Bea Chang

Saints

He was holding a wrench and a rag. From across the road, I watched him wipe his forehead with his short sleeve. But, really, what I was staring at was the motorbike he was working on. It was a humid afternoon in the mountains of Luzon, more than a 15-hour bus ride from Manila, and I was on my own again, with no idea how to find my hostel. The jeepney — an American jeep from World War II refashioned as a form of public transportation in the Philippines — that was headed my way wasn’t leaving for another couple of hours; or, in the Filipino time I was beginning to understand, for five or six more hours. If ever.

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