rt3i

I can feel it going faster.

The lights on the road had become a blur, then stopped existing entirely. From where I was sitting, I could see the speedometer rise and move to the right. So did the tachometer, in sync with the engine's growl growing louder and louder. The only other sound left is the wind blowing into the vehicle -- the air conditioning is off, so windows were the only ventilation.

My uncle shifts into third. My father slips a little forward in the seat next to him. To my left, my aunt is holding onto her seat. To her left is my mom, bracing herself by the sill. Meanwhile, I could only stare at the crescent moon in the sky, with Polaris as the only other dot I could see. Underneath the door, I clutch my toy car, spinning it around with every change in direction. This was fun, I thought. Twice as fun as the family reunion that had just finished a night ago. Finally, I get to experience the thrill of traveling this road, fully awake and alert for anything that might happen.

Like the sudden sound and sight of truck lights from the opposite direction.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

These days, the fastest route to Gumaca, Quezon makes for a four-and-a-half-hour trip. If you have a car and an RFID tag like my family's Mitsubishi Xpander, you can climb up the newly-constructed Skyway Stage 3 connector on C-3 Road and go straight through the South Luzon Expressway. From there it's a linear trip: take an exit at Calamba City, Laguna, pass through San Pablo City, and then blast past Tiaong town and Lucena City in Quezon Province. This trip used to be longer by another four hours, most of which we spent barely surviving standstill traffic in EDSA and Alabang (if we managed to rent out or borrow a van) or waiting at bus terminals (if we didn't).

At least the seats in these provincial-bound buses are spacious enough to sleep on, and with a movie providing some white noise, you can easily bore yourself to a daze while holding a plushie, bag, or toddler already deep in sleep two hours ago. And because these routes have predictable timetables and rest stops, it's easy to flit back in and out of sleep, getting up only to get some food, go to the bathroom, buy some cellphone load cards or extra rolls of film, or stretch your legs and check if you still have your bags with you. And even if you stay in the bus, there is still some fun to be had. There's the aforementioned movie, but if you've had enough of that, the passengers make for equally compelling observational entertainment. There's always the family that has to deal with a hyperactive kid, there's the couple who swaps seats so one gets to rest on the window sill, and those who fight over something before immediately reconciling. There's also the vendors who come in and sell all sorts of snacks from nuts to fish crackers to locally-made treats like buko pie (only on the way back to Manila) and even balut, and the ever-important cold bottled water vendor that even we rely on because our bags are already stuffed. Sometimes the smell of home cooking permeates the bus; other times it's takeout food; rarely does anyone fart, but everyone else would groan if that damn sound cuts in.

Turbina is a popular secondary stop on the way to Lucena, where the bus picks up some more passengers for the long haul to Bicol as others alight the bus for a different connection. These are the ones with the massive bayong bags and woven luggage packs, guaranteed to be filled with clothes, food, or trinkets to give at family reunions, just as what we do. By this point, some of the excitement begins to well up for my favorite part of the trip, but Mom coos me back to sleep as the night rolls into dawn.

I don't get that once our family secures our own ride.

Instead, the Argosos and cousin Alegres would either pile into an L300 owned by Uncle Norman (Tito Unte from here on out) or just the Argosos would amble into Tito Diwang's owner-type jeep. Sometimes we would be part of a convoy that would have my uncles leading the way in fancier cars while my dad follows; other times there'd be just one van for two families to pack into. There's often less room to move, but always more room to get loud and talk about things that you wouldn't want strangers to overhear, ranging from inter-clan squabbles I didn't understand at the time to questions about how well I've been studying and frequent goads for me to speak English, among other technicalities like who's paying for fuel and tolls and final run-throughs for the reunion's program.

There's also some horseplay involving stools, worries about where to poop in stretches where there are no gas stations or fast-food restaurants to stop by, and jokes about leaving the youngest sibling behind that are roundly interrupted by the old aunts wanting to read the Pasion in peace. Sometimes I'm the butt of the joke, and then it matters little if our ride is airconditioned or not (half the time it's not). Other times I stare at the window and see the landscape turn from highway to Makiling to Banahaw to seaside, wind blowing in my face while I eat a can of Pik-Nik or mom's classic adobong puti on a paper plate.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just outside Pagbilao, my dad taps my shoulders awake. "Ayan na, malapit na." We've just passed the almost-perennial roadworks there and begin the approach to the most fun part of the trip. After a glancing right, a C-shaped left a the Y-split and another long right-hand turn, it's time to strap in. My toy car is ready. The bus makes a final left.

At last! I get to race up the mountain.

Quezon Protected Landscape is a 938-hectare park straddling the municipalities of Pagbilao, Padre Burgos and Atimonan, originally established as a national park in 1934. At its center is Mount Mirador, rising 366 meters off the ground, high enough to plant flags on. This is where it gets the other name, Pinagbanderahan, where the revolutionaries set our flag on as a sign of reclamation from the crown of Spain. Benelovent America and Imperial Japan would also use the peak as its flagpole before finally being free enough to raise our flag on again.

Below that peak lay two roads. One was built by the senior Ferdinand Marcos in 1969. The other one I've known all my life as the "safer" one, as trucks and buses like the one I'm on aren't allowed in the old one for being too wide and long and unwieldy.

And boy does that bus feel it now. The first left on this newer diversion road shoots up right away, almost but not quite closing in on the mountainside. It heaves forward and leans to the right, throwing some of us off-balance.

No respite -- the bus driver gathers more of the confidence needed to keep up the pace as he lines up for the esses. Slight right, a left, and another right, hugging the mossy walls of the mountain as the bus turns.

Meanwhile, in my hand is a Tomica-made Nissan GT-R, a machine that is the opposite of a bus in every measurable and immeasurable way. The bus is, like most, rear-wheel drive; the GT-R puts power down to all four wheels. The bus is tall, almost a story in height; the GT-R is low-slung yet brutalist, with a gaping front end and tiny rear spoiler. The tires on the bus scream in agony at every turn, showing its age; the tires on the GT-R are filled with nitrogen because it fills more evenly than air.

The GT-R, then, is perfect for this kind of road. But I can only imagine myself driving this car, and the only way to make it tangible is to squint a little and swing the toy around while looking out the window. It's fine. My burly dad is shielding me from any prying eye.

So far, at least, the bus is benefitting from the road-widening projects that have been pushing more of the tarmac further into and out of the mountain, and even as the climb continues with a left-hand kink, the road is still smooth enough that the only jitter comes from the bus shaking under the strain. The bus slows for the tight right that follows, before braking harder for the sharper left. The bus swings right again, this time a 90-degree turn, before ascending again in a mad gasp for air.

This is when my imagination is complemented by dad's soft yet gravelly voice in my ear. "Ayan beh, paahon na tayo," he says, "at kapag ganyan, hindi ka dapat aariba kasi nasa segunda yung hila ng makina."

He's right. Not once does the driver shift, allowing the engine to bring as much torque as possible to pull us up to the first real challenge on the mountain. It's a double-apex off-camber left, and it's a romp. The road tries to pull the bus down, yet the centrifugal force of the turn almost lifts a wheel off the road -- at least it felt like it.

I bet my silver GT-R can handle that no sweat, maybe even pull a sick drift with tire smoke billowing out.

Alas, the bus must slow down and move down a gear for oncoming traffic. It just about accelerates to make it out of the tighter second left, where a short chute continues to lift us up to another double-apex, this time to the right, gentler yet somehow more dangerous as nothing but an Armco barrier protects the outside of the turn. Uphill, there are minimal worries about driving off the mountain; I don't think even a real GT-R can survive the plunge downhill.

But the bus driver powers past, and so do I. Once we come out of it, I am greeted by a beautiful sight: to my right, a cliff face, almost shaved clean by what. can only assume was a rockslide from a typhoon. And to my left, just past the left-hander, is a clearing.

I snap out of my lucid race slackjawed by what I see. Nothing but lush greenery, all affronting what my maps now indicate as Tayabas Bay. Not only can I see the see from this road, I can also see the entire rest of Quezon.

"Diyan tayo nanggaling, beh, sa baba diyan sa Pagbilao," my dad says, pointing at the window. Only then does it hit me just how far up the bus truly is, how high my car has climbed.

As the bus makes a right, the clearing opens up some more, revealing even more of the view. It helps that the smog has cleared up and the bus is a little higher than usual, allowing me to crane my neck higher to get eyefuls of land, sea and sky. A store and some trees obscure the view enough for me to groan, but I finally got what I wanted to see.

Not to say that

to Manila, Bitukang Manok, night, OTJ