Non Standard Issue: When in Manila (Anecdotes on how I am faring so far in the Big City)

It was total mayhem, but it was mayhem that many people in this big and humid city of Metro Manila had to endure everyday, and I, a fresh graduate from a small, cool town in the province, had to adapt to starting the day I decided to earn my keep here.

Two years later and countless MRT rides in between, here are three random anecdotes to punctuate my stay here:

From my POV, the Philippines is a neutral ground for the third sex. You are not going to be hunted and burned in a stake for coming out of the closet but there is no guarantee you’ll not encounter raised eyebrows and acts of discrimination either.

Thus, it was a pleasant revelation when I discovered that the subdivision I live in is a haven for the gay community. Although, it can be a tad disappointing when those cute groups of guys turn out to have the same preference as you, and sometimes, even more colorful love stories!

Let me introduce you to John (not his real name), a waiter at one of my favorite eateries in the compound. Aside from the unlimited rice and the affordable food, I love eating at their place because of the friendly staff. One time when I was sick, John even fed me bowls of hot soup to lift my spirit.

During one of our chats, he told me how he met his boyfriend. Turns out, one of their frequent customers developed feelings for him. On New Year’s Eve, the guy invited him to his apartment and with fireworks as their background, proposed to be his boyfriend. The guy was kind and had a good source of income, and John was still surprised at his catch. The right one will come at the right time, he just said.

My thoughts turned to my gay pals. They dreaded working in Manila because of the hot weather and the rushed lifestyle, but they might have a change of heart once they see this oasis. I'll also have more noses to sniff out the men from the pa-mhen.

The good, the bad, and the ugly

A few years ago, when a US dignitary visited the Philippines, the government had parts of Metro Manila painted and primped up, especially those parts visible from the highway. I did not have that privilege when I arrived in Manila.

In here, it is normal to see street children climb dangerous overpass and sleep on sidewalks. Beggars and old people scavenge trash cans for food or for any recyclable things they could sell. Mothers, with their bare-bottomed babies, use their eyes to invoke pity from passers by. There are makeshift shanties on street corners, but they hardly offer enough protection from the heavy rains and intense heat.

High definition documentaries are no match for in-your-face reality.

Aside from giving food and money to those I met, I sometimes volunteered on weekends in halfway homes and orphanages. My efforts are a trifle compared to what needs to be done, but at least I am making a difference, I told myself. But Lola Rosalie led me to question the goodness I thought I possessed inside.

I was withdrawing from an ATM when I first saw her sitting on the pavement in front of the bank. She was shyly thanking a man who gave her money. She did not look like a veteran of the streets – her clothes and her few belongings looked old but clean.

After inviting her to a nearby eatery, she shared to me her story. She once worked as a laundrywoman, but the popularity of washing machines decreased the demand for her services. With her husband dead and with no relatives nearby, she just slept on sidewalks, relying on the kindness of strangers, or sometimes a rare laundry job, to survive.

Crushed by what she shared, I gave her money to buy medicines and told her I was going to visit her again. When I came home, I wrote a long letter to a halfway home for the elderly I visited the previous week, asking how Lola Rosalie can be admitted.

I would have loved to share that I received a prompt reply and Lola Rosalie was now comfortably resting in that halfway home, but a mistake on my part led to the doomed conclusion.

When I did not receive a reply, I forgot about Lola Rosalie and my promise to her. Work and other so-called “important” things got my attention.

I saw her again in the same place where we first met. But the shy and clean old woman was already insane and disheveled.

I went home crying. I could have made a difference, but instead, ended failing another human being.

Strength from the ancients

Never mind that some looked like old, scruffy versions of our tapuy jars back home. The fact that the collection of pottery I was perusing were thousands of years old was enough to gain my respect.

Finally, I was able to fulfill my long-delayed plan to visit the country’s National Museum. I had to water those history-loving brain cells lest they totally die from years of neglect. Also, some things in my personal life were overwhelming me, and I figured a date with the past would help me reconnect with myself and gain perspective.

While walking through the museum’s well-choreographed pathways and while browsing the numerous artifacts on display, I suddenly became wistful and nostalgic. There were intricately-designed and colorful dishware, weapons, tools, a replica of the balangay, and other precious odds and ends excavated from the bowels of our archipelago. This is my history, my culture, my people, and I never felt so proud of my heritage…or so sad of what we had forgotten.

We are more than just a nation of slaves and pawns in the annals of history. Even before our first conqueror stepped on our shore, we already had a thriving culture with our own writing system – a hallmark of civilization. If we trace our roots, we have always been a strong, intelligent, honest, hospitable and wonderful race – characteristics which I believe have managed to transcend centuries of colonial rule and identity crisis.

From that knowledge springs forth the hope in my heart that sooner than we think, we would be able to build a thriving, prosperous Philippines - a first world country not just in terms of economy but also in terms of manners and humanity.

Next station (of the cross)

Of course, when you are pushing and shoving your way through the MRT, it’s hard to picture the snapping crowd as your fellow Maharlikas who you will do bayanihan with to build Philippine Kingdom v2.0. The MRT is one of those places where you can see Filipinos at their worst. Nevertheless, it’s also rife with random acts of kindness.

I was again stuck in that situation where I can’t force my way through the hordes of people blocking me from the exit. But before I start figuring out how far I had to walk back from the next station, a kind man noticed my dilemma and nudged the others to create squeezing room for me. I quickly thanked him and dove out in time to avoid the waves of commuters determined to enter the train.

Oh well, that man may not be a sultan (as far as I know), but his act of chivalry is a reminder of the good stuff hidden inside us Filipinos that poor transportation, heat, poverty and even bullying countries (a last-minute jab) cannot take away.