Home & Fashion

I debated where to post this entry. It's about the Panggangan Fiest of Santa Filomena. Many of the guests are not my relatives, nor were all of them crazy (yes, I have friends and acquaintances who make me scratch my head just the same). In the end, since this fiesta was held at home, I decided to put it here, on Home & Fashion. After all, there was some fashion involved.

By the way, "pista" is "fiesta" with a serious bisdak kaajong [extreme Visayan] accent.

Without further ado, here is.

Desperas ni Santa Filomena

This was the day after the ill-fated baile when Richel came home sick. Chefs from Mama K's village came to cook up a meal fit for royalty. Well, royal carnivores anyway. It was ALL meat! No wonder everyone from the remotest parts of the village come to eat; meat is expensive, and for some, the only time they get to indulge is at a fiesta.

The whole island was buzzing with activity. Squealing of pigs, laughter, women scolding husbands for getting drunk already... Then I heard drums. Synchronized beats accompanied by tinkling xylophones.

I rushed out to the street, but was too late. I'd caught the tail, boring end of the parade.

Hey, you! Would you give me ride to the front of the parade? I asked these guys.

Sorry, no room.

Whatever! I've seen five people scrunched onto one of those things.

Psssst! Dong, pasakya ko!

[Pssst! Young boy, give me a ride!]

And just like that, I got a ride! Hah!

He wove me through moped traffic...

Through tricycle traffic...

Past spectators with their own cameras...

Till we caught up to the band whose drums caught my attention in the first place...

And there was the front of the parade...

The homecoming King and Queen of Pangangan National High School.

The Royal Couple's escort...

You, on the yellow motorcycle! Do you have a license and registration to take pictures while sitting unstably on a moving vehicle, wearing no helmet?!

I didn't stick around to answer his question.

Let's get atta here, Dong!

And so we veered off the paved road, onto the rough roads that dissected the island, a nice detour home.

Pista ni Santa Filomena

The fiesta is all about eating.

Some visiting.

But really, your mouth is just too full with food that you can't manage a clear conversation.

"Hn, hn hwat dn hoo dn hesedy?"

"Weh, hah wen ho shush nh sunh fsar toh..."

Could you understand that all?

Translation:

"So, what did you do yesterday?"

"I went to church and saw Father Lito..."

Ergo, no conversations.

Until the tuba, Kulafo, San Miguel, and Fundador take over...

Guests come from as far away as foreign countries, and and as close as your next door neighbor. At any rate, what was once a sleepy island suddenly came alive with excitement brought on by motorcycles, tricycles, multi-cabs, buses, cars, and pick-up trucks full of passengers.

Imagine their disgruntle when they were impeded by road construction. Put an obstacle between a Filipino and his food, and you'll see mad chaos ensue.

Back at the house, the food and drinks were prepared.

Psyche! No, Crazy Filipinos don't drink rice...

We drink tuba, Kulafo, San Miguel, Fundador, and so on and so forth, along with Coca Cola of course. And we keep them cool with ice, in the shade of the eggplant bush.

The food. Pork adobo. Pork menudo. Pork homba. Pork jamon. Pork dinugo-an. Lechon. Pork pinotok. Pork imbotedo. Pork bola-bola.

Did I mention that we served up pork?

Oy, ajaw ko i-bola-bola hah!

Really, lagi, there were a lot of pork dishes, including bola-bola (meatballs)!

(Hahahah, I crack myself up sometimes!)

(Sorry... I forget, some of you don't get my sense of humor.)

(And for those of you who don't get my sense of humor, you're such a ham. Hah! Get it? Ham?

Harharharharharhar!!!)

This is my darling girl Lynn-Lynn. She and I swim and play with the boys - which is a whole other story to post.

This is the neighbor, Reyvin. He is Lynn-Lynn's brother.

No room in the mouth for talking.

Then you drown the food with a drink...

And suddenly, you can't stop talking, and hugging, and giving lectures about the meaning of life in the province amongst the goats and cows and mosquitos... and on, and on, and on...

I haven't forgotten about the fashion part of all this...

Boy, that is some mohawk!

I have known this Yopi since I was twelve - perhaps even before that. He's always been a "bad boy". And here I am, French braiding the bugoy's shoulder length hair that smelled like Rejoice shampoo.

"He has lice!" said someone. Eeeew!

Actually, he didn't. I checked before I braided.

And when all the talking is done...