Scavengers

Lately, I've noticed that storm surges have become more frequent along Roxas Boulevard, fronting Manila Bay, especially the area from the Manila Yacht Club up to the American Embassy. Most noticeable in these surges is the trash that get washed up ashore. Tons of them each time. Collectively, they may rival the tsunami debris from Japan's earthquake last year.

Ours is a tsunami of garbage, that poses as serious a threat to life as the storm surges on which it rides. While the surges damage and breach large segments of the seawall, the tons of trash are a national shame. They carry filth and disease, and mirror our wanton disrespect for the environment. Curiously, almost unbelievably, atop the floating, almost solid flotsam are scavengers, blending in with the garbage, like chameleons. These people have elevated scavenging to new heights, over and above a mere survival activity. In the native tongue, they are referred to as "mangangalakal," meaning "trader." They are businessmen then of the most daring kind, comparable to the most intrepid venture capitalist or investment banker. While the latter makes use of other people's money, risking to lose only their egos and reputations, the "mangangalakal" stands to lose his own life or limb should something go awry.

Scavenging is an industry in this country, as are ambulant vending and panhandling; the ubiquitous street food and fruit vendors on makeshift wheeled carts that dot every available space and corner; the "sari-sari" store every fifty meters or so in economically depressed neighborhoods; the barbecue vendors that seem to sprout during the afternoon and well into the night; these are the livelihood of a marginalised populace.

Do we recklessly dispose of our trash to sustain scavenging? I hope not. It can be a convenient justification though, but an immoral one. Scavenging must be difficult in a poor country like ours. I mean, we don't throw away TV's, fridges, computers, etc., as in developed countries. We have them repaired again and again, beyond their planned life. We don't throw away old clothes; they become hand-me-downs, or as donations to charity, or we just stow them until they are overrun with mold and rot, at which time we turn them into rags. What we throw away are almost totally useless scraps; but scavengers, with their sharp, discerning sight, still manage to find items they can salvage and sell, to keep body and soul together.

I'm a scavenger of dreams and things now, sifting through what other people and I have thrown away. One scavenges when the possibility to add to possessions is absent or dim. I went through a time of ambitions and realizations aplenty, considering them as my birthrights. Through a series of miscalculations, recklessness, and imprudence, I've lost most of my good fortune. I now take stock of my material remainders; there aren't much left, just enough to get by, enough to stay in the daily race to remain human, but not enough to be a glittering gem.

I seek solace whenever and wherever, in classical music after dinner on Saturdays; in my weekend afternoon naps on the floor, with memories from happier, better times intruding into that limbo between wakefulness and slumber, persistent, though not annoying, as the hum of mosquito wings near my ear.