Manila

There’s something about Metro Manila that I just can’t describe. Apart from being born there and spending my early years there, there’s something about the place that mesmerizes me. I’m pretty sure it’s not the traffic, nor is it the floods that come with the seasonal rains, and it’s definitely not the pollution. I guess the place has got a hold on me mainly because of the memories.

I am the eldest of four and when I was still the only child, me and my parents lived in an apartment in Caloocan near my father’s childhood home. Mostly I have vague memories of that time in the form of random images that flash briefly in my mind: the time I gamely danced—atop an old dump truck that served as a makeshift stage, to the delight of the crowd and the chagrin and embarrassment of my poor father-- to the tune of “Oh Rico Mambo” during the town fiesta; waking up early in the morning with my Tita Leila buying me a mugful of warm taho which I wolfed down for breakfast; having afternoon merienda of fishballs with my aunts and uncles; witnessing my neighbors chase an old pig, roast it, and sampling a piece of its hard, tough skin.

After my grandparents died, my aunts and uncles left their old home in Caloocan and relocated to Marikina. My family, on the other hand, moved to Meycauayan, Bulacan. I studied at a nearby private school. The family grew, and by that time I already had three siblings. I also have vague but weird memories of our stay in Meycauayan: we had a dog which I named Tootsie after the classic candy bar Tootsie Roll. However, Tootsie was not as sweet as his namesake and he had managed to bite one of my playmates and my Tita Leslie; one of my father’s pastimes was target shooting the numerous caterpillars that perched on our old jackfruit tree; I had other pets aside from Tootsie: a couple of pigeons and several guinea pigs; Banig (the former child star) was our neighbor, and I even remember waving to her one time and she smiled at me.

We would visit our aunts and uncles in Marikina during the weekends. During those visits, I remember having an immense hatred for siesta time. I couldn’t understand why, after lunch, we were forced to waste a whole afternoon sleeping when we could’ve played games or-- in my case-- read comic books or children’s books. I don’t even know why I was gullible enough to force myself into Morpheus’s arms against my will. I suspect it had something to do with the lie the grownups propagated: sleeping in the afternoon makes someone taller than average. I’m sure they only wanted us to take a nap to get a few hours’ rest from babysitting a bunch of rowdy kids. But here is where the irony comes in: now that I’m all grown up (but not tall, no thanks to all those afternoon naps I took) I miss the good old days back in Manila when I was curled up in my place on the sleeping mat or banig (no, not the former child star) and sleeping the afternoon away. Sometimes at work when I miss my afternoon cup of coffee, I doze off for a while and dream of me asleep in our old mat.

I was in Manila last week. I was home for the birthday of an aunt, and stayed there for five days. I must say a lot of things have changed all these years. Manila is now more crowded and much urbanized: skyscrapers and overpasses dot the landscape; trees and other greenery are getting scarce. Shanties, squatters, beggars, and street children hawking and peddling various merchandise-- from gumamela garlands to rags-- abound.

It’s amusing because my father is Tagalog and my mother-- who hails from Negros Occidental-- is Ilonggo. I was born in Manila but now I live in Cebu. I guess one could say I’m half Tagalog, half Ilonggo, technically Cebuano, but nonetheless all Filipino.

And at heart, always a Manileño.