Two pesos

For the past few days, I’ve been taking the jeepney to work again.

Parking has been difficult lately, so I figured I’d give way to my officemates who travel from farther areas and need the slots more. It felt like a small, practical decision, but in many ways, it brought me back to an older version of myself. The one from college and med school, when commuting wasn’t a choice but a daily reality.

Back then, it was routine. You fall in line, you squeeze in, you pay your fare, and you go. Simple. Familiar. Almost automatic.

So I slipped back into that rhythm while sitting shoulder to shoulder with strangers, listening to the hum of the engine, quietly saying “bayad po” as coins made their way forward.

At first, it felt nostalgic.

Until one morning, it didn’t.

I boarded a jeepney that hadn’t filled up yet. So we waited.

The engine was started, steady but tired, as if it had already been on the road far longer than it should have been. A few passengers sat scattered, some on their phones, others simply staring ahead. It was the kind of silence you don’t notice unless something breaks it.

And then, the driver spoke.

“Ma’am, sir… alam ko pong ₱13.00 and minimum pero baka po pwedeng ₱15.00 na lang po pamasahe.”

("Ma'am, sir... I know the minimum is ₱13.00, but would it be okay if you paid ₱15.00?”)

His voice wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t even assertive. It carried something else. something softer, but heavier.

He wasn’t just asking. He was pleading.

He explained, almost apologetically, that the day before, he had driven for more than 24 hours. After all that time, he earned only ₱260. He had eaten just one meal.

No one responded immediately. No one argued. But something shifted inside that jeepney. You could feel it in the stillness, in the way people paused, in the quiet acknowledgment that this was no longer just a routine commute.

I sat there, holding my coins, trying to make sense of what I had just heard.

The minimum fare is ₱13. That’s what it’s supposed to be. That’s what’s regulated, what’s printed, what’s expected. But in that moment, ₱13 felt detached from reality.

Because what do rules mean when someone has worked for more than a full day and still cannot afford to eat properly?

Outside, life continued as usual. Cars passed, people walked by, the city moved forward without noticing the small, unfolding moment inside that jeepney.

But inside, everything felt heavier.

I thought about the rising fuel prices, how distant and abstract they often seem when discussed in news reports or policy conversations. But here, they were no longer abstract. They were right in front of me in the form of a tired voice asking for two extra pesos.

Two pesos. Such a small amount. Almost insignificant. And yet, for him, it meant something.

For him, it was the difference between getting by and falling short—again.

I handed over ₱15 when it was my turn. It didn’t feel like generosity. It didn’t even feel like help.

It felt like the bare minimum.

As the jeepney finally filled and began to move, the usual rhythm returned. People passed their coins, the calling out of stops, the familiar motion of everyday life. But something in me stayed with that moment.

Because it’s easy to talk about resilience. It’s easy to say that Filipinos endure, that we adapt, that we keep going.

But sitting there, listening to that quiet plea, I couldn’t help but wonder:

When did endurance become something we expect from people who are already carrying too much?

When did survival start depending on the kindness of strangers?

And what does it say about us? about our systems, our priorities, our government when someone can work for 24 hours and still go hungry?

As I stepped off the jeepney, the question stayed with me, heavier than anything I had carried that morning.

Not just what is happening.

But why nothing seems to change.

Because no one should have to plead for two extra pesos just to make it through the day.