thirst

Padyak, that’s what it’s called here. A bicycle attached with a side car, Teflon covering it, imitating a tricycle minus a couple of hundred pounds, lighter – definitely and does not help destroy the atmosphere, that is. That is. You know. Powered by human muscle, meshed with human will, and again, sweat, blood, and tears (too much cliché here). That is.

There is something about Tatang Pedro that made me ride his chivalrous horse(he may be the horse you know, he’s kicking it, working it to run, or crawl, the Padyak that is). Aged 50 plus and all, rugged shorts, more rugged sandals, I don’t know what to make up of the color of his shirt--- gray? Gray white? Just plain dirty? Hell why do I care. All I can remember is the sweet music of the screech and complaint of old gears working in symphonious innocent disgust with old roads, older paths, ancient runways.

Every time I see Tatang, wide eyed and all smiles, 10 or so imperfect lined teeth showing (yup where he came from, toothbrushes are not yet invented), he knew I wouldn’t board a machine and spent 7-frigging-pesos over an 8 minute ride to school. He knew that for me there’s nothing like the nth stations of the cross crawl on good-ole padyak. He knew that 10-frigging-pesos over a 25 minute ride will come to rest on his million-tattered wrinkled hand. I can see his almost grin, but for the sake of untainted bliss, I’d say the old guy is just as happy.

Dela Cruz. Big letters outlined with bold strokes of black to violet colors stitched painfully at the back of the padyak. We ride silently, I the master, and he, my commissioned slave, all sweat dripping, it was only 8 in the morning and this guy’s shirt is wet with a pool of liquid dirt of his body. We don’t talk. What’s there to talk about, his monotonous life in contrast with codes of the loops of a Pascal program that I teach? His overjoyed 50 peso day against my unhappy almost 400 buck daily wage? His immense (good Lord!) satisfaction of a life living under the bridge against my humongous boredom of my young disappointed, lackluster young adulthood? That is.

We ride seeking for something. He, seeking for a livelihood, I, seeking for a reason to life. His enormous simplicity is a joke to persons of intellect. His rebellious nature towards anything hygienic makes him negligible of recognition, or thought. His labors, a martyrdom too Quixotic, enormously too impractical to be called noble for most. Everything this guy stands for, at least impression-wise, is the polar opposite of learned men’s stature. But, with all my gifts at discerns ion and reasoning, I feel awed, almost with a sacrilegious intent towards Respect, respect towards Tatang Pedro.

At the end of the ride he got what he was seeking for. I didn’t. His formulas maybe too shabby for a western-embracing punk like me, but they sure do deliver. Honesty, simplicity, contentment, and an unworldly gladness that is the rarest of all of Wisdom’s gifts. No, education did not teach him these(for all I know, he does not even know how to read), life did. Perhaps later in life, I too may be rewarded with such gifts. But for now, I will have to be content with riding his ride. Perhaps next time I might add 2 more pesos to my fare. As a token of respect to a teacher sans students, rooms, degrees and recognition.

That is.