This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on December 30, 1999.
Okay, I know the sun will rise in the new millennium. It doesn’t matter where you are: in your comfort room, in your bed with your 6-year-old, pruning roses in your garden, sipping juice in your terrace or knee-deep in mud in the rice field. It doesn’t matter whether you’re at the peak of Mount Apo or at Pusan Point. You can see that same sun rise from your window. That is, if no misguided hand messes with some destructive button somewhere to rain destruction on all of creation.
My friends and I want to watch the sunrise, the sunset, anything the world can offer anywhere but from our offices. Just the idea of going somewhere is enough to invigorate us, calm our nerves and make us ready for long months of work and struggle. Thus to me it seemed like a good idea to spend a few moments at Pusan Point and write about watching ”a huge round ball of butter melting on a huge dish of gold” with mouth agape. When the Philippine Information Agency (PIA) arranged a media tour to Pusan Point as part of the campaign to promote tourism in the region, we jumped at the opportunity.
We knew the sun’s first rays always touch Pusan Point first before they start to scorch the rest of the country. This has been so for centuries, and people in that place must have taken this fact for granted. They are probably too busy eking out a living to notice the beautiful sunrise. There’s really nothing new about the sun rising in the morning. But Pagasa’s first hint about ‘the ”millennium sunrise” was caught by some very imaginative individuals who then hatched the brilliant idea of promoting Pusan Point as a tourist attraction.
For people who are sick and tired of the time card, of seeing the same faces in the same uniform, of going to the malls, of watching all kinds of movies and of enduring the heavy traffic, Pusan Point must be a welcome change, sunrise or no sunrise. It certainly looked that way to me. I wanted to see my friends in rugged shirts, heavy jackets, maong and rubber shoes. I wanted to feel the grass while we walked, and I wanted to hear the sound of laughter in a lonely countryside. I wanted to shout and kid around as we awaited that sunrise and imagine how it would look like on the first day of the new millennium.
I also anticipated the joy of riding in convoy with my friends and letting my thoughts go back in time as we raced through the countryside. I wanted to see Caraga’s century-old churches and think of the women who helped to build them a hundred years ago. But most of all, I wanted to get in touch with myself, for the part of me that was lost in the clutter of everyday living, among the soiled clothes, the dirty dishes, assignments and work. But for a single parent like me, a simple thing like going to Pusan Point is no easy matter.
For someone who acts as breadwinner and mother, a deviation from the daily routine can bring about some complications. I have no baby-sitter, so I had the problem of where to leave my preschooler. I thought of hiring a teenager to baby-sit and sleep with him alone in the apartment, but immediately dismissed the idea. I thought of leaving him in a child-care facility, but there was none in my part of the country that offered such services for the night. A daycare worker might be willing to take my son to her home, but the experience might be too unpleasant for him.
So I was left with no other option but to leave him with my mother, who lived a good three-hour ride away. The PIA scheduled the trip on a Friday. I planned to make the six-hour round trip to Davao del Sur Thursday so I could leave him with his grandma. But that meant we had to leave by 11 o’clock, preschool dismissal time. But then I found a note on my child’s notebook saying, ”Everybody will report tomorrow.” A quiz was scheduled for that day and he would miss it if I pursued my stupid dream of going to Pusan Point the next day. ”But he has a lifetime ahead of him, while yours is almost over” a friend prodded me.
That fanned the embers of my stupid desire to go to Pusan Point and I was in panic. I had to travel six hours even before I could start the five-hour trip to see a sunset. But ignoring the quiz and the guilt of making my son miss it, I embarked on the six-hour trip to Davao del Sur. Along the way, I dealt with a surly conductor, took a jeepney whose brakes didn’t work in the middle of the highway and made it to my mother’s house riding a motorcycle in the rain.
”Why are you here?” my mother demanded while I hurriedly removed all my kid’s stuff from my bag. ”He’ll miss his classes?” Mother has a very high regard for education. ”It’s Friday,” I said. ”Why the hurry? Where are you going?” ”To Caraga.” She paused, locating Caraga in her mind. ”Is it very urgent?” she finally asked. ”Yes,” I said. ”We’re going to see the sunrise.” ”Why? The sun rises here every day.”
I was off before she could finish her sentence. It was almost six o’clock. I boarded a bus that practically flew me back to Davao City. When I arrived at eight in the evening, I was exhausted and I missed my son. I felt guilty about dumping him like a sack of rice just to see a sunrise. I started wondering whether I should join the trip. In my heart, was this 6-year-old resentment over the fact that mothers have to cover extra miles and do extra work just so they can keep up with others in the work place. But I knew I had to go to Caraga. I had to see the sunrise–or sunset.
I assumed the itinerary covered sunset-watching in some remote barangay of San Isidro. I had to see that great big butter melting on the plate of gold, standing in a promontory with my friends. I had started weaving enchanting images in my mind, as I pictured myself on the road. So despite drooping eyelids, I packed my things, took some money from the ATM, and bought an extra cellcard to prepare for the trip the following morning. The next day, I was very early on my way to Magsaysay Park, where we were supposed to assemble. I couldn’t wait to see the smiling faces of my friends again. I tried to ignore the guilt gnawing at my stomach and decided to take care of it when I got back.
When I reached the park, I was surprised to see only a few people around. My friends, Radzini and Judy, were not there. Neither was Ayan or Ma’am Prix. Jeanevieve had a strange look on her face when she saw me carrying my backpack.
”Why, where are the others?” I asked. ”There are only seven of us,” she said with a smile. ”Seven! I thought there were 20.” ”C’mon, we will be late for Casa Verde,” she said, rushing to board the van. ”Case Verde?” I asked, confused. ”I thought, we were going to Pusan Point.” Jeanevieve gave me an incredulous look. ”Oh, I’m sorry, Gal!” she said. ”They left last night!”
Suddenly my backpack felt very heavy and my rubber shoes looked very awkward on my feet. I felt stupid standing there in the park. While I was on the road bringing my son to my mother, the departure time was moved. While I was recovering from exhaustion and packing my things, they left. They had no way of contacting me or knowing where I was. While I was sipping coffee that morning, thinking about the trip, they must have been watching the sunrise. In my mind, I could picture Radzini cracking jokes, Judy giggling beside her and Edith’s guffawing in the lonely promontory. Amy would be there, too, babbling about the old churches of Caraga. Meanwhile, I who missed that stupid sunrise was left wondering if ever I would find my soul there. And to think, I made my son skip his quiz.
