Every May 15, the streets in the small town of Lucban become congested with people from different areas of neighboring towns and cities to see the colorful festival of Pahiyas. Despite the lack of sleep, I went to Lucban with my friend and his daughter for a whole day of walking and taking pictures under the heat of the unmerciful sun.
It is my second time to join the pilgrimage to this town nesting at the foot of Mt. Banahaw to join in the celebration of the bounty harvest of our farmers. The Pahiyas Festival is also a thanksgiving to San Isidro Labrador, the patron saint of farmers. All the houses and businesses (even funeral parlors!) in the selected streets for Pahiyas are decorated with colorful kiping. It is shaped like a leaf and is made of rice paste. Some locals do not use the leaf-shaped kiping as decoration though. They crush it, the kiping looking like crushed egg shells, then glue it to their walls and ceilings for added texture.
A Two-Storey House Decorated with
Crushed Kiping from the Ground Up
The Pahiyas Festival lasts for almost half a month, starting in the first days of May and culminating in the Grand Parade in May 15. A lot of activities were lined up in this year's Pahiyas, including Mutya ng Lucban, Ginoong Lucban, Gayak Carosa Float Parade, where the carriages pulled by carabaos are decorated with the agricultural products of farmers, and some Philippine games. Too bad I was not able to watch them, but all winners and runner-ups in the competitions held were part of the Grand Parade we saw.
The small streets of Lucban were filled with thousands of visitors to join in the celebration.
There were more people this year than last year, I think. Los Banos being relatively near Lucban, we saw quite a number of friends and acquaintances from LB. We also saw a celebrity eating pancit habhab. He was apologetic for eating it in a plate instead of the traditional way of putting the pancit in one's mouth. It is best eaten with vinegar.
Only in Lucban: Pancit Habhab
What I like best in this festival is the cultural authenticity of it. Unlike other festivals, Pahiyas is rooted in our agricultural culture and the locals are the ones who initiated it. In this festival, the farmers are given recognition due to them. The locals participate actively in the activities: farmers parade with their carabaos (my favorite part); local designers create colorful gowns and barong made from local materials like banig. Although there were also big companies sponsoring the event, the local government make it a point that the Pahiyas does not become their sponsors' festival.
A Farmer's Best Friend
Photo taken during the Grand Parade
What makes Pahiyas also memorable is the warm hospitality of the locals. They allow strangers to enter their home just so they can take their pictures. They invite strangers to eat and drink lambanog, the local drink made from coconut, even if it's only 9 o'clock in the morning. It is here where I experienced the famed Filipino hospitality during fiesta. Aside from the lambanog shots, we even spent an afternoon siesta in a local's living room and almost took a bath in their house, with its ice-cold water coming from Mt. Banahaw, to counter the afternoon heat.
My Lakwatcha Buddies Inside a Local's Home
The only problem we encountered is transportation going home. We decided to leave Lucban at around 7pm. We thought it was still early, but there were no jeepneys. There was a long line of passengers. We waited for at least an hour before we were able to ride a jeepney (we called it the Busney because it's bigger than the usual jeepney, almost the size of a mini-bus). When we arrived in Sta. Cruz, Laguna, it was almost 10 pm. Together with many other passengers, we had to wait again for a jeepney going to Calamba, Crossing. And because we did not want to ride in the jeepneys with drivers and dispatchers who took advantage of the situation and suddenly increased the fare, we waited longer than the other passengers. When we arrived in LB, we had to wait again for a jeepney.
The Most Photographed House
The Most Colorful House
Although there was a lot of waiting before we could go home, it was a lot of fun. We ate, talked, walked around. We almost rode in a Ferris Wheel and Octopus that could take away our lives while we were waiting in Sta. Cruz, but we thought we'll die another day. And see another Pahiyas next year.
Films about father and children always get to me. My last childhood memory of my father was when I was in Grade 2 (no, not because I have a memory of a goldfish). Then he left for the US to work and eventually to live. Then I last saw him last year when he returned for the death of his brother. Though they always make me cry, I love these kinds of films. I get to be a father's daughter, albeit vicariously.
My favorite was Armageddon. Whenever I get to watch it, I always, always cry inthat scene when the father, upon knowing the certainty of his death while he was out in the space saving all earthlings, talks to his daughter and tells her goodbye.
And then, there's Biutiful.
It's a story of Uxbal (Javier Bardem), who is counting his days before he dies of cancer. He has the custody of his two children, Ana and Mateo, because his wife suffers from manic depression. He makes a living mostly by being a middle man between Chinese handlers and Spanish businessmen and the Police. Occasionally, because he has a supernatural gift, he is hired to talk to the dead. At times, he gives a little extra service of helping them cross to the world of spirits.
His problem is how to tie loose ends in his life before he goes--his family, his job, and his gift; he has to transfer his gift as per advised by Bea, his confidant who can also talk to the dead and see death.
The mood of the film was mostly gloomy but there were many tender moments between Uxbal and his children and even between Uxbal and his wife. The most memorable for me would be the one when he gave the stones to his children when they were at the dining table belatedly celebrating Ana's birthday. Bea said that he has to give it to his children when he must go. Uxbal was certain he was going to die that night, but he did not tell the children. He only told them that the stones were "a gift from their dad," who could not even buy them burger and fries and chocolate milkshake.
Another one is when Ana walks into the bathroom and finds his father having a hard time peeing. She confronts his father about his death. Uxbal holds Ana's small face in his big, fatherly hands and tells her: Look me in the eyes. Remember me. Do not forget me. Uxbal did not want his children to be like his brother who could not remember their father because the latter died when his brother was 10. Uxbal did not even see his father.
The first time he did was when his father's body would be cremated years after he died. He and his brother sold his niche in the cemetery, so they had to cremate him. This scene--which I think is the most touching--would have to be one of Bardem's greatest moments in the film. Inside the morgue, his eyes have that look of a child full of excitement to see his birthday or Christmas gift when the morgue employee opened the body bag containing his father's embalmed body. That look in his eyes made Bardem, a man with a big built and a face full of hair and a hair of an old man, look like Uxbal's young son Mateo in an instant. Uxbal then walks to the body and traces his father's face with the tip of his fingers.
Biutiful also shows exploitative labor conditions in Spain. In the film, Chinese immigrants were housed in a basement where they all sleep on the floor and without heater during the cold months. African immigrants sold fake bags made by the Chinese and because it was not enough to make a living, they also sell illegal drugs. Uxbal facilitates these conditions, whether directly or indirectly. It shows the flaws in his character, but even with the workers he is caring as he is to his wife and children.
Bardem was brilliant in this film. It should have been his Oscar-winning performance. I do not understand why the Oscars gave the award to Colin Firth whose controlled and consistent stuttering in The King's Speech was no match to Bardem's emotional and gripping performance--he did not even have to speak to convey the complexity of emotion the scenes require. He can tell the story with his eyes. Fortunately, the Jury in Festival de Cannes saw it and gave him a Best Actor Award.
The direction of Alejandro González Iñárritu (Babel, Amores Perros, 21 Grams) should also be commended for some scenes that were difficult to execute like the police raid of African immigrants selling their goods in the street. Many scenes were also shot in long takes, while some were trick shots like the one towards the end when he was talking to his daughter in whispers telling her about the ring. Shot in a long take, the camera moves away from the two characters talking in the bed, pans to the other side of the room then stops at a mirror showing Uxbal's ghost beside the bed while Ana continues to talk to his father as if he were still alive. Ana already has the gift of his father (or perhaps, it only seemed a long take; there might have been an invisible cut when the camera pans in a black space before the mirror. In that case, it's not so difficult to do anymore, no?).
The film was presented in a loop that served a grammatical purpose and a rhetorical one. It could probably signify that not only does life is a cycle but also death. Or that in life, there are little deaths, like when Uxbal had to tell his wife "we hurt each other too much," or when Ige (whom Uxbal asked to take care of his children when he died) left with all of Uxbal's money (I almost died watching this scene); and in death, there is life, like when Uxbal talked to his father the first time in the land of spirits.
Or perhaps because there were many instances in the film when it all came back to where it started: Uxbal tried to live again with his wife together with their children but it did not work; he tried to do good but it doesn't erase the fact that he facilitates bad things from happening.
Simple objects were made symbolic, like the mirrors that revealed what is not seen--the spirits of the dead can be seen in them. Thought the writer also used traditional symbols for death like the moths.
In Biutiful, death is so certain yet one can never truly prepare for it--Uxbal knew he would die, tried to tie loose ends but there was uncertainty whether the ties would hold. Death is so certain yet life is not. Perhaps that's the 'biuti' of death.
Or it could be the other way around. Maybe I'll know when I watch it again and again and again for the nth time, with my eyes swelling with tears and I become a father's daughter, albeit vicariously.
Last Saturday, my friend and I went to see the documentary Waray in the City upon the invitation of its director, Noriel Jarito (Rindido, Ba’t Man). We were already running late; I was coming from Los Baños, Laguna and my friend was coming from the faraway land of Caloocan, and the screening was scheduled to start at 10:30 am. When we got there at around 11, however, it seemed like there was no event although there were five or six other people inside the cinema of College of St. Benilde. We did not see any organizers in the venue or even posters. But after a few more minutes, when my stomach began to make noise for food, a staff arrived to operate the DVD player.
Waray in the City is one of the ten documentary films that are products of a workshop conducted by various German filmmakers. The workshop was supported by the Goethe Institut-Manila, Independent Filmmakers Cooperative and the National Commission for Culture and the Arts, Committee on Cinema. It was held at the College of St. Benilde.
The documentary sought to answer layers of questions starting with why the Waray from Samar, his native province, decide to leave their birthplace, perhaps their family as well, and migrate to the City (Metro Manila). But its main story was that of the director’s own journey to the city to fulfill a dream--to make films-- after years of overseas work in Saudi. A secondary narrative was about the Philcoa vendor’s family who migrated to the city thinking that they can earn more money to send their children to school. Perhaps having these two stories is an attempt to show a parallel in their stories; the mother and the director wanted to fulfill a dream. But it got lost with the interviews with politicians and businessman and ‘successful’ Waray from Samar talking about their views on the questions the director posed. In addition, the two narratives were not equally emphasized, the director’s having more reel time.
The common answer given to the question by his interviewees--both the 'successful' and the struggling who all hailed from Samar--on why the Waray leave the province is poverty. Samar remains to be one of the poorest provinces in the country despite being one of the largest, having a big land area with natural resources. I don’t think being prone to typhoon is the only reason that it is poor (one of the interviewees said so)--no, I won’t accept that as reason. And perhaps, the director did not, too, so he sought other answers why Samar is poor. One of those who gave their views was the incumbent mayor of Pambujan, Samar (Noriel’s town) who rants about the former mayor about not introducing genuine change the whole 40 years he was in office. For his part, he tore down the old municipal building and erected a new one. Talk about real change.
Clips from the director’s previous films were also inserted to let the audience see what these politicians do in their province, like the Curacha dance (from This is Where Your Taxes Go). According to the film, this practice has become a fundraising activity by the baranggays. In this gathering, politicians dance and throw money, literally. And you wonder, where does this money come from? Does it really come from the politicians' own pocket? What does it say of us and of our culture that can tolerate this kind of practice?
The director should be commended for his work in gathering a number of Waray in the city for the interviews, but some of those included could have been edited out because some of their answers seem to be the same. What is noteworthy, however, is the contrast shown between those Waray who can be considered ‘successful’ in the city (mostly politicians) and those who remained poor, if not in a worse condition. This is the irony that the film wants to point out: they leave Samar because of poverty only to suffer more of it in the city where they pinned all their hopes for a better life. It could have been emphasized in the documentary had it not been overshadowed by other points. Because of the two narratives the audiences have to follow and the talking heads they have to listen to, there is a tendency to get lost in the film.
As for the director’s struggle, he is uncertain whether he has achieved success in the city. It was shown that he already received awards from Gawad CCP for his film Ba’t Man, that his idol, Peque Gallaga, is his fan, that he directed a full-length film (Rindido, described by the director as a film with violence and a bit of sex) included in the 2010 MMFF, that this film had a theatrical run, albeit with only a few blockbuster returns, that he shook Manny Pacquiao’s hand in Batasan, that he saw Kris Aquino, and that he had an autograph from his idol, Brillante Mendoza.
Perhaps, just like the Philcoa vendor’s life, every day is a struggle. One cannot stop working even if s/he thinks that a hint of success is within reach. For what would light up the fire in your belly then?
At the end of the documentary, the questions the director sought to answer were answered, but he knows the situation remains the same. It is not a crime to dream of a better life, true, but perhaps achieving that dream does not require leaving one’s home, a recurrent theme in his other films. One of the interviewees in the film is correct when he said that the Waray will not go hungry and homeless in their native Samar because of the abundance of resources. It is up to them to harness what is available in their surroundings and make it work for them to achieve their dream of a better life.
And the air was full of Thoughts and Things to Say. But at times like these only the Small Things are ever said. The Big Things lurk unsaid inside.
Chapter 6: Cochin Kangaroos.
Aside from Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera, no other book has compelled me to read it again while I’m still in the first chapter. Until I read Arundhati Roy’s debut novel, The God of Small Things (1997).
At the start of the novel, the readers learn that someone has died and someone has been returned. These two narrative lines are the major cords in which the other strands of the plot are weaved in. The details, however, are revealed fully in the latter chapters, tying loose ends of the narrative while at the same time making these the climax. Little details—clues—however, are littered in several chapters. This technique, which was also used in the film Never Let Me Go, sustains the reader’s interest because the question, ‘what happened?’ has not been answered.
The story is set in Kerala, India, which, a day after I finished reading the novel, I saw in the film Before the Rains. Now, Kerala is included in places I want to go to before the world ends. The way Roy describes it and the house reminds me of Macondo and the house in Marquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude, sans the characters that are so many you get confused who’s who. In Roy’s novel, the matriarch Mamachi, the sinister spinster Baby Kochama, the TV junkie Kocha Maria, Mamachi’s children—Chacko, Ammu— and Ammu’s fraternal twins--Estha and Rahel--inhabit the house. Sometimes, the untouchable Velutha, a key character who is a worker in the family’s factory and a card-carrying member of the Communist Party, is permitted to put his feet inside the house.
Roy tells this story so beautifully, weaving in issues of the caste system, which laid down ‘Love Laws’ that order people “who should be loved. And how. And how much,” the Communist revolution, domestic violence, and incest among others. At its core, however, the novel is a story of the early loss of innocence of the fraternal twins after they crossed the river one rainy night with Sophie Mol, Chacko’s white daughter with the English, Margaret Kochama. After the incident, all their lives changed: Estha was returned to his father; Ammu left the house to look for work and save enough, so she can get her twins to live with her; Rahel was left at the house but eventually went to the US to marry and work as a waitress. Eventually, the twins returned to the house in Ayemenem to share their grief and desperation in a moment that violates the Love Laws.
This and another forbidden love between Velutha and Ammu explain the idea of the novel's title. As stated in the quote above, the Big Things--namely, the Love Laws, the class difference between the two adults--are left unsaid because they tend to complicate things, Small Things, like Love.
Stylistically, Roy is a genius. I haven’t read any novel in which I stop reading after almost every sentence to savor the beauty of her words, in which I smile at the surprising precision of description (“sour smell of steel,” “sad hips”), in which I breathe deeply, amazed at the explosion of feelings that her poetry in prose invokes. In addition, the non-linear temporal structure of the novel attests to her mastery of the craft.
The God of Small Things is worth a read, perhaps twice or thrice. Too bad I only borrowed my copy. The second reading would have to be postponed for now.
so happy to find where marloun's car was parked.
i walked for more than 30 minutes after running 10km to look for it.
Finished my second 10km-run in 1 hr and 19 min, a five-minute improvement from my first 10km run in Hyundai (Free!) Run. I ran 10km a day after the Mt. Maculot day climb with my cousins (See story below.). Pain and pleasure all rolled into one. : )
