i travel

Leaving home, on foot (circa 2001)

I waited and planned for the day I can look (with glee at last!) at the past, spread my wings, and follow the sun - at least figuratively speaking. I traveled to the south of the Philippines - an array of vast seas, sun-kissed beaches, buzzing micro-cities and quaintly tailored towns - I crossed mountains and plains. I was alone and without a definite itinerary. It made my heart race in excitement.

I started out with a mental list of places I would love to see. I bought a travel book and aimed to see the suggested destinations, holding on to the book's promise that my economy-class budget would hold.

The craving to be constantly on the go spurred me on. To chart my course and move beyond my territorial limitations - the thought was heady. The open space called out to me, you might say.

Home was small and cozy. For a while at least, I wanted to leave behind everything that was familiar.

Finally, the moment came. The big black knapsack hung heavy behind my back. Inside were my clothes, an SLR camera, travel book, a road map, and the barest of personal accessories that seemed silly to me as I carried their weight behind my back.

My first destination was Tacloban, Leyte. From Daraga in Albay to Matnog, Sorsogon the terrain was mountainous on both sides, interlaced with plains and coastlines. The afternoon sunshine outside was blocked off by the red curtain in the air-conditioned bus. The seat beside me was empty. The seats opposite the aisle were occupied by young, obviously happy lovers. It was summertime but not yet the peak season for inter-island travelers. It was perfect.


Questions at sea

As the bus took me farther from home, I felt a shred of brief uncertainty. That would be expected since I was alone and it was my first exploratory travel. I shook the feeling off. The bus reached Matnog seaport at 6:15 p.m. At 7:30 p.m. the ferry bound for Samar, myself on board, sailed away. Leaving the bright lights of the seaport behind felt like saying goodbye to an old friend.

The weather was balmy. I sat next to a glass window on the upper deck. Glancing out and below, I could see the seawater reflecting the lights of the vessel and forming frothy waves as the boat chugged along and cut across the water. I was seated quite comfortably. I thought briefly about how deep the sea was below me, but I chased the question out of my mind. I needed to leave fears and anxieties behind, and I had to live with only a modicum of tolerable uncertainty.


First stop

Early the following day, the ferry reached Samar seaport. We resumed our bus ride and at 3:30 a.m. I got off at the Tacloban bus station. Tricycle drivers tried to outdo one another to give me a ride to the lodging house - I mouthed the one cited in the travel book like its seasoned patron, or at least I tried to sound like I knew where it was very well. Finally I picked the first one who talked to me. I asked him to take me to a 24-hour fast food store where I bought breakfast, then to the lodging house. I took a non-air conditioned room.

After a short but deep sleep, I took a quick shower and reviewed my sketchy itinerary. I brought my used clothings to a laundry mat and found a bag repair shop where I had the buckle of my backpack fixed while I waited. I took my things with me.

A jeep took me to the McArthur landing site in Palo. It was midday and quite hot, so before entering the site I looked around for something to drink. I found one I would probably remember forever - coconut water which I drank straight from a freshly opened young coconut. When I finished drinking, the vendor hacked the coconut open into two. I scooped out the creamy and tender coconut meat and spooned it into my mouth using a fresh husk fashioned into a makeshift spoon by the vendor, a woman who kept singing, 'I did my best…' - just that one line, over and over, while hacking open coconuts for buyers in between giving instructions to her young children.

Finally I saw up close the often-photographed life-sized figures of American soldiers crossing the water to fulfill McArthur's promise that he 'shall return.' I had always thought the statues were planted in the sea, but it turned out they were enclosed within a pool-like structure near the sea. Contemplating the scene, I could hear big, fat, eager waves crashing against the boulders on the shore, about ten meters from where I sat on a grassy knoll under the shade of trees. I could even smell the sea from there.

Along the beach a pair of young lovers rested near their motorcycle. An old man in a red shirt sat silently while looking at the sea. Two men were supine on the grass, two women were eagerly talking with one another, another pair of men wearing hats were working on a machine on the sandy shore. Behind me I could hear the sound of engines and honk of vehicles on the highway.

If I wanted to forget work and get lost in time for just a little while, I was in the perfect spot.


A pause

The next day I got up early, checked out of the room and had my breakfast. I got back my clothes from the laundry, and looked around for a computer shop. It was not hard to find. I spent the next hour checking out emails in my inbox.

I still had four hours on my hands before boarding the bus that would take me to my next stop. I should find some sense out of the last few hours in my first travel destination. Yet there I was, half asleep on my seat in the bus terminal, doing my best to fan away the heat that permeated my sweat-moistened skin.

I was not alone. Some people were already asleep on their seats. I could not resist taking a photograph as I sat there. People without facades, engaged in only the barest of conversation, their guards down as they succumbed to the limbo of waiting. It was a scene that would become familiar - an unavoidable necessity or a welcome respite - in the coming days.

I did not know what was in store for me, or how many hours of travel I would have. But I knew I should be moving on.


Places on my mind

It was early the next day when the ferry reached Lipata, Surigao City. The port looked inviting early in the morning. Its buildings were well-lit and there were souvenir shops and information desks on the lobby - I did not use either but it was psychologically comforting to know they were there if needed. The bus I was riding unloaded from the ferry and lined up along with other vehicles on the parking area to pick up passengers. I got off at the bus terminal in the outskirts of the city, where the site of food stalls made me realize that I was hungry. I took my breakfast there.

In the city proper, I found a reasonably priced place where I could stay until the next morning. I explored the city some, enjoying the sight of new buildings, stores, nooks and crannies.

I left Surigao City the following day. I missed the aircon bus bound for Davao, so I took the non-aircon bus going to Butuan. It was what you might call a blessing in disguise - the air was cool and fresh, and through the open windows I savored the view: green hills, wide expanse of rice land, huts that looked neatly tucked in well-cared for fields. I caught a glimpse of a big lake and plantations adjacent to it. The bus stopped for a while at a roadside eatery where I took a hot breakfast.

In Butuan City I took an aircon bus for Davao. The road from Butuan to Davao was teeming with greens – trees, banana and coconut plantations, lots of bushes. It was graduation time, so it was common to see children in their graduation clothes walking on the road. And like the rest of the country, it seemed that everywhere you turn there were campaign posters – spruced-up candidates flashing their toothiest smiles. Oh life.

The trees caught my attention – tall, sturdy canopy trees with branches seemingly like arms reaching up to the sky, their leaves akin to bouquets offered up to heaven. The trees looked like remnants of a once vast forest.

In Davao, I had the rarest find – a man who wanted only to help. He showed me the way to the lodging house, gave me his number so I could inform him that I got there safely. I checked myself in at the inn, unpacked some of my things, and went outside to walk the city streets. At a mall, I saw young students in chic uniforms, wearing chic hairstyles, doing chic things – singing, dancing, talking. They seemed almost incongruous with other people I met in my previous destinations. At a bookstore, I buy a book – about daring to fail. Another rare find, I thought.

The rates in the city were rather expensive, I learned, making lots of mental arithmetic. I had to pay more for a non-aircon room than I had to pay for an air-conditioned one in Surigao. I had my soiled clothes laundered. I decided the book would be my last purchase during the trip, except for food and drinks. I was determined to reach Cebu and Iloilo on the money left in my wallet. I was enjoying the trip.

The following day, I looked to my heart's content at the rarest of sights: nature and wildlife at the Philippine Eagle Center.

















New places, new possibilities

After two days of exploring wild, beautiful Davao, I stopped by Butuan City once again, this time on my way to Cagayan de Oro.

My eyes feasted on the sight of huge mountains, trees that looked huge and unfamiliar, crops growing in fields, cooler temperature, well-paved roads and bridges, pretty-looking houses, idyllic and peaceful-looking homes near the sea.

After a series of rides, I reached the seaport. I got myself a ticket for the ferry leaving for Cebu in the evening.

I was leaving the rich, beautiful, complex island of Mindanao. As my feet stepped onto the ladder going up the large vessel, I realized that the present never really makes promises about the future. I was not sure when or whether I would be seeing Mindanao again. People I love or care for would probably be making their own steps on these same shores, and I said a small prayer for them. May God bless them and keep them safe; may they find good people who would help them along the way, as I met people who helped me.














At 7:00 a.m. the following day, I stepped on the island of Cebu for the fist time. I deposited my backpack at Patria de Cebu where I would be staying the night. I took my breakfast, and lost myself among other people visiting Fort San Pedro, Plaza Independence, Basilica Minore del Sto. Niño, the Magallanes Cross, the Metropolitan Cathedral, and nearby museums. Cebu is a modern place that treasured its past.














I took the fast sea craft from Cebu to Dumaguete. In Negros I saw old-world mansions, probably belonging to kingpins of the vast sugar industry in the island. The cities of Dumaguete and Bacolod were teeming with life and people with ready smiles. It was evening when I arrived in Bacolod, my backpack feeling particularly heavy on my tired back. Thankfully, guided by people giving me directions along the way, I found a good place to stay without much difficulty.

The following day, I explored the city and took photographs of old, restful trees and children playing in its parks, old government buildings and a traveler's best friends - helpful pedicab and tricycle drivers.


























Last leg

It was upon me too soon. Recap time. I thought about the small rooms I stayed in for the past eight days – in their frugal ways they gave me comfort. I would miss the thrill of setting my sight on my next destination. Looking at the map, I realized there was still so much to see.

I caught another sea craft from Bacolod to Iloilo, where I took the plane to Manila.

It was exhilarating, the take off. I felt the powerful engine kick into full gear, gaining altitude, and flying above the clouds. Inside the big jet, I sensed more keenly the freedom I came to know throughout the trip.


Until next time... I am keeping my fingers crossed!

#

wistful glob

The impulse to write left me a long time ago. Back then, writing relieved me of my angst. Of course, those were the days when I had plenty of those. Angst today is an outdated concept. People are hip, blasé, and unshakable. This is the age of the survivor, that’s incredible and extreme sports.

To a social nonconformist such as myself, generation x is an incredible thing to watch: I inevitably look back and compare my teenage self to them and feel myself looking more wretched in the process. Would that I were as carefree and unapologetic as they are.

Except that I am the last person to self-pity.

One thing I learned, if I learned anything at all, is to stand up for what I am. So I am no social butterfly, so what? I can swoop down and scale the skies in my own right. So what if, in the eyes of our TV-indoctrinated generation, unfashionable? I dress to please myself and for comfort, not vanity. So what if I am a lowly government worker, not one of our underage-and-overpaid high-rising yuppies? This is the work I chose to do, and until such time that I come up with enough gumption to leave it and start writing again, I shall have enough humility and self-inflicted psychopathic subservience to bear with the weight of my unglamorous existence and grin.

Except that I am the last person to self-congratulate.

After all, I learned the virtue of being not correct most of the time early in life. There was a time I too exulted in my so-called rarefied upbringing. Back in the province, people are extensively poor. Our family was one of those fortunate enough to barely scale above the ubiquitous poverty line. Back then - or over there - that was hot, a thing in itself. I found out several psychic and bodily scars later that it was nothing out of the ordinary. I was just one of so many, and there are many more out there beyond the grasp of my very limited existence. Beautiful people. Proud people. Rude people. Crazy people. Kind people. False people. Great people. Lonely, miserable, confused people. Learned people. Stupid people. Hollywood-bred people. Lustful people. People with money. People with not even enough money to clothe themselves. Distinguished people. Snobbish people. Helpful people. People with gods. People who think they are gods. People who live for nothing at all except for a sniff of a powder reeking with psychedelic odor. Screaming, glass-smashing people. People dying every day. People hurrying past other people in resentful haste, indifference, apathy, distaste, malevolence, evil intentions. Heartbroken people.

I vowed to fight this fear, this cowering, this inability to comprehend. The world does not begin and end within the panorama of my existence. That is good.

Or is it?

It means there is so much more out there to hope for. Almost two decades later, here I am. Still confused. I learned everything and still know nothing. I have forgotten how to write. I found out it made me more alone. Wordless, I took on the world and learned to live.

Except that I had forgotten what for.

Somebody, someone I care for very much, told me I am not using my head. I care very much for his opinion, and his opinion jolted me. I had not realized that. I must have perceived it, somehow, for I have been feeling some lack in my being. Some restlessness. Some lack of direction.

The world out there still confuses me. It no longer scares me, though. What gives me sleepless hours these days (and nights) is the thought that I have not made much use of my time, and there may not be much left. I want to learn again. I want to continue moving on, but maybe not so much in the same direction again.

Count: there are 35 “I’s” in this work, and then there are the “me’s” and “myself’s”. How typical. How selfish. How unimaginative. And I was talking about the world.

There, that makes it 36.

Black Portfolio

The impulse to write left me a long time ago.

Back in college, I wrote like mad. It felt good to write, to exorcise ghosts, objectifying confused thoughts on paper and seeing how silly they looked. Verbal excreta, was what I called my scrawls. I loved those kinds of words – scrawls, excreta. They sounded deliberate and rough, a cover up for my frightened unconscious. I ached to make sense of my thoughts. I wrote them out in unorganized ill-kempt unsightly notes, constantly worrying over the possibility that my mother or any one of my sisters might come across them and see just how crazy I was. As what is wont to happen about taken-for-granted diaries, I forgot altogether that I had those tucked away somewhere. I lost track of them.

I think that is what happened to me too. I lost the spirit in me that enabled me to write prodigiously, though perhaps too shabbily. I saw photos of myself at that time, and what I saw in my eyes I sorely miss now – guilelessness, a precarious and intriguing combination of uncertainty and defiance. I understood why it was so easy to write then about how I felt: I did not care that I would have dirt on my fingertips.

Over the years, writing became a conscious effort. Words that come from the heart are like prayers of the soul, and in my work heart and soul are best clothed in gray tailored suits. My job requires writing words that express to persuade, not words that shout. I learned to write with artifice. I had to choose words like a girl would choose clothing and accessories – to suit an occasion, to attract attention, to show off, to outshine the competition, to project a glossed-over image. I had to write with un-emotion, with artsy detachment. I liked it.

In contrast, words from the heart spring out almost irrationally. They have the spontaneity of vomit, the fierceness of shout, or the wistfulness of smile. Writing one’s heart out would mean being in touch with one’s resident fool-on-a-hill. At some point, I do not know exactly when, I retreated from that strange creature. If I understood it too well, I would learn to like it, befriend it, maybe keep it company. Scary.

But some crazy ghosts could not be buried. I strove to find their footprints in accumulated writings over a period of 20-or-so years. I searched nooks and crannies in my storage box and various other uncanny places, and managed to sort out five kilos of loose pages and notebooks filled with my unsightly handwriting. I crammed them into a gray-black pseudo-briefcase made from faux leather and plastic, with a sturdy handle. I felt like an accomplice to a crime, carrying the thing. Unpacking, I go over the contents like an inexperienced librarian, with intent to organize by subject matter or date. It was impossible. Years of fitful moments, despair, ecstasy, confusion – they were all bundled up together.