What I Remember (Part 1)

“Like all great travelers, I have seen more than I remember, and remember more than I have seen," said Benjamin Disraeli. I quote him now because he describes me to a tee—in cruising and in living.

If my friends and fellow cruisers were to read what I am about to write, they'd most likely exclaim, “Were we on the same boat?!”

My family often says I either blow things up or shrink them down in writing—never in between. Well, I tell them, I am not a journalist. Having embraced creative writing, I remember only the statistics of my imagination.

Costa Allegra, our posh Italian dwelling at sea for a week, is pristine white, very large, and very proud. Dazzling at noon, it towers over Manila’s Pier 5, where my seven friends and I embark after showing the immigration officers our passport.

On board, people in all colors, speaking in varied European tongues, mill about comfortably, having been on it for days after their last stop in Hong Kong.

The opulence is a bit intimidating. It’s like being in limbo; one is unsure whether he is on earth or elsewhere. But after a while, one seems to fit right in, especially after hearing muted sounds in Filipino coming from the efficient crew in every nook and cranny.

Nena and I share a cabin—complete, compact and squeaky clean. I whine about no Cable TV, too small library, and choppy internet connection, outrageous at one Euro per two minutes! That’s P35 or US 0.80 per minute!

Nena reminds me of what this cruise is all about: 3F’s—food, fun, and fairy tale. I do a quick paradigm shift and promise myself to focus on what’s new, not on what I am used to.

It takes two nights, one day, two West-End-like evening presentations (bravissimo!), five meals from buffet tables laden with what could feed an archipelago, and hours of contemplating the wide blue yonder to get to Kota Kinabalu, the capital city of Sabah. This city with less than two million people seems to have magically sprung out of a forest. For indeed, Sabah on Borneo Island is encircled with forests.

“We have the cleanest air in the world,” our tour guide says proudly as he points to our next photo-op site, the tall one-pillar building of the Foundation Center.

For one fleeting moment, I rue about Sabah not being ours. This land is being leased from its rightful owner, a sultan of Sulu, Philippines! But in the 60’s, the inhabitants and the UN resolved to make it a state of Malaysia.

I remind myself . . . 3 F’s.

As we walk around the museums showcasing Sabah’s past, I see our own huts. Our cultures are interlocked; we share the same roots.

I follow my friends who earlier rushed to the curio shop. They gush at the novelty items. I look closely and they are the same as those I’ve seen in my frequent travels to Mindanao, Philippines. I skip shopping.

For me, the green, green horizon, endowed with more chlorophyll than all the trees I’ve ever seen, and the lush, lush flora (waiting to be explored), dotted with commercial areas and rimmed with well-paved, wide roads, are what make Kota Kinabalu a place worth visiting again.

Wherever we go, I hear the familiar lilt of my language from waiters, vendors, pedestrians, salesmen, doormen, and taxi drivers. I pause to smile and nod, and they smile and nod right back.

The Muslim mosques astound. Their over two dozen domes are made of 24-carat gold!

If melted, the precious metal would fetch a sum that could build two million modest huts for the homeless in my motherland.

At day’s end, in the taxi that takes us back to the port—where our floating palace stands regally illumined by the crescent moon—with my friends, their purchases crowding our feet and laps, I ask myself, “Having enjoyed a place cleaner, fresher, and prettier than my own, why do I miss home?”