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.
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