Tricycles in all cycles of Philippine life

There is a certain poetry in the way a tricycle hums through our daily lives. Long before we began dreaming of efficient subway systems or modern transportation grids, the Filipino relied and still relies on the humble tricycle. It is the vehicle that never forgets us: the one that slips through eskenitas, fetches us on rainy mornings, and brings us home long after the bigger roads have fallen silent. In many ways, it carries not just passengers, but our collective resilience.

Last week, I sat as one of the councilors mediating between two homeowners associations locked in a tug-of-war over jurisdiction of the tricycle drivers. On paper, the issue seemed procedural like rules, boundaries and authority. But sitting in that room, watching two communities defend their positions, I also saw the faces of the very people waiting outside: the drivers whose livelihoods depend on decisions made in meetings like this.

The debate remains unresolved, and while legalities continue to move at their own pace, the tricycle operators and drivers, our TODAs, are the ones left carrying the weight of uncertainty. For many of them, this livelihood is not merely work. It is dignity. It is survival. It is the most reliable bridge between what their families need and what the world demands.

One of them is Manuel, a soft-spoken tricycle driver who has been on the road for twenty-three years. When I asked him to describe a typical day, he laughed, almost shyly, and said, “Ma’am, ito ‘yung trabaho na maghihintay ka sa init, sa ulan, sa baha, pero tuloy lang. Kasi may mga umaasa sa ’yo.” (Ma’am, this is a job where you wait in the heat, in the rain, in the flood, but you go on. Because there are those who depend on you.)

He waits under a makeshift terminal or beneath a tree, eight hours at a time, sometimes earning just enough, but always earning honestly. What keeps him going is not just the income, but the quiet pride of being able to bring students to class, mothers to the market, workers to their factories, seniors to their checkups.

“Mahirap na trabaho,” he tells me, “pero may gumanap dapat ng driver.” (It’s a hard job, but someone has to do it.)

Manuel’s story reminds us that beneath every policy dispute or accreditation struggle are men and women who simply want to do honest work. And in their silence, under the sun, under the rain, under the weight of the nation’s transportation gaps, they contribute more to community progress than we often acknowledge.

I recall another moment of generosity shared by a woman vendor near a terminal in Las Piñas who, upon noticing a young driver who hadn’t eaten all day, quietly handed him a warm pandesal and coffee.

“Pagod ‘yan,” she whispered to me. “Magtratrabaho pa buong gabi.” (He’s tired. He’s still going to work all night.) These small kindnesses, invisible to most, are the threads that stitch our communities together.

The Bible reminds us: “Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.” (Hebrews 13:16)

In the cycles of our national life: progress, conflict, decision-making, and uncertainty, the tricycle remains constant. And so do the generous hearts who ride and drive them.