The last time I was there was almost five or six years ago. Human memory has its own ways of making you forget some of the few precious things which you would always want to remember, and this is not one of the few exceptions. The things I do recall, though, have something to do not with the when, except for September, but with the what. It's that month of the year when the streets of Naga City turn into an ocean of humanity, and the people are proof to the idea that there's more to life than mere living. The Peñafrancia festivity has always been something worth anticipating, something worth the wait, something worth going back to time and time again without ever losing sight of what it stands for, or getting tired of it. It calls upon the flock of local folks and draws the outsiders to leap straight into it, something that has been so decades of years before. Personally, I find it at the very center of my being a Bicolano, without which I would have easily forgotten all about from where I came. It's enough to say that it is one of the many sources of regional pride that I have, parts and parcels of which have a lot to do with the countless things I have dealt with in the full brush of a young boy's life.
I never knew my first year in college, or last year in high school, would be the last time I would be able to take part in that festivity of my birthplace. Looking back, I do recall that each year in high school would not have been complete without experiencing firsthand the duties of a campus journalist at the height of the Peñafrancia fiesta. It was no small task. To begin with, there was this annual competition, the Military Parade, where members of the school's Philippine Military Training Unit compete with those from other schools across the region. Throughout the day, which typically begins from early morning and ends late in the afternoon, we had to march the very same streets that the school cadettes had to trod. We had to taste the same light and feel the same heat from the sun that both the organizers and competitors had to endure. We had to record the event as it happened, with only paper, pen, camera and tape recorder on whichever hand was idle. There was the occasional water and snacks, but those never stayed in our hands for too long. Much was needed to be done and rest was a precious commodity we barely could afford.
We also had to mind our own safety, for the crowd is oftentimes a haven for those thieving hands and a trap for the unsuspecting traveler. But it was the least of all that we had to mind. After all, there's not much needed to be carried around other than the bare essentials—a throbbing heart and a working mind. You have a heart for the festivity, it's more than enough to drive you longing for more of the same. You have a mind at ease in appreciating the huge number of people as a veritable sign of how the festivity is by all means a grand one, it's more than enough to see the same crowd as a haven for every traveler and a trap for those thieving hands. I do not know which is first and which is last, but I could only care less because the far more important things constantly unfold before us.
Those were seen from the lens of being a campus journalist. As for being a Bicolano, just being physically there is already a reward in itself. That rings truer for those who now live elsewhere, or stay elsewhere, but still find their hearts and minds longing for the only place they can truly call home. It's practically the same for those who have to study or work, some doing both at the same time, in a distant metropolis, where it makes you feel as if you're in an alien territory, or a different and vast universe, despite knowing that you're still in your own country. One way or another, they cannot pay their relatives a visit, save for a day or two, having a lot to do with the limits of both the power of time and the power of the purse—or the lack thereof. I am one of them.
Or for physical absence, one has to make up for spiritual presence, or something to that effect. Somehow the most that I can do is remember, making certain that for each passing day the memories of Bicolandia remain intact just like the days they first found their way in my mind. Having a vivid recollection is a consolation. At the very least, it gives you that profound sense of having been part, somewhere, somehow, of the one thing that defines your heritage. Sifting through the depths of one's memory is the most rewarding deed one can avail of at a time when there are countless insurmountable reasons not to go home when all you need is one good excuse. Or maybe not excuse but reason, still. You can always seek the fertile grounds of your memory and see through them as if you are in two places at exactly the same time. I can only begin to imagine how it has worked for me for the past couple of years. I do hope it won't lose its use, or purpose, as the years begin to stretch to decades.
I am not particularly enthralled with religion, which is another way of saying that what I passionately like about the Peñafrancia fiesta is neither "Ina" nor her devotees. But that's not to say, too, that I am entirely allergic to both. What makes my veins and arteries pulse with excitement the moment I remember Naga City on September are the events, the happenings, subtle or stark monumental, for they stand at the very core of why I am always tempted to take the eight-hour journey back to my homeland. It's the stranger you see from across the road, jubilant with the souvenir he holds in his hand like a trophy for a prize. It's the little child you get to talk to, whose eyes see the world with pure innocence, taking the festive atmosphere as nothing less than one of those very rare times when you get to play as freely as you could while the rest of the city, which is his world, is at its busiest. It's the streets you walk and the carts and stalls spread along their sides which make you feel that this place is alive. It's the thousands of smiles you get to witness from the people who move from one location to the next, constantly searching for that elusive spot from where to view the parade and the procession.
Above all, it's the City. Or Peñafrancia fiesta.
While writing—or typing—this, I cannot help but think of all those years when I was there. Perhaps it's enough to say that I sorely miss the festivities, my family and the City notwithstanding. I cannot help but simply sleep this one tonight, and the nights that will follow. I'll dream the dream, and hope that I'll return someday and be there from start to end. But for now, there's not much to hope for. I'll wake-up when September ends.
I never knew my first year in college, or last year in high school, would be the last time I would be able to take part in that festivity of my birthplace. Looking back, I do recall that each year in high school would not have been complete without experiencing firsthand the duties of a campus journalist at the height of the Peñafrancia fiesta. It was no small task. To begin with, there was this annual competition, the Military Parade, where members of the school's Philippine Military Training Unit compete with those from other schools across the region. Throughout the day, which typically begins from early morning and ends late in the afternoon, we had to march the very same streets that the school cadettes had to trod. We had to taste the same light and feel the same heat from the sun that both the organizers and competitors had to endure. We had to record the event as it happened, with only paper, pen, camera and tape recorder on whichever hand was idle. There was the occasional water and snacks, but those never stayed in our hands for too long. Much was needed to be done and rest was a precious commodity we barely could afford.
We also had to mind our own safety, for the crowd is oftentimes a haven for those thieving hands and a trap for the unsuspecting traveler. But it was the least of all that we had to mind. After all, there's not much needed to be carried around other than the bare essentials—a throbbing heart and a working mind. You have a heart for the festivity, it's more than enough to drive you longing for more of the same. You have a mind at ease in appreciating the huge number of people as a veritable sign of how the festivity is by all means a grand one, it's more than enough to see the same crowd as a haven for every traveler and a trap for those thieving hands. I do not know which is first and which is last, but I could only care less because the far more important things constantly unfold before us.
Those were seen from the lens of being a campus journalist. As for being a Bicolano, just being physically there is already a reward in itself. That rings truer for those who now live elsewhere, or stay elsewhere, but still find their hearts and minds longing for the only place they can truly call home. It's practically the same for those who have to study or work, some doing both at the same time, in a distant metropolis, where it makes you feel as if you're in an alien territory, or a different and vast universe, despite knowing that you're still in your own country. One way or another, they cannot pay their relatives a visit, save for a day or two, having a lot to do with the limits of both the power of time and the power of the purse—or the lack thereof. I am one of them.
Or for physical absence, one has to make up for spiritual presence, or something to that effect. Somehow the most that I can do is remember, making certain that for each passing day the memories of Bicolandia remain intact just like the days they first found their way in my mind. Having a vivid recollection is a consolation. At the very least, it gives you that profound sense of having been part, somewhere, somehow, of the one thing that defines your heritage. Sifting through the depths of one's memory is the most rewarding deed one can avail of at a time when there are countless insurmountable reasons not to go home when all you need is one good excuse. Or maybe not excuse but reason, still. You can always seek the fertile grounds of your memory and see through them as if you are in two places at exactly the same time. I can only begin to imagine how it has worked for me for the past couple of years. I do hope it won't lose its use, or purpose, as the years begin to stretch to decades.
I am not particularly enthralled with religion, which is another way of saying that what I passionately like about the Peñafrancia fiesta is neither "Ina" nor her devotees. But that's not to say, too, that I am entirely allergic to both. What makes my veins and arteries pulse with excitement the moment I remember Naga City on September are the events, the happenings, subtle or stark monumental, for they stand at the very core of why I am always tempted to take the eight-hour journey back to my homeland. It's the stranger you see from across the road, jubilant with the souvenir he holds in his hand like a trophy for a prize. It's the little child you get to talk to, whose eyes see the world with pure innocence, taking the festive atmosphere as nothing less than one of those very rare times when you get to play as freely as you could while the rest of the city, which is his world, is at its busiest. It's the streets you walk and the carts and stalls spread along their sides which make you feel that this place is alive. It's the thousands of smiles you get to witness from the people who move from one location to the next, constantly searching for that elusive spot from where to view the parade and the procession.
Above all, it's the City. Or Peñafrancia fiesta.
While writing—or typing—this, I cannot help but think of all those years when I was there. Perhaps it's enough to say that I sorely miss the festivities, my family and the City notwithstanding. I cannot help but simply sleep this one tonight, and the nights that will follow. I'll dream the dream, and hope that I'll return someday and be there from start to end. But for now, there's not much to hope for. I'll wake-up when September ends.
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