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Ever since I arrived in Manila I had difficulties to find my peace of mind. I have witnessed suffering beyond words in many countries ravaged by war. What I saw in Colombia, India, Nepal, the Sahel and in the Middle East bolstered my inner shield and I thought I had become immune against pain. Then Manila came and my self-protection fell into pieces.

Scores of young people filled with exhaustion sleeping under lavish buildings, a woman taking a shower from the rainwater falling from HSBC tower, a man with his small child squatting in a corner during the night resigned to his fate. They were present in every corner of this booming megacity – yet there was no conflict but peace and a busy daily life. I only needed to grab a taxi and retreat to my guarded, green and quiet oasis to stop seeing them. And it was behind my walls where their troubling images haunted me.

That’s when I decided to break out of my artificial and selfish comfort zone and to approach them. Ever since, I am not afraid anymore, and I have found peace of mind – the images now have faces and names, they are living persons. They know me and tell me their stories. We share deep moments and laughs over noodles or cold drinks. They live an unfair share of life, and yet there are sometimes easy solutions to bring them a glimpse of normality.

I felt the need to share this with the ones, who like me, share this uneasiness and do not know how to regain their inner happiness. I also want to reach out to the warmhearted residents of Metro Manila who appear to have become indifferent about the poverty pockets of their mega city.

The poor I met are people to be proud of. They are Pinoy, ready to progress if only they were given a chance.

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Esta es hoy mi invitación a los gigantes a que bajen al jardín y busquen una puerta de salida al otro lado del muro.
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The Nomad

Documentary / Novel / Travel

© El Nomada 2020. Website by LZLO.org
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In April 2018 Germany was once again declared the number 1 recycling country. Hundreds of thousands of people survive out of the recycling industry in the Philippines. Manila alone has whole quarters of recycling warehouses. The network is huge and scores of people survive thanks to it. Garbage costs money in the Philippines. The poorest live and eat thanks to this unofficial yet vital market of recycling. There are no figures and no official data. Scavengers don’t exist and their presence is a shame. By looking for survival they honor the country with the only large-scale green initiative of the Philippines.
The moms are happy about the windfall of fantasy of their children. Still, their situation did not change. Good English and excellent manners are not enough to escape poverty. First there is the need to overcome urgent needs. Before people start to eat in the slums they spend 25% of their income on water. People are thirsty before becoming hungry. In the slums, access to water is controlled by a few. Improvised, illegal pipes hang leaking at head level in the narrow alleys. In the absence of a formal network, water becomes an expensive commodity. On my way home the huge ornamental water jets under the metro appeared in front of my eyes. I had never noticed them before. By the way, the water smelled of chlorine.
From all the destitute people I have met in Manila, he was perhaps the most forgotten of all. Not having identity papers, he and his family simply do not exist. He installed his shanty over a garbage dump awaiting the next eviction which usually happens over night. Every now and then, the police takes him to jail and he has to fight his way out since there are no charges against him. Yet, he spends weeks behind bars before eventually getting released. He has no access to water and his food amounts to the scraps found in the garbage. And still, this tiny kitten looks for safety under his feet, terrified of my presence.
That traffic is a hopeless issue in Manila is no news. This is maybe why I like so much to slide on the rails. The railway of Manila is a universe; a poor universe. The workers of Manila use the railway to commute to the wealthier parts of the city. The rail is the artery and lung where to walk and graze animals, sitt to catch some fresh air or play kites. It is a huge playground when the threat of the train is not there. It is also a meeting point and a community toilet. For the lack of budget, the dilapidated PNR path becomes shorter and shorter every year. Rich people never step inside. Workers depend heavily on it but more and more they use buses since the PNR schedule is limited and the wagons shake too dangerously. The people living around the railway are full rights citizens of an absent State with which they have a weak relationship.
I had brought some cloth and toys with me. I never expected to have such an impact in the existence of those children. Coming out of their daily question about whether they would get a meal or not, they found themselves in an outer world. They became the super heroes of their time. They could overcome the trauma of their dead father and their empty plate. The whole universe was a magic place where nothing could possibly go wrong. They did not feel hungry or orphaned any longer. It lasted for an eternal minute.
This dramatic image came to me in the middle of the narrow alleys. Behind, there was a terrible story of medical negligence and rural poverty. I found a donor for a wheelchair. The silent feeling of love of this child for his dad spoke mountains. In rich neighborhoods several maids, drivers, and the best doctors available would nurture him day after day. I realized how the rich of Manila, by shielding their comfort zone lose the profound bond of humanity that comes from the effort of taking care of daily chores and unwanted tasks. Expats get used to the same life while finding excuses in helping people. Expats are supposed to be philanthropic agents.
Her family left home in rural Philippines years ago. She does not mention typhoons, volcano eruptions or earthquakes. The only thing she remembers is her parents not having a land to plow, not having food for days on end. In Manila she can eat once a day. Splitting her ration she can eat three times a day. Splitting rations is a common thing in this slum. It tricks hunger and keeps people going. Before 2016, with drugs, people would stand the hunger and do double shifts to be capable of meeting ends. Now many are dead or in prison. Drugs are no more an option. They feel hungry more often and they cannot work as much. However, they are alive and free and this is important. Once you are too old, you can simply lie down and live of others help while waiting for your days to be over. Once the stigma of the drugs is gone, there is only poverty with its widows and orphans left.
This young woman worked long hours sliding with passengers to bring up her child. Slide driver and mother at once, she was the security of her baby while ensuring her daily food and leaving some astray seconds to dream of another world. She can only hope that her child will not fall ill. Every incident can destabilise the balance of survival towards emergency and hunger. Missing work is not an option for this woman. Long sleep hours or safe walls for her and her child are a non-existent dream.
Every centimeter in a slum counts. Built on Government land, these are illegal settlements by people who often do not even exist in official records. By the time they eventually start to exist in records, houses have popped up in every corner without any formal planning and with basic needs that remain unaddressed. Goods enter the alleys by carts or on bare shoulders. People take turns to squeeze through the alleys. The role of laborers is vital to keep the whole economy of the place moving. By the time the goods make it to a tiny counter they spent hours on the backs of porters, improvised trolleys and unofficial train sliders. The next fancy supermarket is far and prices beyond anything people here can afford.
One day I was followed by a cloud of kids in the narrow alleys of a slum. Their parents being at work, they were playing on the streets. School in poor neighborhoods happens in two daily shifts. The lack of teachers and the lack of place due to expensive land and insufficient budgets for education keep children out of school most of the day. Invited in a shack, I was surrounded by more than ten children aged between just a few months up to thirteen years. The small ones fed on Nescafe which they drank avidly. I understood immediately that they were hungry, but it took me a while to understand that every child in the shack was an orphan.
I felt bad, guilty when I thought of the beauty of motherhood aura coming out of this image. There was everything in this young woman about nurturing and loving. Every pure thought comes to mind when one thinks of the innocence of a happy mother in harmony with her baby. This was her second child. She was twelve and an orphan. She complained of backache. If I would show other images, you would be taken aback by the expression of exhaustion in her face. Her mother, a widow, helped her with the baby while her own seven orphans were around and an eighth on the way.
Ma’am Clarita has an aura. She belongs to an indigenous group from the central Philippines but she hardly remembers her childhood there. She has been struggling for survival in Manila for ages. She is not young anymore but keeps on walking hours and hours to go and find help. We laugh helplessly sitting in her improvised shelter of discarded nightgowns and broken umbrellas. The smoke of her small hearth fills our eyes with tears. She is proud of her knowledge. “I have no water”, she says. “I have to use newspapers to go to the bathroom. But I take good care of reading them well before discarding!”
Culturally it is not well seen to show bad emotions. However, the least problem can make the balance slide towards collapse. In the last two years there have been thousands of violent deaths. Thousands of jobs were lost from one day to another. This was also the trend in previous administrations. Filipinos never raised their voice nor protested. Hunger is a deterrent to express your grief. It is a well- calculated weapon that brings silence and apathy. Hunger is the way of anesthesizing the poor.
1% of Filipinos are immensely rich. They have several domestic staff in their villas. Their children study in prestigious schools. They use luxury vans, drivers or even helicopters. Foreigners in Manila may have a less lavish life but they easily adapt to such comforts in this warm and polluted mega city. By thinking that they maintain the economy when hiring so many workers they feed a lie. Away from the walls of the rich, people are hungry and devoid of rights. Anesthesia makes you insensitive to pain by the means of drugs. Shabu made people survive while in despair. Walls are anesthesia against the despair of the poor.
Agencies know where to place their paradise advertisements. Maids paid 200$ in the best of cases are a commodity for the rich. Maids do every single chore. From cleaning to washing, shopping, nursing the elder and the pets and picking their poop before it reaches the ground. XXI century slavery is well documented in some countries. However, it is labeled as progress in the Philippines since those are national citizens. Maids are educated and speak English. They have no choice but to hold on to their low paid, free-day- less jobs. While initially for a poor person it might look like a fortune, these salaries are far from enough to jump from poverty to stability.
This is a trip through normal neighbourhoods of Manila. This is not about the poorest among the poor and the ones who do not exist. This is a story about the people who cross the city every day to go to their job, people who speak good English and have completed their schooling. This is not a story about the violent events in the country that are in every news channel since 2016. This is about the deep reasons on why the Asian miracle did not reach Philippines; about the reasons why people barely survive in a country with an annual growth of 7%. This is a reflection on how keeping 50% of the population under the poverty line, 25% in extreme poverty, can only be achieved by weakening the economy of a country and fading from the global market scene. This is about why any harsh Government decision meets impunity and silence.
Her capacity to meet ends against all odds is unbelievable. I went with her to the central market and bought a sack of garlic for her to sell. One day, I found out that she had been unable to sell the garlic. Her old mother had asthma and could not guard her children while she was selling on the streets. Afraid of the railway she would not dare to leave the children alone. Their last meal was the evening before. I wondered about the medicine for her mother. She new the drug well and someone borrowed her a nebulizer. She had no money for the medicine nevertheless. That day I spent little more than a dollar in Albuterol Sulphate. This is what it took to bring back the balance.
Esta es hoy mi invitación a los gigantes a que bajen al jardín y busquen una puerta de salida al otro lado del muro. She lives behind this gap. With 80$ a month she meets ends for six children and her old mother. She washes cloth for other people. She buys garlic and pepper that she packs in nice little bundles and sells them on the streets. She sells incense for the church and blue powder for cloth whitening. She does all kinds of odd jobs by the alleys. Her husband lives far away where he builds the house of a rich man. He gets paid 5$ a week. He sends this quantity every two weeks. Her children want to go to school and progress. They get their split ration of food two or even three times a day. The breakfast I brought that day was a big event.
Maria Almada, writer and photographer. Born in Lisbon in 1974. In 1998 she left to India on a scholarship. After two years as a Sanskrit student in a traditional vidyalaya in Benares she joined the International Committee of the Red Cross. Her six missions with the Organization in sequence with a freelance mission with UNHCR, expeditions in the high Himalaya and compulsive adventure traveling grew into a need to express her experience. She speaks eight languages that allow her to connect intimately to the human stories she comes across crosses on the way. She gets to the core of situations avoiding stereotypes. In 2016 she finished her first novel.