tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70824207632338149502024-03-18T21:49:44.883-07:00Scribbler's SmorgasbordMilagringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779191577876773625noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7082420763233814950.post-40053796812110043362015-04-23T00:33:00.001-07:002021-06-10T08:16:59.653-07:00Getting a Driver's License: A Comedy of Errors<div style="text-align: justify;">
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It's been four months since hubby bought me a car but I haven't really 'owned' it yet. You see, even with driving school education plus extra hours of driving lessons with my driver, I couldn't use it yet because I didn't have a driver's license.</div>
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I've heard of horror stories in getting a driver's license and know of countless people who have taken the 'easier way out' because of LTO's reported dismal licensing process. Here's an account of my experience:</div>
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1. Arrived at the LTO at 8:00 in the morning. Even before I could get out of the car, fixers were already 'greeting' me, like a pack of hungry wolves eager to attack their next prey. Caution: Do not let them bite you. </div>
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2. I asked the guard stationed at the entrance as to the first step. He told me to get a medical exam and drug test first. Not knowing where the testing was, I asked him for directions. He called one of the fixers, an old woman, to take me to the testing center, which was right across the LTO. I wondered whether the security guard was only trying to help me or is in cahoots with the fixer. That didn't seem right. </div>
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3. The old woman led me to a small, dingy space with a tiny signboard that read 'LTO accredited physician'. There sat the doctor, who looked rather uncomfortable in her seat due to poor ventilation. It was still the old woman who measured my height and facilitated my Snellen eye test. <i>How lovely.</i> After paying Php100, the doctor accomplished the medical exam form without even asking me about my health issues or my medical history. A few scribbles, and then she handed me the form with the official receipt. On the form, the doctor indicated I was 54 kg. Well that was my weight <i>before</i> I got pregnant. Haha</div>
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3a. There, another woman whom I had mistaken for the doctor's secretary talked to me about getting a 'seamless transaction'. All I had to do was pay Php2800, which she secretly scribbled on a piece of paper. <i>'Ayaw kaguol ug sayop imo tubag sa written exam maam. Luto na na siya. Kaila man nako ang lecturer'</i>. Oh wait, but I did study for the exam. Surely she didn't think I looked dumb and thought I was ill-prepared, did I? </div>
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4. Adjacent to where I had my medical exam was the drug testing center, where I paid Php300. After submitting my urine sample and fingerprints, it took me about two hours to get my results. </div>
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5. I went back to LTO to get my priority number. Transacting from one window to the next was relatively fast. After paying Php167.63 (application and computer fees), I was led to the lecture room cramped with examinees. The AC, which looked older than Bette Davis, was not even helping to cool the room at all. The written exams followed right after the lecture. Frankly, the exam was too hard - too hard not to pass because the answers were just shown right in front of you. Haha!</div>
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6. I finished the exam just in time for lunch, after which we would come back for the results. After a quick bite at a nearby mall, I returned and waited for my name to be called for the practical exam. The ladies were first called in and led to a bus station right beside LTO. Because we didn't bring our own cars, we paid Php250 (with official receipt). After the LTO rep (whom I saw earlier transacting with the lady at the medical exam center) issued my receipt, I was told to go back to LTO for payment and releasing of my driver's license. The practical exam? It <i>practically </i>never happened. Haha again! </div>
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7. After paying Php417.63 (license and computer fees), I waited a little more for my card to be released. Voila, I finally got my driver's license in shiny plastic. It took me about 6 hours to get everything done, and paid a total of Php1235.26 in standard fees. While waiting for my driver to pick me up, I thought to myself that if I had taken up on the lady's bribe, I would have paid four thousand bucks, and would only end up hurting not just my wallet, but my intelligence as well. </div>
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Realization: Sadly, getting a driver's license here is a joke. You pay for something that's hardly ever there or even none at all. (think medical and practical exams). The process leans more towards granting you a driver's license just because you need it, and not because you earned it. (think medical, written and practical exams). The stark presence of fixers and their blatant ways, coupled by the seemingly embraced condonation and apathy purport a microcosm of something far worse than what is being observed. (think again medical, written, practical exams - the entire process, actually). </div>
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I hurriedly left the LTO as soon as my driver arrived. Out of nowhere, a man approached me and asked <i>'Maam, magkuha ka non-prof? Tabangan tika maam, dili jud ka maglisod sa exam.'</i></div>
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Sighs. Tomorrow will be another day for that man. </div>
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Milagringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779191577876773625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7082420763233814950.post-86923347493837550242013-10-23T05:52:00.001-07:002013-10-23T05:52:25.078-07:00Love in the time of disaster <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nanay and Tatay</td></tr>
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<span>Their house badly damaged, my grandparents moved to safer ground
camping out in a makeshift tent in a remote barrio in Maribojoc. My
grandmother has never left my 92 year-old grandfather's side, who is
still recovering from a stroke. She ha<span class="text_exposed_show">s
been sleeping on a wooden plank for several nights now; and when the
rain would pour in the night, she would curl up her knees to keep her
feet from getting wet. <br /> <br /> When I visited them for the first time
since the earthquake, I found they were not given their relief goods
because 'they could no longer vote'. </span></span></div>
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<span><span class="text_exposed_show">I'm casting aside my outrage at
this utter disrespect to my grandparents, senior citizens who deserve to
be given utmost attention and courtesy especially at this time of need. </span></span></div>
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<span><span class="text_exposed_show"> But if there's one thing I realized, it is that true love will always
stand the test of time that not even the most terrible of tremors can
shake, much less destroy.</span></span></div>
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Milagringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779191577876773625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7082420763233814950.post-57244823124565467572013-01-23T05:14:00.000-08:002013-01-23T05:14:15.541-08:00Remembering Mama<div style="text-align: justify;">
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There's a lady in the mirror whose reflection makes her caught up in a reverie of years long past; in bittersweet musings of what could have been if she were here. That lady is a spitting image of that one great woman - her mother. <br /><br />Her nostalgia of that woman who has touched hearts because she loved them all, who was there for them when they needed her and gave what she had and her best, even if she didn't have much. <br /><br />She, even to this day, has seen how people still remember her mother and have so many good words to say about her. <br /><br /><i>"I knew your mother. She was a good person."</i> <br /><br /><i>"I was once a student of your mother. She was my favorite teacher. She was very good to her students." </i></div>
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<br /><i>"Your mother was so funny. We all loved her."</i><br /><br /><i>"I will never forget your mother. She helped me a lot".</i><br /><br />It fills her still with so much joy that people's thoughts of her mother didn't just stop at her passing but have become fond memories, forever etchings of gratefulness for the things that she did and made them feel. <br /><br />Thirteen years since she left and yet the longing still remains. Many a time she yearns to feel the warmth of her mother's embrace; to smell her familiar scent; to hear her infectious laughter; to listen and learn from her words of wisdom. </div>
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The strong pining for a mother's love sometimes brings back the pain of losing her too soon. But when she looks at herself in the mirror, she smiles because she knows that even when she may be physically gone, she is with her. She has never left her side. <br /><br />She smiles because she knows that even when she is no longer around, her mother's love resonates through the people who love her and the person she has become. <br /><br />I love you, Mama. I will forever miss you. And for all that I am and everything I will become, I hope I make you proud. <br /><br />You will always live in me. </div>
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Milagringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779191577876773625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7082420763233814950.post-61150235006581317252012-01-23T05:15:00.000-08:002012-01-23T05:21:56.551-08:00Remembering Mama<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Make that twelve years ago when it would be the last time I'd see her. It would be the last time we'd talk, the last that I'd see her smile. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">'Be good", that was what she told me, her voice frail, her breathing ragged. I'd listen to every word she said, although she no longer said much anymore. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She had some fight going in her. I saw it in the way she looked at me. She was trying to fight back. But somehow she had lost the fight. She succumbed to it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That was twelve years ago when I lost my hero to breast cancer. That person was my mother. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">There is never a day that I don't miss her. And each time I look at myself, the pain of missing her hurts even more because I've grown up to be a spitting image of her. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">There is never a day that I don't long for her, wishing she was still here to celebrate with me in my happy, glorious days, even more so to back me up when I'm down in the rut. After all, she was the person I'd first run to whenever I had something great to share or whenever I needed help. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I miss saying the word 'Mama' and having someone to call that, because there is no one else that could ever take her place; no one who loved me more than she did. I still long to hear her infectious laughter, and the things she used to tell me are still fresh in my mind. But she was gone too soon. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She didn't get to put a medal around my neck with Papa when I got an award at my highschool graduation. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She didn't get to have me as a student in Economics in college, something which she really looked forward to. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She wasn't able to beam with so much pride when everyone else congratulated me for 'causing trouble' in school. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She didn't get to cheer me on when I got my first job and celebrate the sweet reapings of the first pay with me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She never got to meet the guy whom she prayed would be right for me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">All that's left with me are joyful, lasting memories of her - the blessing of having her as my mother even though her physical presence may be shortlived. She may be smiling and looking on with pride for the good deeds I've done, or perhaps frowning upon the boo-boos I may have gotten myself into, because deep in my heart and mind, I know she is and will always be with me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I love you, Ma. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Milagringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779191577876773625noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7082420763233814950.post-74053889199083162052011-12-09T10:06:00.000-08:002011-12-10T03:14:07.809-08:00Because nothing feels like it like Love Letters can<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiDIrX42iz0BpYzUtoYC9rONGbbJWIMG14PH_kAmIvnjJA7J8akxeui6bYspykTiOP8pTCfb_v6-9H6zLgSBbDLfC9HAz4gn-9JQpOdOxe9KX3Vf9UBIZsjTgX7fcE0-SKQrI55fWmwbR/s1600/love-letters-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiDIrX42iz0BpYzUtoYC9rONGbbJWIMG14PH_kAmIvnjJA7J8akxeui6bYspykTiOP8pTCfb_v6-9H6zLgSBbDLfC9HAz4gn-9JQpOdOxe9KX3Vf9UBIZsjTgX7fcE0-SKQrI55fWmwbR/s1600/love-letters-9.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love letters: stash 'em or trash 'em?</td></tr>
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I have had my fair share of love letters in my lifetime. I don’t clearly remember the very first time I got mine. All I know is that it was from a boy whom I really liked in fifth grade. It was scribbled in pencil on a piece of intermediate paper.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I recall with fondness how one cutesy love note bore more cutesy love notes which led to something cutesy – more popularly known as puppy love. Alas, my mother read all the letters stuffed in my school bag and crumpled them into a huge ball of rubbish. Unfortunately I was too young to know the importance of stashing these precious scraps away from queer eyes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
My first boyfriend also wrote me love letters, which he’d usually hand me to my surprise. His letters didn’t say much, but were enough to make me swoon and fall even more in love with him at that time. I still have them, hidden safely somewhere.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">My second boyfriend, who was sweet in every way, used to write me love letters with so much passion and creativity. One he had smothered in his favorite perfume, another he had embellished with rose petals and tiny little beads - the works, never mind the bad poetry. (grins) I'd write him love letters too, with the hardest attempts at making mine more passionate and creative than the ones I received from him. I didn’t get to keep all love letters he had written for me, as I burned some of them after a bitter breakup.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I also keep letters from so-called 'admirers'. I hardly ever read these notes but on instances when I pore over them, it never fails to flatter me knowing I have, in a way, experienced what it’s like to be adored.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">In a world where everything is just a click away, love letters are seemingly a thing of the past; its beauty nearing a halt. Hand-written confessions of love and affection are being conveniently replaced by email, text messaging and other techie means possible.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">However, compared to these modern ways of expressing one’s feelings, the beauty of love letters lies in its surefire ability to draw emotional response. It can make you giggle, swoon, cry tears of joy or even embarrass you. There's always a big difference when you receive an "I love you" message from your significant other when it's handwritten than when it's typed in on a keyboard/keypad. </div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">It's a good thing I got to keep some love letters for me. These documents of confessed passion are a stark reminder of how you became someone’s inspiration. It is a written record of someone who poured his time and effort to weave words out of pure emotion, nevermind if he's not a gifted writer.<br />
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I've learned of this now, as I happened to come across these letters. I will always remember and be thankful that at some point in my life, somebody loved me; that I became special in his life and that I was once the apple of his eye - even if the relationship is gone or the feeling had long fizzled out.</div><br />
It's been a long, long while since I last received a love letter. My boyfriend of three years, though sweet and one of a kind, has never written me one yet, ever. But in case he's reading this... :)Milagringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779191577876773625noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7082420763233814950.post-28012310288497612752011-02-26T21:49:00.000-08:002011-02-26T21:49:09.703-08:00Would you believe me if I lied?<i>Reposting this from my Friendster blog. Just one of my older posts I dont cringe re-reading at all. </i><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"> I love the usual office chatter. It is, perhaps, the only breather i get from the gruesome work that i do in my little blue cubicle. There’s always witty banter involved, with lots of humor to boot. Anyone in the room can just bring up a topic or throw a question at anyone, and you have to think on your toes and come up with something that will them blow them away. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, that’s not expected of me, nor I am obliged to do so anyway. But between shutting them out of their wits and enjoying the amusement of being playfully picked on, you know what I’d go for.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">The other day, one of my officemates asked a female colleague in the room at what age she lost her virginity. Without batting an eyelash, she answered, and the rest broke out in chorus. Then, they turned to me and asked the same question.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Mel, how old were you when you did it?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Would you believe me if I lied?" I said.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For a second or two, the room went silent. Dinky, my trainer and the eldest in the team, broke the silence and said "<i>Philosophical ang approach ni Mel, ah</i>."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What am I trying to say? Whether or not i am a virgin, it’s none of their business. And even if it didn’t matter to them whether or not i am a virgin, it’s still not their business to know. Besides, being asked that kind of question from people i barely even know on a personal level is like being given lingerie by a boyfriend on our first date. You get the picture.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> You don’t have to know. And i dont have to tell you. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Wwfi0cbNbXQvIR8GXUmJnBDn2e2rkvR-1czBVECbXGoeZsSwy-dtjoDLavIgKhs7QPR7BrkCRe-IYb9mu18d_BFPzTKOv00j190qA0jySBNybO6EnRgA4YCpWh1P7cnQby_fTr3kxb_R/s1600/secret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Wwfi0cbNbXQvIR8GXUmJnBDn2e2rkvR-1czBVECbXGoeZsSwy-dtjoDLavIgKhs7QPR7BrkCRe-IYb9mu18d_BFPzTKOv00j190qA0jySBNybO6EnRgA4YCpWh1P7cnQby_fTr3kxb_R/s320/secret.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">image source: http://goo.gl/gkmPu</td></tr>
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</div>Milagringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779191577876773625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7082420763233814950.post-41159687930879279162010-03-22T20:15:00.000-07:002010-03-24T07:57:19.508-07:00This Holy Week...<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-OXw4lWg4qulH_rKBxD2BLJcbQ1xU4QZfa7uG2d0uaFFBIo_Z3VEMLU8ti6VeMYK75J9FLsmMOMJ7YAC6kTO0t1n2co3WimXMCF55nsoCMxPRohPDms-zP9bfJ6ZglJiba3XXyDbh280/s1600-h/candlelight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-OXw4lWg4qulH_rKBxD2BLJcbQ1xU4QZfa7uG2d0uaFFBIo_Z3VEMLU8ti6VeMYK75J9FLsmMOMJ7YAC6kTO0t1n2co3WimXMCF55nsoCMxPRohPDms-zP9bfJ6ZglJiba3XXyDbh280/s320/candlelight.jpg" vt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>With my vacation leave approved and ticket to Bohol ready, I am now set for Holy Week. But no, it's not what you think. I don't intend to spend my Holy Week just like the many others who hit top vacation spots and spend some R&R (rest and recreation).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Just like the past Lenten Seasons, I am observing Holy Week with a different kind of R&R - reflection and recollection. During this time, making some sacrifices has always been a practice in my family. <br />
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I always hated Holy Week back when I was a kid. My mother would prepare unusually unappetizing dishes for our meals and we were forbidden to watch TV or listen to the radio. At home, we'd spend most of our time saying prayers or reading the Bible. My parents strongly emphasized the importance of going to church, most especially during the Lenten Season. In my young mind, I had never understood why I had to go through these things I thought were plain torture. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"<i>Jesus died for us</i>." was what my mother would say. <br />
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As I got older, I've learned to understand what mama had told me back then. Sure I may have agnostic leanings now, which describes why I'd find myself engaging in debates on the topic of religion or why I don't go to church anymore, but in my heart I believe there is a God.<br />
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The Lenten season is but the best kairos to truly discover who you really are and move forward. To many, Holy Week is a time to remember the sacrifices the Lord has made. To me, it is an opportune moment to renew and grow spiritually; to make some sacrifices I don't usually do to keep myself humbled and grateful knowing that my life is and has always been blessed. <br />
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So how are you spending your Holy Week? <br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>image source: http://www.lcmstl.org</i></span></div>Milagringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779191577876773625noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7082420763233814950.post-12314307403928255502010-01-17T23:56:00.000-08:002013-07-29T19:10:07.021-07:00Trouble Tricycle Drivers in Tagbilaran City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQOw_xWanyIUHYl1o-nXiqgpeEQRpb18HVUupEgObYHJIxKsQhXyRkV48ELLa7U9WC79Ot4V4mf5hGHJ7LEketjbpyteY8SzbTCNqu8de-yxxTONDSw1V9wTGP4LFpkTaFe-rhcSgfvbKT/s1600-h/tricycle+drivers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQOw_xWanyIUHYl1o-nXiqgpeEQRpb18HVUupEgObYHJIxKsQhXyRkV48ELLa7U9WC79Ot4V4mf5hGHJ7LEketjbpyteY8SzbTCNqu8de-yxxTONDSw1V9wTGP4LFpkTaFe-rhcSgfvbKT/s320/tricycle+drivers.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>image source: boholchronicle.com</i></span></div>
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I go home to Bohol every often. There's nothing like being in your home sweet home, a respite from all that stress living in the big city (which I have come to love by the way). While I love to be home, there's just one thing I really hate whenever I am in Tagbilaran:</div>
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Tricycle drivers. </div>
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I am still disgusted by our city's tricycle drivers for their rude behavior and lack of discipline. Ask anyone from Tagbilaran City and they'll understand what I mean, unless s/he's never hopped inside a tricycle ever. It irritates me to hell to find how inconvenient it is to get to some place in the city because of these trouble tricycle drivers. Who hasn't experienced a tricycle driver who:</div>
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• overcharges</div>
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• refuses to convey to your destination</div>
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• ignores you because you are commuting alone</div>
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• does not follow traffic rules</div>
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• makes inappropriate comments to passengers</div>
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It's appalling to know that I still encounter the same problem as I used to back when I was still living there. Until now, I still get into spats with tricycle drivers who charge unreasonably high even when my destination is not even that far. Php15 from BQ to the pier? No way. It doesn’t get any worse than this – they get even worse when it rains really hard too. </div>
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Also, don't you just hate it when tricycle drivers shake your heads and speed off if they do not want to take you to your destination? How about if they ask you where you are heading to and then start looking around for other passengers while you are left standing right there? Whether he’s off for lunch or needs to call it a day, they should at least have the courtesy to let passengers know. Then again, tricycle drivers are not supposed to refuse to convey passengers to their destination within their designated route, of course. </div>
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The poor commuter is left with very little options. Tricycles are the primary source of transportation in Tagbilaran. Not a lot of multicabs ply around the city. Taxis are costlier and not easy to catch as well. </div>
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When the price of oil increases, it's no surprise if they'll lobby for another raise to make ends meet for them. But how can you sympathize with these lazy drivers, the fact that they choose who to pick up or where they want to go?</div>
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It's appalling to find how nothing seems to be done to address this problem. If these tricycle drivers continue to be abusive, it is because no action is being done at all; much less, their <i>kawalang modo </i>is being condoned. While I have diligently listed down the numbers of these trouble drivers, I haven't the luxury of time to channel my complaints as I only usually stay here during weekends and try as much to maximize quality time with my family and friends. All I could do is to calm down. </div>
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If you happen to, or continue to experience the same problem as I do, here are some things you can do. </div>
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1. If you are commuting alone, try looking for someone else who is going somewhere 'on the way'. Many tricycle drivers ignore you when you're alone and leave you with stupid excuses why they can't take you to your destination. </div>
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2. Minimum rate for tricycles is at Php8.00. If you are a tourist, you might want to ask a local for the rate first before getting a tricycle. If you think they are charging ridiculously high, then they probably are. Demand a discount if you are a student or senior citizen. Negotiate, if you must. </div>
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3. Report abusive tricycle drivers, if you can. Teach them a lesson they'll never forget. Their '<i>salbahe'</i> ways will not have a place in the community if people are more assertive.</div>
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These trouble tricycle drivers in Tagbilaran City leave a really bad impression on both locals and tourists, most especially on the good tricycle drivers who conscientiously follow the rules and do not take advantage of passengers.</div>
Milagringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779191577876773625noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7082420763233814950.post-77114606619341276422009-07-06T22:06:00.000-07:002009-07-06T22:28:01.548-07:00Punctuation MattersI came across this interesting post from my office buddy. See how punctuation really makes a difference when communicating with people. Read carefully.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Source: http://www.joppeluiten.nl/dearjohn.htm<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 255);font-size:180%;" ><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Punctuation Makes a Difference</span></span></b></span><p class="TxBrp3" style="line-height: 13.6pt;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);"><span style="font-weight: 700;font-family:Arial;" lang="EN-GB">I would rather receive a letter like this one.<br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: 700; color: rgb(255, 153, 0);font-family:Arial;" lang="EN-US"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 255);"><br /></span></span></p> <p class="TxBrp3" style="line-height: 13.6pt;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Arial;"> </span></p> <p class="TxBrp3" style="line-height: 13.6pt;"> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:Arial;" lang="EN-US">Dear John:</span></p> <p class="TxBrp3" style="line-height: 13.6pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:Arial;" lang="EN-US">I want a man who knows what love is all about. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. People who are not like you admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me for other men. I yearn for you. I have no feelings whatsoever when we’re apart. I can be forever happy--will you let me be yours? Gloria</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.6pt;"> <span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.6pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);"><span style="font-weight: 700;font-family:Arial;" lang="EN-GB">than like this one:</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.6pt;"> <span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial;"><br /></span></p> <p class="TxBrp3" style="line-height: 13.6pt;"> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:Arial;" lang="EN-US">Dear John:</span></p> <p class="TxBrp3" style="line-height: 13.6pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:Arial;" lang="EN-US">I want a man who knows what love is. All about you are generous, kind, thoughtful people, who are not like you. Admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me. For other men, I yearn. For you, I have no feelings whatsoever. When we’re apart, I can be forever happy. Will you let me be? Yours, Gloria</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);"><span style="font-weight: 700;font-family:Arial;" lang="EN-GB">Yet, the only difference is the punctuation. </span></span></p><br />See? :)Milagringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779191577876773625noreply@blogger.com0