Squararchy

All walks of like dominate this space, although some of them doesn't necessarily have functional legs. Some are strapped on a make-shift wheelchair, which could only be a prop for pity. Empty cups contrast the crowded streets of vendors and "faithful" churchgoers. Flames are lit in every candle that's sold for a few coins in exchange of God's answers to their prayers; the same fire heating the corn kernels or boiling the overused canola oil for the local delicacy.

Some nights I would go this place and just have a look around. To breathe, to think and to feel that life is worth living. This place reminds me of reality. Beneath the superficial, there are souls, and stories matched with simplicity. When the skies are clear and the stars try to illuminate despite the city lights, I sit on a reclined monobloc chair. The soothing touch of the swarthy hands that mend my muscles, while they feed my soul with the stories that made them through.  

If you'd look through their eyes, all you can see is darkness if I would tackle it literally, but there's a light oozing from within. What drives them to feel so alive and push through is a metaphor of mystery. Is it the hope that keeps them going or the desperation to get out of the state of nothingness? It could be a gift, when there's nothing; but desperation calls in the vindication of the ventre. In many forms, they find ways. They never fail, because they're survivors.

Surviving in this chaotic cosmos is a never-ending story. Where oriental tradesmen live in better spaces rather than the native islanders who are never given the chance. Let's point fingers, because it always solve the problem. If not, wash hands, because it's good to keep them nice and clean. There's hope in a seemingly hopeless hole or Saint Peter Square, I would call it.

In San Pedro, it's also where the men gather. Bored or for business, there's always a reason to come here. The photographers asking to take you photo in exchange of a little amount is the paramount of my experience being in this place. Hearing the tales of the heyday, when people actually came for photos. The only proof to make their stories credible are the grey-strands in their head and the wrinkled hands that showed me vintage SLR lenses from their slouching spines,  tirelessly lugging them around.

The turf of the booming small-scale entrepreneurs deploy their shops in this square. Smiles on their sweaty faces make up for their make-shifts stalls that seems to have almost no standards. I always think, will they ever get the chance to get somewhere else? With the portability of their shop, how hard could it be? Is it the tide of the elite making it impossible for them to do so? For them to set up their stalls in the luxurious shopping centres being laid out across this developing city? There's over 1 million souls in this humble place I call home, and it's good to know that it is here I find the happiest. Whether you're here to eat or pray; sleep or play... there's a space for you and spiel to make you feel anew.