Directions Unknown

        Robert still remembers it was 6 years ago when his parents decided to visit a “distant” relative for once in a century. And when Robert said distant, he didn’t mean the kind you see once every few years during weddings or funerals. No, he meant distant distant, the kind of relative his parents only met when they were still young and don’t have any children yet. Which makes him think, “by what logic I should take part in this visiting agenda? I don’t even know them.” Robert frowned, clearly showing dissatisfaction and disagreement about the idea. But what can he do? He was still under his parents’ roof, still legally and emotionally tethered to their will. And like any obedient — albeit begrudging — child, he had to tag along, even if every fiber of his being screamed otherwise. If he were allowed to be completely honest, he would say it outright: having this many relatives was a hassle. A chaotic web of names, faces, and obligations he never asked for. So many families to visit, he wouldn’t mind it as much if they all lived nearby. But no, some of them were scattered across cities like confetti at a wedding, and this particular “distant” relative lived in a town so far, it required an eight-hour drive. Eight. Whole. Hours. Of sitting stiff in the backseat while his parents hummed along to old songs on the radio and reminisced about memories he wasn’t even alive for. It was, in his opinion, completely insane. Robert could already guess that there wasn’t going to be a single bar of signal out there, let alone a hint of Wi-Fi. His parents had mentioned the name of some obscure little city, a name that didn’t even register in his mental map of the country. There was the hunch came from. He could already imagine the boredom creeping in like fog, his thumbs automatically reaching for his phone every few minutes, only to be greeted by the same dreaded message: No Service. He’d end up turning his phone on and off, not for signal, but just to check the time — not that it would make the hours move any faster. The quiet hum of technology replaced by the relentless buzz of nature: chirping crickets, croaking frogs, rustling leaves — all those tiny sounds that were supposed to be “soothing” but only made his skin crawl. Robert despised bugs with a passion. The very thought of having to sleep in a room where insects serenaded him from every corner made his stomach churn. And don’t even get him started on the bathroom. From what he’d heard, or rather, what he feared, it would probably be something out of a horror film. No proper flooring, just cold concrete or, heaven forbid, dirt. A creaking, half-rotten wooden door that barely shut properly, groaning on its hinges every time someone tried to close it. The kind of bathroom that looked like it had seen unholy things and still carried the trauma in its rusty pipes. In Robert’s mind, it wasn’t just inconvenient. It was an abomination.

        The road was pretty quiet, but it’s nice, the type of trip Robert really likes. Where everyone fell into silence and minding their own business. No pointless chatter, no music blaring from the speakers, just the soft hum of the engine and the rhythmic sound of tires rolling over the asphalt. He remembered something from the trip: an hour after they departed, his parents would stop at a minimarket to buy some snacks and groceries for their relatives out of politeness. Robert actually looked forward to this part. It was one of the rare times he could grab whatever his heart desired and not worry about the price, his parents always paid without much fuss, as long as it wasn't anything outrageous. There was only one rule: no ice cream in the car. His father had made that clear after a sticky disaster years ago, and the decree still stood strong. The man didn’t want so much as a drop of melted sugar near the seats. No exceptions. His dad was a person of habit, always going for an isotonic drink and a simple pack of white bread, something he could chew on while driving. His mom, ever the provider, piled the cart with practical items; big bottles of mineral water, packs of biscuits, and perhaps a few fruit-flavored candies she claimed were for “sharing.” His younger brother, meanwhile, headed straight for the chips section like it was a battlefield, emerging triumphantly with armfuls of salty, crunchy loot that he’d guard like treasure for the rest of the trip. And Robert? He had his own tastes, a carbonated drink fizzing with sugar and caffeine, and a few packs of spicy snacks that made his tongue burn and his nose tingle. They were his guilty pleasures, one of his unhealthy hobbies. As he tore into the packaging and took a bite, he’d savor not just the heat of the spice, but the fleeting joy of indulgence, the knowledge that for a little while, at least, this trip wasn’t entirely a burden. After he finished with his snack, putting his earphones back on, Robert started to drift asleep.

        The second he remembered from the trip is that their family would stop at a random restaurant to fill their stomachs. It was less of a planned meal and more of a spontaneous pitstop, chosen by sheer instinct or desperation, depending on how long they had been on the road. To Robert, this part of the journey was... less enjoyable. He wasn’t exactly a big eater to begin with. In fact, he often joked that these impromptu food breaks were more of a burden on his intestines than a blessing, “intestine overload,” he’d mutter to himself under his breath with a dramatic sigh as they parked. But the real issue? It was always a gamble. A total hit or miss experience. Sometimes, they’d stumble upon a hidden gem. Warm, fragrant rice dishes, flavorful broths, meats grilled to perfection. On those rare occasions, the stars aligned and everyone left satisfied, full, and even a bit surprised. But other times... oh, the other times. Sometimes the food came out cold. Or bland. Or suspiciously too colorful. And whenever Robert scrunched up his nose in visible disgust, his parents would give the same, unhelpful advice: “Just swallow it.” A phrase that felt less like a mealtime suggestion and more like a grim command from a jail punishment. So over the years, Robert had developed a strategy. A survival technique, if you will. He kept it simple, order a drink, maybe a cold soda or iced tea, and if he was feeling brave, a side dish. No rice. No stew. Nothing that might come drenched in questionable sauce or be hiding a surprise ingredient underneath. That way, he could nibble politely, sip slowly, and quietly pray that they wouldn’t stop anywhere with flies buzzing over condiment trays again. But what surprised Robert the most, and he still found it funny to this day, was that his younger brother, whom he had always thought of as an omnivore with an iron stomach, actually disliked this part of the trip just as much, if not more. While he could annihilate bags of chips, sweets, and instant noodles from the minimarket like a vacuum cleaner, when it came to real food—actual, cooked, sit-down meals, he was surprisingly picky. Painfully picky. For starters, he had this weird sensitivity to fried food. Not the fried food itself, no, it had to do with the oil used. If the restaurant used old, overused oil, his brother’s tongue would immediately detect it like some cursed superpower. Whether he saw it or not, his tongue will always know. Then there was the vegetable issue. The guy flat-out refused to eat anything green unless it was lettuce in a burger or, for some strange reason, carrots. Carrots were fine. Everything else was a crime against his digestive system. And don’t even mention sambal. While Robert could handle spicy food with ease, he even loved it, his brother was a total weakling. If the sambal was too hot, his brother would start sweating, hiccupping, and fanning his mouth like he was trying to survive a volcano eruption. Truly pathetic. There was one time, an unforgettable highlight in Robert’s personal comedy reel when his brother made the mistake of eating Robert’s fried chicken without asking. Big mistake. Huge. Because what he didn’t realize was that the chicken had been generously dipped in a spicy honey glaze that Robert had specifically requested. The kind that tingled your tongue and crept up your throat like fire. It was hilarious, not his fault because he ate it without Robert’s permission. The result? Instant regret. His brother turned pale, gagged, and within the hour, was curled up on a couch groaning like a wounded animal. The incident ended with a full-blown case of diarrhea that lasted three entire days, plus one dramatic vomit session in the middle of the second night. Robert hadn’t laughed that hard in years. And honestly, it wasn’t even his fault.

        The third thing that stood out to Robert (and something he still found mildly baffling) was how good his parents were with directions. Not just good, but eerily accurate, like they had invisible GPS systems built into their brains. Whenever they were on their way to visit a relative, even one they hadn’t seen in years, his father would somehow just know which road to take, which shortcut would save time, or how to detour through tiny streets barely big enough for one car. He never looked nervous, never checked a map. Just drove with quiet confidence like an experienced taxi driver who’d memorized every alley and curve of the region. And his mom? Even more impressive in her own way. She wasn’t as instinct-driven as his dad, but hand her a phone and open Google Maps, and she became an unstoppable navigator. “Just how far have they traveled?” Even his brother shared that spirit. He enjoyed driving around with his motorcycle just for fun, getting lost on purpose and somehow always finding his way back with a story to tell. Robert, on the other hand, was the opposite. A proud homebody. He liked the safety and predictability of his room, where the farthest he traveled was from his desk to the fridge. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have a good sense of direction. He just never had the reason or the desire to learn. And could you really blame him? If your ideal day was lounging at home, watching videos, or playing games, did it matter whether you could navigate a rural road in the middle of nowhere? And his brother usually got lectured because he often got home late, see? No such lectures for him. No curfews broken, no motorcycle escapades, no parental anxiety triggered. Just him and his quiet, safe, predictable life. He didn’t need the thrill of spontaneous detours or long drives to feel content. In fact, every time his brother got an earful for being late, Robert felt just a little bit more validated. He’s just happy the way he is.

        And this also reminded him of a certain trip six years ago where he and his family got lost in the middle of nowhere when they’re trying to visit that “distant” relative. Robert remembered it vividly — mostly because he had stared blankly out the window at the tall, looming forest, wondering if this was where horror movies usually began. Their family’s silver Yaris looked pitiful and wildly out of place among the towering pines, like a lost toy in the wilderness. It had been a sunny afternoon, thank God, with golden rays filtering through the dense leaves, but that didn’t make things any less unsettling. The road had become narrower and rougher until eventually, Robert’s father made the executive decision to pull over at the side of the road. Robert remembered the collective moment of panic that passed through the car like static. Not loud or dramatic — just quiet uncertainty. His father had muttered something under his breath and stepped out to ask for directions. By some miracle, there were a few food stalls nearby, looking humble but thankfully manned. A couple of locals lounged under tarps strung between trees, selling grilled corn, bottled drinks, and fried snacks on makeshift tables. His father had approached them with a polite smile, hands in pockets, while his mother rolled down her window to peer out curiously. Robert’s brother had slumped in his seat, munching on the last bag of chips from their snack stash, blissfully unconcerned. And Robert? He had clutched his phone like a talisman, futilely turning it on and off as if that would somehow summon a signal from the sky. At the end, they manage to find their way back, of course. The locals are all nice and kind so it is not hard to get out of the place.

        It didn’t just stop there, though. After that brief detour into the wilderness, Robert’s family finally found their way out and resumed their journey with a renewed sense of direction—and perhaps a smidge more caution. The road that followed was a welcome contrast. Gone were the shadowy trees and rocky trails; in their place were signs of civilization—houses with rusted tin roofs, small shops tucked beside each other, and the ever-present hum of people going about their day. Motorbikes zipped past, kids in school uniforms walked along the side of the road, and shopkeepers sat idly by their storefronts, fanning themselves in the afternoon heat. It wasn’t exactly quiet, but it wasn’t chaotic either. How to put it in a phrase, smoothly busy? His father, once again, took the lead behind the wheel like he was born to do it. Calm, focused, humming a familiar tune under his breath. His mother sat beside him, phone in hand, reading out directions with practiced precision, her finger swiping the screen like she was leading an orchestra. In the backseat, Robert’s brother was glued to his phone, not for texting this time, but for filming the road through the window — documenting the scenery like some amateur travel vlogger. Occasionally, he’d mutter something like, “this shot’s kinda nice,” or “look at that weird statue,” without lifting his gaze from the screen. And Robert? He was in his usual spot, head leaned against the window, earbuds in, the world drowned out by the playlist that always followed him on road trips. He wasn’t watching the scenery. Not really. His eyes were open, sure, but his mind was somewhere else entirely, drifting through daydreams and made-up stories, soundtracked by the beat of whatever song happened to be playing. It was his favorite part of any trip — that in-between time, when nothing was expected of him, and he could just exist in his own bubble.

        Without realizing it, Robert had dozed off. One moment he was zoning out to his music, and the next, he was jolting awake, heart pounding, when the dream he’d slipped into took a sudden turn for the worse. He blinked a few times, disoriented, his lashes fluttering as he adjusted to the light flooding in through the window. Outside, the scenery had changed. Gone were the rows of houses and clustered shops; now, a narrow road stretched ahead, flanked by wide expanses of rice fields that rippled under the warm breeze. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a soft golden hue over everything, making the green stalks sway like waves. Here and there, humble houses dotted the landscape, their walls stained with age and their roofs weathered by sun and rain. People moved lazily through the late afternoon air, some pedaling bicycles with baskets full of vegetables or tools, others coasting by on motorbikes with slow ease. But it was mostly bicycles, so many that Robert almost thought time had turned back a few decades. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and gave a slow, knowing nod. “Yep, we’re definitely almost there,” he muttered under his breath, a kind of reluctant acceptance in his voice. He unplugged his earphones, wrapped them around his phone, and stuffed them into his bag with the slow, resigned movements of someone preparing to get out soon. Robert leaned back to his seat and waited for their car to stop at the destination, but then, it never came. His family car kept going, sometimes he realised that they were passing the same road several times. Robert straightened in his seat, looking around more intently now. His father’s hands were still firm on the wheel, but his eyes squinted with quiet concern. His mother’s voice was softer than usual as she fiddled with her phone, zooming in and out on the screen like it would magically reset the route. Even his brother, who had stopped recording, was now leaning forward, peeking through the windshield. Did they… get lost again? He thought. Even the google maps his mother was handling were showing the wrong way. Left was a narrow, muddy trail that didn’t even look like a road, more like a dirt path barely wide enough for a bicycle, much less their car. The grass was tall, creeping at the edges like it hadn’t been used in years, and puddles spotted the trail, glistening with the reflection of the sun. The earlier peace in the car had shifted into a tense silence. Not the comforting kind where everyone’s just in their own world, this one was laced with confusion, and the creeping suspicion that they’d somehow managed to get lost in the middle of nowhere… again.

        Fortunately, the signal there turned out to be decent and his mom managed to call their relative to pick them up and lead the way to their house. Robert watched the whole exchange from the backseat, arms still folded, but his expression had softened. As much as he liked to complain, the idea of being stranded in an unfamiliar village overnight, surrounded by darkness and the constant chirping of insects, sent a chill down his spine. He could already picture it: an eerie, barely-lit room in a rundown roadside motel, the beds too firm, the air humid, the bathroom even worse than he imagined. No internet, probably no air-conditioning, and definitely no decent food. Just the lingering smell of mothballs and dust and the creepy sounds of the countryside at night. He exhaled in relief when his mom ended the call with a nod. “They’re coming to pick us up. Just wait here,” she said, smiling as if she hadn’t just saved the day. His dad relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, leaning back with a long sigh. Even his brother looked visibly less tense, slumping in his seat and scrolling through his phone again. Robert, meanwhile, stared out the window, watching as a gentle breeze stirred the rice stalks. He felt a strange mix of irritation and gratitude, like someone who had narrowly escaped a bad ending. His imagination quieted, and for the first time during that trip, he didn’t mind the stillness. They were safe. Help was on the way. And even if he still thought this whole visiting a distant relative thing was absurd, at least they wouldn’t be spending the night in a horror movie-looking motel with a suspicious innkeeper.