“Sometimes it feels like mine, although it isn’t,” the jeepney driver of a Tibungco bound admitted, with the fondness for the vehicle unmistakable.

It was almost seven o’clock in the evening. Don’t get me wrong: the day had truly been long, and I was tired out of my wits. Still, with a backpack pressed against my back and a paper bag of dirty clothes on my lap, I settled into the front seat, eager to strike a conversation despite the wariness of having attended a journalism workshop organized by Atenews. 

As awkward as I was, the first question that came to mind was whether he owned the jeepney. 

“I don’t,” he responded almost immediately. And there came his response.

When I glanced at him, I found that he had both of his hands at the back of his head, almost as if he was sleeping. That was when I also noticed that there were two small portable fans cleverly placed on the “ceiling” of the vehicle, with flashy blue lights emitting from the sides reflected on his face. There was also the flamboyant gearshift, and a battered box with coins, divided according to their value.

It reminded me of my books at home, bearing the marks of time, with their once-crisp covers and softened spines. It reminded me of a few loose, yellowed pages and dog-eared corners, of highlighted pages and faint smudges from my fingertips. It reminded me of home, revisited and lived in. 

This jeepney was well-loved. It felt like his, and perhaps it really was, in all the ways that mattered. 

“How much does it cost to buy a jeepney like this then?” I asked.

“It depends. I think there’s forty thousand if it’s really old, but usually it can be two hundred thousand or more,” he responded with a shrug.

From an outsider’s perspective, maybe it wasn’t much. After all, with Davao City rapidly urbanizing in the past few years, car ownership has been steadily increasing, with some of its prices similar to the traditional jeepneys. But in truth, inside of it was a world of its own: a space where strangers like the driver and me could simply just share seats and talk after a long day filled with the usual rush.

When I passed him my twenty-five peso fare which would take me from bustling Claveria Street to Panacan as usual, my curiosity was already fully piqued.

“Did you put those stickers on your own? I saw lots of them earlier,” I inquired. As part of the generation seemingly fond of anything and everything minimal, seeing the stickers of cartoon or anime characters from childhood was truly a marvel. What’s beautiful about it was that it was a culture that was so ours, complete with the unapologetic Filipino phrases crammed onto the surface like they couldn’t wait to burn young and exist for as loud as they could. After all, what’s more Filipino than the complete riot of colors?

“Of course I did. I have been driving for almost fifteen years now. I even commissioned someone from the Boulevard to make these,” he answered as he pointed to the jeepney signages.

Looking at my watch, we talked for only about 15 minutes. Somehow, we have come to a budding companionship, with the kind of truthfulness that seeped out of the body when it could no longer offer you anything else. Within those fleeting minutes, there was a final act of gaining and losing in the face of a stranger—a kababayan—like a confession that wiped the slate clean. 

Beyond its function, it suddenly occurred to me that this old, traditional jeepney mirrored the Filipino spirit: creative and expressive, brimming with life that nobody could touch. But most of all, jeepney drivers represented the grit and resilience, of mutual trust and kindness even in the absence of familiarity. Each sticker, each carefully painted detail, was a nod to a personality so vibrant that it could almost be blinding, and the shared memories of countless passengers who sat in these same seats.

More and more passengers came around this time. Someone farthest from the driver voiced out, “Palihog lang,” to which another person complied. And then another. And another. And another. Until the coins finally reached the jeepney driver’s right hand. It was swift yet deliberate, cool against the palm. There was a faint chime, the random chatter of the commuters barely audible in the false quiet of the night. 

When he sensed that the jeepney was full, he called the barker and paid some more, with the same coins clinking softly against the calloused fingers. Before being on the move, he picked up his phone, which lay silent near the broken dashboard. In the end, he clicked on the Maroon 5 hits songs, and Girls Like You immediately began to play.

With practiced motion, we finally hit the road and talked no more. In this cramped setting, everyone was part of the unspoken cooperation, of a system that had long defined our daily commutes. There were no reminders, no formal rules, but just the quiet understanding that we each played a small role in making the journey smoother for everyone, whether it be in shifting to make room for another, in tapping the roof when the driver didn’t stop the first time, or in the comfort that a sleepy child found on the shoulder of a stranger.

Maybe the jeepney wasn’t his, but nor was it for everyone either. It belonged to those who have become part of a community that understood what it meant to make an ordinary ride a little kinder and warmer.

I knew that when the night ended, he would forget about me, and I would be one of the nameless faces that he had the chance to sneak a conversation with. On my end, I would probably also forget the other people behind me, and we would all come and go like we always did. We would be in different places and the chances were this would simply be a night of weary bones. 

But for a brief moment, that wasn’t the case at all. For a brief moment, we knew what it felt like to be part of the same journey, bound by the same values and not-so-grand gestures. For a brief moment, we carried the essence of bayanihan in a seemingly hyper–independent world. 

And for a brief moment, we were not strangers, but people who found it natural to meet one another halfway through, even in something as simple as the exchanging of the coin. 

–

NOTE: This literary piece was published in the April 2025 Tabloid Issue of Atenews. Grab a physical copy for free in the Atenews office.