feet

I managed to inherit my dad's Chinese genes, thus, my complexion - not yellow, but lighter than most. It follows that my feet are white, and I love these mobile appendages that carry my whole self. I enjoy seeing my soles redden after a long walk or from the immense pressure of the whole 149 pounds of me. I don't need 'mertiolet' (if that is how you spell it). Aesthetically, I don't have a bad pair, in fact, my college classmates' sole recollection of me is my white feet! hehe. But what I am very thankful for is that they take me everywhere. Walking is my passion. I simply love walking. I remember in college, I go to Intramuros for walks; to be around history was a spiritual journey. In my one of my walks, I decided to go to Fort Santiago. We were to have a 'Rizal' test the next day. I told myself "there is not a place more fitting to study Rizal than in Fort Santiago." Clutching my Rizal book and a few pesos and using my ever-dependable rubber slippers, I headed to the the park.

"Ok. I shall study here" I said.

The lady by the gate asked for an entrance fee. I refused to give her that much. I told her I was a student but couldn't provide her with an ID. Will I bask under history and go home penniless or keep whatever money I have? I decided on the latter. I was a poor student!

I was a bit frustrated; I continued walking along A. Soriano Street; Manila Cathedral, Palacio del Governador were in sight. I saw an exit; its name I can't recall. The 'puerta' was an unchartered territory for me. Beyond the gate were big trucks which I infered came from the port. I heard stories about the port area; the stories were not very friendly to red-soled teenagers. But by some instinct, I trod to that direction. There was fear I had to admit. From a distance, I saw streetchildren and some 'streetadults.' How I could possibly protect myself from the forces that be was a concern of mine. I was checking the dust that had enveloped my feet from the walk when I noticed bronze footprints on the pavements. I took a few steps farther to realize I was walking on the path Rizal took before his execution. I was enthralled at this thought. I couldn't hide my smile from the good fortune I was experiencing. Every few meters or so was a marker highlighting Rizal's accomplishments and life experiences. "Boy, I am lucky." Not having anyone to talk to, I kept these comments to myself. Every marker I saw, I read; I was reviewing for the test. Rizal's steps took me to Rizal Park. His journey to Bagumbayan marked the end of his life; my journey was a greater realization of how I love my feet! hehe.

As for the test I took after, guess what happened?

Where to now?

Destination. Where? Getting there might be one problem; going where is a more difficult problem. What is there beyond the picture?

There is a time in your life when you start asking where you want to go. Sure you have ideas, but everything is always clouded with mixed thoughts. We think positively but we cannot discount other possibilities. Which way? How do we get there?

A trip to town, to market, to school, to mall - all these are defined destinations. Do we make one for our life?

Jeepneys and fares

In a third world country like ours, the Philippines, owning a car is a luxury reserved for the rich. Those who are not take the public transport, and, boy, there are so many of us who keep the various PUV's (Public Utility Vehicle) in business.

A certain jeepney-riding culture has been formed from our long relationship with the jeepney, initially called jitney, a military conveyance transformed into the ever-dependable 'service' of the people. Its existence has largely to do with Filipinos' honesty. It may raise an eyebrow, but our jeepney-riding public is honest. How would the operator continue without its passengers who hand their fare from hand to hand until the money reaches the welcoming hands of the driver, who , by the way, multi-tasks? I wonder how drivers are able to keep track of the payment. That's a great skill to master.

The jeepney-riding experience is a great equalizer. Once you hop onto a jeep, you are its passenger and no other social label could change your state at the very moment. So, physical contact should not be frowned upon, unless, of course, it is deemed inappropriate. By physical contact, I mean hand contact since it is the hand that literally transfers the money to energize the jeep. With the hand contact that transpires in the whole transaction, it would be nice to hear the words "thank you," which apparently are increasingly disappearing in jeepney vocabulary. I smile when I hear these precious words aboard the jeep. I remember one jeepney ride, a man who could obviously pass for a snatcher/murder sat opposite me. A plain-looking
woman handed him her fare and said thank you. He responded with the sweetest "You're welcome" I heard in years!That made my long trip eventful!

Having lived in Zamboanga and worked in Manila, I have seen how different passengers pay their fare. I notice in Manila that most passengers hand in their fare the moment they hop onto jeep. In Zamboanga, they normally pay when they are about to get off. Sometimes they stand beside the driver to wait for their change. As a result, this causes some inconvenience to the driver and other passengers and also to the other vehicles plying the street. But it's culture. Also, I notice in Zamboanga, their notion of fare is proportional to distance. They don't seem to follow the fare matrix. I see people handing five pesos to the driver when the minimum is seven, and yet the driver does not complain.The same cannot be said in Manila. You'll surely get your share of verbal barrage when that happens. I still would like that people follow the fare rates imposed. Mamang driver is like any other person working for a living. It's best we give what is due to them, in the same manner that we expect they bring us to our destinations safely.

to be continued...