Riding the bus that takes me from the noisy and chaotic city into my small, sleepy hometown (usually on Friday evenings through the wee hours of Saturday) and back again (typically on Sunday afternoons) is a voyage I have taken countless times since my college years and well into my working life, until the COVID-19 pandemic struck.
My very first journey back home still warms my heart as I try to remember and describe it. It was a Saturday, the day after the Independence Day holiday. I had to attend an English 1 class first (which is an odd choice for a class schedule). Afterward, I headed straight to the dormitory, packed my bag, and hailed a taxi to take me to the bus terminal. I had just finished a week’s worth of college, away from home, and now, here I was, sitting in one of the front-row seats and about to return to what was familiar. The novelty of that experience was a plain joy.
Less than 36 hours later, I needed to return. My parents and I agreed (or maybe it was just me who decided) that I would depart very early in the morning, perhaps around 3 AM, to extend my stay. While it was a struggle to wake up at such an ungodly hour, I didn’t have a choice but to get up and get going. My father drove me to a bus stop where I had the best chance of getting a seat. Eventually, I boarded the bus. What I remember most about trips at these hours is how cold it can get inside, with the A/C blasting freezing air. This causes a little discomfort in my belly. For this reason and because the short hours of sleep leaves me, naturally, groggy, I have avoided this window of travelling as much as possible.
The extended breaks we get to enjoy during holidays such as Holy Week, All Saints’ Day, and Christmas are, of course, a welcome respite. However, one has to first endure the agony that comes with the mayhem created when droves of people decide to leave the city simultaneously. This includes endless queues to get a ticket or to board the bus, and ridiculous traffic jams that almost double the usual travel time. Returning is no different, except that I don’t usually head to the bus terminal but instead wait in one of its stops. It’s a huge stroke of luck if I am able to get on within thirty minutes of waiting because the passing buses almost always have no free seats. Patience and luck are all you could lean on in this type of situation. One memory that sticks out is when I had some success on boarding, only to stand on the aisle for what could be half the length of the trip.
After attending a gathering of people I barely knew, which left me feeling like a fish out of water, I headed to a spot on EDSA where I usually wait and flag down buses to take me home. Getting to that spot required some walking. Normally, that wouldn’t be a big deal, but it was raining and I had no umbrella with me. I was completely drenched and hoped that a bus would pull over as quickly as possible. I managed to get on a bus, but I was freezing. Out of exhaustion, I overslept and missed my stop. I decided to get off anyway, despite the area being dark and inactive. I called my parents to pick me up. After describing where I was, they sped off to come and get me because, apparently, it wasn’t the safest place to be in the middle of the night due to drug addicts. While waiting for them to arrive, I walked nonchalantly along the highway.
There is more, but I think I’ll just keep those to myself.
Striving to Make Things Count 