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Their fathers visited the Philippines to buy sex: now a generation of children want to track them down. B rigette Sicat will not be going to school today. She sits, knees to chest, in a faded Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt, on the double mattress that makes up half her home. At night, she curls up here with her grandmother and two cousins, beneath the leaky sheets of corrugated iron that pass for a roof. Today, the monsoon rain is constant and the floor has turned to mud.
There is no toilet and no running water, and no means of cooking other than over an open fire. Even when she is well, Brigette is often too hungry to tackle the minute walk to school. And Brigette knows that somewhere, far away, in a barely imaginable but often-thought-of place called England, she has a father. She knows only his given name: Matthew.
Asked what she would say to him, were she able to send him a message, Brigette is at first stumped for words. Where are you? Do you ever think about me? He drives a Jeepney β a public transport vehicle originally converted from Jeeps abandoned by the US military.
Juana, 61, tells me she thinks she may not live much longer. But she wants the girls to finish school, to keep them from working in the bars. These are the slums of Angeles City in the Philippines , and the children here represent a United Nations of parentage. Their faces tell that story β fair skin, black skin, Korean features, caucasian.
You can see these slums on Google Earth β a tumble of rusty corrugated iron and rubbish dumps stretching from the streets down to the river. When you visit, it is the smell, like soured milk, that hits you first. Closer to the dump, it is more pungent. Here you will find the poorest of the poor β including the women too old for the sex trade β earning what they can from combing through the fetid piles, looking for plastic and metals they can sell.