Rough Groove

Infanta flagellant-penitents, 4

Continued from Infanta flagellant-penitents, 3

Break of dawn as the first rays of the sun is piercing the sky and already a throng of curious onlookers have gathered ogling at the spectacle of skirted men with floral hoods flagellating themselves as blood oozes out from rows of neatly lined cuts. Some are leaving the group to walk the streets to the church, bow their heads, kneel and supplicate while others just came from doing that. At a given signal unknown to me, one by one, the men started walking to the other direction following the highway north.

What a scene! The first golden rays of the rising sun touching the earth and grasses and leaves still wet with dew as the flagellants, now a seeming throng, are trudging along a narrow dirt road with the saturated colors of the flowers and green hoods contrasting with the brown skirts and bloodied backs. Their individual panghampas swinging in every direction, unsynchronized but strangely choreographed. A few vehicles and people followed with those in the cars snapping photos.

The party stops walking but the flagellation still continues. Another basin full of water is set at one side and in a few minutes, it has turned scarlet. Flesh slicing at one side commences again and this ritual bloodletting has been going on for a few hours already. Being an election season, an enterprising candidate’s boy was giving out hard boiled eggs with the candidate’s name clearly written on the eggs’ surface with black pen. Even on a Good Friday, jockeying for an elective office doesn’t spare the supposed solemnity of the day.

Two kilometers from where the flagellants started off, at a clearing just beside a dirt road, they are now gathered. The washing and slicing still continues. Shots of lambanog are making the rounds to liven up the blood circulation and fire up the belly being offered by two men. Hard boiled eggs are distributed and so are sticks of cigarettes. One flagellant, while doing his thing with one hand, a cigarette was held in the other. It was already around 0700H.

This is the dead end. The place where the flagellation stops. One, already done with the ritual, untied the knots holding the skirt and lifted the hood that covered his head for not less than 4 hours. The wooden pegs are crimson. And so are the strips of dried banana leaves that formed the skirt, the portion that wrapped his waist. His back is swollen, bruised. Though still red, the cuts seemed to have stopped bleeding as clotting set in. At the lateral part of his torso, blood has already dried. Walking slowly and in pain, he proceeds to the water pump and starts to wash, to bathe. A male family member, maybe his son comes up, assists in the cleaning. The bruised wounds are painfully pressed as if to press out the blood. Just before the bathing finishes, guava leaves, which a few minutes ago were gathered and shredded, are then applied to the wounds.

One by one, when they have finished, goes back to their houses and cleans off. While most are already done, some just started out.