The sky is still dark over Taft Ave., yet some carts are already open. Steam rises from a pot of pares, fresh pandesal slides out of steel trays, and a vendor’s taho call cuts through the quiet, all before students start filing in for their morning classes. Others won’t roll out until the afternoon heat softens, or until the evening crowd starts looking for dinner. No matter the hour, someone is already out there, setting up, waiting for their buena mano.
These vendors have been part of this stretch of Taft for years, familiar to regulars as any building on campus. But behind each one is a person keeping a household afloat through work that offers no guarantees, no fixed schedule, and no safety net. Every day on the sidewalk is a gamble.
A day in the life of a street vendor
Ask 10 vendors when their day begins, and you’ll get 10 different answers. For Babelita Echano, 35, her beef pares cart doesn’t roll out until late afternoon, and she keeps it running well past midnight. Anghelita Certeza, 73, works the opposite: up before dawn, she is already at the market before most people set their alarms, her stall stocked and ready not long after.
Years of this pace wear on a person. Certeza carries it in her joints now, seasoned by decades on the pavement. “…may nararamdaman na ako ngayon kasi siyempre, may edad na ako,” she admits.
(There are aches in my body now, because of course, age is catching up with me.)
What each vendor brings home differs just as much. Echano’s cart, which she runs with her husband, tends to turn a decent profit most nights. Eleanor, 60, brings in a more modest amount from her stall down the road. Certeza, working the pot alone with no one to help stir, watches much of what she earns get ladled right back out, absorbed by yesterday’s unpaid tab.
For each of them, the income keeps their families fed. Echano’s earnings send her daughter to grade school. Certeza covers tuition for two grandchildren, one in college, one in high school. Neither has a second helping to fall back on if the day goes cold. Whatever gets served today is what pays for what’s on the table tomorrow.
More than just a meal
The street vendor-customer relationship, like any other, runs both ways: each sustains the other. Most vendors intentionally settle beside offices and universities. Echano, Adlawan, and Certeza are no different, as they choose to set up on Leon Guinto St. and Pablo Ocampo St. near De La Salle University.
But students are only one part of the crowd they serve. Office employees, construction workers, walk-in customers, and tricycle drivers make up much of their daily clientele. For Echano, the evening rush brings everyone from students to nearby workers. Adlawan, meanwhile, says most of her customers are students, while Certeza relies primarily on tricycle drivers who return almost every day.
Regular customers are what keep many of these stalls running. Vendors come to recognize familiar faces, and in some cases, even allow meals to be taken on credit.
“Karamihan talaga puro tricycle boys kasi umuutang din sila ng pagkain. Kaunti lang din ang tubo. Kasi nga, hindi mo naman pwedeng taasan ang benta… Uutang lang [sila] sa ‘yo, mamaya [at] bukas ang bayad,” Certeza shares.
(Most of my customers are tricycle drivers because they buy their meals on credit. The profit is small. You can’t just raise your prices… they’ll borrow from you and pay the next day.)
As trust grows over time, extending credit becomes an unspoken understanding between vendor and customer facing similar circumstances. That same affordability is what makes these stalls a fixture along Taft, allowing students, workers, and drivers alike to rely on a meal without stretching an already tight budget.
Perseverance on the pavement
While others work in comfortable, air-conditioned offices, vendors have little choice but to endure rain and shine year-round—and like the country’s climate, the conditions they operate in are also ever-changing.
Police clearing operations remain a threat, with no guarantee that confiscated goods will ever be returned. “Nu’ng pinagkukuha ‘yung mga pagkain, ‘yun, lahat dinala, hinakot,” Adlawan recalls, stating that her goods were only retrieved because of her boss’ connections.
(When they were taking the food, they took everything away. They hauled it all off.)
However, not everyone is as fortunate. For Certeza, every clearing operation is an omen of her precarious livelihood, sinking her deeper into debt in order to replace her lost items.
Even on days without interventions from authorities, profits can still run thin. Certeza explains that this is compounded during vacations and rainy seasons when foot traffic noticeably diminishes. While high demand keeps Echano’s pares business afloat, Adlawan and Certeza have sought to sustain their profits by expanding their menus to include silog meals and tsitsirya, respectively. However, as customers’ tastes shift regularly, these approaches rarely last.
Nevertheless, Echano and Adlawan reassure customers that a delicious yet affordable meal is always waiting at their stalls should they need it. Certeza, however, shares a different perspective. “Gusto kong malaman ng tao na mahirap maghanapbuhay,” she says, yearning for a quieter life beyond vending at 73—well past the retirement age. “Minsan kasi, nangangarap din ako na huwag na magtinda. Kaso hindi nga puwede.”
(I want people to know that it’s hard to earn a living… Sometimes, I dream of no longer having to sell. But I can’t.)
To make a living along Taft Ave. is to live a plethora of unforgiving realities. Like the people passing them by, street vendors too have aspirations of their own—to send their children to school, have a place to call home, or simply build a more comfortable life for their families.
When we step onto those same streets and encounter the people behind the stalls, may we always find it easy to recognize that their lives are ultimately defined not by hardship, but by perseverance. More importantly, may we always show up for them, just as they continue to show up for us.