Buscalan Night-life

Mr. Happy, and the latest form of sound system technology to reach Buscalan--the little radio car
photo c/o Ponyo

Because when one goes places, one will almost usually be asked: "How's the nightlife over there?" regardless of said place's proximity to what 'nightlife' usually entails. I don't know where this fascination comes from, perhaps a very human desire to live well into the night, an acquired victory over a time previously spent in darkness and fear. Also a very human need to party and get punch-ass drunk.



Nightlife in Buscalan is a quiet sort, beginning and ending quickly. It begins after dinner, on an invitation-only basis--either that you would be invited to come along, or that you would invite yourself. Sometimes there would be a birthday, in which case Pansit would be handed out in the afternoon and visitors would be brought (invited, but since it is unthinkable to refuse) to dinner, after which a drinking session is inevitable.

Visitors are usually invited eagerly to such sessions, as the locals joke that they get sick of seeing each other's faces. Stories about the Kalinga headhunters might sway visitors into refusing, but this should not be the case. There is a peace pact and it is forbidden to draw blood.

The only conceivable case is that of beer (har har pun).

The Buscalan boys would gather in chosen houses. In larger gatherings, the men would sit together by age, the youngest clumped together closely, coming up to female visitors and extending their hands for introductions. They tend to be shy, pushing unwilling volunteers closer to visitors to be their liaison. The bolder ones are the first to extend their hands, to say that lady, this is my name, to which the others would quickly follow suit.
    "They just want to chat," explains Hunter, "but they're shy." And this is because of the language barrier, he adds.
The older men have no such inhibitions. Bachelors are more rambunctious and spirited, passing you drinks and pulutan if they just as much see you idling about. They know several riddles and laugh uproariously at failed attempts at answering them. Sometimes they share stories about local customs, about the nuances of their languages, ask about your language, how do you say "Mother," where you are from? They are eager to share about themselves, and eager to hear about the rest of the world.

Often, there would be music. In smaller sessions, one would bring curiously shaped radios (pictured above) to be happily examined by each person present. In larger sessions, there would be guitars and small percussions and there would be singing. Visitors would be asked to sing regardless of skill. Buscalan boys like their share of song and drink.

Drinking with the old men would usually mean sitting quietly in small circles, choking and passing out from laughter. One time, the old man Victor had told us the very funny story of three women from different countries, competing for the title of Biggest Vagina. I had burst out in reckless giggles upon mention of the word 'vagina' (oh this repression). "Lady," Victor assured me, "please do not be offended! It is only a joke." The old men who do not speak lowland languages or English sit quietly at the sides, listening, sometimes explaining through signs, what certain words mean.
    "Try bringing your feminist friends," I'd been told. I'm sure they would have very minor fits.

Once I had asked why there were no local girls in these jamming sessions.
    "They're all very closely related," Hunter tells me, "drinking with your relatives get awkward, don't you think?" Ay, so feminists should really think twice about their standards in Buscalan.

Drink of choice is gin, always gin, passed around in shot-sized portions in glasses, accompanied by a chaser glass of water or juice or iced tea mix. Brandy is also a welcome option. Beer is also brought to sessions upon request, warm like sleep.

Jamming sessions end as early as nine in the evening (which is late, in local standards), with husbands trickling out and saying it is time to feed their children. At most, lines are drawn at midnight, when everybody starts for home in the dark. Nights are cold in Buscalan, and the little village would be buried in the clouds, but the alcohol and stories and songs would keep one warm well through the night and into the next day.