The Feast of San Roque

“I saw the fiesta as our highest community expression… that was the impression it made on me so I wanted to preserve it.”

– Alejandro "Anding" Roces, National Artist of the Philippines for Literature (when asked to talk about his motivation for writing The Fiesta)

We're traveling along the National Highway toward Mawab in Compostela Valley – the province adjoining Davao Del Norte and the home for many of Elsa's relatives. Manny drives and I sit in the passenger seat. We talk about his radio program and the Army's pacification program. Manny's son Em Em, Elsa, Risa and her son Zion sit in the back.

Manny points to a sign, Army 6^th Infantry Division.

“The colonel is my friend,” he says.

We leave Tagum, and the palm trees disappear. The road begins to twist and turn, snaking along up into the hills. Coconut trees and banana trees fill the lush valley below then rise in waves toward a long mountain range with soft rolling peaks; it reminds me of the Pacific Range near the central coast of California.

“What are they called,” I ask as I point toward the mountains. She gives me a blank stare. “The mountains,” I say. What's the name of these mountains? 

The feast of San Roque

“No name,” she says. “We just call them the mountains.”

We're now surrounded by dense forest. Rain forest once covered most of Mindanao, but very little remains – most of it destroyed by intensive logging. The trees provided shelter from the typhoons, and up until the last year, many believed that the Compostela Valley was a typhoon free area. Logging removed this sanctuary and just eight months before I arrived, a super typhoon (Pablo) struck the valley causing major flooding and killing almost 2,000 people. The winds whipped through the valley, snapping coconut trees like they were matchsticks, and pealing away metal roofs like they were lids on sardine cans. The many rivers crisscrossing the area flooded, sweeping away rice fields, and homes, and many people. Elsa's home, fortunately, sustained only minor damage to her roof. But her parents and many of her neighbors lost their homes as well as their livelihood.

In the backseat, Risa tells everyone about a coconut farm for sale near Mawab. Someone wants to sell the farm or more precisely loan the rights to the farm for five years at a cost of 150,000 pesos or about $3,500.

“You can raise a new crop every three months and sell it for 30,000 to 40,000 pesos,” says Risa. “It pays for itself in a little over a year.” I'm not sure whether this is just information or she is suggesting I invest. In any case, I'm not ready to make any business investment (although I will be approached to do so several times in the next few weeks). The family discusses the merit of the proposition. Elsa says you can plant mango trees or banana trees and other crops between the coconut trees and so increase your profits. Manny says he once had a coconut farm, but he sold it to send his wife to nursing school.

Along the road, the town yields to a few nipa huts and hollow block, metal roof homes and storefronts. A little further, the road descends into a plain where the coconut and banana trees give way to rice fields. A billboard with a large picture of a smiling man welcomes us to Mawab.

“Who's the man in the picture?” I ask Elsa.

“Board Member Ramil Gentugaya,” she says. A board member is a provincial legislator. There are many of these signs with his smiling face announcing the approach to towns throughout Compostela Valley. Manny turns left off the highway and crosses a bridge over the Hijo River into town. The streets are packed and traffic moves slowly. It is the feast of San Roque, the patron saint of the falsely accused and of Mawab. Elsa explains that every purok (neighborhood), barangay (ward), municipality and city has its own fiesta. It is a national obsession dating back to before Catholicism arrived on the islands.

As we drive down the main street, we see banderitas (flaglets) waving and people milling around canopied kiosks. We make our way through the crowd and pass the bus terminal and public market before we reach Elsa's parent's home, about a half mile from the National Highway. A small turquoise colored cart stands next to a resting shed enclosing a wooden table with benches on both sides. Next to the shed stands a Sari Sari store* owned by Pin Pin, Elsa's younger sister. A half dozen people sit at the table in the resting shed. I assume they are Elsa's relatives and go up to greet them. I say hello and some of them nod, but say nothing. I take a picture of the group. Afterwards, I take Elsa aside and whisper, “Who are these people?”

“I don't know,” she answers.

“They're not relatives?”

“No. Just fiesta celebrants resting.” I slap my forehead.

Behind the shed lies a cement floor courtyard filled with plastic chairs and a sofa. A dozen or so relatives sit and stand there drinking beer and soft drinks. There's a small bedroom off to one side where Elsa's parents sleep. Behind their room is the sala, the living room where food dishes are laid out for the celebration – lechon (roast pig), manok (chicken), rice, camote (sweet potato), string beans, and fruit salad. The walls are empty except for a small Sacred Heart of Jesus poster and a large tarpaulin poster congratulating Pin Pin's granddaughter Ayesha on the occasion of her fourth birthday.

“Eat. Eat,” says Pin Pin as she ushers me toward the table. A pleasant woman with a kind face, warm smile and inviting manner, she is the earth mother of the family.

Another dozen or so relatives mill around inside the room. Pin Pin and her husband Jaime (who actually own the house), their two daughters Joy Joy and Balot, twin sons GR and RG and granddaughter Ayesha share the two bedrooms just beyond the sala. The house is packed with relatives, cousins and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters, 40 or more of them. Elsa tells me most family events are larger than this.

She introduces me to her 91-years-old Tatay (father) and 82-year-old Nanay (mother). He is thin and wiry with sunken cheeks, but a firm body and appears much younger than his age. He no longer has any teeth and walks slowly, but he still walks without any support. She is heavy-set, white-haired with bounteous lips for which she is famous in the family. She has a strong voice and commanding presence; you can tell she is the matriarch of the family. Tatay and nanay continued to farm on leased land until quite recently when Typhoon Pablo damaged their home; a fire shortly after totally destroyed the house. Now they live with Pin Pin, their youngest daughter. Both know little English, but attempt to communicate to me in a mix of Bisaya and English (mostly Bisaya). Tatay urges me to take good care of Elsa's children and grandchildren. Nanay asks me to marry Elsa in the church. And soon.

Elsa's older brother Umberto and his wife Flor arrive in their Toyota pickup. Bert is about the same size as his brothers, but has graying hair, wears thick glasses and has an altogether more serious demeanor. Flor looks younger, and is thin – about the same size as Elsa. She is friendly and puts out her hand to introduce herself. Bert and Flo speak English reasonably well as do all of Elsa's brothers and most of her daughters. He sits down to talk with me and expresses concern about us getting married; we haven't known one another long enough and face disappointment, he tells me.

“The Philippines is 50 years behind the US,” he says. “You will want to return to a more modern country.” He is the practical one – and also the wealthiest (probably because of his practicality and frugality – he saved for years to purchase his pickup in cash and urges Elsa and me to begin a savings program). An agricultural scientist, Bert worked 30 years for the Philippines Rice Research Institute (PhilRice), but now raises and sells rice seed on the 12 hectares (30 acres) of land he owns. Flo, a commerce graduate, helps run the business.

I also meet Ray, the second to the youngest brother. He is the intellectual in the family. He has a broad smile, and a thick, muscular frame like all of his brothers. A former seminarian, he now works as an assistant city planner for the regional government and heads the nutrition program in Compostela Valley. He is close to completing his Ph.D. in English studies and teaches English in the evening at St. Mary's College in Tagum City. When he finds out I have an M.A. in writing, he asks me if I would like to join the faculty and offers to introduce me to the program director.

We fill our plates and settle into our chairs. Manny sits next to me. I mention everyone seems to be happy and satisfied.

“We Filipinos are always happy,” he tells me. “Look at my father. He lives long; he has no stress. We are among ten most satisfied people in world despite being poor because do not want much and we have strong families.” Nanay comes over and says something to him in Bisaya. He nods and turns back to me. “Mother once asked what father will do if she dies and leaves him all alone I told her don't worry mother.” He pauses and then delivers the punchline. “My sisters will take care of him.” And he laughs.

Manny leaves to talk to Ray. A heavy set woman with a broad smile sits down next to me (most of the women relatives over 40 are heavy with Elsa and Flo the sole exceptions). The woman is Elsa's niece Indira, a high school counselor with six kids of her own. She wants to practice her English with me and strikes up a conversation. Others shy away because they don't feel they can speak English well enough to converse with me, but Indira is more outgoing, irrepressible and confident. She speaks English well and has no problem with three syllable words. She asks me about my family. I tell her I have none. She asks me about my relationship with Elsa, how long we have known one another, how we met, what we like to do together, and then she asks what we call one another.

“I call her 'sweetheart' and she calls me 'honey.'”

“Ewww,” says Indira screwing up her face. Apparently Filipinos don't use terms of endearment. They are a more physically expressive people and show their affection – men with men, women with women, men with women, boys with girls, children with adults, and older siblings with younger children – by holding hands and touching and kissing one another.

After the meal, I take a few pictures. Only a few relatives are left and I take a family portrait. Then we say our goodbyes. We're on our way to Montevista.

* A Sari Sari store is a small home-based grocery store where many Filipinos supplement their income by selling small, sample size items such as detergent, instant coffee, crackers, corn chips, and other foods and sundries as well as cigarettes, soft drinks, beer and rum.