My old sister’s piano teacher lived on R. Hidalgo Street in Quiapo. I would tag along in the car when she went for her lessons because I enjoyed the sessions. As we drove down the quiet street with its manorial homes, I would try to peer into the old houses. I was intrigued by glimpses of arched passageways, cavernous patios, monumental stairways, and latticed windows. And I imagined all sorts of stories about the people who lived in those mysterious homes. The ancient lola who dressed in black from head to toe—black widow’s veil, black saya and pañuelo, black embroidered slippers—was the beautiful heiress of a prominent family who had been forbidden to marry her true love. The slim, gray-haired blind woman who walked with the aid of a cane had been an acclaimed opera singer in Milan until a jealous rival had thrown acid at her eyes. The tall gaunt man with the piercing stare was a mangkukulam. Many years later I would meet some residents of this street and would learn that their personal histories were every bit as fascinating as the tales I made up. 

     I remember that day in January when the piano teacher, Miss Milagros Ocampo, invited us to watch the procession of Señor of Quiapo. We sat on dark rosewood Chinese armchairs in the huge living room waiting for the arrival of the procession. I fell into a deep sleep and my embarrassed sister had to shake me repeatedly before I finally stirred. As I awakened, I heard a sound unlike anything I had ever heard in my life—a low, sustained cry like some mortally wounded giant beast. As I sat there, still dazed, she dragged me to the window saying, ‘Quick, the procession is here.’  

     I looked down on the street and saw the statue of the Christ borne on what looked like a huge, black and brown serpent snaking down the street. As my eyes focused, I saw that the ‘serpent’ was actually serried masses of men, bare to the waist and locked shoulder to shoulder. And a prolonged guttural moan emanated from them and echoed off the walls of the houses on the narrow street. Frightened, I left my window and retreated to the safety of my armchair. Many years later I would again witness the procession and hear that haunting lament. Only then would I wonder if this all-male ritual had its roots in our ancient pagan past, an animist rite transformed into the cult of the Señor Nazareno.” (36-37)