Aling Fidela makes her way up J.P. Rizal Street on her rickety bicycle every night, scouring the sidewalks for the garbage that is her livelihood.
She is a fixture in one of Makati’s busier roads from midnight to five in the morning, unmindful, or perhaps immune to the bone-freezing cold.
Her face is bathed in shadows, but the weariness in her eyes is there for all to see. She looks so ancient under the incandescent glare of the streetlight, with her graying hair, almost toothless smile, and heavily wrinkled skin. Her back is bent not only with age, but also because of osteoporosis.
The fragility of her build makes you wonder whether a strong gust of wind will sweep her away in its wake. Yet Aling Fidela isn’t more than fifty years old.
As she eases her brittle frame unto the cold and hard sidewalk, the fat cats tearing greedily into leftovers scatter like confetti. The rats that skulk in the corners waiting for their turn also flee – they don’t want to be Big Tom’s midnight snack.
Her gnarled and wrinkled hands are unprotected, but they delve unhesitatingly into the first garbage bag. She does not seem to care that her knobby fingers are going where millions of germs love to tread. And even if she cares, she does not show it.
Out comes a piece of paper, and she inspects it swiftly with the care of a detective. Can it still be re-sold? Yes. Satisfied, she drops it into the kariton attached to her bicycle. The kariton is filled with paper, Styrofoam, soft drink cans, and other things that could be sold for a meager sum.
In goes her hand, then out again. Each trip into the trash is a waltz with danger. With every sojourn into the territory of ultra-micro beings, she raises the risk of being infected with a multitude of illnesses.
When she is done with one trash bag, she goes on to the next, and the next. Then it’s on to the next pile of garbage in the next block. She ignores the people hanging outside the neon yellow and green sign of the 24-hour Techno Craze Internet shop, or the Seven Eleven outlet, until her kariton is full.
She sells her scavenged wares to bottle and paper collectors for just enough to cover her meals. Each meal varies, yet eventually they are all the same. Plain bread, a little rice, tuyo, perhaps an egg ... none of the sinfully delicious pastries, or rich, warm broths most of us are accustomed to.
For many of us, her life is unimaginable. The prospect of being reduced to scavenging through our richer neighbors’ refuse is as desirable as being infected with the Ebola virus. For Aling Fidela, this state of deprivation is the only life she has going for her.
Her parents were poor farmers from the provinces, and money, even then, was always scarce. The third of eight children, Aling Fidela witnessed how difficult it was for her mother and father to make ends meet. She was able to finish elementary in a public school, but could not afford higher education.
She left home not long after she was recruited to work as a housemaid in Manila, believing her luck would change. When she met the man who would become her husband, she was so happy, though he was only a construction worker.
They had one daughter, Sonia, whom they both adored, and though they still had to budget, they were able to afford the occasional picnic in Luneta. Then her husband died in an accident, and things took a turn for the worse.
With no work experience other than as a maid, she applied for various jobs but was rejected. Being a widow wasn’t so much a problem as having a child to care for, in the eyes of her prospective employers.
Aling Fidela got herself a job as a maid for a rich family, and stayed there for several years. But when her daughter was sixteen, a bracelet went missing, and they were accused of taking it.
“My daughter didn’t take it. I know it in my heart. I know my child,” Aling Fidela denies, her eyes watering. They were cast out into the streets, and had to erect shanties at various places.
Being so poor strained her relationship with her daughter, who decided to become a lady of the night in Ermita. Aling Fidela and Sonia argued, and the latter stormed out. This was more than ten years ago, and though her daughter has tried to make amends, Aling Fidela says that she can’t eat live under her daughter’s roof knowing that she is selling her body.
“Mahal ko siya, pero mas gugustuhin ko pa ang buhay ko na ganito, halos palaboy na kaysa makinabang sa pinagbentahan ng katawan ng anak ko,” she says crudely and fiercely.
She doesn’t want to ask for help from the city officials because in her opinion, they’ll just use her for their campaigns in the next elections. Neither does she want to be a regular for the NGOs because “magsasawa din sila.”
“I’ll just crawl into the Makati Cemetery when my time comes,” she says. “Some kind priest will bless my body anyway, it’s expected,” she also adds. And she goes on to board her bicycle, before making her way into the sunrise.
