It's in a small rural town, and it seems, perpetually, to have just turned four in the afternoon. It's already late enough that the sun is not that hot anymore, yet not that late yet so the children can still have an hour our two of play in the dusty unpaved roads.
And play the children do—and as could be expected of children at play in these street games, they would be dirty in their light, thin garments and semi-worn rubber sandals. At any given moment they will be running around after each other, or at times jumping across lines drawn arbitrarily across the brown earth—all in keeping with imagined rules they've come up with themselves. Of course they will be all sweaty—even snotty—but one thing one is not likely to miss will be the smiles on their faces, the delight of being with friends and of being young and having the most minimal of worldly worries beyond the confines of the rules of their games.
Not far from this play area are the houses—humble, airy shelters made from local materials. Due to long history of flooding during the rainy season, most of these houses are raised from the ground by stilts. When they are, most of these elevated houses find use of the lower level by serving as an enclosure for domesticated livestock. The others at ground level, accessible from the street without the need to climb a ladder, have the bare earth as their very floor.
The small town can have a name, perhaps from some Catholic Saint—better that than the surname of a recently powerful political clan. But then again it may not. Afterall, this is a town whose identity is derived more from the almost sleepy late afternoon quality of its atmosphere, than from any actual common name.
And play the children do—and as could be expected of children at play in these street games, they would be dirty in their light, thin garments and semi-worn rubber sandals. At any given moment they will be running around after each other, or at times jumping across lines drawn arbitrarily across the brown earth—all in keeping with imagined rules they've come up with themselves. Of course they will be all sweaty—even snotty—but one thing one is not likely to miss will be the smiles on their faces, the delight of being with friends and of being young and having the most minimal of worldly worries beyond the confines of the rules of their games.
Not far from this play area are the houses—humble, airy shelters made from local materials. Due to long history of flooding during the rainy season, most of these houses are raised from the ground by stilts. When they are, most of these elevated houses find use of the lower level by serving as an enclosure for domesticated livestock. The others at ground level, accessible from the street without the need to climb a ladder, have the bare earth as their very floor.
The small town can have a name, perhaps from some Catholic Saint—better that than the surname of a recently powerful political clan. But then again it may not. Afterall, this is a town whose identity is derived more from the almost sleepy late afternoon quality of its atmosphere, than from any actual common name.
As it happens, though, this Rural Town does have a name, and it is named after a recently powerful political clan. In fact, it is the youngest son of this very same political family's patriarch that comes driving up the dusty unpaved rural road this particular afternoon. Except also that he is actually not the one who's driving; this politician-sired individual is being chauffeured by a professional driver in his father's employ.
Driver and master's son are both in an oversized luxury vehicle with wheels so massive the tread prints of a single tire effectively obliterates the lines on the dirt road where the children play in. Its iridescent body paint with matching chromework, plus spinning rims, give it a stark contrast to the humble surroundings it now finds itself in. That the vehicle is actually more popularly known as the "Humble Vee" should by no means lead one into thinking that it is as the adjective describes. The "Humble Vee", although admittedly is but a provincial imitation of the more expensive, foreign-made original, is no less flashy—and never in any way something within the financial capacity of a villagefolk to own.
Whether it is a credit to the skill of the driver, or a true sign of the reckless disregard for the lowly lives of people not born into influential political clans, this recently arrived "Humble Vee" screeches to a dusty halt precisely a half inch from a slight-framed girl of four in the process of shooting a marble in the ground.
If the girl's father has it is his mind to protest the near murder of her eldest child—which he has, by the way, witnessed—his curses in the Provincial Dialect directed towards the politician's son are immediately drowned out by the loud thudding of party music that suddenly emanates from within the big vehicle. As the customized rear passenger scissor door rises open, the common citizens of Akren behold for the first time the youngest son of their constitutionally mandated leader, J. J. Akren.
Whether it is a credit to the skill of the driver, or a true sign of the reckless disregard for the lowly lives of people not born into influential political clans, this recently arrived "Humble Vee" screeches to a dusty halt precisely a half inch from a slight-framed girl of four in the process of shooting a marble in the ground.
If the girl's father has it is his mind to protest the near murder of her eldest child—which he has, by the way, witnessed—his curses in the Provincial Dialect directed towards the politician's son are immediately drowned out by the loud thudding of party music that suddenly emanates from within the big vehicle. As the customized rear passenger scissor door rises open, the common citizens of Akren behold for the first time the youngest son of their constitutionally mandated leader, J. J. Akren.
667 musta? buhay pa pala to. hehe. - 665
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