Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. — George Keats
To most tourists, Manila is a mere afterthought, a necessary inconvenience to catch connecting flights to the more alluring destinations elsewhere around the Philippines. If visitors permit themselves a stay, it’s only for a day, just enough for a quick dart to Intramuros or a glimpse of cosmopolitan BGC and Makati — token gestures, really, genuine interest lacking.
Manila is not easy to like at the outset. Even for those who swear by the city, it was not love at first sight. Visitors are baffled, not knowing exactly what to make of it or what to expect. Predominantly Catholic and more Hispanic than Asian, it is the peculiar one among its Islamic, Buddhist and Hindi counterparts. Not one to espouse its finer features, it does not put its best foot forward, doing itself no favors. It disappoints right from the first handshake. Initial impressions, formed as early as when visitors step into an airport with lesser merits than they’re used to or are exposed to the sight of shanties that line the street on the way to their accommodation, are difficult to overcome. The odds are stacked against it, with little chance of getting their affection.
Observers point out the obvious lack of landmarks — a Forbidden City, a Tower of London, or even a recognizable Merlion, if you will — that encapsulate what it is. But Manila is a place not typified by monuments. More than just an anthology of sights to behold, it begs to be experienced. To understand its complexities, one needs to get around, not stay confined in one sector, such as an Intramuros. Its story lies throughout the breadth of the capital, across its different municipalities and districts. The city reveals its true self only to those willing to put in the time and effort. And those who have given it a chance are pleasantly surprised.
Metro Manila is that unshaven dinner guest whose shirt isn’t pressed, a bit unrefined, and lacking in social graces. But once you get over his coarse exterior, you find him genuinely warm and engaging. And he stays behind to help you clean up when everyone else has gone home.
You would have encountered thousands of faces as you ventured around the city. Where do they come from? Where do they go? A quick glance and they disappear, each stepping out into their own lives in an endless possibility of imagined endings and outcomes.
So, where is the city’s heart?
It is in the stoic stance of old colonial structures, in the crude graffiti-stained walls, in the utter simplicity and joy of street food, in the incessant blaring of karaoke machines, and in the outstretched rough-skinned palms of blind beggars. Its heart is everywhere, beating in myriad rhythms — the rumble of tracks at the locomotive’s approach, the construction site’s heavy drilling, the blast of horns from impatient motorists, tolling church bells heralding the start of holy Mass — syncopated, the meter changing often, its tempo slowing down to a lento if not racing to a vivace. And when the city loses itself in its own throbbing pulse, it begins to dance. Its dance is complex, a bedlam of pirouettes, dips and struts: pedestrians waltz across the streets at will with total disregard for safety and consideration; self-obsessed models swagger the entire extent of ramps; cars and motorbikes fly at intersections long after the traffic light’s red eye has stared down vehicles to a halt; an aspiring cager glides in mid-air to the rim of a basket in a makeshift backstreet court. Manila is both a dancer and a percussionist.
Chaos is this city’s signature. Contrived and boring? Definitely not. The pulsating din is ever-constant as the city grapples to accommodate its diversity. Always threatening but never bursting at the seams, it contends with the aspirations of 15 million souls trying to establish their individual marks. It can never be anything else but what it is. To comprehend it is to embrace its uniqueness, accept it for what it is, and not compartmentalize it into comprehensible concepts and headings. Only then will Manila make sense. The worst disservice to afford Manila is to view it with cookie-cutter eyes and expect a Singapore, a Kyoto, or a Kuala Lumpur.
This is how you get to know a city — to drown in the abundance of its idiosyncrasies, to embrace the bad along with what is good. It is not enough to admire just her best features; one must take everything else: skinny legs, warts and all. Then maybe you will begin to love it.
This is my city. This is my home, beautiful in its own way, real and without pretensions, brimming with raw honesty, vibrant and fully alive. It is a city that bares its soul.