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| Jeep from mutyang.deviantart.com |
I am sitting at the edge of a midsized jeepney. On my way to EDSA MRT, I am secluded from the traffic noise through the ear plugs that deliver me Matisyahu. On my hand is a book I’ve been reading for days for my 70-book challenge. I am more than ever keen on finishing it this weekend to the point of blindness. A woman sits across me, eyeing me for some strange reason and I eye her back. A couple more of insecure stares and I lose her completely between the prose of my favorite author.
The jeepney stops its nth stop from the corner of Heritage Hotel to the station. We impatiently wait for the next acceleration when a kid enters the jeepney and hands out small white envelopes for the passengers. A soiled envelope lands on top of my book and I hide it between the pages so I can continue reading. He’s one of those Badjao beggars who sing songs in an unknown language and get donation via those white – or brown, I can’t tell – envelopes.
Call me heartless, but faced with these circumstances, I do not easily oblige a moment of charity unless I am lead to. There is a clear argument here though, and I am not about to embark on a lengthy litany on charity and poverty. What I want to talk about is the Orwell-ish event that took place after the envelopes were given to us.
He sits on the entrance facing the oncoming traffic behind us. This is common. Badjao children normally sit there, but this child is different because he has no musical instrument with him. Typically, these kids bring makeshift drums and other percussion instruments that are beyond naming. Though not looking, I am actually very interested in what the child will be doing next. They commonly have good voices. Perhaps an oceanic serenade is about to be performed.
He claps his hands. Reminds me of an episode in Party Pilipinas while I wait for possible scripts written by my friend, Rsh – if not for her, I would never have known such a show really exists. The child mutters a couple of random oh, oh, yeah, yeah.
OK. It’s becoming more and more interesting. I still bore my eyes into the book pages, but I am not reading anymore.
More oh’s and woah’s, and the rhythm of the clap is suddenly becoming more and more familiar.
I’ve heard it somewhere. I scan my brain for possible ethnic songs I can still remember. Pinikpikan, Kadangyan, even those I’ve heard from my Igorot and Kalinga friends, I try to hum.
The child ends my stupor and utters the very words my past-evoking methods fail to provide.
“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. I know you love me, I know you care…”
If I could fall off my secured seat, I would have. The other passengers seem to secretly be bothered by it. Maybe in our collective desire to play normal, we really couldn’t do it. The child continues his song. I am laughing so hard, my smile leaks off my hanky. The girl I earlier had an eye war with plays dead. She doesn’t move an inch. The rest of the passengers shift their position, in an attempt to stay comfortable during such trying circumstances. Justin Bieber rings in our ears like a soundtrack of a movie I cannot recall. There’s more traffic outside, more people carrying morning burdens on their way to work. More and more people trying to get by their day, and in a world full of earthquakes and tsunami, we are enslaved by a Justin Bieber magnum opus rendered by an innocent Badjao kid. He finishes the song in less than two minutes, probably skipping the bridge if there’s a bridge. He stands up, collects his envelope – all of which are empty.
He alights, unmoved.
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