When I was five, Kakay, the infamous "manghuhula" in our barrio, read my palm and saw in my lines that I will go places. My parents took it figuratively thinking that I will be a famous singer as evident from my long and uninterrupted crying that broke records. Decades later, it seems that the prophecy was wrong. I've never been famous and the farthest I've reached in my "singing career" was joining in a church choir that performed in a local cable with the lowest audience share. But with some introspection, I've realized that Kakay was not wrong after all; she just meant it literally. For more than three years now, I've been traveling all over for my job. The long stretches of trips cost my weekend, my horizontally growing waistline, and my constant "catching up with life" stance. Who would not want to travel to interesting places for free? But when travel is mixed with work, it strips all the romance.
I would know if I have traveled far too long when my laundry becomes a national issue. I deal with my laundry the way our country is dealing with the foreign debt. "Iniiwasan hangga't maari."
I would also know if I've traveled far too much when I wake up confused not knowing where I am. It's like a rock star lifestyle when you're life revolves around checking in and out in far too many hotels that you've become disoriented. Except that I don't live the room messy and I actually arrange the sheets upon waking up. If I would document my eclectic hotel experiences, it would be as thick as Agatha Christie's Miss Marple Stories. As what most rock stars would say, if the hotel is good, everything else will follow. I had this weird experience once when I was billeted to a dingy staff house. It was on the second floor of a lumber store, there were no curtains, the bathroom light was not working, and there were no linens. It was a perfect house in Mexican films where Mafias hide their hostage for ransom. The caretaker of the lumber store who ushered me into the room without his shirt on saw that the bed was bare and in his misguided attempt to kindness offered his blanket. "Mam, isang gabi ko pa lang naman nagamit yung kumot ko pahiram ko na lang muna sa 'yo." It was touching in a horrific way.
My travels also made me understand why some Cebuanos resented the fact Filipino (Tagalog) is the national language. Sixty to seventy percent of the Filipinos speak Cebuano. As an Ilongga, I have the advantage because I can very well understand Cebuano. I can also understand Bicolano and Waray. I've been frequenting Ilocos but learning the dialect is a challenge. It seems that it is far more complicated than Bahasa.
After a decade of riding planes, am still stressed with air turbulence and sudden dips. Planes make me extremely conscious of my mortality. There was one stormy trip from Tagbilaran to Manila where the plane suddenly dipped several meters while braving through a typhoon. While praying hard and clutching painfully my arm rest, I thought of the last will that I've never made and resolved to arrange it when I can make it alive. Death by plane crash though how glamorous is very painful.
Jeeps, buses (with signals that bear "report any suspicious baggage"), tricycle, trisikad, pot-pot, taxis, van (with names like van-vans) habal-habal--these are my road buddies. They have their own peculiarities but however inconvenient some of them are, I regard them with much respect. Road trips, if you would really succumbed to the experience, are therapeutic and existential. Except the sun.
A reliable and eclectic playlist can also make traveling a little more interesting. Katy Perry and Lady Gaga are perfect for bumpy roads. Dave Matthews is for early morning cross country ride. Chicosci is for early evening in a superhighway running on a 120. Smashing Pumpkins and Stone Temple Pilots are for nostalgic kicks while wondering where did all the good times go. For heavy traffic, the ambient sound of Brian Eno can induce calmness and peace. Steve Jobs really made a profound contribution to humanity by inventing ipod.
Books are another reliable travel buddy. It takes up much space but I feel that traveling is not complete without it. Dubliners, a collection of short stories by James Joyce, is one of my favorites. I also like books with illustrations. Breakfast of the Champions by Kurt Vonnegut is perfect. When I am in the mood for some serious current events, like the status of Jennifer Aniston's love life or did Rayver Cruz really cheat on Sarah, I succumbed to the comforts of Yes Magazine.
