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AS urban
legend goes, the Dinagyang Festival is not exactly
lacking in controversies, intrigues, questionable
histories, one-upmanship, critics and other sundry
naysayers and soiled laundries. Just like all other
events that become very successful...commercially. And
Dinagyang has been very, very successful commercially.
If one ever doubts that, just look at those wide grins
of the stakeholders whenever this time of the year comes
around—wide Cheshire cat grins and fat wallets. Hey, who
wouldn’t be laughing all the way to the bank if all new
years begin with the tills ringing? And since Dinagyang
is immediately followed by the Chinese New Year, the
Chinese businessman must hold a special superstition for
Dinagyang and the food festivals that go with the
celebration.
But this
piece isn’t about the business. It’s about an urban
legend whose principal figure this writer had the
opportunity to meet about four or five years back. It
was a casual meeting and since I didn’t take down notes,
I’ll have to ask you, dear reader, to take this with a
grain of salt and consider it a raconteur’s account of
popular history.
As
always, one of the exhibits that accompany Dinagyang is
a photo documentary of past events; and one of the
archival photographs shows a “warrior”—what the dancers
are called, since the groups are categorized as
tribes—getting married before the start of the
competition. I was at SM City Mall viewing the exhibit
when I overheard some people who seemed knowledgeable
about how the festivities came about. Suffice it to say
that this writer’s nose thought of following that lead,
and I was soon introduced to one of those unknown people
who make history, but are never heard of.
Before
Dinagyang—as it is popularly known now—came about, there
was the yearly celebration of
San Jose
Parish Church’s
procession and sadsad. Sadsad was some form of
dance-prayer also like the Sinulog of Cebu. Anyway,
according to this character I was introduced to (let’s
call him Larry for want of a name), he and his group
would watch the yearly procession, although they were
not the type to be seen walking with old people and what
his group considered young closet queens, and young
students acourting. Holding lighted candles daintily
yet. That was not the way of the Ilonggo macho. Albeit,
we can be sure that some of them said a prayer or two,
however that prayer was composed in their macho minds,
and certainly crossed themselves, even surreptitiously,
whenever an image came by.
Larry
says the event then started with a salubong—meeting the
Santo Niño’s image that was brought to
Iloilo from
Cebu. The faithful would then follow that image to the
church
of San Jose Parish, where a Thanksgiving Mass would be
celebrated. The next day, the image would again be
brought out and taken to the port called Port San Pedro,
where the Santo Niño would be taken by motorized banca
downriver to the city limits. The faithful would follow
in other bancas. It was a fluvial parade. And when the
bancas docked, all the gathered believers would walk a
2-kilometer procession all the way back to the church.
It was some kind of reenactment and the religious would
follow bringing images of their favorite boy saint. I’m
not very sure, though, if the sadsad was done before or
after arrival of the image. Like I said, I didn’t take
down notes and committed the story to memory, which had
some agua in it.
It was
during one year of celebration when Larry and his group
of tipsy cohorts thought of enlivening the whole affair.
And since Larry knew the parish priest, he thought of
proposing the idea, even if under the influence of that
agua that makes imbibers think that, after one more
round for the road, they start feeling like Brad Pitt
and their waitress strangely starts looking like
Angelina Jolie. As serendipity would have it, the parish
priest also had some kind of idea percolating in his
head. And this writer wonders if it was not one Mompo
too many, too. So the two met, maybe over Mompo or over
agua, but as the cliché goes, the rest is his story
(depending on who’s telling).
The
following year,
Iloilo
had its version and it was called in its early version
as the
Iloilo
Ati-atihan, after its model: the Ati-atihan in Kalibo,
Aklan. And it was probably to give a venue for the
younger, with-it, pasaway generation to
physically be a part of the religious affair, separate
from the sadsad, which was participated in by the oldies
and was too religious for their younger taste.
Ironically, this bunch of tipsy revelers became cultural
entrepreneurs, and founded a tradition that would be the
mother of all Dinagyangs to come. And the urban legend
develops a life of its own as Dinagyang continues to
reinvent itself—this year brought a brown Dagoy,
Dinagyang’s mascot. This writer wouldn’t be surprised if
some African-Americans visiting last year complained of
the black-painted tribus. Imagine this dialogue: “Hey,
dude, are you trying to insult us?” How would you feel
if you were told that by some dude towering over you
with fists the size of watermelons?
Someday,
as Dinagyang reinvents itself further, maybe Ilonggos
will take a really hard look at its beginnings and
realize that the history they are looking for is right
under their noses. Meanwhile, enjoy. The city does have
a lot to offer. Especially in the way of food, aguas and
Angelina Jolie look-likes. So...dagyaw ta a!
Mag-dinagyang! Hala bira!
§ The
Dinagyang Festival is celebrated every fourth weekend of
January to commemorate the Christianization of the
natives and to honor the Holy Child Jesus. |
