What Do Children Teach Us About Travel?
“Mama, why does the starfish live here? Why did it choose the sand?”
Welcome to the second issue of Place! We’re so happy that you’re here. Our favorite places are the spaces that we find ourselves growing into, slowly, over time, like lichen over a rock. But this week, time passes in a blink, as Filipina writer RJ Dancel shares a photo series of her son traveling through his first four years of life. Together, they discover the Philippines, where tiny feet meet sand, sun, and beach. The world expands with open water, fish, coconut trees, boats, volcanoes, and sand dunes; and then on cue, every traveler’s first question: Why do we travel? Sometimes it is not just about our own movement, but about the places and journeys we share with others.
At Place, we believe that the experiences, sensations and conversations we have as we move about the world stay with us, stacking up as the years go by, forming who we are and the way we view the world. Do you have a letter you want to share? Send it to us at placeletter@protonmail.com. If you are interested in writing for Place you can find our inaugural pitch guide here. And be sure to follow us on Instagram @placenewsletter for a daily visual feast. Yours, The Place editorial team
My dear Yñigo,
You were five months old when we first took you traveling. We wanted your first trip to be by the sea, because that’s what it means to live in the Philippines.
I was afraid the six-hour drive to the remote beaches of Batangas would bother you, but you were surprisingly calm. The cool breeze was soothing to you, so we left the car windows open at all times. We didn’t plan anything ahead, you know. Your dad and I had been talking the night before and just made a decision: we were going on a trip.
It was the way we had always traveled, so it made sense to keep doing it with you. When others laughed or asked: Why travel now, when he’s too young to remember anything?
I knew in my heart that seeing the Philippines — that traveling — would mould you, like it moulded me.
I still remember the confused look on your face. The ocean was something you had never seen before. The sound of waves crashing onto the shore greeted us as we approached the water — I held you by your armpits, dangling your little toes over the water. When they met for the first time, you curled up in a shiver, then reached out with your hands.
Suddenly, you were splashing away. Afterwards, when we retreated under a coconut tree, you discovered sand — you grabbed it by the fistful, throwing it in the air like fireworks. I had to dust the tiny granules off your face, while you smiled brighter than sunshine.
I always think about when we traveled to the surf town Baler; this time, it was you who greeted the sea, rushing towards it, but a big wave took you by surprise. You ran back as fast as you could.
Trying to catch your breath, you wrapped your arms around me and cried. There was so much fear in your eyes, as if the ocean betrayed your trust. You were so angry, but I could see that you were trying so hard not to.
You walked back to the shore to scold the ocean.
After your experience at Baler, I wasn’t quite sure how to bring you back to the water. So right before you turned two, we went to Bicol to see a volcano. It took us 16 hours and constant stops on the side of the road to feed you, change your nappies, and lull you to sleep. But this is when you met Mayon Volcano. She doesn’t always come out — sometimes hiding her perfect cone behind the clouds — but we were lucky.
I remember how you uttered “Mama, look, cone” and told your dad to drive faster so we could get a close look.
This was also the trip where your dad saw a giant whale shark for the first time. We could just make out its giant silhouette from where we waited safely on the shore.You turned to me and asked, “What’s that?”
In the years that followed, your vocabulary grew as we saw all sorts of things and places. We flew over vast seas, drove through winding roads and discovered abandoned trails. We even got stranded — the most frightened I had been on any of our trips.
Your fear of open water grew. Whenever we’d bring you close to the sea, you’d throw us off with your deafening shrieks and wild tantrums. Still, I saw you try. So many times, you would run to the spot right before where the waves kiss the shore. You’d stand there for a second, then head back to safety.
I saw how travel changed you; how it made you creative, courageous, even adventurous. It taught you things I could never teach you myself, like compassion and curiosity.
I saw it as we trekked through the forest and the branches blocked our paths, and you asked us not to hurt the trees; I saw it every time you went back to the ocean, even when it seemed so big and scary to you.
I always thought my love for travel lay at the core of my being. But honestly, anak, it was in traveling with you that I saw the world’s magic.
You made me throw away itineraries and pay attention to the little details that give color to our memories; you asked questions that I would have never thought of: Why does the starfish live here? Why did it choose the sand? Why are there trees growing in the ocean? Why does the carabao stay with the farmer? Why does the pig get to stay in the pen?
You’ve also started asking me more about the water: Do turtles live there? Will I see them if I swim?
It is in our adventures together that we’re able to share a piece of human experience that will forever bind us. For that, I am grateful.
I promise to always fill your need to explore — and one day, I believe you will overcome your fear of water.
We may have to wait awhile before we can travel again. For the meantime, keep your thirst for adventure alive within the confines of our home. The world will be there to welcome us again when it's ready.
I love you always and in all ways.
- RJ Dancel is a PR manager. She writes about being Yñigo’s mom, traveling, and the Philippines.
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