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BY PETER SOLIS NERY
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Wednesday, October 18, 2017
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VIII. REFURBISHED ISLAND, REVAMPED FESTIVAL
Life and art will go on without you. The world will continue to turn, perhaps faster, livelier, without you. How can you question the things that happened while you were sleeping?
*
Guitar still strapped across his back, knapsack on his side, Matt surveyed the merrymaking crowd, the changes on the island, the narrow streets, the establishments packed with people.
Everything was in a frenzy.
The cacophony of sounds coming from various places.
The smoke, the psychedelic colors from costumes and signs.
Naked and half-clothed bodies moving in every direction.
Heads nodding, hands clapping, hips gyrating.
Intoxicating!
*
Like an underwater earthquake that may raise hitherto unseen creatures from the depths, the three-day Bakunawa Festival has a way of bringing into view all sorts of oddities.
Most who have attended it swear they never had seen anything like it before. Or since.
Based on the legend of the virgin and the transmogrification described so vividly by Mercedes Luces in her 1998 novel (and briefly in a short story, and children’s storybook versions), the festival provides visitors with a reason to indulge in their wildest fantasies.
*
Islanders and visitors alike dress in fanciful blue-and-green costumes depicting the bakunawa, or as red shrimp, or as the virgin, and her lover, in purest white.
According to brochures from the Department of Tourism, the mid-summer festival in the outlaying island of the island-province of Guimaras is a combination of Mardi Gras and Halloween.
No one cares what anyone wears, or does not wear.
So it is no surprise that transvestites, and others who fancy masquerade balls and drag shows, come from all corners of the earth for the extravaganza.
*
Matt had been gone six years.
Now, looking at this, he felt a stranger to the island.
Alone in the crowd. Even out of place.
Why did he decide to come back now?
*
He passed by carinderias, turo-turos, makeshift restaurants, and carts of street food.
He thought about his grandmother.
Lola, I’m sorry.
I failed you.
*
He saw kiosks that sell beaded necklaces, masks, postcards, hats, bangles, costume jewelry, and other souvenir items.
Kid vendors selling all kinds of things: garlands of plastic, paper, or fresh flowers; glow-in-the-dark sticks and bands.
I should not have come, he thought as he saw signs advertising massages at a discount: 20% off (Happy Hands), 15% off (Happy Ending Massage Parlor), and scuba diving instructions (group rates available), jet ski rentals (cheapest price), and island hopping tours.
*
Along the way, he saw one or two PLDT public phones, and a sleazy looking nightclub with twinkling red lights.
He had to look twice, he thought the sign said Kawat, Hiligaynon word for ‘steal,’ could easily refer to stolen moments, guilty pleasures.
The neon sign actually said Kataw, Hiligaynon for ‘mermaid.’
It reminded him of the other nightclub with a Hiligaynon name, Alibangbang, in Cubao.
That one meant ‘butterfly.’
There are not many nightclubs in the country with Hiligaynon names.
*
Hiligaynon is a language, not a dialect.
Despite ten million speakers, maybe fourteen, the language of his birth, his mother-tongue, is dying!
He lamented internally.
Then, thinking about the island, he told himself, There is nothing here for me now, as he met the street dancing parade once again.
*
The festival was now a new monster. No longer the bakunawa of his grandmother’s deep, blue, billowing seas and April blue moons.
At least, not as he remembered it.
So much had changed.
The festival had become too commercialized. Too fancy.
Too much!
When the street dancers performed another choreographed number in breathtaking unison, it brought Matt back to a scene at the town hall some thirteen years ago after Mercedes Luces won honors for her novel at the 1998 Philippine Centennial Literary Prize.
*
The council was in session.
The councilors were seated around a table placed center in the town trial court that doubles as the council assembly hall.
Seated on the sides, the observers with vested interests, including young Matt, aged eight.
At the podium, Mercedes spoke, It is my honor and privilege to be part of this undertaking.
When I wrote “The Legend of Isla PulangPasayan,” and its longer version Love in the Time of the Sea Monster, I was just thinking of entertaining my grandson by telling him stories to put him to sleep.
I am just very happy that my story has been honored with the Philippine Centennial Literary Prize. (To be continued)/PN
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