A couple of hours and no more I give myself to walk around Quiapo. There is a certain tainted tragedy on the streets of downtown Manila that never fails to make me feel that I am caught in some surreal dream. A moment comes when side streets blend into other alleys and shop signs become a confusion of paint and grime. The initial wonder at such cacophony quickly turns to annoyance because the landscape has become too harsh too suddenly for any visual and auditory enjoyment. Too easily, the underpass smells rise about their sewer origins and overwhelm the hardiest of travelers.

As I begin to walk towards the Plaza Miranda, I see nothing that would speak of the political bloodbath that took place there three decades ago. There is only a square, open space of cement recently adorned with columns and arches in an effort to restore the old glory of downtown Manila. The freshly painted Quiapo church fronting it squats squarely like the proverbial sore thumb. I fancy it is the only whitewashed structure within a radius of three kilometers, not counting, of course, the boulevard islands which would receive their occasional make-over to erase the red cement slogans of rallying protesters.

On any given day, people would bustle out of the doors of the church like true sheep at the strike of the hour. It is easy for the unsuspecting pedestrian to be trapped in a whirlpool of bodies heaving out of the church for a breath of fresher air and those as persistent trying to get in for the best seats in the house.

Quiapo always seems to manage a surface of filth, notwithstanding the almost constant downpour in the country. The aftermath of every typhoon or monsoon shower sees Quiapo as all the more grimy, almost as if in haughty rebellion to the laws and forces of natural weathering, Its sidewalks look muddier, the buildings look as bleak as before a deluge and some of them looking more likely to crumble with the weight of all that moisture.