Non-fiction by Joshua B. Palma

Sometime in 2001 I was somewhere along Commonwealth Avenue, on my way to Payatas (the largest dumping site community in Metro Manila). The jeepney I was riding suddenly gave out a loud, screeching brake. I was almost thrown off balance if not for the holding bar suspended on the jeepney ceiling that I caught just in time. A huge ten-wheeler truck was stopping as well right beside us. All the other vehicles big and small, behind and parallel us stopped too. Various sounds of braking tires crying in unison like an orchestra responding to a conductor’s baton. I looked out to see what caused such an interruption to our rather not-so-fast but free-flowing travel of the four-lane road. The whole world seemed to have stopped momentarily.

And there she was -- a woman of about 40. She was clad in her loose daster (house dress) blown freely against her sun-burnt body by the light summer wind. The shy smile of a typical Filipina caught in an embarrassing situation showed on her face. Cans of cheap sardines and other canned foods were littered on the pavement, some rolling in various directions. She got hold of some, others went as far as the front tires of the ten-wheeler truck beside us. The plastic bag that had held her possessions obviously gave in while she was crossing the highway. Now she held the bag and the canned goods she was able to keep from falling close to her body to keep the wind from flying her loose garment while she stood there undecided. I watched wondering what was most important to her at the moment: the scattered can foods perhaps for her hungry children waiting at home or recapturing her lost sense of dignity. It looked like she was ready to leave her possessions behind just not to cause a traffic jam.

The driver of the jeepney I was on realized that the woman and her goods were out of our lane, so he stepped on the gas. As we passed by the ten-wheeler truck, I caught a glimpse of the tattooed arm of its driver signaling for the woman to take her time and then yelling obscenities at the driver behind him who was blowing a demanding and impatient horn. I wanted to yell also at the damn fool to shut up, but the engine of my jeepney was roaring loudly and spewing out its deadly black smoke. I tried to fix my eyes on that most beautiful sight as long as I can. Not one vehicle on the woman’s commandeered lanes moved until she got back all her possessions.

I am amazed at the stark politeness of the poor as embodied by that woman. The realization to have caused such a traffic jam for the riding public seemed to have upset her perhaps more than losing her meager possession. The avoidance of being an irritant to the middleclass and the rich is still a treasured possession she won’t let go with all the rest this unjust society has taken away from her.

The tattooed driver is an inspiration. Notorious instant leadership of the working class can take it shape anytime when circumstances call for, in defense of those who are pushed at the edges of life and death.