Mang Isko the Healer

We didn't really have access to the best hospitals growing up, so like any normal Filipino family, we sometimes resorted to 'peripherals'. As a child I remember going at least three to four times a year to the residence of Mang Isko, who was reputed to have been gifted with the power of healing in my father's province of Batangas. He lived on top of a hill, alone, with his small hut that could easily have been a quaint ermita to a traveling image of a saint, and his farm animals, which consisted of cows, chickens, goats, and a carabao.

But first, a background. As I have already said, the circumstances in which I grew up in were not exactly middle class. To save on bills, we would pay Mang Isko a visit. He was, you see, an 'albularyo', a traditional medicine man whose knowledge of herbs and other natural remedies were a cheaper alternative to hospitals. Well, at least I think he was an albularyo; he never claimed to be anything near it, but he played along with that honorific. Mang Isko looked like your stereotypical image of an Asian in the 1940s; think Fu Manchu, with more Japanese eyes, buck teeth, and the like. He even had paler skin than most Filipinos. Mang Isko was greatly respected by all those who knew him, not only because he could 'heal', but because, it was said, albularyos were privy to the secrets of the universe; rivals to priests, in their knowledge of incantations and prayers. It was also said that they chanted in Latin, thus giving credence to the notion that they were priests. There was even an old legend that held that the Jesuits, when they first came to the Philippines, compiled all the secrets and incantations of the albularyos into one black, leatherbound book, possession of which was said to give anyone power beyond his reckoning. To this day, there are still many who hold to this claim. Makes for a good Indiana Jones movie, if you ask me.

Anyway, the drive to Mang Isko's quaint house took about half an hour from my father's childhood home. From the highway one took a right turn to a hill fronted by an aging wooden billboard advertising an equally old and creaky hotel. The road wound up the hill, and to either side were small residences built by squatters. Finally the hill leveled somewhat, and the road led to Mang Isko's grotto of a house, which had a rather spacious veranda overlooking the small plot of land he farmed.

As a city kid, I hated going there. Especially at the age of 9 or 10, when I was just beginning to discover the wonders of the Internet; I felt Mang Isko's home was ancient at best and antediluvian, if not prehistoric, at worst. It was a small wood and stone affair, characteristic of homes built at the turn of the 20th century. The main house, which was of wood, stood on a base of stone, its foundation, and was reached by climbing a small stair. Inside, the house looked like a curio shop. It was literally stuffed with religious images, which contrasted, humorously and ironically enough, with the White Castle whisky calendars the old man had collected over the years (even healers have their needs too).

To one side was a wall, where an ancient, dark, wooden crucifix was affixed. It looked very expensive, with rayos of gold, and bolts of gold on the arms (there's a Spanish term for that which I have forgotten). The corpus had a wig of abaca, with finely worked potencias. The crucifix itself was framed by a gigantic wooden rosary; images of the Blessed Virgin, Saint Peter, and even a 'painting' of St. Michael ripped off a bottle of gin flanked the big cross (A popular brand of gin here is called Ginebra San Miguel). There was a small table which held a large number of candles before the images. There was a small, darkly lit room, with a single wooden bed with no mattress, where he performed his 'hilot' or traditional Philippine massage, his main method of 'healing'.

Mang Isko himself was a pleasant old man, whose hospitality was legendary. The last time we were there, 1998, my dad complained of a bad back, and my grandfather came along as well, as his arthritis was bothering him. So in we go, inside the small, quaint house, drinking small bottles of Coke which I then called the last point of civilization in the genteel, all too quiet surroundings of the farm. The only sound one could hear was the mooing of the cows and the clucking of the chickens. It added a decidedly mystical air to the whole environment, I thought.

Only once did I even dare to look at the procedure, and I was greatly disappointed. I ran into the room, feigning ignorance to mask my prideful curiosity, and discovered the old man rubbing a golden liquid onto my father's back. To my mind then, it looked like piss. I watched Mang Isko rub the liquid with his small, deft hands, which, even in the darkness, seemed to wander as if guided by truth itself into the invisible nooks and shadowy crevices of my dad's back. My grandfather awaited his turn, meanwhile, on a nearby chair, his pant leg rolled up to just above his knees. For an old man, Mang Isko moved with a graceful dexterity that seemed almost superhuman. I remember thinking that he must have loved exercise when he was a kid. That was the most sensible explanation for me.

Bored, I filed out of the house. I ran across the field with my brother, cursing the dumb beasts, throwing little stones at them or else flinging mud everywhere. Finally, after half an hour of doing so, I went back to the veranda, and sat myself on a small wooden chair. Finally, incensed at the constant mooing of the cows, I hurled a large rock at one of them, and screamed at the top of my lungs: 'Shut up you stupid cow!' But there was something about the silence that followed that simply wasn't right. I looked over to my side and saw Mang Isko's little figure, mouth agape, brows crunched, clearly puzzled, if not offended. 'Do you really think I am stupid?', he said. 'I just told your father what any sensible person would do. He needs a new mattress.'

It seemed that, just as I screamed at the cow, Mang Isko was simultaneously telling me that he knew the answer to my father's problems. It was incredibly hideous timing. Hearing the commotion, my dad headed outside, clearly angered at the commotion I caused. 'You ungrateful, disrespectful child! How dare you talk to your elders that way! Puneta!' My grandfather, ever the silent type, just shook his head in disapproval, but his eyes told me that he was greatly disappointed in my behavior.

I never got to apologize to Mang Isko. It was nearing dark, and he had gone to fetch a couple of things from the nearest house some 2 kilometers away; we thanked his housekeeper-slash-fac-totum, and told her to convey our sincerest apologies to Mang Isko. That was in the summer of 1998, and ten years hence, I have yet to apologize for that faux pas. I had never felt so humiliated before; I could not bear to look at his housekeeper, let alone Mang Isko.

The drive down the hill was eerily silent; only the croaking crickets accompanied us on the way down. Even the cows had seized mooing, and the chickens had clucked their last. Above, the full moon shone brightly-- and somewhere to the right, to the side of the road, I saw a small fire. The moonlight revealed Mang Isko's small figure-- hands outstretched in the orans, knees kneeling on dirt, a rosary hanging from either hand. The old albularyo knelt before a small, dilapidated grotto with an image of the Santo Cristo, and somewhere, in the distance, I heard a small voice, chanting words that could only have been Latin.

Saint Guinefort

I found this little gem of an entry in Wikipedia. It is definitely one of the most unusual cults I have ever encountered.

"Saint Guinefort was a 13th century dog that received local veneration as a saint after miracles were reported at his grave.

His story is a variation on the well-travelled 'faithful hound' motif, perhaps better-known in Britain in the form of the dog Gelert. Guinefort the greyhound belonged to a knight who lived in a castle near Lyon. One day, the knight went hunting, leaving his infant son in the care of Guinefort. When he returned, he found the nursery in chaos - the cot was overturned, the child was nowhere to be seen and Guinefort greeted his master with bloody jaws. Believing Guinefort to have devoured his son, the knight slew the dog. He then heard a child crying; he turned over the cot and found his son lying there, safe and sound, along with the body of a viper. Guinefort had killed the snake and saved the child. On realising the mistake the family dropped the dog down a well, covered it with stones and planted trees around it, setting up a shrine for Guinefort. Guinefort became recognised by locals as a saint for the protection of infants. It was alleged by Catholic commentators, dismayed by the worship of a dog, that the locals sacrificed babies at the site.

The cult of this dog saint persisted for several centuries, until the 1930s, despite the repeated prohibitions of the Catholic Church."

Not Dead Yet!

So sorry for the lack of updates recently, I have been busy with several things. Also, I will be going to Hong Kong tomorrow and will be staying there for five days. The last time I was in Hong kong, in 1996, I cried in public, inside a bus, no less, so for the last decade or so I have always associated that place with crying. It should be a fun trip, although the school season has already started here in Manila (arrgh, no beach this year!). Also, keep an eye out for a somewhat historical (i.e., it is about history, not necessarily 'revolutionary' or anything)post in the coming days; the last post has made me think a lot about the character of Manila as a whole, and it is something, I think, which is worth exploring.

San Agustin Convent Chapel

A picture of the Augustinian convent chapel at San Agustin church in Old Manila. Though the church itself still exists (the sole surviving great church in the destruction of Manila in WWII), the convent, where this chapel was located, did not. It is completely polychromed in gold, or so I have read.

Something Entertaining

The 80s. I'm glad I was born at the end of that ridiculous decade, hahahaha. 'Look around like a hound till you catch that fox!' LOL

Why?

Because I'm in love. Because we've been doing it for 500 years. Because she deserves it. Because she is the Mother of God. Because it is May. Because she is our Mother.

The Assassination of General Bustamante

A curious footnote in Philippine history is the assassination of the governor general Fernando Manuel de Bustillo Bustamante y Rueda in 1719. The general, who came to Manila from Mexico on 9 August 1717, quickly proved to be an unpopular figure, which would later lead to his assassination, unique in the entirety of Philippine history for being instigated by priests and religious. On 17 October 1719, it was reported that all of Manila was at a standstill; church bells sang funeral dirges, and the citizenry lit candles, multitudes of them, as if it were Dia de Todos los Santos. Word reached the ears of the Governor that the religious were conspiring with many of the citizens to assassinate him. In response to this, he had the Archbishop of Manila, H.E. Antonio Cuesta, arrested and thrown in jail. This would prove to be his fatal mistake.

Two days later, just before the crack of dawn, the sons of St. Dominic, St, Francis, St. Ignatius, and St. Augustine poured out in droves into the streets of Manila, and processed to the Palacio del Gobernador..

"The Franciscans, Dominicans and Augustinians came out from their convents, each as a body, carrying in their hands crucifixes and shouting, ‘Long Live the Church! Long Live King Felipe V!’… they were joined by people of all classes and proceeded to the Church of San Agustin…

The governor who was roused from his sleep and informed of the arrival of the mob sprang up and ordered the guards to keep back the crowd… He dispatched an order to the fort to discharge artillery at the crowd; but he was so little obeyed that, although they applied a match to two cannons, these where aimed so low that the balls were buried in the middle of the esplanade of the fort.

Without opposition, this multitude arrived at the doors of the palace… As for the soldiers of the guard, some retreated in fear, and others in terror laid down their arms. The mob climbed up by ladders and entered the first hall, the halberdiers not firing the swivel-guns that had been provided, although the governor had commanded them to do so…

{Bustamante} attempted to discharge his gun at a citizen standing near and it missed fore; then the governor drew his saber and wounded the citizen; the latter, and with him all the rest at once attacked the governor. They broke him right arm, and a blow on his head from a saber caused him to fall like one dead."

In the aftermath of the assassination, it was said that the Te Deum was sung in the streets of Manila, and that the governor's body was yet made subject to a heap of other indignities too numerous to mention. Finally, his and his dead son's body, with their remaining relatives, were banished to the galleons to return to Mexico. It remains a controversial, albeit rarely discussed, footnote in Philippine history, with a number of historians defending the efficiency of Bustamante's reign. Prior to his arrival, Manila was governed by corrupt officials (hmm, this sounds familiar), and her treasury was in shambles. To be fair to the governor, he was able to raise Manila's coffers significantly, but his ruthlessness, it was said, also knew no bounds.

You may read some more of this incident in these following websites.

"A fatal religious procession"
Assassination of General Bustamante
Philippine History.net

RIP Jimmy Mizen

Please pray for the repose of the soul of Jimmy Mizen, 16, murdered for refusing to pick a fight. As a teenager, I am deeply affected, not only because it was a life cut too short, but because from what I have read, Mr. Mizen was an exemplary character who brought love and joy to everyone who knew him. A devout Catholic and an altar server, Jimmy was killed, apparently by a fellow teenager, who smashed a dinner plate to his neck, and thus, bleeding to death. It is indeed sad that a gentle soul like him would have to die such a tragic death. Pray for justice, pray for his family. I've little doubt that he is with God now.

St. Francis Xavier Church, Nasugbu, Batangas

Can you believe this Church was just recently renovated? And yes-- those are the renovations! I was able to visit this church in April of last year; prior to this occasion I had last been in this church in April of 2005. Back then the murals still had not been painted and the retablo was still being finished. I'm particularly smitten with the chandeliers, I've seen them in person, and thought they were just absolutely fantastic. Nasugbu is a small town located in the province of Batangas, just two hours' drive south of Manila. It is famed for its beaches and multiple azucareras; many prominent residents of this town are of the old Spanish mestizo extraction. I have a couple of relatives in this town, and visiting them-- and no doubt, their church-- is always a pleasure.

The official website of St. Francis Xavier parish is here. Also, do check out their Flickr account; it has many beautiful pictures of the spectacular high altar, and more.

Sinigang na Baboy!

Sinigang na Baboy is arguably my favorite meal in the whole world. For those who don't know, sinigang na baboy means 'sour soup with pork', roughly the equivalent of the Thai tom yum, only less spicy. In fact, many Filipinos compete to make the sourest sinigang possible. In my opinion, it's best eaten on a cold, rainy day, as the hot soup is always refreshing in any circumstances. Here are the ingredients and steps to make sinigang.

First, you need the broth, and to make that, you need some tamarind first. Locally, it is called sampaloc, and half a kilogram usually suffices for making the broth. Clean the sampaloc, and place it in a pot with roughly 7 or 8 cups water. Heat for 20 to 30 minutes, depending on your tastes. I think the rule of thumb is the longer the sourer, though I think there's also a danger of draining away all the sourness. The best way to see if the broth is ready is when the tamarind pods are "mashable" or at least very soft. After boiling, discard the solid tamarinds, and strain. Don't worry if the broth looks cloudy, it's supposed to be that way, in fact, most people I know think that it's meant to be that way.

Ideally, while this is being done, you should have your pork ready by then. Typically, we use pork ribs for sinigang, although pork chops are also an acceptable substitute. Some cooks sear the pork first to add some zest to it, but typically, this is not required. Make sure to add a lot of bony parts, as these help to add flavor to the broth. Most Filipinos also opt to keep the fat in the pork, citing its velvety smooth texture as the pinnacle of all delights. Add a large quantity of water to the pork, together with some chopped tomatoes and spring onions (green onions if none of the former). Since sinigang is a typical Filipino dish which means the more ostentatious the better, many also add leeks, eggplant, sitaw (long beans), long green chili, and patis (fermented fish sauce); some also add black pepper to make it spicier. The quantity depends on the cook's liking, but usually these are in quantities that do not outnumber/outpower the pork. Let this simmer for at least 40 minutes.

After this is done, add the tamarind broth to the pork. Sprinkle generously with salt and pepper, and then add kangkong leaves (water spinach). These are a favorite of mine, and I like them in large doses in my sinigang. You can also add the water spinach earlier, with the rest of the pork, but this might turn them a rather unappetizing shade or brown. Thus, it's preferable to add them later so that they retain a somewhat vibrant green hue. I also like to add more onions at this point, just because they're awesome, LOL.

Finally, when all is done, sinigang na baboy is served! It is always eaten in the Philippines with magnificently hefty servings of steamed white rice. I like to put some of the broth in a cup and then just pour everything on top of the rice. The pork is tender and exudes a very sour, yet absolutely very tasty, uh, taste. You may also keep some more patis at hand, to make it even sourer; kalamansi (calamondin) is also another fine option. Kainan na!

*Note: The word sinigang is actually a method of cooking. Fish, prawns, and chicken siningang are all respectable dishes on their own. Typically, 'sinigang na manok' or chicken sinigang is not called thus, but given the moniker 'sinampalukang manok'; that is, literally, 'sampaloc-ed chicken'.

Some Updates

Dear Readers,

It has been a long time since I properly updated this blog. Over the course of the past few weeks, I have posted less and less frequently, occasionally popping in for prayer requests and some rants. Partly, this hiatus is my own fault; as I've mentioned, I've been battling severe depression lately, and it has really taken a toll on me. Just looking at the mirror confirms that I am now rather gaunt, if not a bit downcast. The good news is that I am not bi-polar, although I have been told that I am prone to depression. Apparently, I have many family members who are of similar situations, so I guess I am not alone in battling this. Thank you all so much for your kind thoughts and your prayers.

Also, I have added an option for Donations to this blog. The main reason I am doing this is because I've finally decided to be 'independent' to some degree, that is, I'm now going to pay more a third of my college tuition. Lately, I've felt like I've been in all your endeavocausing my parents undue stress with education, and I wanted to help them by alleviating some of the burden from their shoulders. I don't think I can go steady with a part time job yet, though, as I still have some personal issues to resolve. That said, your donations would be of tremendous help! Please understand, though, that I am NOT demanding anything from you; I will still continue blogging, donations or not.

Finally, I ask that you all be patient with me! Although this blog is not exactly a 'mega-blog', I am nevertheless DELIGHTED with all of the thoughtful and humorous comments you have left in my posts. They have seriously given me much to ponder, and I have to admit that they are often the inspiration for some of my posts. Once I again, I thank you all for reading my blog. May the Good Lord continue to bless you all in everything that you do!

The Myanmar Cyclone

Of your charity, please pray for the souls of the 22,000 dead and 41,000 missing as a result of the recent, devastating cyclone Nargis in Myanmar (aka Burma). There are bigger, more real news out there than the Indiana primaries or the latest celebrity scandals, and this is one such item that is sadly, outrageously, lacking attention.

De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine:
Domine, exaudi vocem meam.
Fiant aures tuae intendentes:
in vocem deprecationis meae.
Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine: qui sustinebit?
Quia apud te propitiatio est:
et propter legem tuam sustinuite, Domine.
Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus,
speravit anima mea in Domino,
a custodia matutina usque ad noctem.
Speret Israel in Domino.
Quia apud Dominum misericordia
et copiosa apud eum redemptio.
Et ipse redimet Israel ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus.

Weep, weep, weep

God have mercy on us all.

I will post something more substantive about this tomorrow. Right now, though, I have an unbelievable headache and I seem to have caught the flu, too.

Disgusting

Young mother's fury as video of her gang-rape ordeal is posted on YouTube

Please excuse the somewhat pessimistic tone of this post.

I know this story is not exactly new, and I'm fairly certain it has been posted in other blogs before-- but the sheer disgust I feel for the perpetrators of this execrable act is simply too much. Has the West sunk so low that acts as barbarous as this are becoming more commonplace? What has happened, and what is happening to society? Sometimes, I feel utterly hopeless for the future of humanity, and this, I think, vindicates my feelings.

Frankly, whoever said that Europeans are more civilized than Americans has been fed a ton of bullshit. I'm sorry for being so pessimistic, but how can one possibly defend something of this nature? Granted, things like this are not exclusive to Europeans or Americans; I have known my fair share of truly outrageous a-holes in my life. One guy I went to school with blew up the school bathroom for fun, another tried to set the building on fire, and almost succeeded in burning it down. But at the end of the day, rape remains a personal transgression in the purest way. This video was done out of sheer malice against a person, in front of her own children, even. That is just WRONG. That is just INFURIATING. And it is utterly DAMNABLE.

Perhaps it is because Filipino culture places grave importance on the person of the Mother that I am so incensed. Where I come from, the strongest insults are always those that concern one's Mother-- but even if we say such things, violence against mothers is the ultimate sin once can commit. Murderers come and go, but patricides and matricides (and all those who commit violence against parents, whether one's own or those of others), I am convinced, have a special place reserved for them deep in the boiling recesses of the Devil's s--thole. I'm sorry for the strong language-- it is not customary for me to have such a salty tongue-- but I just feel so very strongly about this.

Let me end with a rather ominous comment from an Italian priest who visited a chapel I frequent; in America, sin loses its sinfulness because decadence is firmly grafted into society. But in Europe, sin loses its sinfulness because it becomes a philosophy. I did not understand what he meant until now. God be merciful to us all.

What You All Need to Know About Me

Dear Readers,

I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you. Truth be told, the real (or at least, the most pertinent) reason I have taken a break from blogging is because I have felt nothing but complete and utter hatred for myself lately. To cut a long story short, I have very severe self-esteem problems, which have only worsened as of late. It does not help that I have rare, but extremely potent tendencies to slip into deep depression. I guess you could call me somewhat bi-polar, though that is not an official diagnosis (yet?). I can't help but blame God for all of my problems lately; and I can't help but feel like shit, too. Please pray for me and all my intentions, that I be able to overcome this period of darkness. Perhaps it would be best if I learn to accept myself for what I am or what I am not; I will probably never be the ideal me I've always pictured in my mind, and this is something I have to accept, however much it burdens me. Again, please pray for me; I really, really need it right now.

Life is Beautiful

"So many adventures couldnt happen today,
So many songs we forgot to play
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue,
We let them come true."

Tagged

It's been ages since I was last tagged, so I'm answering his one with great gusto! Thanks to Andrew for providing me with something to work with and killing my boredom.

The Rules:

a)The rules of the game are posted at the beginning
b)The blogger who gets tagged must answer the following questions about himself
c)After this has been accomplished, the blogger tags five more to answer the meme, and leaves a comment at their blog to answer it

1) What I was doing ten years ago:

8 April 1998 - Enjoying a trip to the beach in sunny Puerto Galera. I remember my little inflatable rubber boat got caught in a very powerful gust of wind, and I had to chase it for around 300 feet before I finally caught it. Then it got blown away again.

2) Five Things in My To-Do List

2.a) Get my grades from school (I got two B+'s! No A's, though :( )
2.b) Fetch my cousins
2.c) Clean my room, it's just an incredible mess
2.d) Read a book
2.e) Pray, and pray hard

3) Things I Would Do if I Were a Billionaire

3.a) Build the biggest church in the world, which I will personally furnish hahaha
3.b) Donate a significant sum to the Vatican
3.c) Build a resthouse near the Tubbataha Reef in Palawan
3.d) Build schools for the needy
3.e) Buy exceedingly rare books

4) Three of My Bad Habits

4.a) Pride (I can be a very arrogant person)
4.b) Lust/Impurity (Sadly, I can be very susceptible to the wiles of the flesh)
4.c) Backbiting (There was a time when all I could say about a person was gossip)

5) Five Places I Have Visited

5.a) The Grand Canyon, Arizona, USA (It was quite hot! I've never had bigger sweat stains in my life, LOL; but the view was incredible ['02])
5.b) Manhattan, New York, USA (We went to the Empire State building, FAO Schwarz, the Museum of Natural History, Liberty Island, and passed by the WTC [this was back in '00])
5.c) Panglao Island, Bohol, Philippines (some VERY beautiful beaches, great people, and I got to see Baclayon church, second oldest in the country ['07])
5.d) Victoria Peak, Hong Kong (I was with my siblings; we then proceeded to Ocean Park afterwards ['96])
5.e) Singapore (I've been to Singapore a lot of times, so much so that I've visited all the major sights there; also shopped at Orchard Road. I bought a pair of shoes ['05]).

I've been to a lot more places, but in the interest of time, I just listed the above off the top of my head.

6) Five Jobs I've Had

Hmm... This is difficult, since getting jobs while in HS here in the RP is an alien practice. But thankfully, I've had my fair share of experience.

6.a)Facilitator for a summer camp (entirely pro bono; '06)
6.b Assitant for my mom's business (an on-off thing; '04 to '05)
6.c)Part-time tutor (for some of the younger kids in school, but I saw this as voluntary work; '05)

7) Five Snacks I Enjoy

Though this category was not in Andrew's list, I've seen some versions of this meme that included this, so I might as well add it. Besides, snacks are awesome! Yum! (Be forewarned, though, that the things I'm about to list are unhealthy as fudge).

7.a) Chicharon (Fried, crispy pork rind, best enjoyed by dipping into spicy vinegar)
7.b) Toblerone (I really like it)
7.c) Smores ( A guilty pleasure)
7.d) Chocolate mousse cake (A favorite of mine since time immemorial!)
7.e) Mentos Spearmint (LOL)

I also want to try a snack called 'Filipinos', which are, apparently, a kind of biscuit in Spain. I hear they're terribly tasty. LOL.

8) Five Places I've Lived

I've lived in Quezon City, Manila, all my life. We have had three different houses, though, but always in the same city.

That's it. It took some time, but in the end, it was quite enjoyable, really. I tag the following people, should they choose to accept:

Arturo Vasquez of 'Reditus'
Jeffrey Smith of 'The Roving Medievalist'
Eegahinc of 'The B-Movie Catechism'
Ken of 'Hallowedground'
Mark Scott Abeln of 'Rome of the West'

La Perla del Oriente

Sunset at Manila Bay

Now that I have more time on my hands, I hope to be able to blog on things closer to home; there are so many things in Manila that deserve their own posts, including the city's many churches, its quirks, and of course, the horrible traffic jams. And yes, even that can have some spiritual meaning. I've also been meaning to post more about Intramuros, the 'Old Manila', and its famous churches: San Ignacio, San Agustin, Santo Domingo, and many more. Sadly, only the Augustinian (which is to say, the second, LOL) church survives to this very day-- the rest were destroyed in WWII, along with priceless other structures (did you know that Manila was the second most devastated city in WWII?). These should be interesting, to say the least.

Summer

It's summer already in my part of the world, and I'm enjoying every minute of it!

I'm sorry I haven't been around lately-- the last few weeks of school, followed almost immediately by the freedom that summer brings, can prove to be a very potent potion. I've visited museums, spent hours in bookstores, and numbed by butt to movie marathons of Godzilla and Hammer horror-- a very enjoyable thing, I assure you. Of course, all this couch potato slouching will take a toll on my body, hence I'm also doubling my time at the tennis court (it's great that I have my cousin over to indulge me, plus her cute friends are also a boon, LOL).

Posts soon; for now, I have to get back to watching 'Conan the Barbarian'.

Why Is This Night Different From Every Other Night?

'Why is this night different from every other night?'

Maundy Thursday has always been a day of great drama for me. From the time that I could walk, my parents would always take me 'church hopping' on this most holy of nights in the traditional 'visita iglesia' so dear to the Filipino people, the Tagalogs especially. I remember visiting provincial churches--grand, dusty, and tainted with the weight of history--and being awed by the whole experience. The sight of many veiled women, wailing and chanting prayers on their knees, and the heat of literally thousands of bodies packed into a small nave will forever haunt me for the rest of my life.

Oddly enough, Maundy Thursday is also a day of great setbacks and mistakes. There is always something happening during the day that makes it so mundane. Come evening, however, it is a different matter entirely, and this year was no different. One of the most spine-tingling sights for city dwellers in Manila is surely the sight of hundreds of tall buildings, utterly unlit, standing like silent sentinels in a sea of shadows. Every year, this scene is rehearsed again and again, but the potency is as strong as ever.

This year, we visited seven churches as usual-- a far cry from the fourteen churches that my father used to visit when he was my age, and barefoot, too. But just what is it about Maundy Thursday evening that is so different? This year, we followed almost exactly the same route as we did for Maundy Thursday last year. I will focus on the churches of Intramuros. When we reached the walled city--Old Manila, Spanish Manila-- it was probably the visual equivalent of being hit by a tidal wave. I had to suppress a sarcastic chuckle at the sight of so many cars trying to enter through the ancient stone walls, while guards dressed in guardia civil attire herded SUVs and sedans to safe, suitable parking spaces. But more than the cars was the sheer number of people, many of them poor, and almost all of them fulfilling a panata, trudging through the small (relatively speaking) portals of Old Manila. Again, there was a suppressed chuckle, as the a sizable portion of the milling crowd, especially the boys, seemed to be dressed like cholos, faux bling bling and oversized anime shirts and wifebeaters being an 'unofficial' dress code.

Many of them bore crucifixes, the kind that looked mass-produced but had its own unique quality, and almost all of them sporting a bloodied corpus of the Crucified. Many still were barefoot, mud and filth caking the soles of their feet. They numbered in the thousands, squeezing through the churches in undulating waves. The scene at the Manila Cathedral, for example, was too much for words to describe-- hundreds must have crammed through the small chapel where the Blessed Sacrament was reposed. Outside, in the body of the cathedral, bands of penitents knelt on the cold stone floor, praying the Via Crucis. The pews were filled to the brim with men and women, young and old, rich and poor alike. It was like a scene from the bible-- like the crowd before Moses as he parted the Red Sea, like the people of Jerusalem gathered at Golgotha to witness the death of the God-man.

Still in Intramuros, we proceeded next to San Agustin church, oldest of all the houses of God in the Philippines, the sole survivor of the great churches of Intramuros, the crowning glory of Old Manila. It was a five minute walk to this church from the Cathedral, but it lasted more than that, due to the sheer number of people trudging through the streets. I saw Spanish, Chinese, and Malay Filipino walking side by side that night. It was a sight to behold, and one to chill the blood of even the most hardened atheists. Entering San Agustin was an experience unto itself; the patio of the church was literally jam-packed with devotees, praying on their knees, and waiting for their loved ones to come. Inside, the church was lit very somberly; but the Baroque splendor of this ancient church still shone, and stood out amidst the shadowy darkness. I saw many a child looking with eyes-wide open at the sorrowful images of saints in their gilded niches. It was like being transported back in time, like 'seeing a glimpse of heaven from purgatory', as a lady next to me described it.



It was in Chinatown, though, that I grasped just what this day meant for me, and for many more out there. As we entered Binondo church, where the first Filipino canonized saint Lorenzo Ruiz once served as sacristan, I was struck immediately by the sight of a group of penitents, fifty at least, walking to the main altar of the church. They were poor people-- barefoot, dirty, and obviously tired. Ahead of them were four boys-- three bearing wooden crucifixes, and another holding a processional garden torch. Behind them knelt the rest of the group, holding rosaries and prayer books in their hands, many with eyes caught in a mystic rapture, and many more caught in a wave of emotion as to make them tear up. For five minutes at least, they recited their prayers, to the amazement and astonishment of the other pilgrims, including yours truly. Afterwards, when they had finished their prayers, they were gone as quickly as they had entered the church. It was truly one of the most amazing things I had ever seen.



The only other church we visited which we had not visited before was San Sebastian church in Quiapo, Manila. It is notable as the sole all-steel Gothic(!!!) church in all of Asia, and is one of the most intriguing churches in all of Manila (until 1975, it remained closed to the public for all but a few days in the year). San Sebastian loomed before us, its tall spires framing the bright moon above; even from a distance, and while seated inside the car, one could see the sea of people making their way inside the church. Inside, San Sebastian was packed to the brim; it took us practically five minutes to cross from the vestibule to the nave, so many were making their devotions, and so many were venerating the image of the Nazarene and the Senor de Paciencia at the nave. The confessionals were all robed in purple, and had large crowds swelling at every point. Again there were the penitents, still barefoot, making their pilgrimage to this house of God, while the number of devotees venerating the two images stationed near the entrance of the church still grew with every passing minute. We left the church, exhausted, hassled, and most importantly, awed to our wildest wits.



Outside the church, it was a catastrophe. The already cramped streets were littered with refuse and garbage from the day (on mornings, this part of Quiapo becomes a wet market), a sight which contrasted sharply with the magnificence and splendor of the churches we visited. Yet in that hour, something within me understood something. Suddenly, everything made sense-- the garbage on the streets, the barefoot penitents, the bands of pilgrims, and the stripped altars. Suddenly, one could see: this night was, indeed, different from all other nights. The drama of the Passion had begun; the die has been cast, and the scenes which had been so familiar to us from the beginning repeat themselves, and we are transported back to the days of old, and I, at least, understood my place in the scheme of things; and that place is in the pews, grieving with the rest of humanity, and keeping vigil with Our Lord in the last hours before His execution. It would be better to say that I was bludgeoned with this truth than actually understanding it.

At 11pm, I finally got home, and with only a couple of minutes more, I once again hear, in my mind, these words: Why is this night different from every other night? And still, I cannot provide an answer, save a couple of ramblings and stories that try to approximate this single, supremely sublime piece wisdom: I kept watch with God at this night. That is why it is so different.