Another Offering of Sketchy Wiring

Today I’m sharing photographs of some particularly sketchy wiring found in Manila. The first photograph features a temporary wiring scheme inside an apartment building under remodel. If you look closely, you can see exposed connection points and bare bussing feeding the various circuit breakers, everything open to the touch.

This is entirely “ungood.” We are talking live 220-volt current here, the kind that you likely negotiate with only once.

The following two photographs are drive-by captures Desiree’s daughter provided me. She calls them “post overload.” In the photos, you’ll notice a pair of ladders extended into a rat’s nest of cables and wires, a dense, sometimes looping tangle that continues to grow.

Temporary Wiring

Post Overload

Post Overload

—Mitchell Hegman

My Encounter with the Filipino Medical System

For the last half-dozen years, I’ve battled recurring ear infections, unwelcome little visitors that know my address too well. The last time one showed up, about eight months ago, it brought along something extra: what is essentially athlete’s foot (a fungal infection) in my left ear. 

Welp, it appears that same fungal squatter has returned, setting up house in my left ear a few days ago. I had no choice but to seek out professional help, not something I wished to do while vacationing in a foreign land.

The Filipino health system is not like ours. It largely operates on a cash basis, a kind of pay-as-you-go arrangement where, in the case of more serious medical issues, the burden is often shared across an entire family.

Access, however, depends on where you are. Venture out into the provinces, and finding a doctor or meaningful care can become difficult, sometimes even unlikely. But here in Metro Manila, help is close at hand. In my case, it was as simple as dropping by a clinic tucked inside the mall at Market! Market!, alongside a game arcade and fast-food eateries.

The visit itself required about a half-hour wait and cost 1,000 pesos, roughly $16.66.

The prescription, which included an antibiotic, a painkiller, and anti-itch medication, came to 1,530.50 pesos, or about $25.50.

All told, the experience was efficient, accessible, and surprisingly affordable. I’m going to say that, in this instance, I’m deeply impressed.

My Filipino Prescriptions

—Mitchell Hegman

The Sketchy Side of Manila

The Philippines is still, as a whole, a developing country. And while the area where we are staying (Fort Bonifacio) is quite modern, affluent, and safe, a short drive through the city will deposit you in more dangerous places in Manila proper. You know, places tourists are told to avoid.

Naturally, we went there. Specifically, we went to Divisoria.

In Divisoria, history and commerce tangle together in a kind of permanent motion. The district began in the Spanish colonial era as a literal boundary, a “division” separating the walled city of Intramuros from the communities beyond, where Chinese merchants and local traders built thriving markets. Fed first by river trade and later by the rail lines converging at Tutuban Railway Station, Divisoria grew into a vast commercial engine, one that today draws immense crowds into its narrow streets and packed malls. Within that crush, the variety borders on the absurd: wedding gowns beside plastic pails, toys spilling into walkways, bolts of fabric stacked next to kitchenware and electronics. It is crowded, chaotic, and often overwhelming, yet beneath the noise runs a kind of rough efficiency, a place where bulk deals are struck, small businesses take root, and nearly anything imaginable can be found if you are willing to press into the tide.

Is it really dangerous?

Yes.

Desiree’s oldest daughter, Bianca (Bea), has been working near there for some time. One of her coworkers witnessed the kidnapping of two young girls there (a third escaped). Three other people she knows have had their cell phones snatched.

We went to Divisoria to buy curtains for our bay window. Before going, we stripped off all jewelry. I did not even take my smartphone. As a tourist-looking sort, I might be a target. All I had on my person was my requisite wad of toilet paper (another story). Additionally, Desiree, her daughter Bea, along with her cousin and aunt, made sure someone was always in front of me and behind me any time we had to thread our way through crowded streets and vendor stalls.

Thankfully, nothing extraordinary happened, and I actually enjoyed the adventure. I am sharing a few photographs provided by Desiree and Bea.

A Bustling Street in Divisoria

Fabric and Clothing Vendors

Burning Something Along the Street

 —Mitchell Hegman

Graduation Day

Education in the Philippines does not swing to the same schedule as that in the U.S. In the Philippines, basic education is divided into three main stages under what’s often called the K–12 system. Students first complete Grade School (Elementary), which runs from Kindergarten through Grade 6. This ends with a formal graduation, marking the transition into secondary education.

Next comes Junior High School, covering Grades 7 through 10. This is roughly equivalent to what Americans would consider the sophomore year of high school. At the end of Grade 10, students graduate again, closing out their foundational secondary education.

Finally, students move into Senior High School, which includes Grades 11 and 12. This stage is a bit more specialized, with students choosing tracks such as academic, technical-vocational, or arts-focused paths. After completing Grade 12, they have their final graduation, which is comparable to a traditional high school diploma in the U.S.

Shanaia, Desiree’s youngest daughter, graduated from Guadalupe Catholic School at the junior level yesterday. Guadalupe is a small but highly regarded private school known for its academic rigor. She graduated with honors, of course. 

Graduates Standing

Graduates Gathered for a Class Photograph

Desiree and Her Girls (Left to Right: Heart, Shanaia, Bianca, Desiree)

—Mitchell Hegman

The Blind Band

Market! Market! sits just a few minutes away by Grab from where we are staying, a sprawling mall that seems to contain every kind of store imaginable. Just outside it, under a vast canopy, is an adjacent stretch claimed by small vendors, each one adding a note to the low, steady hum of the place.

Concerts and other festivities find their way here as well, the space doubling as a kind of open-air stage.

This is also where you’ll come across the blind band, a group of musicians who play throughout the day, their instruments working on your attention until you realize you’ve stopped to listen.

It’s good stuff. Desiree has a maxim for people like those in the blind band, people doing everything they can to help themselves. She says they are “stretching their bones.”

On a recent visit, I stood in front of them for a while, taking it all in. I had Desiree pass me a few peso bills, which I slipped into the collection box.

There’s a lot here worth admiring.

The Blind Band

—Mitchell Hegman

Follow the Cats

We have two options for trash disposal at the rooms where we are staying in Manila. One option is to catch the tower employee sent to the floor each evening for room-by-room collection. The other option is to drop down to level B5 in the elevator and find the trash bins for yourself.

B5, it turns out, is an amazing place.

Before we drop down to B5, though, let’s talk about the street cats in Manila. The city is filled with them. They are all skinny, sometimes a little battered, and living by their wits along the busy boulevards and side streets.

I bring up the cats because the first time Heart, Desiree’s daughter, and I tried to find the trash bins in the B5 basement, we got lost. It is a vast, mind-bogglingly bright and spotless parking garage, one of the cleanest places I have seen anywhere in this island country. After failing to locate the bins, we took the elevator back up to our room, trash still in hand. On a subsequent elevator ride to the ground floor, I bumped into a pair of tower employees who told me about the far corner of B5 where we could find the elusive bins. At the end of the conversation, one of them quipped, “Just follow the cats.”

I’m sharing photographs from our second, successful venture to B5, along with a typical street cat.

Lost in the B5 Parking Garage

The B5 Parking Garage

A B5 Basement Cat Near the Bins

A Typical Street Cat

—Mitchell Hegman

See-Through Money

One of the small curiosities I’ve encountered here in the Philippines is the money, which is valued in terms of the Filipino peso. At present, our U.S. dollar is worth something near 60 pesos. The curious thing is the manner in which some of the peso bills are produced: they are partially see-through.

The first time I noticed it, I thought it was a trick of the light. I could plainly see my fingers through the bill. You turn the bill slightly in your hand, expecting the effect to disappear, but there it is: a clear window built right into the note.

These bills are not paper in the way I’ve always understood paper money. They are made from a thin polymer, a kind of flexible plastic that gives them a slightly slick, almost waxy feel. They don’t crumple quite the same way. They don’t seem to mind a bit of moisture— a practical approach in a place where sudden rain showers appear out of nowhere and humidity hangs permanently in the air.

The transparent window, it turns out, is not merely a novelty. It is a defense. It can hold detailed designs and security features that are difficult to reproduce, making counterfeiting far more challenging.

There are other advantages as well. These polymer notes last longer than traditional paper bills. They resist dirt and wear, and they don’t absorb whatever happens to be on your hands at the moment you pass them along. Given how many hands a single bill might travel through a wet market in a day, this too feels like a thoughtful adjustment.

A 1000 Peso Bill

—Mitchell Hegman