When she was in high school, 42-year old Evangeline Sangcap dreamt of being a secretary in an office.

“Gusto kong magsulat-sulat (I want to write and write),” the mother of seven said.

But now, 25 years after dropping out of school, she finds herself not behind an office desk but a small table. She’s dealing not with piles of paperwork, but with stacks of banana que, carioca (sweetened glutinous rice balls)and bicho-bicho (sugared bread). She has been spending 15 years of her life selling these snacks in the University of the Philippines Diliman.
Evangeline’s life as a vendor in the university started out in 1984, when she volunteered to her older sister Rosalinda in selling food. Her sister would mass produce banana que, carioca and bicho-bicho and offer it to friends and neighbors, who, in turn, sell the snacks in nearby places. For every food item sold, they receive a certain portion of the money.

Currently, she gets three pesos for each 12-peso banana que and carioca, same with the 11-peso bicho-bicho. She gets a discount from her sister who sells her the snacks in a cheaper rate.

Their mother encouraged all seven of them to sell the same food, which she had done for quite a portion of her life until she died three years ago. Evangeline went on to follow her mother’s tracks.

Every day, she wakes up at 7 am to do the usual household chores, usually cooking food and taking care of the laundry. Then she goes to the university at 10 am to set up her mini-post where she sells the food. She goes home at 7 o’clock in the evening, and whenever she goes home with unsold goods, she returns it to her sister who sells them for a cheaper price.

It initially did not go well for her. During the 1980s, the school administration banned vendors who walk around the campus selling their goods. She and two of her siblings got used to hiding in bushes around the university to avoid being caught by the UP Diliman police, who confiscate their goods and detain them up to 5 PM in the police station.

There were also instances when she and her fellow vendors went inside female comfort rooms to hide from the police.

“Hindi sila makapasok kasi lalaki sila (They can’t get inside because they are males),” she said, laughing.

But those police who are clever and patient enough wait for them to come out. Evangeline recalls she had been caught numerous times.

It sure is no laughing matter. For a vendor who only earns around 50 to 100 pesos that time, having her goods confiscated and being detained until late afternoon sure puts her into serious trouble.

But all has changed since fellow vendors like her decided to organize and create a group in the university. By 1990, she had already secured a permit that legitimized her stay in the campus, and she even got a spot outside the university shopping center where up to this day, she sells the same food items.

“Wala naman akong ibang alam kundi ito lang talaga (I don’t know about anything else but this),” Evangeline said, referring to the trade that has sustained the lives of her nine-member family.

Her husband, Felix, is also a vendor who roams around the campus selling taho (hot soya drink). The two of them met in the university and got married following two months of courtship. They had seven children—the eldest already has his own family, while the youngest is still five years old.
Evangeline and Felix struggle everyday to allot their 500-peso combined daily earnings among expenses for school, food and other basic necessities. She also needs to pay the 600-pesos-per-month rate to the Samahan ng mga Maninida sa U.P. Campus, the organization of vendors in the university, if she wants to maintain her permit. Whenever the family budget is short, they resort to borrowing from friends.
Pinching pennies, of course, has always been a practice. There were times when she would only buy a kilo of rice and noodles for the family meal, she said.

“Talagang sakto lang ang panggastos, minsan kulang pa (The money we spend is just enough; sometimes it’s even insufficient),” she said.

Evangeline’s sales have considerably dropped over the years, mainly due to competition and her inability to go mobile and sell the food on her own. During the earlier years, she would have trainees of the Reserve Officer Training Corps as loyal costumers.

But regardless of how much she earns, she shows no sign of retiring or looking for another job.

“Pagtitinda lang ang alam ko (Selling is all I know),” she said. She added, however, that she is hoping to have a bigger kiosk in the future where she can sell food other than her classic trio of banana que, carioca and bicho-bicho.

Until then, she has to content herself with the little table in the corner outside the shopping center, waiting for hungry people who want to help themselves with her snacks. She may have failed to realize her dream of being an office secretary, but for her, being a banana que-carioca-bicho-bicho vendor has never been that bad.