Lost in translation
Everybody waits at the town plaza or at the adjacent streets for the tanod’s go-signal to begin the festivities. The usually busy road is now packed with a menagerie of people who are there to fulfill a religious vow, to venerate a beloved statuette, or simply to await a familiar face who will be dancing for the town’s patron. Dressed in refulgent native costumes, they are anxious to regale the townspeople with dances they have been practicing weeks before. All groups are preceded by the Sto. Nino, dressed in gowns of different colors, all of which suit the child-king. An old woman breathes a sigh of relief as no one dared to clothe the child Jesus in basketball jerseys. One carroza stands out though, having a contraption that makes the Sto. Nino sway left to right, making it appear that it is also dancing to the buling-buling music. An onlooker heckles the group by ordering them to give their patron Bonamine tablets for the long procession ahead of him.
The ceremonies start late, as expected, but the participants try to distract themselves from that fact by posing for pictures and chatting and laughing with the people they work with in the community. All of a sudden, there is movement in the main thoroughfare and people jump to attention and are excited to finally start the annual street dance. As a group passes by the makeshift stage, the emcees announce each participating school, company or organization, making sure that the judges for the competition don’t mix-up their scores. Three huge banners, not of the Sto. Nino, but of the mayor and wannabe mayors welcome and greet the townspeople a happy fiesta. Banderitas made of flimsy plastic color the skies in different shades. Though beautiful to look at, a few express their concern about the waste it will create when the festivities are over.
The procession makes its way through the first part with countless people cheering, taking pictures and videos of the event. It feels more like a film festival parade as there are practically no signs of a religious devotion. Afterwards, the group marches beside the railroad tracks, home to many indigent families. A distasteful smell saturates the air while the tambays taunt the dancers and watch out for a mistake to laugh about. Most of the people, though, are at a respectful distance as they watch the procession that interrupts the daily toils of their lives.
The cortege makes a right to pass by the long-time residents of Pandacan living in wooden houses complete with azoteas. It is here where the procession reveals its original practice. The throng of people welcomes each image with a “Viva, Sto. Nino!” Figurines of the child Jesus stand over a makeshift altar surrounded by candles and other religious artifacts. An old couple wave at the dancing Sto. Nino, not in amusement but in genuine, childlike glee. Some touch the image and make the traditional sign of the cross while others take the opportunity to teach their children who the Sto. Nino is and what the dancing is all about. Everyone smiles and revel in the event, sharing a cup of joy with their families and neighbors. The dancers turn with languid movements, having danced for hours and kilometers already, but still smiling assiduously as the church’s tower slowly becomes more and more visible.
At last, as the Filipino saying goes, the procession ends at the church with the parish priest refreshing the participants with a spray of holy water. Bells toll to congratulate the devotees who danced, or at least, tried to dance all the way through the procession route. They make their sign of the cross, and most probably, pray silently their wishes to the Sto. Nino, after successfully finishing their panata. A Mass will follow the event, though most already troop back to their homes. The few who do stay will listen to the gentle admonition of the parish priest who will try to edify the practice by explaining its religious significance.
The prolific writer and cultural historian Resil Mojares once wrote that each practice of religion is always a cultural translation. He notes, “God can be found in the translation. He is also lost in translation.” Attending a fiesta and a procession lets one witness firsthand the mosaic that is Philippine culture. Like a work of art, perhaps the meaning, or lack thereof, is entirely dependent on each individual Filipino.
