I used to despise Quiapo. I despised its stink of poverty and flagrant corruption. Never mind the fact that the Basilica Minore de Nazareno sits in its turf like a massive, tangible representation of piety. Abortionists with their poison syrups tend their stalls by the church doors.

Art school friends would insist on an afternoon photography trip in Quiapo during the weekends, courting crooks with big-ticket Canon EOSes. I would decline each time with a feigned toothache. Quiapo just wouldn’t do it for me.

But for a Film enthusiast aching for a Brocka piece, a Gosiengfiao oddity, Quiapo is salvation. From its black and dark alleys, one would find rare films those illuminated video stores will never put up their shelves because comely John Lloyd screams more moolah than a young Boyet De Leon in cream bell bottoms. Thirty five pesos a piece, thirty if you are hoarding.

Now I find myself constantly in Quiapo’s piss-smelling mouth, haggling with underground movie hawkers, slippered feet dirt-soiled. And Smiling, smiling, smiling.