FROM above, Manila was a galaxy of pulsating veins—wide awake, working, bright in the wee hours of the morning while the moon creeping on the lower horizon looked nearer and more orange than Cebu’s. As the plane was about to land, the capital seemed romantic and vulnerable at four in the morning.
Such delusion that the metropolis was fragile disappeared the moment the taxi driver outside the airport teased “Taxi, ma’am, mura lang para sa inyo,” in his fraudulent baritone. More than encountering unfamiliar terrain, visiting Manila—which takes an hour by plane from Cebu—is more about confronting a language we are overly exposed to on TV and at school. It is a language we have learned and understood but have been rendered incompetent by its soft vowels. We elbowed one another to ask, “magkano po ba ang pamasahe,” only to stammer halfway and find someone uttering, “what’s the fare to Baclaran,” which sounded even more fake to my ears. “Saan tayo mag-adto,” “Pila ang pamasahe,” or “Nalilipong na ako sa kagutom,” filled the commutes from Baclaran to Tagaytay, from Greenbelt to Pasay, from Sta. Rosa to Calamba, Laguna.
To save on accommodations, we checked motel after motel. But some of the girls—whom I travelled with for the first time—could not stomach sleeping on a bed covered with a sheet-full of doubtful stains and hearing moans in the dead of the night while sharing a bed with a spying roach or two.
For us, Cebuanas, searching for the essence of the capital, Manila, means remembering the resonance of our Bisaya laughter more than remembering LRT and bus routes and street names. It means flyovers crisscrossing the horizon, long pedestrian overpasses, rush hour LRT rides, and apricot or candlelight-orange sunsets, which pedestrians never bother to admire. The people drifting on pedestrian flyovers were like slow shutter speeds of ghosts against a dying afternoon. It means receiving unwarranted advice and overlooked realities from strangers. A merienda vendor admonished me to be vigilant about my things. “Yong pera at camera mo, itago mong mabuti ang mga ’yan,” she advised upon learning I was from Cebu. A slipper vendor warned me to hide my cheap cell phone which I just tucked in my backpack’s side pocket.
A taxi driver informed “ang droga ay para lang sa walang pamilya.” They must think Cebu is a saint while Manila is a notorious criminal. “Ang mga tao sa Manila talamak. Nawawalan na sila ng tiwala sa kapwa tao,” said the taxi driver. An old woman at Divisoria, whom one of my companions helped with her heavy luggage, dismissed my friend with “Dito nalang,” and left without saying a superficial salamat.
Manila means remembering Cebu City—distrusting, misanthropic.
For the complete essay, check my travel blog: BWAB
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