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Alona’s Quest for the Golden Tree
Chapter 4: The Naro Festival
THE CRAB FIASCO took a long while to sort out.
After a few hours of endless running to and fro, dancing around in their distinctive taunting gait, testing the limits of our tether, Nay got so annoyed that she picked up the boiling kettle and splashed hot water all over the area. Every crab that got hit immediately went still. I dare not utter a word for fear of Nanay’s wrath.
She took me to picking up the crab. I obeyed meekly, sniffing every now and then. Muttering angrily, words such as “promises made, promises broken” and “one’s total knack for attracting trouble” distinctly heard, she bustled me out after a while with a direction to buy a band-aid.
I went out fast, more to skip her bad temper than my want to treat my swollen finger. If I guess that my pitiful finger and pathetic cries could ebb away my mother’s anger, I was totally mistaken. Why did the crabs have to scuttle away crazily like that, anyway? Why, in all the days, was it now? Now, in fact, when I had a good reason to keep my mother in a good mood. The Naro Festival provided much attraction, and I didn’t feel like missing them. I wanted to go to the Carabao Parade later. All my classmates were going. They had been talking about it nonstop for weeks. Given the recent situation, I didn’t think I will still be allowed out.
I bit my lips, feeling so stupid and so miserly. If I had only stay put, scolded the back of my mind, this wouldn’t have happened.
With hands wearing more band-aids than were necessary, I skulked around the house wearing a most morose and remorseful expression.
“You did know it was your fault, didn’t you?” said Nanay, her voice still angry although it was significantly softer. She placed a plate of newly-cooked suman, a sweetened rice cake, in front of me.
I nodded. Reaching out for the fork, I ate my snack quietly.
“Things like that happen,” said Nanay, in a placid voice. “Accidents happen. Let me see that finger. Is it badly bitten?”
I held my hand for her to examine.
“It was nothing, Nay,” I said, putting on a brave front.
“Tsk,” she chuckled sympathetically. “How could you be so careless? You need to be more careful. This is why I don’t like you going about much. I shudder to think what would happen if you’re left alone.”
I looked up.
“I’m okay, Nay,” I insisted, almost pleadingly. “What happened is an accident. You said so yourself. It’s not like I made it happen, on purpose. Honest.”
She sighed.
There was a long silence. I endeavored to be patient. If I didn’t push too much, I might be in for a treat.
“I guess you still want to attend the parade today, right?”
“I can go, can’t I?” I asked desperately.
My mother thought for a while. It seemed a long time. I waited with bated breath.
“Well,” she said, speaking carefully, “as long as you promise to behave yourself, I don’t see why not?”
Within seconds, I was promising to be at my most behave self.
AN HOUR later, as I made my way among the throngs of cheering, clapping, and laughing people, I realized that accidentally setting the crabs loose wasn’t that bad at all. It was actually fun, except the biting part.
The barrio looked entirely different. The only spacious area in the place, the basketball court, was swept clean and adorned with beautifully crafted bamboo tendrils and exotic local flowers, freshly plucked from the nearby mountain where they grew wild. Loud music was blasting from the stage where two men were seated in the middle, like kings at their pedestal. The first one, a big man wearing an impatient expression, was the Mayor. He had a sugary smile, stoic after hours of wearing it, pasted all over his face. Beside him stood his second in command, Clara’s father.
Below them, a long table was laden with delicious foods. Everyone contributed to this feast. Seeing them, my mouth unembarassingly watered.
Blag!
Something fell down from the rooftop nearby. Something heavy. I looked up.
A gangly and pimply teenager was perched atop a rooftop, long wires of triangle-shaped streamers on his hands. He put one foot up to fasten his hold, but lose his footing instead. In the process, he dropped the scissor he was holding.
The eyes of the woman below him widened in fear.
“Oy!” reacted the older woman, dodging the scissor.
“Ooops!” he gasped. “Sorry.”
The scissor landed clumsily, hitting scattered props and raw ground.
“You!” yelled the woman in anger, apparently becoming bad-tempered as she recovered from shock. “Be careful! How dare you! Buck up lazy lad, and do your job well! It’s just a pole, dyaske! Hay naku!”
She was Kagawad Marites. She worked for the barangay and it was her duty to ensure that everything goes smoothly during the fiesta celebration. Dangling streamers, minutes before the actual opening, was a definite no. Even under normal circumstances, she could be mean and domineering. Under the stress of the current diligent preparation, she was a breathing dragon.
“Sorry Kagawad!” apologized the teen, stuttering from fright a bit.
The older woman yelled and mumbled one last time.
I put my fingers on my ears and ran towards the direction of a long-haired woman in a brightly-colored long skirt and blouse. She was with kids my own age.
I slithered my way into the place where Ma’am Rabano stood, finding my place beside Ate Rachel. Giving me a kind smile, Ma’am Rabano shepherded the whole class near the street where we could see the parade better.
“You’re late, Alona,” said Ate Rachel to my ear.
I made a face and showed her my hands.
“Nanay almost did not allow me to go.”
“Why? What did you do this time?”
It was an accusation more than a question.
I pouted. Before I could tell her that “there’s nothing really, just accidentally let loose some nasty crabs”, we heard the booming sound of drums that signaled the start of the parade.
Everyone paid attention to what was happening in front and side-line conversations ceased at once.
Group of teenage boys in red uniforms, golden buttons vivid and shining, were playing the drums in a procession. They performed a half-march, half-song number. Pretty girls wearing short skirts of the same style and color twirled their baton to the music.
We craned our neck to see better.
“Oh,” I said, recognizing one dancer. “Isn’t that Clara?”
Ate Rachel looked at the girl I pointed out.
“Yes,” she agreed. “She always joins dances and musical plays. She craves to be the center of attention.”
“She is good,” I said appreciatively.
“She’s just pretty,” said Ate Rachel dismissively, “that’s why they take her.”
I looked closely. Clara was graceful and glowing. She looked happy dancing than she had been standing still. I didn’t think Ate Rachel was right.
The next performance was greeted with silly giggles and applause.
Men wearing ridiculous looking bra and rolled trousers came next. When I looked closely, I realized they were wearing coconut shells. Cleaned, husked, and strung with straws, it served as the covering of the upper part of their torso, shoulder blades, and kneecaps.
Grinning broadly on the onlookers, the men beat their coconut shells and danced rhythmically. Flushed with vigour and concentration, their music was the song of the Earth Goddess herself. It was raw and melodious, energetic and harmonious.
I clapped my hand enthusiastically. I wished I had more than two eyes to see everything.
THE SAYAW SA Bao was followed by the strangest parade I had ever seen.
Rows and rows of carabaos were forming a long queue. They didn’t look remotely like the dirty animals I knew who loved spending their days ploughing the field and playing with the mud. Scrubbed clean, designed with flowers, and adorned with pearls, they looked magnificent, if a bit weird.
Every five years or so, the barrio would held a carabao parade to honor the hardworking animal that was every farmer’s best friend. I was much too young to remember the last one.
Unable to contain my curiosity, I reached out to touch an albino. It was a notch above the ordinary dark and gray animals, strange and one of a kind. It looked most at home with the crowd and attention. All the other carabaos looked a bit confused with all the goggling onlookers. They were hardworking animals of the fields; they weren’t raised to be famewhores.
The great white animal, immaculate and perfectly docile, stopped on its track. His beetle-black eyes and button nose quivered quizzically.
 Ma’am Rabano rounded on me.
“Don’t touch the animal!”Â
Her voice was stern.
I withdrew my hand immediately.
“These carabaos may look handsome, but they had horns,” she pointed out the devil’s horn placed atop the animal’s skull. Flowers notwithstanding, now that she pointed it out, it looked sharp and pointy. “They’re dangerous. Never forget that they have horns, children. Approach them with much caution.”
Ma’am Rabano punctuated her words with a stern look to each and every one of her students. To me, she gave a pointed look that was difficult to ignore.
As she spoke, the luminescent carabao gave an annoyed snort. Its owner, Manong Daluyong, seeing an impending danger, jumped down to pacify the animal.
I bit my lip. My curiosity got the better of me. Again.
After making sure that her words were understood perfectly well by each and everyone of us, Ma’am Rabano coaxed us back to watching the parade.
“There, let’s continue watching. As long as we keep a respectable distance from these great beasts, we’re going to be fine. Come now, children, come.”
The animal I disturbed went back to its walk, ignoring me perfectly well again.
“You’re too impulsive,” whispered Ate Rachel to my ear, “that’s why you get into so many troubles.”
I pouted.
“Cheer up. She’s not really angry. She’s just worried about you.”
That cheered me up a bit.
“Hey,” she said again, poking me playfully out of my bad mood. “You’re not the only one fascinated with the white carabao. Did you know that they were legendary? The white carabao was Don Juan’s favourite animal!”
“Don Juan?”
“You know, the last Datu,” replied Ate Rachel. “The owner of the Golden Tree.”
“Oh,” I said, remembering Ma’am Rabano’s story.
“Yeah,” said Ate Rachel. Then with a face glinting with mischief, she drew closer to me. “Me and some of our classmates are going to try and find the Golden Tree. Do you want to come?”
I looked at her, not believing. The Golden Tree was bound to be impossible to find. But, Ate Rachel had a look of naughty seriousness in her face.
The parade had come to an end.
The owner of the first carabao hopped down from his perch to pay his respect to the mayor. He stripped the bolo that was at his waist and gave it to the person who asked for it below the stage. Like any old farmer, he wore his bolo like a second skin and was reluctant to part with it. But he did, climbing the stairs awkwardly to meet the Mayor. Several others followed his example.
A sight thoroughly different from everyone around him, the Mayor wore an extra-large flowery shirt tucked under a slack pants that was threatening to burst. He was big.
Ate Rachel nudged me, waiting for an answer.
I scrunched my nose.
“No,” I decided, determinedly. “I don’t want to get into trouble again. I’m sure Nanay wouldn’t approve. I want to stay put.”
“You never stay put!”
“I want to, this time,” I said stubbornly.
Ate Rachel sneered.
“You’re no fun,” she accused.
And she refused to talk to me again the whole afternoon.
(c) 2016, Herbel Santiago