Recto, Manila, 3:00 PM

It’s not too often that I find myself freaked out.  Not that I got robbed at this infamous place, but because of the many things I found out about this seedy section of the capital city.

In a word: ammonia.

The long weekend, no thanks to the President herself, leaves me bored on the very first day.  Once again, I decided to commute to wherever the road will take me.  In this case, the train tracks.  After a lunch at some eatery at Katipunan, I decided to take to the LRT station and go to Recto.  After all, I have to buy a book for my sister back home.

The moment I left Recto Station, the rank smell of piss filled the air, so much that I just had to smoke.  As I walked along, the ammoniacal smell of urine grew stronger.  Then I came to the source: a woman was pissing right on the sidewalk like it was a normal thing.  As she stood up and walked away, you could still see trickles of piss falling from deep under her skirt.  Even the most perverted won’t go there.

As I was walking along asking vendors for book titles, I realized that I didn’t have the monopoly of questions at Recto.  Save for those kids tugging at my jeans asking for loose change - which I didn’t have - the enterprising cheaters and tricksters that populate this section of the Metropolis ask me to violate my honor in my face.

“Boss, resibo?”

“Boss, pagawa ka ng diploma?”

“Pards, transcript?  Mura lang.”

So I bought the book needed by my sister, and decided to walk around to see what these sidewalk bookstores have to offer.  Needless to say, I was extremely disappointed.  Maybe it’s because I don’t have patience, maybe because I’m in the wrong section of Recto, or maybe because this is Recto.  By the time I got to the infamous seedy bars and GROs who start hawking their… services, at 2:30 in the afternoon, I was entreated to “literature” that pass for “erotica.”  Right by military supply stores you would find all sorts of pornographic magazines and novellas that discuss everything from incest to sadomasochism.  Rags that talk about “love tunnels” and onomatopoeic transcriptions of primal coital screams.

Then, seeing it from the corner of my eye, an insane man was defecating near a pile of construction cement.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” I said.  Maybe saying it out loud sent the wrong message to a scantily-clad woman in a red tube top and an extremely abbreviated miniskirt, who asked me if I could take her to the nearby Sogo “for P500.”  In broad daylight.  Then she told me she needs the money for tuition.

That did it for me, as I walked far away really fast, huffing and puffing on the filter of my Philip Morris, knowing that maybe there’s no semblance of decency in Recto.  If there is, it’s very hard to come by.

It’s not too often I find myself disgusted by Metro Manila, knowing that I made the choice to stay here.  I’ve seen my own fair share of “dark underbellies” in this complex of 17 cities and municipalities over the course of three months: the motels and “dance clubs” of Pasay, the poverty of Commonwealth Avenue, the annoying traffic of Cubao, and the tasteless pomposity of Ortigas, Eastwood, and Makati.

I’ve always thought that whatever moronic report is broadcast on primetime news is merely fantasy.  Like murders, robberies, pickpockets, rapes, and the literal diploma factory that is the “University of Recto.”  I thought wrong.  There’s ammonia everywhere here: not only in the urine of old women and the feces of madmen, but also in the very souls of people who make a living out of whatever soul that there is in the bodies of the desperate.

And then you feel it stick to you.  I am a cog in the wheel of this abyss of skyscrapers and congested roads.  Every day - whether it’s work day or a day off, is a time for ammonia.

I stop at Shaw Boulevard Station at around 6:45 AM.  As I run along that sidewalk that is the theoretical administrative border between Mandaluyong and Pasig, I start to get really pissed off…

Who in the blue hell designed Ortigas Center?

I finally figured out why an “enterprising” taxi driver (driving a “Eulincoln” Nissan Sentra taxi, plate number TVU 227… e-mail me for the cellphone number) was able to legitimately hoodwink me out of P100 for a cab ride on a rainy Friday afternoon last week (from SM Megamall to my office at Tycoon Center).  One-way routes all over the place are designed for pissant taxi drivers to milk the wages out of poor writers like myself who do not know how to count change.

In my anger, I still have a draft of a strongly-worded letter to the local transport bureau to arrest and discipline this moron who offered me the services of a quack doctor for the sum of P500, and even took a nudge at the possibility of my fare justifying a replacement for his cheap-ass radio “made in China.”

I guess this is my own hazing to the many manloloko’s and pa-simple’s of all 17 cities and municipalities of Metro Manila.  I am sure that this nation’s capital is not short on thieves and hoodlums who plunder the pockets of the common man to get ahead in life.  I don’t need to swim along and across a certain polluted river to get close to some shining examples of the decay of Filipino society.

I’m sending that letter tomorrow.  Next up: another draft of a letter to be sent to the MetroStar Express to curb shoving in the MRT.

Running through my boardmate’s men’s magazines, I came across an issue that featured a classmate of mine back in elementary school.  I knew all about her going va-va-voom, but this was the first time I actually saw the onomatopoeia for myself.

This was the girl I developed a puppy crush on back in Grade V?  This was the girl who looked so cute with her half-frame glasses and blue cable-knit sweaters?

Make those exclamation points, emphasizing the urge to kick my own ass.  Being a meek, quiet, timid, wimpy, doormat (as a verb), non-expressive, I-talk-to-plants little nerd back then - pardon my self-deprecation - I would have had a supermodel-beauty queen girlfriend right now.

Oh well, this is not the time to wallow in self-loathing.  The year 1997 is ancient history: it was the last millennium, for crying out loud.  Nowadays, “puppy love” is obsolete, an archaic ritual now reserved for old women who fly from San Francisco, California just to meet Willie Revillame… OK, that’s “Papi love.”

*     *     *

I was supposed to buy my weekly Stored Value Pass, when I realized that the MRT doesn’t run on Easter Sunday.  So much for celebrating the resurrection of Christ with joy in our hearts and elation for the second coming of the Messiah.  I found myself riding a rickety old Sampaguita bus today.  Hey, at least it’s just ten bucks off my pocket.  Never mind that this bus, with all the energy of a hacking old man with tuberculosis, was plying EDSA.

I decided to walk to the “next bus stop,” which was supposed to be the one a few dozen feet behind me, when I saw the ABS-CBN compound.  I now realize that getting exclusive seats in “Wowowee” is easier than being a Pappie Boy.  You simply have to have the patience to buy at an ukay store and live at the following places in Cubao:

1. New York
2. Washington
3. Seattle
4. Maryland
5. Alabama
6. Albany
7. Minnesota
8. Pittsburgh
9. Miami
10. Illinois

As for me, a resident of Krus na Ligas, I could make an excuse that I live in some common place in America called “Holy Cross.”

Whenever I get to Quezon Avenue station, I am always greeted with the very unappealing giant poster of Chairman Bayani Fernando.  I’ve been in Manila for about a month to know that people have mixed opinions about BF: while he has largely succeeded in clearing Metro Manila’s roads of obstructions, his very authoritarian approach has not endeared him to the poor and the downtrodden.  I do agree with many who say that he’s not exactly the poster boy for his own slogan of “Metro Gwapo.”

Bayani Fernando is not exactly John Lloyd Cruz, if you get what I mean.

On my way to work a few days ago, the Wet and Dry Market at Philcoa was still a very busy place.  On my way home, the whole edifice was painted blue and pink, and no business was taking place.  Being the ever-so-curious former student journalist, I checked the place out and found an interesting quote by The Chairman.  I can’t remember what was actually written there, but if my memory serves me correctly:

Hindi ako puwedeng makiiyak sa mga mahihirap.  Kung ang aking sariling mata ay nabubulag ng luha para sa mga mahihirap, sino pa kaya ang aakay sa kanila? 

It was then that I realized how important Bayani Fernando is to Metro Manila.  My own version of the truth be told, he’s not.

*     *     * 

Bayani Fernando is the temporary solution to the permanent problem of poverty.  Like his giant posters, BF has become a larger-than-life figure that looms like a pink-and-blue pall of authority in all 17 cities and municipalities in Metro Manila.  He’s beyond being two initials, like Sonny Belmonte of Quezon City and Enteng Eusebio of Pasig City.

I’m reminded of Adolf Hitler whenever I see BF’s blown-up images: not because he’s a fascist (which he is, to a certain degree), but because he’s the ultimate public figure.  Jake Cuenca endorses Metathione, Nancy Castiglione endorses Lucida-DS, Robin Padilla endorses “Joaquin Bordado,” but Bayani Fernando is the endorsement of authority.

I’m reminded of a piece written by Patricia Evangelista where she calls BF “The Chairman.”  The term lends itself well: he’s like Mao Zedong, the main character of “Iron Chef,” everyone’s concept of the evil boss.  Chairman Fernando’s tarpaulin eyes watch over you: when BF says “Bawal Tumawid, Nakamamatay,” he banks on your inherent propensity to violate rules and erects giant pink fences to keep you alive from kaskasero Gasat Trans buses plying Commonwealth Avenue and Cubao Ilalim.  BF paints a pink line on the sidewalk, and stepping over that line to sell kakanin has drastic consequences for you.  BF has control over where you urinate: you do your business on a pink MMDA urinal on the sidewalk.

BF’s rather draconian revolution on the streets of the Metro has had him on the front lines of a figurative Holocaust of bad drivers, sidewalk vendors, and shirtless men.  To me, he is nothing more than an image.  Manila folk have no more need for BF if they start exercising some discipline.  BF exists because we equate a lack of discipline with a lack of money.  BF watches over us because we do not watch over ourselves.  What is to obey traffic laws, to sell wares on proper places, and to wear a shirt when you leave the house?  Bayani Fernando’s MMDA is there because we lack discipline.  We seem to “need” Bayani Fernando when, in fact, he’s just an accessory, a personification of our tragedy on the streets and on the sidewalks.

We do not need Bayani Fernando to rock the cradle.  There is no cradle.

Yesterday, me and a few friends went for a night out at Gateway.  For one, it’s Jamie’s birthday.  For two, me and Erik have literally been hustling Cheryl twice over to NAIA only to realize that her flight was scheduled for 1 AM; apparently, airports use a 24-hour notation.  For three, we all wished we were at the Incubus concert, but lo and behold, they came a few days ahead of payday.

Since it was a coffee session that ended up with five of us drinking three buckets of beer, I find that coffee is not exactly something I’d be drinking a lot of while I’m here.  If there’s any place built for the massive consumption of brewed coffee, it’s definitely my hometown of Baguio City.  Manila, in contrast, is a place built for the massive consumption of cold drinks.

My “optimism” and “perkiness” irritates Che a bit: I’m not the kind of person who would cheer someone up, whether it’s a missed flight, a second prostate, a third nipple, or the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.  I blame this all on energy drinks: Extra Joss, Sting, Cobra, Bacchus, V-On.  Not without side-effects, though: save for being a happy jackass, I threw up my lunch this afternoon.  I called up a friend, who said that I only have my happy sachets and bottles of “energy” to blame for hurling out a Crispy Chicken Burger and bringing me a step closer to a stomach ulcer.

“So what do you recommend?” I asked.

“Stay off the caffeine and drink some damn water,” he replied.  “Better yet, buy a sports drink.”

Freaking hell, I hate MiniStop.

As you may have already guessed, this entry is all about trains.  This entry runs on two beliefs:

1. That “enema” is a good metaphor for the Metro Rail Transit (MRT), and;
2. If a man makes a negative remark (even in passing) about the opposite sex, he is automatically a “sexist chauvinist pig.”

The MRT is the most convenient way for me to get anywhere: by “anywhere,” I mean stations between North Avenue and Shaw.  In a previous entry, I described the MRT as such:

The Metro Rail Transit, or what I call the mechanical enema of Manila’s public transport system, is meant for people who are already familiar with it.  The MRT is one fast piece of shit, but it’s still pretty much a piece of shit when it comes to passenger comfort and convenience.

Let’s start with Point #1.  Me and my new workmates were discussing the possibility of writing about enemas awhile back, then it hit me: I hit the nail right on the head when I described the MRT as “enema.”  The MRT was supposed to cleanse the congested bowels (metaphorically) of the Metro Manila transport system, but it effectively became the bowels (figuratively) of the Metro Manila transport system.  It’s mechanical enema: it’s hard going in, and it’s a bit hard going out.  Holding it in is different from expelling it.  To get in is torture: to get out is relief.

Not that I’ve had an enema before, but this feeling was explained very thoroughly and in graphic detail by my dad, who had an enema before his urologist examined his prostate.  No offense, Dad.

*     *     *

Which brings me to Point #2: any critique, constructive or otherwise, will be perceived of by a closed-minded feminist bitch (not beeyotch, not biatch, I definitely mean “bitch”) that I’m an enemy to womynkind.  What I observed is that a crowded cab in the MRT is not necessarily caused by the volume of passengers, but ladies cramming themselves into the rear passenger cabs.

The problem is rather obvious at this point: the front cabs of the MRT are designated for the elderly, children, and female passengers.  We male passengers ride at the back cabs.  An elementary school analogy would suffice: woman = front, man = back.  Now before you start wrongfully accusing me of being a deluded civil rights activist who demands equal opportunity for marginalized men, this is a simple issue of comfort.  The other day, I was crammed into the MRT (as usual) when this woman beside me started muttering about how crowded it was and why the men weren’t yielding their seat to her.

Like… yeah, right.  The back cabs of an MRT, my lady friends, are a man’s world.  This is where sexist and gay-sounding figures of speech like, “Man-to-man” and “It’s a man thing” apply.  Chivalry died with Launcelot and Guenevere.  Deal with it, and go ride out front.

“Chauvinist sexist pig?”  Well, oink to you too.

   First of all: it’s great to be back here in Baguio.

   Last night, before I left for Baguio, me and my friend Erik were having a couple of cold ones at Tomatokick in Maginhawa.  Over random discussions of life and work, he asked me about my Manila experience.

   I’m reminded of Scott Adams’ preface to his best-selling book, “The Dilbert Principle:” you can sum up just about everything you learn in your life in bullet-points.  While it’s not my first run around the block in Manila, it is my first time to live there independently and to go to unfamiliar-going-on-extremely-familiar places.  If anything, probinsyanos like myself would be confused in Manila, to the point that they put themselves in harm’s way.  So for this long-overdue X-List, I am listing down 10 things that a Manila first-timer should never, ever, do.

*     *     *

1.  Jaywalk.  While I agree that the MMDA (to some, Manila’s equivalent to the Gestapo) would put their blue-and-pink overpasses (reminiscent of Kotex and Modess) on the worst of places, pedestrian overpasses are your best friends, especially when it comes to Manila’s chaotic roadways.  Jaywalking is very tempting for people who want to save a few steps and a few minutes to get to bus stops and to MRT stations, but it’s not worth your life.  Accidents resulting from jaywalking are one of the leading causes of death in Metro Manila.

2.  Hail a cab.  There are only three good reasons to hail a taxi in Manila: 1) you can afford it; 2) you know your way around, and; 3) you carry heavy luggage.  Taxi fares in Manila are prohibitively expensive: my trip from the MiniStop across SM North EDSA to my boarding house in UP Diliman cost me P70.  There’s no way in hell I will pay that much to get from my house in Teachers’ Camp to as far away as Wangal, La Trinidad.  I qualified for all three good reasons to hail a taxi: I had enough money, I knew how to get from EDSA to UP, and I was carrying heavy luggage.  It’s not that Manila taxi drivers are dishonest, it’s just that they just know too many “shortcuts” that you’re better off taking a jeepney to wherever you’re going.

3.  Take shortcuts through malls.  In theory, malls are “shortcuts” to get somewhere: in my case, from my office in Ortigas Center, the theory is to cut through SM Megamall to get to Ortigas Station or cut through Shangri-La to get to Shaw Station.  This is a completely stupid idea: malls are designed to get you lost in a maze of stores, food courts, and kiosks until you buy something.  Only with the purchase of a Happy Meal, prepaid load, or a personalized shirt will the epiphany get to you that the shortcut is actually around the mall.

4.  Rely on the “kanto” system for directions.  A “kanto,” or a street corner, is one of the most confusing terms in the Manila lexicon.  To many, a kanto would be just your average street corner.  But take a look at a road map of Metro Manila and you’ll get my point: everything in Manila is a kanto.  When asking for directions, always ask for the nearest landmark, not the nearest kanto.  This landmark may be a store, a building, a McDonald’s, a 7-Eleven, or a police outpost.  I take this cue from Erik: “Ped Xing” and “Railroad Xing” is not a landmark, but a common street sign.

5.  Show your cellphone.  This is a constant reminder I take from my landlady and security guards.  I use a Nokia 6300, but as I have observed, almost every Manila resident would use a Nokia 3310.  The reason being is that you can never underestimate pickpockets who would rob you of your diamond-encrusted Swarokski crystal-studded underpants without you even knowing it.  The best thing to do is to secure your pocket, keep your earphones inside your shirt, and do texting in well-lighted areas where you’re extremely sure nobody will rob you blind.

6.  Ignore the disabled, the old, and the young who seek alms.  Charity and empathy is something I feel is lost in Manila.  Remember that the reason why many of us are here is to look for opportunities and for a better life, and the same is true for them.  Never mind that they are dirty, lice-infested, or are nuisances on the sidewalks.  You can’t blame The System everytime a pathetic scene like this greets you in the morning.  Even a peso of alms will get them a step into making it for one more day in this world.

7.  Pay the jeepney, tricycle, or bus driver P100 or more in the morning.  The phrase, “Barya lang po sa umaga,” is not a request: it is a demand.  Even at 6:30 AM, conductors and drivers refuse to break bills bigger than a P20.  I suggest that you keep a jar of coins for loose change whenever you need money for alms and fare.  Sometimes, tricycle drivers can be mightily annoyed with people who give them a P100 in the afternoon.  Besides, you don’t have to wait for change.

8.  Take the MRT.  The Metro Rail Transit, or what I call the mechanical enema of Manila’s public transport system, is meant for people who are already familiar with it.  The MRT is one fast piece of shit, but it’s still pretty much a piece of shit when it comes to passenger comfort and convenience.  Ladies who wish to take the MRT should go ahead and ride out on the front cabs, but men should be prepared for near-suffocation, sweaty underarms, and random shoving.  Here’s when you should get rid of your Arthurian sensibilities: if you really have to shove your way in, by all means do so.  But if you don’t, take the bus.  But if you’re new to Manila, you’re better off avoiding the MRT altogether.

9.  Take “malapit lang” seriously.  Manila is a time-space warp: “malayo” (far) and “malapit” (near) are studies in the arbitrariness of linguistic terms.  A rule of thumb is that if you can walk from any point “A” to any point “B” within seven minutes or a cigarette, then it is “malapit.”  “Malayo” will qualify for everything beyond that measurement.  This is why Philcoa is not “malapit” from UP Campus, why my office is not “malapit sa” SM Megamall, and why TriNoma, though just beside SM North, is “malayo” from the latter.

10.  Call Manila “Manila.”  Remember that the term “Manila” is a vernacular for probinsyano’s like myself who couldn’t care if we’re in Pasig or in Quezon City or in Caloocan or in Mandaluyong.  So be specific about where you are.

   Or if you’re like me, just call the Metro.

   It is week one of my life here in Manila.  I’m off to Baguio tonight to deliver a presentation on Monday, and I figure that there’s still time to squeeze some thoughts on my first week in this place.

   Manila has always been called the “land of dreams.”  To some degree, everyone here’s a Dick Whittington: thinking that the pavement is made out of gold, that life here is easy.  It hasn’t been easy for the week that I’ve been here, and I don’t think it will be any easier soon.  I’m an urban probinsyano from the North: the Cordilleran Ilocano who, for a time, believed that in this land of skyscrapers and the hustle-bustle of public transport is hope.  There is hope all right: hope for people like myself who are not as naïve as to come here thinking that opportunity is everywhere, if you just know where to look.

   It’s not that simple.  Surviving in Manila is all about looking: Manila is a land of opportunities, all right, but you have to look for them.  Manileños have a term for it: “diskarte.”  “Diskarte” is all about the kind of healthy, necessary paranoia necessary to survive even a day here.

   I can’t help but compare things to my commute in MRTs.  Push and shove: while I still ride in relative convenience in an MRT bright and early, I can’t do that at the crack of dusk in Shaw or in Ortigas.  I have to push, shove, and make every bit of “diskarte” to even board an MRT.  It’s the same thing with everywhere here: affordable places to eat, shortcuts to work, and taking the only the paid 30-minute break to eat, to smoke, and look out from your office window to stare out at this “land of opportunities.”

   Yes, in about 270 kilometers, two stopovers, and a bus ride, I would be over back in my comfort zone in Baguio reveling in a world without blue-and-pink pedestrian overpasses and the funny picture of Bayani Fernando gracing MRT foundations with his “That’s My Boy” pose.  Back to at least three days of being dependent on my parents for everything, not worrying about budgeting money or worrying about waking up bright and early.  Back to comfortable familiarity, to ordinariness, to everything that made 22 years of my life.

   But even that can’t last forever.  To use an old Hotdog song, I’ll keep coming back to Manila, no place in the world like Manila, a place which, at least for now, I have to call home.

   I feel a bit of Deleuze coming on.  It is at work everywhere (at least here in the Metro), functioning smoothly in North Station, at other stations in fits and starts.  It breathes, it heats, it eats.  It’s shit, and it really, really fucks.  What a mistake to have ever rode the MRT.

As if I had any choice: the most convenient way to go from Quezon City to any other place in the Metro Manila area is the Metro Rail Transit.  I have never - and by that I mean ever - rode a monstrosity like that back home.  Maybe my provincial sentimentalities are still with me: that women and old people always go first, and that you always yield to passengers, that you give room for people to breathe and to move around.  Not so in this Frankenstein monster that is the MRT: whether you like it or not, you just have to keep on shoving it.

One of the first things I did here was to buy a Stored Value Card.  My cousin says that it’s for the benefit of my own sanity and my wallet that I drop the extra hundred bucks to buy myself one.  I’m a very patient man when it comes to queues: I can stand there all day if I wanted to.  Back in college, I stood at the queue to the cashier for around three hours to pay three units worth of knowledge and miscellany that I still found justifiable back then.  I don’t know about Manila folk, though: as much as many of them understand the word “queue” in terms of fried bananas in skewers (banana cue) or a fashionably jologs gay term (”kwe-we,” pardon the localized onomatopoeia), but we live in a culture that has a word for the queue - pila - but don’t really understand the principle of it.

I’m quite appreciative of Japanese transport systems: at least they pay people to shove and push you into the train.  Here, it’s different: paying passengers shove and push you around as if it were the very fist of tardiness would descend upon you, any which way you choose.  And this, believe it or not, was 6:15 AM at Quezon Avenue.  Don’t ask me what’s up at 6:15 PM at Ortigas Station.

Do I mind being in a literal torture chamber of sweaty people?  Do I mind getting a wee bit paranoid that I might be groped by a gay dude?  Do I mind getting a wee bit paranoid that I might get robbed by a pa-simple train-riding pickpocket?  Or do I even mind getting extremely paranoid that gay pickpockets would rob me of my manhood and my personal belongings?

There are a lot more things to get paranoid about.  Like office cubicles, for example… but that’s for another Experiment.