Taxi Drivers and Tracy Chapman

While sorting through my documents a couple of nights ago, I chanced upon a small notebook that contained a daily journal of my vacation in Brazil in 2007. I realized I never ‘blogged’ about it, maybe because of the lack of time, or because I was confident that it was already documented. Anyway, while I was leafing through the entries, I was pleasantly surprised to find something I wrote, an excerpt of it I copied below:

March 4, 2007

Another cab to another airport on my way back from Salvador, Bahia to Rio de Janeiro. The driver turned on his radio and surprise, surprise, Tracy Chapman was on. So I started singing-along “Give me one reason to stay here, and I’ll turn right back around”. ..The next song was Brazilian, sounded familiar but I did not know the lyrics. I saw the driver glance at me from his rearview mirror and without saying a word I sort of understood that he said, “now it’s my turn”. Then he started singing along at the top of his voice.

Hmmm, the showdown was on. The next song was another Brazilian song that the driver sang but the next song was mine, and a Sting song at that. “We’ll be together, we’ll be together…” I sang the whole song the rest of the way with the driver nodding his head in tune with the song. At the airport, we said goodbye like we were old friends, I even gave him a hug, and all this without a single word being exchanged between us (I do not speak his language, he does not speak the language I use). We just shared a drive and some music and that was enough.

End of entry.

I was pretty amused because just recently, I had come from Taiwan. I had a meeting in an area an hour away from Taipei and instead of renting a car, my colleague arranged for a cab to take us, wait for us there, and take us back. Turned out, the driver is a Filipino who is now a Taiwanese citizen. He hooked up his I-phone and played his I-pod- and instantly I recognized the first song. It was Tracy Chapman’s The Promise and I have not heard that song for the longest time. And I happen to love the song and when I sing it, I feel I own it. So again, as is my habit, I sang along with my old friend Tracy. Another Tracy song followed that one.

I was at a tough meeting for four hours but when I got back into the cab, the driver was ready with the song. I did not even have to ask. This time, the driver sang along with me, and we sang at the top of our voices. My colleague was amused.

Naturally, I arranged for him to pick me up at 5am the next day for the airport. Like the day before, we listened to Tracy, but singing The Promise at dawn is not the same thing, it takes on an extra element of sadness. So we sang it under our breaths, each lost in our own thoughts, and singing, “in your arms, where all my journeys end…” I so badly wanted to ask who he was singing that song for, where she was, and when he was coming home to the country he said he badly missed, but I did not.

Of private shows and orphaned slippers

Three Sundays ago I rediscovered the pleasures of driving alone. Well, I drive myself to work and back home everyday when I am in town, but it is a short drive, down the familiar route of Kamuning, then across EDSA, and then Kamias. Occasionally, I would drive to far away Makati or Manila on some very important ‘business’ (otherwise you won’t find me there) but I would have company for those drives, if not on the passenger seat beside me, then other drivers in cars that are too close for comfort in the usually jam-packed lanes of EDSA.

On that particular Sunday, a series of fortunate events happened that led me to make that drive from Tagaytay to Batangas alone. I woke up a little past 4 am (my body clock was not tuned properly yet) and decided to start out early. I was looking forward to the drive since the last time I drove alone at day break, the experience had been magical that it is permanently imprinted in my mind. It was still dark when I set out and went down Magallanes Drive but by the time I reached the turn to the zigzagged mountain road that would take me to Lemery, morning had already started to break.

What I so love about early morning drives is the dawn to sunrise show. The thing that makes sunrise (and sunsets too) so dramatic is how the display of light changes so fast that you actually witness the landscape transform before your very eyes. It is like watching the scenes change through a viewfinder (remember that toy from our childhood?), something different at each click of the lever, and in my case that morning, a different view at each turn of the bend.

That is what made that drive special-- being the only car on that strip of road at that particular time of the day meant that I had once again gained access to a private show. There is a stretch on that road where the cliff to my left gave me a clear view of the valley below, where there was a splay of orange on bluish-grey skies over Taal volcano, whose shape was still muted by fog. Breathtaking.

What made it even more overwhelming was the thought that at that particular moment, I was probably the only one in the world who would have seen that view. That car that I met a few feet later would have seen a different view by the time he reached that bend I just came from.

A few seconds later, as I turned another bend, the scene had changed: the sky was more orange than blue, the fog had lifted a little to reveal the top of the volcano. By the time I reached the national highway, the turn from night to day was complete, the show was over. But what a show…Wish I could say that it would have been good to have you there, but then I would be lying—I intend to make drives at daybreak my solitary pleasure.


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This weekend, I participated in the International Coastal Clean-up day. Picked up garbage underwater. Partied after. But the most interesting thing about that weekend was the kind of garbage I collected down under.

Half of the garbage I picked were footwear, all missing a pair—a little boy’s rubber shoes, black sandals of a size eight woman, pink slippers of a young girl, the sole of size eleven basketball shoes, and more. The coast was also littered with washed-up footwear.

There must be a good story behind the pair-less footwear underwater. Or someone can spin a good story around them.

Around who owned them. Around what happened and how those pair-less shoes got there.

For me, I can only wonder.

Letter

I could not sleep, my whole body was screaming for sleep but my mind would not rest. So instead of trying to and stressing myself out to even more sleeplessness in the process, I decided to work a little.

But I should have known that I was setting myself up for some major downtime- to be in this almost complete silence at one in the morning, with only the sound of the waves and tuko of the gecko for company, there was no way that I would not end up thinking about you.

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea. (A Song of Despair, Pablo Neruda)

This is what I have been trying to avoid the whole day ever since I arrived here this morning. One reason I am up right now is because I could not drown out the echoes of the sound of my own voice- I used it to chatter the whole day away, talking about useless theories and concepts, churning out one anecdote after another that at one point I must have sounded like those Rotary guys, the ones who get trained on how to make a conversation going and interesting to capture everyone’s attention. Arrghhh. Has your own voice ever haunted you to the point of disgust? I should not beat myself up for that, I just needed to fill all those spaces with sound, otherwise you would creep in and take over.

It’s not your fault. It was a given from the very start, that you would intrude on this weekend. If I believed in the wheels of destiny, this was orchestrated from that time we first came here five years ago for an intro SCUBA dive. I dragged Pearl along, remember. I could not believe it was your first time to dive as well. I had always thought that diving was already part of the many adventure sports you’ve done. The 20 minutes underwater was enough to get me hooked—I vowed that someday I would take diving lessons. We even talked about it, taking the lessons together.

You would be happy to know that I finally enrolled in a diving class (with Pearl, Sanchi and Donyl) and even if it took us five months what takes four days for some, at least we are here now, two dives away from our certification. But in some twisted cosmic joke, we are doing our checkout at the resort where this all began.

I thought it would be easy to come back here. After all, it’s been what, three years already since you left? But halfway to the shower area just before the second open water dive, it hit me bad I almost doubled-over.

I hate it when you do that, invade my memory at the most inconvenient time, when I least expect it. You have so many opportunities to come when I am alone and yet you choose to intrude when I am not ready. But the good thing about water sports is that no one would ever know that film of water running down your face is not from the shower anymore.

Sometime a whiff of song might float by,
Then you might say to yourself, “That one,
I know that one, it reminds me of—“ and stop,
your tongue unable to find the shape of it,
in your thought the syllables slip,
murdered by memory. (When I Go, Merlie Alunan, April 2004)

Usually, it is the sound of the waves or the feel of the breeze from the sea that brings you back to me. Even that combined smell of sunblock lotion, saltwater and the sun on the skin assaults my memory.

It was, after all, our love for the sun, the beach, the sea that bridged the gaps between us – of our age difference, of all those years spent apart, of the differences in who we have become.

You were always rock-solid, while I am, as Papa puts it, the rolling stone that gathers no moss. You were straight as an arrow ever since, your life meticulously planned out while I tend to make so many detours, interesting stops, I call them (how it exasperated you then—I remember one night, while waiting for the rain to stop and traffic to ease up in some parking lot diner in Makati, how you pepped talk me about making long term career plans, visioning what I really want. I, of course, made fun of that serious conversation, but if it is any consolation to you now, some of what you said sank in. I do make plans now and it is very clear to me what I really want to do)

You did things by the book, I do things by instinct. (I remember how you were once made to set the table and you went about it with a ruler—because you read in some book that the plates have to be placed a certain number of inches away from the edge of the table).

Science was your thing, I am the kind who would stupidly ask if that flashes of light running through the wires of the MRT was electricity—it turned out it was the reflection of the headlights from the cars below. (You scoffed and said to me then, if the physics community would hear you claim that you have seen electricity, you would be an outcast. I said to you, but I can see lightning, isn’t that electricity?)

You were always conscious of your health -- you had a nutrition plan, you exercised, you played badminton, you went mountain climbing, you maintained an active lifestyle. Instead of itemizing the many ways i abuse my health, let me just say that we were complete opposites on this score.

Even what we write in our journals show how different we were. In your travel journal you wrote the facts of your trip to the Grand Canyon--what time you left, what the weather was like, what you saw along the way, what happened when your car broke down. Mine would probably document how I like the afternoon sun, how much softer it falls on the mountain range. (Sorry, I found your travel journal and read it—I can almost hear you gasp at the invasion of your privacy. I know you would be also appalled that I have mine on-line but don’t worry, I only have less than 5 people reading this, all of them my friends-promise!)

But when it comes to bodies of water, we spoke the same language. It was there that I found you and you found me. That even when you found me strange, you could like me, enjoy my company, laugh out so loud at my stories even when you grimace in disbelief at the absurdity of some of them. That I could like your friends and you liked mine (even if you said I do keep a weird set). It was because of our common passion that we started going out, started planning those weekend trips to the beach. It was there that I found a friend in my brother. And I ceased to be just your sister.

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate

Deserted like the wharves at dawn,
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands (A Song of Despair, Pablo Neruda)

Pearl woke up as I was writing this letter to you. She asked me why I could not sleep—I said work. She knew better. She said it was ok if I talked about it. But you know how it is Mano, we have always been clumsy when it comes to verbal displays of affection, that’s another thing we have in common. We were never able to verbally express how we feel—we find it cheesy, awkward. The ‘love’ expressions are not part of our vocabulary – if I said I missed you I can almost imagine you cringing.

But it was different in letters. I saw a whole bunch of my letters to you, inside faded envelopes in a box in your room, the ones I wrote to you before there was email. I was amazed how much I was able to tell you in those letters and how I never talked to you about those things when we were together. My letters were long, the longest one was eight pages (even longer than this, imagine that). I have always been a prolific letter-writer. You never said it but I knew how much you enjoyed receiving letters from me, it brought you closer to home.

And because I can’t say this out loud, let me tell you the only way I know how.

The whole time today, all I could think of was, if there was any one who deserved to be here, it was you, not me. That if there was any one who could do this better, it would be you. You would not test the patience of your instructors as I did today. When I could not move gracefully with those fins on, I remembered how you swam with it like they were the natural extensions of your feet. You were the swimmer in the family. They said I was a natural in water (well, not today definitely) but they should have seen you, known you. You were close to supernatural.

When all of a sudden I was gripped with fear while underwater, a slight moment of panic, I thought how it would have been all right if you had been there to hold my hand. Like you did all those summers ago, the first time you took me snorkeling and I panicked as we reached the reef’s edge. It was during that snorkeling trip that I first discovered that I wanted to be a mermaid. That singular moment has brought me here. And I can never ever claim to love all this more than you did.

So how did it happen that I am the one wearing your mask and snorkel now, diving in the ocean you loved, even driving your car to get here, living the life you should have lived?

*************************************************************************************

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! (A Song of Despair, Pablo Neruda)

I woke up with a lighter heart and a calmer spirit, as calm as the sea that morning. You know what comforted me? There was this butterfly that kept hovering as I prepared for the third dive. Darl told me this interesting trivia-- did you know that the life span of a butterfly is so short, some just 2-4 weeks after they spring out from their cocoons? And to think the metamorphosis takes a long time. I love the irony of it. When I came up to the surface, there was another small white butterfly hovering low in the middle of the sea. I imagine you to be this butterfly, just too good for this world.

Someday soon, I will write to tell you how magical it is down there, how serene, how that stream of light from the surface could pierce through your heart, how time slows down, how far removed from rest of the world you can be.

Someday, I will tell you how I understand how some people could actually devote their lives to this. I will tell you how everything about that day was perfect, and how it was capped by a shooting star that we saw as we drove home. But right now, I just want you to know that to me, you are not completely gone, you were there. And as I continue to do this, you will always be with me.

Then have I truly gone, my love.
Air has closed over the spaces I have been,
not even grief can stay it. (When I Go, Merlie Alunan, 2004)


(July 15, 2007, Balai Resort, Anilao, Batangas)

HULI!

...na naman ako. For beating the red light--my third for the same offense over three years. The violation, according to the man in blue at the corner of Cubao, reckless driving...my, my, the only time I am reckless and I get caught. Not true, actually, I am very reckless in the comforts of my mind, good thing they don't give tickets for that.

Diving Lessons

There I was in my borrowed diving suit that was way too long for me, flippers that made me feel like a duck out of the water, masks that magnified half-of my face, all the paraphernalia in place for the wanna-be diver.

As I sat there waiting for the day's lessons to begin, I wondered how much longer it would take so that that wet suit finally becomes like second skin and all motions become almost automatic. I know I am slowly getting there. By slowly, I mean really slowly. But as it was, I have already absorbed quite a bit, only that I am not sure if the things I learned are the kind that would get me that license. Hmm, let's see.

Lesson no. 1: The art of falling

The lesson that day was entering the water from a controlled-sitting position. Chicken feed, I thought. Down went classmate number one--"very good," the instructor said. Classmate number two hesitated a bit, needed a little assurance, but off she went—"try it again, do better the next time," the instructor said. Looks easy enough to me, after all, there is no hard science to falling, you just, well, fall.

And then it was my turn. The star student (I say this with a little irony of course). Haha!

Instructor: So ok, plant your wrist firmly on the ledge, half-turn, pivot, let go, and push.
Me: Ok, step 1, wrist, step 2, turn, step 3, pivot, step 4…
Bubble over my head: Am I hearing you right? Let go?!? Let go?!?

Instructor: No, no, you hesitated; you prevented your fall with your wrist. Do it again.
Me: Hmm, how’s that again?
Bubble over my head: You idiot, just let go, how difficult can that be.

Me: So, ok, step 1, wrist, step 2, turn, step 3, pivot, step 4…
Instructor: Stop thinking, just do it. Let go!
Me: Ok, give me a second.
Bubble over my head: Me? Stop thinking? Let go? Hay, tell me about it.
Instructor: (almost exasperated) Try it again. What are you afraid of? You won’t sink…just LET GO!
Me: Ok…ooops, sorry…
Bubble over my head: The analogy of my life playing out right here, right now…hekhekhek…I can almost see my friends hysterically laughing at this conversation…

Ok, so I was being a smart aleck the whole time, to cover up for my fear. But it made me uncomfortable afterwards, to be confronted by a fear I did not know I have. I figured, there must be a reason for that hesitancy or unwillingness to let go and just fall.

Lesson no. 2: Taking the plunge


I remember a conversation I had with an officemate. We both shared the opinion that that team-building exercise thing that companies do, the one where you fall like a log into the safety net of other members’ arms, that won’t work for our small office of control freaks.

It is not an issue of trust. I know I am lucky enough to be surrounded by people ready to catch me, people I can trust with my life even. But I firmly believe that my well-being is my responsibility. And besides, in reality, you can’t keep expecting other people to break your fall. Best you can do is try not go off the edge. Or at the very least, slip off it as gracefully as you can, without making a big splash of it.

It is not an issue of safety even. It was not a deep pool, if anything should go wrong, there were people around who can come to my rescue in a minute.

It is an issue of control. Because once you are suspended in mid-air, even for just a split second, you have no control; you can only flap your arms and unsuccessfully wrestle the control out of the wind.

Lesson no. 3: Taking measured steps

Well, it is a good thing then that I am taking scuba diving lessons and not that kind of diving where you jump up and down on a diving board and then DIVE, head or feet first, all the way down. (My mom actually thought that THAT was the kind of diving I was doing when I first told her about it—hahahaha).

Because this kind of diving I am going for, it is all about measured, methodical steps. From checking your equipment, donning the suit, vest, tank, and then cleaning them afterwards, it is all about step-by-step process.

More importantly, in this kind of diving, you just don’t deflate and sink; you do it a foot at a time; deflate, sink down a little, stop, equalize, slowly go down another foot deeper, stop, equalize. Equalize being a key term here.

That is easy enough; I have been doing it all this time, on dry land.

Lesson no. 4: Controlling buoyancy


I am absolutely enthralled by the concept of buoyancy. In diving, they explained the importance of controlling and achieving negative, positive and neutral buoyancy. In simple terms, one is positively buoyant when they can keep their head above water; negatively buoyant when they sink; and neutrally buoyant when one is neither above nor below water—that state of being neither here nor there.

So when that big wave that brought unexpected death to the family uprooted and threw us into very deep waters, some just sank, fast, with every wave of grief. They hit rock bottom but the wailing of disbelief could still be heard from shore.

While some of us tried to gain, in divers’ lingo, positive buoyancy. When it happened, I grabbed hold of that vest that keeps you afloat and put the regulator in my mouth. And then I released a bit of air, sank a little, and then I breathed, deep, breathed that air in, exhaled, inhaled, took measured breaths, never holding my breath, because they said you get injured that way, when you try to hold in so much, for so long.

And I allowed myself to sink ever so slowly, always taking comfort in the fact that I can pretend to breathe normally even while water was way above my head.

So that until now, when others have long ago discarded the weights and have managed to swim back up, I haven’t quite reached the bottom or the bottom of it yet. I am here neutrally buoyant, allowing myself to just gradually sink, one breath at a time, one painful memory at a time, with the weights still strapped to my waist.

But does it really matter how long it takes to sink and swim back up, or how far or how deep you go? Because I figure that once you have been there at the bottom, things will never be the same on the surface again. You have invaded another world, another realm of experience.

You wipe off the water from your face and all of a sudden, you squint at the brighter lights, then that dead tree on the shore slowly comes into sharper focus, and everything else appears the same but you are not, because you lost something while you were under— maybe time, maybe a memory, maybe some pieces of you that you cannot regain.

Lesson no. 5: Leap of faith

I still have a few more lessons to go, more dives to complete before I get that license. But at the rate I am going, I could actually write another version of the diving manual.

Right now, I can’t wait for that lesson where you just take a giant step out of the boat and walk straight into thin air before falling into the water. I am excited to see how I would fare. I call it the Leap of Faith…and that is an exercise I still have to master.