Drive

I stick the key into the ignition, rev up my truck. I step on the accelerator. Slowly, I cruise the paved highway. City structures gradually blur as I gain speed. As I move along I see less and less people along the road. Concrete gives way to asphalt as I progress. Buildings give way to palm trees; I am passing the beach district.1

Cruising along the cliff I see the surf crash on the rock pilings below. I see men gathering firewood, some coming in from a day of fishing in their small bancas.*2

Women are taking down the day’s laundry from clotheslines made of rope from fishnets. Children run to meet their fathers and help carry the meager catch brought home from a whole day spent under the beating sun. I see a young couple walking along the shore, strolling their way into the sunset. My gaze follows them until I lose them to a thick hedge beyond an imposing rock formation jutting out of the gorge where, from my vantage point, land and sea met.3

A heart-stopping screech of rubber and a blasting horn bring me back. I barely miss a head-on collision and notice that I had been rounding a blind curve. As I swerve I nearly drive off the cliff at sixty miles per. I pulled over, allowing my palpitations to peak and then taper off. Cautious and pale I push back onto my lane and drive on. And on.4

And on until I reach a fork in the road. I let the engine idle at the confrontation of a dirt road and the national highway. I utter a question of self-scrutiny, take a deep breath and let the wheels of my 4x4 take me to whatever the dirt road held in store for me. I drive along, gradually speeding up. Rutted road led to gravel to loosely packed earth, and finally to underbrush. I was in a maze of trees, both old and just popping out of the ground. I work my way through that benign labyrinth I got myself into. I go round and round thoughtlessly.5

My fuel indicator warned of depletion. I killed the engine and looked up and around. I was in the middle of somewhere, a place I don’t even know the name of. I took my cigarettes from the glove compartment, shook out and lit one. I sit there and smoke one stick after another, just feeling the place and letting it fill me. I step out of the truck and pull myself up on the hood. The digital readout of the clock on my dash ticked seconds, minutes. I noticed that the truck was leaning somewhat to the left. I leaned over the side and watch the front tire collapse. Apparently, it met with something sharp earlier.6

The sun was almost submerged into the horizon. I couldn’t see it from here but I could tell from the shadows in the clearing just ahead of me and the blood red hue of the sky. I walk to the back to retrieve the spare and remember that that one’s had it as well. I gave out an exasperated sigh.7

I reach into my cigarette pack. There was none left. Flat tire, almost empty tank, middle of nowhere, sundown and with not a stick of tobacco, I was alone in a blue wood. I looked up and thought, ‘At least it’s not an overcast sky.’8

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*banca- a small boat with no sail, like a canoe10