A non-millennial Sinulog

My wife and I don’t plan for the Sinulog, except to make sure we convinced the helper to stay home with the kids and watch cartoons all day. Sinulog Sunday is one celebration where planning destroys the spontaneity that is required to enjoy it to the max.

Only when the kids had their full attention on Kung Fu Panda did we ransack the closet and debate which old shirts to rip and mangle in such a way that our tattoos get a day’s worth of exposure. If you have real ink, make sure it’s exposed to shame the hennas.

“I’m bringing an umbrella,” I told my wife. “What? You don’t bring umbrellas to Sinulog,” she said. Right, I know. Bringing an umbrella to Sinulog is like wearing a full-face helmet to protect yourself from face-smearing punks. Part of the fun is getting soaked when it rains or getting burned when it shines. This probably explains why bad weather never stops Cebuanos from partying on the streets during Sinulog. If a real threat of a bomb attack doesn’t worry you, no typhoon will. This has been the case ever since for Sinulog. We didn’t have a name for it before, until the millennials came and called it YOLO.

“Only old people bring umbrellas to Sinulog,” my wife said, laughing. “Me? Old? Of course not,” I said. “Fine, no umbrellas. Let’s YOLO this sh_t.”

“Where to?” I asked her while we’re waiting for a habal-habal ride. On Sinulog Sunday, the car stays in the garage because what would a car be doing on the street during a street party? At least a bike doesn’t take much space and can be mistaken for two drunken men slumped on the roadside one on top of the other.

“Juana Osmeña,” my wife said. “Juana… what?” I said, shocked. “That’s the most dangerous place on earth during Sinulog,” I said, really meaning it.

Juana Osmeña, from corner Escario to corner Gen. Maxilom, is a whole kilometer stretch of binge drinking and wild behavior during Sinulog. This wild behavior ranges from peeing into empty beer bottles to drinking this pee when beer runs out. But its notoriety is what brings people there.

“It’s the street of sin,” I told my wife. “It’s where The 10 Commandments are suspended. It’s Sodom and Gomorrha. You can’t get out of there alive, unless you’re a millennial.”

“Meaning, you’re too old for Juana Osmeña?” she asked, laughing. “Who, me? Old? Hell, no! To Juana Osmeña we go,” I exclaimed with a feigned excitement.

“Pit Senyor! Pit Senyor!” my millennial wife started chanting when we arrived at Juana Osmeña, immediately blending with the crowd of fellow millennials, gamely drinking any drink she was offered, offering her face to be paint-smeared.

“I miss the kids. Do you think they’re enjoying Kung Fu Panda? We should have brought an umbrella,” I whispered to her amid the noise. “Hey, stop. Don’t act like you’re too old for this,” she said, laughing again.

“Who, me? Old? Of course not,” I said, as I mustered enough courage to jump and jump and jump while pretending I was 20 again. (@Insoymada)