Flying in, most of Manila was hidden behind a gauzy screen of smog. Clearing immigration and customs took seconds. Entering a shopping mall in the Philippines is actually considerably harder than entering the Philippines itself; the malls do security screening.
The arrivals hall had a few rows of seats, and dozens of people sitting on the floor in little groups. Outside, a mob was looking for ways into the city. In the distance, a wizard with a clipboard was somehow holding open a little circle of order amid the chaos. His coupon taxis cost twice what a regular taxi does, which meant they were 440 pesos, or $12. Paying $6 to get away from Manila's airport immediately felt like a colossal bargain. I gave the driver the OK to take the toll road, and that meant stopping and paying $0.50 to a man sitting on a chair in the middle of a highway. He flicked slowly through a tin box of bills to collect the change, counted it twice, and then we sped off again.
I've never been to the Philippines, so staying in a decent mid-range hotel in Makati (the business district) seemed sensible. The rich country/poor country contrast in hotel check-in is sort of interesting. In rich countries, it's like this:
I went to Intramuros, the old walled city, and the closest thing Manila has to a tourist centre. This meant dealing with Manila's taxi drivers.
The first driver, when he heard the destination, made a series of odd excuses, and finally said his meter was broken. Broken meters are famously an epidemic here. The next, which I got from a shopping mall, had an honest driver. But as the drive went on, I sympathized with the first driver more and more. It was almost 11am, but driving meant rolling from one parking lot to another. I'd hoped to avoid rush hour by leaving late, but rush hour in Manila started in 1963 and will end when the world does. The radio was tuned to a morning show with a host who cackled unsettlingly after everything he said. Both the host and the ads switched constantly between Filipino and English: (Filipino) Aloe lotion! (Filipino) Philippines Nurses Association! (Filipino) Facebook! (peals of insane laughter)
A crowded, half-collapsed bus shelter had old writing on it: Repair of waiting shed compliments of Councilor so-and-so." A teenaged hawker made his way between the cars trying to sell feather dusters (possibly). We were passed continually by paper vendors on foot. One snagged a toy helicopter from a garbage pile as he walked, examined it for a few steps, and then let it drop again.
It always looks like it's impossible to change places like Manila, because there's nowhere to move anything; the city's a sliding puzzle with no missing piece. All the time, new slums are washing up against its edges. Every passenger in every jeepney probably wants someday to have a car of their own. And on the radio, they're laughing deliriously about the whole business.
I asked for Manila Cathedral. The driver heard "Immigration building". It was close enough. I got out there. Around it, doorway-sized businesses offered rapid IDs, with laminating, and also hot meal while you waited; and a street hawker had a sign identifying him as a notary public.
I went into Fort Santiago, saw the shrine to national hero Jose Rizal, and sat on a bench, wondering at how peaceful it all was. It was about an hour before I realized that this must mean I was supposed to have bought a ticket and found a booth.
The fort is adjacent to a golf course. You actually cross the edge of it to get to to the chapel of Our Lady of Guadalupe, a tiny stone building whose dedicated caretaker is starting a leaf fire against its outside wall. The golf course's posted rules state that "ancient buildings within the course" are "Integral Parts of the Course (not obstructions)". There's a restaurant of some kind; a security guard blows a whistle and waves me away from it.
Getting back to Makati was always going to be the interesting part of the day. Hailing a taxi on the street immediately attracts a ragged man who runs recklessly into the traffic to wave one over for me. The driver makes a face when he hears where I'm going and asks for a high fare. I try to picture myself getting out again and hailing another taxi and having another argument in order to save $3, and can't.
The problem is that this changes our footing. With the meter on, the driver's a driver. With it off, he's an entrepreneur, a prospector who's made a find. Development of additional revenue streams starts immediately. The girls around where I'm staying aren't clean, he says. He knows a clean girl, if I want. (Next time I come to Southeast Asia, I'm bringing a T-shirt that says, "Not A Sex Tourist".) No? Well, there's a really beautiful place every tourist should go -- travel time maybe an hour and a half. He could take me? No? And here he turned on the radio for a while and brooded.
Then he talked about his youth as an overseas worker in Iraq and Oman, about wages in Canada and the Philippines. He wanted to understand what made Canada rich. And then, am I married? Maybe I'm here looking for a nice Filipina girl? No? Well, what was I doing tonight? Sleeping? That will be so boring. And here he pulled into a gas station to pop the hood and poke at the engine for a while, and came back with his name and phone number written on a receipt. Listen: If you decide to go out tonight, just text me. I know good places. And I thought: Since that would probably end with me being drugged and led to an ATM anyway, maybe I can just buy the drugs now? I wouldn't mind turning what's left of this ride into a beautiful dream I can't quite remember.
Makati
Makati contains Manila's poshest business district. It is guarded by a mercenary army of security guards, raised from among the poor to keep the poor out of Makati.
There's a skyscraper construction spree going on, but this is the edge of Makati, and at the edges Makati dissolves into Manila. You can walk out the glass door of the hotel and turn right, and then you're ducking under the old clothesline that holds up an awning outside a three-walled cookshop in a ruined building and stepping around a dog, then walking on the road because the sidewalk has disappeared, then passing one of Makati's shotgun-caressing security guards, and then -- as long as you pass the security check-- you're inside a mall where a latte costs what a skilled workman makes in a day. The bulletin board in the coffee shop advertises the chain's charity work in Sri Lanka. Why Sri Lanka? Why not a block away, where dirt-smudged street children are mounting a raid on a high-rise's garbage pile -- running away up the street swinging bags of cans and bottles and laughing hysterically?
At Makati's heart, inevitably, is a complex of expensive shopping malls.
The arrivals hall had a few rows of seats, and dozens of people sitting on the floor in little groups. Outside, a mob was looking for ways into the city. In the distance, a wizard with a clipboard was somehow holding open a little circle of order amid the chaos. His coupon taxis cost twice what a regular taxi does, which meant they were 440 pesos, or $12. Paying $6 to get away from Manila's airport immediately felt like a colossal bargain. I gave the driver the OK to take the toll road, and that meant stopping and paying $0.50 to a man sitting on a chair in the middle of a highway. He flicked slowly through a tin box of bills to collect the change, counted it twice, and then we sped off again.
I've never been to the Philippines, so staying in a decent mid-range hotel in Makati (the business district) seemed sensible. The rich country/poor country contrast in hotel check-in is sort of interesting. In rich countries, it's like this:
You: I'd like to check in, please. My name is John Q. Hotelguest.In poor countries:
Them: Certainly, Mr. Hotelguest. Your room is number 834. Here is your key.
You: Good day.
Them: Good day to you, Mr. Hotelguest.
You: It's Commodore Hotelguest, actually.
You: I'd like to check in, please. My name is John Q. Hotelguest.Early the next morning, the streets were already full. There are crowded, tricked-out jeepneys burping back and forth, an otter-sized rat scaling a garbage mound, and a group of construction workers having a relay race. Two small children are asleep against a glass office tower. A vendor is opening coconuts with a machete, surrounded by friends and advisors. A dedicated security guard/doorman lets me into a tiny convenience store. When I leave again, he's slumped forward in a chair, resting his head against the garbage. I try to slip out quietly, but he wakes up and looks guilty.
Them: Oh, OK. (very long pause) I'll just need to locate your reservation (stares at computer). Johnny!
Johnny: Yes?
Them: Quest for the reservation of John Q. Hotelguest.
Johnny: (salutes)
Them: Please take a seat, Mr. Hotelguest. We'll call you back when we're ready for you to fill out a form. After that, I'll use a pocket calculator to show you how your bill works, and then, if all has gone well (crosses self), one of our legion of bellboys will wrest your luggage from you, take you to your room, and unnecessarily explain everything in it.
Bellboy (magniloquently): The minibar is in a cupboard.
Them: He may also recite a speech we wrote for him earlier about local dishes you may wish to try.
You: I am excited.
I went to Intramuros, the old walled city, and the closest thing Manila has to a tourist centre. This meant dealing with Manila's taxi drivers.
The first driver, when he heard the destination, made a series of odd excuses, and finally said his meter was broken. Broken meters are famously an epidemic here. The next, which I got from a shopping mall, had an honest driver. But as the drive went on, I sympathized with the first driver more and more. It was almost 11am, but driving meant rolling from one parking lot to another. I'd hoped to avoid rush hour by leaving late, but rush hour in Manila started in 1963 and will end when the world does. The radio was tuned to a morning show with a host who cackled unsettlingly after everything he said. Both the host and the ads switched constantly between Filipino and English: (Filipino) Aloe lotion! (Filipino) Philippines Nurses Association! (Filipino) Facebook! (peals of insane laughter)
A crowded, half-collapsed bus shelter had old writing on it: Repair of waiting shed compliments of Councilor so-and-so." A teenaged hawker made his way between the cars trying to sell feather dusters (possibly). We were passed continually by paper vendors on foot. One snagged a toy helicopter from a garbage pile as he walked, examined it for a few steps, and then let it drop again.
It always looks like it's impossible to change places like Manila, because there's nowhere to move anything; the city's a sliding puzzle with no missing piece. All the time, new slums are washing up against its edges. Every passenger in every jeepney probably wants someday to have a car of their own. And on the radio, they're laughing deliriously about the whole business.
I asked for Manila Cathedral. The driver heard "Immigration building". It was close enough. I got out there. Around it, doorway-sized businesses offered rapid IDs, with laminating, and also hot meal while you waited; and a street hawker had a sign identifying him as a notary public.
I went into Fort Santiago, saw the shrine to national hero Jose Rizal, and sat on a bench, wondering at how peaceful it all was. It was about an hour before I realized that this must mean I was supposed to have bought a ticket and found a booth.
The fort is adjacent to a golf course. You actually cross the edge of it to get to to the chapel of Our Lady of Guadalupe, a tiny stone building whose dedicated caretaker is starting a leaf fire against its outside wall. The golf course's posted rules state that "ancient buildings within the course" are "Integral Parts of the Course (not obstructions)". There's a restaurant of some kind; a security guard blows a whistle and waves me away from it.
Getting back to Makati was always going to be the interesting part of the day. Hailing a taxi on the street immediately attracts a ragged man who runs recklessly into the traffic to wave one over for me. The driver makes a face when he hears where I'm going and asks for a high fare. I try to picture myself getting out again and hailing another taxi and having another argument in order to save $3, and can't.
The problem is that this changes our footing. With the meter on, the driver's a driver. With it off, he's an entrepreneur, a prospector who's made a find. Development of additional revenue streams starts immediately. The girls around where I'm staying aren't clean, he says. He knows a clean girl, if I want. (Next time I come to Southeast Asia, I'm bringing a T-shirt that says, "Not A Sex Tourist".) No? Well, there's a really beautiful place every tourist should go -- travel time maybe an hour and a half. He could take me? No? And here he turned on the radio for a while and brooded.
Then he talked about his youth as an overseas worker in Iraq and Oman, about wages in Canada and the Philippines. He wanted to understand what made Canada rich. And then, am I married? Maybe I'm here looking for a nice Filipina girl? No? Well, what was I doing tonight? Sleeping? That will be so boring. And here he pulled into a gas station to pop the hood and poke at the engine for a while, and came back with his name and phone number written on a receipt. Listen: If you decide to go out tonight, just text me. I know good places. And I thought: Since that would probably end with me being drugged and led to an ATM anyway, maybe I can just buy the drugs now? I wouldn't mind turning what's left of this ride into a beautiful dream I can't quite remember.
Makati
Makati contains Manila's poshest business district. It is guarded by a mercenary army of security guards, raised from among the poor to keep the poor out of Makati.
There's a skyscraper construction spree going on, but this is the edge of Makati, and at the edges Makati dissolves into Manila. You can walk out the glass door of the hotel and turn right, and then you're ducking under the old clothesline that holds up an awning outside a three-walled cookshop in a ruined building and stepping around a dog, then walking on the road because the sidewalk has disappeared, then passing one of Makati's shotgun-caressing security guards, and then -- as long as you pass the security check-- you're inside a mall where a latte costs what a skilled workman makes in a day. The bulletin board in the coffee shop advertises the chain's charity work in Sri Lanka. Why Sri Lanka? Why not a block away, where dirt-smudged street children are mounting a raid on a high-rise's garbage pile -- running away up the street swinging bags of cans and bottles and laughing hysterically?
At Makati's heart, inevitably, is a complex of expensive shopping malls.
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| The most misleading picture of Manila it is possible to take. |
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| The second most misleading picture of Manila it is possible to take. |
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| Cockfighting on Philippines TV. Each bird has an owner, a handler, and a "gaffer". |
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| Jeepney at rest. |
