About two weeks ago, my mom and I went with my grandmother, my sister and her friends to Boracay. Because of pressing concerns back home, most of our companions left for Aklan a day ahead, leaving my mom and me to catch up with them in New Washington, Aklan by the next morning. This we surely did and by 5:45 A.M., I was backing our light blue mini SUV out the driveway with my mother in the front seat and my snorkeling gear all snug and secure in my overnight bag in the luggage compartment. As I drove away from our street into the main thoroughfares, I was filled with visions of white sand, cool seawater and hours of bonding time with "a whole new world" that came to existence with about two to three hours of snorkielling just off the shore of Crocodile Island.
It was just my mom, me and Kami (my iPod) playing Sara Bareilles as I sped past Jaro, Leganes, Zarraga and Pototan on that clear, cool morning. We usually take the bus whenever we go to Boracay so that no one has to worry about driving all the way to Aklan although one has to contend with the steady stream of grainy Steven Seagal movies (and they don't even show "Under Siege") and the requisite stops in almost every town for bathroom breaks. So what I usually do is find a good seat near the window, prop up my fluffy jacket on one side of my head and lull off to sleep until we get to the Caticlan Jetty Port.
So while I sat behind the wheel on that morning, I realized that in all of my trips to Aklan, I had come to ignore the beauty of the countryside. The trees lined the roadside like silent, proud sentinels, the mountains glowed purple in the horizon and the ricefields stretched like an endless verdant mass. "It's so nice here," I kept on telling my mom. The sight was all together familiar yet different, much like a steaming mug of chocolate in a coffeeshop in the side of town you don't usually frequent.
Despite previous days literally pummelled by rain, the sun finally shone in its full glory on that morning, a big yellow ball resplendent in its corner of the sky. That was the way it was as I drove out of the city and into the neighboring towns until I got to Passi, a relatively quiet, hilly town with roads that seemed to roll up and down and slightly meandered from one side to another. As a matter of fact when the car or bus is going pretty fast, one gets the same tummy tickling sensation that comes with sudden plane drops or riding a huge, fast-rotating ferris wheel.
Thick fog had enveloped much of Passi and had settled into the road, leaving only a few meters in front of me visible. In a matter of seconds, the fog had engulfed us in an embrace that was pleasantly suffocating and seemed to have transported us into some English countryside inhabited by the likes of either sinister Heathcliff or pleasant Molly of Elizabeth Gaskell's "Wives and Daughters." My momentary morphing was interrupted by the sight of little children running down the road in their sleeveless shirts, cotton shorts and rubber slippers - clothing that obviously would lead to hypothermia in some far-off English countryside.
The fog drifted towards the car much like formless ghosts which temporary sojourned with my mother, Kami (still with Sara Bareilles) and me in the car's cabin as the vehicle plowed into their mass which offered no resistance. More trees lined the sidewalk and though there was no way they gave the impression of being in the middle of the woods, the low visibility caused by the fog seemed to make a good suggestion that I just do post-production and editing using my imagination. I immediately felt like the speaker in Robert Frosts's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" as the surroundings were slowly plunged into some kind of darkness with the trees offering quite a refuge from the sunlight's pathetic onslaught. I wanted to stop the car and take a walk, albeit a quick one. I was debating on whether or not I should pull over, bring out my camera and take a few shots. However, much like the speaker in the poem, no matter if the roadside appeared to be "woods...lovely, dark and deep," stopping would mean spending some time off the road even if I had kilometers to go before I got to my destination. So I snapped a couple of shots with my phone camera from the windshield just so I could have some sort of remembrance of the sight I found quite enchanting.
So I drove on without stopping until the fog had slowly dissipated and without me realizing it, the road in front of me was clear and my surroundings were sunny again. On hindsight, it seemed to have been a good idea to stop. In fact, it seemed like the perfect thing to do at a rare time like that. I promised myself I would stop on the way back even when I knew there was no reassurance that the place would once again be smothered with fog on my way back or that the same eerily comforting feeling would permeate the surroundings. But who could stop when there were still miles to cover, people to meet or deadlines to beat? When I first read that poem about fifteen years ago, I had been so sure that if were in the position of the speaker in Frosts's poem, I would stop with no hesitation. Turns out, I would not.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
(by Robert Frost)
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
