In Gregorio Brillantes' Looking for Jose Rizal in Madrid, the whole world (particularly South America) looks like whatever province you happen to grow up in. In the author's case, it's Camiling, Tarlac. The deserted highways towards Mexico seem like the ones in Pampanga. The people in Nicaragua are like the people you might bump into when walking around Quezon city. The little hostel you are staying in looks like the house of your favorite aunt, ready to bombard you with an assortment of multicolored rice cakes.
Brillantes regularly throws himself onto out-of-the-way, usually difficult paths in search of... well, I'm not exactly sure what. It's like he thinks of people he wants to interview when he wakes up and goes on to do it. ("I think I'll interview a Sandinista leader today. No, I think I'll impose myself upon the President of the country.") Along the way, because this is travel literature more than political prose, he paints a thorough picture of every locale, every person he meets - from obscure churches to gruffy South American diplomats, rebel hideaways to swiss teachers turned Nicaraguan party girls.
All the while, the author is armed only with some basic grasp of Spanish (filled, as he says, with "falthering phrases in present tense") and press privileges bestowed on him by an obscure publication in Kamuning. (He claims that it's so poorly circulated that he would be surprised if he hears that it's been read outside of the editorial office.)
The author is not without fault, of course. For one thing, he seems utterly incapable of ending a sentence, choosing instead to cram an impossible number of vaguely related fragments in it. To beleaguer the point - you'd think that one thought is over but then a comma pops up out of nowhere to set you straight. (My goodness, man, there is no mass shortage of periods. Use them!)
But then, despite being long-winded, his passion for travel and for discovering different cultures emanates clearly. He loves meeting people. He loves hearing stories. He loves setting himself on his self-imposed adventures. He just loves it. And not just the places themselves. He loves the anticipation before arrival, the financial, cultural, social challenges and complexities of reaching your destination.
It strongly reminds me of my two things. One, my friends, Stef and Ailene, who both love to wander. (I don't know, this book is just so... them.) Two, my own yearning for travel and how I so, so, so miss it. And the feeling of "what-the-heck-am-I-doing-with-my-life-I-should-be-out-there-trying-out-scary-roadside-food-in-Latin-American-countries-and-interviewing-jolly-rebel-priests. (Yaker. The drama.)
Where was I? Oh, just read the darn thing then.
*Reposted from my old blog, spitefulspit.blogspot.com
0 comments:
Post a Comment