Early Hours

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.