A Tale of Full Circle, a.k.a. "Sleeper Bus"

I slept with George Orwell and woke up with Michael Jackson. And it was all in a bus ride…

Tuesday evening. I took an "air-con" to Ayala EDSA from Market!Market!, Fort Boni: its the Global Bus! – one of the few splices of first-world luxury in this city, a mere ten-peso tour of Manila's fastest growing urbanity amidst condos, international banks, and "high streets"; not to mention the hig-fenced village along McKinley. It was 6pm, height of the rushing rush hour. A reporter droned from the bus TV but I chose to ignore her. As if thats entirely possible. I'm not so gaga anymore about the news, and whenever I'm able catch it in circumstances where I have no control (such as this one), I usually get depressed because I always hear them "bad", and from the bits I'm catching now, it's the same old letdown. Calculating the usual sluggish traffic, and the probable stops the bus will have to make along the way, I decided to take a little nap. I held a book in hand and had planned to read it but exhaustion seemed to run all over my joints and nerves that seemed to go up to the lids of my eyes. So I tucked the Orwell paperback away. Finding out whether he actually shot that elephant ran amok in Burma will have to be in a few precious minutes later. I leaned on the glass window, lights blurred fast, and before I think about a nice word to describe the texture of the window where my right cheek touched, blank…

I woke up. What a pleasant nap! I thought. It couldn't have been more than 10 minutes, but a nap in a nice comfortable bus like this one is as good as it gets - one of the cheapest thrills you can snatch from this bustling city. I turned again to the window to see the posh and well-lit Embassy club across the street. The bus was not moving at all and I was still in Fort Boni. Damn! Could the traffic be this bad?

I scanned the passengers. Many are still standing but something seemed amiss. The young man sitting beside me earlier with a cutesy little girl (sister) with him was no longer there. It was replaced by another young lad wearing an oversized t-shirt and carrying a paperbag. The news was no longer droning from the TV, replaced instead, by a screeching Michael Jackson, wearing his signature glitttery golden bikini superhero suit on top of his "bitin" black leather pants. It's debatable whether he was actually singing or convulsing a pop hit, one of those hit East European concerts. But its uncontestable how he commanded such a mysterious attraction from millions of people (I'm an exception). To think that some scream their lungs out until they faint. I wonder what symphonic harmony is forged between Michael's frenetic screech and his fan's fanatic screams.

And then it hits me. Wait a minute?! I'm on the wrong side of the road! The bus is going back to Market!Market! Need I say more? Fort Boni - Ayala - Fort Boni. It's made a full circle, and I'm still there - same bus, different TV program, different seatmate, different direction - by now clueless and slightly amused with this sort of abrupt "awakening". I reached for the book and pretended to read. Suddenly it is now my most reliable cover from not looking bewildered and stupefied. Thank God nobody seemed to notice. I don't think they will, as Michael Jackson made sure of that. True enough, everyone's eyes except for mine and the driver's were glued to the King of Pop and his uhm, "moves".

So I relaxed, and pretended to be having my own sense of purpose: to read this important English essay. But before I learned of the poor elephant's fate, I remembered - to ease the pain of embarassment - to text a person, to share about my little round trip "pilgrimage" in Fort Boni, Global City. The bus reached Marktet!Market! (again) This time I decided not take the next bus and opt for the jeep instead. I might fall asleep again. Blame it on the inviting seat cushions, and my apathy to pay attention to the news.

A little more than 10 minutes later, I reached Ayala...for the second time.

The elephant died. Orwell shot him so that he could save his own face, and in just 30 minutes, the poor beast had been reduced to meat, feasted by the thousands of Burmese who cheered for its demise. What a wonderful allusion to my day. Saving faces seem to be one of the humanest of human nature. At about the same time that the Burmese gorged on Dumbo, I reached home. Flushed…and still dreamingly restless. I lay in my bed where, with a funny little sense of déjà vu, I slept, yet again.