The Philippines: On the Jeepney (cont.)

It's hot but not too crowded. My seat-mates are giving me plenty of room. I figure I'm taking up three Filipino spaces and probably cutting into the profits. I examine the driver's cab, which is also elaborately fitted out, something along the lines of a mid?seventies "recreational" van. There is wood paneling on the doors, chrome on the sun visors and an incredible stack of 8-track tapes neatly arranged on the dash, snugly fit between two chrome 'L' brackets installed on either end of the windshield. I count them: the stack is twelve tapes wide and eleven high (12 X 11=132), covering most of the lower windshield and leaving about three inches of glass that the driver can actually see out of. Each tape is neatly hand labeled with masking tape and a fluorescent felt-tip pen. I can see tapes labeled 'Nirvana', 'Led Zepplin', 'Tori Amos', 'Peter Paul and Mary' and, of course, the ubiquitous 'Peter Frampton'.

"Do you live in Manila?" asks the driver's wife conversationally. Since we're full, we've stopped picking up passengers and are rocketing down the broad avenue, crashing from pothole to pothole.

"Just visiting," I say, jostled.

"Do you always ride the jeepney?"

"This is my first time."

"Do you like it?"

I look around. The other riders are sleeping, staring into space, or staring at me.

"Yeah," I said. "You've got a really nice one."

"Thank you."

Someone in the back calls out something and the driver starts veering for the curb. Other jeepneys beep while he cuts them off. We slow down long enough for one person to crawl out and two people to squeeze on and then we're roaring off again.

"When do I get off?" I ask.

"I'll tell you," she said. "It's not far.

Jeepneys are usually home made. Filipinos go to the hardware store and buy pre-formed sheet metal parts and assemble it themselves, bolting and welding the body as their skills allow. When the body is assembled, it is pushed to the nearest garage, where an engine is dropped in. Now it’s ready to decorate. Hardware stores, even in small towns, carry a vast selection of chrome rear-view mirrors, fog lamps and fancy door handles. A family clan might have their own private jeepney for outings. A lower-caste Filipino who has a job might build a small version of a jeepney--a dead knock-off of the CJ-7, the classic jeep of the US army—for himself. Over time, they all seem to acquire their shiny, colorful decorations.

The woman poked her driver husband, saying something in Tagalog which caused him to veer again for the curb. "This is your stop," she said. "You'll have to cross the street and walk down Paseo Alexander Roxas and then you'll be in Makati."

"Thanks a lot," I started trying to move toward the opening in the back. "It was nice talking to you."

She grabbed my arm. "Don't get out yet," she said. "My husband will stop all the way. We don't want you to get killed." Sure enough the jeepney came to a complete stop, probably for the first time that day. A few people got off the back to give me more room to squeeze out. Once outside I turned and waved. Almost everyone inside waved back, and some people called out "Have a nice day!" as the jeepney barrelled away into the grey city.

The broad, dirty boulevard that I had to cross was choked with traffic, most of it beeping, smoking jeepneys. I stood at the curb for a few moments, somewhat sweaty and disoriented.

Page 2 of 2   Previous Page

All contents copyright ©2005 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.