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Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
A New Job
Tomorrow I start work for a start-up marketing company. Or more accurately, I start to officially work for a commonly-owned and managed enterprise.
As you can probably guess: it's a worker's cooperative. A group of artists decided to band together to establish a business that they themselves will run and manage. I'm not an artist, of course, nor can I ever pretend to be one. I'm just coming in based on the strength of a hack writing job I did for them. Apparently, they have a need for writers, so any hack writer, my person included, might do.
It's a prospect that fills me with excitement and trepidation.
I believe that this cooperative has a lot of potential for growth and that I could contribute to such growth, given my background and knowledge of the cooperative business. But I also seriously doubt my writing prowess and thus, I fear, I'll come short of their expectations. As I said, I do believe I'm only a hack writer, at best; not an artist like them. The best I could come up with is perhaps a decent phrase or two.
There's a lot of uncertainty involved. They still have to get their systems in place. A few equipments are still being acquired. Heck, even my job description is a bit vague (Imagine: having been asked by my "boss" to help in drafting my own job description? It's a moral dilemma. On one hand, I could take advantage of it to have less things to do or be responsible of, but on the other, my conscience wouldn't let me shortchange them. In the end, I simply declined.) Even the pay isn't that good. It's even lower than my previous salary as a factory worker.
I could, however, render flexible working time. Or tele-commute. As long as I meet the targets then I'm good. This is what attracted me to the job. Of course, another plus factor is the potential for growth. The company is expanding rapidly and is poised on proving the viability of the worker's cooperative as a viable and sustainable enterprise. As a cooperative advocate, that prospect excites me. Alas, we can be free from the yoke of corporate slavery. There are no real "bosses" at the company, at least, not in the traditional sense. And we pay for our own salary and bonuses...based on output and equity considerations. Plus, the office is near U.P., thus, technically, still within my comfort zone.
Honestly, though, should my application for a certain corporation be approved, I would probably leave this new job in a heartbeat. I've been so used in rendering regular hours of work, in having concrete rules, and definite hierarchies that I find my new company's work ethics to be quite disconcerting.
I feel like a domesticated rat whose cage has finally been opened. Everyone yells at me to flee. That freedom is to be desired.
And yet all I know, in all my life is the certainty of comfort in my own little cage.
As you can probably guess: it's a worker's cooperative. A group of artists decided to band together to establish a business that they themselves will run and manage. I'm not an artist, of course, nor can I ever pretend to be one. I'm just coming in based on the strength of a hack writing job I did for them. Apparently, they have a need for writers, so any hack writer, my person included, might do.
It's a prospect that fills me with excitement and trepidation.
I believe that this cooperative has a lot of potential for growth and that I could contribute to such growth, given my background and knowledge of the cooperative business. But I also seriously doubt my writing prowess and thus, I fear, I'll come short of their expectations. As I said, I do believe I'm only a hack writer, at best; not an artist like them. The best I could come up with is perhaps a decent phrase or two.
There's a lot of uncertainty involved. They still have to get their systems in place. A few equipments are still being acquired. Heck, even my job description is a bit vague (Imagine: having been asked by my "boss" to help in drafting my own job description? It's a moral dilemma. On one hand, I could take advantage of it to have less things to do or be responsible of, but on the other, my conscience wouldn't let me shortchange them. In the end, I simply declined.) Even the pay isn't that good. It's even lower than my previous salary as a factory worker.
I could, however, render flexible working time. Or tele-commute. As long as I meet the targets then I'm good. This is what attracted me to the job. Of course, another plus factor is the potential for growth. The company is expanding rapidly and is poised on proving the viability of the worker's cooperative as a viable and sustainable enterprise. As a cooperative advocate, that prospect excites me. Alas, we can be free from the yoke of corporate slavery. There are no real "bosses" at the company, at least, not in the traditional sense. And we pay for our own salary and bonuses...based on output and equity considerations. Plus, the office is near U.P., thus, technically, still within my comfort zone.
Honestly, though, should my application for a certain corporation be approved, I would probably leave this new job in a heartbeat. I've been so used in rendering regular hours of work, in having concrete rules, and definite hierarchies that I find my new company's work ethics to be quite disconcerting.
I feel like a domesticated rat whose cage has finally been opened. Everyone yells at me to flee. That freedom is to be desired.
And yet all I know, in all my life is the certainty of comfort in my own little cage.
On Carlo Caparas Being a National Artist
Carlo Caparas is not a visual artist. And certainly not a National Artist material.
Gerry Alanguilan has said it best in this online petition
When the highest award for artists in the Philippines can be dispensed through political patronage rather than merit, then it certainly says something about how we, as a nation, regard arts and culture in our country. GMA has committed an outrage that must be redressed. I do hope the Supreme Court rules against the insertion of undeserving National Artists by Malacañang.
Gerry Alanguilan has said it best in this online petition
When the highest award for artists in the Philippines can be dispensed through political patronage rather than merit, then it certainly says something about how we, as a nation, regard arts and culture in our country. GMA has committed an outrage that must be redressed. I do hope the Supreme Court rules against the insertion of undeserving National Artists by Malacañang.
On Looking For A Job and Selling Banana Que
With my separation pay from my previous job being almost depleted, I had no choice but to seriously look for a job these past few weeks.
This time with more desperation than ever.
Yup, desperate enough to consider selling banana-que...or eating my words.
A college professor once admonished us to take up masteral studies in Political Science because, otherwise, all we were good for, as BA undergraduates of the said course is "selling banana-que". The good professor, I believe, does not really denigrate those who sell banana-que---at least not consciously. But those who do sell them, she would say, are undergrad students, too. "Go ahead, ask them." We all laughed, of course, thinking how much a kidder the professor can be.
Well, after graduation, I sort of realize how true her words can be. Let me put it this way:
What's one sure way to turn up negative results in a job search engine? PUT IN THE WORDS "POLITICAL SCIENCE" THEN PRESS "ENTER".
If my said professor had low regard for banana-que vendors in UP, then she had a LOWER regard for call center agents. I didn't teach you political analysis just so you could all be "telephone operators", she would say.
"That wouldn't happen to me," I would mutter. After all, haven't I chosen factory work and labor service above and beyond the lure of easy money in a call center? Yes, I did. I even told a friend, half-jokingly that I might as well sell banana-que before I consider working for a call center.
I've always imagined myself working for an Non-Government Organization after graduation. I wanted to continue serving other people. I wanted to nurture my social advocacies while providing for my necessities. And so I submitted a few applications to certain NGOs just after graduation.
And then I waited. And waited. And waited. A friend from the labor sector told me to wait some more because there's definitely going to be a job opening in the labor advocacy center soon. So I waited some more.
Unfortunately, my funds are fast running out. I didn't get much separation pay to begin with, in the first place. And I had to provide for my needs in the meantime.
And so, suddenly, the prospect of getting a call center job didn't seem all that bad. After all, some of my friends are working as call center agents and they're doing mighty fine, aren't they? And didn't they say, getting a call center job would be a cinch?
In short, I ended up eating my banana-que laden words: I applied for a call center job.
I'm putting this in my blog to remind myself to always be humble. To not let the prejudices of some other people affect my future decisions. And to not let myself forget that whatever I achieve in life... I'll always be factory worker.
Which is about as decent a job can get---as decent as the banana-que seller. Which, in the end, is way better than a politician or congressman, right? (Oops, here I go again.)
This time with more desperation than ever.
Yup, desperate enough to consider selling banana-que...or eating my words.
A college professor once admonished us to take up masteral studies in Political Science because, otherwise, all we were good for, as BA undergraduates of the said course is "selling banana-que". The good professor, I believe, does not really denigrate those who sell banana-que---at least not consciously. But those who do sell them, she would say, are undergrad students, too. "Go ahead, ask them." We all laughed, of course, thinking how much a kidder the professor can be.
Well, after graduation, I sort of realize how true her words can be. Let me put it this way:
What's one sure way to turn up negative results in a job search engine? PUT IN THE WORDS "POLITICAL SCIENCE" THEN PRESS "ENTER".
If my said professor had low regard for banana-que vendors in UP, then she had a LOWER regard for call center agents. I didn't teach you political analysis just so you could all be "telephone operators", she would say.
"That wouldn't happen to me," I would mutter. After all, haven't I chosen factory work and labor service above and beyond the lure of easy money in a call center? Yes, I did. I even told a friend, half-jokingly that I might as well sell banana-que before I consider working for a call center.
I've always imagined myself working for an Non-Government Organization after graduation. I wanted to continue serving other people. I wanted to nurture my social advocacies while providing for my necessities. And so I submitted a few applications to certain NGOs just after graduation.
And then I waited. And waited. And waited. A friend from the labor sector told me to wait some more because there's definitely going to be a job opening in the labor advocacy center soon. So I waited some more.
Unfortunately, my funds are fast running out. I didn't get much separation pay to begin with, in the first place. And I had to provide for my needs in the meantime.
And so, suddenly, the prospect of getting a call center job didn't seem all that bad. After all, some of my friends are working as call center agents and they're doing mighty fine, aren't they? And didn't they say, getting a call center job would be a cinch?
In short, I ended up eating my banana-que laden words: I applied for a call center job.
I'm putting this in my blog to remind myself to always be humble. To not let the prejudices of some other people affect my future decisions. And to not let myself forget that whatever I achieve in life... I'll always be factory worker.
Which is about as decent a job can get---as decent as the banana-que seller. Which, in the end, is way better than a politician or congressman, right? (Oops, here I go again.)
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Tutoring UPCAT applicants
It was the summer of 2009. I was jobless, penniless and a UP graduate. I felt I need to give something back to UP (my alma mater) and my community before I attempt getting a job or a few pesos in my pockets. (Sometimes, I believe all my dreams are rooted in penury, anyway.)
I decided I was going to give tutorials or review sessions for public high school kids. I decided to talk to a local town councilor about this and he introduced me to the principal of the San Mateo National High School. At first, I could sense that the principal wasn't keen on the idea and simply told me to come back on the first week of June. Even though it would have been ideal had the review session started on April or May, he says, it just wasn't possible to get the kids to school during the school break.
I was able to conduct tutorials earlier that summer to a bunch of incoming 4th year students from Ropdiguez(Montalban)---alas, that's another story--- and that proved useful for the tutorials I was to conduct for the San Mateo public high school.
I went on the first week of June. I was introduced to the high school head teacher who told me that I could not begin that week because they had to get the permission from the kids' parents first. Since the tutorials would be conducted by my lonesome, I suggested to keep the class size lean. It will be limited only to the top ten students of the graduating class.
On the first day of the tutorials, the head teacher asked me categorically: "what's in it for me? Why am I doing this tutorial?" Apparently, the principal wants to know if I was going to charge the kids or the school with anything.
I said it wouldn't cost them a thing. In fact, I had to print review materials and had to xerox the same so the cost was really to my person and not to them. I was doing this as part of my service to the community. (I didn't say it was for free because---contrary to anyone's idealistic perceptions---somebody like me could get something from it, I was regrettably taught: whether experience, goodwill or dharma. As my sociology professor, ever doubtful of altruistic intentions, say: "there's no such thing as a free lunch".)
Having hurdled that part, I was led to the Language Training Room on the third floor. Upon entering, the students greeted me with "Welcome to San Mateo National High School, Mr. Arnel Abeleda. MABUHAY!" or something to that effect. I knew they said a lot more but my head went giddy upon hearing "mabuhay!". It was just an expression I hear on TV and read in books and this was the first time I heard it bestowed on me. At that time, their tuition for the review session was already half-paid.
What can I say? I'm a sucker for compliments.
Next, I'll talk about the review sessions and some impressions on public high school libraries.
I decided I was going to give tutorials or review sessions for public high school kids. I decided to talk to a local town councilor about this and he introduced me to the principal of the San Mateo National High School. At first, I could sense that the principal wasn't keen on the idea and simply told me to come back on the first week of June. Even though it would have been ideal had the review session started on April or May, he says, it just wasn't possible to get the kids to school during the school break.
I was able to conduct tutorials earlier that summer to a bunch of incoming 4th year students from Ropdiguez(Montalban)---alas, that's another story--- and that proved useful for the tutorials I was to conduct for the San Mateo public high school.
I went on the first week of June. I was introduced to the high school head teacher who told me that I could not begin that week because they had to get the permission from the kids' parents first. Since the tutorials would be conducted by my lonesome, I suggested to keep the class size lean. It will be limited only to the top ten students of the graduating class.
On the first day of the tutorials, the head teacher asked me categorically: "what's in it for me? Why am I doing this tutorial?" Apparently, the principal wants to know if I was going to charge the kids or the school with anything.
I said it wouldn't cost them a thing. In fact, I had to print review materials and had to xerox the same so the cost was really to my person and not to them. I was doing this as part of my service to the community. (I didn't say it was for free because---contrary to anyone's idealistic perceptions---somebody like me could get something from it, I was regrettably taught: whether experience, goodwill or dharma. As my sociology professor, ever doubtful of altruistic intentions, say: "there's no such thing as a free lunch".)
Having hurdled that part, I was led to the Language Training Room on the third floor. Upon entering, the students greeted me with "Welcome to San Mateo National High School, Mr. Arnel Abeleda. MABUHAY!" or something to that effect. I knew they said a lot more but my head went giddy upon hearing "mabuhay!". It was just an expression I hear on TV and read in books and this was the first time I heard it bestowed on me. At that time, their tuition for the review session was already half-paid.
What can I say? I'm a sucker for compliments.
Next, I'll talk about the review sessions and some impressions on public high school libraries.
Commuter Tales No. 1: Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman with an Umbrella
Commuter Tales INTRO
I grew up on a jeepney.
I grew up riding public transportation: the ubiquitous tricycles in San Jose, Occidental Mindoro, the jazzed-up “patok” jeepneys of Montalban to the lumbering yellow buses of San Mateo, Rizal. As a loyal “pasahero” I have had quite a number of memorable experiences within those confined spaces of public conveyances that I decided to collect them as a series of vignettes which I originally planned to release as an ashcan comix (who knows? It may yet happen). I thought: “if Harvey Pekar can do it, so can I!”.
Harvey Pekar of “American Splendor” can attract top talents, however and I, on the other hand, is only limited to a bunch of people I could force to draw for me for a song: namely my brother, Mannie and my brother, Mannie. (Who is always perennially busy, by the way.)
I decided therefore, to just release the darn thing anyway in the form of blog entries. So here it is. Hope you enjoy them. (Yes, I’m talking to the two of you.)
Commuter Tales No. 1: HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A WOMAN WITH AN UMBRELLA
I’m very bad at remembering names. I could remember a face very well but somehow I often fail at supplying the correct name for a particular face.
There was this time when a middle-aged woman tried to start a conversation with me on a jeepney while I was on my way to work. She was a heavy-set woman with a large friendly face. She appears to be on the way to the market because she was holding a large “bayong” (market bag) and an umbrella. The woman also seems she knows my mother. She asked about her, and I told her my mom was OK.
Then without further ado, she paid for my fare, along with hers.
Since she beat me to the draw of paying the fare(not that I will pay for her fare but I was more than willing to reimburse her, only she wouldn’t hear any of it), I now felt a debt of gratitude to her. I had to keep the conversation she started, going. I had to nod and smile and try to appear interested in everything she says even if in back of my mind I was still trying to fit the puzzle of “connect the face with a name”.
Of course, now that the lopsided conversation---it was mostly her talking with me nodding my head with a few 'ah-huhs' here and there---has gone on for a while, it puts me in a quandary. It would just be a tad too impolite to interrupt her and ask her what’s her name. Why, that would mean, I wasn’t really listening to her since I could not place her story within a proper context of how I knew her. Besides, I had pretended I knew her the moment she called my attention. Ah, what to do?
Meanwhile, another woman went on board the jeepney. She was about the same age as my benefactor but the thick make-up and frilly dress she wore invites everyone to believe she was younger than she was. When my benefactor saw her, the latter clammed up. Alas, some peace and quiet for the rest of my journey, I thought.
It was a short trip, by the way: just under four kilometers. It only appeared longer because I had to carry the conversation along during lulls and…well, I thought, I had paid for my fare by being a polite conversationalist.
Then my friendly benefactor, the one with a shining benevolent face and St.-Francis-of-Assissi smile suddenly turned red in the face and turned her attention to the new passenger. The sheep was turning into a wolf. A big, bad, pissed-off, take-no-prisoners wolf.
“Where is my husband?” she shrieked. Yes, shrieked. I could swear I saw her fangs glisten. Now, everyone’s attention was on them. The newly-arrived passenger turns out to be the concubine of my benefactor’s husband. They started exchanging heated words inside the jeepney.
Then it started to get ugly. My wolf started to jab the concubine with the pointed end of her long umbrella. The concubine was feisty too but her umbrella was too short so she resorted to deflecting the jabs and retaliated through taunts and verbal attacks.
I could feel the dagger looks of the rest of the passengers on me. I can hear them think: "Why don't you stop the crazy woman? Don't you know her? Didn't she just pay your fare?". STOP HER. Do something! I tried to pacify the wolf but since I never really knew her or even her name before this fateful jeepney ride, I could not come up with an appropriate summoning or spell that would divert her attention from her homicidal tendencies. Whenever I try to deflect her umbrella from hitting the concubine, I was liable to injure the other passengers. So I just decided to hold the umbrella firmly to prevent it from being used as a deadly weapon. I was grappling with the umbrella as my benefactor was about to lunge at the throat of the other woman.
Finally, the jeepney screeched to a halt. The driver has had enough. He could not let these women fight inside his jeepney. He ordered them to get off.
The wolf-woman went down to the sidewalk. She was still itching for a fight and was looking forward to smashing the face of the concubine to the street. (She said so.) But the concubine wouldn't budge. She knew couldn't last two minutes with my transfigured benefactor. She told the driver to floor it.
But the wolf immediately got wind of the plan. With both hands, she grabbed hold of the handle bars at the back end of the jeep and screams at the driver (yes, screams that even the people three blocks away seems to have been awakened from their slumber) that if the concubine does not get off the jeepney, she would let herself get dragged by the jeep.
More dagger looks. The people on the streets, including, whom I suspect to be the old grannies who were sleeping three blocks away start to congregate near the ruckus.
It was quite a scene. The woman was willing to get dragged by the jeepney if she couldn't get her claws on the neck of the other woman. I repeatedly pleaded to my wolf "tama na po, tama na po" ("That's enough, ma'am. That's enough.") as I try to pry her claws---I mean fingers---from the handle bars. But she was beyond reason! There's a crazed glint in her eyes. I felt she couldn't care less about how she looks or sounded, she's going to have her revenge---either inside or outside the jeepney.
A few seconds of distraction wherein our protagonist releases her vise grip on the metal bars of the jeep was enough for the driver to speed away.
The driver and the other passengers laughed so hard but I couldn't join them. The other woman was still in the jeep and I couldn't be that insensitive. The other passengers tried to felicitously ask the other woman whether she was hurt but I couldn't join them, because after all---I was friends with the enemy. My benefactor was left biting the dust but I couldn't join her: heck, I didn't know her and besides...I might be late for work.
I hang my head in shame for the rest of the trip never uttering another word. It was just about two kilometers but it was a very long two kilometers.
Now, when I ride the jeep, I try to pay my fare immediately before looking at the faces of the other passengers. It's a lesson well-learned.
I grew up on a jeepney.
I grew up riding public transportation: the ubiquitous tricycles in San Jose, Occidental Mindoro, the jazzed-up “patok” jeepneys of Montalban to the lumbering yellow buses of San Mateo, Rizal. As a loyal “pasahero” I have had quite a number of memorable experiences within those confined spaces of public conveyances that I decided to collect them as a series of vignettes which I originally planned to release as an ashcan comix (who knows? It may yet happen). I thought: “if Harvey Pekar can do it, so can I!”.
Harvey Pekar of “American Splendor” can attract top talents, however and I, on the other hand, is only limited to a bunch of people I could force to draw for me for a song: namely my brother, Mannie and my brother, Mannie. (Who is always perennially busy, by the way.)
I decided therefore, to just release the darn thing anyway in the form of blog entries. So here it is. Hope you enjoy them. (Yes, I’m talking to the two of you.)
Commuter Tales No. 1: HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A WOMAN WITH AN UMBRELLA
I’m very bad at remembering names. I could remember a face very well but somehow I often fail at supplying the correct name for a particular face.
There was this time when a middle-aged woman tried to start a conversation with me on a jeepney while I was on my way to work. She was a heavy-set woman with a large friendly face. She appears to be on the way to the market because she was holding a large “bayong” (market bag) and an umbrella. The woman also seems she knows my mother. She asked about her, and I told her my mom was OK.
Then without further ado, she paid for my fare, along with hers.
Since she beat me to the draw of paying the fare(not that I will pay for her fare but I was more than willing to reimburse her, only she wouldn’t hear any of it), I now felt a debt of gratitude to her. I had to keep the conversation she started, going. I had to nod and smile and try to appear interested in everything she says even if in back of my mind I was still trying to fit the puzzle of “connect the face with a name”.
Of course, now that the lopsided conversation---it was mostly her talking with me nodding my head with a few 'ah-huhs' here and there---has gone on for a while, it puts me in a quandary. It would just be a tad too impolite to interrupt her and ask her what’s her name. Why, that would mean, I wasn’t really listening to her since I could not place her story within a proper context of how I knew her. Besides, I had pretended I knew her the moment she called my attention. Ah, what to do?
Meanwhile, another woman went on board the jeepney. She was about the same age as my benefactor but the thick make-up and frilly dress she wore invites everyone to believe she was younger than she was. When my benefactor saw her, the latter clammed up. Alas, some peace and quiet for the rest of my journey, I thought.
It was a short trip, by the way: just under four kilometers. It only appeared longer because I had to carry the conversation along during lulls and…well, I thought, I had paid for my fare by being a polite conversationalist.
Then my friendly benefactor, the one with a shining benevolent face and St.-Francis-of-Assissi smile suddenly turned red in the face and turned her attention to the new passenger. The sheep was turning into a wolf. A big, bad, pissed-off, take-no-prisoners wolf.
“Where is my husband?” she shrieked. Yes, shrieked. I could swear I saw her fangs glisten. Now, everyone’s attention was on them. The newly-arrived passenger turns out to be the concubine of my benefactor’s husband. They started exchanging heated words inside the jeepney.
Then it started to get ugly. My wolf started to jab the concubine with the pointed end of her long umbrella. The concubine was feisty too but her umbrella was too short so she resorted to deflecting the jabs and retaliated through taunts and verbal attacks.
I could feel the dagger looks of the rest of the passengers on me. I can hear them think: "Why don't you stop the crazy woman? Don't you know her? Didn't she just pay your fare?". STOP HER. Do something! I tried to pacify the wolf but since I never really knew her or even her name before this fateful jeepney ride, I could not come up with an appropriate summoning or spell that would divert her attention from her homicidal tendencies. Whenever I try to deflect her umbrella from hitting the concubine, I was liable to injure the other passengers. So I just decided to hold the umbrella firmly to prevent it from being used as a deadly weapon. I was grappling with the umbrella as my benefactor was about to lunge at the throat of the other woman.
Finally, the jeepney screeched to a halt. The driver has had enough. He could not let these women fight inside his jeepney. He ordered them to get off.
The wolf-woman went down to the sidewalk. She was still itching for a fight and was looking forward to smashing the face of the concubine to the street. (She said so.) But the concubine wouldn't budge. She knew couldn't last two minutes with my transfigured benefactor. She told the driver to floor it.
But the wolf immediately got wind of the plan. With both hands, she grabbed hold of the handle bars at the back end of the jeep and screams at the driver (yes, screams that even the people three blocks away seems to have been awakened from their slumber) that if the concubine does not get off the jeepney, she would let herself get dragged by the jeep.
More dagger looks. The people on the streets, including, whom I suspect to be the old grannies who were sleeping three blocks away start to congregate near the ruckus.
It was quite a scene. The woman was willing to get dragged by the jeepney if she couldn't get her claws on the neck of the other woman. I repeatedly pleaded to my wolf "tama na po, tama na po" ("That's enough, ma'am. That's enough.") as I try to pry her claws---I mean fingers---from the handle bars. But she was beyond reason! There's a crazed glint in her eyes. I felt she couldn't care less about how she looks or sounded, she's going to have her revenge---either inside or outside the jeepney.
A few seconds of distraction wherein our protagonist releases her vise grip on the metal bars of the jeep was enough for the driver to speed away.
The driver and the other passengers laughed so hard but I couldn't join them. The other woman was still in the jeep and I couldn't be that insensitive. The other passengers tried to felicitously ask the other woman whether she was hurt but I couldn't join them, because after all---I was friends with the enemy. My benefactor was left biting the dust but I couldn't join her: heck, I didn't know her and besides...I might be late for work.
I hang my head in shame for the rest of the trip never uttering another word. It was just about two kilometers but it was a very long two kilometers.
Now, when I ride the jeep, I try to pay my fare immediately before looking at the faces of the other passengers. It's a lesson well-learned.
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