The Balut Vendor

by: Analisa Leonor Balares

"Balut Vendor" by Vicente Manansala

On my way to school each day, I would pass by several balut vendors, actively calling out in sing-song, "Balut! Penoy! One of them taught me a lesson in life.

I had received a scholarship to study in Canada, and was excitedly preparing to live and study in this foreign land. As the day of my departure drew near, I frantically shopped for winter clothes, hiking shoes and everything I thought I needed to survive in the temperate wilderness of British Columbia. Two days before the departure, I did some last-minute shopping. I must have walked in and out of every shop in Megamall, since when I had finally finished, I was carrying two huge shopping bags in each hand, and a contented half-smile on my face. Then I realized that I had promised to be home for dinner and I was very late! The smile disappeared

as I quickened my pace to go home.

First I had to take a bus from Megamall to Makati. As I walked on the overpass to go to the other side ol the avenue, I took out my wallet to get some change for the bus. Much to my chagrin, I had absolutely no money left. I felt my pockets for change and found none. By this time, it was too late to return any of the items-Megamall had closed. My one thought was: need to get home! There I was, With four fully-loaded shopping bags, and not even two pesos for a ride home!

In the state of my panic, I walked with the crowd down the overpass. Maybe I could plead for the kindness of the bus driver, but I knew that would not do that. If they let me off, everyone would plead for the same thing. Maybe I could take a taxi home, but that would cost my parents money and I did not want them to spend any of their meager earnings on me (what I spent shopping was part of my scholarship allowance).

Buses were coming and going. Passengers were moving in and Out, some racing after the buses. My eyes fell on a middle-aged woman selling balut beneath the overpass. Wearing a simple, washed-out duster, she manned her basketful of eggs. One egg for two pesos. She wore a stoic expression, the hints of an exhausting day visible only from the lines beneath her eyes. On impulse, I approached her and asked her if this was her vending spot every day of the week. She hesitated and replied, "Yes, in the evenings. Why?" I asked her, in what had become a desperate voice, if she could lend me two pesos for my bus ride home. I promised to return and pay it back the next day.

It was a gamble. In the city of 20 million people which is Metro Manila, trust between strangers is very rare. What I was asking was unreasonable. But she looked at me intently for a second, then reached into the pocket of her duster. She pressed a two-peso coin into my palm and said, "Anak, this is yours. Don't return it." Her eyes showed the compassion of an elder for her young, and an understanding of the follies of the youth that I was.

In that instant, she taught me a thousand things about trust and human kindness. I could not help but love this stranger, who had offered me a gift worth what might have been her profit on several of the eggs she would have sold that night. I promised to return, but she shooed me away and pointed at the buses. 

The next day, I came back with five pesos in my hand. I was determined to show my gratitude through an overnight interest rate. I saw her from the overpass, wearing the same duster, manning the same basket of eggs. I took her hand, shook it several times, pressed a five-peso bill into her palm, and said, "Thank you very much for the two pesos." But she would have none of it. Shaking her head, she returned the five-peso bill to me.

Call it justice, call it guilt, I would have none of it either. I left the bill on the checkered cloth covering the eggs, and said, "I hope you will accept my gratitude." Before she had a chance to pass it back to me, I hopped on a bus. From the window, I saw her shaking her head, looking after the bus. If I could see her eyes, I would have probably seen the same compassion, the same understanding at the folly of my ways.

For a while, I wondered whether I had just insulted her by paying back too much, but now, I only regret I had not hugged her. 

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