Accidental Detour to Baclaran

I missed my stop. Mindless of my sudden but discreet realization, the bus continued to speed up as it reach the main highway. I’m in Manila all right, the other end, inside a bus bound for the south. I searched for a familiar spot.

And I reached Baclaran. Para!

I’ve been here before – during the last years of my college, shooting a documentary for a production class. It looked different though, more clean and organized. I can count the small wooden stalls selling cheap fares, the side streets are cemented and planted with small trees and the street children that we used to interview are nowhere to be found. Maybe because it’s midday and the sun, high on the sky, scorches the pavement.

Sajid was 13 years old when I met him. He looked like a typical boy who grew up on the streets – dark-skinned, thin and probably malnourished, in old ragged clothes and with a menacing look, the typical impression we have of people on the streets. Especially when in Baclaran.

And he is a Muslim; a follower of Islam, to be politically correct. For a Catholic city like Manila, the small Muslin settlement near Baclaran instills fear. After all, their brothers by faith were indirectly labeled as terrorists and rebels. Aren’t Muslims the people behind the LRT bombing on Rizal day years ago? Didn’t wanted posters bear the faces and names of their tribe?

But the Muslims in Baclaran are far from carrying guns. That is what I believe in anyway. They have either of two jobs: they set up stalls in Baclaran and sell pearl earrings, sunglasses, hats and pirated dvds while the others stray on the streets, calling passengers or asking for alms.

Sajid belongs to the latter. He is a barker.

We interviewed him, in all places, on the steps of Baclaran church. He didn’t mind, he told us. It was better than us going to their house across the street. It is safer here, he said. And without hesitation, he narrated his story.

He is in Baclaran during mornings and afternoons. He doesn’t attend school. He lives with three women: his grandmother, mother and younger sister. He used to live in Jolo and he would help his father, a fisherman, when he is not in school. Yes, he used to study. But he loved the sea more.

Poverty made his family move to Manila, a search for greener pastures in a city where a patch of grass seldom exists. His father decided to stay in Jolo with Sajid’s older brother, during the same time when soldiers started landing in the island. Here, Sajid makes a living out of calling passengers. Sometimes he earns 300 pesos a day; sometimes less than a hundred. He would often give “tips” to policemen. And when he does, he takes home almost one-fourth of his original sum.

He chose this job. He says shouting under the sun all day and getting decent money feels better than doing illegal jobs. He used to steal before, Sajid and his bony hands. An older man inspired him. And so he chose to earn decently in the only way he knows how – by being a barker.

My head boils from the heat and beads of sweat circle my face as I wait for an FX bound for Lawton. I had to walk a mile or so. There are now specified areas where public vehicles can stop and load passengers. In a way, the transport system has improved.

I wonder what happened to Sajid. Is he still a barker? Does he still stay under the sun all day? Is he even in Manila? Or has he finally returned to Jolo? How is he now? Is he still alive?

An older barker helped me get a ride. He patiently calls out choosy passengers (i.e. me) and opens the door for them. A maroon kolorum stopped in front of me. I went in. Cold brushed my face, I instantly felt relieved.

I wonder how children like him manage to bear the heat. I wonder what driving force pushes him to stay on the streets. I wonder why he can stomach the pollution and the rudeness of drivers and citizens who ride on vehicles he calls out yet wouldn’t even glance at him.

I wonder why.

As I’ve learned from one of our interviews, the issue on barkers touches many subjects: poor transport system, child labor, poverty. Barkers subsist because the country has no strict transport system. Vehicles can stop anywhere, anytime. We have no specified bus and jeepney stops like in other countries. We load and unload anywhere.

Sociologists blame the authorities. MMDA blames the passengers. And the passengers, who do they blame? No one. They don't care. They simply don't. No one can blame the barkers too. No one has any right to anyway. Unconsciously, we all add to their predicament, their suffering, their manner of living. We all add to the structure, maintaining the status quo to our advantage. After all, if someone is willing to hail a jeepney for you, would you resist?

There was an unexplainable longing in his eyes back then. Sajid and his dreams of returning to Jolo.

Right now, as the Adventure speeds away from Baclaran, I remembered our closing shot: Sajid's gaze following us as we ride a jeepney to Pasay. With the natural movement of the vehicle, we zoom out to Baclaran itself, Sajid standing on the highway, still calling passengers, still a barker.

All he can do is wait for the fish to bite his line, patiently waiting amid a gray sea of motored vehicles. This is his life for now; before he sails into the real sea of his dreams.