...and on the way back.

I told you it would take another blog.

This is what I love in little towns. People are so involved in each other’s lives that they could not resist the chance to talk to each other, when they met on the streets, when they bought fish, when they rode on jeeps.

The tricycle driver noted the results of my trip to the market, and he inquired how much I bought the Indian mangoes for. I said P20 per kilo (and I was proud of it). He mournfully shook his head and offered his opinion on where I could have gotten fresher mangoes at 15 pesos per kilo. He lifted my basket and took me to the right jeep. The driver’s assistant positioned my basket in the middle and reminded me not to sit too far in front, since my destination was closer.

The jeep mercifully left after fifteen minutes of waiting for passengers. I saw the other passengers looking me over shamelessly, so I checked them out too. It was certainly more interesting than my rides to the office, where the office girls and boys slept all the way to Ortigas, and the only means of entertainment was to wonder whether the bank employee beside me was carrying an authentic Louis Vuitton bag, and to count how many were not wearing earphones.

Beside me was a teenager. She had a bag, but she chose to hold her two cellphones, a comb, and a handkerchief in one hand. She was texting on the cellphones alternately, and smiling as she did it. Said teenager would later forget where was supposed to get off, and would squeal for the driver to stop when she realized she was past her destination. The older men would laugh at the folly of owning cellphones when she was gone. I dared not check my cellphone.

I wonder why there are so many kids in these jeep rides. There was a mother across me with three little kids. She was breastfeeding the fourth. All three kids, I presumed, weren’t paying passengers. As the jeep stopped to pick up more passengers along the way, the children were asked to give up their seats, one by one. They did, and they either sat on the jeepney floor, or on one of their bags, or on another person’s lap if it was offered.

Farther along the seat was another baby, who was gleefully plucking the leaves of some vegetables from another passenger’s basket and eating them, while his mother chatted with the basket’s owner. While I was doubtful about the benefit of raw pechay leaves on the baby’s digestion, I was sure the other woman did not mind cooking shredded vegetables.

Two little boys got on. I guessed they were about five and eight, or maybe they’re small for their age. They each had a small bundle of firewood, which the older one said they were selling in the next barangay. One of the relatively well-dressed men on the jeep (well, he had shoes), clucked and offered to pay for their fare. An old woman who was eating bread gave some of it to the smaller boy. He kept his eyes down but said thank you. I felt like applauding.

One rather pretty young girl got on. She smiled at everyone, and when she was paying her fare a brash young man proclaimed that she should get a free ride, on account of being pretty. The driver, an old man, looked at us from his rearview mirror, smiled, and obliged.

And of course there were the grandmothers, who saw everything and gave their opinion and nodded approval in all the right places as the conversations eddied around them. I think it’s mainly these old women who anchor the jeep rides in their places for me, with their calm faces, unselfconscious words, and expansive moods. The presence of old women in the jeep tells me that there is no need to hurry, I’ve been there, done that, life is indeed tough, so let the jeep take us where we want to go and in the meantime let’s enjoy each other. You can breastfeed your kid, you can text on all three cellphones if you have them, you can wear blue sequined pants and misspelled Havaianas and to hell with whoever noticed, but we’ll get there when we get there. (Or maybe I'm fixated with grandmothers.)

I’m sure jeep rides in that place aren’t always so pleasant. As in other places, there would be drunk passengers, or passengers who argue with the driver about the fare, or jeeps being held up by thieves. Maybe I got lucky, it being Easter Sunday and all.

At the end of that day I would be heading back to my ordinary life in the city, but at that particular time, with a basket full of fruits and vegetables, wearing muddy slippers instead of high heels, not worrying about reports and documents for signature, the jeep was a happy place to be.