WARNING: graphic images included below.
I’m not made for hot climates. Just over three months ago I was happily working outside at Scott Base, Antarctica, and now I am in the humid high 30’s, with overnight lows as comfortable as 27⁰C. My mis-adaption to these climes is crystallised in the salt deposits accumulating on my backpack straps, a tidemark of my discomfort. Nor am I accustomed to large cities. I have previously spent a four-hour stop over wandering the streets of Melbourne; other than that, Auckland is my only reference, a city of just over one million people. Now, after eight hours trudging the rain drenched streets and gardens of Hong Kong, I am ensconced in Manila – the throbbing heart of the Philippines, home to some 12 million people.
It was my last stint in Antarctica that pointed me to Manila. A conversation in the Scott Base library with Chris Long, a field trainer, suggested that STCW training was much cheaper in the Philippines, and being an intentional certification, it doesn’t really matter where you obtain it. Throw in the possibilities offered by the seas and peoples of this archipelago, and the decision was easy. Pre-booking a slot on a course intake was not to be done however
“Sir, courses start on Mondays and Wednesdays. Please bring your passport and payment”.
Righto. With a visitor visa allowing one month with the option to extend, the training needing ten consecutive days, and the country effectively shutting down over the Easter period, I had plenty of contingency… Visa extension not an option however, I have a yacht race in Portsmouth to join on 25th of May, and the arctic adventure casts off from Clifden (West Ireland) around the middle of June (more on this later).
After checking into the hostel, I walk into the city intent on enrolling ASAP, in order to settle into enjoying the free time. First off, a bag check and pat down by an armed guard at the building entrance. Armed as in glock-on-hip and shotgun-slung-over-chest. Confronting for a kiwi. The majority of our police force do not carry firearms, let alone private security guards. Then refused entry to the elevators by a second guard as I do not comply with the buildings dress code, “long pants only sir”. Righto. Long pants in 35⁰C? Great. Backtrack to a mall to find a cheap pair of lightweight pants that will serve for the duration of the course (jeans are not an option). Difficult finding pants that fit my non-Filipino body to say the least. Back to the training center, hoping desperately that there are no dress-code rules against excessive sweat. Now before enrollment, a medical clearance is needed. Down another sweltering street to the clinic. Physical, vision, hearing, psychological stability, intelligence. All checks out. Back to the training center, payment made, slot secured. Report at 0700 on Monday 29th April.
I am staying in a small hostel in Quaipo, the “Old Downtown of Manila”, a district I am later told is notorious for pickpockets and other relatively dangerous types. I am yet to run into any significant trouble however.
Quaipo, a district where religious sensibilities meet everyday practicalities, in a chaotic harmony of contradictions. A holy week (Easter) procession fills the street towards the Minor Basilica of the Black Nazarene as the Friday call to prayers emanates from the Golden Mosque one street over. Potion sellers offer remedies to “irregular menstruation” (i.e. – abortion-in-a-bottle) outside a catholic church, while two blocks down Muslim hawkers offer pig-themed novelties for this, the year of the pig. T-shirts depicting the Black Nazarene are for sale below an over-bridge proffering all manner of sex toys. And everywhere the smell of fried or barbecued foods mingles with stale urine and overheated, sweaty humanity.
An election is looming in the Philippines, indeed the day I fly out. Flyers, posters and billboards abound, and Jeepneys roll down the street blaring adaptations of pop songs as deafening candidate endorsements. My favourite being the immediately recognizable California Love, although I doubt Pac and Dre ever rapped in Tagalog. During these months leading up to the election, I am told there is a country-wide gun ban, yet I see on more than one occasion a revolver being cleaned behind a barbecue stall. Eyes Wide Open. The marks of the current strongman president, Rodrigo Duterte, are present throughout my wanderings, not least in the political/protest graffiti prevalent on bridges and underpasses
Never Again to Martial Law
Oust US-Duterte Regime
Stop the Killings
The last is particularly chilling. Many of us have heard of the sanctioned vigilante killings of drug dealers on the streets. It gives the occasional whiff of dope in the air a much greater weight. Prohibition on a much harder level, and yet it doesn’t work… While the political positioning is a regime tough on law, order, and anti-corruption, it is clear that many locals feel quite the opposite. I am told that the majority of killings were no more than street-corner hustlers, while the actual “trouble makers” are untouched, indeed benefit from the removal of certain competitive elements. It’s as if your friendly neighbourhood tinny-house* was shut down via lead, yet the gangs continue to profit.
In a country over 85% Roman Catholic, I am here during the most significant of times – Easter, or “Holy Week”. And, via the couchsurfing app, I get invited to join a group of people (Filipino and foreigners) driving north to attend the Maleldo festival in Pampanga. I had to seriously consider this invitation for sometime. Can I, someone who is at least ambivalent towards organised religion in general, ethically attend a full-blown recreation of Christ’s crucifixion? This is not a Mel Gibson production, but literally bloody act of penance and faith. On one hand, this is not only not-sanctioned by the Catholic Church officials, but somewhat condemned. A rebellious act if you will. On the other hand, if I was in Vanuatu, would I have similar qualms about viewing similarly confronting displays of land-diving?** Or would the greater exoticism of a non-Christian faith override my doubts? Perhaps. The fact that others in the group are Filipino, and equally unsure about the day, somewhat lessens my guilt and/or helps me justify it to myself. I’m in.
We arrive in Baranguay San Juan before 0700, and the place has all the feel of a carnival. Children and dogs run riot, and food stalls line the streets. The first sight of proceedings is a group of young people dressed in the garb of either Roman soldiers, priests, or (I assume, my knowledge of the bible is miniscule) Jeruselum inhabitants, including one clear Jesus emulator – a wizened older man with head bowed in the center of it all. Some warm-up exercises and group prayers start the day, as a crowd of visitors and locals watch on.
A rhythmic thwack thwack fills the air, as a parade of shirtless men march down the street, whipping their own backs with bamboo flails. The self flagellation is aided by scraping with a steel comb, and the application of some isopropyl alcohol. Their skin soon springs a leak, and blood flows freely down their backs. The flails distribute blood drops indiscriminately, splattering street cobbles, vehicles and onlookers with indelible marks of others’ pain. There must be at least 50 taking part, and not a noise except the thwacks. Some are also wearing a barbed-wire crown of thorns, pressing tightly into their foreheads. This very strange, and a little difficult to watch.
Next come the costumed actors, Jesus bearing a cross at the center of the crowd. He is regularly beaten, whipped, and thrown to the ground, and not a sound leaves his lips. This is no joke, there’s some serious effort put into the whipping, and blood soon seeps through his robes. My Spanish and Tagalog is as non-existent as my knowledge of biblical stories, however later reading tells me the various “stations of the cross” are re-enacted. A crowd follows closely in the oppressive heat. I myself am struggling here; what sins are deserving of heatstroke?
Now for the main event, crucifixion. Two younger followers of Jesus, who have been carrying heavy posts across their shoulders throughout, are tied to their crosses. Although no nails are used, they are evidently struggling. Their arms have been tied up at ninety degrees for at least as many minutes, and they tremble and wince as aides provide sips of water. Did I mention the heat?
A medical team is on hand as Jesus is laid on his cross, currently horizontal. Then, it happens without warning. Four-inch long stainless steel nails are driven through each of his hands and feet. This is for real. He is completely secured to the cross prior to it being raised vertical. Not a sound from him as blood runs and congeals from various injuries. Meanwhile, I’m puffing and moaning about the heat, as sweat seeps through my shirt. Not quite the same. The cross remains vertical for at least ten minutes before being lowered, and Jesus is carried to a medical tent.
As our small group shelters in the shade, reflecting and discussing the events, we are descended on by various local and international media, hungry for our thoughts Sir, what did you think of that?” “Do you have such events in New Zealand?” “Do you agree with what you saw?” “Do you think its cruel?”. The barrage is as relentless as the sun, obviously keen for a judgmental soundbite from a shell-shocked tourist. I mutter something about impressive devotion, and beg my leave. I don’t want to cause offence, and I really don’t know what to think.
My ambivalence towards religion often veers towards distaste and confrontation, especially when thinking about such issues as tithing of the poor, suspension of criticism/inquiry, and suppression of individuals, not to mention the numerous atrocities committed either in the name of, or against, various gods. I struggle to comprehend the unquestioning obedience to the rules of a (THE) book, especially when so many interpretations are available. I entirely disagree with any enforced pain or suffering on an individual by an institution. Yet all participants did so willingly, indeed in direct defiance of official church sanctions. How to reconcile my distaste for the events with my oft-offered support for rebellion against orders from the powers that be? I don’t know. I also wonder how the medical team feel about their involvement. I guess I feel a mixture of being impressed by the extreme display of devotion, a strong distaste for the actual events, and a degree of guilt by offering partial endorsement by choosing to spectate in the first place. These feeling are all overlaid by a broad ignorance and lack of understanding any inclination to “believe”, and no knowledge of the stories/events portrayed in the bible, or indeed any other religious text. More to think on this, for sure.
How oddly timed that I have my most intense exposure to religious devotion the day before I receive a call telling me that my Father’s Mother has passed away. Nanny/Betty was the only practicing Christian in my immediate (paternal) family, and a Christian in a way I can truly respect. Devoutly attending church every Sunday, and exhibiting charitable care towards all around her, while living amongst, and fiercely loving, the bunch of heathens, drunks, homosexuals, blasphemers, living-in-sinners and gluttons that make up our family. Tolerating our incessant teasing over a medicinal gin, and firing back pithy responses that pack all the more punch coming from the 5 ft nothing pensioner in the corner. A demon on the scrabble board, Nanny is the only person I know to have won a game by placing an “S” on the triple word score with a sly snigger, turning her older sister’s previous four letter word into the triumphant “C**TS”.
I saw Nanny the day before I left Aotearoa, sitting at the beach at Mount Maunganui, post-Sunday service. She demanded she pay for lunch, and then happily endured the merciless laughter as various cards and pin-numbers failed to provide. The patience of a saint. You had a bloody good life Nanny, and a sense of humour second to none. I finished this day with a bowl of pigs-blood soup (not too dissimilar to your favourite black pudding), and a couple of G&T’s; “easy on the tonic boy, you can’t drown the bloody gin”.
Cheers Nanny, rest easy
*a tinny house is NZ slang for at home weed dealer
**land-diving is essentially bungee-jumping with vines – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Land_diving
Rum, Salt and Bullshit 