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If evolution were a card game, the Joker would be mutation - the chance element through which a species defeats the boredom of reproducing identical copies of itself. As we know, in World War II, 4WD evolution made a quantum leap when, out of necessity, Willys begat the General Purpose or "GP" vehicle - the original US Army Jeep. Since then that humble, hardy workhorse has gone on to evolve into everything from plush passenger vehicles to muscular military rigs like the Hum Vee.

In 1945, at the conclusion of the Pacific War, the Philippine public transport system was in ruins. Rather than dumping its stock of surplus Jeeps into Manila Bay, the American authorities released them to civilians. Filipino mechanics, always an enterprising crew, soon hacked into the original Willys gene code. They erased front-wheel drive from its DNA specs, spliced on a longer tray (complete with bench seats), sprouted a canopy over the lot - and started collecting fares. The Jeepney Joker had hatched.

Half a century later, the descendants of these war surplus warriors continue to mutate. The flamboyant decoration of jeepneys leaves one lost for adequate metaphors: like metal frescos a go-go, like pop rivet art, these Day-Glo bemos charge all over the archipelago, from the mountains of Luzon to the coasts of Mindanao.

A jeepney is a wondrous sight in its natural state - in full flight and song, bedecked with icons, ribbons and slightly daft mottos (such as "Sorry chicks, I've broken your heart"), chokka with passengers, joyously stretching its little diesel legs.

The bodywork, in stainless steel or all-over chrome, gleams like a mug lair on payday. Next comes the lighting rig: spotlights, blinkers, winkers, everything but lasers, blazing like Luna Park. In turn, this is surmounted by a forest of whip aerials, fringes, mirrors and horns - plus a hood-full of chromed horses wobbling on springs.

Each jeepney has its name emblazoned on a panel above the cab and the name often embodies a cryptic biography of the owner: "Ivan Gutsy," "Free Kuwait," "D'Only Daughter," "God Give Us Safe," "New York Survivor," "Brisbane Bronco," "Saudi Juice," "Seven Sisters" ... and even "Joker". Decoded, these messages tell the world that Jose, Tony, Ivan, Consuelo or Daisy (or sometimes all of them together) saved hard, perhaps working in the Gulf states, Hong Kong, the US or Australia to accumulate the approximately 300,000 pesos (around A$17,000) that it takes to buy a new jeepney. On Bohol Island I spotted one jeepney called the "Sydney Explorer," which the proud owner, Cleofe, told me had been financed by his family working in Sydney.

All that GI Joe from WWII would recognise of this tropical hybrid vehicle is an echo of the old Willy's Jeep toast-rack grille. The original short wheelbase has been stretched to 1.42 metres, with a second-hand 2.8 litre Isuzu diesel dropped in. Sadly, jeepney tuning is often a throwback: most of them blurt more smoke than Mt Pinatubo. Because of their pollution and sheer numbers, various Philippine Presidents and Manila mayors have toyed with the idea of banning the vehicles from Metro Manila. President Ramos was heading down this path, but with jeepneys as the backbone to the country's public transport system, he realised he was on the verge of becoming the first President to be deposed in a jeepney drivers - and passengers - coup.

If GI Joe climbed in the rear door of a modern Manila jeepney he would find two long, inward-facing benches, built for 18 passengers - but more likely accommodating 20. Patient Filipino commuters pass hours in Manila's infamous traffic stand-offs within these crowded interiors, while scratchy speakers swamp them with disco boom. All sorts of interactions take place, from neighbourly gossip to the occasional petty theft. Meanwhile up in the cockpit the driver, who supports his family by driving this transport of delight and despair for around 300 pesos (around A$17) per day, is managing more stunts than a three-armed juggler.

With his right hand (it's a left-hand drive vehicle) the driver is collecting the 2.50 pesos flat fare that passengers pass forward, as well as arm-wrestling a cranky stick-shift and changing music tapes (Bee Gees, Air Supply, Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson and plenty of Filipino bands). With the left hand he's giving direction signals and touting for customers, wrestling a wheel that's often connected to four tyres balder than Brynner, and hauling his Chariot of Hire across three lanes of traffic in order to snatch up a curbside passenger. All the while he keeps up a commentary, not to mention a little street theatre, should the occasion arise: "Hey!" he calls to an overweight fellow who just alighted, "Tomorrow you pay double - for the two seats you take up!"

At Zapote, about half an hour's drive south of Manila, Leonardo Sarao watches over the manual production line that his father started some 45 years ago. Here, at the country's largest jeepney works, the vehicles grow before your eyes, replaying their own evolution.

In rows - on blocks, not a conveyor line - each jeepney starts its life as a single-cell chassis, then sprouts suspension and wheels; a galvanised or stainless steel body shell begins to grow panel by panel, rivet by rivet; the chassis acquires an engine block; window glass and upholstery fill out the body.

Owners' particular specifications are built in - not all jeepneys carry passengers, some are for freight only, while others are private family vehicles. Finally, eschewing the camouflage mentality of "survival of the blandest", the jeepney meets the paint shop, and takes on its yay-saying, "art jalopy" livery, that technicolor expression of the ebullient Philippine national character. At the end of this process emerge from the Sarao company incubator, all duded-up and ready to rip, some six mighty mutants per day.

"It's not quite mass production." Leonardo Sarao tells me, referring to the small quantity of his output.

"You're right," I say, referring to its unique, tailor-made, home-spun originals.

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