A journey in the city of men

A lyrical essay in twelve scenes

By Georgij Engelbrecht

Accordingly, two cities have been formed by two loves: the earthly by the love of self, even to the contempt of God; the heavenly by the love of God, even to the contempt of self. -Augustine of Hippo, City of God. Hey Joe, where you gonna run to now, Where you gonna go -Jimi Hendrix

Prelude: My Decalogue What is Manila?

-The Nations capital, a place where times collide; distorted vibes of a citys bursting soul.

What was the first taxi driver talking about, shortly after you arrived in this flamboyant town, Maynila?
-Corruption, Marcos and gasoline prices. But those politics of conversation soon gave way to the poetry of night.

What have you noticed at first whilst driving from the airport to Makati?
-The scenery of Paraaque. It was not special, but it just felt right.

How did you like Makati?

-Not that much. Besides, some say Makati is a fake anyways.

What do you remember about the cab trip from airport to residence?
-Youngsters playing basketball. Barbecue vendors.

Did you notice some sort of poverty?

-I would lie if I say I had not seen it, but I was not sure how to feel about it. Im not even sure now. My opinions evolve and dismantle like dust on the roads of Metro Manila.

What did you like the most?

-Barangay San Antonio close to the Fire Station along Kamagong Street. Manila Bay.

What were the trademarks of that area?

-A simple Filipino restaurant with great Tapsilog. The laundry shops, the videoke bars.

How do you like to be called Joe?

-It is okay but tiring. Now I am telling correcting everybody that my name is George.

-Did you get sick in the first days?

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Just the usual: Manilitis Tropicalis (Better than Dengue though). The moist heat just kills a thousand times (and a million raindrops more?) if youre not used to the climate.

But what do you really feel here?

-A sense of illusionary belonging.

Kumusta
It is raining, and I immediately feel the pleasant smell of the downpour making love to the earth. On the streets, perpetual carnival of souls and spices. The traveler arrived in time of tropical blossom, seeing the Pearl of the Orient in grandeur and a near-derelict, yet strangely appealing aura. Neither him, nor the place understand themselves; purpose and direction unknown. And when these dreams are not the end, reality awakes and steps in. Oh Manila! - Daughter of East and West! Or rather a cold, mutated hybrid, I hear you, skeptic. I decided to find it out for myself (and maybe others), and pursued to follow many roads, to see it (the city, the feelings the everything and nothing) for myself (through the eyes of an unbiased observer, or so I thought), and to watch it, work it, live it, save it. Getting baked in the sizzling sun, washed up by rain, caught up in a baptism of fire again, flames of the sun and waves of the water close to Manila Bay. And then, all of a sudden the drops from out of nowhere, again! Tropical Tristesse, or as Nick Joaquin would put it: Tropical Gothic. Oh Manila, I want to come back to Manila. Simply no place like Manila please let me coming home. Time for a trip, dreamer, said the inner voice, play some urban melody for me and you. I followed the call and this is what happened on this day and during all the other days. Manila made me an object of its will: I walked around, I took the bus, the people helped me - but in the end, the wings did let me go. There were cabs, dozens of them. Jeepneys too, and not to mention tricycles, the three-wheeled chariots of the Filipino roads. What else, you might ask, curious reader? Maybe I can paint the scene a bit in detail; a colorful sketch of flying vehicles, overseeing the city of men with the view of a grayish panorama. They are flying alongside the red sky just like a fleet of aswangs. Spreading voiceless dust to the barangay. Or just observing the tropical phantasmagoria holding you tightly. Metro Manila bears ubiquitous elements of surprise which could get a hold of you almost everywhere. A food court at a street corner, a 7/11 store in a remote quarter of Quezon City and many other corners might be the places where surreal events and settings will pop out and make you a part of it. Sure, this is a trademark of almost all big cities, and if you are in a region which appeals to you because of its exotic flavor, well, it could be not that surprising. I concur. But only a few places are truly surreal in the sense of a juxtaposition of two more or less distant
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realities. Images influence the ways we think, and if they manage to cause a poetic arousal, they have been productive. This is the story of my images.

Halo Halo
Sometimes, I am looking at the chatty cab driver, the waitress at the Chinese restaurant or the underground indie hipster from Cubao and they are just mere expressions of this structural mega-force which calls itself National Capital Region. If God was a Magical Realist, then Metro Manila would have been both Eden and Babylon; yet with a distinct tropical touch, not fully devoid of virtue, and not entirely stricken with vice. It is this feeling you manage to grasp when you read Jose Rizal or F Sionel Jose, whose pens could have easily sketched One Hundred Years of Solitude in a typical Filipino setting. It is this feeling of melancholy you get by immersing into the deep and moving stories family or saints or simple tales of the natives, which linger behind the omnipresent and persistent smiles and laughter. It is also the bitter aftertaste of all kinds of periods for the present generations. A topography of saints and sinners, a map of endless movements. Oh Rain it starts and stops and starts and stops and starts again. Even when the torrent is coming down, the traditional ways persist. I am catching a tricycle and look forward to going downtown, but it is not possible since I happen to be in midst of a funeral procession. In front: a black limousine, followed by a bunch of jeepneys. Hired by friends and relatives of the dead, they stroll along the road, heavy yet colorful. I see people smiling, and laughing. Phil Collins roars out of the window. Life is good

Suburbia
and when you stand on top of a tower, or a condominium (a resident complex), or when you happen to enjoy a barbecue on a balcony somewhere in Makati alternatively a rooftop - one of most popular settings for some ftes among the nouveau riches of Manila or the various expats in the city - then you see it: The tree of smoke, or the cloudy pillar, above the metropolis, its dusty wings spreading in patterns of nets, a gigantic bell jar. Sixteen town-districts make up this Queen City of the Pacific, all meeting and dissolving via endless highways, skyways, routes and boulevards. Of course Im not able to see them all, its just a fantasy. Looking over those Makati boulevards, where the streets have many names, and where certain things go by the name of whatever you are willing and prepared to call them. What to think and what to say (or what to fear?) when you immerse yourself into that vastness which some tongues would (still) call a Third World Hellhole?
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 a hell of overpopulation, poverty, dirt, noise, alienation, bad governance and corruption? Personally, just to make sure that all the accusations are tied up in a fair manner, I would like to add up other bad vibes of a 21st century urban nightmare they are however more stereotypical of so-called Western centers - such as plain superficiality, hyper-individualism and a certain belief in the superiority of money. The worst of both worlds might marry and create a truly bizarre place. Manila is far from being Hongkong or Singapore, it is not Bangkok or Jakarta either. Not to mention the happy-go-lucky Vietnamese twins Hanoi and Ho-Chi-Minh City. Its Manila, lo-fi and simple. It is the town that used to be one of the most beautiful places in Asia, a beauty which might still be there, if it were not for an unfortunate combination of events some of them, accidental, some of them - well, not really. The casual visitor may be surprised by the different neighborhoods, and the spatial connections between the different worlds of Manila. When rocket-capitalism meets squatter areas, dimensions are broken; creating an oddly perverted ThirdWorld-Remix (fellow liberals, I beg pardon for the epithet)of a juxtaposed place Here, gated communities and slums, skyscrapers and concrete jungle become the flesh and bones, only to be torn apart by connectors which can be both movable (taxis) or permanent (the malls and the monuments). Indeed, pockets of Manila are like this loud, exhausting - or at least that was how I felt it. Sometimes it was just too much a human instinct, a human drive to recognize the obvious. No pretense, no shame to admit what seems so obvious. Do you get used to it? That is the secret question whose answer defines who you are in Manila, or how you feel about it. Or any other place actually. Focusing on the mud will lead you down the road of ignorance and disgust, and you miss all the good parts. Because there are truly illuminating corners everywhere. It all starts in the head. One of the most intriguing sides of Metro Manila is its subconscious connection to the brothers in America. Public buildings in a Greco-Roman style transfer the visitor to Washington D.C. (and further back in time to good ole Rome or Athens) heritage of the former colonial power. Fast-Food outlets and gigantic malls are other elements of a culture build up on largesse. Some accounts of journalists likened Manilas suburban areas such as Bel Air or Alabang to residential districts such as Beverly Hills or some other parts of Los Angeles. Streets, squares, bridges and highways are named after historic heavyweights (and scheming Machiavellians) Taft, Roosevelt, Ford and many others. Ironically, the presence of the Americans was limited to the usual colonial institutions: enclaves, clubs and barracks. Intermingling was not seen with delight, yet escapades of the one or the other civil servant proved that unions were not discouraged per se.
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Arguably, the Americans have brought more to the Philippines than the oblique Spaniards. Those minions of the rigid Bourbons did not even bother to teach Filipinos Spanish, reigning distantly, keeping the language for themselves - afraid of potentially giving the natives a tool to unite. Oh Irony, that it happened exactly as the friars feared The language spoken here and there and everywhere around the Metro, today, is not always Tagalog but rather Taglish, a mix of the local language with the omnipresent English with an American touch. What a tribute to a nation which has been aiming at re-creating itself for more than 100 years. It is not only the NBA or Jollibee - a fast-food chain which are cultural institutions making an impact on Filipino society. America chose the Philippines to start with the experiment of identity export. Some Filipino lads are thus slightly confused who they actually are. And the prevalence of English does contribute a bit to the feeling of belonging to everywhere and nothing (NOTE: That might be the reason I feel at home here). It becomes evident when I, before ordering my Crunchy Chickenburger, look at the pretty face of a diners waitress who throws out some pretty cool Southern accent: -Hello Sirrrrr, welcome to KFCA great way to head into a warm, summers eve.

Magandang Gabi
Speaking in tongues I stroll around Ayala, accompanied by the flashing lights of huge placards, laser beams of traffic and the bee-like surrender of office workers after their 9-to-5 corporate delirium. They reload at Starbucks or Malcolm Burgers, and continue the endless ways back home, to family, sibling or lover. At one point, you want to know the story: Of the sales-executive who mourns and drools over a beer during Happy Hour. Of the two girls who act like they are sisters but who are nevertheless rivals in school and/or over a guy, listening to the latest Korean Pop songs (or any other pop bombshell dropping in the Filipino music scene). Maybe you just see somebody, and feel an invisible bond tragic, since only seldom we do follow. Not knowing the stories of the ones who appear interesting is one of the hardest things for a curious visitor to endure. The only way out is the daring move of chatting somebody up. But I guess it is better to leave those methods of inquiry to the rhythm of the night. I turn and twist hyped, energetic. That reminds me: Although it is not a typical setting for novels or movies, Manila happens to be the location of a literary acid trip, constructed and invented via the form of a Tesseract by Alex Garland, the author of The Beach (For those who are unfamiliar with the book, Leonardo Di Caprio played the male lead in this 2000
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movie about backpackers angst). What mind would think of the Bay as a suitable place for a thriller? A fitting idea, yes, but rather dirty or gonzo, not the classical set for a plot-twisted narrative. -The hero? -The underworld. -The time? -Certainly not linear. -The purpose? -Bending the readers mind. -The spirit? -Dirty, Red-Light, Friendly Manila. So strange, that it becomes a fetish for you. But boy, you dont need a book for that if you spend a few hours around Pasay, Ortigas or Marikina. I am not sure what it is that makes me feel like this but I am very able to imagine Manila to be the most human of all possible worlds. Here some bouncers are girly, and some girls are literally boys. It is the place of wide smiles and sad swan songs. It makes you feel though you might not be sure what. Or what shall I exclaim, bombing down the skyway with a cab driver, looking at a consumers paradise at 4:34 am, Saturday, suburbia empty, without people, without traffic. I feel like populating everything, even if it means I want the thing I do despise.

Filibusterismo Forneo
Not many tourists or visitors are aware of the rich history not only of the Philippines, but also Manila. Some of it: not light, but heavy. From the tumultuous inter-war years, when the city was flooded with adventurers of all sorts, to the post-war years in the 50s and 60s, there was a shadowy cloud hanging over some parts of the city. The port area was then largely controlled by corrupt politicians, greedy custom officials and raucous gangs. Smuggling and racketing were as common as prostitution and gambling. Shootouts occurred regularly. And those days were the birthmarks of the ugly Manila not really rebuilt after the devastating bombings during the Second World War. The beauty and harmony lied in the past. The Present welcomed the disruptive narratives of streets, characters and a whole political culture. And so, the campus of the University Santo Tomas, a leading university in the Philippines, served as an internment camp during the Japanese occupation where hundreds were killed and tortured. I am there now. Watching students sneak in the buildings, carrying their UT umbrellas. I got one as well. It starts to rain and I want to learn more about the history of that place. Across the road is a book shop. What is there, inside? It
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might come as a surprise for the reader if I write now, that during my reflections on war and history in the vicinities of UT, a young girl actually gets in the book store (I am meanwhile looking for a book about the Japanese occupation). She is curly, smiling, happy. I forget the mayhem, and focus. On her. Eyes burning with a gentle light; undeniable energy and compassion from within her core. Much better than to search frantically for atrocities. Instead of counting the shots and the pictures of guerillas, soldiers, GIs, and who knows what else. After all, it lies hidden, all in those pages.Pages which are not read often anymore, so it seems to me. But people still smile. Everywhere. I feel at home. Strange comparisons are the travelers comparative advantage, so I immediately conclude that only through such a joyful outlook, this people kept on thriving during the hardest of times. Gun battles in Tondo during the Huk Uprising, and the Guerilla War against the Japanese took lives and livelihoods. But the heart of the Filipino kept on beating. Just that the silhouettes of history pave a mark on the daily road. Of course the violent everyday fights for dignity continues to happen in some Manila districts until today. Yet this era of ours is shaped by economies of scale. The feeling appears to be losing its gravitas. Thats why I am struck each time by those smiles which save my heart, not knowing how much pain these friendly faces had actually endured. In one of those cruel jokes of history, it was Lady Imelda Marcos who in a sense of grandeur (alternatively: sucking up to the Filipino people) tried to renovate old parts of the town, and to artificially erase old shantytowns, filling up the empty space with cultural monuments. She paved the way for buildings which are still there. Tall, grey, lonely; where sunlight is manufactured in windowless rooms. Indeed, history in Manila is not pure moments of the past are not detached from the present because it is the current time which falsifies what happened before. Consciousness crumbles. The city presents itself as a layered labyrinth of spectres, sounds and worlds. At its worst, it comes close to a severe nausea which is dislocation. The visitor is dislocated by history since he cant integrate his impressions and observations into a coherent whole. But even in this maze, a specific form of structure steers the chaos. Manila confuses and causes headaches. There are islands of traditional historical sites such as the Walled City Intramuros, or the various churches which were built during the Spanish era, or even some architectonic remnants of the United States. But they dont make sense as a whole. The attempts to develop genuine colonial mimicry failed. Hence, what an imagination will the tourist develop? Sneaking into the Ayala Museum is one thing, looking at the Rizal monument another but is this it? It is an intuitive feeling, when you discover the city a little bit more. There is a historical moment, yes, but it floats in the dark, coming out only rarely. To survive
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in this matrix means to understand the units; from the churches and other houses of god in Quiapo, to the deaf witnesses of the Great War: The Manila American Cemetery in Taguig. It brings the visitor back in time, to a distant, violent, dramatic past. Time in Manila is an eternal limbo not a surprise. Sometimes I even wondered whether the city has an own concept or leitmotif. Youll see it whilst being stuck in heavy traffic in Quezon City, or chill out deluxe in a Starbucks somewhere all over the Metro. As many things in Manila, the local time is relative. It flies by, yet then zooms in and stands still for only seconds, pretending to be eternity. Infinitesimal moments become a vicious time loop. The time there is its the time it has always been.

The remarkable incident when Isidoro Gutierrez found his pan de sal
You know how it is. According to the greatest sage of our inner selves (or the archenemy of mankind called shrink), dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy. When I was sipping my ice-cold Pale Pilsen in the silver interior of an over-decorated nightclub somewhere in the dark corners of Makati, a memory faded in like a perfectly timed cut which could make even the greatest filmmaker envious. I remembered a dream I had a few hours ago. Of course, I assume it happened just the night and day before. But who knows, maybe Morpheus told me this story at another time in another place. Regardless of a potential confusion from my side, I am quite positive that I am there, listening to that band on the radio which goes by the name of The Dawn (a few days later a friend of mine would show me their bass guitar player who was coincidentally sitting across our table when we had dinner). The music is wavy, yet without the typical pathos 80s synthie-rock is usually exerting (happens to be popular in the Philippines). As if a magician is murmuring a bizarre keyword to his assistant, a chord slowly but surely triggers this intense memory. And I remember this bakery distinguishes itself from the other bread shops not because it is bigger or has a sophisticated range of options. It just seemsalive. Anyhow. My conservative attitude to all things culinary fixated my gustative nerves specifically to one form of Filipino dish. This sugary piece of heaven kicked out (fortunately) the ordinary tendency to enjoy potatoes, pasta and all kinds of salad. When I inquired about this lovely piece of bread (it will be my only love), the brown eyed lady behind the counter mentioned something about salt. I got confused, and only a few seconds later did I realize that the product in question was pan de sal, the greatest type of bread in the Hemisphere, wait, no, actually the world. So here I am - the newest acolyte of this simple food which every Filipino has almost tasted a zillion of times whilst the white guy stayed excluded from these delights, focusing on sauerkraut. And when I look around, after trying it for the first time, the street (Via Ruffino) transforms into a colorful world of sweet sounds. There are no cars any more, no noise. Instead, flying sticks, pandesals and other forms of bread occupy the lines of
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traffic. I start to fly, (surprised by the revelation that I am in possession of wings) trying to catch all those elements like a desperate Pacman with my biting, yearning teeth. Succeeding, the cheerful gluttony carries on. Nothing can just stop me now. Is there anything else, Sir? The lady of bread asks me. I want to kiss her a dozen times, but owing to my shy nature I abstain, though it is difficult. I just tell her Ill come later. I turn aroundand this temple of dancing carbohydrates vanishes. Not daring to look back I cross the street. Then it happens. A car hits me. Memory fades out. I wake up as a kid somewhere in Manila. My mother comes to me and asks me what I want to have for breakfast. I feel like rice, but Im too much of pandesal now. She smiles at me and says: I am very proud of you Isidoro. Little things finally matter to you.

Miranda
After a couple of hours (or days or weeks) full of thoughts and reflections, I have finally started developing an obsession with my quest for empiricism. Everything has to match. Every street corner, every boulevard it must be in line; connected to a feeling, an impulse. A self-fulfilling prophecy distinguishes the tourist from the inquirer or the viajero: The latter want to be on top of the mountain and oversee the valley. They want to grasp the details and integrate them into the big picture. But the pure tourist neither has the patience nor the outlook to dream his own world since he remains a bystander. He is pretending to see whereas he still remains blind. Surrounded by commercial darkness or pretentious interest, he or she fails to recognize the fine traces of the landscapes. In the wide world, they are lost. The price to pay for being a man in this city. And here in Manila, he/I do not know what it is, nor who lives in Mabini Street, that purple building, or in that alley in Ortigas. I am trying to find ways out, the purest application of the discovery concept. But the road often leads to nowhere. A taxi driver usually helps in that situation of confusion, yet his comparative advantage for the traveler isnt due to his orientation skills, but rather the cab poetry or the street-smart-sermons he delivers. Most people dislike or despise them, but without the army of those daring conquistadores of the road, Manila would be more than incomplete. Unacknowledged metropolitan rulers of the night, they deserve the journeymans respect. The same goes for all the security guards around the Metro. They might snap at you, look fierce and aggressive. Nevertheless, it is their job. Maybe this position isnt considered to be at the top of the social ladder, but what conclusions would the population draw if these stoic knights disappear, protecting Starbucks, condos and almost every other building by their mere presence? Maybe life would be better, less expenses. Yet I like to live
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in that illusion of safety. Those guards are witnesses of silent existentialism: absurd, erratic and yet part of the townscape. And each time I stop, here it goes again: The melody of Tagalog and all the other dialects I listen to, without even knowing what it is. They say that language is one of our hearts, a vessel carrying ourselves as Sionil Jose wrote. And indeed, no matter how much effort some Filipinos put in talking in English when a foreigner is around, my feeling is that there is a barrier. Only a few I meet seem to be 100% comfortable. The first dialect, the first words, the first sentences written it all matters. Language is a heart, and even there, the Filipino condition seems to be enduring, yet with glimpses of heart break.

Diaspora: A soliloquy. Or what a foreigner may think about the foreign lands in Manila
Yes, there might be a branch of Filipino Orientalism if you ask me. -Orienta-what? Edward Said, a Palestinian-American, who dealt with Western depictions of the Middle East, defined Orientalist thinking as an intellectual approach towards a culture which is in essence an authoritative attribution of descriptions, rules and judgments about this very culture. -Waitsois it condescending? The people who promote it are arrogant ignorant? Yes. Orientalism treats its objects in a dominating way; it develops and maintains authority, structuring our perceptions. A form of belittling. Maybe even like this text you read. Check out American portrayals of Filipinos as little brown brothers dont you wonder whether this mode of thinking is still prevalent, in the heads of those who treated the Filipinos as subordinate people for centuries, yet prided themselves of giving the natives a sound colonial education? -But wait. Isnt it actually not only about the Philippines, but like, urmm, Asia? The Western or European (American?) idea of Asia somehow exists. China or Japan infill bubbles of imaginations which we Westerners most likely develop in our childhood or teenage years. Exotic looking people (from the perspective of a white person exemplified by the American WASPs), gracious Buddhist temples, a mindset connected to a rather respectful and reserved behavior this is it how some of our perceptions might get revealed; the Asia - a mysterious East - which seems quite distant in reality, although it is close to us via other channels. Come on; no need to describe the various pop-cultural depictions of things Asian (Why do I need to write this word A-S-I-A all over again?). Even the Wu-Tang-Clan, a very socially conscious rap group from the US is nuts about Shaolin monks.
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-But wait (again). The Philippines are not that easily described. Not simply Asia. It is an island archipelago, 7107 little units. And Manila itself is a gigantic microcosm of all the diverse Filipino facets. Malay here, Chinese there, Spanish all over, and American will dot the I. Gotcha? Yet is there some sort of an Orientalism here, at the other end of the world? I dont want to follow this dogma for the sake of an intellectual discourse. Perceptions do matter and this country surely benefits and suffers from its depictions abroad. But Im not sure whether there is a balance. What would my fellow countrymen think (imagine?fantasize?) when the Philippines are mentioned in the newspapers or a casual conversation. I reckon it will be about tourism, yet also the less appealing infotainment bits, delivered by our over-globalized media about the country: prostitution and groups such as Abu Sayyaf meet the requirements for headlines. Child molesters, one of the most ridiculous guerilla outfit abbreviations ever (M.I.L.F. anyone?), poverty, natural disasters. -Is it actually known that most Filipinos are Catholics and that a substantial part of the population is Muslim? -That Filipino culture is not only Malay/Asian but also Pacific? Like, truly Pacific? -That both Spanish and Americans landed here and ruled? All those questions lead me to a last one, a rather direct, hopefully not offensive one - a crucial question: Are there inherent parts of Filipino culture which combine the original cultural substrate with the colonizers legacy? Are there an Asian reverence for authority and a Latin penchant for hypercriticism which are present in the Philippines? Bridging the narratives of colonizers and natives, in my heart I know that it isnt feasible to answer this suggestive proposition, one as blunt as the other. I am aware that there was this guy Marcos who was quite a guy and tried to run this model of leading a state which was not entirely democratic by standards of diverse democracies such as India or Germany. And Im aware that the (dangerous?) combination of a Catholic culture, sunny weather and the smell of something in the air may contribute to quite some re-interpretations of some commandments. But isnt it far from universal? The Philippines were one of the first Asian democracies, and throughout Manila I met enough devoted people free from any form of a shallow belief. And I dont want to do a count with my private eye. Iconoclasm is not the aim of a traveler, but sharp senses did not bother anyone. The tricky part is to learn how to use them. Because the world of Manila likes to wink at me through its own, special objects.

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Personally, I like to think about those questions in the supermarkets since Im not a friend of malls. And after seeing a huge cubicle along the skyway with the brilliant name Hypermarket, I also wondered why that prefix was chosen. It is one of those social microcosms which make you ask more questions without providing answers. Several episodes lighten up your day and create cinematic moments which blend perfectly with the setting of Manila that you want to be stuck forever. Such a blurring of time occurred for instance when, accompanied by the baseline of Bowies Under Pressure, I hallucinated meeting Cory Aquino in the grocery/fruit section (Btw: Mysterious and multifold is the way of the Kalamansi according to a friend of mine, the best fruit in the history of fruits). I am not sure what made me remember that moment: The song, the image of her or just the amalgam of all that stuff. After all, who cares about identity analysis (of a nation-culture-people) if you can eat delicious pineapple salad with coconut. Yours truly, postpones this dilemma for later. Meanwhile:

San Miguel Narciso

A cab driver was explaining to me the benefits and beauty of a business district right in the middle of the Metro (Yeah, Makati again). But when I dug deeper, he did come back to the righteousness of the old Manila Ermita, where a business district seems out of place like a neon flashlight in an accountants office. He is right, that melancholic sage who goes by the name of Virginio, alternatively Benji; just because I have rarely seen such a sight like a sunset at Roxas Boulevard along Manila Bay, when I was hypnotized by the slow escape of Helios from the alluring horizon. Or just fires color, re-igniting me to continue to stare at this sun. The writer Neal Stephenson described this scenery as marked with endless streaks of brilliant red. I tend to agree. For the Red can mean a universe if you lose yourself. Manila is not only about the uncertainties of the night. It is also about all the new beginnings during the day. I love this blazing sun much more than Greenbelt, Glorietta or the Mall of Asia. Not because they are temples of consumerism (or trademarks of the up-andgoing Filipino Middle Class), or because a foreigner finds himself slightly intimidated by a bunch of stranger-than-fiction-model-look-girls asking for name, address or phone number (more on the issue below), or because those malls simply dont cast a spell on me (but I do understand if others are enchanted). The shimmering sun is the real thing, it even feels like the real thing. Even the heat is not suffocating me anymore (sometimes the shade is still my savior though), embracing me instead. I could just blow a cloud to make the sky scream hello to Luzon and my Manila.

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Benji curses about a few kids acting as traffic enforcers. But were not yet in the old district. Cruising along the barangays and roads makes me a bit hungry. Time for food. I say bye, wish him luck, hope that the baptism of his grand-child will be a great occasion for his family, and jump out. Finally, an eatery along a dusty road somewhere in Manila (toxicity!), sometime in the afternoon. Vehicles are passing by. A young couple sits at the table next to me. The girl is a multitasker - texting, yet still talking to the young man who's likely to be her boyfriend. He wears a striped shirt and his eyes follow his girl like a gentle jaguar's observant ease before an attack. I can just see his neck. I wonder what they are talking about. They (especially the girl since she's the one who is seeing me) don't seem to care about my presence. And the waitresses, those girls who are giggling in the kitchen, neither. Not joking, not teasing. Not even glimpsing. Laughter - yes. Smiling and chit-chatting, they are not concerned by the arrival of a stranger. It's not that common here, the traveller might say. But I know that missing the feeling of being chatted up or considered special (long-nosed?) is just another form of a white man's (European?/American?) feeling of alleged superiority, a narcissistic core inherent to maybe the majority of those who dive in a place as beautiful as their most vivid dreams yet so different and unusual as their deep, hidden desires. I end up staring at them. Covert. Strange Times. The plan is to go deeper.

Sirena
If you happen to walk in a street of Ermita during daytime, you cant miss it. Have a look at the 2-or-3-stored buildings; at the floors on top. You might catch a glimpse on a sad Rapunzel who is trapped, forced to play princess for everybody who wants to feel her in this self-contained valley of tears. As soon as you see her though, the image pulls back. The street and air change. Forget any possible romanticism because the reality kicks in. The shady crooks and pimps baggage of every single larger city in the world approach you like flirtatious snakes with hearts of poison. The sad, bad wanderers of the night become easy prey for the cold raptors of the fleshs commerce. -Do you want a girl, Sir? I can get you girl! It seems that by the color of my skin (color of money?) I am considered a walking purse, eager to spend money on those rather carnal matters. The bid is not too offensive; when I say no or Salamat everything goes back to normal; I continue to walk, as if nothing happened. Yet a bitter feeling stays - why are we folks from the West so sought-after? Unfortunately, it seems that there must be some Americans, Europeans or others who are continuously on the look-out for the

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usual red light, so that other dudes seem to be an addition to the portfolio of docile clients. It works at least in the imagination of those managers of venal love. I will not solve the riddle of demand. But I will have met Megan, Sheng and Hailey. All the three of them are actually pretty and clever. They speak fluent English, have good manners and are not necessarily pushy. And they have things in common: They have one kid (or more), they hail from the provinces (Visayas or Mindanao) and whilst they play maneater in Manila, their families eagerly await the next money transfer. Am I in a position to judge this behaviour? Can I say whats appropriate and whats not? The state of mind alternates between difference and desire, oh it does. Intrigued a man might be by this slightly perverted form of chastity. -Are you happy? I ask the three. No one is. They admit it. But in a typical Filipino way they smile and I know that this time, this one second of shy simper might be even genuine.

La Noche Triste
Love is just one subject matter in the city. Another is history. And what Ive been thinking about one colonial power has to find its equivalent in another thought experiment. As the Spanish conquest began, the legacy of god, guns, gold and goons was to an extent already predetermined. Usually I would not consider myself an ardent fan of post-colonial thinking and the blame game on the West. But my purely subjective knowledge cant overestimate the meaning and overall legacy of the Hispanic period. Random people on the street, I meet them, I ask them for their names and I hear Latin sounds but even that, the arbitrary decision of the colonial elite to give Spanish last names to the natives, how bizarre! Yet thenmaybe it would have made sense, if I only knew. Im exhausted of shaking hands with the imaginary devil who is clutching the soul of a traveler in a foreign land in exchange for a glimpse of the true meaning of that soil I have found. Magellan at least had something to believe in. Trying to discover is not a very romantic idea if you constantly fight with yourself over the real meaning of whatever you absorb. Manila at its colonial height under the Spanish was described by an American journalist as a metropolis of equal rank with the greatest and most celebrated cities of the world. But this outpost of the Empire where sun never sank beyond the horizon, and which resembled colonial Mexico City on which it was modeled, represented both beauty and decay. Through its beautifully arranged city landscapes, Manila must have appeared like a jewel to the visitor, with the Walled City shielding the cathedrals, churches and boulevards from the outskirts. Yes. With the decay not far away. Not only did the Filipino population suffer from this segregation, because their shantytowns were bordering rivers and swamps. Nature
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attacked with floods and fires. And in all times, the laws of the powerful dictate a division of space, where the protected survive whereas the weak just perish. The cuspid thorns in the flesh have caused too many tragedies. At the eve of the 18th century Manila was not devoid of the decadence which befell Europe in the pre-revolutionary era. The Spanish folk primarily the noblemen, yet even the clergy - seemed to enjoy life to its fullest, ignoring the city and the men, when both needed seriousness and stability. Manilas Spanish elite seems to have been a bunch of factionalized groups, competing for both power and the privilege of sloth. In the Noli you could see it; this colony was a parallel universe of Bourbon Spain, a conservative zombie, the nation which according to F Sionil Jose nurtured Rizal yet also martyred him. Writing about the colonial society, the Trinidadian writer V.S. Naipaul claims that it required neither efficiency nor quality, making these attributes superfluous and undesirable. Instead, it oppressed and exploited, and the biggest impact of this exploitation was its benevolent guise. Maybe the friars have not been gnocidaires, and yes, they have brought faith. But what lies beneath the remains? The traveler cant sing to this crawling night without an appropriate delirium in his voice. Because no matter how hard you try, the phantoms of history will haunt you even in the sweetest dreams. And in the end, the fire will die out with nothing left to burn. A final, personal note: Each time I crossed Buendia around seven in the morning, I saw a quirky vendor of papaya and pineapple. He could be the ultimate Filipino, friendly, musical, dedicated - yet the astounding thing is the way he is greeting me; a friendly gibberish sounding like Spanish. (-Ang ingay mong kay sarap sa tenga?) If this is the legacy, this comic spectacle of linguist confusion, then I might feel relieved. But I wonder why I have not seen others. He is a loner in a world which left behind the conquistadors, a parselmouth digging the grave of the past. Every morning I looked at this guy who seems out of space and time and I cried about these higher forces which had take this man as a participant; albeit not in a reenactment of the lost grace, but rather presenting a silent nostalgia. A symbol of what might have been

Mi ltimo adios
and as if I was a character in a novel, aiming to find the soul of the Filipino people, or a rather mundane item such a delicious variant of adobo chicken, and of course to know myself better, the traveler imitated General MacArthur, who liked to wander on Manilas roads and to enjoy the lights and sounds and smells. I did not have the privilege to own a room at the Manila Hotel like this old American hero. In some ways though, we must have thought similar. This city which his ghost is staring at is doleful; at the same time hyperactive, both sweet and sour like
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a mango in ripe or green shape. In the end, I hope my walks and flights and my attitude have not permutated to become a typically Western craving for The Other, a wish not only to belong to it, but also actively longing for it, the Jaded Harlot; a strange, appealing bond. There is something about Manila what a peculiar mantra it is. No one told me about her before. The way the Metro lies, spread out between the sea and the plains of Pampanga and other provinces. Truly a beating heart, she makes some people come back often enough. A true Queen, indeed, to whom I mumble gentle vows of obedience. Unfortunately, regardless how much you try, as a traveler with conscience, you cant download history, customs or a mindset as a zipped file in your brain cortex. But you are able to indulge in food, music and other forms of sensual pleasures. Projecting consciousness on the streets of Ocampo, Osmea and Taft was as artificial as this essay you read, since both of them remain only a re-enactment of thoughts not deeds. Each time I stop at a vendors place, and eat the eenihow, or try the baked banana - do I act out of my free will, or is it a spin from somewhere else which prompts me to act? Dont we just become real men through our unconscious? I cant dream anything else now comparable to Maynila, my Manila. A symbol and a manifestation. The expression of a perpetual loss of innocence and a quest for new beginnings. Yeah, leaving Manila means bidding farewell to an experience which maybe wasnt the epitome of abundant life but an intense encounter with a form of existence similar and distinct from mine. Where will it end? I am afraid you cant mistake the words describing a city for the town itself. Manila is as all the other ones built up on fears and desires. It resembles a living organism which breathes and moves and sings no more yielding but a dream. In his last poem, Jose Rizal is describing the essential atmosphere of his country a sensuous mood, feeling aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep. Of course, this emotional enumeration is also the ultimate human experience in a city, or maybe just a curious travelers subjective impression (an entrance assigned only to me, closed now). To declare now, that those melodic, but sometime dissonant sounds are mirroring Manilas soul would surely seem like a pre-constructed device, a writers (Yours truly) trick, intended to eventually convince You, the reader, of a convergent element between a location and its literary environment or heritage. Quoting the great Filipino writer as a source of authority would underline this argument and bring the text to a climax. Yet are those sensations lust, sadness, nostalgia, delight, exotic odor - for real, an objective feature, even an incarnation of the City of Men? Or is it rather a pure concept, a waking dream which I am living, 24 hours long, which I have imagined before, which I have been witnessing for months and weeks, and which ends now with the burning sun

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vaporizing raindrops, and with the last stroke of my keyboard, after I am looking out the window, into the grey. Hold, youll be hold. Let me come undone, Manila. Even though I failed.

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