Super Bowl Portfolio (1984-95)

All Photos by Tony Mangia

Pacquiao Looks Ageless After Dominating Victory Over Broner

By Tony Mangia

While many have been looking at boxer Manny Pacquiao as past his prime in recent years, the future Hall of Famer looked ten years younger after convincingly defeating American challenger Adrien Broner to retain his WBA welterweight title in Las Vegas on Saturday night.

No, make that 11 years younger.

The 40 year-old Pacquiao (61-7-2) won a unanimous decision (117-111, 116-112, 116-112) over the 29 year-old Broner (33-4-1) defending his 147-pound belt in dominating fashion in front of 13,000 appreciative fans at the MGM Grand Arena.

It was Pacquiao's first fight in the United States in over two years and his first bout since a title-winning seventh-round knockout of Lucas Matthysse in July in Malaysia. Now fight fans are hoping last night's bout could serve as an tempting incentive for a rematch with another perennial — Floyd Mayweather Jr..

Pacquiao claimed a shoulder injury limited his effectiveness going into that Mayweather fight and has expressed his desire for another shot at the champ after losing a unanimous decision to him back in 2015. Mayweather was ringside for last night's fight.

Manny Pacquiao lights up Adrian Broner in the 7th round! #Boxing #Broner #BronerPacquiao #PacquiaoVsBroner #PacquiaoBroner pic.twitter.com/zT6HRvQRZQ

— Enos Tonnie (@ItsEnos) January 20, 2019

It was Pacquiao's first fight since turning 40 years old and the the first one since being reunited with his longtime trainer Freddie Roach after a brief separation.

The Filipino senator used body shots to work over Broner in the early rounds before unleashing a wild flurry of head shots in the seventh. Pacquiao completely controlled the tempo of the fight and the stats don't lie. During the 12 rounds bout he landed 82 of 197 power punches to 39 of 180 for Broner. Pacquiao connected on 47 body shots. Broner landed a grand total of three.

"I don't believe my career is over," the boundless Pacquiao said after the bout. " I proved it again at the age of forty."

On the other side, Broner's remarks after the fight might not be ageless, but they certainly will be timeless.

pic.twitter.com/IVsom1GcIz

— Sporting News (@sportingnews) January 20, 2019

Homestay Volunteering Is A Great Way To See A Foreign Country

Article and photos by Tony Mangia

International volunteering became sort of an annual ritual with me about five years ago after an eye-opening and exciting three weeks teaching English in Kenya. What began as one-time, lending a hand in some small way journey soon became a yearly excursion overseas before turning into the bi-yearly excuse to explore less ventured and vastly more interesting places in the world — with charitable group benefits — it has become for me today.

The act of volunteering has cannily become equal parts self-serving travel support as much as an opportunity to do some sort of good in the world. 

As a photojournalist, I am always looking for the off-the-beaten-path sort of destinations and usually travel in spring or fall when the climates are more bearable and most rainy seasons are dormant. Of course, there aren’t the mobs of tourists and college students in the background of every shot either. Volunteering offers me the chance to get up close and personal with different communities of the world without feeling like one of those tourists.  And besides the satisfaction of helping other people out — and occasionally their fellow Hominidae (Working on an orangutan reserve in Malaysia) — it is also a great way to get acclimated to a less developed country — namely its culture, food, language and customs — with the help, support and guidance of a local volunteer team and the families you get to stay with. A one or two week crash course, so to speak. There is nothing more intimidating or a feeling of helplessness than being dropped off blindly into an environment way different that our western world without a clue. Just getting used to foregoing the creature conveniences we usually take for granted — simple amenities like hot water, air conditioning and sit-down toilets — can take some getting used to. Those squat toilets may be more natural and beneficial to your system (so they say), but not when your bad knees scream at every bend like mine do. Still don’t know why they don’t put handlebars around that hole in the ground. While most homestay experiences may take you out of your comfort zone for a spell, they also offer adventurous travelers a bartering-type opportunity to help others in exchange for getting a helping hand in return.

I tend to travel solo so I can take all the photos I want without anyone looking at their watch or hear the restless tapping of another person’s foot hinting at moving on. Getting the right photographic light can sometimes take a lot of time and patience— a toleration mostly only serious photographers know or care about. After finishing your daily chores as a volunteer, it’s easy to wander off on your own, even though most volunteer organizations stress keeping a close relationship within the groups —  such as dinners and activities together — to build camaraderie. I still choose the lone wolf approach whenever possible. The whole group together principle is more of a protective measure than an actual Kumbaya existence, but in the company of other volunteers, I’ve found that these organizations offer more than just a friendly, welcoming comfort zone for the lonely traveler in a foreign land, they offer security. And those on a budget can take advantage of that hospitality by saving money on tours, flights and accommodations once you get to their country. For example, when I volunteered in Kenya, the $1500 three-day safari I saw on my computer in the U.S. before I left actually cost me about $400 in Kenya because Beatrice, the woman whose family I home-stayed with in Nairobi, had connections to better deals. I recommend researching the tours and adventures beforehand, so you know how to clarify what you are looking to your volunteer hosts once you arrive. Sometimes language and technological issues (Limited internet, phone etc.) make it a little harder in some places, so the more information you bring with you, the better.

So there I was last May, touching down in Kathmandu after a pleasant, but tiresome 30 hour air journey from JFK — with a late-night layover in Dubai where I had the last real Western mean I would enjoy for a while — a quite delicious, McArabia Chicken (sliced chicken, tahini, lettuce, tomato and onions on pita) sandwich at the terminal McDonalds. My biggest challenge after the volunteer group sent a cab to meet me at Dubai International Airport? Figuring out how to adjust my watch nine hours and forty-five minutes ahead to local time. I couldn’t, so I spent the next three weeks just deducting two hours from the hands on the watch and noting if it was night or day. The younger volunteers on my trips are always amazed I don’t have a smart phone and that I can go weeks without taking selfies, scrolling social media and ignoring all the Internet noise that comes with it. The first time they see a Luddite like me still using a flip phone and notice I can’t even change the time on it, they really crack up.

Kathmandu, the capitol and largest city in Nepal, might be the dustiest place I’ve ever been in and that includes earthy cities such as Nairobi, Kandy in Sri Lanka and Myawaddy in Myanmar — all during their dry seasons. Through my taxi window, I observed the small storms of dirt particles lifted up by motor vehicles mix with the unending buzzing of scooters and motorcycles blowing puffs of exhaust into a throat choking nightmare. The durable Royal Enrights seem to be the choice of motorcycle here, as they are in India and many southeast Asian countries and it isn’t uncommon to see a family of five straddling one together. My taxi driver told me the number of motorized bikes on the streets of Kathmandu increased from 8,000 ten years ago, to over 80,000 teeming the streets now. He wasn’t happy about it either.

The only creatures that don’t seem to worry about the two-wheeled menaces zipping around town are the sacred cows you see grazing smack in the middle of any thoroughfare, leisurely chomping on the grains and fruit that people lay in front of them as offerings.

Face masks are almost a necessity and sold everywhere and it’s not uncommon customized or personalized ones adorn faces like fashion accessories. The tannish clouds of dirt still can’t hide the brilliant colors adorning everything from Nepalese clothing to brightly painted buildings. It must be maddening to the old women constantly wiping the ever-swirling dust off their tables of exotic looking foods (Which I wouldn’t chance eating) and interesting knick-knacks with tattered straw brooms only to see the fine granules of earth coat everything again minutes later. The ever-present powdery brown nuisance tainting everything takes some time getting used to. Did I mention face masks?

After a 45-minute minute ride from the airport, my driver dropped me off at the Kathmandu Peace House guest house the volunteer group set me up to stay for the first few days of my journey. Peace House is a popular name for these inexpensive hostel-type accommodations, so make sure you get the proper name and address before arriving or you’ll go crazy looking for it. I opted to pay extra ($6US per night) for single room privacy and comfort for a few days before the two-weeks of dorm-like, communal accommodations most volunteer trips utilize.

I was tired and dirty from the flight, but couldn’t wait to get out and about Kathmandu, so that shower could wait. I wandered the narrow streets in the tourist section of Kathmandu known as Thamel with camera in hand probably overusing the greeting namaste to everyone I met or took a picture of. It took a little time to get used to the narrow or nonexistent sidewalks, the heartbreaking street beggars and free-wheeling traffic, but it definitely got my photographic creative juices churning. Strangely, the first thing I noticed through all of the merchandise and gear pertaining to Mount Everest or the trinkets and t-shirts adorned with the omnipresent Buddha Eyes (Two alluring peepers, usually with a touch of eye shadow, symbolizing the wisdom and all-seeing ability of the Buddha) was the number of dreadlock hair styles on the Westerners. This place must be the White Guys with Dreads capital of the world. I counted about a dozen the first few hours I was there, probably more than I’ve seen in a lifetime in New York City — and that includes trendy Williamsburg.

I was cautious where to eat, and scouted around before I snacked down on my first (of many more to follow) meal of dal bhat, a Nepal staple usually consisting of white rice, lentil soup, chutney vegetables and roti flatbread at a place called the Mint Cafe, the coziest looking restaurant I could find. It was delicious, filling and only cost about 450 rupee, or about $4.50US. Little did I know at the time that dal bhat would basically be lunch and dinner for nearly two weeks while on homestay with my volunteer family, but — for now — this regional dish  was different and delectable.

Throughout the dusty streets of Kathmandu are plenty of temples to explore and ancient Buddhist stupas or Hindu shrines splattered with colorful flowers and melted candles to photograph. Hindus make up about 80% of the Nepalese population, but Buddhist symbolism seems to be everywhere. I’m guessing because Buddhism holds that Buddha was born in Nepal and is rooted in Nepal’s history. I worked out my airline-cramped legs wandering through the narrow streets, hopping out of the way of scooters and curiously peeking down alleys, into open-air barber and butcher shops; while passing the numerous lines of pedicabs and female street vendors selling fruits or fragrant spices.

Three-Wheeling Around Manhattan As A Pedicab Driver

By

Tony Mangia  

(Reprinted from 2005)

You see them hauling people all over Manhattan these days, but unlike yellow taxis and horse-drawn carriages, these quiet rolling forms of transit are people powered. I’m talking about pedicabs. Yeah, those ubiquitous tricycles with a two-seat bench for a rear-end. Make no mistake these trikes (Some costing upwards of $5000) are here to stay and the fast growing industry may soon hog the lanes of every traffic jam and backgrounds of city movie scenes everywhere.

I always wanted to find out who drove these contraptions and discover if it was as feasible a way to earn money as people were saying. So after a chance spotting of an old barroom buddy Rodney — whom I knew as Rock — being chaperoned down 46th Street on the back of one, I gave him a call. I remembered a conversation a couple of years earlier, while knocking down beers at Rudy’s Bar, he mentioned he was going to invest in a few of these newfangled pedicabs. Idle bar talk I thought, until someone later told me Rock and a partner owned seven of the buggies, which they run out of an old horse stable on West 52nd Street.

Over the phone, Rock gives me the okay to go out one night in one of the electric-assist pedicabs for a fifty dollar leasing fee. So I met up with him on a warm October afternoon, only to find out one of his brand new electric-assist pedicabs was stolen the night before and I’d have to wait until later when one of his drivers brought back another cab and after he took care of filing a police report. While I cooled my heels outside the stable, I convinced myself that I might be good at this sort of work. I’m in fairly good shape, mountain bike regularly in the summer and those two years of driving a yellow cab during my college days had to give me an edge over other pedicabbers.

Man, was I in for a shock.

Rock finally returned and we entered the three-story former equine storage space. Even years after it had its last hooves inside, the building still had a hay, straw and horse bun stench. In addition to that fragrance, three levels of horse urine had drained into the basement where we were standing and, I think, still dampened the floor. Outside, Rock gave me a crash course — and I literally mean crash — on steering, but — thankfully — far enough away from the fetid odor.

Like giant training wheels, the two tires in back make it awkward at first, but after a little wrangling I seemed to get used to the extended turning arcs. He reminds me that the rear is over three-feet wider than the front and, believe me, it’s easy to forget when you are used to riding a regular two-wheeler your whole life. After nearly bumping into a few parked cars on a test drive in the street, Rock tells me not to go “all gangsta” and try and squeeze through traffic or race around corners. 

“I want my pedicab back in one piece,” he said with a serious face.

“Oh, and one other thing,” he added. “The electric-assist motor doesn’t work on this one.”

I shrugged.

“Alright,” he said — sort of rolling his eyes.

“How much do I charge?” I asked.

“Whatever you want, but never under twenty dollars,” he stressed. “The other drivers won’t like it if you undercut their price.”

Well, that was my whole lesson. I was now a qualified New York City pedicab operator. That’s one of the perks of being a pedicab driver — no regulations, and basically no rules. They don’t even have to be insured, although Rock’s fleet is. Other benefits include not having to pay taxi commissions or get hassled by any animal rights groups. You are your own boss. It’s basically street anarchy!

It is a gorgeous night. The sunset had left a cloudy fire over the Hudson River. I’m wearing a tank-top in the middle of October. I take a deep breath and exhale it into a warm autumn breeze blowing down Eleventh Avenue. I have no idea what I’m doing or where to even go look for customers. I don’t get very far when two young girls sharing a bicycle ram into me at 53rd and Eleventh. I barely went one block and already had an accident. I look around to see if Rock is still watching me because I’m so close to the stable I can still smell it. The girls laugh at my clumsiness, ride off, and I’m in the clear.

I hearken back to my taxi driving days while studying at St. John’s University and figure not too much could have changed in those twenty years, so I head down 57th Street towards Fifth Avenue looking for a pick-up. I peddle along and keep assuring myself that this isn’t difficult. That hill on Eleventh was pretty easy. Just pace yourself. This is going to be a piece of cake. After a few close calls with taxis and a couple of choice words from commuters (They apparently don't like being stuck behind me), I reach my destination —  the Plaza Hotel.

Oops, I forget it’s closed for renovations and there aren’t to many people hanging around so I head to Rockefeller Center where it’s bound to be filled with tourists or at least some on-the-town Jersey girls. It’s quiet, just bunches of harried workers in too much of a rush for a leisurely pedicab ride. Maybe the Yankees playoff game has something to do with it? I get rousted out of the promenade by security and wait by the NBC Studios entrance where I run into some real-life pedicab drivers. Ronaldo, an ex-soccer coach from Brazil, tells me he’s been doing this for a few months while he’s in between jobs and wants to write a book about his pedicab experiences. But when I ask him for a good pedicab story, he has none. I shrug and figure he’s saving all his great exploits for the book and doesn’t want anyone to steal them. I talk with another driver, Mahmet from Turkey. He’s been driving a pedi about six months now and — surprisingly — likes to peddle around in the rain. 

“You get more fares because people are desperate when they can’t get a yellow cab,” he explains.

Well, it is a business.

I’ve been cruising around for over two hours by now — and without a single fare during rush hour. How do these guys make a living? It costs fifty bucks a day to lease the pedicab and most of the drivers go out four of five times a week, so somebody must be hiring these things!

I aimlessly cruise the streets and end up back on the West Side where a man and two large boys wearing red baseball caps (Real-life Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, I giggled to myself) approach me for a ride. I am so excited that I blurt out “Ten dollars!” when he asks me how much for a ride from 43rd and Eighth Avenue to Rockefeller Center and back again. My first fare and I’ve already broken Rule No. 1. Rock’s voice keeps echoing in my head, “Never charge less than twenty dollars!” A fare’s a fare I reason and I take off with my new charges.

I head up Eighth Avenue and encounter a slight, and I mean slight, incline. Any plans for small talk with my passengers like I did driving a yellow cab fly right out into the suddenly hot night. Already I can feel my legs tightening and my breath getting shorter. 

What have I gotten myself into, I scream to myself. 

I’ve only gone one block with my first passengers and I’m having a coronary. 

Sweat is pouring down my face. I start to panic and look back at my passengers through the rear view mirror. The two boys must sense I'm fading. They both have sadistic smirks on their chubby faces and the father has this god awful look of disdain on his face. I think about quitting and refunding their money. I’m suddenly parched. I need hydration. How embarrassing!

Where’s that giant bottle of water I stashed? Oh great, it rolled behind the 500 pounds of passengers in the back seat. How’s it gonna look if I pull over after only three blocks and pounce on that bottle of Poland Spring with one hand, clutching my chest with the other?

The man looks at me funny and I go to ask him to hand me the water bottle. Nothing comes out of my mouth — only some grotesque dry hacking noise from my throat — while I keep peddling. He looks at me like I'm possessed, then picks up the bottle which I quickly snatch from his hand. We make it to Rockefeller Center thirty minutes later.

“There it is,” I gasp, pointing upward at the ring of international flags circling the closed ice rink while almost collapsing out of my seat.

They barely get a glimpse of old Prometheus before I start peddling back to Times Square. The ride back was a little better. I think my body’s initial shock to the physicality of hauling a quarter ton of people had worn off. I began purposely riding in traffic — a good reason to slow down and catch my breath. It still felt like my chest was about to explode. And talk about cardio. I made a mental note to never get into a street fight with an experienced pedicab driver — they’ll always outlast you.

I slowly peddled around bustling Times Square — mostly to keep my legs from cramping — thinking what life on a functioning electric assist pedicab would be like. While I wasn’t too anxious to get my second fare quite yet, I had to acknowledge that I had only made ten dollars after three hours on the job. Then, when I got my second wind, lo and behold, outside the Broadway show, “Beauty and the Beast,” the mother lode. There must have been twenty pedicabs waiting for the show to end. All those tourists and their little princesses just waiting for their magical carriages to whisk them away on three wheels. I head over just as two large white stretch-limos pull up and a couple of cops shoo away all the pedicabs to make room. I quickly circle the block, but when I return all the princesses are gone. No Belle. No LeFou. Not even Cogsworth.

I park and talk with Bernard, who has been driving for a while. He’s a plumber by trade, but says he makes more some days pedicabbing. I have to stifle a laugh when I hear that. He tells me that before 9/11 the city was talking about testing and licensing the pedicabs, but afterward the issue seemed to be put on the back burner. That’s good news to Bernard and probably most of the other drivers. Who really wants the city over-legislating something else?

At 45th and Eighth, a middle-aged couple want to go to St. Mark’s and First Avenue after seeing a show. This time I ask for twenty dollars with kind of a guilty smile before they hop in. I plot a course in my head and try and remember if there any hills on the way to the East Village. They are a nice artsy pair and don’t complain when I plow into some big potholes near Macy’s. It’s nearing midnight, I haven’t eaten and my blood sugar must be getting low. I think my passengers suspect I’m tiring and offer to take a cab from 14th Street. No, I’m proving something to myself and on a mission now. I refuse. Then the conversation turns into pleasant discussion about how much the East Village has changed since they moved there in the early 70’s and the early 80s when I was there. Time flies and twenty minutes later we arrive at their appointed destination. They give me 20 bucks and a ten-spot as a tip. I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of this thing.

I decide to book straight back to the stable and call it a night. I’ve done construction and worked in a truck garage, but this was the most physically demanding job I’ve ever had. I actually lost ten dollars — and maybe a few gallons of sweat — on the night, but saw the city in a different perspective — not to mention get a workout Lance Armstrong might admire.

There’s a good chance I might even call Rock for another night behind the handlebars again. But only if he has that newfangled electric-assist pedicab in working order.