A feast for all souls

Nov. 1 and 2 used to be twin feasts.

Nov. 2  All Souls’ Day  was then also a holiday. The city and the rest of the country lay dead and there was no office, school and traffic.

Nov. 2 was also for the No. 2  the second wife of a man who sought early heaven in the company of another woman. This was how peace was kept between the first and second families of a dearly departed fellow who obviously was no saint in this world, but still got his day anyway in the calendar of the Catholic Church.

Sometime during the Marcos era, however, the government declared that Nov. 2 was no longer a holiday. As you read this, expect heavy traffic on the road again after the long weekend. I don’t know how the bright boys of MMDA will untangle gridlocks on this first day of work and school. But don’t expect them anymore to traffic the schedules between spouses 1 and 2.

No. 2, resourceful as ever, will surely devise a way like in the old days of forbidden paradise. Or maybe this is why there is now cremation in the Philippines. Burn the old bastard. Divide his charred remains and there will be a lot of him to go around and share.

Times have surely changed even with the way we observe the feasts for the souls and saints.

Until about a decade or so ago, there was no trick or treat in this country. I believe it was the posh Ayala Alabang village that began to adopt this very western tradition. Now, kids already know how to hustle for candies. Yes, start them young.

Old local custom around this time of the year wasn’t so ideal either. Back then there was the tradition of the nangangaluluwa. This was done by a group of young men who positioned themselves in front of a house and sang a naughty All Souls’ Day tune in the vernacular. They were soul singers, although they didn’t sing in the style of Jaya.

No, you can’t exactly say they sang for their supper because they were only fed guinat’an by the homeowner.

 And then, deeper into the night, another batch of nangangaluluwa would lurk around the premises — stealing poultry kept in the silong of most houses. That was not considered a punishable crime. It was like an April Fools’ Day joke in November. But no one laughed except for the prankster.

Actually, I thought they only looted the birds. But according to Nick Joaquin’s Almanac for Manileños, anything in the yard or porch was fair game. The owner, however, was allowed to get back the stolen item if he could pay the ransom — either with a coin or a bowl of guinat’an.

Guinat’an. I will always associate this with All Saints’ Day. This was the snack that nourished the tired bodies of my aunts after a long trip from the Cementerio del Norte to visit their grandmother. When their mother died, they buried her in Loyola Memorial Park. No, they no longer ate guinat’an at home. Instead they picnicked on the Loyola grounds.

Strangely enough, there always has to be food when we remember and honor the departed. There is food, especially during wakes. But even the food served on this occasion of grief and mourning has evolved through the years.

It used to be simply kape’t biskwit. Biscuits that tasted like cardboard — straight from tall tin cans — were passed around during wakes along with cups of watered down coffee.

Today, those who belong to the upper middle class mourn their way through catered affairs. There is a caterer hired for every single night of vigil at the mortuary chapel. This has also become S.O.P. for showbiz wakes.

The grandest I’ve attended was the wake for the father of Dr. Vicki Belo at the Sanctuario de San Antonio. I saw how broken Vicki was when her Dad, lawyer Enrique Belo, was wasting away at the Makati Medical Center after having been diagnosed with cancer. Atty. Belo adored Vicki and the doctora loved him dearly.

When he passed away, Dr. Belo organized a wake that was fitting of his stature: Atty. Belo was respected not only in the legal profession, but also in the diplomatic and business circles as well.

 To feed those who paid their last respects to her father, Dr. Belo hired different caterers. There were separate tables for the main course and a different one for dessert that groaned with assorted cakes and pastries. In one corner was an ice cream cart where guests enjoyed unlimited amounts of the cold confections in various flavors served in sugar cones.

Two days into the wake, one of Dr. Belo’s friends also lost a loved one and the viewing was held in an adjoining mortuary chapel in Sancturio de San Antonio. There were also buffet tables set up nearby and the patio became the site of a bacchanalian feast that saw common friends crossing over from wake to wake for more food selections.

Another time, I was back in the Forbes Park Parish Church for the wake of Korina Sanchez’ mother, Celia. Friends and practically every other establishment in this country sent so many wreaths that to get to the chapel you practically needed a machete to find your way in that forest of flowers.

Mrs. Sanchez doted on her children and prepared special meals for their friends (no one can duplicate her dried shrimps). And so when she passed away, Korina made sure her mother went in a grand way. There was also a catered dinner, but I didn’t bother to eat. There was so much food that I felt I gained 10 lbs. just looking at those chafing dishes loaded with viands and pastas with rich sauces.

The practice of having these catered dinners during wakes continues, but only for the moneyed set. For the lower middle class, they offer sandwiches. But for the destitute, it’s still kape’t biskwit. Even in death, there are still economic discrepancies.

Dying has actually become a complicated business for the affluent.

For the rich, to die is to rest. But before they go, they have their choice of a reputable caterer first.