We had been on the road for twelve hours when we reached the port at Lipata. Twelve hours from Bukidnon, through the mountain passes and the descending roads and the long flat stretches where the pineapple fields go on longer than you expect them to. By the time we reached Surigao the body had stopped asking for comfort and had settled into something quieter, a kind of patient waiting that long travel teaches you whether you want to learn it or not.