Skip to main content

ओपन एयर (कों बस)

Open air-con bus

ALIN ang mas nakakahiya, makita ng madla na nangungulangot o umamin sa pag-utot?

Agad na inilipat ang talapihitan ng radyo sa 98.7 FM… ibang usapan, panayam sa isang babaeng manunulat ng mga librong crime thriller, inuungkat ang diskarte niya sa pananaliksik at pagsusulat. Now, that’s the kind of earful that I won’t take offense at… it has respect for me as an erudite, maybe, learned listener… kaya hindi mabubulungan ni Satanas na bibigyan niya ako ng kahit ilang nuclear warheads para burahin sa balat ng lupa at sa himpapawid ang naunang istasyon ng radyong bumulaga sa pandinig.

‘Yung mapapakinggan at mapapanood ang isa sa mga pangunahing dahilan kaya mas mahilig kaming sumakay sa open air(con bus)… tipid kahit konti sa pasahe, at karaniwang walang ‘kakapikang radyo na magbubuhos ng usapang imburnal o DVD player na magpapalabas ng mga tagpo ng pelikulang karima-rimarim.

Lack of such contraptions in those buses won’t allow the bus driver to inflict his execrable taste for sights or ‘sounds’ on the hapless commuter.

Hindi na baleng sumagap ng lahat ng alimuom, alikabok at usok-tambutso mula lansangan… basta huwag na lang mapika’t makapag-isip kung paano uupakan ng weapons of mass destruction ang mga bugok at gunggong na kapural ng mass distraction.


Hindi naman siguro mga busabos ang mga tsuper ng bus sa Cebu—palihug, sa lugar lang, bay—na nagpumilit sa LTFRB… na kahit daw patuloy umaakyat ang presyo ng krudo, hindi raw sila gagaya sa mga bus sa Metro-Manila na nagkukumahog na patawan ng mas mabigat na parusa sa bulsa ang karaniwang commuters. Ibinalik nila sa P6 ang singil sa minimum fare.


That’s a show of sensitivity and consideration
. Isa pa sigurong malinaw na asenso sa lansangan kung mas maraming public utility vehicles na masasakyan ko ang nakapako ang radyo sa 98.7 FMclassical music ang ibinubusina ng naturang himpilan. At iba ang bisa ng classical music on attention span, focus, and brain energy levels…

In an independent traffic study done on a major thoroughfare in the western corridor of the metropolis, it was found that (1) infrastructures—and the route was wide enough to accommodate vehicles of all sizes-- to ease flow of both pedestrian and vehicular traffic were in place, (2)traffic laws on road use and safety are more than enough, and (3) traffic signs were in order… yet, that thoroughfare was bedeviled every hour on the hour by monster traffic jams. What was wrong?

Without batting an eyelash, the surveyors told it like it is: “You Filipinos have an attitude problem in the streets. That’s the root of the traffic problems that you have in every bit of by-way or major highway.”


Gano’n lang ang ugat ng suliranin ng Filipino sa trapik… pati na drug trafficking.

Comments

Nikki said…
Hey..your blog is very amazing, I love to visit everyday..
Don't forget to visit my blog too DigitalCamerasReview.us
Thank you :)

Popular posts from this blog

Every single cell of my body's happy

I got this one from Carmelite Sisters from whose school three of my kids were graduated from. They have this snatch of a song that packs a fusion metal and liebeslaud beat and whose lyrics go like this:

"Every single cell of my body is happy. Every single cell of my body is well. I thank you, Lord. I feel so good. Every single cell of my body is well."

Biology-sharp nerds would readily agree with me in this digression... Over their lifetimes, cells are assaulted by a host of biological insults and injuries. The cells go through such ordeals as infection, trauma, extremes of temperature, exposure to toxins in the environment, and damage from metabolic processes-- this last item is often self-inflicted and includes a merry motley medley of smoking a deck a day of Philip Morris menthols, drinking currant-flavored vodka or suds, overindulgence in red meat or the choicest fat-marbled cuts of poultry and such carcass.

When the damage gets to a certain point, cells self-destruct. T…

KASI NANLABAN

Viagra au naturel

IT LOOKED eerie—a blaze of fireflies pulsing like stars in the nippy air, throbbing with mating passions. That show of lights somehow eased the shadows of a Holy Thursday night on a dry river bed a few kilometers trudge up Mount Makiling.

It’s likely that no river has lain in sleep for months on that moss-grown, boulder-strewn bed—except my 20-year old kid Kukudyu and I. We were out to spend the night, do on-site learning sessions by the next day. Usual father-and-son bonding. As the late Benjamin Franklin once begged: "Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn."

Past noon from the foot of the mountain’s northern section, it took us four hours ploughing non-stop through prickly bushes and forest undergrowth to get to that site. We got there in one bruised piece. By then, dusk was falling; the sylvan air hummed with a trill of crickets, cicadas, critters nameless in choral orison. That incessant “sh-r-r-e-eemmm---“ layered with “k-kr-r-eeengg--” …