I was confused.
I thought Saturday, Jan. 19, was the solemn procession. You know, the religious highlight of the Sinulog festival. One that would show the world the piety of the Cebuanos and their almost fanatical devotion to the Holy Child.
But that was not what it looked like when I got to Osmeña Blvd. around 3:45 p.m.
Granted, I was a little peeved because I wasn’t allowed to cross the procession route on R.R. Landon St., right in front of the Abellana Police Station.
The policeman in fatigues told me to wait till the procession was over. I told him I had to get to work, which I really did, and I went on to show my press ID. Apparently, his orders were strict because he didn’t budge. That, or he didn’t like my picture.
I felt my blood pressure rise. Then I realized, for someone who loves to tell the world that he’s a stickler for the rules, I was turning out to be a hypocrite.
But mind you, it wouldn’t have mattered if I worked for the press or if I was a carenderia attendant, the point was I had to get to work. And I would have gotten into trouble had I arrived really late.
I felt like telling the guy to have a break, have a Kit Kat. Then I figured, in times like these, I needed a Juicy Fruit Gum.
Although, of course, I realized the guy was only doing his job. Plus, I saw what was coming in our direction.
Men and women in blue. Lots of them. There were also men and women in black. With Alia written at the back of their shirts.
Which got me thinking. Was I in the wrong event? Was I in the middle of a police parade? Because what I saw appeared to be a police show of might.
Although I was later told that Police Regional Office 7 Director Debold Sinas was there personally managing security, and the men and women in black were members of the security group of the Basilica Minore del Sto. Niño.
But I didn’t know that then.
Anyway, as I walked towards Fuente, right before reaching Harrison, I stopped.
A tidal wave of people was descending on the sidewalk, and I was headed upstream.
I immediately felt dizzy. I don’t do well in crowded places. Aside from shortness of breath, I get palpitations.
It was a good thing there was a cordoned covered area with garbage receptacles manned by two female barangay public safety officers at the corner.
I took cover inside.
Mind you, the two women were strict about letting people in who wanted to take a shortcut, but opened their arms to those who obviously needed some breathing room.
And so there I was. Right smack in a sea of humanity. With a man and a very healthy four-year-old boy and two female tanods.
I asked them why there were two “lines,” the proper procession route, which was Osmeña Blvd., and the sidewalk. They answered, but I couldn’t hear them.
The men and women in robes had arrived. Behind the men and women in blue and black. The “Batobalani sa Gugma” was blaring in the background. It almost seemed like everyone was singing along, including me.
Devotees started waving their hands during the chorus: “Kanamo maluoy ka unta nga kanimo nangilaba.”
The air was suddenly filled with dancing images of Sto. Niño in various sizes.
And all of a sudden, I wasn’t in a rush to get to the office.