Larissa's Travel Journal

The boy lay in a box, his thin tan arms draped around the cardboard walls, his head lolled back in sleep while his bare soles, ingrained with grime, jutted over the top. He was young, no older than five. As my sister and I approached, the boy jumped out of his box as if electrocuted. Hastily, he dragged the box away, scuttling around the corner.  

The day we saw the boy in the box was the day we flew from Manila to Boracay, a tourist island a short flight away. Our plan was to tan and swim, read chick lit, sip margaritas and revel in our own ignorant bliss. Manila was supposed to be a mere stopover, forgettable, but the boy’s startled face was now etched into my memory.

Boracay met our expectations and then some. Transparent blue waves crawled up the sandy shore while palm trees dotted the promenade, tall and unwavering in their tropical stoicism. “It’s beautiful!” we breathed and dove into the warm pristine waters. I floated on my back and observed the sunset, a mesh of purple and pink hues, a blend of watercolours on an infinite canvas.

After a few days lying on large towels frying our skin, my body and mind became restless. I could not stop thinking about the boy. I walked aimlessly along the dusty pathway parallel to the beach, the rotten smell of Balut, two week old duck egg, pungent in the air. Vendors selling sunglasses sung out to me, trays secured to their chests. “Hey bootiful ladieeeee! Happy hour! Very cheap, special for you!” I waved them away. “Wait! I know you!" One of the men followed me down the path. I turned recognized him, he was the young man who often sold his wares outside our hotel. He was handsome with a weathered face, his eyes yellowed from the sun. “I’m Joseph.” “Larissa” I said, shaking his warm, damp hand. Joseph followed me back to the beach. “No customers anyway” he shrugged. We sat on the ground, pulled off our flip flops and felt the white sand hot against our bare feet. “Where are you from?” I asked and he told me his story. Of growing up in Manila. Of his mother’s disappearance and his father who was so sick he couldn’t work. But poverty did not stop him from exploring, he said proudly. For years he had worked on cargo ships, which had allowed him to travel to many of the Philippine Islands.

I told him about the boy in the box. Joseph smiled. "Bahala na. Whatever is meant to happen will happen. But you know, Filipino people are very lucky. We are strong.” He winked at me, his smile so bright, I believed him.