Madventures/Blog

Raised as a typical Finnish Lutheran who grew up to be a typical non-practicing Scandinavian protestant who goes to church only to attend weddings and funerals, I never thought I would find myself in a situation straight out of a Mel Gibson movie.

I am talking about the mile-long walk to symbolic Via Dolorosa to the equally symbolic Mount Cavalry in the town of Cutud in Philippines. We were told some other western journalist had tried this before but halfway through the trip chose to keep life, sanity and most of his blood to himself.

I was not quite sure what I was getting myself into.

First, my back was opened with implement called Burdios, a sort of concrete comb spiked with shards of glass. Yes, it hurts, thank you for asking. My head was covered with a hood and a crown of thorns.  I was given a whip made of bamboo and rope.

I am joining the rows of men about to undergo this ritual, each for their individual reasons. It’s usually done as penance for sins and I am just mentally making a list of my own transgressions of divine law, but have to give up as it is go time, entirely too soon for my liking.

I take the first step and start lashing my already bleeding back.

Self-flagellation is a weird thing. First you try to keep the licking light, but soon you realize the harder you whip, more numb your wounds become. So you give it all you got.

I walk and realize after only a few meters, that I’m bathing not only in my own blood but my own sweat too.

Now, when I say it was hot, I realize that word has suffered a bit of an inflation in English language. It doesn’t quite cover the temperatures I was facing on this little stroll. Infernal, hellish, blistering, baking, perhaps even broiling all do a much better job describing the conditions.

I walked the mile barefooted too, and the ground is scorching. So the soles of my feet were burning, adding a piquant little touch to this torment.

I’m about to faint, vomit and scream all at the same time.

What little I can see though the eyeholes of the hood and the stinging sweat in my eyes, it looks like the other flagellants are sleepwalking through this, with no apparent hardship. I think they are just better at hiding it or, you know, hard, noble and strong.

Bleeding like pig, sweating like one too, I walk the mile, whipping the wounds on my back like a maniac to keep the pain away.

At some point, I hear Tunna shout at me from a very far away place, although he is standing right next to me. He is saying I made it. I made it.

I walked the mile.

I was now officially a “penitente”.

But the most extreme form of penance was still ahead.

Kristos are the men who take the imitation of the Christ’s suffering all the way by getting nailed on a wooden cross through their palms and their feet. They believe it will keep them and their families in good graces with God.

We really thought one of us should have through this crucifixion – it would have made the ultimate rock-paper-scissors.

Now, I need my hands for many things, mainly writing and Tunna obviously wants to operate a camera until they pry it from his cold, dead hands. And we didn’t want to end up with those cold, dead hands quite just yet. Every expert on the scene told us not to do it if we fancied keeping the nerves of our palms intact.

So we didn’t get on the cross. But we got some pretty good close-ups of those who did, by infiltrating the crowds guerilla-style and not staying put where the media had been told to stay.

Later we heard that in another town called Kapitangan John Safran (he of the John Safran vs God fame) had actually gone through with the crucifixion ritual.

You can see a glimpse of this in his new series’ trailer.

We salute you, sir. It’s no skin off our backs.

So to say.

R & T