Old Folks

I’m beginning to like Singapore. In spite of all the shit I read on Temasek Review, I think the government takes care of its citizens. Sometimes, it can get a little blah, especially if you’re used to the hustle and bustle of Manila. Life on campus is quiet—you can, literally, hear a pin drop. The headlines in the newspapers are not newsworthy at all (I don’t understand why it’s a big deal that a boy will sell a dog he adopted), but I guess that’s just the Filipino in me—always looking for the next big scandal and expose.

Singapore’s good. Everything’s organized and people generally lead a good life. Except for the elderly.

I noticed that many cleaners are really old folks. The taxi driver who brought me to Changi at 4AM seemed like 60 years old. The McDo crew are old as well. My Singaporean friend N assured me that these people are working just so they can be independent of their kids. But still....

This guy cleans our apartment. I see him working, even during the sweltering afternoons. After work, he brings a monobloc chair on our second floor to just chill, take a nap, or just stare into space. Uncle, the space cadet.

Shifting Loyalties

I was really excited about going home. Really, I was. I’m proud to be who I am and where I came from. I’ve always talked about the Philippines with my classmates, about how, in spite of being the Third World hell hole it is, it’s the home of smart, artistic, and funny people. I looked forward to going home the minute I stepped on Singaporean soil. But when I did go home, I wished I didn’t instead.

Manila is a mess. The poverty I used to ignore gnawed at my insides. I use to not give a flying fuck about Filipinos obsessed with material possessions—the latest It bag, the perfect furniture, the hundred dollar heels. Now, they make me want to hurl many times over. In a country where more than half the population lives in poverty, I don’t understand why people have the gall to talk about their possessions. The Sunday showbiz talk shows—which used to be a staple of my weekends—seemed inane, petty, and a complete waste of air time. The tambays are an eyesore. And the skinny, naked kids these guys have produced makes my heart break.

My four and a half years at UP were spent in massive indoctrination—about how the government neglects us, and how poverty eats at our core. Back then, I didn’t care. My belief was, the country was good to me and my family, and I should be grateful for the opportunities it has given us. To say that, though, smacks of selfishness. It’s ironic that it was a foreign school that changed my beliefs, when the activists of UP have spent years shouting slogans to my face, but to no avail.

I dream about going back to Summit. I wanted to go back to the people whom I regard as my friends and family. I still do. I still feel envious when I see the gang’s party pics on Facebook. But the typhoon’s aftermath, and the recent news about Baguio, has left me feeling iffy.

After one week of Manila, I went back to Singapore a few hours before my class. I usually take the train from Changi, but this time, I decided to take the taxi instead. As we drive by the port and the Flier, I was very relieved. I’m glad to have another country. The other one has become a burden.

What a Homecoming

I arrived in Manila last September 26, wanting to spend my bday with my office drinking buddies. What I realized though was this was not going to be a typical birthday– there was a storm raging across Manila, and it was something the city has not seen before. Usually, it takes me about 2 hours to go to my place from the airport. This time, it took me and my mom 30 hours.

The next day, I realized just how bad the extent of the damage was. Half of Manila was submerged. Nobody was spared: rich, poor, people who lived in shanties, those who lived in mansions. Cars were submerged. Lives were lost. My cousin’s house is gone. “Everything is gone,” she told me. With a smirk, she said, “Even my neighbors’ BMW.” My friend’s house, which her parents built after years of hard work, was partially submerged, along with their three cars. Poor people have been evacuated, and are now begging in the streets.

One thing that we all re-learned is that possessions mean nothing. They do not define us, nor should be the end all and be all of our existence.

Manila will move on. It’s a city of survivors.