WHERE I’m from, the cemetery glows.
I don’t mean that in the metaphorical sense where spirits of the deceased radiate in love from the presence of their visiting loved ones during this season, because that can be said of anywhere else, which would make this story less unique. Ours was different in a way that a portion of it glowed, literally.
We’re not just talking about candlelight or street lamps. Imagine multicolored neon bulbs, the kind that’s typically reserved for red-light districts. There’s purple and blue and green and orange—the blinding brightness of which was outshone only by the energy of the people who were drawn to it, like moths attracted to a burning lamp. They come and they are shrill, they have been so for years.
It wasn’t until a national television feature around five years ago that I realized our cemetery in Balanga City was peculiar for putting up a perya or a carnival every Undas. I thought it was common practice for cemeteries across the country to have a place where kids, tired of balling up candle wax or having their nth plate of packed spaghetti, can retreat to for some Halloween excitement.
But it is indeed odd now that I think about it; funny, even. A carnival in a cemetery? The irony between death and life is a bit too under the nose, isn’t it? Operators set up the carnival every year far from the graves to give families their space and the perya freedom to operate. It was a mini-amusement park, complete with food stalls, rides and attractions. Almost everything is clunky and dusty, but I only say that now as a discerning adult. Back then, even if it wasn’t necessarily Disneyland, I felt that it came close.
Whether that perception was brought about by my juvenile worldview, or the massive egg of boredom hatched over my head from sitting in a mausoleum as a restless kid is anyone’s guess. The point is, the perya was where I, and all the other kids, wanted to be. It was something that made me look forward to cemetery visits. (Sorry, lola. I was a kid!)
There was a year when “The Caterpillar” was their hottest ride. Everybody lined up for that bad boy, which I dare say now is simply a bad ride. It was slow and takes hard turns. I think people just forced-screamed to get their money’s worth, myself included. There were other couple of rides but the one that drew the longest queue year in and year out was the Ferris Wheel.
It doesn’t go high enough to give riders a view of the whole town, just the whole cemetery. A must do while up there was to gaze at the moon and find your family’s spot. One time, I got into an argument with my cousin about where ours was. Then, for some reason, I stuck my foot out and jammed it along the railings that almost overturned our pod. We got a good scare and a good laugh out of it, and went back to our family without telling anyone. We didn’t want our own parents to finish the job that that Ferris Wheel couldn’t.
And then there were the perya’s special attractions. For the low, low price of P10, we got to enter the booth of an Amazon-sounding woman who had a painting of herself outside, clad in caveman’s clothes while eating a live chicken. The show did manage to deliver on its promise, except the chicken she ate was dead. But still.
Now this one’s more memorable. There was a year that they pushed for a “captured mermaid.” Of course she was named with a mermaid’s name but I forgot what it was. It was along the lines of “Mariana” or “Aquana” or some sort. What I do remember was how sad the show was. We came in and saw this custom-made aquarium of elongated glass quarter-filled with fishy water, its far end draped in curtains.
The handlers seemed to wait until the booth got filled with enough guests before they let their star out. Shortly after my cousins and I took our seat, they gave out the signal. At their mark, the “mermaid,” a girl in a shirt with poorly made mermaid costume, crawled out from the curtains. I remember the crowd covering their nose from the stench of the water, while watching this hapless girl try her hardest to convince the crowd that she resembled even an ounce of mystic lore. The attempt didn’t last long.
After five minutes or so of confusion, foul odor and afternoon-soap-level of acting, the mermaid broke character. Ayoko na! she said, surprising the audience. Ang lamig!
The “actress” then crawled back behind the curtains. The crowd gave her a standing ovation.
It’s those kinds of memories that I’ll forever attach with this season. That perya, which still stands to this day, fends off a month-early Christmas spirit, being a place where family and friends bond and create moments. It was subpar in terms of standards, but it still turns me melodramatic after all these years.
I’m pretty sure that later tonight, my nephews will nag me to accompany them to see what the bright lights are all about. They won’t need to try hard.