FEATURE STORY
There’s no traffic crisis in Metro Manila. None at all
Metro Manila’s traffic and the culture of silent rage
4
:30 AM. It’s pitch black. My brother and I stumble into the car, careful not to hit the breakfast plates my mother has prepared for us, which my father has ingeniously placed inside lidless baskets to keep them from spilling. We’ll barely touch the food, much to my mother’s chagrin. Ten year olds—what can you do? Instead we’ll sleep during the ride from Alabang to Makati, pre-Skyway, pre-C5, and awake when we arrive—hopefully—before the 7:30 bell.
It’s 7:38 AM. I’m thirteen years old and I am sneaking into the bathroom, hoping to slip into the line as it passes by after the flag ceremony. Inside I see three other girls with their bags. We nod at each other and watch out for the teacher who might come in to check the stalls.
I check for the time: 8:00 AM. I am fifteen years old. I am hitting the car door in frustration. A warning note for chronic tardiness sits glowering in my bag. The service road hasn’t moved in an hour. My mother is anxious behind the wheel, thinking how to appease my teacher. In front of us a car door opens, blocking the vehicles illegally counter-flowing. A fight ensues. I tell my mom I’m ready to switch schools.
It’s 8:30 AM. I am running after my brother. He points to a marked AUV. We get in. I’d just taken a bus and the still-new MRT to go to school in Quezon City. As my brother gets off Palma Hall, he instructs me to ride until the end and take a jeep to the next university. I sit in the jeepney in glee. I feel empowered. No longer do I have to wait for my father and his car, for taxis with no change, for friends with drivers. I can move freely in the city, wherever I please. I miss the stop and end up walking several blocks to my dorm. I shower before going to class and debate whether I should just skip it.
9:00 AM. I am driving my own car. Well, it’s the company’s but it will soon be mine if I just stay with them long enough. I’d just learned to drive and I watch as the needle rises from 80 MPH to 90 to 100. I feel strong. I’m a woman with her own car. I no longer need my boyfriend or my brother or my father. Good bye sweaty trains, crowded buses and AUVs. The best part? A fleet card.
It’s 10:00 PM and I am still in SLEX. It’s been three hours and traffic is at a standstill and I am still far, far from home. There’s beer in my breath and I am singing loudly along to the radio. For some reason I look to my right and see the split second before a car lurches and hits another beside me, which spins, grazing the space where my car’s hood would’ve been if I hadn’t stopped. Car doors open. Magically, the lane in front of me frees up and I slowly scoot away.
It’s 11:00 PM and the Skyway is jammed. We move inches every five minutes. I don’t mind. Behind the heavily tinted glass, the whirr of my breast pump keeps a steady rhythm. I get home two hours later exhausted and famished. I put several bags of milk in the freezer then head straight to a hot shower. When I finally crawl into bed, my infant wakes up and cries softly for my breast.
It’s 4:00 PM and I am running to the Point-to-Point bus from Greenbelt to Alabang. I sit next to an older woman. She smiles and tells me to please take another seat because her amiga is on the way. I settle next to a guy whose cologne smells of high school dances. He’s on the phone. “Dude, pare,” he says. (I kid you not). We leave just before rush hour sets so it only takes an hour to cover the 15 kilometer distance. Inside, everyone is on their phone and we are all pretty smug about this convenience. See how disciplined and well mannered people are, how willing even the Cartierwearing old ladies are to take decent public transport? See how we are helping the environment by skipping single-passenger vehicles? I get home, hug my toddler, hand her back to her nanny and open my computer. My boss lets me off early today after I promise I will finish editing articles. At 8:00 PM I close the laptop and kiss my sleeping daughter goodnight.
It’s 8:00 PM and I have been in line for the bus for over an hour. “Na-traffic,” says the person in front me. When it finally arrives we shuffle in wordlessly. Two hours later we are still on the Skyway. People in varying degrees of formal workwear are on their phones or dozing off. I am texting my sister, asking where she is. I remember the story she tells me of one particularly bad night, on her car’s coding day. The lines for the MRT snaked two blocks she told me. The few buses and jeeps that arrived had a crowd leaping into their doors before they’d even stopped. Forget Grab. Forget taxis. She was walking alongside Ayala Avenue looking for a miracle. Suddenly, she hears a screech of tires and loud, brittle sound, like fireworks, like glass, like guns, from behind. She turns and sees a smoking bus and the remains of a woman, a headless body on the street and all around the pavement. She is stunned. Then she runs, fast as she can, back to the mall. How are you getting home? I text her. She replies that her boyfriend is taking her home. Take care, please. I put the phone down and stare at the clock. I should read my book. I should check my emails. I should listen to the Beatles. I should watch something on Netflix. But I can’t. Instead I look at the people around me. I do this for the rest of the ride. No one lever looks back.