To queue or not to queue? That is the question.
In this life, you are either the victim or the victor of queue-jumping. There is no in-between. And if there are two places where this ancient art is practiced to a peak, it would be the countries which I, for today, call home.
I moved to Delhi earlier this year and was welcomed to a city deeply steeped in history, culture, and discourse. The food bursts in flavor. Customs are celebrated in the richness of color. The architecture, deliberate in design. I tell my colleagues far and wide that, much like any other place in this world but unique for its own reasons, there is no place like India.
But amidst the diversity found in what is the seventh largest country in the world, I found a constant. Or perhaps in my case, a consistent struggle. Because whether it was at the local restaurant, heritage site, or festivity, I found myself grappling in the chaos of the queue. Even my Indian colleagues have told me—in what was both unapologetic observation and stoic admiration for the local practice—that their country’s serpentine lines are all part of the adventure.
On more than one occasion, I would simply inform the jumpee-attemptee that they have taken my place. To this, they would simply shrug, with their hands kindly guiding me to step ahead of them and reclaim my spot. A magnanimous invitation given with such nonchalance as if to say that they were willing to indulge my haste. Communicating to me, somewhere deep within the subtext of the situation, that there was a method in all this madness. That this fluid dance, seemingly bereft of strictures, had a rulebook unopened to the outsider’s gaze.
Naked to the foreign eye, there was a concept of fairness at play.
As they say: When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Well in that case, when in Rajasthan, do as the Rajasthanis do! There is nothing more annoying than the “holier-than-thou” outsider, and I have no intentions of joining that club. If queue-jumping is the social standard, then so be it.
I’ve chosen to neither partake in nor take offense at the peculiar dance of queue-jumping. But I could not help but find myself comparing India’s queue culture with that of my own. Because let’s admit it: We Filipinos aren’t exactly paragons of queue discipline either.
I recall a recent encounter in Ninoy Aquino International Airport (Naia) where a swift duo preempted my turn at the luggage scanner. As I hefted my weighty bags onto the conveyor, in a blink of an eye, I found a handbag and cellphone gently nestled unto the conveyor belt, as if appearing out of thin air.
An audible ripple of disapproval spread through the bystanders in line—murmurs, tuts, and arched eyebrows. Reading the room and feeling the pressures of collective censure, the Naia-dashers retorted: “E, ang dami kasi niyang gamit e!”
This reaction informs us of a fine nuance in queue culture. Although queue-jumping may be a shared phenomenon in India and the Philippines, their implications differ dramatically. In India, the queue is a negotiable construct. A hurdle to be creatively navigated. In the queue, only the most persistent of jumpers will thrive. Lines are thus nothing more than bureaucratic limitations to what would have otherwise been a formula for Darwinian success.
Yet in the Philippines, respecting queues is part of societal norm, may it be in the bank or between the brake lights in Edsa. Yet still, much like the Naia-dasher before me, though the rule is there, it is simply ignored. They recognized the rule, which is why they felt the need to explain their self-legislated exception.
This tale of two queues tells a story of the Philippines’ attitude toward the rule of law. Our esteem for the rule of lines parallels our respect for the rule of law. While in India, queue-jumping was simply a part of social phenomenon, what we see in the Philippines is a product of normative judgement. Abroad the line was fluid, here it was simply disregarded. A conscious deviation from established norms.
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