A Peso Short and Kilometers Away from Home

In his two-week backpacking trip to Mindanao, RV Escatron woke up to the sound of surf, got addicted to surfing in Surigao, rekindled old ties, holed up in the Benidictine Monastery of the Transfiguration in Bukidnon to attend the Simbang Gabi which gave him goosebumps through and through (which by far, he considers a paranormal experience), reawakened a call to the monastic life which he thought have long died eight years ago in New Manila, and in Cagayan de Oro City, he met an award-winning literary writer who happens to be one of his favourite poet whose account he stumbled upon facebook and whom he thought had gone reclusive and quit writing poetry altogether in the last 15 years and finally tried to find spare coins to cross the last leg of the trip—the sleepy hometown of his childhood.





I stopped counting the days and lost track of my expenses the afternoon I boarded the Mindanao-bound plane. In less than an hour after the airbus taxied the runway, here I am in the middle of the airport parking area waiting for a lift C had arranged, last minute, whilst I was in the boarding area in Mactan.

The ride from Butuan to a town in the fringes of the Pacific Ocean would take four hours at best. What C did not prepare me for was the four hours would stretch to six when in the middle of nowhere two of the flat tires had to be pulled off the car. And seven hours later, I would have had my first decent meal of the day.

The town of Placer marks the midway drive to Cantilan town, both in Surigao Province. And the rough stretch of road begins here past the Red Mountain’s one-lane road—boulders on one side, deep gorge on the other. On a night trip, these mountains, all in red sans the foliage, glow with restraint the day before full moon.

Two weeks have seen me in a love affair with surfing and break my heart all the same. The weeklong backpacking trip began in Cantilan, off-Siargao island and it stretches to days. But even before I have yet to unpack my things, I have to pack them again to attend Cousin El-el's wedding four hours drive away, past the town of Tandag, in Marihatag town. This sleepy town, still in the Pacific rim, offers me much of the waves and small islands that dot in the horizon. As the bus navigated the snaking road, the waves clashing the shores and the surf lining in the distance reminds me that next year, in the whole length of December, I will ride them again with much control and less fear. Ultimately, water will become my second skin.

(first of 10 parts)