After reading (Tita)
Angela Stuart-Santiago's commentary on Dan Brown's quip in his latest book
about Manila being the "gates of hell" (a logical choice, given
the Catholic church's anti-RH stance and the oligarchy that the Philippine
government is, as the post says), I remembered how as a kid I would tag along
with my Papa to his office in Zacateros, one of the narrow streets that crossed
Ongpin. We took the jeepney from Roosevelt to Sta. Cruz, got off at Avenida,
and crisscrossed our way through the bakeries, hardwares, electronic stores,
etc. until we reached his office. As a 5-year-old, seeing diced hopias made in
front of you was a treat you tire of less easily than the diced hopias. Let's
not even talk about the smell of chestnuts found everywhere in those streets--
holygee, the taste of chestnuts won't hold a candle to their smell! Then there's
the incomprehensible chatter that was probably a mix of Hokkien, Tagalog,
Bisaya; told me early on that the world city
I inhabited could not be a quiet (or peaceful) one. There were shop keepers
(some who my Dad knew), coffee shops (including one which he frequented),
noodle houses (wonderful). There were also beggars at the foot of the LRT and barkers
in the perimeter of Sta. Cruz church; early exposure to the fact that while
Papa and I did not enjoy many luxuries ("middle class" would be
pushing it), there were families, men, children with fates worse than us.
There were also the batang kalye (streetkids) of Zacateros
who were my age and who became a sort of barkada. When I was still allowed to
play with them, these kids took me to their haunts, streets alleys narrower
than that where Papa's office stood, and showed me alleys cracks on the wall where they lived.
Oh, I remember trying my first smoke somewhere in Ongpin, my Zacateros barkada
and I saw a lit cigarette on the street, picked it up and took turns puffing. I
was so proud of myself that afternoon, I hurriedly ran back to Papa and told
him what I just did. After that I was only permitted to wave at them. Eventually
in shame when they’ll come around to “pick me up” and I wasn’t permitted to go
anymore, I just hid at the back part of the office. Now in writing, I kind of wish
that my 5 year-old self recognized that what was novel to me was everyday life
for them.
Early exposure to
middle class guilt and the warfare that exists in the everyday, salamat Manila.
Eventually all those
afternoons I insisted on tagging along because I was Papa's buntot and suffered from
serious separation anxiety when I'm not with him was soon no longer. One day I
just refused to go because I had started having recurring dreams of Sta. Cruz,
getting lost in its streets, taken by "bad people" like those in the
movies, etc. etc.
Some 15+ years later
and the nostalgia that happened to old Manila by way of food tours and heritage
walks and the city morphed into a "cultural adventure". I spent one birthday
doing that, out of nostalgia “for a part of Manila I grew up.”
When peering through
the lens of culture, it’s so easy to edit the picture. Manila offers those dumplings you cannot have elsewhere in the city, sniff chestnuts oh-so-easily, and have the best bowl of noodles, but also in Manila is where the warfare of the streets is ever alive, persists, persisted, a
continuing sad tragic backdrop.
I remember showing Zacateros
to Turtle and Elephant a few years ago; I was hoping one of the Zacateros kids
will recognize me, give my shoulder a tap and say "kalaro kita dati."
No such luck. Middle class peeps, tough is our luck, but luck is tougher for most of these Manila
electorate.
