THE THIRD WORLD TRAVELER

I have always taken pride in the fact that I have traveled the world enough to deserve to be called a traveler. And I am not speaking merely of the long-haul flights to the far ends of the world. No, not just those destinations where, as a third world traveler, I had to pay not only for the journey itself but for the right to take the journey in the first place.

I also include in my list of journeys the adventures I’ve had in the back roads of the city where I grew up, where one of the most essential gears were eyes at back of one’s head. In the busy streets of the local business district where I think I tried my best to mingle with the crowd in the heat, dust and rain to get to the oasis of money that, alas, turned out to be a mirage. In the cozy and cold comforts of a sky-high office crevice where I managed to shrink my brain enough to be able to squeeze myself in and then squeeze some change out — sufficient for a nice pair of shoes or pants or shirt or food to pass the days by. In the maze of shops and restaurants where people eternally wandered and consumed but who, like me, never seem to be satiated. In the waters and mountains and barrios of the islands where it was my fate to be born. These are all far ends of my world, too.