How even to spell it? Carosa or carroza? The proper Spanish lost to us, we in Dumanjug always just call it “carro”, that ubiquitous carrier, carriage, or chariot, of a variety of religious icons once or twice or thrice a year coming out for the processions of Lent. The San Pedro comes out 3 times, pairing with the Mater Dolorosa, the grieving mother, for the “Sugat”.
Midnight to dawn in certain places, they wander the night signifying the lost soul’s search for the Resurrected Christ. A veil covers the face of Mary to signify our blindness in the short period before Christ’s return to us. Before the sun rises on Easter Sunday angels come to lift her veil of sorrow. And then the festivities of the second Christmas in the life of the church begins. Pigs die! Performance?
Religious propaganda? Local culture? Art? It is all that.
But there must also be the machine, the carro itself.
And it might be worthwhile to note how the machine speaks of the local history, that transition in our culture between the old feudal ways and the current semi-modern practice. In Dumanjug, it would be the carosa of San Pedro, which tells this story best.
He and his siblings, enter into the story in the early eighties after their parents’ passed away, not without leaving them the deathbed understanding that the family continues even after their passing. And so there they find themselves yearly, in Dumanjug, continuing the family tradition. Of which, the Lenten traditions give them the most problems. The San Pedro most especially.
Unlike all the other carros, it had to be lifted with two heavy bamboo poles on the shoulders of strong local young men. By the mid-80s, strong local young men were hard to come by in rural Dumanjug, located as it was 73 kms. south from the city. They worked mostly as contract carpenters in the city. Tradition called for us to provide them after the processions containers of tuba, the local alcoholic beverage made from the nectar of the coconut palm. This ritual replenishing of strength was traditionally all the reward that was required. But by the mid-80s, this tradition had lost much of its viability.
Fewer men came to volunteer to carry the San Pedro. Those loyal to the practice had grown obviously too old. The San Pedro threatened always to collapse midway through the processions rocking precariously before it was finally settled into the bamboo table that was always taken along to hold the carosa for brief intervals of rest.
And then there was the fact he and his brothers were liberal activists. The image of St. Peter, representing the Church, the Pope, and the Vatican, being carried on the shoulders of the poor, their poor, for the carriers were mostly tenants from their inherited lands, did not sit well with them. It bore on them like a cross carrying with it the full weight of a post-colonial dissonance of figurations and symbols.
So why not put the San Pedro on wheels? And thus changed this particular tradition, this culture change coming as it did, inevitably for better or worse.
The carosa is a vehicle adapted usually from an old junk car. Look under carosa skirts and then you might find the remains of the suspensions of a prewar Chevy or a Model-T. A good rule to remember is that the carosa is a vehicle with four wheels. Anything more or less than that number might either be insufficient or unnecessary. It would be most certainly funny! As they would find out the hard way.
Their own yearly experimentations started with using 2 wheels. The next year, 3 wheels. Until finally they realize the practical necessity of 4 wheels. The humor of 2 years of experiments was not lost on them or the local populace who still remember. Their San Pedro went through being once on record the funniest contraption in the business.
He and his brothers are amateur mechanics in a way, having long drawn experiences in putting things together, welding, and fixing second-hand cars, that distinguish themselves for huge dramatic breakdowns. Sometimes losing their wheels and axles halfway between Dumanjug and the city. But that is all in the past now. Their carosas were the first in Dumanjug to use an electrical inverter system and LED lights, the marriage of old tradition with new technology.
And why should this not be? The survival of the religion has always relied by a half on the ritual fun and happiness it provides its believers; Even if this often gets overshadowed by the serious pomp and pageantry of the expression of suffering and repentance, appropriate for the replaying of the Savior’s passion, death, and resurrection. This is faith’s epic struggle for relevance in the contemporary times.
And it is all so inevitable for us, the Bisaya. Faith must always be fun and happy. It must be plain old unserious joy. It must be at times even funny. And that cannot be entirely bad.