By Asther Bascuña-Creo
Photos by Anthony Sese
My first recollection of encountering a young street beggar was also my first memory of visiting Manila. My parents had brought me with them to visit an aunt and I was all alone in the back seat of the old red Gemini. Usually all four of us kids had to fit in the back seat, but it was the summer holidays and my siblings were preoccupied with sports, and being the only non-athletic child in the family, I had to tag along with my parents.
The destination in itself was beyond my sphere of experience. As far as I can recall, I had only before then spent my time within the confines of suburbia, being shuttled between home and school by a school bus we called trakbayan (truck bayan), and at times spending summer days in my father’s office in Buendia Avenue, Makati.
So on that humid afternoon when I went with my parents to visit an aunt, Manila made a huge impression on me. I guess you can say it was the start of a hate-love relationship, as I experienced the city in various stages of my life. But on that day, I found Manila to be exciting—noisy, busy and risky! Cars and jeepneys shared the roads with people, who weaved in and out of traffic as if dancing the tinikling!
When the lights turned red, people went to the middle of the street to approach cars to sell some food or the daily paper. Some, including children, also knocked on car windows to beg for alms. A little child about my age approached my side of the backseat window and thrust a hand to my face. I remember feeling confused: I was a child myself, no more than five, and still totally dependent on my parents, while that little child was already looking after his own survival. 
Fast forward many, many years and I enrolled in my first year in one of the universities in Manila, the campus was right in Padre Faura, just a few steps away from the clubs and brothels. We were careful to keep to our end of the street, but even then we were not immune to the salacious behaviour of some passersby.
Fresh out of a suburban high school, thrown into the confusing streets of Manila and forced to take public transport…my first year was one confusing mess. When you’re studying along one of the universities along Taft Avenue, you’re not immune to floods, crime, traffic jams, and rallies. As the then student regent of my college said during my freshman orientation, “This is the real world.” And so it was.
However, by then I had not yet developed an appreciation for Manila and just thought it one stinking mess. I concocted a plan to shift courses and move to the more leafy campus in Diliman, Quezon City, where I was to secure my Journalism degree. I was happy in this big campus, that’s more like a village really. Once I got on campus I only had to worry about the Ikot (and later Toki) jeepney going around to bring us to the different buildings for our classes. In between Ikot rides I could refresh (and score a nap) in the big lawn that is the Sunken Garden. It was an alternate, more preferable existence and I know of many who are won’t to leave that beautiful place on the pretext of the pursuit for knowledge…and so they remain as students forever or perhaps move on to become an academic.
However, Diliman also didn’t shelter us from harsh realities. In true UP form, we would have farmers, fisherfolk, unionists coming to talk to us about the pressing issues of the times. And there were plenty of opportunities for students to leave the safety of campus and go to the government offices in Manila or to nearby Batasan to join protests. My journalism professors would encourage us to chase the news on the streets and to learn from life outside the campus—even suggesting that we “educate” our parents to make them realise that this is a more substantive form of learning. Learning both in and outside the classroom. Learning from the masses. It was the beginning of my indoctrination into a different way of thinking and of a different perspective of reality. It seems I had transferred from Manila to Diliman to learn about life.
It was inevitable that after all that freedom and free thinking that accompanied my university days I would find my first employment in Makati rather dull. Makati was pretty, but to me it was boring and artificial. It was during an LRT ride down Taft Avenue with my bird’s eye view of Manila’s traffic, squalor, pollution as well as of beautiful architecture and historic landmarks, when I found myself saying, “Someday I will be back in Manila.”
Those words proved prophetic. I was able to get employment in one of the Philam companies and for more than five years walked in and out of the offices in the stately Philam Building along UN Avenue. Even now I catch my breath remembering this beautiful building with high ceilings, shiny floors, priceless artwork on its walls and a nice little pocket garden in the middle. It is beautiful not in the way that the modern buildings in Makati are, but grand and graceful like a lady in all her fine baro’t saya fanning herself with her abañiko.
Part of its appeal of course was its location: the old Holiday Inn in front whose little coffee shop offered delectable cheese danish and became our mid-afternoon escape from our desks; the United Nations office at the corner; a choice of restaurants offering dishes that range from fast food fare to Chinese favourites to roasts; Sionil Jose’s Solidaridad bookshop at Padre Faura; and nearby Roxas Boulevard with the stunning bay views. With the nearby CCP and museums, Manila can definitely offer one a satisfying cultural degustation and a fine evening out with musicals plays, concerts and bands in smaller venues. Luneta, Manila Hotel and the nearby Intramuros all contribute to the soul of the city, and having Malacañang, the Supreme Court, and newspaper offices all ensure a lot of action going on in the streets.
With all the beautiful architecture to be proud of, infrastructure and road planning is not really very good in Manila. Flooding is a common occurrence, and I have seen Lagusnilad fill with floodwaters and rendered virtually impassable. Like many I experienced wading through floods, walking many kilometres to find a ride of home during transport strikes and discovering a place to kill time when stranded in the city.
I discovered how protesters can render the streets a sea of colours—yellow or red and any other variation in between depending on their politics. I discovered that one of the places to witness an outpouring of love for country is during a rally, where a mob of students have stopped traffic and sang the National Anthem at the top of their voices, with raised fists or hands on their chests. I discovered that during Oktoberfest it is best to leave early so as not to get stuck in traffic or else stay the night and just join the revellers. I discovered that Max’s Vito Cruz is still one of the best places to get a satisfying lunch; that booking a hotel room facing the bay is a nice way to celebrate a wedding anniversary with your husband; and that street kids singing carols is still one of the best ways to usher in the Christmas spirit.
It took me awhile but I had finally understood Manila.
Just before leaving Manila for good, I had another encounter with a young street urchin. This time I was inside an air-conditioned taxi, and I saw the whole scene as if I was sitting in the front row seat of a cinema. In front of the taxi was a truck loaded with sacks of rice, en route perhaps to the market. The red light came on, and traffic stood at stand still. From out of nowhere a group of young boys, no more than 5-7 years old, ran to the truck and slashed one of the sacks open. One of them, the biggest boy, gathered the spilling grains into a pail. For me what I have witnessed was not a scene of crime or theft. It was a picture of survival in its truest form, the story of Manila’s many street children.
I thought not of labelling this incident as good, bad or ugly. For me, it is simply what it is, a fragment of the reality of Manila.
