I see a lot
of interesting things in Manila; a lot of things that make me laugh because I
find them so ridiculous; things that make me raise my eyebrows in surprise, or
shake my head in disgust. There is a lot of sadness and hopelessness too, when
the brute force of the poverty and the desperation of some of the city’s people
confronts me. As difficult as it is for me not to stand out here, it sometimes
feels equally challenging for me to actively notice the people living with and
around me because I get caught up in the chaos of my day. When I am coming home
from work, usually around 4, it’s a peak hour, so there are crowds of people
elbowing through down the sidewalk. While people often look my way and
sometimes try to talk to me, we always all push on without much engagement. But
arriving at the office is a different story. At 7am, everything is still
relatively sleepy and quiet, and I can more fully feel the harsh fabric of the
streets. This morning, for instance, I clicked across the road in my heels with
my coffee and oversized bag, and encountered a man sitting in the middle of the
sidewalk fanning a fire he had built there of trash and palms and other things.
I stood next to him for a minute, and the two of us watched the flames burn
into the concrete, me with my collared shirt and sunglasses, him in his bare
feet, cut-off jeans and poorly rolled cigarette. Two women seated on the
sidewalk under a food stall watched me with narrow eyes and whispered to each
other. These things are probably always going on as I walk around Malate, but
at 7am is when they all seem to take shape and slow down so I can really
observe them. Like children. There are obviously always children around, but the
yawning emptiness of the morning is when I see them waking up from their sleep
on pieces of cardboard unfolded across the sidewalk, or crawling out from the
shelter of a pedicab or an umbrella. They sit sleepy and undisturbed by the
curb side, or sometimes in the middle of the road, bigger siblings holding onto
the smaller versions of themselves. The
women who watch over them crouch silently against buildings holding empty
plastic cups, wordlessly asking for coins.
In the
morning is also when I feel myself standing out the most. It’s the time of day
when I have the energy to wear heels, but not enough to go without holding a
latte like it was another accessory. It’s quiet and peaceful enough that I can
feel the burn of everyone staring at me, but there is still morning Manila
traffic forcing me to hustle awkwardly across the road while everyone watches
with incredulity. Tall, white, fancy – somehow important, but in the way that
also makes me sickeningly oblivious: this is the picture I’ve painted of myself
from the eyes of my onlookers. I have no idea if this how anyone actually
perceives me but their stares tell a multitude of stories, all of which cast me
as foreign and unrecognizable. And no one on the street that needs money
hesitates to go out of their way to ask me especially for it. Stupid, or rich
or full of sympathy and compassion. I must be at least one of these things. And
even though passing by begging women and children after just visiting an ATM
stings with a certain kind of privileged shame, I’ve only given away money one
time; to three women who helped me cross the street in the middle of a flood. I
came out of work with a short skirt and heels in the middle of a downpour, and
the road had become a river. The locals seemed slightly put-out, but they kept
on moving, generally unencumbered. I stood on the sidewalk switching my shoes
to flip-flops while someone held an umbrella over my head. Pedicabs rolled by,
their drivers imploring me to get in and just end my misery with a quick and
relatively cheap ride. But I only needed to get to a building across the
street, and sought the assistance of three women who grabbed onto me and helped
me tightrope my way across a thin wooden plank they were holding for
pedestrians, while standing waist deep in the water. They held out cups for
change, and I gave them coins; probably the equivalent of a few cents.
I recently
read and passed along an article about how giving money to children is one of
the worst things you can do as a Westerner in a foreign country; it propagates
systems of child trafficking, keeps children out of school, and disrupts
dynamics within families. Even giving gifts and food is not a good idea because
they sell them, or it compromises their health - better to take the time to
teach them some skill, or play with them. But some of the children I’ve met
don’t seem interested in playing with me. They seem interested in eating. I
wonder if articles like that are theoretically sound and probably on many levels
make incredibly good points about complicated issues; but are also a convenient
excuse to ignore the excruciating reality that we can’t change the situation of
these people. And moreover, we aren’t obligated to. That is probably one of the
most difficult things to face; that a lot of the time, no matter how many
reasons we have for not doing something, for not helping, for not acting, for
not giving what we have to make someone’s life easier (at least in the short
term), much of it boils down to the simple fact that we just don’t have to. We
don’t want to; it’s part of the social climate here for beggars to bother
foreigners; to rip them off, to steal from them. And, they’re everywhere, so
what’s the point in trying to help one when it means being swarmed by 100 more?
But that’s the only glimpse of their life we are usually offered – the one where
they are a nuisance and part of a larger social ill. That’s why I
simultaneously like the early morning, and also feel shamed by it, because it’s
when I see the big brother holding his baby sister while she slowly wakes up. A
malnourished woman still half-asleep against a brick wall breastfeeding her
small baby. The little girl petting the very thin stray cat while she cries.
The two boys who are arm-in-arm laughing and counting the coins they have. These
are the actual lives that they lead, and the ones that I can conveniently
accept or ignore as I choose.
Last week I
had some problem with my credit card, and couldn’t use it because it kept
getting declined. It was more frustrating than anything else, and how lucky for me that I also have an ATM card, and some cash, and another card for an Australian
account. It made me think about money more generally though; like the fact that
I feel I don’t have much of it. I am often very anxious that I am not making
any money as an intern here, especially when I realize how quickly I am running
out of what little savings I’ve been able to accumulate. I’ve worried about not
making enough money when I did have jobs, and becoming destitute when I didn’t.
But in the back of my mind, I have never actually had to worry about money, or
about actually being destitute. Because I have my parents and my family, and
it’s like a breath of relief when I think about the security that protects me,
and its overwhelming to try to feel thankful for it when you know you will most
likely never comprehend the feeling of actual desperation. Of lacking so much of what
is fundamental – clothes, food, water, a home, a bed, someone to love - and to
consider that your normal life. And there is a gap when you realize that no
matter how much you travel to a developing place, you will always have so much of everything, even when it
feels like you don’t – and it gives you the luxury to dismiss the people that
need.
