Cebu to Negros by Motorbike: Why I Almost Wrote Off Dumaguete and Why I Was Wrong

I pulled over near a rusted van and a man working in his yard. Helmet still on. Engine off. Hand out. Somewhere up in these highlands was Casaroro Falls and I had no idea how close or how far. He looked at my hand, then at me, then back up the road and pointed. No shared language needed. The universal gesture of a stranger helping a stranger find his way. That transaction, wordless and generous and completely human, is why I ride.