Yesterday was a Saturday and I departed from my routines a bit. I was first off to Pasay City to purchase parts for the family car which, like mortal remains slowly but surely reverting to dust, is being reclaimed by oxidation and wear-and-tear. I marvel at how it can go on, but it almost always sputters to life when one cranks the ignition, and happily takes to life's daily errands, including to places not so affected by the chaos and sickness of urban living. But I know that one of these days it will simply refuse to come to life and want to die like an honourable man, in which case I will have to go on another Saturday trip to Pasay and procure more parts, so I may bring it back to life and put some more years into it. I'm certain Man will go the way of my car: Body parts and organ systems will all become replaceable, and despite the continuing scourge of morbid diseases and illnesses, immortality will be as commonplace as the seven capital sins.
And who wouldn't like to go on forever? I most certainly don't. I believe that knowing we are mere mortals causes us to be as creative and prolific as we can be, fully aware that anything and everything can be over in an instant. This is the case for those who were destined to contribute significant and useful things to humankind. For those of us who are afflicted and suffer from real or imagined illnesses, and from psychological scars, and the sense of futility and hopelessness, mortality brings a welcome respite from it all.
But the responses to the question will be numerous. Immortality should be very attractive to those who have botox injections, lifts, implants, augmentations, and nip tucks; those who have become so used to the trappings of power; those who have amassed fortunes for hundreds of lifetimes. They will never want to die.
I've decided long ago to keep the car for as long as I can, not only because at the moment I simply cannot see how we can afford to buy a new one, but moreso because, like my beloved Aries in the States, it has always been loyal and reliable. These two qualities are treasures, and to dismiss them would be sheer folly.
From the car parts store in Pasay, I proceeded to the Redemptorist Church in Baclaran on foot. Walking was the best option since taking either a bus or jeepney would mean going the long route around the Mall of Asia and the defunct Uniwide Coastal Mall at the vast reclaimed land now called Coastal City. In the 60s, they started reclaiming land from the sea and they began in the area where the CCP, Folk Arts Theater, and PICC now stand. I recall one weekend afternoon when the family drove to the edge of this reclaimed land, where a new beach had formed. The place had become a curiosity to families in search of new destinations in 60s Manila. The sun was still high on the horizon, and I could see the looming outlines of at least two or three huge dredging barges, like prehistoric creatures risen from the sea, blockading Manila Bay. The new beach was almost devoid of any plant life, save for patches of wild grass here and there, and was pockmarked by little and big pools of accumulated water. I saw several dead fish lapped up by small, slow waves. Looking back on that scene now, it could have been and could still be utilized as a scene in an apocalyptic film.
I'm thankful that I remain in good health, making the long, hot, humid walk to the Redemptorist Church, while lugging shock absorbers and other car parts, bearable and somewhat pleasant. I was thrust in a sea of humanity and mercantile activity; a certain quick pace had to be maintained; hesitating or slowing down meant a mass of men, women, and children coming up from behind. I think when one wanted to look at or buy something, then quickly sidestepping, like a deft gymnast or acrobat, into a small corner, out of the way of the flowing current of humanity, was called for.
My business at the church was to offer masses for Mom's and Benjie's third and second death anniversaries, respectively. Life's concerns make me think of them less frequently now, but never less of them. They're part of many of my fond memories. This church also once held Mom's lifelong spiritual devotion, and a great many of her Wednesdays (with me in tow) were spent at this church, walking on her knees, pleading for I didn't know exactly what. Maybe she prayed for things similar to what I pray for now. Or maybe she was just thankful that our family was in one piece; survivors of life's rigours. I never would have been sure. I was just a child during those years, and it was oft told us that children's prayers find more favor in Heaven, and so I wondered what grown-ups like Mom pleaded for. Perhaps because I feel that life could have dealt me a better set of cards, I sometimes think that the rewards of the earth pale in comparison to what we pray for. Judging from my own entreaties, most people probably pray for fantastical things. Age, or probably disappointment from my numerous unanswered prayers, has mellowed the nature of my pleas somewhat. I now mostly pray for the benefit of loved ones and those they love. I probably have two decades more, three at most, before my own mortality takes me. And it might even be tomorrow or next week or next month, who knows? But so like the human that I am, I've inserted some self-benefiting "contract provisions," just in case. God just might find enough humor in them and grant me my wishes.
I kind of welcome these jaunts that happen once or twice a year, as they afford me the chance to go out of my radius of existence which, comparing to the breadth and width of what others have managed, is rather small and constricted. In the course of my over half-century life, I've only twice traveled halfway around the world, and in my country, only once almost along its entire length. That will be it, I suppose. No other distant, earthly journey is coming my way. I want to go further and more often, to see more, but like my love for watches, my love of adventure is sorely hampered by my limited resources.
The major part of my journey to Pasay City and back was in a jeepney, that outdated, inherently dangerous, polluting, uncomfortable, dysfunctional albeit useful relic from post-war Philippines. It continues to be the backbone of the archipelago's public transportation. My earliest recollections have jeepneys in them, the last glimpses of my final hours might have them, too. I might die in one, or be run over by one, considering how unsafe they really are.
Apart from being essential public transport, irreplaceable by buses or commuter trains, or other mass transport systems dreamed up by technocrats, bureaucrats, politicians, and other so-called experts in this country, lawyers included, the jeepney exists as some sort of a laboratory. Humans are subjected to the G-forces of sudden lateral acceleration and deceleration, with dear life maintained only by a grasp bar and prayers. Some hold on to the bar and pray, some either hold on or pray, and some let destiny take its course and do neither. I maintain some sense of caution in myself and hold on to the bar. At times I pray, not for dear life, but for some miraculous fortune that can vastly and immediately improve my existence. Like winning the jackpot in the lottery, for example. And then I wonder if I have a kindred soul in prayer among the other subjects in this moving lab.
Passengers in a jeepney share common destinations and, may I say, possibly common destinies. Traveling at breakneck speed, getting off is almost out of the question, and we thus place our fates in the skills and intentions of a total stranger. Which brings to mind that even with current technology, getting off of this planet en masse is still a dream. And even if we could, would many want to be pioneers in a strange, potentially hostile planet with unknown life forms and environmental patterns? The preference for familiarity is very strong in the majority of the species, man included. We only have one place to call "home," really. I thus wonder why many, myself included, cannot be more tolerant and forgiving.
I believe the world will be a better place if it can take its lessons from riding in a jeepney. Elbow room and leg room are practically unheard of, and on a sweltering day, the passenger cabin is a microcosm of different odors: Sweat, body odor both revolting and pleasant, cheap perfume, bad breath, the liberating scent of an enchanting woman and her newly-washed hair, diesel fumes. There have been instances, however, of beautiful women with beautiful long hair, with a vinegary smell. Could be the women or the hair, I couldn't be certain. And yet, for the entire duration of a trip devoid of any measure of comfort, through Metro Manila's hideous traffic, we are able to tolerate each other and our common inconvenient circumstance. Of course, I've been witness to some lively verbal skirmishes between passengers, but these are quite rare compared to the occasions of total strangers trading banter, sharing well-intentioned advice, as if among old friends. Who was it who said that, "Strangers are nothing more than friends who haven't met?" That was a wise guy there. Maybe he had the occasion to ride in a jeepney.
No comments:
Post a Comment