Enlightenment in Manila

Tricycles, Taho & Temporal Trouble: Four Years of Accidental Enlightenment in the Philippines
(Now featuring a Hasselblad, a Leica, and a slightly heat-stroked perspective)

When I first landed in Manila, I told myself I’d stay four years—long enough to shoot some moody black-and-white street photos, post them with cryptic captions like “light finds its own path” on Instagram, and then vanish to another Southeast Asian city to do the same thing but with more curry.

Four years later, I was still there. Still slightly sunburned. Still waiting for a Grab driver who had been “10 minutes away” since the Aquino administration.

Time in the Philippines, I quickly learned, is not a line—it’s a loop, a vibe, a suggestion. In Manila, it plays out like experimental jazz: unpredictable, high energy, and with the occasional existential solo. You either join the jam or get run over by a tricycle.

I came with two cameras and a vague sense of purpose. One was a Hasselblad 500 C/M, heavy enough to double as a kettlebell, romantic enough to make you feel like every photo could be on the cover of Life magazine. The other was a Leica M6, sleek, quick, and so discreet I often forgot it wasn’t digital. It was my trusty sidekick for disappearing into the crowd—when the crowd wasn’t offering me fried bananas or asking for selfies.

Photographer’s Tip #1: In the Philippines, people will see your Leica. And they will ask you what it is. Smile, answer politely, and get ready to explain film photography to a 14-year-old TikToker holding three smartphones and a ring light in a food stall.

My camera led me through Luzon and the Visayas. From the backstreets of Quiapo to the quiet charm of Dumaguete, I wandered like a confused flâneur in flip-flops. I wasn’t just looking for “the shot”—I was chasing the unspeakable rhythm of life unfolding in all its messy, sweaty, delicious chaos.

Quiapo, of course, was where everything became a bit too real. It's where time collides with itself in every direction. Jeepneys roar, vendors chant, and pedestrians cross the street like it’s a spiritual test. There were moments I felt like a war correspondent at a fiesta, Leica in one hand, pancit in the other.

Travel + Photographer’s Tip #2: If you're shooting in Quiapo in the evening, keep your gear tight and your eyes tighter. Don’t flaunt your Hasselblad like a trophy. Wrap it in a nondescript bag. Trust your gut. Avoid walking alone in dim alleys unless you're a character in a neo-noir short film and ready to lose your meter.

But for every moment of chaos, there were silences. I escaped to Benguet’s foggy ridges, Ilocos’ wind-swept churches, and the sleepy towns of Siquijor and Cebu. In these places, time moved like molasses. There were no rush hours—only rustling leaves and the occasional goat with a stare that judged your lens choices.

I once spent hours photographing a farmer fixing a bamboo fence. Not because it was dramatic, but because it wasn’t. It was honest. Unfiltered. Shot with my Hasselblad on Portra 400, it became one of the few images where stillness spoke louder than spectacle.

Photographer’s Tip #3: Don’t chase drama. Chase truth. And carry extra film—local stores sometimes sell expired rolls with suspicious confidence.

The Visayas taught me tropical patience. Dumaguete offered quiet wisdom; Cebu gave me layers of urban stories and enough sun to ruin a roll of Tri-X. Siquijor—part fairy tale, part fever dream—reminded me that even blurry shots have meaning. Especially the ones where a chicken walks through the frame like it owns the scene.

Eventually, my view through the lens changed. I stopped treating photographs like trophies and started treating them like borrowed moments. A sari-sari store vendor sharing a joke. A tricycle driver wiping his forehead between rides. A woman in a floral duster brushing her child’s hair beside a blinking disco light. These weren't "shots"—they were windows.

And the irony? Despite my cameras—my precious light meters and split-image prisms—time was never captured. It always slipped out of frame, just beyond focus, like a fish too clever for the net.

Photographer’s Tip #4: Accept imperfection. Embrace blur. The Philippines will humble your compositions and overexpose your ego. And when in doubt, meter for the shadows, but live in the highlights.

Along the way, I learned a few more practical lessons: say no firmly but politely when someone insists on guiding you to a “secret photo spot” with a ₱500 entrance fee. Always agree on the tricycle fare before the ride begins. And never trust anyone who tells you they can turn your film into digital “in 15 minutes, sir, very fast.”

In the city, I found rhythm in chaos. In the provinces, I found calm in stillness. But in both, I found the same truth: no one’s waiting for you to find meaning. Life keeps moving—like the taho vendor who yells “Tahooo!” just as you hit focus, ruining the frame, but somehow making the moment.

I met people who lived faster than me but felt deeper. A barber-philosopher who offered unsolicited wisdom. A kid who made better photos on a cracked OPPO than I did with a Hasselblad. And a dog who followed me for three days, then left me without a goodbye—my most loyal critic.

The “decisive moments” I imagined? Rarely decisive. Often messy. Always real. A guy fixing a tire while arguing about basketball. A woman dancing with a karaoke mic and a baby on her hip. A stranger handing me a mango with “Smile” carved into the peel. These were not magazine spreads. These were truths.

And maybe that’s the lesson. Life isn’t a portfolio. It’s a contact sheet—some frames sharp, some blank, some utterly ridiculous. And all of it worth shooting.

As for me? I’m still out there. Still sweating. Still misloading film at the worst possible times. Still unsure if I’m a photographer, a tourist, or just a man with too many cameras and not enough lens wipes. But I keep walking. Keep clicking. Because the Philippines didn’t hand me answers. It handed me a mirror. Covered in dust, sure—but it showed me something true.

And honestly? That’s better than any gallery show.