Monkey Bars for World Peace

November 9th, 2024

Manila, Philippines 

Manila swallowed me whole – and I've never been happier about being consumed by a place. These past two days have shattered every preconception I held about this pulsing metropolis. That first morning, I woke to a symphony of chaos: police sirens wailing their urgent songs, street vendors' voices carried up to my window on the humid air, the constant percussion of car horns below. My jaw clenched. My shoulders tightened. I wanted to run.

But something shifted that second morning. Drawing on my meditation practice, I let the city's soundtrack wash over me without resistance. Each sound – from the rattling jeepneys to the chorus of street dogs to the passionate haggling at the market – became neither good nor bad, just Manila being beautifully, unabashedly itself. Through my gratitude practice, I began to see the magic in the mayhem. The city's relentless energy started to feel less like an assault and more like a fierce embrace.

Yesterday's adventure led me to an unlikely sanctuary: a children's science museum. I believe, with every fiber of my being, that we lose something precious when we stop playing. If world leaders spent more time on monkey bars or chasing each other in games of freeze tag, maybe – just maybe – we'd see fewer headlines about war and suffering. This conviction drew me through those doors, past the puzzled looks of parents with their kids, and into a wonderland of scientific discovery.

What followed was pure magic. Each exhibit pulled me deeper into childlike wonder: biology displays that made me gasp, chemistry demonstrations that left me wide-eyed, archaeological treasures that transported me through time. But it was the electric sphere that truly captured my soul. When I placed my hands on that cool metal surface, electricity danced through my body, and I watched, laughing uncontrollably, as my curls rose toward the ceiling like seaweed reaching for sunlight. The moment catapulted me back to Hanukkah celebrations with Gibson, my beloved boxer, who would bark frantically at spinning dreidels as if witnessing sorcery. Standing there with my hair defying gravity, I felt exactly like Gibson – dumbstruck by the pure magic of science.

My return journey to the hotel offered a stark contrast to this bliss. Through the visor of my motorbike taxi helmet, I witnessed my first instance of road rage in six months of Asian travel. The sight of two drivers screaming at each other through their windows felt like a crack in the peaceful veneer I'd found across Indonesia, South Korea, Japan, Taiwan, and Malaysia. This raw anger, combined with the sight of shirtless teenagers begging barefoot on the scorching pavement, revealed Manila's complicated heart.

The colonial fingerprints here run deep. Unlike the meditative tea ceremonies of Japan or the haunting gamelan melodies of Bali, Manila's cultural landscape bears the heavy imprint of Western influence – crucifixes hang in storefronts, American pop music spills from cafes, and European fashion dominates the streets. 

Last night's feast at a Korean BBQ restaurant further exemplified Manila's international influences. I shared the table with three souls I'd met at my hostel: Ring from India, with her quiet wisdom and adventurous spirit; Florine from France, whose eyes sparkled with curiosity; and Yanis from Miami, carrying stories of beaches and bourgeois boulevards in her smile. The familiar scene transported me straight back to Seoul – plates of banchan crowding the table, the sweet aroma of grilling meat rising with our laughter. We wrapped succulent beef and pork in fresh lettuce leaves, drowning them in fermented soybean sauce until our taste buds sang. But the true feast wasn't the food – it was the conversation.

Around that table, we traded stories like precious gems. Florine and I tested our rusty Korean vocabulary, laughing at our mangled pronunciations. Ring painted vivid pictures of Nepal's hidden temples that matched my own memories of those sacred spaces. Yanis and I discovered a shared love for Mexico City's kaleidoscopic energy, finding echoes of its spirit here in Manila's streets. In these fellow travelers, I found what I'd been missing back in New York – people who understand the magnetic pull of the unknown, who measure wealth in passport stamps and sunrise views. These are my people: the ones who choose cramped hostel bunks over luxury for the chance to wake up in wonder.

Walking back from dinner, the waxing crescent moon emerged from behind Manila's towers like an old friend checking in. She's been my constant companion through every border crossing, every midnight bus ride, every moment of doubt and triumph. That silver sliver in the sky has witnessed not just my current journey, but all my past lives – a cosmic thread connecting every version of myself I've ever been or will be. Her presence felt like a blessing, a reminder that even in this city of perpetual motion, some things remain eternally constant.

The night crescendoed at our hostel's rooftop lounge, where karaoke transformed strangers into accomplices in joyful noise. Michael from Chicago and I butchered Drake's lyrics with enthusiastic abandon. ABBA's "Dancing Queen" united voices from three continents in gleeful discord. When I closed the night with Amy Winehouse's "Valerie," watching people from the Philippines, India, America, Venezuela, and France join the chorus, I witnessed music doing what it does best – building bridges between hearts that words alone cannot span.

Morning found me back in adventure mode, heading to Chinatown with Ring, Florine, and Yanis. Our chariot was a tuk-tuk with an unexpected passenger – four-year-old Cassandra, our driver's daughter. In her eyes lived the purest form of love I've seen in Manila. Her tattered dress and dusty feet spoke of material poverty, but the way she hugged her father from her perch behind his seat revealed a wealth beyond measure. When Ring whispered to me about her own wealthy but emotionally distant upbringing, the contrast crystallized a truth: love flows where it will, regardless of bank balances or social status.

The connection I felt playing peekaboo with Cassandra, dancing to her father's portable speaker as we weaved through traffic, reminded me that joy needs no translation. After learning that Cassandra's mother had passed away, leaving father and daughter to face life as a team of two, their bond became even more precious – a masterclass in resilience wrapped in a child's innocent smile.

Chinatown's sensory assault nearly overwhelmed me – bodies pressing against bodies, mopeds threading impossible needles between pedestrians, vendors' calls creating a capitalist symphony. Ring's reaction fascinated me. Where I saw chaos, she found comfort, the pressed-flesh density of the crowd reminding her of home. When I called Manila the busiest city I'd known, her knowing laugh taught me perspective – this didn’t even rival her top five Indian experiences of urban intensity.

Walking through the market's controlled chaos, Ring shared her story of transformation. At 29, she's chosen a path her traditional family struggled to understand – teaching herself to code, designing online courses, building a digital nomad life from her laptop in Bangalore. While her sisters followed expected paths of marriage and proximity to home, Ring's spirit pulled her toward horizon lines. Six years of Asian wandering had shaped her into someone her village might not recognize but would have to respect.

Near a fruit stand, we found momentary refuge in nature's simple pleasures. The coconut vendor worked with surgeon's precision, his butter knife dancing around the fruit's heart to extract perfect spheres of white meat. I marveled at this everyday artistry, this craftsmanship applied to something as humble as coconut flesh. The cool water refreshed more than our bodies – it offered a moment of pure presence in the market's chaos.

Then came my moment to impress. When I bought a pomelo the size of a basketball, Ring's protective instinct emerged – suggesting we wait for proper utensils back at the hostel. Her amused disbelief as I tackled the fruit bare-handed, peeling back layer after stubborn layer without any implements, turned to genuine admiration. That simple act of fruit-based bravado became a metaphor for how travel often requires us to tackle challenges without waiting for perfect conditions.

When it was time to say goodbye to Ring, I gave her not just my Kuala Lumpur recommendations for her upcoming layover, but also a piece of my heart – a watercolor I'd painted that morning. Her careful preservation of it, sliding it into a protective sleeve before tucking it away, spoke volumes about how quickly travelers can forge real connections.

The day's final gift was a 60-minute Thai massage that transported me to another dimension entirely. As skilled hands worked artillery knots from my muscles, gentle flute music playing pentatonic scales overhead, I found myself floating in a bubble of tranquility just 30 feet from Manila's perpetual street symphony. In that moment of profound relaxation, I realized that peace isn't about the absence of chaos – it's about finding your center in its midst. This is Manila's greatest lesson: harmony exists not in silence, but in the space between the beats, in the quiet core we carry within us. Through meditation and mindfulness, that state of grace is always accessible, even in a city that never stops moving, never stops singing, never stops surprising those willing to embrace its contradictions.

Love,

Etai