Botswana, Southern Africa, September 24, 2011: The Journey

When I was young, I would hear about the unprecedented adventures of my bloodline. My grand uncle spoke about oceans that froze which made their ship stand for months in the white north of the arctic. I was barely thirteen then. But he sparked my imagination of lands of ice that froze time and space. I would have moments, where I would question my fate. Do I create it, or am I at the mercy of my dreams?

My father took a different journey. This one is of the spirit, unlike my grand uncle’s. It had nothing to do with making a living, but his, was finding a life, yet to be born. He ran away from the glitter of politics and power, to hide in the jungles of Thailand; where all he had was a bowl that begs for enlightenment. I was barely seven then, when I heard about it. It stayed in my memory, as I was constantly reminded of that story during dinner time. I would close my eyes and wonder about the wanderings deep in the jungle in order to find my spirit, and return to that dinner table to speak of tales for a child I might hold one day in my arms.

And then there is my uncle, my father’s younger brother. His journey pulsed with the beat of the flower children of his time. He would travel the world with his tripod, and yes, that is, from Russia to China and the backdoors of Europe. It was rock and roll, hitting the road or diving in the deep seas with the friends he meets along the road. Thoughts of him raging with his electric guitar in the canyons, made me want to jump inside those postcards he has carefully kept over time.

Surely, the adventure began at home. My parents would ensure that every year, my brother and I travel the country with them, to see places we have never seen before. We have a separate bank account for “family adventures”, it was as vital as our formal education, or even more. We would explore tiny islands in the middle of the blue, enter grand caves to get our jaws to drop in awe or climb trails to listen to the monkeys ready to peek and jump on us.  And on a fine Saturday, we could pitch a tent in the front of the lawn and sleep there. My mother would stay inside the house as our watch guard over night, peeking on us from her bedroom window every now and then, when we still lived on a secluded hill in my early high school days.

I wonder if my “wandering feet” is biologically inherited. Perhaps, it is the conditioning of my family environment over time. I believe, however, that I simply heed the call of my spirit.

It has been a journey into the caves of my fears, climbing the heights of my dreams, testing my limits, stretching myself, and diving into the deep recesses of my heart.

And yes, I have seen rivers freeze and I have crossed it once or twice in the coastal south of  Western Scandinavia. I have rocked my joys traversing my country (the Philippines) from north to south with friends I met along the way. I have sat and wrote on my journal by the burning ghat in the Ganges river in India, while I watch dead bodies burn and limbs float along with the candles and flowers of worship.  I have lived in ashrams and slept in tents by the holy rivers.  I have made love in the deep jungles of northern Thailand. I have been stuck in lostness crossing the Ankor Wat to Phnom Phen in Cambodia. I have searched for crystals and silver in the caves in Mexico and have been humbled in awe of the snowy Himalayan range in Nepal. Over time, the giddiness settled, yet the journey continued. I sat in conferences in Spain and Singapore, and traveled comfortably with my family cruising the River Seine in Paris.

I have walked for miles as a traveler, a tourist, a pilgrim and a worker.  I saw the world through the intentions of my journey.  There was adventure when I was a traveler. There was magic when I was a pilgrim. There was novelty when I was a tourist. There were varied and unique systems when I was a worker. Every time I packed my backpack or my suitcase, there was a different me leaving and a different me, returning. My journals bring it all together as I try to make sense out of everything. Many times, I attempt and fail and throw my hands in the air, leaving what it was all about to future reflections.

I feel that the adventure is in the heart, in the imagination, in that child-like sense of wonder, abandon and excitement. I may walk on frozen rivers, traverse the Himalayan foothills, drink Spanish wine or walk the streets of Paris – but without that state of spirit of which the stories of adventures have found me in, I have not wandered at all.