The ride had been bumpy — a chance passenger like me can’t afford to be a chooser for any option on my part had been overrun by the desire to go home. I sat at the back where it was quite warm and as I said, bumpy. Potholes and ruts were felt anywhere else, but they are “suffered” — so to speak, when you get to sit where I had to. It was Panagbenga season, and more importantly, it was the day before the schedule of the street dancing parade that is one of the highlights of the festival — so tourists had already started flocking in a frenzy to Baguio City. It was troublesome competing against tourists! I was not a tourist; I was leaving for Baguio to go home. I didn’t even have a camera with me and I was not planning to buy strawberry preserves.
I was ready to endure a six hour or so trip, but since the bus driver — who I suppose should also consider a career in race car driving, cut down the trip to only four and a half, it was nonetheless a delight to bathe in the morning vapors of Baguio after a four and a half roller coaster ride.
During my trip, I had a chance to speak with a fellow passenger, which I rarely did nowadays after a ghastly experience some years before which I do not desire to replicate. A young policeman named Victor sat beside me and started a conversation way back in 2003. I still remember quite clearly what happened — we talked the trip away. He gabbed about his job, his trainings, and his confidential assignments. Perhaps I had been enthralled by his tales of bravery as a member of the SAF, and with wide eyes showed my enthusiasm through his questions. I was so young then, easy to fool and mesmerize, so I found myself enjoying the exchange of ideas. There were so many things I thought he shouldn’t have divulged — especially since he talked about the SAF’s brushes with insurgents and their rather extra-legal tactics — which made the conversation all the more, I would say, sensational. I was almost prevailed upon to give my number for his fantastic stories, but fortunately, I did not. I just told him I live somewhere in Aurora Hill, and that was the end of it. I thought it was completely a ride that is forgettable like most that I have taken, but I was wrong. As we got off the bus, he became somewhat restless, and said he wanted to see me again. Before he took a cab, he asked the most stupid question that is to be asked by somebody you have met for the first time: “Can I kiss you?” I was so shocked and insulted by his question that I did not speak — I didn’t know how to say “No!” to match my building rage. As his depraved lips came near my cheek, I turned my head and his unwelcome smack landed on my ear. It was the most humiliating experience ever! I had to endure the stares of the passersby under the waiting shed who must have concluded we had a thing going.
So I had been cautious from then on. I never spoke to male seatmates. Because I thought the bus was not the right place for socialization, I made it a place for relaxation — I slept or if slumber was coy, I pretended to doze just to ward off conversation. It had been expedient a lot of times, for it was not infrequent to be given a drunk passenger or burly, suspicious looking men to endure for the entire duration of the hike up the mountaintop — 5,000 feet above sea level. I was just being careful since I usually took the 10 P.M. or 12 P.M. trips.
Last Thursday, I sat at the back of the bus, and I was a chance passenger. A burly guy wearing yellow saw me nearly trip (for the bus was already moving while I walked to take my seat) and said something like “careful, Ma’am”. I didn’t look up, for in my experience the mere “looking up” could signify ushering in the advances of he-who-has-placed-his-foot-in-the-door with the simple “careful” — it could open the floodgates of unwanted getting-to-know-each other which was not part of my game plan. I just wanted to get home. The sooner, the better, I thought.
I pretended to sleep as is customary, and up to the first stopover, I was successful. The guy beside me was obviously a burly looking foreigner who much later on as we spoke described himself on first impression as a “big guy who looks like he’s a bouncer”. I added to that: “bad man” and he agreed with a laugh. When the bus stopped, he excused himself and I gave way so he could pass through. When he returned, he started to talk and I broke the rules I set for bus rides.
He was a polite guy — a gentleman actually. He ended up at the back because he chose to sit there. He said he couldn’t stretch his legs elsewhere. I said: “The makers of this bus weren’t thinking about your welfare when they designed this,” and he laughed. He said it was funny.
If I judged through appearances, I would not even have looked at him — he was kinda scary, what with my puniness. I learned that he is a private tutor in math based in Baguio City. I volunteered the information that I detested numbers. He said he loved traveling, and that he has considered the Philippines his home. He blames his infatuation with the Philippines on its cuisine, its culture and its people. The guy it turned out has a penchant for exotic food, and remembers proudly his trips in various places where he had tried every alarming delicacy that was served him on a plate. His palate certainly approved of the exotic, like fried spiders, grasshoppers, monkey brain delight, dog meat, snakes and others. I joked he had a zoo for a stomach, then, and he laughed again. He laughed often, I observed, and he actually made me look like a stand-up comedian. I never thought I could be funny.
His name is Samuel. I said my name is Ruth. He laughed (again). He said my name is cool (I never thought that). He added that we would go to heaven because our names were in the Bible, but I told him it was not a guarantee. He smiled. I also added, “Oh, yeah anyway, don’t you know that the Book of Ruth is just next to Samuel?” And he said: “Oh, you know your Bible.” Another laugh. Somewhere, a guy turned to look at who was making noise. It was obvious who was… He might have thought, “Oh, the foreigner…” and dismissed his fury. Filipinos are quite lenient of foreigners, I must say. We are just too accommodating sometimes and embrace foreigners like gods which is disgusting.
But then, I’ve met a lot of them and I have to say that Samuel is welcome to visit my country for it would be nice to have a gentleman and a sensitive guy around. “What do you like most about your job?” he asked. I said, “Helping people.” That made him sigh like a lady and look at me to see if I was joking. I wasn’t, and he saw that perhaps so he concluded that I was a kind person. “Who, me?” I tried to confirm. “Yes, you could be a saint,” he said with a smile. It was a conclusion he derived from other information I have told him about myself, which I didn’t think were exceptionally amazing. “Oh, well, you have to be careful about your conclusions…” I told him, “…because it is easy to pretend and put one’s best foot forward,” I said, but he was not convinced I was pretending.
He said he loved poetry, too. Math, poetry — nice combination actually. I was never good in mathematics, as I said. My teacher in college told our class that poetry is really math, essentially. The combination of the skills involved produce symmetry, rhyme, meter, and the works that I do not pretend to know enough to discuss about. But I have a reason to believe the proposition might be true insofar as the chancellor of UP Baguio is concerned, who by the way is an outstanding poet, a Palanca awardee like her husband… even as she holds a doctorate in mathematics. Samuel said he loved writing poems, and I seconded his affirmation. He asked me why, so I quoted Robert Frost like a Humanities teacher and said: “Poetry begins in delight and ends in wisdom.” He looked at me again and said, “You’re gonna make me cry…” I thought it was a snide remark, but I dismissed my initial reaction, for he seemed really — moved.
A guy once told me I was cheesy, but Samuel dethroned me in terms of cheesiness.
The bus stopped again at Tarlac. The chat was interrupted, and again, he excused himself. I don’t usually go down at stopovers when I am traveling alone. And before my trips I shun liquids so I didn’t have to pee every time. When he came back, he had with him two hotdogs and two Sunkist juice packs — he said I was to join him eat. I laughed and said, “Hey, you didn’t have to…but thanks.” I was not really hungry, and I didn’t like stuffing up on liquid during trips, as I said.
“Oh, I’d love to… I want to keep talking with you, so I bought us some food so you don’t sleep…” he said. Great, the guy had “ulterior” motives.
If you met a guy for the first time and he bought you something, will you eat it? For some reason, I did. Really dangerous, huh? I was told never to drink anything that is poured for me — I should always drink from a bottle or pack that I myself have opened. Well, I checked the Sunkist and it seemed credible. The hotdogs… well, he made me choose from two — he didn’t choose for me.
True enough, there ensued a lively conversation after. I didn’t sleep. He showed me his playlist and recommended songs. He had Hillsong and Delirious? and Casting Crowns. He enjoyed Josh Groban and Colbie Caillat. With such songs playing in the background, he told me that his father is a preacher and his mom a worship leader. His sister is in London studying medicine, and that she had a good singing voice, like their mother. He didn’t sing well, he told me, and then laughed.
“When can I see you again?” he asked, all of a sudden. I didn’t think it was serious, so I joked, “Well, you could take the bus to Manila on Sunday night…” He said, weakly, “Oh, right…”
We talked some more. It was fun speaking with him — I didn’t get to sleep at all!
“I want to see you again,” he said, again.
“Oh, well, Baguio is such a small place. If people were not in SM, they’re at Session Rd…” I said a matter-of-factly. He nodded. He might have guessed I didn’t intend to meet with him again, so he added, “I’m planning to take the bus ride you were talking about…” I just chuckled.
As I waited for my taxicab, he muttered his trite line of wanting to see me again. I didn’t give my number, no nothing. All he knew was my name. Sensing indecision in his gait and manner, I helped him out and said, “You should be taking this cab…” The sky was dark, and so was his countenance. “Yeah, I should, right?” he muttered. Before he finally boarded the taxi, I shook his hand. For the last time, as I was preparing to take the next cab, he said — “I really hope I see you again…” and I replied, “I hope so, too…”
Inside the cab, the taxi driver was smiling. He might have seen the little scene so I dismissed his curious eyes and told him my barangay. I closed my eyes and thought about home…
While I was riding a jeep home after meeting a friend at SM Friday afternoon, I saw a man crossing the street wearing white with his trademark walk and shoulders. I ascertained it was Sam before the jeep could speed up the slope of Rimando Road — leaving behind a trail of smoke that disappeared as soon as Sam was swallowed by the crowd. I smiled. I checked the ticket I inserted in my planner. I reserved early because I didn’t want to compete against tourists, hence I had to make sure that my trip was Saturday night, at 10 PM.
