Flag Ceremony, Babatngon

As things here in the Philippines draw to a close, I am increasingly cognizant of the little things that have become commonplace that I should probably try and explain while they're still fresh. One of those things is the flag ceremony. A weekly, even daily activity that is practiced by each and every one of the 1400 municipalities here in the Philippines. Now some municipalities practice the event every workday, with passion and vigor, and sing a special song just for the municipality, and they talk about logistics like when people will get paid, if there's enough water, emergency situations, stuff like that. But this is Babatngon, and we do things a little differently here.

At the little municipal complex of Babatngon, a one-story columned building no longer than 75 meters, whichever local government employees who decide to come to work stand around in little clique-like clumps on Monday mornings between 7:45 and 8:00. Women all stand around talking in hushed whispers about the latest gossip, while men stand in other clumps of 4 or 5, smoking Fortune cigarettes and jovially laughing in unison at usually lurid stories of passionate encounters. As 8:00 a.m. draws near, some of the more responsible gossiping women start to steal glances towards the area of the flagpole but don't dare move and initiate the arduous process of walking 50 meters and standing in place for the 10-minute event.

At about 8:05, usually there are a couple of cops who walk by in their finest carrying a big stick with which they wrap on the big flag pole to get everyone to come out from hiding. They clang the flag pole for 30 seconds and then the sloth contest to get into single file lines facing the flag begins. This takes about another minute or 2, and then, once in line, women giggle as they clump up in the shady grass area because the sun is beating down on the concrete area where they're supposed to stand. At this point, there's always a couple women who go and talk to the others, and tell them to stand evenly in the lines on the concrete, and yes, they know the sun is there, and yes, they know it's hot, and yes, they explain the ceremony won't take long.

Once the policemen have stopped clanging, and the ladies are standing in line, and the men have stamped out their cheap cigarettes, we all stand quietly in line, looking forward at the flaking paint of the little municipal hall, the barred windows of the offices, and the Philippine flag waving, when a deafening sound comes from 2 huge speakers stolen from a Pearl Jam concert and they begin blaring out the national anthem. Now these speakers are a new development, and we used to all just sing in unison, acapella, and mumble half-heartedly through the song, but now, with the speakers, there is no need to sing, since you can't hear yourself anyways. After the national anthem is over, there is usually a short announcement from some lady I still can't remember the name of, when she lets us know why the Mayor isn't there again, and then the crowd disperses, the only sounds to be heard are wooden heels clicking the concrete parking lot and the lonely scratching voltage of the sub-woofers over at the municipal hall doors.

Although maddening, I'll miss the dysfunctional idiosyncrasies of our brief weekly flag ceremony, here in Babatngon, Leyte, Philippines.