A Memory of a Bus Ride

For quite some time, I have been a traveler of the road that connected Surigao Del Sur and Davao City. I have lived most of my life in the city streets, but occasionally visit Surigao particularly on Christmas breaks, summer vacations, and on dates that the whole family decides to have a reunion. Sometimes, the death anniversary of my great grandmother was a reason enough to visit Surigao. These visits had become a habit of my family when we left Surigao during my early childhood.

The first trip that I could remember was the trip when I had to visit Surigao with my mommy1. She told me my grandmother was longing to see me. Trips to Surigao del Sur were usually scheduled on night time. I had to sleep the whole day just to have enough sleep for the trip. My mother did the packing of my clothes, so when I woke up everything was all set.

The Ecoland terminal was a rampage. It was the only description I could have of the place. When we arrived a lot of people, mostly passengers and candy vendors, flocked the area. Some passengers who had to wait for their ride to arrive rented folding beds to lie down and nap. We had to rent a folding bed too since we were a few hours earlier than our bus’ schedule.

It was a catastrophe when the bus arrived. It was like everybody in the area was waiting for only one bus. Passengers, instead of forming a line and organize themselves, were pushing each other just to clear a path and put their bags on a seat. Once someone had thrown a baggage on a seat, it was considered reserved. Pretty ironic it was that at the end of the hard pushing and bumping the bus was not filled with passengers, and the only price for the bruises was a secured seat without the comfort in it.

The bus was not the type that could give of what we could call a luxury ride, but it offered almost detachable (because of the loose screws) seats, a floor with scattered egg shells and empty nut shells, and a window that does not properly function as one because it won’t open. Some of the seats were even covered with dust that some of the passengers would painstakingly clean with their bare hands. On the outside, the bus’ body paint was not too good to watch. There were cracks and the sign BACHELOR2 was not readable anymore. When most of the passengers had taken a seat, a man in black jeans and blue polo asked each passenger of their destination and served tickets to each one.

It was about twelve midnight when our bus finally left the terminal. Mommy said we should arrive in Tandag at around ten in the morning and I should get some sleep.

Around six in the morning I woke up inhaling dust. We were traveling the roads of Barobo3 by that time. My pants, shirt, including my hair and my face were covered with dust. It was like baby powder only it was brown and smelled bad. The windshield was a bit wet because of the morning dew. I could hardly see the fields outside my window because of the thick fog that covered the area. My nose was clogged because of the dust. I had to clean it with my fingers; then ate the substance I got from my nose. It was a habit that no one taught me though. It was a simple fond of cleaning during bath time, until I realized I was eating the substance because it taste good.

I noticed the loud creeks of the bus every time it ran through a hollow on the road. The chairs seemed to shriek as the bus swayed trying to avoid a hollow as much as possible, only to run through two larger hollows after missing one. The tiny little cries were like telling someone that anytime the chairs would take off from its place. But I did not pay much attention to it. I was more interested to the vast rice fields and the people plowing it. I remembered seeing a boy riding a karas4 pulled by a kabaw5 over the mud field. He was probably just a few years older than I am but was already working heavy chores. When the boy saw our bus raging on the road, he stopped his kabaw and covered his face with his shirt. I could only watch him being eaten by the clouds of dust.

A few bus stops from Barobo, an old lady rode on the same bus. She had a basket and an old bag. I was sitting on the very back of the bus and saw her struggle her way finding a place. By the time she rode the bus was already filled with passengers. She was only fortunate that a man offered her a seat. Since then, I could not take my eyes off her. She was gripping hard her hand bar as the ride went on. Her body was getting slumped. She had her eyes closed and probably was in pain because of the shaking of the bus.

On the next bus stop, the man who had offered her a seat gave her water. The man asked her where she was going. “Aras-Asan.” she said. Aras-Asan6 was still a few municipalities away, probably a few hours more of traveling through the damaged roads of Surigao del Sur. I could imagine the old lady almost in tears. But it was more than tears that I saw in her shortly after that.

Her left arm was almost embracing the arm bar of her chair, and her right hand was at the back of the chair that was in front of her. She had let go of her bag and basket and just let her things slide to and fro on the floor. Her body was more slouched and her head was almost kissing her knees. She was trying hard to keep herself stable, only to fail on her tries. She was like a hopeless old lady praying for a miracle. I could see through her the excruciating pain of the dancing of the bus among the hollows. She bit her lip with her eyes closed.

I felt sorry for the old lady. There was a passenger who had a crying baby in her arms; another passenger was with five children all seated on the place that could only accommodate two person; another was still in deep sleep that every time the bus swayed, he swayed, and it almost threw him out of his seat; but they were not even close to the old lady’s struggle. I even hated myself because I liked the bus as it swayed because of the tickling sensation on my stomach, but only to realize how the old lady wanted the bus to run steady and calm because of the pain it gave on her stomach.

I thought of how many times she had a bus ride in the same state. The trip from her place to Aras-Asan was just a few hours away, but it would seem longer than it is.

The bus took a stop at the local market of Aras-Asan. The old lady was still struggling as she walked over the luggage that blocked her way. I could see her having a hard time lifting her legs, and her bag and the basket was adding to her difficulty of walking through. There was nothing to do more than looking at her going down. I was just a small boy, and there was only a want of helping. I thought if helping was the right thing, then I would also suffer the difficulty of walking over the bags that piled in the middle of the bus. My incapability was inevitable. She was like my great grandmother (who was still alive by that time), an old and helpless lady walking in aid of her cane. She would only disregard if I help, I told myself.

The bus strode again and I saw the old lady disappearing among the crowd of the market.

Passing through the big concrete bridge of Gamut7 determined the near end of the travel. Gamut was about fifteen kilometers away from Tandag, or probably about the same distance between Mintal and Crossing Matina of Davao City. A few minutes more, we were tapping our jeans and shirt to remove the dusts. There was a lighter sense of feeling that was felt inside the bus as we were nearing Tandag. The travel was about end, and we were about to leave the old bus.

After stepping down the bus, I looked back at it and thought of the success the bus made by bringing us from Davao to Tandag. The barren state of it would have made the travel impossible because the bus was seemingly incapable of traveling such a long journey. But we were there, though looking like human mud cakes, but still, we were there walking the streets of Tandag. The bus had made it through the harsh roads of Surigao. Again, I thought of the old lady. She was battered badly during the travel, but still has made it through the travel.

A few years later, I had another trip going to Surigao in a bus. Some roads were fixed, and there were delivery trucks going to and fro the roads. The number of people in every town increased and a few grocery stores were installed. But still, some roads and places were not reached by improvement. Our bus ran over a deep hollow and I accidentally bit my lip. This was the price of a bus ride from the city to my province. Not only did I pay almost four hundred pesos, I also had the chance to sit inside a dusty, or perhaps nasty, bus, plus travel a road that was still dusty through the years, and a wounded lip.

At my young age, I cursed the road for being like that. Since then, I often complained of going to Surigao. I would never bite a lip again, I promised. But what choices do we, travelers, have?

Maybe, the old lady was a model to me. While I was cleaning my mouth because it was bleeding, it was then that I suddenly remembered the old lady. Her hands wrapped around the iron arm bar, body slouched, eyes closed, and biting her lip. For so many years she bit her lip and got wounded, yet it was as if her life depended on bus rides that she could even sacrifice herself against the bruises and pains while dancing with the bus’s movements. She have endured every moment of it. She had inside her the strongest will of survival.

I just had my biggest realization when I took some time reminiscing the days of traveling the roads of Surigao. When they said the only thing constant is change, there was an appreciation of seeing my place having a bit of change. It may be just a bit, but I appreciated it rather than wanting a larger quantity change but inappropriate. I welcomed the changing roads because of the difficulties that I have gone through. And because some roads were already fixed, what was once a difficult bus ride, became a bit easy.

On some occasions though, I would still bite my lip as the bus ran over a mud hole. I was then a part of the new generation of lip biters inside the bus.

-Max Sacala-