Lumabas sa February-March 2010 issue ng Balikbayan travel & lifestyle magazine ang abridged version ng aking "Hala Bira!: Athrob and Atingle in Kalibo's Ati-Atihan." As an essayist, it's funny that this is only my first attempt at travel writing. Wala talagang kuwenta ang mga pinagsusulat ko.From the editor's notes:
"In this issue, we could only think of hometowns and the yearning to come home. This issue is a homecoming.Medyo may kahabaan ang sanaysay, kaya heto ang excerpt:
Poet and photographer [Me: well, not really] Phillip Kimpo Jr. retraces his roots in Aklan and provides us dazzling vignettes and images of a most revered festival--the Ati-Atihan. Locating his space in both local history and festive revelry, he lends us a fresh glimpse of this one big fiesta of varied colors and mythic proportions. Phillip is currently president of the LIRA, the premiere organization of poets writing in Filipino founded in 1985."
"We arrived Friday afternoon in Kalibo. From my family’s ancestral home right smack in the middle of the town, my pack of writer-poets—Ynna Abuan, Debbie Nieto, Carla Payongayong, Rom Peña, and Rey Santillan—took a short walk to the Museo it Akean near the plaza. Gracing us with his presence was our mentor, the National Artist for Literature Virgilio S. Almario (alias Rio Alma) and his affable wife, Emelina.Basahin ang online 'flipbook' ng isyu (turn to pages 32/33) o kaya ang text version ng essay.
The brief stroll to the museum allowed my companions time to take in the first rumblings of the coming storm. It happened that the roving “tribes” or bands were away in distant streets, and our ears caught the drifting drumbeats. Souvenir vendors dotted the road. People walked to and from the throbbing heart of the celebration.
Inside the museum, we were reminded that the town was just picking herself up from the devastation of a recent typhoon. Typhoon Frank had ravaged Western Visayas in July 2008, engulfing Kalibo and parts of Aklan in deadly mudslides. The museum lost priceless relics of Akeanon culture; the people lost dozens of their loved ones.
What the Akeanons lost in lives and treasure, they readily made up for in spirit. Our group went up the museum’s balcony and the view opened up before us: the crossroads and plaza full of people, framed by towering trees and crisscrossed power lines. Some people watched from the sidewalks. Many more gyrated and strutted on the street. Banners of green, orange, pink, and purple fluttered in the cool breeze. And here and there, fast approaching: the bands were arriving. To the north was a splotch of red; beneath us emerged a group in yellow. The drums pounded, the trumpets blared, the lyres tinkled, the whistles shrieked.
We watched enthralled. Our nerves tingled, our skin goosebumped. From time to time, a camera clicked, a wow let loose, an astig escaped one’s lips. After letting my friends blow bubbles above the revelers, I took them down to the plaza. They had witnessed the show; now, they were going to be part of it.
Below, the drums pummeled our senses from all directions. We could feel our bodies reverberate with each thud, and every second was pregnant with those thuds coming from a seemingly endless stream of bands. Our heads started to bob up and down to the beat. Our body swayed from left to right and back, matched by the shuffling of feet.
One by one, we got hold of cans of beer sold in the open. After a few gulps, my friends became more intrepid, venturing ever closer to the middle of the street. Their motions became faster, wilder, rawer, and more…genuine. Soon we were dancing to the music of every band that passed in front of us, unmindful of the equally carefree crowd. When there was a lull in the action, we even roamed the road looking to get closer to where the drums were. (Thank heavens for beer.)
One might expect that revelers under the influence would prove unruly, but this is hardly the case in the Ati-Atihan. The spirit of joy in the air is sincere, without nary a taint of malice.
It also helps that the police are pretty visible. Should a pocket of scuffling youth erupt somewhere, it remains just that—a pocket. Still, in last year’s festivities, there was a Caucasian guy who, heavily intoxicated, proved indiscriminate in spitting mouthfuls of beer on the road. He might have thought he was a fountain of booze. Rest assured, the beast was the exception rather than the rule. People steered clear of him. It’s a wonder the passing bands didn’t percuss his head with their hardy instruments. Credit that to Akeanon hospitality.
No matter, beer isn’t really a necessity—the concoction of the music energetic and the air electric is in itself a heady mix to wash down one’s inhibitions."
Kung sakaling nakabili ka ng kopya, huwag na lang pansinin ang dalawang error na wala sa pinasa kong article pero, sa kung anong laro ng mga duwende, ay lumabas sa print. (To cut a long story short, basta may naligaw na apostrophe at may napalitang salita kaya naging kakatwa ang resulta. Humingi naman ng paumanhin ang editorial board. Amended version na ang nasa Internet.) At dapat ding "Photos by Mariane A.R.T. Abuan and the author," nakalimutan akong ilagay kaya naging solo si Ynna hehe.
P.S. Lumabas din sa two previous issues ng Balikbayan ang mga retrato ko; isa dun 'yung mga UP Diliman shots last September. Maraming salamat kay LJ para sa mga pagkakataong ito.
