“A bunch of rubbish” was my initial thought when I saw it on my daily walk to school. It was in my periphery, an eyesore against the pristine pinkish-white walls as its background, nestled under the shade of a young but bent kalachuchi tree in its unassuming yet interestingly cluttered glory. You walk a few steps ahead and you’ll see the board exam passers of our university, perfectly lined up with minimal design, painting an obvious disparity. With my cheap phone, held together by wrist bands and wishes, I would take a series of photos of a makeshift altar of sorts by the roadside of our school campus between June and September 2025. I was always compelled to take photos, as it was ephemeral, ever-changing, and seemingly included everything.
The altar was a house-shaped glass box on top of a table, with a green umbrella cover serving as a tablecloth and a politician’s name very visible on the side. The first time I captured it, what caught my eye were a CCTV camera, a rosary-wrapped cross, and a toy chicken. Within its vicinity were an empty cat food wrapper and a plastic Coca-Cola bottle used as a vase of mayana flowers, with a name on its wrapper: Charisse. Another time, there was an empty black leather purse and an upside-down red horse bottle with a stack of rocks balanced on top of it. On other days, I saw a pair of black slides and an empty cylinder of paint. Next, an XL coffee cup from a nearby café with coffee dregs still noticeable; an unopened can of Star Nutri-Meats Ulam; an empty bottle of Red Bull containing stems of what seemed like yerba buena; and a garland of kalachuchi flowers piled up on a green, broken clock.
The twisted branches were wrapped in various ropes, strings, wires, and plastic chains that snaked around and sometimes held hanging flyers with the face of a politician I despise, religious sayings, and various articles of clothing. There was once a cross bearing random inscriptions, with a rubber duck in front of it. Different brands of water-filled plastic beverage bottles lined up in a row. There was a broken mini-fan and a television, mirrors and ceramic mugs and PVC pipes, and scribbled gibberish words on cardboard packaging. There were food offerings in the form of strawberry-filled bavarians and a cup of whatever liquid 7-Eleven Gulp. Glass boxes filled with rain, reminiscent of mini aquariums, were green with moss and inhabited by unrecognizable, wriggling organisms. At one point, there was even a makeshift bathroom with a divider and a basin of water. The ground would be littered with petals of bougainvillea flowers. It was a truly overwhelming sight to behold, comparable to the hidden objects games I once loved to play during my childhood.
The altar belonged to a tricycle driver who lived on the streets with his family. My boarding house was just across the street from the altar and the space they made their own, and I would sometimes hear him preach about repentance at dawn, often waking me up; on other days at lunch, when the sun was at its zenith and I ate at my suking carenderia; and at dusk, when there was heavy foot traffic along Bonifacio Street. His words often fell on ears that could hear but wouldn’t process his ramblings, perceived as a mere annoyance perhaps by many. A man without a name, forgotten by the end of the day amid the drone of television and the mindless swiping of TikTok videos or IG and FB reels before sleep. But not me.
I wondered about the family during unexpected times of the day, their presence a constant in my mind. If it rained, I would look out the window and think to myself about their whereabouts and the comfort and quality of their sleep. Were they awake, just like me? In the middle of a boring lecture, I would picture their daughter at the side of the street, the same girl who once saw me throw up on the sidewalk after I ate something bad, her unkempt hair and soiled face bent down as she played with empty water bottles and newsprints she probably didn’t know how to read. I worried about her safety.
The altar was forcibly removed around September, the bushes and trees by the walls cut down as well, leaving the area bare and remaining an informal parking space. The family then transferred to the adjacent sidewalk and again accumulated various objects, among which I found a hardbound copy of Can You Keep a Secret? by Sophie Kinsella, to my surprise, ruined by the rain. With the altar gone and the owner of the adjacent building firm on not having unwanted occupants on her property, blocking them with wires, I rarely see them anymore.
Quisha Marie Latiban is a BA Psychology student at the University of the Immaculate Conception. Born and raised in Davao Oriental, she is now based in Davao City, where she finds a rich source of material for meaning-making.