RICKY ALWAYS arrives in General Luna, Intramuros, at four in the afternoon in a distinct ensemble: a colored camisa de chino (most of the time maroon), a loose pair of shorts, a belt bag wrapped around his waist and a patterned fedora.
Alongside Fort Santiago’s parking lot, he picked up the marionettes hanging from a rack he made out of wood, strips of rubber from old bike interiors and an attached fluorescent light he can use when nighttime falls. It teetered from a decade of use. Perhaps, a new one is in order.
“ ‘Di basta-basta gawin ‘yan (It wasn’t that easy to assemble),” Enrique “Ricky” Paez, 57, said, pointing to the flock of bird-like puppets resting on the foot of his rack.
“Minsan, halos dalawang oras lang ang tulog mo, gagawa ka na (Sometimes you just sleep for two hours and then you have to make another one again).”
For almost 30 years, Ricky has been selling and puppeteering his handmade marionettes in a spot outside the gates of the historic Fort Santiago, in Intramuros. The rigorous work in crafting them has prompted him to sell only in the early evening, since a piece may take three to six hours in assembly alone, depending on the size.
It has become a routine for Ricky to store his rack and about 15 pieces of marionettes in an eatery situated in the area’s parking lot. Every day, from morning to noon, fellow vendors look after his merchandise while he makes a small batch at home. A portion of the sales then goes to the vendors in return, chipping 15 to 20 percent off his usual profits.
This, for Ricky, is nothing compared to what the pandemic has cost him.
He placed the rack three meters from Fort Santiago’s exit gate — it is the busiest spot in the area — and beside it, he laid an audio speaker wrapped in plastic, which was meant to protect the equipment from sudden drizzles of rain.
Whether Ricky will be able to play music in every stunt is a matter of chance, but he knows not to get his hopes up. After all, the device was not brand new when he bought it, and he has been using it for more than two years.
A red light blinked, followed by the first lines to Wham’s “Last Christmas.” That day, the odds were in his favor.
It has been months since lockdowns were lifted in Manila, and while Ricky is more than happy to have been back in business, he cannot help but look back to how things were pre-pandemic. He used to earn P6,000 a night before COVID-19 hit the Philippines.
“Minsan, ilang tao pa lang ubos na paninda ko (Sometimes, all my merchandise would be sold quickly after some transactions with a few customers),” Ricky said, as he carefully arranged each string puppet: big ones in the back, smaller ones in front.
“[Ngayon] matumal pa eh. Hindi naman P1000 lagi ang benta. Madalas, wala (Now, sales are weak. I don’t earn P1,000 all the time. Sometimes, I don’t sell anything at all).”
After six hours of crafting marionettes at home, Ricky would prepare himself — a few back stretches and three shoulder rolls on each side — for another four hours of selling them on the streets.
“Puppets, mamser,” Ricky would call out to passing tourists.
When Ricky first crafted a marionette, it was never meant for the streets of Manila. Instead, it was an attempt to satisfy a child’s request, one idle afternoon.
” ‘Kuya, gawan mo nga akong kakaibang laruan’ (Big brother, please make me an unusual toy),” he recalled his younger brother telling him.
It was a weekend in 1979, and there was not much to do for Ricky and his brother, then ages 14 and eight. The younger sibling’s plea was enough to spur ideas into Ricky’s head: all he needed was a quick trip to the nearest market.
From P30 worth of materials, Ricky made a string-puppet, about a foot and a half tall. Coconut shells were glued to each of its feet, preventing it from falling formless on the ground. A beak sat at the middle of its round face, and yellow feathers covered the whole thing. One look and anyone would see the resemblance: it was “Big Bird” from “Sesame Street,” a popular children’s show at the time.
Students from his brother’s school would soon take an interest in the young puppet maker’s craft, and after a week, Ricky was selling his creations at P50 each.
“Lahat ng kaklase niya, gustong bilhin ang mga gawa ko. Siguro mga seven times ko siyang ginawa — biling-bili eh,” (All of his classmates wanted to buy my creations. I made about seven of them because it sold fast),” Ricky said.
In the same year, he decided to take his string puppets further, from tiny classrooms to the teeming thoroughfares of Binondo.
Ricky walked past red lanterns, down to rows of busy alleys. The faint burning smell of fireworks filled the air. It was Chinese New Year, and he was more than ready to spend the rest of the night roaming Chinatown’s labyrinthine roads. Within just half an hour, he sold all 10 of his marionettes.
That night, the 14-year-old puppet maker went home with P500 in his pocket, unaware that the small string of sales would lead to hundreds more.
The visit was followed by several others, and, soon enough, Ricky found his way to Luneta and Ermita before settling in Intramuros about 20 years later. Stationed at a tourist site, Ricky took advantage of school field trips and passing day-trippers. He began dyeing feathers in hues of pink, blue, red, brown and black, adding variations to his initial all-yellow design.
Alongside kalesa operators and souvenir vendors, Ricky was peddling his merchandise to both locals and tourists. Often, a few customers would end up arguing over the last piece.
“Minsan, ‘yung isa bibili tatlo. Minsan, bibili lima. Eh ‘yung pinakamayaman, bibili sampung piraso. Kaya sabi sa’yo minsan, ilang tao pa lang ubos na paninda ko (There were times when a patron would buy three pieces. Others would buy five. The richest among them would buy ten. All my wares would be sold because of a few people),” the puppeteer said.
But as an old Filipino adage says, not every day is a holiday. In 2020, the sales stopped piling.
Puppetry during the pandemic
When lockdowns swept the pavements of Manila clean, so were Ricky and his only means of living.
But it was not just him. The same fate befell the other half of the industry: puppeteers.
“During the pandemic, because live events were almost zero, of course, puppetry arts was also zero,” ventriloquist and Philippine Ambassador of Puppetry Juancho “Wanlu” Lunaria said, in Filipino.
“But that is true only for the live performances.”
The closure of streets, malls and theater venues forced the puppetry arts to run where everyone else did — online.
Performers like Wanlu found hope in livestreams and online shows. Initially titled “Puppet Stories,” which eventually turned to “PuppetBahay,” the program he hosted featured different puppeteers from all over the world and from varying cultures, a way for him to promote puppetry arts offstage.
Aside from this, festivals and events found a new space in the virtual setup, signaling new opportunities for Philippine puppetry arts.
“Despite the fact na we were in a pandemic that time, there were two international puppetry festivals in Thailand, and we participated in them,” Wanlu said.
He and his fellow puppeteers began to welcome different social media platforms as their newfound podiums and stages, producing content online even after the government eased pandemic restrictions.
However, while some performers were able to find solace during lockdowns, puppet maker Ricky could only depend on a few marionettes sold to some friends every once in a while.
“Iyong mga friend ko minsan noong pandemic, talagang naawa. Sasabihin nila, ‘Oh, pare, dalhan mo ako niyan (During the pandemic, my friends took pity on me. They would say, ‘Friend, bring me some of your marionettes’),” he said.
Left with no other choice, Ricky would accept construction work in nearby areas and collect metal and bottle scraps to get by.
“[Ang] hirap. Eh bawal magtinda, ‘di ba? Wala naman tao rito. Siguro sa isang araw pag [kumita] ka ng P300, masaya ka na,” he said.
(It was difficult. Selling was not allowed, right? There were no people on the streets then. If you earn P300, you would be happy already.)
In more desperate times, Ricky was forced to run to some friends.
“ ‘Pag walang-wala talaga, kaunting kapal ng mukha. Punta sa ka-batch na may pera. Bigyan ka ng bigas.”
(If you have nothing, you have to rely on guts. You go to your batchmates who have money. They will give you rice.)
A dying industry?
Every day, many pass by the colorful string-puppets Ricky displays, but only a few turn their heads. Even fewer approach for a closer look, let alone buy a piece. For Ricky, this is no longer a surprise.
“ ‘Di naman pagkain ‘to. Talagang bibili nito iyong sadyang may pera lang — ang mga turista, ang sobra-sobra ang pera — iyon as in bili. Pero ‘yung kunwari [kahit] na-taon nga na maraming tao, ‘di naman kaya ng budget nila na bumili nito. Marami lang natutuwa,” he said.
(This is not food. Only those with excess money and tourists will buy them. Even if a lot of people visit this spot, their budget cannot afford it. Many people are just happy to see them).
On Aug. 3, the Republic Act 11904, or the Philippine Creative Industries Development Act, was passed into law in an effort to help the creative industry sector grow and to make the country the number one creative economy in Asia.
Its principal author, Pangasinan fourth district Rep. Christopher de Venecia, said the new law would develop Philippine creative industries into something that is globally competitive.
“This is a sector that has managed to survive and even thrive on its own, but with institutionalized support from the state, it will really help the creative industry sector grow and accelerate to the point where we want it to be, which is by 2030 the Philippines will be the number one creative economy in all of Asia,” de Venecia said.
According to Wanlu, while Southeast Asian countries had begun to recognize the Philippines’ contribution to puppetry arts, the industry still remains underappreciated at home, forcing a few puppeteers and puppet makers to pursue other jobs or careers.
“It doesn’t earn much compared to other artists like singers. A well-known singer in the field earns much. Lately, I performed with rappers in a school show, and they were given bigger talent fees because that’s the way their industry operates,” the ventriloquist said.
“In our industry, only those who have proven something, like those who appeared on talent shows or had videos that went viral, are paid decently. The rest, of course, they cannot demand a huge fee.”
Many people are leaving puppetry due to financial strains, but as various organizations such as the Samahan ng mga Papetir ng Pilipinas and Mulat Theater welcomed young puppeteers as members, Wanlu remained hopeful that ventriloquism and other forms of puppetry arts would stay alive.
“If it is true that puppetry is a dying art, we are here to do the CPR,” Wanlu said.
“If it is a dying art, we will resuscitate it, because not a lot of people realize it, but with the help of God, someday, they will find puppetry to be very entertaining.”
A group of tourists flocked over Ricky, each fixing their eyes on the dancing marionettes. They muttered in an unfamiliar language, but that did not matter. The puppet maker did what he did best. He turned up the music and grabbed another piece, puppeteering three marionettes at once — two on his right hand, one on the left.
“How much?” a tall man asked, his face red and freckled.
Ricky took two steps closer to the curious traveler and, in a tone higher than usual, stated the price of each piece — P350 for the smallest, P600 for medium-sized, and P1000 for the largest.
The tourist nodded and walked away; several followed suit. Within a minute, the crowd dispersed faster than it had formed.
Ricky, still smiling, turned to a mother and child walking hand-in-hand from the exit gate.
“Puppets, ma’am,” he said. F
