By Rex Catubig

 

THERE had been a portent of rain but at daybreak, a bright burning sun breaks through a bright, blue sky.

At the city’s boundary welcome, the radiating heat wave creates the illusion of the bangus bas relief jumping out of the concrete arch as if in a “gilon” harvest.

It’s Palm Sunday, but this morning in Bangusworld, the pious voters are not queuing up in churches for the Lenten ritual of blessing of the palm. Early on, they are lining up on either side of the road to await the arrival of their candidates.

In this year’s local elections, Dagupan becomes a modern Jerusalem, where two contending mayoral candidates will enter triumphantly the gates to the city, ushered in by their partisan caravans that will go around the barangays to proclaim their promised glory.

But instead of olive branches or palm fronds, the followers bear placards and tarpaulin banners that they will wave wildly to welcome their respective messiah.

On one side, men and women wearing blue shirts emblazoned with the word “Life” on the front, proudly sing Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” at the top of their lungs, followed by David Pomeranz’ “Got to Believe in Magic” and gyrate to “The Time of My Life” from Dirty Dancing.

Not to be outdone, the green shirted phalanx of folks on the opposite side of the road, who swear by the slogan “Iyalagey so Baley” shout out Andra Day’s “Rise Up” segued by Glee’s version of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” and capping it with a rousing flash mob of Starship’s “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now”.

The constituents are all agog. The adulation is at fever pitch. It’s a cacophonous musical confrontation presaging the Bangusfest. Gills and vocal chords are put to the test. The shrillest and loudest gets ISO certification.

The euphoric crescendo is understandable because aside from wowing them with charisma, as the motorcade of each party drives through the streets, the candidates are expected by the partisan crowds to shower them with a confetti of yellow and purple paper bills. It’s manna from heaven, generous grace from the beholden ones who are desirous to be chosen.

But it won’t be long before the adoring crowds turn into an “angry” mob. For after receiving their ayuda, the Herods among them would subject the candidates to a merciless, if dubious trial via the Smartmatic voting machines. As this is done, the Pontius Pilates would furiously wash off their forefingers the indelible blue ink of disloyalty and impropriety before marching off the people’s idols to Golgotha to be crucified in a final cruel act of betrayal.

As the condemned candidates hang on their crosses, they beg the question: “Eli eli lama sabachthani?” And as they bargain for their right to a resurrection, the populace hears the crucified’s Last Words. These summation of all that they stand for, would hopefully rouse the public to ponder the past and the future, the rise and fall of their lives and those coming after: “Consummatum est“. Then look back at the arrival arch from where they welcomed the apparent saviours and pretenders to the throne– and in an instance of spiritual epiphany, see clearly what lies at the foot of the cross’s radiant rainbow.

A pot of gold or a basket of rotten Easter balut?

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