RIP

Yesterday brought the safe return of my Kuya, my best friend and brother. Junior and I have been travelling and working together for the last 10 months. The last three weeks were the first time we had been apart through out my time here. It felt strange not having him around to laugh endlessly with watch old kung fu movies with followed by conversations of how he is going to become Bruce lee and frequent talks about our hopeful yet failing love lives. He stayed in manila for the election and reading stories of rioting and death from previous elections i opted a safer option. Though my head still full of worry for his safety which he would wave away with texts saying; “Dont worry I always look after myself Im your big brother that’s my job.” It was true, he had very quickly become protective over me and I appreciated it to no end. Besides who am i to argue with someone who thinks they are going to be like Bruce Lee?

The excitement of being reunited soon passed. He came bearing sad news from home. Our friend had been shot down five minutes from our house, two nights before for pocket change. He lived in one of the narrow streets that ran behind our house. He would often come and sit out on the stoop with us, on the nights he was not working. He was riddled with bullets walking home from work. The saddest thing is he will get no special mention, I doubt if he will make the news. It is also doubtful the men who did this would even be caught. He will just become another statistic of wasted life in the town that no one dares go. Another reason for the rich too look down from their large houses and say “oh isn’t poverty terrible.” Junior graphically explained how Raymar stood up for himself but was ended by a shot to the neck, a shot to the head and a shotgun to the back all for less than bus fare. The police never came, deemed it a lost cause. His younger brother only a year younger than me went out after the men who shot down his brother but it was already too late. I dread to think what would have happened if his brother had found them. His wirey 17 year old frame being far from bullet proof and only in his mind was he invincible, wrought with thoughts of vengeance. I sat shaking, tears streaming down my cheek. Knowing that when I returned to Payatas the place I called home and I went around to see how everyone was. There would be one less person receiving me with a smile and one less person to fill me in with stories of our time apart. One less person to school me in basketball and one less person to welcome me home. As i think on it now i don’t even remember saying goodbye. Missing the chance, not possibly knowing it could be the last. So here it is; Goodbye Raymar our memories shall forever live on.

Sometimes I feel like

Im in over my head.

Perhaps its just time

to tuck into bed,

Longing for a kiss

on the cheek, goodnight.

Thinking perhaps I have

reached my peak, tonight.

There was only ever

so much i could do.

Forever biting off way

more than i could chew.

A penny for my thoughts

sadly wont suffice.

A lack of sleep

becoming, my only Sacrafice.

I put myself in

way over my head.

For a greater cause

to those rarely fed.

Looked down upon

Are those easily forgotten

Left under the bridge

the souls left to go rotten.

Roaring empty tummys

The sound of a statistic.

How can leaving them in pain

not seem so sadistic?

Sleep Shall not come

My demons won’t allow it.

My heart running slow

no love left to power it.

Now stuck on the other

side of the water.

I rarely have the

strength to exit my quarter.

Fearful of the dread

that the night may bring.

Grateful are the dead

who will suffer no king.

By the sea....

After long weeks in manila I get low. When I come back to the province, I feel the luckiest man alive, to have my friends who take me off to their quiet fishing village. The place, where the money is sparse but the smiles are in abundance. They remind me how good life can be and they don’t even realize. Always welcomed with choruses of “Kuya Josh” by children who come and wrap themselves around my legs. Refusing to let go, until I have swung each upside down and left them all a giggling heap on the sandy floor. I am fed and mothered within an inch of my life by all the ladies of the village. They teach me how to cook on small coal burners with children dangling from my neck. We recline in the comfort of the Bamboo hut escaping the heat of the summer. Strumming battered guitars and singing songs until the sun makes nothing but rippling orange light off the water.

When night falls and the tide is slowly easing away from the shore, the boys take me out fishing under the moonlight. We take each fragile step through the mud, the sea brushing my ankles as we fill the night with innocent laughter. The lights of home slowly fade to glowing pinholes. There is nothing but us, the moonlight on the water and all the life under our feet. We walk until we find crabs or water deep enough for fish, the boys laugh as I jump In fear of attack from tiny fish. My inexperience their favorite joke but each in turn patiently show me how its done. After hours of laughter and elbow deep in salty water, I have caught small fish by hand and wrestled with crabs the size of my head. Enough for us to have a large net full of life asking to be eaten. We salivate on the walk back thoughts and coversation filled with cooking the creatures that caused our net to buldge. The lights of home still burned and slowly grew as we got closer.

We sat around the water pump, the laughter never dying as we washed our bounty. Looking upon the smiling faces of the boys who took pride in having me there at the weekend. I felt myself filled with genuine happiness something that i knew would never be the same back home. Thoughts are often plagued by having to come home and all the things i will leave behind. Even Manila beyond the gangs, the rape, the murder, the drugs, the desperation. There is still so much happiness and so much hope. So much good within the people who are constantly told they should be miserable because they are poor and live in danger.

Simple things bring the biggest joys, I may not be changing the world but I AM changing lives and having mine changed a million times over.

These lines from a notebook.

I stare at the clock on my phone as the numbers slowly shift towards midnight, junior still not entering our small house in Payatas. My mind cannot help but be filled with the worst, as it flits towards the stories he had told me of his friend who was shot down on his door step walking home. Through the wooden windows I hear the distant familiar sound of gunshot's the same as it had been every night for the last 3 days. The morning bringing news of death, close to friends home. My mind flits to those friends out of contact without a phone and the warzone ever raging so close to their sanctuary of home. It flits to the boys I met walking to a friend’s house, standing either side of the road throwing up gang signs and letting out their jeers to the white boy brave enough to live day to day in the place forever crying for help in its narrow dangerous streets. The place the police will never go and you have to pay triple to get taxi even close. Their young adolescent bodies already covered in everlasting identity of the brotherhood they belong too. The stories they had told of being paid to kill since the age of thirteen. Escaping the justice system like every other system that overlooks them. They show off each tattoo on their young bodies and explain significance each more and more somber. I feel nothing but desperation for these boys. They were of course young and felt invincible, a feeling I knew all too well when I was the same age, but as I have grown I have learnt how this could not be any less true. They were caught in the attraction of a brotherhood and having money. But at the cost of lives their and own others just like them. The likes of which who lived less than 15 minutes away and could be found just as easily. They told me of broken families and various reasons for not making it to school. They would never have a future unless someone made a change for them,this a thought that ran through my head with the force of a ten tonne truck standing nervously talking too them. Even through their cockiness and naïve belief of invincibility, they were all lost boys that past days sitting in groups and acting the way they feel a gangster should from what they have picked up on from American culture. Only the nights were very real. The nights filled with hazy intoxication and on those fateful few days a rain of bullets any of which could end them before they have even started. Already living the life of murder, drugs and gang rape I sadly reflect on my own childhood and how different everything was. I am plagued with guilt.

I feel constantly compelled to reach out to them to take them to a safe place, even only for a few hours. I invite them down to the center to play basketball. With the games finished and usually resulting in me having circles ran around me. Bottles of coke and whatever the afternoon bbq’s have to offer are shared accompanied by laughter and stories. It is only a start but brings peace of mind to know they are are in that time and the knowledge that I may be able to get through to them help them towards a better life away from it all. Encouraging them to only speak in English which just induces coin American of thug life. It’s a start. They could have a future that didn't leave them forgotten and just another statistic of youth that were deemed hopeless and left to kill each other everyone deserved a slice of the same.

I moved out to my stoop looking out for Junior and breath in the thick stifled air in hope it would clear my mind. It didn't. Only reminded me of the man who had stopped to talk the week before as i sat in the same place though this time without my brothers. It had been one of these brothers who had lived the life of those boys and knew all the faces who hadn't been so fortunate. He called out to a man walking quickly with his hat pulled down low, shifty eyes sent in our direction skeptical and defensive. He came and spoke with an old friend, showed off new bullet wounds and told their stories none of which were fairy tales. The thoughts and memories became too much so i went back into the house hoping he would return soon knowing i would not sleep until he did.

As junior walks through the door with a smile completely puzzled to my worried look I let it fade and smile never able to share my worries of a world he is already far more used to than I.

A Sisters Soul.

The day my parents left me for the second time on the other side of the world, i was crammed into the back of a Jeepny with about twenty people to whom i owe my life. My brothers and sisters in soul. My parents got out at the petrol station, we rolled away back down the Quezon city highway to my small humble home in Payatas. The following was an emotional scribble in my notebook. I thought a lot about leaving it at that, But now i have decided these are the rawest emotions i have felt and they should be shared.

Soul; The immaterial entity that is identified with consciousness, mind and personality.

I was meant to have an older sister. Ella would of been her name, She would of been there to fight my battles, until I grew big enough to wrestle her to the ground and strike fear into the boys she brought home. With time i naturally would of grown protective over her. Worrying when she wouldn't return home, not yet able to understand the tears shed over her early heartbreaks.

My sister, if she had been given the chance, would of been beautiful. A fact Which undoubtedly would of driven me wild. The unbearable thought of her being gawped over, as the the intellectual rebellious heroin my father would of made her. Still With the soft caring and understanding of my mother. I do not regret the way life has been given to me. Although there are times, when i cant help but wonder what life would of been like with Ella around. Always there to warn me of the traps and pitfalls of girls i should of just avoided all along. My parents always eager for me to learn from my own mistakes but always there to pick up the pieces without so much as an 'I told you so.' Which if Ella had grown the way I imagine her too she would of been more than happy to give me that coined phrase.

Ella had always been told to me simply as the name i would of been given if i was a girl, it wasn't until i was 15 and going through similar situations only much too young, That i learnt more of the story. The thought of being the only One had settled in long before then and i knew no different. Although sometimes I could see the glint in my mothers eye, knowing we would never have the same bond they would of had. I often felt guilty growing up in my "awkward" years. I could never speak to my mother about the things that sunk me to my lowest. She gave me no reason to ever feel this way beyond my own subconscious presumptions and reservations of guilt. Always so caring and warm, she would start to cry if i got even so much as a well in my eye. When I was smaller she would kiss my tear stained cheeks and spit out exclaiming "they have gotten so salty!" This would receive a giggle of approval from me and with it the problem would float away. I often feel selfish to Have been the only one of that felt that love and share those tenderest of moments. I'm sure now If my mother had her eldest daughter, they would cry and wail, cleansing their souls until they sparkled again. Something I could never do, I saw too much hurt behind her tears.

My Father was always hard on me, though he had a soft touch, he would never lay a finger on me. I, like most other boys though sadly not all, viewed my father as a kind of hero, as if he knew no wrong words to say and he could never be broken. Never showing fear or distress, it wasn't until he had to say goodbye to me for a year and he was to leave his son on the other side of the world that i saw him cry. A dawning realization and relief that he was still human, not only that but that he was proud. He had always wanted the best for me. I knew that. Although somewhere along the line hormones made it difficult to believe at times i still always knew it to be the truth. He put ideas into my head, that he wanted me to make my own. To create my own opinions and believe in them wholeheartedly. Whenever I was lost I would find my way to the 7th step of our staircase, where he would be waiting for me through the banisters in his big leather chair. we would talk for hours about everything. It was rare for me to admit that i had allowed myself to get lost. But, on these rare occasions when i was totally out of my depth, he would always know everything i needed. I would always think then why it had taken me so long. With Ella i know he would of done the same, only with a slight air of protectiveness but always wanting her to learn her own lessons. To be free and wild but always at home in heart, ready to come back and spill all. In return be rewarded with those those perfectly worded home truths of our Pops. That is of course if i wasn't already filling our space on the stair.

They both would of taught her how to care, the way they did me. To never want to hurt and always understand. To give hope and make a difference no matter how big or how small we would of been looked over with pride from the two people i owe all things. I know now they are proud because i took all the training we both would of got and used every part of it. Gave away myself for a year of selflessness on the other side of the world for something I really cared about. Spending my time with people Who need it and most importantly cherish it. Now half way through they come to visit. They meet the people who have taken me as their family. My brothers and sisters with whom i share that same willing to care and understand for people even when they themselves have so little. Now my parents look to them as their children. I don't feel jealous, it fills me with a warmth. The guilt has slipped away, because i know now That Ellas soul lives on within all of them. I have the kin i had long lived without, and my parents all their children.If only in soul but then no other way would be so perfectly complete.

They come from places you dont wanna go

An hour back in the most dangerous resort in manila (it certainly Is no Butlins but at least the entertainment and the company is better) he decided it was time for a haircut. He and his big brother not by blood but certainly by soul, walked the broken streets up to the market were you could get a neat haircut, close shave finished with a hard massage all for pennies. Standing outside the barbers, his shorts showing off the ink set into his leg that he was so proud of. It attracted the attention of some young boys, their shirts three sizes to big and the walk that had an air of arrogance that said, they could not be touched. "Hey Joe what you doing?" one said in his best faux American accent. He replied in his best attempt at native tongue much to their shock and amusement. Watching the eyes pry over his left leg, he asked them if they liked his tattoo? Apparently they did, as within seconds they were pulling up shirts and closing fists to reveal theirs. The 6ft 3 English boy stood with a smile at these young boys they, so eager to please and seem like real men. They asked him why he was here, he got into the usual stories of working with the youth there and living in empire. "Empire?" they said with caution. "Our rivals are from empire. Are you in a gang Joe?" I said I wasn't but I knew plenty of people who were. Not to feel outdone they went on to tell me about their gang, they had joined last year when they were 14 and one was 15. As if we had known each other all our lives they spoke about how hard it was, they had no real families of there own, so looked to it as brother hood "where we come from if you aint in a gang your dead" the large boy said who seemed the eldest and wisest knowing that the gangs were not something to show off about but a way of life, The younger still caught up in the O.G lifestyle feeling like tupac. The statement from the younger proved this perfectly "and it keeps our pockets fat." But these boys would never have t shirts made of their faces. They would live short lives, either finished by drugs or the violence that had brushed up against them, leaving scars that of which they were also eager to show him. what they would have was a lot of people they looked too as older brothers who would use them to do the dirty work. The law changed last year; that a young man cannot be charged for murder until he is over 16. The consequence; bloody thirsty thirteen year old's who think the money will solve everything. As well as a lot of older brothers, who would be more than happy to make them believe so. He left a head full of concerns of what the nightfall had in store for the lost boys, and if he might ever see them again.

Some nights later, he sat in the dark corner of a night swimming session, just outside of the city. With his family of youth whom held the most shining souls amidst the tarnish and rubble of urban decay at its worst. It can become easy to be desensitized by Payatas. Surronded by youth who had so much hope, committed to making a better life not only for themselves, but for their whole community. It becomes easy to forget there is still so much suffering and so much violence. All with no justice, the police too scared to go there and a council security who would be found at a bar, taking big lugs of whiskey in the times they were needed most.
The sounds of splashing, cheers and excited laughter floated through each of the dark huts until it reached his. Across from him sat one of his closest brothers, a brother it had been so long since he had seen. Everyday when his brother had not appeared he had thought the worst, but now here he was. They sat both clutching the necks of a strong Filipino beer, smoke creating a dull haze between them. The young man stared through a fence where the perimeter stopped leaning his head on the mesh looking down towards a distant camp fire next to the river. "You know what that is?" the brother asked him signaling towards the flames that had his eyes fixed. "Its a fraternity haze. When gangs introduce new members they take them to somewhere like that and well..." he stopped. Fearing he was just struggling with his English the boy encouraged him that it was okay to talk Tagalog he would be able to work it out. The brother smiled politely and shook his head "no its not that... you don't want to know, what they do." He poured beer straight in his mouth taking large gulps, followed by a long drag. As he spoke the smoke billowed out with each word, almost distracting from what he said "before you know i was in a gang." The boy nodded, he had not known but somewhat suspected. "Before i did a lot of stupid things." The English eyes looked to him reassuringly his pale face gleaming in the dull light "but that was just the past right?" the boy said trying to conjure a convincing smile. There was no reply, Brother leaned over and picked up the Marlboro box, sitting dead on the table in front of them. Pulling out the silver paper, he made a few very concise folds and rips. The pale face sat watching in bewilderment taking long hits from the neck of his bottle. Waiting for some kind of explanation eventually it came.
"You know what this is?"
"it looks like a pipe" he replied trying not to seem completely ignorant. "Yeah 'brud a temporary pipe...this is our secret okay? Everyone knows I still smoke this but I don't sell, I don't push. Just one in the morning and one at night." He was justifying himself, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggy practically filled with bud. Curiosity got the better of the young man and he asked "how much did you have to pay for a bag like that." "15 pesos" was the reply he smiled knowing it was not what was expected. They laughed "Back home thats like 30 pence. In London a bag like that would cost you like 25 pou- 3000 pesos...that's crazy man." "The pushers here they are desperate. They know they cant charge high prices no one would buy. They need that money. they need it usually to feed their kids. There are expensive drugs. Bad drugs I used to use them but that was before...you know..?" he stopped failing to think of the word. The boy went through a list of bad drugs until he was stopped by "yes! thats it!... Heroin I was an addict before Josh. Im telling you this, because I trust you and I know you care about me and about my family. You know my family? my daughter? When she was born I wasn't around. I was in rehab. I wanted to sort myself out for her. The first time i saw her she cried. She wouldn't come near me, wouldn't believe i was her father. The drugs weren't nice but they were an escape, I have done five robberies and three hold ups before in my life. I remember one time, when i was younger, I had no house I was high on drugs. I went out and slept under a bench. I had no where else to stay. I stayed there from 7pm to 7 am. When i went into rehab my father was dying, he died 2 months into my rehab." The boy, had never felt more like a boy in his life. So small and ignorant, never to of felt the same hurt this man had growing up. "I'm sorr-rry" he said almost silently. "No its okay like you said it is the past. Now I have two beautiful daughters and a wife who loves me. I still have friends who do things like that. Are in gangs. They say to me here take this money, but i wont because i know where it has come from and I don't want a part of that anymore. My brother's are in prison now... but just because they are stupid. Some of my friends are dead. I remember a few years ago, one of my friends was doing lots of robberies. People didn't like that. So they wanted to kill him, they came down to my house and they said 'where is he?, where is he?' I said I didn't know. I stayed in my house that night and about midnight I woke up to gunshots. In the morning I found my friend dead...head shot." The boy sat, as his brother, his protector. The man who always seemed so happy and constantly had him laughing. Raced through the facts of his life a mile a minute. All with a slight wry smile, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "You know the shooting on Christmas eve? And on new years eve?" He said he did and that he remembered how horrible it was thinking about a family without their son at Christmas. So close to somewhere he had been only a few hours before, still only a 15 minute walk from where he was then, laughing and having fun. "My friends they were there. Some died. Some did the killing that is there life. They don't get holidays." Taking the last few hit's from his temporary pipe. He pushed it through the mesh, wincing and coughing."Let's go back and have some fun" he said with a smile that said so much; That i know i can trust you, that I know you understand and that I know you want to help. The response didn't come, it went unsaid they both knew. So with that they finished up the beer, composed themselves.His brother, his Kuya leading back to the source of the laughter and happiness. Leaving the sadness of an unforgettable past, in the dark corner of a swimming resort. The boy who had now been there for 7 months was starting to feel as if he was one of them. He had certainly made to feel so. He knew that there were somethings he could never understand or change, but he would always do his best to make the futures better, no matter what it took.

Big Boy Jail

I had been invited to go and visit some friends of junior who were now residing in Quezon city jail, feeling brave after escaping the juvenile prison and still having all my limbs. I thought how hard could it be? I was not prepared for what i saw that day.

We road a jeep away from empire hill the part of Payatas B we were currently staying. We crammed ourselves into a jeep that would just get us as far as the highway. Passing all the Junk shops overflowing with rotting garbage and the dirty faces that worked inside them occasionally pulling my t shirt over my nose when the smell got too foul. The everyday trip made to get out of the place not even the police will venture into and that i proudly call home. A long hot bus ride sitting between an old lady with incredibly bony elbows and a man with live fowl in his lap took us outside a police station. Jumping off myself and junior met the Tito nick and his daughter a friend of mine who were there to visit juniors cousin. We all entered together junior giving descriptions of what to write in the book and had already instructed to bring nothing but enough money to get there and back. So with empty pockets i was searched and patted down three times by three separate men all with mean scowls. Stamped and laughed at they jeered me up a set of stairs until i was in a cage looking down on a large basketball court covered with tattooed bodies some with wife-beaters some just shirtless. Junior led with Tito nick close behind me and his daughter between us all stepping carefully down a caged set of stairs i had to duck to get through the bars at the bottom and as my foot hit the hot concrete of that basketball court i knew i wasn't in Kansas anymore. Every eye was on me as i took the long walk inside. Quezon city jail is made up of five sections each with 1000 convicts each of these sections is like one big fraternity any man steps outside of his section he is dead. I rapidly noticed there were no guards anymore, we had left the last one at the foot of the barred staircase. We entered the section of which all of our friends were staying, it was tiny, the rooms were all open and i brushed shoulders with rapists murders and drug lords all giving me toothless grins from there painted faces. We sat on a bench in the middle i could see into every room and every man in here was just stacked on top of the other, just like in the graveyard. The boys came out and after a lot of hugs and handshaking, we sat surrounded by inmates. They spoke for hours i listened intently nervously looking around me but trying hard not to make eye contact with anyone. They told stories from being inside and of the outside lives that got them there. I could do nothing but to cling to the edge of the bench dumbfounded and listen. After the boys had there catching up and were told how everyone was back home they invited us to see there room. nodding and following too scared to do anything else we went to the end squeezed down through a narrow alley of bunk beds and their in inhabitants until we entered a small room ducking to get in there was one bed a small cooker a clatter of few personal possession that were deemed allowed and posters of ladies advertising cheap rum with no clothes on. It was barely the size of a cupboard and yet i was told five persons slept in there and they pointed to various areas where everyone slept i tried hard to use my imagination to deem it even remotely possible but my imagination failed me. The boys began to banter and after two hours of being inside i finally began to relax mostly because i was still alive. We stepped back out to the larger area of the boys section full of bodies we sat back on our bench to say the goodbyes. A huge guy walked passed his shaven head gleaming and a big gold necklace sitting pretty around his neck, my friend squealed excitedly she recognized him and asked her brother if he was who she thought he was. He was a famous Filipino rapper who was now serving time for three accounts of murder, "he is my idol" she whispered I laughed saying "there is seriously something wrong with you did you not hear your brother say what he is here for" she looked at me coyly saying "I know" we laughed but it was soon stopped by stern disapproving looks and i went back to staring at the floor not making eye contact. As we left back through the caged maze having said our goodbyes we got back to the main entrance the guards at the door looked at each other and laughed as one passed 20 pesos to the other "he made it out alive" one guard said and they both laughed. I was glad to know the people who were being payed to protect me were doing such a sterling job but was not disgruntled and left smiling at the adrenaline buzz of surving a visit to 5000 murders, rapists and what became more apparent people with no money or home who the government deemed easier to deal with inside a jail they had no control over. I have no delusion that i was lucky to be in one piece and all i can say is Quezon city jail makes wormwood scrubs look like a nursery.