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The entire pack sized us up for a minute through inscrutable dark brown eyes before sinking back into the secure confines of their bright-colored homes.

We then headed toward the reception area of the Laguna Pit Bull Rehabilitation Center in Tiaong, Quezon Province and were greeted by two bubbly volunteers, Jeff Diaz and Jay Jao. The center, shared Jeff, is a project of the Compassion and Responsibility for Animals (CARA) Welfare Philippines in cooperation with the Island Rescue Organization (IRO). Through the work of these two animal welfare organizations, an estimated 300 pit bulls were rescued in dogfighting facilities operated by Korean nationals and their Filipino cohorts in San Pablo and Calauan, Laguna in March 2012.

As Jeff continued to speak, I subtly looked back at the dogs, which now looked calm and collected with their tongues sticking out, and tried to absorb what I just learned. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the thought that these dogs were traumatized and found in very poor health and condition—and yet, here they are, getting back to their normal lives, albeit little by little. It was heart-warming and heart-breaking at the same time.

After lunchtime, we gave the Laguna pit bulls some treats. At first I was pretty hesitant, as the child in me had this misconception that pit bulls, among other dog breeds, are aggressive and violent fighting dogs.  But the animal lover in me believed otherwise. And so, not one minute later, I found myself laughing and smiling while I reached over the cages to offer the dogs their food and pet them. It was funny and cute, how all at once they were frantically barking at me just to get my attention, as if yelling, “Where’s my food?!”

And then it was time for walking the dogs. Krixia and I chose to walk Cynthia, as the white and chocolate colored pooch immediately grabbed our attention the very instant we saw her. She was very quiet in her cage—she was perhaps the only one that didn’t bark at all, and just sat down obediently while waiting for her treat.

It turns out, though, that indoor Cynthia was the very opposite of her outdoor counterpart. As soon as she got out from her cage, she started snorting, loudly and uncontrollably.

And it just got worse as minutes passed. “OK,” Krixia said, “now I’m freaked out.”

I, however, started to get the sense that maybe Cynthia was only trying to tell us things. Maybe she had a message—or at least a plan. Why else would she announce herself with startling nostril-blasts? Was she remembering the abuse and neglect she experienced in the past? Was she hurt? Sick? Hungry? Upset?

“Are you sure that’s a pitbull—and not a pig?” Yvette teasingly asked. “That’s exactly my question, too.” I just said, laughing.

On the surface, Binondo looks oppressive, what with its merciless humidity and extra high density living. Chaos mixes with routine, and the only thing constant is dust. The traffic chokes and flows—full of bicycles and motorcycles swerving around cars, FX vans and jeepneys waiting for a full load before going their way, crossing pedestrians and the occasional rickshaw and calesas (horse carriages) clip-clopping along the narrow arteries of downtown Manila. It seems that there are no road rules in the area—or perhaps just none that are followed. And then, amidst all the commotion: masses of lives are cramped in the streets, living on pennies and paper cups, doing whatever they can to get through the day.

But despite all these little nuances, the Chinatown district remains a popular tourist destination. The reason is quite clear: there is an abundance of not only authentic Chinese cuisine, but also age-old landmarks, stores, relics and rituals of both historic and cultural significance.

The place is an active dragon in itself—a long street branching into more side streets, exhibiting color and movement at every turn. Little stalls line the footpaths, selling a variety of delicacies, from hopia (mooncakes) and tikoy (Chinese glutinous rice cakes), to mangoes and oranges organized in small pyramids, and mounds of cabbages, carrots and beans in large cardboard boxes. From temples, to shrines, jewellery shops, and commercial and residential buildings, the place feels, as it has for centuries, like a living testimony of the country’s rich history and legacy.

There is the frenzied race between the new and the old, which seems to make up a massive chunk of Binondo’s personality. Everywhere in this Chinatown district you can find indications of how tradition and modernity marry, on both micro and macro scales. Stiff, spiny buildings and neon-colored billboards, festooned with signs in three languages, are situated just meters behind a Buddhist temple’s decorated awnings. Smartphones bleep in alleyways where the smell of sampaguita billows overhead from long, wiry poles extending from windows and balconies. Chinese businessmen and tourists promenade in the streets with their Converse shoes and Gucci bags, while street vendors sit next to their fruit and vegetable stalls, decked in thin-soled slippers and old hats.

When we reached an alley on one of the edges of Binondo, it doesn’t take much imagination to feel as if we have arrived not at the edge but at the heart of something—an almost literal heart, a gold-plated altar with flowers draping over it and the light of incense and red-colored candles illuminating the scene.

I stand there for a moment, taking it all in: the altar about two meters in front of me, two middle-aged Chinese guys in short-sleeved shirts and khaki pants, a woman whose bags of groceries were arranged neatly on the side—the three of them holding a pair of wooden half disks over their incense sticks, uttering prayers I couldn’t understand.

Behind me, a Filipino street vendor selling candles was slumped over her stall, exhausted and sleepy. I approached her and asked about the religion and the ritual. She looked up at me and said, “It’s Chinese Catholicism—extraordinary, isn’t it?”

“Very,” I replied. “But what are those half disks for?”

“They use those wooden half disks to have their fortunes told. They ask a question answerable by ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and then they throw the disks to the floor. Identical faces mean ‘no’ while opposing figures mean ‘yes.’”

“Wow, that’s amazing! And the smoke?”

“The Chinese believe smoke is a way to connect the world of the living with the realm of the dead.”

Right then, I breathe in the small clouds of incense smoke—and strangely, it felt as if I’ve inhaled a spirit, something breathing and alive.

But none of this is the most interesting part of the trip. The most interesting part—the reason I endured the hour-long train ride and all the congested, polluted roads just to get there—occurred when I was about to leave the town.

On the bridge below the arch that says “Welcome to Manila Chinatown,” there was an old man with his almost bald head bowed over a paper takeaway plate. As I walked through the bridge, I watched as half of his rice meal slopped over his shirt when he tried to raise the plate to his lips. The last thing I saw was the skin, wrinkled but smooth, where his eyes were supposed to be.

It was a strange moment full of contrasts and irony—an eyeless, homeless local staying right under the arch of Chinatown; a lonely slowpoke who barely fits in with the crowd and commotion of everything.