Siquijor Again: Santos

A Collection of Santos in a Siquijor Church

Self’s guide asked if she wanted to see beaches.

No, she said.

He told her a funny story about how San Agustin became his town’s patron saint.

The guide was 40 years old and he never lived anywhere except Siquijor.  And it didn’t seem like he wanted to live anywhere else other than Siquijor.

Self had him bring her to Mount Bandilaan.  She belatedly realized that she was wearing the wrong clothes for mountain-climbing:  skirt and flip flops.  Ha!  The guide led her up a rusted viewing platform.  There were three plain wooden crucifixes next to the platform.  Then, self realized that it was very, very quiet up there, and that there was not one single other person with her —  other than the guide, of course.  She wondered if the guide noticed that self had suddenly become rather skittish.  She kept sidling away from him until there were at least three yards of space between them, and in the meantime she kept gabbing away like an idiot.  Then self suggested we head back.  The guide had to half-carry her, most of the way down:  it had just rained, and the paths were muddy and several times self came very close to landing on her butt (Since she was wearing a bright green skirt, the brown mud-stains would have looked especially revolting, like she was some escapee from a nursing home who’d forgotten her diaper).  Self thought:  of all the cockamany ideas …  The man, however, was very respectful and didn’t make any jokes about how self was clinging to his back.

Another thing about Siquijor:  When you leave, they ask you to sign your name on a kind of census sheet.  And you have to put down your age.  Self asked:  Why is it necessary to put down your age?  And no one could tell her why.  So she wrote, next to her name:  35.  BWAH.  HA.  HA.  HAAAA!  At that, she was still one of the oldest visitors.  At least, on that day in December.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

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