This is Manila Bay.

It was a cloudy Wednesday morning, the air heavy with warnings of rain. The sky was flatly gray, no way to tell where one cloud ended and the next began.


We arrived at the dock in the fisherfolk village of Navotas at roughly 9:30, where we were to meet a man who calls himself The Chairman. The water level was high that day owing to Sunday's typhoon, which washed piles of debris onto the land by the dock.

Dogs pink with hair loss nosed through the garbage for food, and two barefoot boys shared the weight of a basket as they sifted through old flip flops, plastic bottles, air conditioner filters and salvageable car parts for goods to cash in on at the market. While they would find about 20 pesos (45 cents) of resalable goods in a day over the dry season, typhoons meant a lottery of litter would wash up to land, hopefully up to 100 pesos worth.

Five of us -- Joseph, a local organizer, Ken, an organizer from Canada, friends Khara and John, and me -- stood gazing out onto the smoggy bay where The Chairman would soon guide us.

The bamboo dock had trapped enough rubbish to completely conceal the water beneath. Past that, papers, sandals and fast food wrappings floated sporadically for several yards.

A barefoot boy walked past us onto the dock, and without hesitation dove in and headed for the market to our left, where boats were pulling in to pick up gas or to drop off local catch. We involuntarily shrieked while standing in shock.

Half an hour later (punctual in "Filipino time") The Chairman was at last ready and pulled up one of his four fishing boats. We clumsily piled in behind Captain Chairman and his first mate onto the bamboo-outrigged banca and motored north along the coast.

Sunday's tides not only brought in a treasure of litter for the fishing village's scavenging residents, but left 38 missing and disheveled dozens of the 2,000 homes propped up over the bay.

In front of these stilted houses, clothes hung out to dry under the sunless, humid sky. Bancas hung roped in under the clotheslines or sat on bamboo docks. Groups of friends ignored the debris and floated on inner tubes or hung onto the dock as they passed the time. Families and friends who gathered in the windowless, doorless shelters stood to wave as our boat tooted by.


The banca chugged along the shore to the end of the village until the only noise we heard was the sound of our motor. Stilted homes gave way to quiet trees and shrubs. Small silver fish suddenly skipped in and out of the water alongside our boat, evidencing that the water, however polluted, was certainly habitable enough for the fish that feed Navota's families.

The Chairman, in his late twenties, has been working on the boat for ten years. He says on good days his catch might amount to a good 400 pesos worth (about 9 dollars), enough to feed his small family and the many formerly homeless or abandoned animals that have sought refuge in his home near the dock of Navotas, now far behind us.

As I studied the silent trees on the shore, I noticed the ground beneath them -- a shimmering mass of cans and plastic, the rubbish decomposing just enough to fertilize rows of vegetation. Looking down the shore we spotted the looming neck of a garbage crane.


Joseph, a Navotas native who works with the local Alliance of Fisherfolks in Navotas (ALMANA), says the Philippine government has agreed to let Japan bring its refuse, growing uncontainable on the densely populated island chain, to Manila Bay, where cranes were moving masses of garbage into mounds to make room for more. He also says the Japanese government is already funding the reclamation of an area up the bay in Bulacan to develop resort homes for retired Japanese.

To make the bay a more aesthetic place to live and vacation -- and therefore jump-start a revenue stream -- the city's former mayor put forth a 50 billion-peso ($1.1 billion) reclamation project to clean up and remodel 160 hectares (1.6 square kilometers) of land along the bay, a project that will supposedly employ up to 245,000 Filipinos into the tourism industry.

Condos and hotels will line the bay, inevitably spurring the creation of new restaurants, tours and aquatic sport services. Fishing boats will be replaced by yachts and sailboats, and, according to a brochure illustration, the murky, debris-filled water will transform into a shimmering blue.

The government plans to make way for the new construction by moving the 2,000 or so fisherfolk families -- including The Chairman's -- away from the bay to a location yet to be determined. Groups like ALMANA fear that moving the families inland will strip the fishermen of their livelihoods and force them to clamber for new ways to make money. Protesters of the project argue that the government merely wants to hide its country's poverty in order to attract foreign business.

However, the project is currently at a stalemate, due not to opposition but to a lack of funding.

Rounding back to the dock, we wove through several fish traps-- giant nets propped up by poles that trap thousands of fish. A small stilted house nearby shelters the caretaker who stays there alone for days or weeks at a time to tend to his catch.

At the dock, The Chairman's fishing hands were ready to bring us in, and Mrs. Chairman brought out crackers and Coke as we mingled with her and a woman lounging in a hammock. She was several months pregnant with her second child, but has just once received prenatal care.

We said goodbye and headed to the elite quarters near Fort Bonifacio, or simply "the Fort," where we had gourmet Mexican for about $5, roughly what our friend The Chairman makes in a day. Despite the delicious ingredients in my enchilada, the day's events left a bitter taste in my mouth. I asked my expat friends if they ever felt guilty for indulging in the upper-class life here after all they've seen. It's a reality they've had to come to terms with -- every well-cooked meal has become something served with a tinge of guilt.

Traffic on the way home slowed to a chaos of parked cars, a common occurrence on the packed roads of Manila. We inched past a mass of people surrounding a man lying on the ground, presumably hit by a car. Someone had covered his body with a cardboard refrigerator box, so all we could see were the sandals on his feet as we passed.

I took a deep breath and we tried to change the subject. Three half Filipinos, all pretty grateful for having been born American. Once I got home I picked up a pencil and wrote:

Wednesday, 8/11/10

I am unshakably unsettled. I don't know if it was the sheer amount of garbage that covered the land and sea at the Bay of Manila, or the animals, hairless and starving to death, or the kids taking advantage of Sunday's typhoon by cashing in on the garbage they picked off the land by the dock. Or perhaps it was the kid swimming amid a lake of debris towards the local fisherfolk's market, or the tiny, cracked out pregnant mom playing with her son in a hammock by the bay, or the little girl peeing on the street, or, of course, the dead man lying on the road, shielded from the public eye by a mere cardboard refrigerator box. Causing traffic congestion at Baclaran market. Or maybe it was because most of this I witnessed before lunch, the best Mexican food I've had in a year, which I paid for with my point-earning American Express card...Mexican food was always a guilty pleasure.

Dead guy must have ruined my appetite.

And then I started to cry.

Thanks to Joseph, Khara and John L. for their help.

This is Independence Monument Park.

Ever since the hundred-something brothels in Phnom Penh's notorious Svay Pak district were closed about two years ago, prostitutes have established other stomping grounds around town to solicit their services.

Several brothels on Rue 63 near the outdoor Sorya Shopping Center boutiques are allowed to remain open, their distinct red lights a blatant call-out to any client desiring sex services. While tourists may not find a brothel section in their Lonely Planet guide books, any moto-dop (motorbike driver) or tuk-tuk (carriage taxi) driver can show them the way to a brothel, or one of the many karaoke bars, massage parlors or barber shops that serve as facades to back-door sex services.

Other girls who work independently of these establishments can find up to three or four clients a night by simply standing on the street, faces caked in white makeup and waiting for men on their motor bikes to pull over and ask how much. (The going rate for the girls of Independence Monument Park, it seems, is $15 for the locals and double for a foreigner.)

As I rode on the back of my translator Bunthen's moto early one breezy Friday night, couples strolling through the park began to disperse. We slowed down to survey the park, passing cliques of girls in short skirts who loitered in fours and fives on every other bench. Some spotted our moto approaching and came forward to wave us down; upon seeing me, a female, they shot quizzical looks instead.

After parking the moto on the curb, we sat on a bench and waited. Having been to this park with his chums several times before (not to seek out the girls' services, on his part) Bhunten was sure we would come across the mi kchal (literally mi, "master," and kchal, "wind" in Khmer), the man who coordinates a network of girls and seeks out virgins from the rural provinces to deliver to rich or foreign clients.

The minutes ticked by as we watched men in their 30s, 40s, even 50s, pull over to talk to the girls. Some girls mounted the motos and rode off with their clients; others walked to a building across the street and returned several minutes later to continue the night.

The girls talked to Bhunten freely; but when finding I was a journalist, some demanded money for information, citing experiences with Australian documentary makers who paid them well. One girl wandered away from her pack to squat in the park alone and watch from afar. I walked off as well, watched my translator strike up conversation with three girls, and waited for him to summon me over a few minutes later.

***

This is Ani.

Sporting a low cut white dress, the most vivacious of the three sold her virginity at age 15 for $2500 to a Cambodian man who now lives abroad. A party girl from an early age, Ani had feared punishment from her parents when she stayed out late with her friends.

She flew the coop, moved in with some friends and began selling new, high quality motorbikes to support her lifestyle. She often stayed with her girlfriend, whose parents let them sleep together in their house. However, when she could not pay off the money she owed to friends, she found an opportunity in prostitution four or five months ago as a faster way to pay off her debts.

Though Ani, now 17, no longer sees her girlfriend on a regular basis, she says she enjoys making good money from prostituting. From time to time, the Cambodian man who bought her virginity calls her when he's in town, and she sends that money to her parents. However, she keeps him in the dark about her current occupation, afraid of how he might react.

When I asked what she would be doing if she wasn't working the streets, she shrugged and replied, "Stay at home."

***

This is Asay.

With high heels and a purse that could hold little more than a cell phone and a night's earnings, she donned a short, blue tube dress that exposed a shoulder burn she said she'd gotten from a moto accident. She was less talkative, a 17-year-old from a poor family in a quiet rural province.

A friend in Phnom Penh had invited Asay to visit her in the city, luring her in with ideas about the vibrant party scene and easy living. With no farm, no property and no job opportunities in her province, Asay left home to find a job here, and has been working the streets of Phnom Penh for about five months.

After our brief talks with Ani and Asay, they ran off to win over a man who had just pulled up on his moto. Before she left, Asay mentioned that a man wanted to sell the virginity of her friend's 14-year-old niece, and if we knew any potential customers, we should contact her.

***

This is Srey Oun.

She slouched on the bench next to Bunthen as I sat a few yards behind them. With a couple more years of experience than the other girls, she wore a simple long-sleeved shirt and pants, her hair long and untrimmed.

She got her start on the streets two years ago when a friend told her she could find work in the park. Now at 29, though, it isn't easy finding clients of her own night after night, so she earns a $1 commission helping other girls get work.

If she had the opportunity to learn a new skill like sewing or nail and hair care, she would take it; however, she said, no one is there to help her. With two sons and a daughter to feed and no vocational skills, she can't afford to run her own business or stop to find another job.

***

It turned out that the girls' mi kchal had been arrested a few weeks prior (pimping was finally made illegal in Cambodia in a February 2008 legislative reform) so the girls had to fend for themselves to find work. Bhunten and I left the girls to converse at a nearby cafe.

While none of the girls admitted to being forced into prostitution, personal financial constraints and a lack of vocational skills pinned them to their jobs as women of the night. However, all three seemed to somewhat enjoy their jobs--even Srey Oun, according to Bhunten.

When he asked the girls if they would stop prostituting if an organization offered to train them with a new skill, all three said yes.

Dozens of Cambodian and international NGOs exist in Phnom Penh to aid both voluntary and trafficked sex workers. Even so, upon leaving training and rehabilitation, many girls eventually find themselves back in their former lives--on the streets, in brothels, under glowing red lights, behind barber shops. "They're young," Bhunten reasoned, "so they don't worry about it."

We finished our beers at midnight. On our way home, we rode by the park for one last head count. Fourteen girls (and no one else) perched on the benches; Ani, Asay and Srey Oun were gone.

Thanks to Bhunten for his help translating.

This is Dump Mountain.

Here in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, "one man's trash is another's treasure" is, for many, a way of life. Hundreds of the capital city's poorest residents can be found searching through the Steung Meanchey garbage mound on the western edge of town for food scraps or metal, plastic and trinkets to resell.

The more successful of these scavengers can afford to rent out one of the makeshift houses surrounding the dump for some $5 a month; the rest make their homes on the Mountain.

At the very top of the mound, Hotun (left), 68, and Kioun, 60, raise their 5-year-old grandson Kao in a lonely one-room shack they built here six years ago. They'd originally lived in one of the houses surrounding the dump, but moved up to the top to sell bottles of water for 500 riel, or about 12 cents, to people hunting through the garbage under the afternoon sun.

But the rubbish surrounding their shack has long since been crunched and burned down to bits of melted plastic and shards of glass, and the new trash that people hunt through is dumped several yards away. Since the couple now has no source of income, they don't eat every day and must depend on friends to give them water and food like fish.

In the back of their home are a few odds and ends, a kerosene stove and a bowl full of bright yellow bananas. On the mats to the side, two women who live near the dump took a break from the afternoon heat during their search through the rubble. Suddenly the cry of a baby erupted from a small hammock hanging in the middle of the room and his mother rose to quiet him.

Hotun and Kioun came from poor families in the Takeo province and moved to the capital in 1979 in hopes of better job opportunities. Kioun left a brother in Takeo who she hasn't seen or heard from since she left. She has since acquired a leg injury that inhibits her from walking.

At the top of this mountain, her shack an island in a sea of glittering, shattered glass, Kioun can never aspire to leave.

Thanks to Philipin for his help translating.