It’s two thousand years ago when history’s most iconic dinner buffet happened on that fateful Maundy Thursday. Hours later a punk betrayed his Master for thirty silver coins, and he did it by showing a bit of bromance by kissing the poor Holy Man by the cheek. Two thousand years later we are still commemorating the later turn of events that happened after that fateful kiss. Holy Week started with a kiss. And here I am (still) stranded in the island paradise of Boracay, and the way I see things around here I guess I’m in for another Unholy Week.
This morning I find myself reading under the shade of some trees just at Station 1. This blistering summer heat has turned my flat into an oven toaster, so I have to find a place that’s cooler – the beach baby!I was wearing an unholy black shirt with the words, Quit your job. Buy a ticket. Get a tan. Dive all day. Fall in love. Never return. Lonely Planet Boracay. I’m doing the third line while doing two other things not mentioned: Reading and Bikini Watching. Babes in their bikinis were passing by almost every minute and I can help but get distracted from my read – the twisted novel Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. My personal favorites are those who are wearing white two-piece bikinis, and those with black swimsuit. Di bale na kung may bilbil. But then came a pack of belles in their white bikinis giving out pamphlets, inviting people to party with Big Fish, promising great music and wild dancing deep into the night. How can I refuse those fairies of this once enchanted island? Oh my, those lovely damsels, I wish they’d stop by my side and flirt all day and party all-night. My mind had long lost its innocence and I am not going to look for it in this place.
After the charm/poison has subsided from my system I suddenly went into observing the lives happening in this beautiful island. These people; the ones who dine by the restaurants, the ones swimming on the beach, the ones up in the sky with a parachute, and those fellas underwater (with oxygen tanks of course) they could be coming from all parts of the country or even the world treating themselves with pleasures and relaxations Boracay could offer. But aren’t these the same people who years ago in this same Maundy Thursday were at their comforts of their home, reliving the suffering and honouring the solemnity of the death of Jesus Christ?
People all over the country are observing their penetencia that their sins may be forgiven, and here these maddening crowds are practically making a festival in this island. Even I whilst I should be observing a mass and hear the sietepalabras (the seven last words of the cross) tomorrow afternoon, chances are I’dbe observing an artist navigating his brush and paints against a t-shirt at Lonely Planet.
Here in the island people just want to have fun, eat, swim and relax. A year of work and a five-day paid holiday vacation chances are these people won’t even remember the event that took place two millennia ago. I’d just hope we’d come to our senses sooner or later how a Man purchased by virtue of agony and pain the sins we’re fondly enjoying now. The thought of it brought forth shame inside. Perhaps I should go to church tomorrow, but then I think I shouldn’t. Going to church and hearing the long long long sermons (times seven) will only remind me that I’m not at home that I’ll only miss my brothers’ mischiefs, my big sister’s arms locked into dad’s and my mom’s specialty – the sweet and warm dinulgog. I can only pray that experiencing a holy week are not confined exclusively inside a church or the deafening silence of prayers, but goes down deep into solemnity and sincerity in every man’s heart that reaches out to God… saying Dear God, I’ve been bad this week forgive me for all the sins committed and to which to come. Thanks Man, for giving your life, it should have been us not You on that cross. Amen.