Lent and Karaoke
“From the bounty of Bukid-non,” I heard my gardener telling my cousin as he emptied on the kitchen table the contents of his buri garden basket: pechay aka bok choy, sun-ripe tomatoes, sweet potatoes, eggplants, herbs, sweet-smelling balubad (cashew), etc. The pechays were crispy to the touch; their stalks broke with a crunch. They were enormous, unlike those I usually find in the market. He said he used abo (ashes) and organic soil. I imagined they would make a good side dish for the huge talakitok I got from our local market. I wish talakitok (big-eye trevally fish, according to Google) grew in the fresh waters of the patubig (agricultural irrigation canal) in front of my house, just a few steps from the front gates, but, no, they don’t. You can find them in the waters of Lake Taal. If I didn’t have them, I could settle for dalag (mudfish) and hito (catfish), which are available year-round at the market. With my leafy greens, the dalag is succulent when prepared as pesa (mudfish and ginger stew); the hito is fried to crispiness, making the fins edible, served with fermented rice and fish (burong isda). I am risking another bout of gout here, so I try to avoid the temptation— not an easy thing to do when you are home in the Philippines.
Let the fasting begin.
It’s Lenten Season, a time for reflection and fasting deeply rooted in Filipino Catholic traditions. It almost skipped me! Time for karaoke, too. Oh, no!
I woke up this morning at 7 to the howling of dogs and the blast of karaoke—not again!—from my neighbor’s house on the other side of the patubig, the agricultural water canal. A church congregation, my gardener told me, was commemorating some religious event—a kind of foundation day or something. I know that this will last until after midnight, despite the ban at the strike of 10 in the evening. My sister, who was home for the holidays, had a hard time listening to her Korean telenovela, so she sent our gardener to the neighbor to ask them to tone down the sound system. Stop at 10 p.m., or face the consequences—village patrol knocking on their door. A threat no one heeds, I know, but I keep trying nevertheless. No one really listens to the authorities, especially after one too many. And the authorities don’t really care. They didn’t do anything, I suppose, when I called to complain about the disturbing noise coming from somewhere near my house. Yes, they always have to be in the area where I live! It didn’t stop until I heard the roosters crow a third time, reminding me of the biblical story of St. Peter weeping bitterly after he denied knowing Jesus three times. With their exaggerated worship and adoration of their gods, I am sure St. Peter would deny knowing this congregation. I shut my bedroom windows tight and buried my head in my pillows lest I get converted just hearing the leaders and conned members screaming Allelujas and Amens over and over again. Aren’t we supposed to spend some time in silence and prayer?
Hearing the exultations, I was transported to the Lenten seasons of my childhood when we were not allowed to make noise, especially on Good Friday. We could listen to the radio or watch television, read books, and comics about saints—and occasionally about sinners who repented and earned an A for good behavior, eventually becoming saints. Listening to their stories, we learned how the term ‘overnight saint’ came about—a title fitting many of my friends. I am a believer, but I cannot say I had a holy life, despite attending a Catholic school. I, however, had an overdose of stories in my childhood about saints and sinners, about fallen angels becoming demons—thanks to my catechism teacher. I wet my ‘banig’ (buri mat) until puberty, when nightmares evolved into fun dreams. Wet dreams, you know, or maybe you don’t know.
How many times have my brother and I watched Moses part the Red Sea, and how many times have we remained fascinated by the story each time? I like the one about Salome seducing King Herod with her erotic dance of the seven veils, and eventually getting what she wanted—the head of poor John served in a dish to please her wicked, wicked mother. As a child, I had a fixation with Salome—the Bible’s Lolita gyrating her way to the heart and loins of her powerful stepfather. The thought of an old stepfather spanking a young stepdaughter—a schoolgirl not yet sixteen—would send me running to the confessions. While the priest was giving me my penance of five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys, my mind would wander to the bedroom where the whore of a stepdaughter ran for cover, the horny stepdad running after her. Hail Mary, full of grace …
The karaoke’s getting louder and louder. I could hear a child passionately belting out, ‘Share my life, take me for what I am …’ —paying tribute to Whitney Houston, and at the same time insulting her. Honestly, I think the neighborhood’s karaoke obsession is a comedy show of its own.
“Torete, torete …” The little devil again, non-stop. I could not take this song anymore. I was tempted to go over and hurl that ugly tortoise into the mound of dry leaves my gardener set on fire in my backyard. Think of grilled pagong (turtle)! I don’t care anymore if I have to recite a million Hail Marys for my penance. Better this punishment than torture by karaoke.
“Sayang na sayang talaga …” the same bastard belting out the trendy song of the season as off-key as ever!
Much as I’d like to convince myself that the karaoke was my temporal punishment for the sins I may have committed while on earth, the other Virgilio in me says I must not let myself become a victim of my neighbors’ adoration of a false god that is karaoke. It may be Lent, but I won’t let myself be a martyr. I’m now on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Violence and bloodshed may happen, but I’ll see to it that it’s their blood, not mine! The Temptation of Virgilio.
Wyatt went to the Barangay Hall to lodge a complaint on my behalf. The karaoke is now running for two consecutive days. I let them have fun all day yesterday until midnight, even with the speakers blasting. I think I had been a considerate neighbor—still am—but a night and two days of mental flagellation were all this ex-Dominican altar boy can take.
Our Father who art in heaven … forgive my trespasses, as I forgive those who trespass against me. Please, take their karaoke away!
How time has changed! We used to go to Tondo to watch “penitensiya” and talking loud was a no no.
Next year, go somewhere to escape your neighbours – karaoke, like penitensiya” has become a tradition
during holy week.
Indeed, time has changed and santos have designer costumes. Imagine, even Christ’s skimpy wrap-around is sequin and pearl-studded, and Mary’s trail was meters long, glistening with gold threads :)