Exploring Manila’s Poorest Slum
The gut-wrenching conditions of the infamous “Happyland”
Manila is a pain in the ass.
It’s dusty, hot, littered, crowded, devastatingly poor and traffic is excruciating in every way. Despite this, Manila is the elite mecca of the Philippines and growing fast. Sky scrapers and beautiful malls serve as sanctuaries for an uprising bourgeois population. Something I’d yet to really see in the Philippines up until now.
Without shame, Bri and I took refuge in a large condominium located in Makati, a prominent neighborhood in the heart of the city. Our apartment was on the 30th floor, high enough to look over the cityscape all the way to the coastline. High enough to see the massive array of rusty tin roofing that blankets most of the population.
Despite the deterrents I mentioned, I was eager to come here because the urban realities of the Philippines fascinated me just as much as the beautiful beaches. I pleaded with Bri, and I promised a nice place with a pool in exchange for a week here during our travels.
I read the book Smaller and Smaller Circles by F.H. Batacan. It’s a fiction novel about two Catholic priests who consult the Federal Bureau in capturing the person responsible for the death of a dozen young boys in the slums of Manila. It’s an incredibly ominous book, and much of it is due to the dark and unsettling depiction of the slums that millions of Filipinos call home in Manila. These kids in the novel who get abducted — no older than twelve years old — become susceptible because they are the ones often trying to support their families in the slums. This is a reality even today. In many cases, these kids have to resort to scavenging through the landfills and trash piles, their lighter and nimble bodies making it easier to do so.
One of the more notable areas where this occurs is “Happyland,” a section of the Tondo slum in west Manila. The nickname originating from the Visayen word: “Hapilan”, which means “smelly garbage”. (The Guardian has a piece on this as well that’s pretty eye-opening.)
I wanted to see this up close. Maybe I think I’ll be a better person for it. I’ll have a perspective that many don’t, and my sense of gratitude will be enlightened. I don’t know, though. It all feels a bit self-serving. As if I’m trying to set myself up for future sanctimony. I’m not — at least, I don’t think I am— but I still struggle to know what exactly I’m looking for.
Nevertheless, I wake up early on a Tuesday morning to visit Tondo. Bri begrudgingly wishes me luck, knowing full well that I had left out some details surrounding where I plan to go.
After walking a few minutes away from our apartment complex, I’m clearly outside the bubble of Makati. I wave down a scooter taxi and show him a picture of a grandiose Church I found in the south end of the Tondo district. For forty tense minutes, we weave through every sliver available between honking cars, jeepneys, and semis — ducking under side mirrors and dodging the storefront canopies off the sidewalk. In my opinion, there are two types of people in this world: those who have ridden on a scooter in Southeast Asia and those who haven’t.
He dropped me off at the cathedral, and though it looked significant, it clearly wasn’t a spectacle. The guard even seemed confused when I was taking pictures. I smiled at him, to which he responded by pointing me to get out of the church grounds.
I had a general idea of where I wanted to go. You see, by this point, I probably spent a couple of hours zooming in and out of Google Maps. I generally do this, but it’s even more compelling in Manila. I look at all the tin roofs, and though they’re textured by different shades of rust — the borders of the Barangays are distinct from the rest. If you keep zooming in, you’ll be perplexed by the fact that people actually live in some of these areas. In one frame, you can see a neighborhood with modest houses, backyards, and sidewalks. Swipe once, and you’re sitting atop a thousand residents tucked in only 100 square meters of squalor sheds.
I walked a few blocks from the Church and found small gated entryways through cement walls surrounding the district I was searching for. Safe to assume this wasn’t an HOA effort. No, it looked more like a half-assed public development to contain whatever was on the inside rather than intruders from the outside.
I approached one of the gates and took a decisive turn into the neighborhood. My half-Asian/darker complexion can sometimes blend me in this situation, but my height is a giveaway. So I soldier through the head turns and deep stares by politely smiling and nodding my way through every moment of eye contact. I don’t receive the same playful welcome I did back on the tropical island of Cebu.
I get nervous.
These aren’t streets; these are hallways. I’m not walking past peoples homes, I’m walking through them. Residents extend their cover with tarps over electrical lines that weave through the alleyways, and there’s no real difference between sitting in their living room or the street. I can’t distinguish one home from the other. It’s as if everyone in the slum are roommates.
I walked by a working porcelain squatty toilet, to which I thought was promising, but then I picked up on the reality that a toilet is planted about every fifty meters around the slum — meaning hundreds of people share each one.
Mostly, I go unnoticed, but mainly because everyone is on their phones. Kids, parents, and grandparents sit in their shacks, watching YouTube videos or scrolling through Facebook. Many of them look like they haven’t moved from their horizontal position in hours. For some reason, this is even more discouraging. This specious luxury, what we use to escape our own mundane lives, takes on a whole new meaning in these conditions.
I’d read about this conundrum in the Philippines today. Smartphones and internet access are cheap and easily accessible, but many believe they fuel misinformation and population control. It was thought-provoking to see it here in these dusty crevices.
I took a handful of turns, hoping I’d find my way to the coastline. It was here that I felt I’d be able to see the debris collection washed up onshore, a scene I had so vividly built up in my head from Batacan’s Novel.
A few minutes later, I could finally take a breath. The sky was now open, the waterfront beside me, and the trash pile not as revolting as expected. I could hear laughter in the distance, that familiar jovial sound of children playing on a small basketball court. The stress from the confined maze I had just endured was now in the past. Even here, in one of the worst slums of Manila, I could still find that playful spirit I’ve come to admire most about the Philippines — basketball being at the root of it once more.
I spent some time playing with the kids; shooting around, showing off a couple dunks, playing some 2v2. As a basketball fan myself, moments like these have been some of my most cherished across all my travels.
I then said my goodbyes and moved on through the shoreline shacks. They weren’t as tightly packed as the houses inland but just as disheartening, and the tense feeling from before was creeping back in. I looked back and noticed some of the kids starting to follow me from the basketball court. It seemed playful initially, but then one of them put their hand out, asking me for money, triggering the rest to do the same. I know where this goes, and I don’t want it to happen here. I politely refused at first, but they became more insistent. I could no longer sneak by the tenants of the alleyways — I was now making a scene — and the last thing I wanted to do was make a scene.
I’m in a labyrinth, weaving through passageways, guessing my way at each turn. Word must be getting around because, at this point, I probably had thirty kids chasing after me. Every time I look behind me, they seem to be getting older, trying to coax me into turning back around, asking me to play more basketball, asking me to come back and “drink juice” with them. I no longer trusted any of them. That sucks when you can’t even trust the kids.
I found the gate and was finally out of the district. The busy street outside the walled slum acts almost as a neutral zone. I turned back and sternly said goodbye, offering one last high-five to each one to keep things high-spirited.
As I caught my breath, a police motorcycle noticed the commotion and pulled up beside me.
“Are you a tourist?” He asked.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
He nodded his head. And then he just, rode off.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
I wish I had more pictures to share, but I decided against bringing my camera and couldn’t get myself to pull my phone out too often. It felt strange to do so. Every time I’d try, I found myself filming someone minding their own business in their own home. It wasn’t exactly street photography.
With that said, it doesn’t always feel appropriate to be overly sympathetic. In my travels, I’ve seen some of the most joyous behavior in the poorest of places, and there certainly was some of that in Tondo.
I’ve gotten pretty introspective visiting poor places where the people there seem — in all honesty — happier than me. You know, the “paradox of choice” we face in the first world. Something I imagine every traveler comes to grips with on the backpacker trail. I first felt this way in the humble villages of Laos. I can distinctly remember this palpable jubilation as the children chased after me on my motorbike. The world was a simple yet beautiful place — untainted by the promise of commercial success.
I envied it.
On the other hand, Manila is a dichotomy made up of extravagant shopping centers and affluent condominiums that quite literally share a barrier with some of the poorest slums I’ve ever seen in my life. Even the grand cathedral, in the same frame, felt…strange.
It’s when these worlds are so physically close yet unattainable that I wonder what that does to the mental psyche.
Does a little boy from the Tondo ever venture out of his Barangay, walk a couple of kilometers, and sneak past the security guards at the opulent Mall of Asia? Does he ever walk around in his bare feet and observe the shining tile, the expansive halls, the luxury stores? Does he ever go to the food court, see the other kids feasting with their families, enjoying an eclectic assortment of dishes from the many restaurants? Does he watch them throw the leftovers into the bins, shining a new light to the actualities preceding the dumps he would later have to scavenge through?
Would it be better if he never knew this world existed?
I reflect back to the children in Laos again. I think about it…and think I’d rather be the boy in Tondo.
But I’m not sure.
