G’Day and welcome back,

I recently traveled to the Philippines on a fairly unplanned trip with only a few pins on my map marking places of interest. I landed in Manila, but I wasn’t looking for the polished, tourist-friendly version of the city. I wanted to see its raw, untamed, and often forgotten side. That’s what led me to Tondo, one of the most densely populated areas of Manila, often labeled a slum. But what I found there, its people, their resilience, and their hospitality, was anything but deserving of that word.

In this blog, I will share some of the incredible sights I witnessed, the people I met, and the moments I captured through my lens. As always, I appreciate you for reading.

Tondo is built like an eternal labyrinth, a never-ending maze of houses and food shacks that blend into workspaces. It's incredible, sometimes concerning. This area is considered fairly dangerous, where people trying to survive means theft, robbery, or worse is commonplace. I knew the risks before I stepped foot in it. Initially, I was guarded, keeping my mind on my pockets and wondering if anyone was following me. You could see that mindset in my images, too far away, with no emotion, just flat.

"If your photos aren’t good enough, then you’re not close enough." – Robert Capa

I reflected on this quote and decided I needed to commit to the story I was trying to tell, even though that story hadn’t fully revealed itself yet. I woke up early, with a fresh mindset, and the confidence that my 6’1 frame would be enough of a deterrent for any trouble.

I spent hours wandering, talking with locals, and vendors, and immersing myself in the chaotic surroundings. The color, smell, and noise were raw, visceral, powerful, and inspiring. There were moments when I couldn’t pull my face from the viewfinder.

I ventured down a busy alleyway, where it met the main street. A group of men played a hybrid game of pool and air hockey, cigarettes hanging from their lips, and the ash curling like tired fingers as they leaned over the table. As I walked further, I heard laughter and the familiar sound of balls bouncing on concrete. When I rounded the corner, hoping to be discreet, I was met by a thousand curious eyes. A large group of kids playing basketball rushed toward me, eager to know why on earth I was there.

The young boys were full of questions, asking about me, asking me to play basketball with them, until I had no choice but to shoot a couple of hoops. I hoped that the motion of my sore shoulder would deter them from asking me to play more, but I managed to find a seat and photograph them as they played. After a while, loud beeping, honking horns, and shouting filled the air. Startled, I looked up to see some of the boys driving a tuk-tuk across the court. It was bedlam. I felt a sense of joy, but also understood the moment was fleeting as more and more people arrived to see the “foreigner.”

Saint NINo De patojan festival

In the early hours of the morning, before the sun’s rays could pierce through Manila’s thick smog and while the roosters were just beginning to stir, I felt an extra layer of rumbling in the air. An energy, almost electric, filled the streets. Before I knew it, my feet were on the pavement and my camera was clasped firmly in my hand. My eyes were still crusted with sleep, and the stain from last night’s dinner was still on my shirt. In my haste to capture what was unfolding outside, the thought of my appearance never even crossed my mind.

What I witnessed was incredible. Swarms of people flocked to the church, cramming themselves inside like sardines in a can, all eager to hear what was to be said. Now, those of you who know me understand that I am far from a religious zealot, but I can appreciate the level of dedication and passion these people put into their beliefs. If only that same passion was directed toward something more fundamentally practical.

Santo Niño de Pajoja, depicted as the child Jesus, is at the heart of a celebration deeply rooted in the community’s history and culture. The annual Pajotan Festival takes place on the third Sunday of January, drawing in crowds with its vibrant displays of faith and tradition.

I did my research, but I still don’t fully understand the correlation between the festival’s name and its religious significance. As a traveler, you have to accept that some things won’t always make sense. Looking in from the outside, the best you can do is appreciate the cultural inclusivity and embrace the experience. Now, let me explain why I found it a bit confusing.

The festival’s name, “Santo Niño,” translates to “Holy Child,” while “Pajotan” is derived from “pajo,” a type of mango that once grew in abundance in the area. The festival itself takes place in a district called “Mayapajo,” which means “there is Pajo.” The connection between these elements isn’t entirely clear, but what was undeniable was the scale of devotion on display. Huge floats, marching bands, flag bearers, and even giant costumes filled the streets in a lavish, almost theatrical procession.

I mentioned before that I’m 6’1”—well, if we’re being precise, I’m actually 6’1.5”, but hey, who’s counting, right? As a photographer, I usually try to stay invisible, blending into the background to capture those raw, unfiltered moments. But at this festival, that was impossible. I stood head and shoulders above the crowd, which meant I was treated like a minor celebrity. People wanted photos with me, and the older ladies took their chances flirting (I mean, they’re only human, right?). Any hope of staying inconspicuous was gone.

But once the action started—floats rolling through the streets, flags swaying in perfect harmony, and bands playing in unison—I was glued to my camera. My presence melted away, or at least, relatively speaking.

The sun rose above the buildings and makeshift tin-and-brick houses stacked precariously on top of one another, its warm light trickling down into the smoke-filled alleyways where people cooked over open flames. The air was thick with the scent of poorly butchered pork, chicken, steamed corn, and other vegetables displayed on small carts. A vendor stood to the side, selling iced tea from a precarious-looking container, hands waving frantically to flag down potential customers.

I watched the world unfold in the shadows, away from the festival’s chaotic excitement. Swarms of children, so full of life, rushed up to me, begging for their photo to be taken—peace signs up, tongues out. Unfortunately, these poses don’t make for compelling photographs, at least not for me.

Bells rang in a rhythmic pattern, blurring with the cheers of the crowd, the pounding of drums, and the deep chants that filled the air. Then, the preacher emerged, weaving through the mass of worshippers. My brief fame in the crowd vanished as his presence took hold. The white-collared priest moved with a quiet authority, his touch igniting something in the people around him.

Water splashed from small plastic bottles as worshippers flung it toward him. He waved, reaching out to touch faces, and in response, they lit up with an almost electric joy. His touch seemed like magic.

As the hours passed and the festival finally came to an end, I took a seat, flabbergasted and overwhelmed by the experience. It felt like it had gone on forever, and in my mind, my camera was a smoking gun—my shutter white-hot from relentless use. I have yet to properly go through the images, but perhaps they will be a future gift to myself. Something to look back on when the days are slow and adventures feel far away.

If you’ve made it this far, I truly appreciate you taking the time to read my words and glance at my pictures. It means the world to me. I’ll be writing much more about this journey, and we’ve barely scratched the surface—so stay tuned.

If you’d like to support this adventure or any of my future endeavors, there’s a link where you can donate and “buy me a coffee”—but that’s entirely up to you. More than anything, I just hope you enjoyed my work.

Thank you,
Michael