Categories
Musings

What’s in a Name?

By Jun A. Alindogan… also known as Manuel A, Alindogan

Lines from Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare(1564-1616) From Public Domain

When I was in kindergarten, the only name I knew was Jun. So when my teacher called me by my full name, I didn’t respond at all.

Obviously, I was named after my father and am the second child in a brood of four. Many acquaintances actually mistake my name for Emmanuel. I don’t know why my grandparents named my father Manuel, but it might be attributed to common influences in the community, not necessarily based on a desired dream or a definite meaning. My grandfather was from Fujian, China, as were many other Chinese migrants to the Philippines. It is presently common for Filipino Chinese to have Filipino surnames, which could be traced back to the Spanish regime in the Philippines when conversion to Catholicism entailed getting a godparent to sponsor one’s last name.

Although my surname has its Tagalog root, which means alluring or captivating, my facial features are predominantly Chinese despite being just a quarter Chinese. According to my mom, I got my habit of heavy toothbrushing from my father. My dentist told me that I inherited my yellowish and strong teeth from my dad. According to stories, my grandmother, Isadora, was from Tondo, Manila, who I presume, had some Chinese roots too as her maiden name was Gubangco.

While teaching at a special speech school in Manila, I met a student from Capiz province whom I got to know better through some conversations on a bus heading to a southern suburb. She asked me about my middle name, which is Arnaldo, and mentioned that my roots might have a tendril from her province. She also noted that in addition to Roxas City, there is an Arnaldo City in the province. Similarly, there is a highway named Arnaldo in General Trias, Cavite province. However, our Arnaldo clan is from Bulacan province, so I am not sure if we have relatives who migrated to Capiz or if it is the other way around.

It is interesting to note that my grandfather had only one sibling. They shared two last names, which were Arnaldo Cruz. These names were not to be mistaken for middle and last names, as is the legal order of our names. From some information I received from my cousins, I discovered that my grandfather decided to only have one last name, so he adopted Arnaldo, while his brother took on Cruz. In Spanish, arnaldo means powerful as an eagle.

Our Arnaldo clan is large, as my mother had twelve siblings, with one dying shortly after birth. All of my uncles’ first names ended with the letter O, while two of my aunts shared the same last letter, A, in their first names as my mom. I do not have information about my grandfather’s brother and whether he had a large family as well. However, I do know that my mom and her siblings were close to their first cousins, who mostly lived in a village in Tondo, Manila.

One of their cousins worked in theatre, sharing the last name Arnaldo, for many years until his passing. My second cousin, whose maiden name is also Arnaldo, is a seasoned actress for television and movies. Another nephew who shares the same last name, Arnaldo, owns a boutique in Makati and is a fashion designer. His father was a village captain (Barangay Chairman) in Tondo. I am a freelance writer with a creative non-fiction portfolio. I do not know if talent is innate, but I believe it is a gift that needs to be consistently nourished and shared. Each family has its own unique talent, origin, and destination.

A former movie actress, who used to be known by her maiden name Arnaldo, has now become a nun and has turned her back on films. However, we are not related. She was also an environmentalist. Perhaps we are all connected in some way, but as time and tradition fade away, we cannot definitively identify these physiological and social elements.

When I moved to a residence uphill a few decades ago, the municipal mayor’s last name was Cuerpo. Residents claimed he was originally from Nueva Ecija, the province next to Bulacan. Recently, I discovered that two last names were common during our grandparents’ time. I learned about this during annual visits to our family tomb in Obando, my hometown. My grandmother had a brother whom we fondly called Lolo (grandfather) and was a good painter. I remember a porch at their house with a concrete wall painted with fish, shells, and other marine life. His name was Eliseo, but we knew him by his nickname Sayong. On our family tomb, his death marker shows his full name as Eliseo Cuerpo Cruz Enriquez. Does this mean that we are remotely related to the previous town mayor of my current residence? Her daughter recently started a political career and won as the number one councilor in our just-concluded national and local government elections. It would be great to have a conversation with her about her family origins. Cuerpo means body in Spanish.

In my first teaching job at a high school in my province in the late 80s, I had the opportunity, along with my colleagues, to visit the ancestral house of the then-municipal mayor, former mayor Tito Enriquez of Bulakan, Bulacan, on his birthday. His house reminded me of the Alindogan ancestral house, also known as Bahay na Bato (stone house), where the ground floor was used for firewood storage, free-range chicken, and other household items. I suspect that we may be related, as my grandmother was also from Bulacan, but from a different municipality, Baliwag. I recall attending a large family reunion of the Arnaldo-Enriquez clan in the same town during my childhood, which rarely occurs now since all of my mom’s siblings have passed away. In my first year of teaching, I was too timid to inquire or discuss my ancestry with the mayor. “Enriquez” means “son of Enrique” in Spanish. According to history, the Enriquez family of Bulakan, Bulacan, were prominent heroes in the Battle of San Rafael[1].

Not everyone has the opportunity to observe, identify, and understand family connections from the past and present, but it is always a good idea to remember where we come from. This can perhaps help us navigate our present and future destinations more clearly.

[1] Fought between the Spanish and the Filipinos in 1896

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Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specializes in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Editorial

“Imagine all the people/Living life in peace”

God of War by Paul Klee (1879-1940)
The sky weeps blood, the earth cannot contain
The sorrow of the young ones we've slain.
How now do dead kids laugh while stricken by red rain?

— from Stricken by Red Rain: Poems by Jim Bellamy

When there is war
And peace is gone
Where is their home?
Where do they belong?

— from Poems on Migrants by Kajoli Krishnan

Poetry, prose — all art forms — gather our emotions into concentrates that distil perhaps the finest in human emotions. They touch hearts across borders and gather us all with the commonality of feelings. We no longer care for borders drawn by divisive human constructs but find ourselves connecting despite distances. Strangers or enemies can feel the same emotions. Enemies are mostly created to guard walls made by those who want to keep us in boxes, making it easier to manage the masses. It is from these mass of civilians that soldiers are drawn, and from the same crowds, we can find the victims who die in bomb blasts. And yet, we — the masses — fight. For whom, for what and why? A hundred or more years ago, we had poets writing against wars and violence…they still do. Have we learnt nothing from the past, nothing from history — except to repeat ourselves in cycles? By now, war should have become redundant and deadly weapons out of date artefacts instead of threats that are still used to annihilate cities, humans, homes and ravage the Earth. Our major concerns should have evolved to working on social equity, peace, human welfare and climate change.

One of the people who had expressed deep concern for social equity and peace through his films and writings was Satyajit Ray. This issue has an essay that reflects how he used art to concretise his ideas by Dolly Narang, a gallery owner who brought Ray’s handiworks to limelight. The essay includes the maestro’s note in which he admits he considered himself a filmmaker and a writer but never an artist. But Ray had even invented typefaces! Artist Paritosh Sen’s introduction to Ray’s art has been included to add to the impact of Narang’s essay. Another person who consolidates photography and films to do pathbreaking work and tell stories on compelling issues like climate change and helping the differently-abled is Vijay S Jodha. Ratnottama Sengupta has interviewed this upcoming artiste.

Reflecting the themes of welfare and conflict, Prithvijeet Sinha’s essay takes us to a monument in Lucknow that had been built for love but fell victim to war. Some conflicts are personal like the ones of Odbayar Dorj who finds acceptance not in her hometown in Mongolia but in the city, she calls home now. Jun A. Alindogan from Manila explores social media in action whereas Eshana Sarah Singh takes us to her home in Jakarta to celebrate the Chinese New Year! Farouk Gulsara looks into the likely impact of genetic engineering in a world already ripped by violence and Devraj Singh Kalsi muses on his source of inspiration, his writing desk. Meredith Stephens tells the touching story of a mother’s concern for her child in Australia and Suzanne Kamata exhibits the same concern as she travels to Happy Village in Japan to meet her differently-abled daughter and her friends.

As these real-life narratives weave commonalities of human emotions, so do fictive stories. Some reflect the need for change. Fiona Sinclair writes a layered story set in London on how lived experiences define differences in human perspectives while Parnika Shirwaikar explores the need to learn to accept changes set in her part of the universe. Spandan Upadhyay explores the spirit of the city of Kolkata as a migrant with a focus on social equity. Both Paul Mirabile and Naramsetti Umamaheswararao write stories around childhood, one set in Europe and the other in Asia.

As prose weaves humanity together, so does poetry. We have poems from Jim Bellamy and Kajoli Krishnan both reflecting the impact of war and senseless violence on common humanity. Ryan Quinn Flanagan introduces us to Canadian bears in his poetry while Snigdha Agrawal makes us laugh with her lines about dogs and hatching Easter eggs! We have a wide range of poems from Snehprava Das, George Freek, Niranjan Aditya, Christine Belandres, Ajeeti S, Ron Pickett, Stuart McFarlane, Arthur Neong and Elizabeth Anne Pereira. Rhys Hughes concludes his series of photo poems with the one in this issue — especially showcasing how far a vivid imagination can twist reality with a British postman ‘carrying’ sweets from India! His column, laced with humour too, showcases in verse Lafcadio Hearn, a bridge between the East and West from more than a hundred years ago, a man who was born in Greece, worked in America and moved to Japan to even adopt a Japanese name.

Just as Hearn bridged cultures, translations help us discover how similarly all of us think despite distances in time and space. Radha Chakravarty’s translation of Kazi Nazrul Islam’s concerns about climate change and melting icecaps does just that! Professor Fakrul Alam’s translation of Nazrul’s lyrics from Bengali on women and on the commonality of human faith also make us wonder if ideas froze despite time moving on. Tagore’s poem titled Asha (hope) tends to make us introspect on the very idea of hope – just as we do now. At a more personal level, a contemporary poem reflecting on the concept of identity by Munir Momin has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. From Korean, Ihlwah Choi translates his own poem about losing the self in a crowd. We start a new column on translated Odia poetry from this month. The first one features the exquisite poetry of Bipin Nayak translated by Snehprava Das. Huge thanks to Bhaskar Parichha for bringing this whole project to fruition.

Parichha has also drawn bridges in reviews by bringing to us the memoirs of a man of mixed heritage, A Stranger in Three Worlds: The Memoirs of Aubrey Menen. Andreas Giesbert from Germany has reviewed Rhys Hughes’ The Devil’s Halo and Somdatta Mandal has discussed Arundhathi Nath’s translation, The Phantom’s Howl: Classic Tales of Ghosts and Hauntings from Bengal. Our book excerpts this time feature Devabrata Das’s One More Story About Climbing a Hill: Stories from Assam, translated by multiple translators from Assamese and Ryan Quinn Flangan’s new book, Ghosting My Way into the Afterlife, definitely poems worth mulling over with a toss of humour.

Do pause by our contents page for this issue and enjoy the reads. We are ever grateful to our ever-growing evergreen readership some of whom have started sharing their fabulous narratives with us. Thanks to all our readers and contributors. Huge thanks to our wonderful team without whose efforts we could not have curated such valuable content and thanks specially to Sohana Manzoor for her art. Thank you all for making a whiff of an idea a reality!

Let’s hope for peace, love and sanity!

Best wishes,

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Click here to access the contents page for the May 2025 Issue

READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE FIRST BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGY, MONALISA NO LONGER SMILES, BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK.

Categories
Slices from Life

Social Media Repitition

By Jun A. Alindogan

I remember feeling tense when I opened my very first email account with the help of the friendly staff at a British registered charity office where I was a member of the learning resource centre in Manila. I thought that it would open a floodgate of privacy issues, including surveillance and compromise. The world’s technological landscape was changing, and I had to adapt. I have always held onto the belief that while technology has immense benefits, it also has a lot of unbridled consequences, including insecurities, pride, selfishness, egoism, shame, and individual and religious superiority. A number of digital platforms have continuously increased and evolved in various iterations, from its email function to TikTok, Facebook, Messenger, Viber, vlogs, WhatsApp, YouTube channels, Pinterest, Blogspot, WordPress, LinkedIn, ZoomInfo, and Threads. The list seems endless.

I have a personal and professional Facebook account, as well as Messenger and Viber, because I find these platforms to be the most helpful to me. I have limited comprehension when it comes to understanding why young people feel the need to be on every digital platform. In my opinion, less is more. Being overexposed can be toxic in terms of seeking external validation and interaction. Not every thought needs to be published on social media. Why do you have to drag your friends and family and even strangers into your rollercoaster of emotions and shifting ideas about life’s journey all the time? While it is true that social media is a tool for self-expression, it is also equally true that it is a medium for self-destruction, as transparency can be both good and evil.

Take, for instance, the case of a woman in her mid-20s who is active on various social media platforms such as Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, Twitter, Pinterest, Blogspot, WordPress, TikTok and X (Twitter). She lost her parents at a young age and had to work as a household helper in the city. Eventually, she received a government scholarship and was able to continue her college studies. She shared on one of her social media accounts that it has become a sort of diary for her, in addition to her voice notes and physical journal. What is the reason for this repetition? Perhaps it is an issue of validation. When an individual delves into an onslaught of social media accounts, it implies proving one’s identity and self-esteem to the world. This can become a form of spiritual superiority, indicating that the person is self-absorbed. We are not the world.

The same holds true for partners who must keep up with their significant others’ social media accounts. The rat race is not just physical, but also digital. For instance, decisions about getting married early are often swayed by image quotes or social media discussions that push boyfriends to give in to these pressures, even if it’s not the right time for those who have only been working for less than two years and have not established a stable and relevant career. Saving for one’s wedding becomes the priority when it should be the other way around – saving for one’s personal and professional growth and development first. Why is there a need for comparison? As a result, emotional manipulation and threats are common. Career concerns are also plagued by the pressure to amass wealth by a certain age. The repetition of social media posts may be a way for individuals to acknowledge their own shortcomings.

In the context of a close friend, I have often wondered why, in most of his photos with me and our other friends, he rarely smiles. Yet, in his photos with his girlfriend, he has a big smile all the time. Is this a result of social media pressure, causing him to appear serious with friends while showcasing happiness in his relationship? On the contrary, I believe that his consistent seriousness may be a reflection of both his and his partner’s insecurities and jealousy.

For years, I have developed a close bond with a friend who was orphaned at a young age. Our main forms of communication are face-to-face and online. However, a year ago, he unexpectedly unfriended me on Facebook. I suspect that this decision may be related to the social media pressure he faces regarding his relationship. Despite this, we still communicate and share stories on Viber and meet face to face, although not as frequently as before. I understand that his job at a global fast food chain keeps him busy, but the pressure from social media can be overwhelming as it becomes a cycle of repetition.

In a way, social media serves as an escape, so repetition is necessary to cope with both material and non-material stressors. To some extent, this coping mechanism may be healthy, but most of the time, it becomes detrimental to a person’s well-being. Being overly repetitive on social media always comes at a cost.


Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specialises in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Adventures of a Backpacking Granny

Frenetic Philippines

Narrative & Photographs by Sybil Pretious

“The beauty of the world is the diversity of its peoples.”

During the Chinese New Year holiday in 2010 (I turned 68 that year), I resolved to visit the Philippines. It was a last-minute thought, so preparations were minimal. Barry, in Australia, like me, made an instant decision and would land in Manila the day after I did, both of us just toting our backpacks as luggage.

The Philippines is made up of 7,640 islands and is situated in South-East Asia. The local language is Tagalog. Its position in the Pacific ‘Ring of Fire’ makes it susceptible to earthquakes and typhoons and volcanic activity. I was interested in visiting the Taal Volcano which erupted in January 2020 and had had some of the country’s deadliest eruptions. Mount Pinatubo which last erupted in 1991 (the biggest eruption of the century).  The islands are known for their stunning beaches and azure waters, but I was focused on the mountains.

Nine days was hardly time to take in this astounding country, so we limited our wanderings to Luzon. Even that was ridiculous, and it was one of the lessons I learnt on that trip – less travel and more getting to know local people should be my mantra.

There was another fascinating fact – the presence of the fire mummies,  2000-year-old bodies preserved in pinewood coffins, in the Kabayan area. This proved to be an inward as well as an outward journey of significance in my life.

Travelling in the Philippines offers a colourful variety of vehicles and we had great fun contorting ourselves into side cars, covered motorcycles, three wheeled vehicles, buses and the very distinctive Jeepney.

I arrived the day before Barry, so I travelled into Manila to see the old Spanish walled city — The Intramuros. I caught a ‘tricycle’ which is a motorbike with covered sidecar. It was rather hair-raising, squealing round corners and going over bumps. Chatting to the driver when we stopped, I discovered that he had had to work for many years to obtain enough money for a license, but he was very proud of his vehicle. Subsequently friends of mine had sponsored one of these drivers which I thought was a wonderful thing to do. I then caught a vehicle that I have never seen in any other country – a colourful jeepney. A big jeep-like engine in front and then the covered back has seats on either side and held about 20 people. This is the main form of transport and there are regular ‘jeepney jams’.

 We took normal buses to get to Capas and Pinatubo Spa Town and up to the Volcano next day. At the Spa town I couldn’t resist a volcanic mud bath hoping that it might help my awful itchy skin. It wasn’t quite what I expected – I had to change into baggy shorts and top provided and then two young girls slimed the mud over me till I looked like someone from the coon carnival. I then sat around uncomfortably, in full view of everyone, till it dried and then showered it off. My skin was still awful but luckily my face was a whole lot better. Maybe I needed a few more treatments.

 A rather an extreme way to treat itchy skin

The trip in a jeep through rivers, volcanic ash, sand, mud took us to the Pinatabo volcano.  The eerie, moonlike mud scenery showed devastated river courses and vegetation. A ferried boat trip across the turquoise blue lake to the volcanic island with some small ‘craters’ still bubbling beside the lake. It felt unreal, not of this world.

Our guest house was a double story wooden structure that felt unstable, but the people were charming. Off again in the morning on a bus driven by a manic driver through a very scary mountain ‘highway’ veering dangerously close to the crumbling edges on a single lane with very sparse passing places where we had to back up for other vehicles.

                   

We stopped for food and a toilet break. I approached the toilet building and looked inside. It was enough to make me gag. There was a long ditch down the middle of the room. Somehow you got your feet on either side and did what you had to do. Not only that but it was used by men and women at the same time! No time for niceties on this journey.

Always along the way were smiling children happy in their circumstances. I was thinking the many privileged children I had taught, who hardly ever seemed happy with what they had. They would benefit from living in areas like these just for a few months.

Kabayan was the one place I really wanted to be during this adventure. The Timbac caves hold the ‘fire mummies’. We set out with three French people, to climb up to the caves, a climb we were told would take four hours. It took me six hours. At the start Barry and I did not have much water and asked the guide if we could get some. He indicated a village on the way, but there was no bottled water, only cold drinks, which we discovered were not hydrating.

I climbed wearily up grassy hills, pulling on my trusty stick, feeling that this was the last thing I wanted to do. I just unable summon any energy. We arrived at a ‘farmhouse’ where there was an open tank and running water from a spring and also a pile of carrots.

I tipped my head back and drank and drank, then filled my bottles and ate a couple of carrots. I can’t describe what that water did but it was as though every cell in my body had woken up after a long painful sleep. I was anew woman and resumed the walk. Barry said he would see us on the way down — I thought he was joking.

I set off, energy high and kept a steady pace enjoying the scenery as I got higher. I was walking on my own because the French couple had gone on ahead and the other one had cramp and was trailing behind. Eventually the guide caught up to me and said that he had been all the way back for Barry, who said again that he was not coming and then the guide went on ahead to check the French couple were on the right track before returning to me. He had done a lot of extra mileage for his clients. Another lesson in service from these lovely people.

I caught up with the others before making the final steep climb to the caves. I was so glad that I had made it.

The guide took me on my own to the caves.

There, in small rocky caves, scattered around, some agape, some closed were the tiniest coffins. Surely these were for children? But no they were adults who had been placed in that sitting position. I had read about this mummification process which is no longer used in the Philippines.

Wikipedia has it that the unique mummification process was said to actually begin before death, with an individual participating in the initial steps. As death approached, the individual would drink a beverage with a very high concentration of salt. Drinking saltwater is known to dehydrate the body, so this initial step was used to start the drying process prior to death. After the individual passed away, the rest of the mummification process would take place. It is estimated that this process took anywhere from several weeks, to several months to complete.

The body was thoroughly washed, and then placed above a heat source in a seated position.  The body was not exposed to actual fire or flames but remained suspended above the smouldering kindling. Rather than burning the body, the heat and smoke would slowly and completely dehydrate the entire body. The internal drying process was ritually furthered along by blowing tobacco smoke into the deceased’s mouth. This was thought to help remove the fluids from internal organs.

Many of the caves had been looted but the one I visited had a rusty iron grid in front of the opening with an ancient padlock attached. The guide produced a key and opened the gate for me.

I sat down to look inside.  A feeling of sadness pervaded my senses. I went in to take a closer look and to say a prayer of thanksgiving for allowing me this privilege.  When I came out, I turned and kneeling with hands together I said, “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

The guide simply said, “Thank you. You understand. Not many people do.”

 The Visitors’ Book

We made our way back to the Guide’s Hut to wait for the Jeepney that was to collect us. I wrote in the visitors’ book while I waited:

“A wonderful, tiring walk with amazing scenery, friendly people and a very energetic, caring guide. Maybe tell the climbers to take more water. AND THEN The Mummies – what a privilege to see them. Please guard them with more security.”

The jeepney never came and as the light was fading my guide said we should make our way down. He knew a shorter way.

The road and path were not easy because of loose stones and I fell twice slightly pulling a muscle on my left side and knocking my head and bum. Good thing both are soft. We took three hours going down and the last hour was particularly difficult because it was dark and we had to use a torch. I stumbled several times wanting to give up and just sit on the road till morning. My guide steadied me and encouraged me.

Finally, back at the lodgings, I stumbled in ready to collapse onto my top bunk. Barry, looking fresh as a daisy made some stupid remark about my appearance that had the others laughing at me. I said nothing and went to our room but wondered why I had this effect on men when I had achieved something that they hadn’t.

The following day we left on another tortuous mountain road journey to Abangeg to climb Mt Pulag. We met up with six young Belgian doctors who were doing their internship in a hospital in Banguio. They walked right from the base of the mountain whereas us oldies took a jeepney to the Rangers Station and stayed the night there before attempting the summit climb of three hours. I did not find it easy — too much climbing in too short a time. We had to leave our guide half-way because she had tummy trouble. Barry seemed confident that he knew the way. The top of the mountain is not marked but we presumed we had made it as there were no higher peaks around. It was just covered in plain old grass!

We were lucky to get a lift back with the doctors in a 4×4 driven by Father Eugene who had been in the Philippines for 42 yrs. Lucky did I say? He drove like a Formula 1 driver over precarious mountain roads and sometimes I just closed my eyes and prayed — seemed appropriate seeing he was a priest!

 After a very long day traveling in many vehicles, we got back to our hostel, The Green Mango Inn, and on the following day took a trip to Taal Volcanic Lake and the smallest active volcano in the world. Yes, no rest days in between! We travelled from the town by tricycle. A boat that looked like a gondola with bamboo stays on either side took us across the water to travel to the Taal Volcanic Lake.

We were to ride on mules for the final part of the journey. I am not a rider having come off rather badly a couple of times but their minder assured us they were docile. Looking like bandits we had to wear masks because the fine black volcanic dust was not good to breathe in.

To my shame I never thought about the mules right then. They did not have masks on and would have been breathing in that fine dust every time they valiantly took tourists to see the lake.  Another lesson in being less self-centered.

The lake was calm, but I was not calm.  There seemed to be a ‘presence’ and I was not comfortable especially as there was still the ride back on the poor mules. Maybe I was just over-tired. I slept fitfully that night and went over all that I had experienced while in the Philippines. It was a jumble of thoughts and I realized for the first time during my backpacking adventures, I had done too much sightseeing and found out too little about the important parts of travel — the people and their lives.

I arrived back in Suzhou feeling very tired and older than my years but perhaps a little wiser about what travel should really be about.

“More is less.”

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Sybil Pretious writes mainly memoir pieces reflecting her varied life in many countries. Lessons in life are woven into her writing encouraging risk-taking and an appreciation of different cultures.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL