As I stood by a corner of a street on an unfamiliar side of town, I notice a man sitting on the curb with his head on his hands. He looks up at the sky, stands, and begins to head towards me.
“Where’s the Loakan Airport?” he asks. Ading, nasaan yung Loakan Airport?
“It’s far from here, sir. But the jeepney station is just a few blocks down that way.” I reply. Ay malayo pa po, pero medyo malapit yung jeepney station papunta doon. Dumiretso lang po kayo.
I motion the direction of the station with my hands, look back at him and can’t help but note how defeated he looks. His clothes were tattered and he was frail and thin and dark from the sun. He was missing many of his teeth and those that were left seemed ready to break away at any moment. But he still smiled. He smiled that smile that all broken men wear — tired and beaten. I felt my gut sink.
He tightens his fist and loses his smile. He looks at the ground and back at me.
“Is it too far if I walk?” he asks. His voice was hollow and desperate. Masyadong malayo ba kung lalakarin ko?
“Yes, sir. It’s a long way from here.” I reply. Opo, malayo pa po.
He lets out a small laugh and holds out his palm revealing four pesos.
“This is all I have left,” he says. Ito nalang kasi pera ko
I begin to scramble through my pockets for loose change. I wish I had brought more money with me, but I barely have enough to get myself home. This is illegal too, isn’t it? No. It’s not. This man is not a beggar, he walks with dignity and would rather walk the long journey to Loakan rather than beg the ten pesos he needs for the fare. He stands tall in his tattered clothes and broken smile.
He tries to deny the change I give him and asks that I just point him to the direction of the airport. I insist and he takes the coins — all the coins I could get from my pockets and my bag, not so much, but enough to get him where he needs to be.
“Thank you, thank you. Merry Christmas, to you.” his voice seemed so alive at that moment. He taps me on the shoulder and goes on his way. Salamat, salamat, Merry Christmas po sa inyo.
It was already the third week of January, but to the Filipino, Christmas never ends.
I head into a fishball stand and eat a little before heading home. I look up into the cool January sky and pray for the old man. I hope he gets to where he needs to be. I hope he has a family that loves him and will care for him. I mutter a few more and think that I should have given him more. I should have, maybe I should have walked with him and bought him some bread and water.
Poverty’s a bitch, poverty’s a bitch that makes sure you only have four pesos to your name when you die. Poverty makes sure that you are rid of your identity and name as she throws you down a mass grave. Poverty’s a bitch, the entire Philippines knows that, but nothing much has changed for those below the poverty line since the 50’s. Poverty and corruption’s all a generation saw from cradle to grave. God bless that man and everyone else like him but damn the people who bleed the country dry.
But God bless that man and I hope he will do well. I hop off the stool and head home, muttering prayers for the old man every now and then.
