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STATIONS OF THE CROSS
Charlie Edwards felt good. Better than he had for years. He had already walked nearly three kilometers toward his early morning destination. The hotel’s night kitchen had provided him with cereals, fruit, bread, butter and fruit juices for an early breakfast before his pre-dawn outing. It was still dark, and the night still cool. His way was sufficiently lit by the underpowered street lighting to easily find his way.
Despite carrying several kilos weight in a solid camera bag containing a video camera, digital camera, two tripods, spare lenses, filters and spare memory cards; he had kept up a rapid pace. Suitably dressed in shorts, cotton shirt, and shod in locally made Adidas running shoes, he had barely raised perspiration on his forehead. He had prepared well for this overseas trip.
The peacefulness of the walk, with the absence of any road traffic, allowed his mind to drift back to the months of running the two kilometer perimeter of the park near his home. Even after five laps he always felt he could do more. It was running in its broadest interpretation; others would have called it jogging. He just did it his way.
Then, the sweat would be pouring off his forehead and cheeks and into his beard as he went through his warm-down routine. The bonus was the loss of a few kilos weight.
His previous trip to Singapore and the Malay peninsular had become a disaster through his own lack of preparation. By the third day on one of the many long walks, he had suffered such leg-calf strain he had to suspend much of his remaining itinerary. The hotel doctor diagnosed the injury as a pulled calf-muscle, and prescribed total bed rest as the only quick way to recovery.
Before that trip, he had always thought of himself as being naturally fit. After that trip, and with a bit of honest self-examination, he conceded that, now he was in his early 40’s, he had done little honest exercise since his teens. This time though, a prepared and fit Charlie Edwards was ready to conquer the world; a small part of it at anyway.
He never thought of himself as anything other than a normal tourist. This was not his first visit to the Philippines, but being around Easter, it was a much celebrated religious time for the countries zealous Catholic locals, and good photo opportunities. He had already watched in amazement at films of some of the parades, as a few locals flagellated their own bare backs with home made whips; blood seeping down their back.
This was his first nature photographic adventure on this self designed itinerary; a visit to Davao in Mindanao. From his in-depth pre-trip research he decided it would be a shame to miss an opportunity to photograph the rising sun from the top of Mt. Matina, the highest point around the city and districts. It seemed from the readings that the word Mt. was a misnomer. Photo’s showed it was a hill covered in rain forest. He had memorized the simple map on how to get to the Mt. Matina Park entry gate from his hotel. A single road led to the church at the summit. At Easter, the road to the summit would have the traditional figures for the Stations of the Cross interspersed along the route
The moonlit sky was clear and cloudless, but from his experience, he knew that was a prelude to a stinking hot muggy day.
He was amazed at the considerable number of locals out for a morning run. They were kitted out properly in genuine athletic gear and running shoes, and all apparently heading in the same direction as him.
At his walking speed, both the joggers and the runners passed him quite quickly. He envied the health and energy of these youth, and thought back to the days of his own youth and peak fitness. Against him then, these buggers would not have stood a chance.
At the eastern entry to the park the gradient began to rise quite quickly. Even this road, though narrow, was well maintained asphalt; and confidence in a safe footfall was not a worry. He did not want any twisted ankles. There were no taxis here. It would mean making a painful and limping return to the hotel. The road was just wide enough to allow converging cars to pass; even then one, or both, would probably brush against the dense rain forest pressing each side. Though the rain-forest jungle provided shade, it also kept in the heat.
Runners still passed him, but with the upward slope, it was at a slower pace. Despite the incline, he tried to maintain the same length of stride and foot speed. The sweat was starting to soak into his shirt. Some Stations of the Cross came and went. Nobody else was stopping to admire them, so he did not bother either. The local runners were showing a total disinterest. He would photograph those on the way back when the light was suitable.
By about the fourth Station; and a now even steeper slope, his fast steady walking pace meant he was gaining ground on some of the runners. In fact he began to pass some who seemed to almost be running on the spot. Others had stopped for a breather, or slowed to a walk.
Charlie felt something begin to fire up deep within the cortex of his brain. A feeling he had not had for years, but it only took him seconds to recognize. That ingrained competitive streak had started. Here he was, the sole representative of his country in the race. He increased his walking speed even faster, and despite the slope, pushed the pace as hard as he could without breaking into a run.
Slowly but surely, the bulk of the runners that had passed him were being pulled in and passed. The Stations of the Cross, whatever the numbers, were flitting by with only a casual glance.
His mind began to hear the glorious sound of the National Anthem being played at the awards ceremony as they placed the gold medal around his neck. He had decided that while he had breath, these locals were not going to beat him.
He began to wipe the now continual run of sweat from his eyes, and regularly shifted the position of the camera bag from one shoulder to the other. The leather carry strap was soaked with sweat. The chafing on the shoulders meant he had to occasionally carry the bag in equally sweating hands. Perspiration poured off the end his nose, worse than if he had a serious sinus problems. Accumulated sweat from his beard was running onto his chest like a leaky faucet. He wondered why he did not get a hair cut and shave his beard off. It would have been much cooler.
How far to the finish? He did not know. He had long lost count of the number of the Stations he had passed. It seemed like 25 or even 50? It did not matter, there were still runners in front of him and he was gaining.
Somehow he increased his speed again, still without breaking into a run. The even greater incline of the road was killing. He wondered how many cars would overheat driving up this slope. That probably accounted for the total absence of cars on the road.
Long unused muscles were protesting. His calf muscles were pleading for a rest. Seemingly the last of the fitter, but struggling runners, was passed, and it was clear in front as far as the winding road allowed vision in the bright moonlight. He must be in front. “God; please let the finish line be near.”
Suddenly the rain forest cleared. The asphalt flattened out and provided car parking for around 50 or so cars. It was empty. About 20 metres beyond the asphalt was a large open-sided church building with a neon-lit cross atop the nipa frond roof. Further religious icons were illuminated inside among the rows of pews. All was surrounded by an area of well kept lawn at least two football fields in size. Wooden bench seats were spread neatly around the grassed area. Some had water drinking fountains nearby.
He looked for, but could not see any runners. He had done it. He had won gold for his country. The accolades could wait. He desperately sought out the comfort of one of the benches with a nearby water fountain. Whether he, or the camera bag, hit the bench quicker, he did not know. He did not care. His leg muscles screamed for relief. Only the pain of his back, shoulder muscles, and lungs screaming for air, allowed his brain some diversion away from his aching legs. He knew he had won, but at what cost. He just wanted to die.
Carefully and deliberately he checked his pulse. It was faster than a machine gun. Perhaps he was going to die? He knew he needed to lie down; then, looked at the uninviting wooden seat slats. If he did lie down, would he have the energy to get up and photogr
aph the sunrise? Corinthians crossed his mind. “Death is swallowed up in victory. O death where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”
His dry throat was not much better. He reprimanded himself for not thinking about bringing bottled water. He decided to partake of the drinking fountain, despite all the dire warnings about the local water supply. Pushing his body off the seat, he walked robot-like, stiff-legged, to the fountain. Pressing the stainless steel handle, the water gushed out with sufficient force to allow him to wash his sweaty bearded face, and get some of the cool water into his hair without having to bend his aching back.
After a couple of quick mouth-rinses of the water, some sanity returned as he thought about the water quality. It tasted all right, but he had been caught out before drinking local water. His constitution had not been trained with the immunity of the locals.
“Damn the consequences,” he thought, and quaffed the water down like a camel after eight days in the desert. Even Christ was offered water on his trek to the Cross. He could not recall reading about Christ suffering from diarrhoea while hanging on the cross. He took several of his shares of water until his belly felt quite bloated, then staggered back to the bench looking for a dry spot. His shorts, drenched with sweat, had saturated the previous position he had sat.
After a few minutes he remembered the real purpose of his mission. It was still dark but there was a small but perceptible lighting of the sky.
Pain accompanied setting up the cameras on the tripods. At least the seat he had chosen was facing in the right direction. The distant hills would make a marvelous backlit shadow like a cut-out in front of the rising sun. It was a pity there were no nearby trees which he could use to frame the photographs. To make it easier for his aching muscles he attached the remote cords to each camera. He could then remain seated, and snap off photos, or start the video when he needed.
Preparation complete, he went into total relaxation mood, with eyes closed. It was so peaceful here. None of the runners seemed to have made it this far. He did not ponder why; He had won.
The Church and surrounds remained empty of any living souls. Maybe a dead one or two were moving around, unseen to him anyway. He shivered. He put that down to the effects of the now cold sweat against his skin.
The rain forest cicadas switched on their welcome to the new dawn so suddenly, it startled him. It was as if all their alarm clocks had gone off at precisely the same moment. He decided that in cicada society, any cicada starting five seconds before time would obviously be beheaded by its colleagues, or at the very least, banished.
A few scattered clouds over the distant hills would also have made a nicer photo, but there were none. There is something special about the red and orange colours of a sunrise through cloud. Nature and God’s work always proving much better than any Da Vinci painting.
The sky was noticeably lighter, yet the sun was not yet high enough to backlight the distant hills. The prospects of something special were not good. Fingers touching both buttons, he was ready for the first backlit shots. He had to be ready. At sunrise and sunset, this close to the equator, the sun seemed to rise or set in a matter of seconds. So sudden, it was almost like a light being turned on or off. The lighting of the clear sky showed it was going to be a beautiful fine day. Muggy, though he had almost become accustomed to that.
“Where the Hell was this sunrise?” he thought. “Surely the sun hadn’t simply failed to get out of bed this morning? What was the old saying? As sure as the sun will rise tomorrow? Had he died with the exertion of winning a gold medal? Frozen at this pre-dawn point in time?”
The warmth to his back was an elixir from heaven. The blood flow was returning to his shoulder and back muscles. Though seated, he was now able to turn quite freely at the waist and neck without too much pain. Keeping his fingers ready on the remote buttons, he began to stretch his back and neck muscles as he knew he should have done in a proper warm-down.
He made each waist twist with a wider arc, sometimes twisting his neck with the coordinated waist swing, then against it, until he was almost turning his head and waist 180 degrees.
On one of these twists he noticed a bright shining orb just above the horizon and directly behind. He froze in that position.
“My God,” he thought. “The sun has risen in the west. Was this some signal that the end of the world had arrived? Or, was it just him? Were things reversed in Heaven, or Hell, wherever he had been sent?”
He straightened, let the remote controls drop from his hand, stood up, and turned round, needing to shield the bright glow of the sun from his eyes with his hands. His cameras were pointing the wrong way!
Shaking his head to clear the stupid thoughts away, he knew there had to be a rational explanation. But what was it? He had entered through the eastern gate, climbed Mt. Matina and set up on the flat top as suggested.
Finally it dawned on him. The road could not go straight up because of the slope. It had to climb steadily around the side. The length was just enough to do a 180 degree half circle, and that had taken him to the western side of the mountain.
He was too exhausted and disappointed to bother with any photos of the intricate displays of the Stations of the Cross on his much slower descent down the road.
He had barely exited the Mt. Matina entry gate when his stomach began its growling. The thankful appearance of a taxi enabled him to be quickly whisked back to his hotel. He barely made it to his room before he had to thrust his head over the toilet, and disgorge his energy giving breakfast.
Tomorrow would be another photo opportunity, but not for him. Charlie Edwards chose to stay in bed, partially to ease the aching muscles. Mostly to be within a few metres of the precious white porcelain toilet bowl. The training he had done before he departed may have strengthened his mental and general physical constitution, but not that of his stomach.
Charlie thought about how easily certain perceived facts are shattered. All these years he would have sworn on a pile of bibles that there were 13 Stations of the Cross. Perhaps the next thing he would discover was that a woman was one of the 13 at Christ’s final supper. Maybe this was why he had suffered so many misfortunes in his life. And, once again, was probably being punished for missing Station of the Cross number 14.