I can always tell the time of day from the cries of peddlers out on the streets in our neighborhood in Private. Fish vendors greet me early in the morning. hawking whatever seafood is in season. Not just fish but also shrimp, crab, kinhason, guso and even prawn and lobster. Between 8 and 9 a.m., when people are about ready to have late breakfast or merienda, along comes the day selling puto, cassava, palitao, budbud, biko and bibingka. She always enumerates this variety of rice cakes in her singsong voice with an affectionate "Daaay..." for Inday.
Anyone too lazy to cook lunch can rely on the lumpia vendor who also sells warm ngohiong at this hour. Toward noon and the rest of the afternoon, the fruit vendors come and go like a parade. On certain days, my mother can get enough ripe mangoes, fresh buko, pineapples, apples and avocado to whip up a fruit salad.
Then there’s the indefatigable mais lady who would pass by our street at least three times a day, gracefully balancing a heavy basket of native boiled corn no top of her head. The other regulars who come and go throughout the day are the taho man and the puto man, sometimes called "poot-poot" after the air horn that has become his trademark. The tinkling of the sorbetero's bell is always music to the children’s ear around 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. There are, by the way, two kinds of sorbetero: one pushes an ice cream cart; the other lugs a box of frozen delights like buko ice bars and pinipig ice cream.
Hard to believe, but we can tell some by the sound of their carts alone. The steady low pitch from the Yakult lady’s, the cheerful clatter of the fishball vendor and the groan and rumble of the green mango vendor’s.
Later at nigh, the balut vendor makes his appearance at around 9. He makes his rounds until well past midnight to satisfy the craving of many insomniacs.
Not only do they move like clockwork, they also map out their beat according to their customers’ habits and tastes. The sorbetero used to ring his bell like crazy whenever he passed the house across the street where a chubby five-year old boy used to live. The magpuputo’s voice goes two decibels higher when she approaches our gate on weekends, waling me up without fail. After a hot day under the sun, the fishball vendor likes to get his glass of refreshingly cold water in the sari-sari store cum video arcade where students like to hang around. Though he’s seldom seen there, the favorite spot of the buko man seems to be the single spot in the entire street where a mound of young coconut husks mysteriously keeps growing -- between a star apple tree log and the fence of my frustrated neighbor. The poor guy stayed up late many nights but never caught the felon in the act. There's a sign now imploring "Palihug ayaw ilabay ang bukong sa lubi diri."
Food is not the only stuff these ambulant vendors sell. The shoe and umbrella repairmen saunter by once in a while to offer their services. They have a distinct, amusing way of announcing themselves, sort of lazy, really. They probably get tired of repeating "Ayo sapatos" all day so they shorten it to "yos, patos!" The umbrella repairmen come out only when their services are most needed, which is during rainy days. Unlike the shoe repairmen’s call which sounds curt, umbrella repairmen’s announce their presence with extra flair -- "Aahyooo’s payonnng!" making the "ng" resonate in their throats -- obviously to be heard above the din of the thunder and the pitter-patter of raindrops on G.I. roofs and gutters.
Moreover, there’s no need to go downtown to have those dull scissors and knives sharpened. One or two magbabaid will come riding into the neighborhood in their trusty old bicycles.
From here, it's a free for all in this movable market, expanding now to goods and services for every modest demand. Stocking the bathroom and kitchen is not a problem, for example. There are those hawkers selling everything but the sink; yes, they are still around. How they manage to carry all those pails, dustpans, brooms, doormats, duster and cooking pots as they briskly go about their business makes them a colorful sight and a wonder to behold.
Lately, even fancy wall clocks, ceramic jars, artificial plants and four season wall decors have been sold door to door. They’re called pautang. Payment is on an installation basis. though the terms may vary according to the price of the item. Two to three ladies usually work around the neighborhood selling and collecting payment from the households.
Then there was this slick salesman who conned us into letting him into our kitchen where he put on a show of starting a fire to demonstrate his LPG safety devices.
With retailers increasingly eyeing the direct selling approach, who knows what will come next?
In this age of shopping malls and subdivision, traffic and congested neighborhoods, squatters and urban crime, there is still something good to be said about life in the city. The presence of residential areas keeps alive a trade that is as old as our grandparents. While Metro Cebu has progressed into a sophisticated urban center, these peddlers are reminding us of how simple and uncluttered life was then. Some of them, the fish vendor, magpuputo and sorbetero have been a part of our precious childhood. In the narrow streets around the city, they’re still around, still plying their wares door to door-unmindful of the sun, the rain, the barking dogs, reckless drivers and indifferent residents. In my neighborhood, from dawn till midnight, they remain so much a part of our daily lives.