Province - Final Revision

I’ve been holding off visiting the barren countryside. Becoming so adapted to urban living, it’s hard to imagine that my Philippines consists of nothing more than architectural pieces and star bucks lattes. I was in for quite an awakening as I stepped on the bus for Jones Isabella, looking like a walking logo with my Lacoste luggage and Armani apparel, only to witness seats filled with farmers and housewives, others with their children sitting on their laps as means to save an extra bus fare. I had to smile at myself, feeling ignorant for thinking that this was another international flight off to some exotic location. Eyeing for my spot, seat 22 sided right by the window, I groaned at the lack of space, providing less than your economy flight.

After 2 hours of Wong Kar Wai films, I found myself dozing off, comforted by the rocking of the moving vehicle. I was awakened in the middle of the night . We were approaching the peak of the mountain that separates myself from my final destination. I daze out my window; greens illuminated by the blues of moonlight, trees kissed by the summer breeze, all overlooking the slopes and clouds. It was nothing short of romanticism evoking its hidden beauty at me once again. My eyes lingered once more to the sky, then into my head…

I was greeted by morning calls. The conductor announced our final stop over before we arrive at Jones. It seems every time my eyes open a new side of rural Philippines yearns to boast its beauty. The moon gave way to the East, peaking out of its corner with hues of yellow, progressively hovering over the rice fields and grumpy herds of cattle. If only my mornings in the West were like these…

Passengers horde the aisles, eager to see their loved ones, or just eager to finally be home. I approach the steps downward only to be barged with tricycle drivers. In the midst of them all a boy around my age reaches out his hand for my luggage. I look at him, dumbfounded, then behind to see if it was for someone else. I felt sudden embarrassment when I realized it was my uncle, an old childhood friend of mine. I was a mere foreigner once more.
Time seems to have stood still in the countryside. Generations of relatives still living under the same roof. Those who are fortunate enough to venture out are often reduced to menial labor in their neighboring cities. Old aged values of filial respect are strictly enforced, in which double standards and gender roles still prevail. As the night comes, the drunks and the condemned come out of their closets with gin, brandy, San Miguels in hand, toasting to their grievances. Returning urban workers use their meager earnings they have to engage in lustful acts, making use of the young to fill their own aging loneliness.

Prior to my departure I yearned once more to visit the source of all my fondest memories. The only modern work of infrastructure, I walk along the newly built bridge with an endless string of intertwining metals. I look across, below, to watch water clash against rocks, only to continue once more. Nostalgia was felt. My eternal summers were spent there, in the nudity of my childhood innocence.

Yet, the river roars, continuing to flow, perhaps the only thing that keeps on moving in this vast emptiness. Summers end, youth subsides, and winter comes.

And so I drop my sentiments. I go on back. Time keeps going.

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