First Pilgrimage

When I go to places, my soul sparks upon every sight of land and sea, and the world to me becomes smaller, slowly unfolding, and gradually “un-alienating”.

I glanced past the window; vast squares of land in shades of blue, green, blue-green, and brown greeted me. The fields below formed amusing quadrilateral patterns 39,000 feet above the ground. I danced gently in my chair, my fingers fidgeted in sweat and my insides quietly giggled as I took in my first glimpse of Thailand. The first time I saw land other than Philippine soil was more than a year ago, when our dance company flew to Malaysia for a nine day performance. It was nighttime when we arrived. From above, the terrains of Kuala Lumpur looked like electronically charged chips! Light flowed from lampposts, skyscrapers and houses. The fluid yet orderly choreography of cars in intersecting highways resembled wires streaming with energy.

But this time it was different because for the first time, I was traveling on my own, more than a thousand miles away from home. With just two small backpacks (I saw other foreigners carrying backpacks the size of mini-refrigerators!) and a couple hundred dollars as my only “friends”. No scheduled itinerary, no tour packages, no hotel reservation, no friends, not even relatives nor lovers.

“You should check our website,” interrupted the lady beside me. I struggled for a moment to remember what we’ve been talking about, distracted by the increasing anticipation of Thailand looming ahead, and getting increasingly disinterested with the small chitchat that I tried initiating with her. I recalled her saying, in English with a distinct Visayan accent, that she owns this online travel agency where I can book my future holidays. She gave me a business card, I politely received it, said my automatic thanks, and quickly shifted my thoughts back to my dream, which in a few minutes was about to become real.

As soon as I could get out of the plane, I quickly raced through the tarmac and in big strides slowly moved ahead of everyone who came before me. I had quite some fun “in-flight” - eating a pleasantly sumptuous chicken lunch, listening to Grace Nono’s spiritful take of a Ryan Cayabyab on the flight radio, and reading about the jungles of Laos while leafing through the in-flight magazine (maybe my next trip). But three hours in the plane felt more like a decade for an itchy pair of feet raring to dash into Bangkok streets.

Only to fall in long lines of immigration! I suddenly found myself in a sea of foreigners, different colors, smells, and ages! I heard phone calls made in different languages and yes, varied international scents, pleasant or otherwise wafted in the air. After all, Thailand receives the most tourists every year in this side of the world. There were businessmen or simply men wearing business suits, women in chic travel-wear, some even costume-like, while some looked like they just got out of bed still hung over and having a bad hair day. Others carried either children, or make-up kits, or their current holiday books; and of course, hundreds of backpackers carrying exaggeratingly huge bags.

Then it dawned on me. What was I going to do in Bangkok all by myself? Before I left I felt confident at the prospect of traveling alone, after all, I considered myself a loner most of the time. But on that day, amidst a sea of “aliens”, I suddenly felt unsure anymore. I realized nothing can ever prepare you for a solitary journey to a place you’ve never been before.

As I got out of the airport, I walked more slowly this time. The adrenalin rush of excitement subdued, replaced briefly by a hint of uncertainty. I debated whether to take a private taxi or a bus going to the city. It looked like a minute decision to make, but it later proved to be one of the most important that I ever did for this trip.

So I hopped on the bus, paid my ticket and sat on a window seat. I was about to engage in a private reverie when I was jolted by an overpowering bodily smell that suddenly pervaded the bus. It came from man sporting a now commonplace giant backpack as he entered the bus. He was tall, though a bit lanky, and judging by his boyish unruly hair; smooth, unblemished face, and reddish pink lips, he looked very young, twenty-one, I thought. But two things made me pay more attention to this man who now sat on the seat in front of me. First, the slightly dizzying scent coming from the late stranger (must be the effect of Asian humidity); and second, his eyes that made contact with mine for a good few seconds, those clear grey gems, hauntingly sad, and something else, but I couldn’t make out as yet.

All the passengers including me managed to keep the next hour of the trip to ourselves in silence. As the bus neared the city, I became restless again. Bangkok looked just like Manila, I thought, only slightly cleaner, more orderly, and I couldn’t see any large concentrations of shanties. I must have been oblivious and absent-minded because I accidentally touched the elbow of the young man seated in front of me. “Sorry.” I said. He replied with a smile, “No problem.” Considering my circumstances, I thought the smile was very kind and warm. We eventually exchange names. His was Andy, short for Andreas. “German?” I asked. With that remark, he beamed again, this time even warmer. “Yes! How did you know?” He asked. “I just guessed.” I replied, repaying his smile with my own.

I learned that it was his first time to travel as well. He was supposed to take a four month holiday in South East Asia with his female cousin. But upon reaching the airport, the girl suddenly panicked and out of the blue, realized that she didn’t want to go on with the trip anymore. That same day, she bought a return ticket to Frankfurt and left Andy all by himself. And at that moment, I recognized what I saw earlier in his eyes. Fear! He was scared. Here was a nineteen year old German boy who got separated from his family for the first time and was now alone and didn’t know what to do. Yet unlike his cousin, he decided to stay. I felt flushed. Any uncertainties that I had been feeling earlier about this trip had vanished into thin air.

When I got down on the bus, I wasn’t surprised when I found Andy still following me, and like a vulnerable boy lost in an unfamiliar place, he said to me, “Do you mind if I come with you to find a place to stay?” I said I didn’t. And I meant it.

We ended up sharing a room and bed in Khao San Road, the “backpackers’ street”, and stayed together for four more days, biking through the ruins of Old Ayutthaya and reaching as far as the south, ferrying through the island of (Koh*) Phangan. We talked about our dreams, him wanting to become a teacher and me wanting to see the world; about finding God in obscure places, of healing in reiki and sweat lodges, the parallels between our two countries, carpenters’ wages, nudity, and the seasonal fickle-mindedness of women, among other things, over unaccounted number of cold beer bottles. We met fellow pilgrims along the way, like Mayumi from Tokyo, and Francisco from Santiago who discovered the spice of life after reading N.D. Walsh's conversations with God. Once during dinner, Andy said to me, “Thank you for staying with me on this trip, I think you were my reward for deciding to stay.” Like a child, I smiled and replied, “The feeling’s mutual, mein freund.”

The saddest part of my journey came when I had to leave him in the island. As much as I wanted to stay (he even insisted that he pay for my ticket rebooking), I had to return to a life, work and studies waiting for me back home. Unlike him, I didn’t have four months to spare. As I flew back to Manila, I let out a smile and a deep breath, a sigh of gratitude for deciding to take the bus instead of the taxi. Strange, how at the beginning I struggled to endure his scent, yet now, as I sat on the plane, once again 39,000 feet above the ground, I longed to sniff this angel's essence once again.

Postscript: Last time I heard from my friend, he is finishing his teaching degree in Germany.

* Koh is Thai for "island".