Manila Blues

A work colleague told me the other day that he was thankful he didn’t grow up in Manila. I asked him why even though I sort of knew what he meant to say. So he answered “kasi hindi masama ugali ko.” (Because I’m not mean). I knew it was a joke but I did agree somehow. Honestly speaking, it’s understandable that living in an environment like Manila, you do get a bit of a tough persona.

Maybe it’s because of the density of the population, the pollution, the competition, the dog-eat-dog atmosphere, the traffic, the ignorant tourists, the ignorant provincial people, the ignorant city rats, the snatchers, the prima donnas, the dirty old men, the pervs, the hustlers, the psychos, the mentally challenged, the beggars, the trying hard American accent of call centre agents, the social climber-milk tea addicted skinny bitches, the mountainous piles of garbage, the streets that smell like cat pee and rotten vegetables, the hot guys with ugly girlfriends, the "exotic" Filipinas with ugly fat foreigner boyfriends, the buses that seem like they’re in a grand prix, the trains that never fail  to suffocate, the banners of asshole politicians on every corner of the streets, the irresponsible unkempt, cigarette-smoking mother with scruffy children, the power-tripping mofos or that drunk guy that’s sitting beside you in the jeepney.

I’m not even done yet but I just thought that was enough explaining at the moment. Manila is like a hot pot of everything that sometimes you just don’t know what’s going on in front of you. It’s unbelievable how in a fracture of a few minutes, several scenarios occur at the same time right before you! The funny thing is, you find yourself standing there dumbfounded at the height of the commotion. Or in my case, i do that most of the time.

A man is stabbed three meters away from you; your first instinct is to run away for your life. No. You wouldn’t bother telling the police because you’d think “what if they’re accomplices?”.

A woman, helpless and seemed like in her mid thirties approaches you and asks you for help. She needed money for her fare back to some province. You get the nearest change within your bag pocket and hand her the change without even looking at her. She thanks you, you continue to walk away.

You see children outside of a posh coffee shop wet from the downpour of the rain as you sit on a comfy couch sipping an overpriced coffee. You stare at them but you’re not so sure about how you feel. Plus, the frappe is just too good to ignore. You've worked for that damned overpriced coffee and all you wanted was to enjoy the moment.

All that’s happening before you sometimes get you so confused that you tend to create your own space, your own little bubble. As long as nobody touches it, you’re good. I’ve done this technique a thousand times that it came to a point where I had to question myself, “am I really that insensitive?”. And then as easily as I could, I brush it all off. Like it was no big deal.

The big city has taught me to walk on my own direction and as much as possible not to mind the others. The fast paced atmosphere entraps the people in their own little world, doing their own little things that there are times when a certain “disturbance” can cause a whole fuss or maybe not even cause anything at all. I never noticed any of that. Up until I started to live somewhere else.