I heard the music from the giant speakers mounted from a distance the moment we crossed Palma Bridge. It was eight in the evening and the crowd seemed to have gathered right at the edges of the stage as I let my sight wander ahead. Walking across the first few meters of the upper grounds, Freedom Park hasn't much changed through the years, save for the concrete tiles that stretched through the diagonal of the wide lawn. Countless booths have already been installed although some others were still bare down to bamboo frames devoid of improvised walls and ceilings. It was the seventh time, or year, which I've attended the week-long event.
We saw an old friend along the way right before we reached halfway to the stage. A brief talk transported us back to the days when we were still studying, a time when FebFair signalled not only the days and nights of feast but also the days and nights of unwarranted and equally petrifying exams. We do not know now if that tradition still takes its toll on UPLB students these days, but we were glad we've surged through the thick and thin of it all. It's one of the rewards of having been able to graduate. Nevermind graduating "on time", that's not the stuff we were made of. But in any case, we had a brief chat, recounting the years and months gone-by in school and in what used to be our freelance job, exchanging bits of information about this and that person who we haven't seen in what feels like ages.
We parted ways.
We eventually made our way close to the stage and realized that we were hungry. During FebFair, the least of your worries would have to be the question of where to buy food ranging from a light snack to a full meal. The most of your worries would have to be the question of where to get the fucking money, but that's another story. Tens, if not hundreds, of food stalls litter the perimeters of the upper grounds offering a wide variety of food to satisfy the crowd's gastronomic urges. Interestingly, a deluge of humanity poured continuously in and out of the small shops despite the damage the items sold could inflict to their wallets. Maybe they can afford them with relative ease, earning more than they spend in this wretched part of the world. Or maybe they've saved up for these days, knowing for a fact that this annual event is, after all, a celebration of sorts.
We managed to buy a roasted corn, the cobs of which have been plucked and shoved into a miscroscopic plastic cup. No, not really miscoscopic but rather small. It was for her. As for my part, I had a hotdog warmed for several minutes on a grill and a stick impaled its one end through the other. I dressed it with ketchup thereafter, making the red fellow more red with the condiment slobbered across its outer flesh. Simply put, it was just a hotdog on a stick. After thirst gripped our throats, we bought a fruit shake—mango, specifically. It was neither too sweet nor too stale. Just the right blend, I suppose.
Then we went back close to the stage. On the way, we incidentally met the band we were supposed to watch that evening, the members of which were my friends and my fellow members of the organization of local musicians we founded. There they were, sitting on the grass several meters away from the chaos before the stage. The band was set to compete in a "battle of the bands" that night, and we were there to extend our support one way or another. They were the last to perform, a fact that graced us the luxury of time although I sensed that neither was enough to console their knees or to ease their mood. It wasn't hard to spot the tension in the way they talked and moved about, which might have been all too normal under that pressing situation they were pressed into.
Three bands and almost an hour after, it was their turn. The cold evening breeze must have reached the depths of their kidneys; they spent the last few minutes before their performance going back and forth the john. It happens. I know how it feels.
Two cover songs, one original composition and almost twenty minutes after, they were done. I do hope the guitar cables I lent the guitarist of their band served them well enough. They had a few minor "glitches", but other than that all is good. I must say, though, that the competition was stiff and tight. I wouldn't be surprised if they win, yet I wouldn't be surprised at all if they lose either. Come Thursday, it's judgment night for them.
And Saturday would be judgment night for my band as well, although we're not competing with other fellow bands. We're simply scheduled to perform the last evening of the occasion, and I do hope things will turn out good enough. My hands are itching to play I can't help but scratch them and some more. We intend to play a song that best reflects the theme of the week-long event plus one of our original compositions. In four days, I'm soon to find out what comes out of it all.
A few minutes after eleven, we went home. Not bad to start our FebFair.
We saw an old friend along the way right before we reached halfway to the stage. A brief talk transported us back to the days when we were still studying, a time when FebFair signalled not only the days and nights of feast but also the days and nights of unwarranted and equally petrifying exams. We do not know now if that tradition still takes its toll on UPLB students these days, but we were glad we've surged through the thick and thin of it all. It's one of the rewards of having been able to graduate. Nevermind graduating "on time", that's not the stuff we were made of. But in any case, we had a brief chat, recounting the years and months gone-by in school and in what used to be our freelance job, exchanging bits of information about this and that person who we haven't seen in what feels like ages.
We parted ways.
We eventually made our way close to the stage and realized that we were hungry. During FebFair, the least of your worries would have to be the question of where to buy food ranging from a light snack to a full meal. The most of your worries would have to be the question of where to get the fucking money, but that's another story. Tens, if not hundreds, of food stalls litter the perimeters of the upper grounds offering a wide variety of food to satisfy the crowd's gastronomic urges. Interestingly, a deluge of humanity poured continuously in and out of the small shops despite the damage the items sold could inflict to their wallets. Maybe they can afford them with relative ease, earning more than they spend in this wretched part of the world. Or maybe they've saved up for these days, knowing for a fact that this annual event is, after all, a celebration of sorts.
We managed to buy a roasted corn, the cobs of which have been plucked and shoved into a miscroscopic plastic cup. No, not really miscoscopic but rather small. It was for her. As for my part, I had a hotdog warmed for several minutes on a grill and a stick impaled its one end through the other. I dressed it with ketchup thereafter, making the red fellow more red with the condiment slobbered across its outer flesh. Simply put, it was just a hotdog on a stick. After thirst gripped our throats, we bought a fruit shake—mango, specifically. It was neither too sweet nor too stale. Just the right blend, I suppose.
Then we went back close to the stage. On the way, we incidentally met the band we were supposed to watch that evening, the members of which were my friends and my fellow members of the organization of local musicians we founded. There they were, sitting on the grass several meters away from the chaos before the stage. The band was set to compete in a "battle of the bands" that night, and we were there to extend our support one way or another. They were the last to perform, a fact that graced us the luxury of time although I sensed that neither was enough to console their knees or to ease their mood. It wasn't hard to spot the tension in the way they talked and moved about, which might have been all too normal under that pressing situation they were pressed into.
Three bands and almost an hour after, it was their turn. The cold evening breeze must have reached the depths of their kidneys; they spent the last few minutes before their performance going back and forth the john. It happens. I know how it feels.
Two cover songs, one original composition and almost twenty minutes after, they were done. I do hope the guitar cables I lent the guitarist of their band served them well enough. They had a few minor "glitches", but other than that all is good. I must say, though, that the competition was stiff and tight. I wouldn't be surprised if they win, yet I wouldn't be surprised at all if they lose either. Come Thursday, it's judgment night for them.
And Saturday would be judgment night for my band as well, although we're not competing with other fellow bands. We're simply scheduled to perform the last evening of the occasion, and I do hope things will turn out good enough. My hands are itching to play I can't help but scratch them and some more. We intend to play a song that best reflects the theme of the week-long event plus one of our original compositions. In four days, I'm soon to find out what comes out of it all.
A few minutes after eleven, we went home. Not bad to start our FebFair.
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