manila: developing film in a sauna (or how i got sand in my lens)

okay, real talk. i’ve been in manila for three days and my camera strap is already permanently fused to my shoulder, which is good because the humidity here is a tangible entity. it’s not just hot; it’s like someone left a wet blanket on the city and then forgot about it. i just checked and it’s 29.5 degrees out but feels like 31, which is the difference between ‘oh nice’ and ‘my soul is sweating.’ the air is thick with the smell of diesel, diesel again, and frying something amazing. i keep thinking my lens is fogging up but it’s just the atmosphere condensing on everything. the sky isn’t blue, it’s a bleached-out white, like an old polaroid left in the sun too long.

someone told me that the key to not melting is to just… accept it. become one with the soup. i tried to outsmart it by getting a coconut from a cart near the bay, but the ice was already half-melted and the drink was just lukewarm coconut soup. perfect. a local, a guy named marco who sells film (yes, actual film) from a tiny stall in Ermita, leaned in and whispered, ‘the best light is at 5 am. before the sun decides to cook everyone. also, avoid the‘ taco stands near the mall after 11 pm. trust me.’ i wrote that down on a soggy receipt. gossip is currency here, better than pesos some days.

i spent today chasing the infamous ‘golden hour’ around Intramuros. let me tell you, it’s not an hour, it’s a two-minute window where the sun cuts through the pollution haze and makes the old stone walls look like they’re from another planet. i missed it. i was fumbling with a broken shutter release on my ancient nikitaflex. instead i got a million pictures of tourists looking flushed and happy. the contrast is what kills me: centuries-old churches next to a frantic *jeepney painted with a disney character but held together by hope and rust. i heard two security guards arguing about basketball, then a chorus of church bells. manila doesn’t have neighborhoods; it has layers. you peel one back and there’s a market, then a temple, then a call center, all breathing the same thick air.

the traffic here isn’t traffic; it’s a living, snarling beast. i tried to walk from Binondo to Escolta and got audaciously honked at by a tricycle driver who seemed personally offended by my existence. i find the chaos rhythmically inspiring though. there’s a kid on the corner of Onyx and Dasmariñas who sells punk rock patches he screenprints himself. his setup is a cardboard table, a bike, and a banner written in sharpie: ‘rebel patches, cheap.’ i bought one that says ‘no gods no managers.’ he said he’s inspired by the graffiti that’s everywhere, like the city is scribbling on its own skin. i get that. i’m scribbling with my camera.

if you get bored, tagaytay is just a short drive away, or so they say. i haven’t left the metro yet. there’s too much. i keep hearing rumors about a legendary sari-sari store in Sampaloc that sells ‘the coldest beer for 20 pesos,’ but the guy who told me also said the owner’s sister is a ghost that rearranges the soda cans at night. i don’t know what to believe. i believe in the sweat on my brow and the way the neon signs from the karaoke bars bounce off wet pavement at 2 am. that’s real.

i developed my first roll here in a makeshift darkroom (my hostel bathroom, towels taped over the window). the chemicals are from a photography supply store in Quiapo, where the guy showed me how to mix them with water that’s probably 30 degrees. ‘do it fast,’ he chuckled, ‘before the developer evaporates.’ i got one good frame: a woman selling balut from a basket, her face illuminated by a single bare bulb. it’s grainy, it’s maybe a bit blurry, but it’s manila. it’s the heat, the pressure (1013 hpa, whatever that means), the humidity clinging at 56%. it’s the sound of a thousand conversations, a busker playing a detuned guitar, and the constant, gentle hum of desperation and joy.

for practical nonsense: i’ve been using grab for everything. read some drilling reviews on Spot.ph about the best lumpia in Binondo (the verdict is still out, the one i tried was oily but i inhaled it). someone on a WhenInManila forum warned me about ‘friendly’ strangers offering ‘special tours’ - basically they walk you to a shop and get a commission. i just smile and say ‘salamat po’ and keep walking. my advice: get lost on purpose. let the heat dictate your pace. carry electrolyte packs like they’re gospel. and maybe, just maybe, that developing tank was a good idea.

this place is a fever dream you never want to wake up from. it’s exhausting and exhilarating. i have sand in my lens, salt in my hair, and about a thousand undeveloped frames that are probably all going to be hazy, golden, and perfect. manila isn’t a place you see, it’s a place you feel in your bones, and right now my bones are telling me to find another air-conditioned jollibee* to sit in for a minute. but i’ll be back out there. the light’s changing.