’s travel, and we make the most of it. We charge our phones, read a book, put on our headphones, walk to the terminal to stretch our legs. Have a coffee or a beer, maybe an overpriced sandwich, sit and stare off into the terminal… we fill in the time.
Manila airport is no different. Like hotels or restaurants, I’ve been in better, and I’ve been in worse. But Changi Airport, it ain’t.
The airport has a ‘terminal fee.’ An exit tax, if you will. I booked a Philippine Air flight with an extended layover for the same reason that kept me housebound in Terminal 1: money. Pay a fee just because I left the building? I settled in.
The terminal fee is now approximately $18-$22 USD ($1,100 PHP). Decades ago, it was about $7, from memory.
I sat and read. Tired of reading, I got hungry.
Not much was available back then in Terminal 1. No information desk or concierge, no manned currency exchange kiosk. Only a small cafeteria which only dealt in Philippine pesos. Blocked by the exit fee doors, I scanned the vending machines… soda, phone cards, Kit-Kats…
“Can I help, sir?” said a kid of maybe 15. “Need to exchange currency, but there’s nothing here,” I said. He made a ‘Pst’ sound (I’d say it was a “pst,” but I don’t know Filipino very well) and the universal hand gesture of ‘follow me.’ But the follow-me gesture was to the Banyo — the men’s toilet.
Standing there in the middle of the men’s room between the cubicles and the sinks, he held out his hand. “How much you want to exchange?” I opened my wallet, and — this being where my street smarts kicked in — I gave him a $20. I would not give him too much of my money. This deal could be dodgy. He took my money, shoved it deep in his pocket, and left.
After a few moments of standing there alone in the men’s toilet, with no straightforward business to do, the so-called ‘comfort room’ was feeling mighty uncomfortable. What kind of schmuck follows a kid into the men’s room, hands him money, and then just stands there? That kid isn’t coming back. So I made my graceful exit back into the glare of Terminal 1.
Still standing only a few feet from my moment of shame, I again heard “Pst” and turned to see the kid and his infamous hand gesture. Back into the men’s toilet.
The kid gave me 650 Philippine pesos and kept his hand out for a tip. “I don’t have much, sorry,” I said and gave him 30 pesos (~ $1 USD at the time). My street smarts reminding me I did not know what the exchange rate was, and the kid had certainly skimmed off the top already.
The grubby business in the comfort room done, I bought myself some food and a Coke and sat back down near the smoker’s end of the terminal. With some local currency in my pocket and still a couple of hours to wait, I’d had enough of Terminal 1 and risked the exit tax. If I had to pay it, I’d pay it. It was worth my sanity.
I crossed back through to the airport’s main hall, alive with check-in counters, shops, and kiosks. I spotted a currency exchange booth and killed a few more minutes looking at the exchange rates board, doing the math in my head. The kid had skimmed nothing off the top. He had been honest, and I felt like a donkey.
I spent most of my remaining time on the lookout for that kid, hoping to repay his kindness properly. With no sighting and with my flight gate now open, I waltzed straight back into Terminal 1 unmolested. No ‘terminal fee.’
The moral of the story? Don’t assume the worst in people. Have faith in humanity.
Sure, you may get gouged as a tourist or lied to, have your pocket picked, but that crap happens every day in our own backyards. And you never know what stories you’ll end up bringing home.
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