Pista

Rhona Canoy .

SO… The season is upon us. Cagayan de Oro City fiesta, I mean. Time for a fluff piece of sorts. After all, what can one say about fiesta that hasn’t been said? Maybe a lot. Maybe nothing. Still it is fiesta time and even though everyone has been ranting and raving about TRAIN and the miseries it was wrought, there still is an underlying current of merrymaking, and we still respond to its traditional call.

It’s hard for me to believe that I can actually trace the evolution of how fiesta is celebrated in my lifetime. A very long time ago, when all I looked forward to was the fiesta parade, we did fiesta in a more personal and generous way. As a little girl, I was witness to the preparations and the anxiety leading up to the day itself. We celebrated fiesta and all our holidays at our grandparents’ house, the still-standing edifice across from the provincial capitol which houses DxCC RMN.

The front door was open and welcomed anyone and everyone who entered. There was not a soul turned away on this day of generosity. Strangers, friends, relatives—they all sat side by side, eating the same food. Social equality at its very best. Although there was always a special table ready in case some very important guests and public personages came. Everyone was pleasant and greeted each other warmly. Strangers were asked how far they had come, and it was always amazing to me how much effort was placed on “pamista.” It was all so civilized then. And most of the people came in their Sunday best so the importance of the event was honored in that way. And yet those who came in simpler clothes were just as warmly welcomed at the door and ushered to the table to partake of the meal. I have never figured out how much food they knew to prepare. All I remember was that the table was always laden.

For some reason still unbeknownst to me, I was always most excited to be tasked as the hostess at the door. Not so excited for the familiar face—titos, titas, cousins, lolos, lolas, neighbors. After all I saw them often. But the new faces, the strangers. To make sure they felt important, that they knew we felt honored by their presence. Leading them to the food table, handing out the good plates and cutlery (no paper and plastic then), pointing out the specialties that they should surely try. There was, I suppose, a commonly understood sentiment of pride to be able to present such a feast for everyone.

In hindsight, I understand how less fortunate families would find themselves deep in debt just for fiesta preparations. In a way, that was how you showed the world your level of success. The more lavish the “handa”, the more solid people’s perception of you. I often wonder how much pressure there must have been in anticipating what would be said about your fiesta spread, how much concern there was that this year would be better than last, and how much planning for the next year’s fiesta was already begun. There was always talk about what was being served elsewhere, whether their lechon was bigger, had crisper skin, how many “sud-ans”, whether there was ice cream, and if the soft drinks were served cold.

The cooking and the dishwashing were constant in the kitchen. For as long as there were guests coming up the stairs to lola’s house, there was furious activity behind the scenes. Food and drinks were never allowed to run out. The host’s worst nightmare was for someone to come out of the kitchen to say that there was no more of anything. And everyone who came left with a parcel of food to bring home, ostensibly for those who were unable to come. No matter what the driving reason for it was, generosity knew no bounds. Even more than Christmas, fiesta was the time to give.

And the fiesta queen. Oh, the fiesta queen. It was the lucky maiden’s claim to glory. Whoever was chosen was surely vetted. Without the slightest hint of indiscretion or scandal to her reputation, she was chosen as the fairest of the fair and given a title that she would proudly cherish of for the rest of her life. To ride on top of the fiesta float was every little girl’s dream. Although in truth I can’t remember if it ever was mine since the thought of wearing a gown filled me with nightmares of scratchiness.

How far we have come since those days. Safety and security have become a priority. Homes which have fiesta celebrations only have them for very selected guests and family. The gates and doors are no longer open for anyone to come, and food is prepared based on how many people we expect to serve. Not everyone has “handa” anymore. Everyone looks forward more to the holiday and the malls. No school, no work. And our beauty queens look to being fiesta queen as a step towards becoming a celebrity. Yes, there are events now. Trade and agro fairs (those I do look forward to), contests, carnivals, destinations to provide for entertainment.

Fiestas are now prepared for by the local governments as part of an opportunity to draw in tourists. I understand that. And my daughter always tells me that times have changed. That’s true, I know they have. But I miss the personal nature of the fiestas from long ago. When people were friendlier, kinder, more generous. It bothers me that we have safety checks, and that backpacks are not allowed where crowds gather, nor baseball caps and hats, nor umbrellas. Because there is a danger. I understand the backpacks, but the caps/hats and umbrellas still stump me. Businesses and organizations pay for floats to be part of the fiesta parade. And don’t even get me started on how inhumane that parade route is, especially for the little kids who participate in it.

I suppose I have become jaded. Avoiding crowds and steering clear of shallow conversation is more appealing to me than the possibility of gaining ten kilos from all the overeating. I’d rather stay home and read a good book, appreciative of the extra non-working days so I can sort out the jumble on my desk, happily avoiding the insane traffic. But my grandson has fun at the carnival, and I am grateful for that.