The laughter of the Waray

Pope Francis has to prepare for a downpour of “waray” and “ambut” (literally, “nothing” and “I don’t know,” respectively) when he flies to the Visayas. As the 17th-century Jesuit missionary Francisco Ignacio Alcina wrote, “at every step, one hears these two words from the lips of the Bisayan.”

The natives of the twin islands of Leyte and Samar utter these words so spontaneously, or perhaps helplessly, that they have an ancient saying that goes: “If ‘waray’ and ‘ambut’ were persons, to no one would the Bisayan be more indebted than to them.” There is self-mockery in this saying, which is not surprising for a people whose poetic tradition is largely based on irony. But never did the tattooed islanders or “pintados” imagine that their descendants will be identified as “Waray,” a pejorative word.

I will not discuss the merits and demerits of this name. As far as I am concerned, “Waray” provides me with an identity separate from the rest of the inhabitants of the Visayas, who are often lumped together by cosmopolitan Manileños under the sometimes derogatory label “Bisaya”—a people who cannot distinguish the phonetic difference between “i” and “e,” as best exemplified by then Rep. Sergio Apostol’s classic “Madame Wetness.”

This famous phrase, Inquirer columnist Conrad de Quiros once wrote, sent Apostol’s enemies quaking, “not with fear, but with mirth,” and the nation that watched then President Joseph Estrada’s impeachment teleserye was heard laughing with them. I am sure Mano Serging just laughed it off, as many of my fellow Waray would have done.

While the country is now familiar with images of a people shattered by nature’s ferocity, the Waray will not stay that way for long. They will move on, keep their sorrows in their hearts, and begin to smile once more, but it does not mean they will forget the unforgettable “Yolanda.” As Pablo Rebadulla writes in “Basuni” (Splinter): “Basuni ko sa dughan/arantuson, tinipigan/kay an lanit san gugma/kun ilubon, kalipayan… Di ko igpapatambal/ bisan mangutngot/ inin dinultan/…Karuyag ko magbilin/dagko nga ulat/ basi tigaman/an makalit nga palad/say naghatag sin kasamdan/punyal san kapalaran/pagtitipigan, hinumduman (This splinter in the heart/I bear, I keep/For love’s pain/when borne brings happiness/…I’ll let it stay there/though the pain/ pierces through/…Deep scars I shall keep/as reminders/ of the wounds/ of cruel fate:/A knife/ to treasure, to remember).”

Though frequently pounded by powerful winds, the Waray are not a melancholic people. They love to sit together and drink their favorite tuba. They leave their doors open to everyone and, as long as there is something left in the jar, all are welcome to a tagay, be he a lowly errand boy or the Pope.

In 1668, Alcina recorded that “no Bisayan gets drunk alone.” Together they try to make sense of life’s seeming senselessness in nature’s scheme of things. Together they laugh at the world and more often at themselves. It is no wonder they believed that the linog (earthquake) was merely caused by “a certain woman shaking her unusually large breasts.”

When the shorelines of Tacloban were littered with corpses in Yolanda’s wake, someone’s hand, or Everyman’s hand, sprayed a declaration on the wall of a shuttered store. “We don’t die,” the anonymous hand declared, and proceeded to celebrate cunnilingus. While some may find the words sexist, the amused locals simply read them as an expression of rhyme, humor and defiance. The words, written amidst the cataclysm, were a playful affirmation of life.

This sense of humor permeates the political life of Tacloban. One will find Christmas Eve there less festive than the eve of elections. Indeed, Santa Clauses also roam the city during election periods, to list the good voters who will receive their gifts even without stockings hanging from their windows. The list, which poet Vicente de Veyra called “lista hin mga pinalungan” (a list of uncrowned roosters), causes much excitement among the sovereign electorate. The excitement is sustained throughout the election campaign until, a week before Election Day, cash is rationed promptly and expeditiously by political operators in the barangays. It is an efficient process that would make the Department of Social Welfare and Development look totally inept. Perhaps this carnival is the reason no election-related shootings ever occur in Tacloban—to the credit, such as it is, of the politicians there. As a friend bluntly put it: “Kwartahay la (It’s all money).” In short, everyone is happy, except those who are unhappy with the results.

If there is any moral to this political tale, it is this: Generosity is a political virtue and Tacloban is blessed with the most generous politicians around. But then, generosity is not a monopoly of the ruling elite. The Waray are really generous as a people—too generous, in fact, that they can tolerate the voracious appetite of their rulers.

When Pope Francis sets foot on Kankabatok and the wasteland of Kataisan, he may, however, hear the word “waray.” He should not be deterred.

His fellow Jesuit Alcina knew it well: “Although [strangers] might hear ‘waray’ in the beginning, yet it is certain that [the Waray] always find … something to offer to eat. They offer it without expecting any return… In this particular respect, I believe that few nations in this world are more generous than the Bisayan, even though they are in the grip of so much hardships and difficulties.”

In the land of the Waray, we hold back nothing.

Jose Duke S. Bagulaya is assistant professor of comparative literature at the University of the Philippines Diliman. He works as a lawyer in his spare time.