I wish I can tell you that once is all it takes.
I wish I can tell you that you can know a person’s entire life – his dreams and his stories, his regrets and his nightmares – after one conversation. I wish I can tell you that you can understand a city’s history and predict its future after walking the cobblestones that line its paths once. I wish I can tell you that you can know what the earth looks like – its imperfections and details, the crevices that form it and the terrain that runs through its bosom – after one sweeping look as you seemingly straddle the world on top of one mountain.
The Monolith in Pico de Loro, Cavite, Philippines. Photo by Joey Torres (I’m that girl in yellow!)
I wish I can tell you that getting lost once will take you to your destination – and all destinations thereafter; that one photo is enough to make you realize how majestic the Golden Gate is, or El Nido in the Philippines, or the rolling sand dunes and oases that border the countries of the Middle East; that leaving your comfort zone one time – to jump on a plane and experience the way the other side of the world travels – is enough to give you a taste of the earth.
Our boat (with the Qatar flag) in El Nido, Palawan, Philippines. Photo by me.
Unfortunately, I’d be lying if I did.
Because inasmuch as I’d like to say that once is all it takes, I know it isn’t true; most of the time, once isn’t enough.
People have always asked me why I preferred to leave home time and time again to go to places – some of which I’ve been to, many of which I’m unfamiliar with, and I tell them it’s because I’ve learned that I always see things for the first time, no matter how many times I come back. Bemused – and polite – they tell me to go on; and I do, though perhaps they secretly wish I wouldn’t. I tell them about life’s unpredictability, and humanity’s equally ever-changing ways. I tell them that no matter how many times I’d ride the same boat and hop among the same islands, I’m never the same person.
True, many constants remain – the oceans are still cerulean, the mountains still imposing, and the world still beautiful despite our almost Herculean efforts to spoil it; but other things are much more flexible – our moods, our experiences, our lives, our stories. I travel because even if I’ve swam the Pacific a hundred times, I still cannot grasp its entirety; even if I’ve conversed with the Bedouins on a daily basis, I am still not able to fully understand their lives; even if I’ve traversed my favourite mountain more times than I can count, I still regale in the beauty of the earth every time I reach the summit; even if I’ve seen the clouds from the windows of all the planes I’ve traveled on since I was a baby, I still love to trace patterns, new shapes and fictitious animals, with my index fingers when I’m a thousand feet above the ground.
Riding the ATV in Sealine, Qatar. Photo by PJ Javier.
I love to travel because everything’s new, even in the places that I’ve been going to all my life… mostly, and more importantly, because I’m new. Because while I haven’t undergone tremendous changes during the two years that I last used an ATV on the Doha dunes and now, I’m not the same person I was. Now I notice things I didn’t notice before, or chose not to, because I was too busy figuring out how to manoeuvre my vehicle. Now I see how the sun’s positions change the sand’s colours, I feel how the sand is fine against my callous feet, and I notice the heat twisting my burnt hair into a frizz I won’t be able to contain. I’m not going to see everything now, though, and if I were to be completely honest, I don’t think I mind; after all, isn’t that what my next visit will be for?
Of perpetual finds 