The Journey Back

The Islands

They rode on and passed houses and small stores by the road that was surrounded now and then by trees of all kinds and sizes. They crossed a bridge that linked the island to another island where a huge mountain loomed and seemed to take most of the island. It was shaped like a turtle or maybe an elephant with its trunk and giant ear from their direction. Amazing, Raza thought as he craned his neck to get a better view. Uncle Macky smiled proudly.

“We call it ‘Bud Bongao’. ‘Bud’ means mountain. And the island itself is called Bongao.”

The verdant mountain stood there around the turquoise blue sea, with long white sand beach to spare. The wind blew coldly in their direction and Raza inhaled the cold sea breeze. A small channel, mangroves growing on each side, separated the two islands and opened to the sea. The road led to the mountain, or so he thought. It passed along the unexploited beach and through the outskirts of the mountain forest. Thatch and metal roofs covered some small wooden houses that were held a foot or so above the ground by sturdy posts. The roadside was strewn also with bungalows or two-story houses made of hollow blocks and cements with the ubiquitous coconut trees as the backdrop.

Despite being busy looking at the view, he felt the driver’s curious eyes bore him through the rearview mirror. He knew he looked foreign, but it never was a big deal back home. Here, he felt like a celebrity with all the stares he was getting.

They reached a densely populated part of the island with active traffic in the intersection. He looked to his left and noticed a walled area with a building with its cross on the top, the wrought-iron gates showed neatly mowed lawn. “Is that a church?” Raza blurted suddenly.

“Yes,” Uncle Macky answered matter-of-factly.

“I didn’t know there are churches in here. I thought this place is filled with Muslims”

“That’s because you’ve never been here before,” Uncle Macky said simply. “We lived with them peacefully for years. Here, you don’t get discriminated just because you’re not Muslim. But in places where there are lots of ‘educated’ people, they discriminate you for being one.”

The narrow and busy roads parted buildings and other establishments. The air was filled with tropical heat and noises from wheeled vehicles. In a few minutes, they arrived at the pier. He got down from the tricycle and Uncle Macky followed. The driver briskly untied the rope that was holding the two bags and settled it on the ground. Uncle Macky paid the driver. He and Raza each picked their bags. He walked familiarly along the pier scanning the row of boats that were basically made of wood, whatever the sizes. Some were level with the pier, some were higher than it. Uncle Macky spotted the one and walked over it. Raza noted that the only way they could get to the boat was cross the wooden plank connecting the pier to its bow. Some sort of knotwork held the plank in place but it rose up and down in rhyme with the gentle tug of the waves on the boat. Raza shook his head as if it was some weird dream he was having. Walk the plank, what the heck.

And walk the plank Uncle Macky did and landed safely on the bow. He waved his hand in a ‘come now’ manner but Raza’s feet felt glued to the ground. Uncle Macky whispered something to a guy in the boat and he nodded. The guy crossed the plank and offered to take his bag. He handed it. But when he offered another hand for him to hold, “No, thanks,” Raza decided. He was not going to act sissy in front of this people. The guy stood aside and Raza pulled himself together.

“Bismillah,” he whispered and yes, he too walked the plank. It wobbled but he balanced precariously and managed to make two big strides to get faster to the bow. Uncle Macky reached for his arms and pulled him to ‘safety’. He seemed to have found it amusing because he was trying hard to hide a grin.

Yeah, keep smiling, Raza thought to himself.

The ride on the boat lasted for about an hour. He felt seasick and won’t take the sandwiches and soft drinks that Uncle Macky bought before the boat left. The boat was very open. The sea breeze got him more seasick. The sound from the engine reverberated through the entire trip and was barely muffled by the wooden floorboards where different bags and boxes had been placed. The captain’s cabin was somewhere on the above deck. Long wooden benches were built on both sides of the boat where the passengers sit or sleep sitting, face covered with a handkerchief.

Uncle Macky enjoyed the trip; he talked with plenty of passengers and seemed to know every one of them. He occasionally introduced Raza and he only politely smiled back. His father’s name was again mentioned and other passengers seemed surprised when he said it. Half an hour later, he was already feeling worn out and he dozed off, not knowing other passengers were stealing glances at him. He didn’t know really that not all the time they get to see a good-looking young foreigner in their midst. And of course, they knew his father; in a small village like theirs, it’s not hard to know about everyone else.

The boat finally docked at the pier that might have been originally concrete when the tide was high up to that point; but the receding tides might have called for building a wooden extension to the pier. Or maybe simply the budget for building it got short. Rows of wooden houses were built above the water but still connected to land.

Two boys riding bicycles about the age of Raza met them at the pier and Uncle Macky told him to give them his bag. “They’ll carry it home,” he said. Along the road with presence of sand everywhere, he caught glances from the villagers. The houses in the place were normally by the roadside. To his right were the houses that stood above the waters and to his left were the ones on land. The houses were of different styles and architecture. Not that he thought an architect designed it or that an engineer supervised its construction. He settled with the idea of experienced foremen and carpenters.