Say Goodbye to Daydreaming, Manila can make it real

Fresh from the most jovial celebration in the world and the first Christmas of the Philippines as a country freed from one of the most controversial administrations in the Philippine political history, I—joining my fellow Filipinos living up with the newly-sprouted hopes which mollified the lives of many when the son of our hero Ninoy Aquino assumed the presidency—was stationed in a place not new to everyone, Manila.

Quiapo Church

I defied the morning heat, the dreadful traffic, the populous stations of the Light Rail Transit (LRT), and rode at the king of the highway (jeepney) in trade of hitting the hub of my adored city. The place was being mobbed by thousands of people from all walks of life every day. Seeing people hurrying inside evoked suspicions that most of them were religious. But as I carried my weight towards the antic door, I concluded that I was wrong. There were lovers, vendors, bystanders, faith healers, elites, and beggars too. Most of them almost had cohesive reason why kneeling before the shrine of our Creator in cross and of a number of saints was obligatory—to say prayers. Inside the Quiapo Church, people have overwhelming hopes. If they only prayed aloud, my eardrums would break hearing their screeches composing mainly of pain, sorrow, forgiveness, and desire. My heart would rejoice if most of them uttered a “thank you” prayer. Yet, reality wise, we only visit a house of worship when we are in dire need; when we are dying to be saved from our misery. I had to shut my eyes when I flashed at an old lady sitting in front of me with swelling throat. Seriously, what was inside her throat is larger than her boobs combined. I stooped to get rid of distraction, kneeled and thanked Him for this life—simple and full of blessings. When it was time for me to leave, I trusted Him and believed that my prayers will not just be absorbed by His house’s corners.

Yesterday, it was my vast dreamland. So when they said Manila was on its peak of ebb, I had to stand and convey my gaudiest aversion: “It should ascend higher than its place before.” Not only that it is the extension of my first home, Manila is also my Pasteur today.  

I told myself that someday I would write my autobiography for me to keep, for my future children and grandchildren, and for those who would find my story worth reading and sharing. Initially, I thought that great portion of my story would deal with discourse about life—successes, failures, struggles, realizations, and happiness. I never thought that travel would cross the threshold and have its place on the portrait. What’s more unanticipated is it has the tendency to consume three-fourths of my memoirs, making me quip: “places, urban life, rural life, adventures and misadventures will be an exciting annexation to my history.”

Since financial stability is also something I look forward to, travels intertwine with it—islands, beaches, mountains, luxurious hotels, Philippines, and abroad. Most of the time, when I’m sipping my coffee alone or on the road going somewhere, my very playful mind contrive about these perks money could render. Then I would just grin and tell myself that there are a lot places I earnestly covet to incorporate in my autobiography. As of present, this virtual diary labels them first as “soon-to-be-places.” When reality knocks in, I’m back again to my consciousness that the real world doesn’t separate my lifestyle from the word typical.

This is not the whole preview. However, this is how I intend to write my autobiography which might possibly undergo through sequences of alterations. Though some details are still uncertain, one thing will remain definite: Manila will occupy numbers of great pages.

Outside the Quiapo church, a dear friend was waiting. She waved and upon recognition, I crossed at the historical Plaza Miranda. Who would forget Plaza Miranda bombing? A political rally attended by almost 4,000 people during the proclamation of Liberal Party’s senatorial candidates when two hand grenades were thrown on stage. The incident immediately expunged two persons in the Philippine map and left many wounded. One of the prominent political figures who were seriously injured was then Senator Jovito Salonga.

My mind has barred the door of the plaza’s griming past as I gave my friend a huge smile.  I approached her and we chatted for a while. She went inside the church first. So when she’s done saying her intentions, we started searching for a food stall to fulfill the demand of our grouching tummies. This time, she was the one who noticed the situation in Plaza Miranda. She need not say a word. Her gloomy face testified that what was running between her two ears was something melancholy.

We passed by a crowded area where piled of vendors selling flowers, fruits, and artifacts were prodigious coupled with incessant buyers bargaining left and right. It wasn’t new to us. In fact, we were used to it since our college days. Back then, braving this diverse crowd was a routine. Lying beneath the stores was a cafeteria perfect for breakfast. We had palabok, rice cake, and softdrinks. When energy seems enough to keep us alive on our tour, we went off to the road. It was inevitable to take paces at Plaza Miranda again. We were descending to the center when Mary Anne saw her high school friend covering a story for a documentary to be shown on national TV. After being introduced I decided to roam around while they were catching up for the past years they have missed. Then the old man from a cramped concourse appeared with his small plastic bottle. He sat in the middle of the plaza not minding the effects of the going-to-noon sun’s rays that would permeate his senile skin. I tried to assist him sitting down but he refused. And the only thing I can be of help was through throwing some coins in his bottle. I did. My eyes wandered. I glanced at a grandmother selling Sampaguita 5 steps away from Quiapo church’s door. Children were running here and there forcing people to buy the plastic bags loaded in their hands. In the sidewalks were merchants peddling their tables full of herbal medicines, amulets, fetishes, and potions to church-goers and passersby. I suspected pickpockets were around too, but I wasn’t there to hunt them. Coming from the highway were produced-sounds of barkers screaming Lawton! Roxas! Kalaw! Ermita! Everyone was minding their own business. No place for negligence.

Beneath their eyes I knew that anguish was not dominant. It was hope. Their hearts carry hope. And behind hopes were dreams they beseech to materialize—maybe not now but sooner. Though sooner might take 2 years, 5 years, 10 years or beyond, they didn’t care. For them, holding on to their dreams would keep them committed to the life they believed one day would come their way.

I was fated to study in Zambales or in Bataan in college. When a friend brought up that I can go to a prestigious university in Manila for paying less than a thousand bucks every semester, I began to gorge at the thought that I will leave my province and build my dreams in the big and crowded city. I was fifteen years old when I first had this dream: reach Manila, study in Manila, land a job in Manila, and have a house in Manila.

Along with my friends, I went all the way to prepare the necessary documents for the entrance exam. My parents didn’t know something about my plans. I was afraid they would force me to stay in Zambales because they can’t sustain my college education in Manila. But I was ambitious (in a positive way). I was firm that I will not be stuck in the province. My parents were surprised when I told them a day before the entrance exam that I’m going to Manila with my friends. I didn’t ask a single penny from them since they can’t afford to dole out large amount. Or if they can, I’m sure they will lend from someone. Don’t get me wrong. My parents aren’t bad. In fact, they are the best—supportive and loving. It’s just that my dad’s income as carpenter wasn’t enough to send me to Manila. When my dad was in Korea, a relative borrowed money from him. Without my parents knowing, I begged him to pay so I could have a fare to Manila. I used the money I collected from him and those given to me by my aunts who were also professionals to pursue my dreams. After a few months, I received a letter confirming that I passed the exam and later on enrolled at the Polytechnic University of the Philippines.

After a few minutes, my friend bade goodbye to her friend with a beso-beso (kiss on cheek). It was time to leave Quiapo. Parting ways seemed easy for them with the presence of modern technology; in just one text they get updates with each other’s lives again. How is it really for poor families who do not have means of getting acquainted to technology? How’s parting for street children and rugby boys who don’t even know their parents’ whereabouts? How’s parting for those coming from provinces that gambled and tried their luck here in this city? Nowadays, writing mails— though classic—is becoming obsolete. How do they communicate? Yes, cellphone for instance is cheap. Cheap for people who can afford it, but those who cannot provide a decent meal on their tables or even a can of sardines, low-priced cellphones remain a dream. Yet, I know snatchers do not have any problem owning one. But why do people keep herding in Metro Manila despite the fact that they exchange it to not seeing their families for ages for a minimum or below minimum salary?

I left the questions hanging when the jeepney driver started to run its engine.

We finally reached the Intramuros one hour shy before noon. Also referred to as the “Walled City,” which was built to shield the city from invasion during Spanish Colonial Period, Intramuros represents a modern day Manila carrying its rich history.

Together with college students of a university inside the Walled City, we joyfully hopped from blocks to blocks, gawked at the old establishments with wonders, walked along its ancient pavements with pride, and admired guards donned like soldiers from the past. There were pedicab drivers and kalesa offering a tour but soon after knowing the fee for it, we declined and chose to scratch our rugged shoes against the ground until we have gone tired.

We observed the vast disparity between Quiapo and Intramuros—from the monotonous tiring life and unruly crowd in Quiapo to the orderly thoroughfares and decent life in Intramuros. We were situated in one city with two different worlds—one side bared poverty while other radiated affluence and comfort. Realizing that we were enmeshed in between, our critical minds continuously debated on issues such as government reforms, tourism in Manila, and history of Intramuros which we found hard to remember.

We were pointing at buildings printed on our history books in elementary and sharing some thoughts about it when we reached the San Agustin church. To our surprise, wedding ceremony was being held. The church vicinity seemed like a large showroom of luxurious cars. We recognized BMW, Mercedes Benz, and Porsche. To my mind, I was saying that if I can’t own them all, I hope one of them was mine.

We tried to take a glimpse inside but since we weren’t dressed properly for the occasion, we chose not to stay close to the door. We surmised that it was a Filipino-Chinese wedding upon seeing the guests. When we thought that the nuptial has ended, church’s acolytes were changing the decorations in the altar for the next wedding.

Not from afar was the Manila Cathedral— our last stop before we proceed to the final leg of our tour. Suddenly, it felt like June in January because another two weddings were being prepared. “Manila Cathedral is a perfect wedding place,” my friend said. Then she began talking about her dream wedding.

Though Quiapo and Intramuros are two different worlds in Manila, they’ve proven that both ends could meet in the middle through people’s dreams. It’s a clear depiction that people going in and out of both places could have one thing in common: to realize a dream. Merchants in Quiapo are dreaming of having a good life someday while couples in Intramuros are looking forward to fulfill their dream weddings in one of the Walled City’s churches.

We were in a cab to our next destination when thoughts about parting that bugged me earlier had kept me drifted.

At exactly 1 (one) in the morning of 2003, Zambales and I parted ways. I can’t explain how it felt at first. The thought of studying in a university provoked eagerness but it also heaved me to despondency when it got into me the possibility of not seeing my parents, brother, and relatives for a long period of time. But just like those from provinces who chose to pursue their dreams in Manila, though parting was grief-stricken, I also had with me the weapon which I was adamant not to give up—my DREAM.

It never came to a mediocre probinsyano like me that Manila would be as treacherous as it could be even though my parents had peppered me with harangues about the pervasiveness of rascals in its every corner and how cruel the city was before I left Zambales. Coping up was not too easy but I started it good for I have been focused in school. I had P1,500 for the whole month, P750 as rent for my bedspace and P750 for my food allowance.  It was a good thing that my school was just walking distance from my apartment so I need not allot budget for fare. After three weeks I was broke. I can bear the pain of my wounded fingers which emanated from doing the laundry, however, having no money for food and for books were unbearable. I only had P750 in my pocket allotted for bedspace’s rent for the coming month but since I had to keep my stomach full, I forgone the rent, used my deposit, and told Cherry (my landlady) that I will leave immediately because I don’t have money anymore.

Three weeks after the opening of classes, I boarded at my lola’s house (aunt of my father) in slum at the boarder of Recto and Sta. Cruz. Today, the squatter’s area is visible when you pass Doroteo Jose station of LRT1 to LRT2 Recto station. There I was, living where snatchers, rioters, law violators, and rogues were prevalent and where brutality, madness and stupidity were normal. That was how my uncle (dad’s cousin) who lived in the area put it into words while reminding me every now and then to be vigilant. Who wouldn’t be scared? I described the place as hell on Manila. Before I could take a shower, I had to get in the long queue of other residents filling up their containers. And I wasn’t allowed to take a shower inside the bathroom. Meaning, I had to wash my body with soap and water outside the house where a number of my neighbors were doing the same and others were feasting on our bodies. Somehow it was a good feeling. Not the thought that there were people watching while I was cleaning up, but for feeling not alone while having shower outside, near the street. (It feels a little lighter sometimes when humiliation is shared.) My room with no windows was just fit for one person (one small bed). Seriously, our CR in Zambales is larger. Yet, I shouldn’t complain. I lived there for free. Complaining was a sin. One night, I saw a big black mouse walking on my shirts in one corner, same night I didn’t sleep, cried hard, and gave in to the idea of leaving Manila and study in our province instead. The sun was already frantic when the cab dropped us in Rizal Park or the famous Luneta. It was here where the Philippines’ national hero Dr. Jose Rizal executed. Some parts of the park were undergoing constructions; there were new stores, and new attractions. It has to be mentioned that it is part of the new administration’s project to embellish the Rizal Park and encourage people—travelers and non-travelers alike—to visit Luneta. Somehow, it also erased the park’s image as a dwelling of perverts during nighttime. The last time I visited Luneta was in 2004 right after participating in the largest human rainbow in the world. Not much can be said back then. I cannot even recall what my friends and I did in the park. But I was told that it turns wild and dirty at night. You know what I mean. I will just let your minds figure that out.

Mary Anne and I had a little walk while muttering words for the first time: Luneta has improved!!! On the contrary, it still remains (in general) as place for the underprivileged. Parents who don’t have the capacity to bring their children to malls go to Luneta for them to have fun and quality time. Lovers who cannot afford a date in a fast-food chain, fancy restaurant, or movie house flock here. I was grateful for the fact that Luneta serves as a key to the realizations of the dreams of our brothers breathing below the poverty line. Bonding time with the family and an ideal date while spending less become possible because of Luneta. Nowadays, Luneta is taken for granted, or valued less by most people belong to the upper-upper! Luneta is for us, whether you carry a plastic bag or a Prada bag.

We were engaged in a very meaningful conversation with four children. For them to survive, their parents need to dig the trashes outside restaurants and collect discarded (sometimes spoiled) foods to fill their empty stomachs. Sometimes, they also grapple with other beggars whose lives are also trapped in the mercy of Filipinos who care less to their unconsumed meals. According to the eldest, they traveled from Aklan and chose to live in Manila in hope of better living. They don’t have permanent home and their parents do not have jobs but they are here to chase the same dream just like any others: to earn a better life in Manila.

With little amount in our pockets, we invited them for lunch in a cafeteria in Luneta. After, we paid for their “kalesa and tren” rides since it’s their first time to try such. They toured us, and we befriended them. They were very happy. Luneta was shining brightly that moment not for the blue skies and striking sun’s gleam, but because four children filled the space with happiness. For us, it was priceless. Our little amount spent for them was reciprocated by overwhelming bliss, recognizing that we became the tickets for four kids whose simple dream is to ride a kalesa. I started pondering on the thought of going back to Zambales when that black (extra large) mouse showed up like a monster. But the more I was thinking of giving up my dreams, the more I was becoming agile to fight for it. Next morning, I dismissed all my worries. I knew I can endure my burning pockets which in the coming days would get empty. Same day, I also became the daily customer of an “unlimited lugaw” cafeteria near PUP. For P5 per bowl, I can have one full meal.

Later on, I left the slum and lived in Valenzuela with my aunt (dad’s sister) and his family. Then after a few months, Good Samaritan (my relatives) from abroad committed to give my monthly allowance for school. After a year (on my second year) I left Valenzuela and lived independently. I got my first job when I was in my junior year. Though it was hard, I worked and studied at the same time. And after four years, just right on time, I graduated and fulfilled the dream of my parents too—to finish my degree with flying colours.

My first travel this 2011 was in Manila. It was in Quiapo, Intramuros and Luneta. It was never planned. It was simply an act of giving in to the urge of “getting acquainted” to the city that fostered the man I am today. This has led me to the discovery that no matter how you know every corner of your home, you still feel lost at times, and the only way to get back and get acquainted is to walk through its familiar places that brought meaning to your life, observe the teeming life around, and accept the fact that your home is going through changes as time passes. It is hypocrisy to say that I only have pure love over Manila. I loathed this city for numerous times when I lost my phone, I was holdup, and I was stuck in traffic or in flood. I even cursed Manila during the time I was financially and emotionally dejected. Everybody has a lot say about this city—hatred, fear, and admiration—however, we cannot fault anyone who defends Manila with all their might. I’m neither the best to ask for directions nor the best to identify its tourist spots. I might also appear incoherent with its history, but ask me about how many dreams I fulfilled and still pursuing in this city, I can sit for a cup of coffee.  Over and again I look at Manila as the melting pot of diverse hopes. Manila may have ruined someone’s life, but for most that are here, Manila will always be a place to fulfill one’s dream.