Missing the Band – and the Band Master

It’s that time of the year again... The annual Town Fiesta brings back those memories that lay dormant for most of the year. Seeing all those bands, watching the colorful flags and the cute little girls twirling their batons, hearing the sound of the drums and the melodies of the assorted playing instruments… All of these make me long for the life that I once had – and the person that made it all possible.

I was once part of all these. I started out as a cute little baton twirling majorette at the age of 10 years old. A bit late, unlike my siblings who started at the age of six, primarily because I was sickly and my Lola was overprotective. Then I moved on to playing the lyre for 2 years (which unlike my siblings, I was also not able to master because my hands were not fast enough) before graduating to the one I wanted most – a member of the Color Guard (Those pretty girls in front with short skirts and sexy outfits waving and twirling a colorful flag).

Once a Color Guard, always a Color Guard by heart

I know from the beginning that I was not that talented compared to the rest of my family. My ears are not as musically tuned; my voice not as melodious and my dancing skills are average at best. But because my father was the bandmaster, I get to experience the fun… and the hardships of being with the band.

When people look at the band marching in the streets or performing in front of an audience, all they see are a bunch of cute and colorful girls and boys having fun. They see smiles on the band’s faces, cadence and precision, wiggling hips and long smooth legs. 

They do not see the hours spend practicing each step, each march, and each move. They do not see the long hours spent on the road, in a jam-packed jeep, bus or at the back of a truck. They fail to notice the skinniness caused by the long days spent marching in the streets, the long nights spent doing and redoing a routine and the very, very limited time spent eating while in an event. 

My father led the band like a drill sergeant handling a bunch of scout rangers. We were so disciplined that even the girls were not treated differently. We were shouted at and embarrassed in front of the crowd when we fail to do what we were asked to do. While preparing for a performance, we start practicing around 9pm and end by 1 or 2am. We get back-to-back performances in summer when an event ends at 1am. After which, we then wash our uniforms, throw it in the dryer, iron it and then go back on the road for a 5am performance again. The only time to rest was while travelling from one place to the next. It was hard, it was painful. But when we get back in front of the crowd again, the feeling was exhilarating.

The Band Master: Irineo "Sir Bobot" Carritero

I remember how my father would show everyone how disciplined our band was. We would line up for food, then sit and wait until all members of the band have their food already. Then at a signal from him, we would all start eating at the same time. Sometimes when he is really in his element, he will count up to ten, and your food should be finished without any leftovers else you would be punished. We would scramble to put all the food in our mouth, and then chew once the countdown is over.

One jeep can seat 27 – 30 people. For us in the band, one jeep can seat 50 – 60. One kilo of rice can feed maybe 5-10, but for us 20-30 people can eat. One glass can satisfy the thirst of 1 individual. For band members, a glass can be passed on to up to 10. We eat together, sleep in the same room sometimes, laugh at each other’s silliness, and share a glass, a plate, a spoon. It was hard, but it was fun.

My father was authoritative and a disciplinarian. When we were in the band, we were not his daughters. He treats everyone the same amount of discipline and fairness. If truth be told, he was even stricter when it comes to his daughters. Most likely because the expectations were higher, because he knows we can do more.

On one band performance

Today as I was watching the bands marching in the street, I looked on with a mixed feeling of nostalgia, happiness and regret. I miss the band; miss twirling my flag, miss smiling at the crowd’s faces and miss dancing in front of an audience. Most of all, I miss my father who made it all possible for me. I wish I can go back in time and redo all these things, and see my father commanding in front of us like a drill sergeant again. But alas, the band and my father are now patches of painful and happy memories. They are not here anymore… but they will never, ever be forgotten.