The first, a remnant transexual prostitute seeing a lone expatriate walking at 04:45 and makes certain assumptions that leave aside the thirty-pound rucking pack on my back, my sweating intentioned stride, my attire suggesting little in the way of ready cash. There’s an urgency to her pleas, “Hello…sir…hello?”
I hear her clacky shoes on the concrete behind me; their rhythm intrudes on music from my headphones. Protecting myself from a pointless conversation, I pick up the pace. I hear her rushing behind me, calling out, as I execute a series of turns on dark streets, calculated to take me to a more residential area of Poblacion. To safety.
Serendipity. Barangay police float past. Three to the side-car bike, they greet me good morning. Chummily keeping the peace putting along on their rounds. They disappear into the morning haze, off to fly the flag of their little constabulary.
I’m walking to a wealthy enclave called Rockwell, where private security stand on cross streets dressed in dark blue fatigues and yellow safety vests armed and ready to enforce traffic regulations. Rockwell forbids street wraiths but hosts a ghost from business-past.
He walks as I do, ineffectually denying home-sloth-waistline from recursive lockdowns. An ex-military, white refugee from African lands, an aging, walking reminder of sins of omission.
