This entry happens to contain my very first written report as a college student. I so want to have it preserved, imprinted and forever alive so I had it posted here. And I wanted you to read it of course.
It was eleven o' clock in the morning. Under the scorching heat of the Saturday sun, Mang Edilberto Palaypayon was yelling his throat dry with two simple words that may be said without so much effort: Antipolo and Junction. Beads of sweat were already forming on his brow, but he didn't take notice. He didn't even bother to use a cheap megaphone or even a cone-shaped cardboard to make himself heard.
“Eh, anung gagawin? Gan'to talaga 'yun,” he said when asked about the nature of his work. “Kesa gamitin ung kwarta sa kwan, eh 'di ipangkain na lang, 'di ba?. Malaki pa naman pamilya ko.”
The 49-year-old man fathers five children. The eldest is eleven years old while the youngest is only two-months-old. His wife, whose name he did not want mentioned, does a few laundry services for their neighbors who can afford to pay her. Eleven-year-old Mike always went with his father every Saturday to help him in his work. No, he was not shouting side by side with Mang Edel; rather, he was on the other side of the highway, begging people for alms. Sometimes, according to his father, Mike sells candies and cigarettes, tabloid newspapers, sampaguita garlands, round rags—basically anything to come up with at least fifty pesos. This happens every Saturday. But what about Mondays to Fridays? “Ay, ako lang. Ginagapang ko mga anak ko, eh. Si Mike kasi, kwan, Grade 2 pa lang. Nahuli siya. Kapos talaga kami.”
It was eleven thirty. Passengers were very scarce at this time of the day because mostly were having their lunches. Mang Edel's pronunciation of the word Antipolo had been shortened to 'Tipolo. One syllable off. That meant less throat works. So far, he had seven passengers sitting inside the humid jeepney. “Hirap talaga ng gan'tong oras. Lahat kumakain eh,” he said. He was laughing then, but he could not hide the fact that he too was starving. One could easily detect the progressively strong stench of hunger on his breath every time he spoke.
Then one lady alighted from the vehicle. She angrily told Mang Edel that she could not wait anymore. Manong driver scratched his balding head in irritation and cursed. “Nairita nanaman si Kuya Leo. Bumaba-baba pa kasi, eh,” Mang Edel commented.
Mang Leo, as it turned out, was his elder brother. He is Mang Edel's only source of income. In fact, according to Mang Edel, his brother was really reluctant in accepting him as a side-kick. They were both getting old and Mang Leo was not at all certain if his younger brother would be able to survive the harsh life on the dusty and polluted roads of Antipolo. Mang Edel proved his brother wrong and has stayed with him for thirteen years now. “Buti nga nandyan yang si Kuya, eh,” Mang Edel said.
He jokingly narrated that he had been to many unsuccessful careers before. He has a vocational degree in welding services and had tried using it to get a stable job. He failed for reasons he did not want to tell. He had served as a guard in M. Lhuiller Pawnshop. Again, he failed. He had tried selling taho and balut, then went back to being a security guard. He was fired, then he landed on his current job. “Nakakatawa nga, eh. Kahit may natapos ka, hirap pa din ng kwan, ng buhay,” he added.
The clock ticked on. It was already 12:15. Slowly, Mang Leo's jeepney became full with perspiring passengers. “Ay, salamat sa Diyos. Napupuno na din,” Mang Edel mumbled after waiting for what seemed like forever. He continued shouting, “Oy, Junction! 'Tipolo, Junction!” The jeepney was waiting for its last passenger before starting the long trip. At last, one came.
“Siyaman yan, siyaman. Makikiurong na lang po,” Mang Edel pleaded the passengers.
It was now full. The engine roared to life and they sped off, ready to wait for another one and a half hour at the end of the trip. Soon, Mang Edel's voice would be heard again.
“Siyaman yan, o. Siyaman!”
--the anchor
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