On board the Red Ball Express

The road from Bukidnon to Davao is the last stretch for cargo trucks en route from other parts of Mindanao to the trade port at Sasa, and as told to us by manong ”Gerry” a driver of 12 years, it is the most arduous.  The road is full of abrupt curves and rocky parts that ought to be driven on with caution, especially in the dark.  Many deaths have occurred along this path and in Gerry’s career he can name a few of his colleagues.  He laments as he points out an area with an abandoned truck at the side of the road, “Katong usa ka biyernes dara namatay tong kauban nako.” (Just last friday, one of my colleagues died right there).  There was a black stain on the street that looked like mud, which Gerry morbidly insisted was blood.

That night, we had mixed feelings about getting home.  It rained hard all afternoon and the biting mountain wind felt too daunting.  It was a carefree decision to wait for it to subside for a few more hours since we were at a coffeeshop by a gas station.  Our party played poker until we lost track of time then came sun down.  After conferring with locals, we found out that the rural transits would only stop terminal to terminal.  And so our only chance to get home was if we got on a non-airconditioned bus, a chartered van, a friend willing to pick us up and finally a hitch.   Our first option was a non-airconditioned bus, but every time one passed by it swept by too fast.  We were stranded even after the coffeeshop and the gas station had to close for the day.  To while away the idle time, we drank wine, some coke and ate packed dinner.  Back in Davao, the night would have been as young as us.  But in the midst of the provincial highlands, we were the only ones awake.

When Jerry spotted us and decided to halt, Karla was apprehensive to climb up the truck and I suppose, some of it rubbed off on me until I said to myself, “There’s five of us”.  I have never hitchhiked before in my life but I’ve always wanted to.  All the reservations I might have to that possibility was due to the obvious fact that it’s not safe to do alone. 

Hitchhiking is a game of chance and has the same risks of being exposed to a potentially dangerous stranger.  This option should only be open when your party is desperate to go home. Yes, traveling is naturally more exciting when it’s spontaneous and less expensive, in fact, Gerry refused to take our money.  But I don’t think it’s wise to travel by intentionally hitchhiking all the way.  Besides, it is virtually impossible to get to hitch on a truck whose driver doesn’t want to run the risk of being caught by monitors, as it is grounds for suspension.  A traveler’s wanton ways could cost someone’s job.

As it turns out, hithhiking was as fascinating as I had thought it to be.  I was quickly enthused by the driver who had stories to tell about other hitchhikers and of the road.  The idea that I was on a twelve-wheeler truck carrying pineapples from Mao, Lanao due for shipment to Japan was infinitely more intriguing than taking the bus from point A to point B.  I imagined what it would be like to regularly hitchhike, and my conclusion was that the journey had an indirect sideshow, like it was its own mobile entertainment.  The stories that could be told between the hikers and drivers amounted to more travel experience that Confucius would probably be proud of.

May the universe gift your soul with more good vibrations, “Gerry”.