First day in Manila

 Philippine Blog 06-01-23 Manila  (Ola Hostel)

In a corner of The Intramuros was this noble replica of Ho Chi Minh. 

I dipped down my head to get myself inside the shallow quarters of the jeepney. The people at the hostel told me I should board the one marked chow, which turned out to be Quiao. {https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBotip2MWtg } A bonanza of putrid blue smoke blasted into my lungs, conveniently lofted to nostril height by a nearby driver. Linear seats lined both sides. In front was an old man driving, and, I think, his grandson collecting fares. I announced my destination as “City Hall” (as I’d been instructed to say by the hostelites). The driver looked at me quizzically and, after some colloquy with his grandson, he faintly nodded. I wasn’t sure if he understood, but this was my first day in Manila and I had no definite destination. A filipino woman in my dorm room told me I must seek out The Intramuros, so that was my sort-of goal today. The other seats gradually filled up as we made our way up Taft Avenue. Sitting in the open-aired jeepney involved a forward-thrusting crouch that, I’m certain, William Howard Taft could not have managed.

It took only a few minutes of walking and riding in the city to convince me that Manila is the most infelicitous city I have ever visited. Zimbabwe was reputed to be the second poorest nation on earth when I visited there, and Harare evidenced the expected poverty; but it was a relative paradise compared to the Philippine capital. Fez in Morocco was frenetic but bucolic set against this place. The Long Island Expressway presents major obstacles to travel but Manila’s roads are psychotic. The only place that rivals hereabouts is Port au Prince, but even there the poverty and trash are mitigated by the relative lack of three thousand pound monsters prowling the avenues. 

In Manila every vehicle, jeepney, taxi, tuk tuk, bus, private vehicle is in a constant struggle for dominance, the lack of which leads to a very slow trip and damage to one’s self esteem. One drives the front and side bumpers to millimeters distance from the person in front and on the side. The barest opening must be exploited for the gain of a few meters. People walking are uniformly  identified as obstacles. A car leaving a driveway would no more stop for a passing pedestrian than try to drive in the Basig River. There are  quiet streets. The absence of traffic means an invitation to propel one’s self at whatever speed the vehicle can manage. And the smell of exhaust is suffocating. I really didn’t want to breathe once I left the Ola. 

That first day I managed to find the Intramuros (walled city). Now a tourist attraction it once formed the outer boundaries of the Spanish-controlled metropolis. There wasn’t much to see save for a few ancient cannons and a couple statues. What upset me was the golf course. In a city bereft of a good park (I learned later that there were a few parks in distant parts of the city) the best land inside the walls is devoted to golf. It’s hard not to draw conclusions about the nation and the metro area governance when you see the ordinary person barred from verdant swaths so that a few rich nincompoops can swing a nine iron. 

The ninety-degree heat encouraged me to make my sojourn around the city brief. I was still fatigued from the long journey so I headed back to my hostel. As is my custom I got lost. I was too prideful to hail a cab so I trekked onward in the direction I thought would lead me to my jeepney. I ended up on a long cul de sac that caused me to retrace my steps for a quarter mile. The sweat coursed down my tee shirt but I kept plowing ahead. I forebore from using Google maps (that would mean dipping into the data I’d purchased at my lodging), so I continued to be lost. The truth is that this has always been my strategy for learning about a city; Drop myself inside whatever conurbation interests me and try to find a way out without the kinds of aids that any sensible person would utilize. I luxuriated in the suffering I was…..suffering. At the same time a little voice whispered in my ear that at my age I could actually harm myself. But I kept slogging on. Every ten minutes or so a tuk tuk driver would importune me about providing  a lift. I refused every offer. “Is this the way to Taft?” I inquired of passersby. They all assured me that I was going the right way even as I doubted them. It just didn’t seem possible that I’d wandered so far from the central artery, Taft, that had been my yellow brick road only a couple hours before. I did find Taft, and I did find another jeepney. Communicating with this, more surly, operator wasn’t easy. After many attempts I got him to acknowledge my goal, O Campo Street. The fact that he didn’t tell me to offload until we were three blocks past my intersection was evidence that I had a ways to go before I could efficiently ply the streets of Manila.