There is an intoxicating smell swirling around my head. Over the last few hours it grew from pleasant to nauseating. The source is a flower wreath on my head, given by a Chuukese woman as we were boarding the Guam bound plane. Air travel is a special occasion in Micronesia, plenty of women adorned their hair with these bright tropical flowers. In my dizzy state, everything seems confusing. There are too many checkpoints and passport controls for such a small island airport as Guam. I leave the sickly sweet wreath behind and we continue on to Manila.
Our tiny apartment in Makati seems cheap compared to the accommodations in Micronesia and Alaska. Makati is one of the upscale neighborhoods of the city. The diverse restaurants and busy walkable streets are a welcome change of pace. Areas of the city beyond walking distance are just as accessible, with taxis plentiful and inexpensive. At least for visitors like us. Spending several months traveling on the West Coast of the US and Canada makes most of the rest of the world seem like a bargain. Our taxi driver is eager to suggest his favorite destinations in the city and elsewhere on the island of Luzon, but is quick to point out that he cannot afford to actually live in the city. His commute is almost 2 hours each way.
The luxury high rises of the upscale neighborhoods are interweaved with slums with tightly arranged small structures of corrugated metal. I cannot bring myself to call them houses. The traffic is dense and careless. Taxis, cars, loudly painted busses, delivery guys on scooters and small motorbikes, people hauling bulk loads on manual carts. A collision left a motorcycle rider sitting bloodied on the side of the road. It barely registers as a distraction to the slow but relentless flow of people and goods.
The pedestrian walkways are no less dangerous. Large amounts of construction debris are often dumped randomly everywhere, deep holes are dug and left unmarked and unsecured, sometimes filled with trash, sometimes with dirty water. Walking and texting here is a very risky activity, but Manila is a thoroughly modern city, so of course locals do it anyway.
The touristy areas are filled with children beggars. It is clear that at least some of them were trafficked. Some roam the streets, others sit outside cafes and open doors to people coming in and out, hoping for a bit of money. The really small ones walk around with no pants and just urinate on the street when nature calls.
Meanwhile you are at the window seat in a pastry shop, enjoying an egg tart. The physical divide between extreme poverty and excess is sometimes as thin as a sheet of glass. On the other hand, entire city blocks of wealthy houses are surrounded by high walls and guards at every entry. What seems like a through street on a map turns out to be an impassable obstacle. I don’t recall this in any other city in the world, limited as my experience may be.
The metro is fairly clean and easy to use. Many of the tunnels connecting the stations to the outside world have beautiful murals on them. Usually florals, nothing too controversial.
There are several extensive shopping centers. If shopping is not for you, eating surely should be. You can find everything here. Traditional version of fried race, nasi goreng, a staple for breakfast or lunch. Fresh spring rolls known as lumpia in Chinatown, in a joint so basic looking, it seems to be trying a little too hard to appear authentic. A slice of classic Opera cake in a high end patisserie, where there is wait staff for wait staff and we are greeted in our simple hiking outfits with the same grace as the group of ladies dressed to the nines in designer clothes. Trendy aburi sushi served next to a juicy steak with a comforting side of mashed potatoes. Crispy pork belly. Iced coffee, again and again.
Our tiny apartment overlooks a verdant cemetery. If you wait long enough, it will no longer matter which side of the walled garden you’re sitting on.
