It was the most complicated of times in Achaea. The coronavirus pandemic is still raging around the world and, in the small island nation, over 55,000 residents were affected, with more than 2,000 dying—easily outnumbering even the most affected nations in the Caribbean. Another epidemic, the tropical retrovirus, was affecting the country and claiming its share of lives as well. Schools were still shut, the national Department of Education taking a piecemeal approach to reopening with half the country winding back up, only to wind back down when an outbreak would affect both students and teachers alive. It was the height of hurricane season, a perennially perilous time to live in the Caribbean as the islands of this beautiful archipelago were always cast in the good Lord’s mercy of guessing whether or not they would be affected by one. Politically, the nation faced the first round of a dissonant, divisive and complicated election that threatened to separate families and tear communities apart. Millions of Achaeans are facing debt, foreclosure, utility cutoffs, hunger, fear, loathing, and anxiety in a year not unlike any other since the return of democracy over seventy years ago.
And then the World Hit Festival came roaring into town.
It was a moment of perplexing serendipity, then, that The Intermissión won the nation’s very first competition in a very close tie with a competition legend, endearing the country—and the money-raking broadcaster—with many firsts: The first Achaean victory; the first entry completely sung in Spanish; the second Spanish-language tune (Izmedu claimed that some twenty-something contests ago); and Tamar de Andrade’s very first victory which, of course, meant a bigger budget for choosing an Achaean performer and a significant salary increase for accomplishing the feat. Such a victory lifted Achaean spirits at an uncertain time like this one, filling themselves with a bit of fueguero pride and the invincibility of a resilient nation.
Now, the whole journey has led over 4,000 lucky souls to congregate in the Francisco Calderón Sports Palace on a humid Saturday evening in the homely city of La Cañada with flashy banners, eclectic costumes, cheap beer tucked away in uncomfortable places, face masks (the State of Corola granted broadcasters AS1 and TVS an exemption to indoor performances amidst stringent social distancing requirements, but the audience was required to use face masks except when eating and drinking)—and, one cannot forget, panderos, timbales, claves and enough pipes on their throats to break a few glasses.
While the main arena held the stage, the nearby cancha bajo techo[i] was converted from a makeshift storage room-cum-basketball court into an additional indoor arena where the green room was being held. There, the nervous performers from across the Multiverse sat waiting for their moment to shine on stage, surrounded by over 1,000 socially distanced fans cheering them on. The nerves of many were significantly frazzled when they heard the jubilant, boisterous Achaean crowd that, despite the masks and the dissuading, were performing a few decibels above the already-sound music that was even deafening the loudspeaker’s droning precautions—in English, French and Spanish no less—to keep social distancing. Some took pictures on social media. Others hid under the pillows. Still others tried to keep up with the pace and dance, trying to faintly mimic the audience’s chants in what little Spanish they knew. And others in their respective delegations clapped politely, waiting for the show to begin. Little did they know that the Achaeans never kept quiet and never followed the rules for no one.
In a brief moment, the audiences in both sectors calmed down and started counting down in Spanish:
¡Diez! ¡Nueve! ¡Ocho! ¡Siete! ¡Seis! ¡Cinco! ¡Cuatro! ¡Tres! ¡Dos!
…¡Uno!
The World Hit Festival Theme Song was being shown across screens in the Multiverse—the first time this happened in Achaean soil. Both AS1 and TVS teamed up to provide this production to the world, the second time their partnership was on the spotlight after this spring’s Junior World Hit Festival in Juana Díaz and Urbania. (Off-screen, both executive producers were high-fiving each other, eagerly awaiting how the production would turn out.)
Next up, a few black-and-white stills of the past World Hit Festival in Bovingdon were shown with various participants. These would slowly gain color as they showed images of Achaeans in their homes watching the various contests in their homes, livestreaming through their tablets or computers or phone, nervously eating many delicious Achaean staples as they waited for the results. They were foreboding as they waited the results and cheered loudly when the Achaean Republic was called to the Grand Final. Some hugged. Others cried. Still others started shouting and waving any [i]fueguero-laden flag or piece of clothing or anything they could grasp their hands on in their euphoria. For the next few days until the final, many streets were shown filled with people across the nation going about their socially distanced lives, wearing masks with the imprints of La Intermissión, buying Quédate CDs and bootleg DVDs ripped off someone’s computer and eating frituras on a side street beside a busy thoroughfare with a car laden with random The Intermissión memorabilia.
As the background music picks up, the images of Achaeans watching the World Hit Festival in their screens on houses, rooftops, balconies, (somewhat-legally open) bars, and even dangerous thoroughfares in the midst of a tropical storm across the nation. Eagle-eyed viewers could see small glimpses of Achaean culture in their screens: the old abuelas crossing themselves on a corner, carrying their rosary beads to their chests. The teenagers on Twitter, half-glistening their attention to the screen and half-posting the most recent memes on their Whatsapp feeds. The old men drinking, giving a chuchazo with their dominoes, arguing about the quality of the music as much as they argue about the latest cheater in the game. Many plates of food and drink. Laughter and joy and sadness and anger. Music and dancing and even more music dancing. Many even perched their fueguero[i] flags atop their balconies and car hoods and chalk-covered pathways washed away by the rain and emblazoned [i]fútbol jerseys.
And then it happened. The Achaean Republic won the World Hit Festival for the very first time.
You could see stills and screenshots of many Achaeans jumping, screaming, crying and overall celebrating the victory. In the midst of the rain, many started doing impromptu caravans with music and low-driving cars in torrential rains. Others began dancing and joining their neighbors to dance. Water-filled cacerolas and pilones were used as percussion instruments while celebrating. Back in Bovingdon, the Acheans in the crowd were ecstatic, celebrating the vitory with such jubilation that the few user-generated videos couldn’t do justice to the raucous immersion of joy in the people. From the press conference to the exit, it was non-stop celebration the only way Achaeans know how to do.
For a moment, the music and the euphoria stop. The screen fades to black. A young man with a flame-emblazoned Acaya scarf was standing the middle of the empty R.A.F. Bovingdon hangar, all alone. It was empty and spacious with all the chairs stacked on one corner to be returned to storage, leaving only the sound of his steps, his breathing, and the expansive echoes of the hanger-turned-venue. He looked at the Vortex, the complex thingamajigs and contraptions that made it work—now, that was just empty screens and lighting. The sides were also empty, devoid of chairs and screaming fans. The arms of the center pieces were being removed by stagehands who just so happened to be taking a break. Looking at this scene, a scene quite ephemeral and devoid of life, made him exhale deeply. Outside the hanger, the sound of a honking car could be heard echoing through the hanger. That was his ride, duh! He slapped his forehead in incredulity when he heard the sound and ran outside before his ride would leave him.
The ride, in fact, was the same hopper bus that picked up The Intermissión and Evangeline Hope in the edition’s Achaean postcard—talk about serendipitous coincidences! A line of people was forming, all standing six feet (two meters) apart and wearing masks as they tried to get in. He almost forgot he needed to have a mask on, duh! Once again, the young man quickly checked his back pockets to find a fueguero flag cloth mask and waited for his turn to ride. Once he got in, he sat in the middle next to a partitioned seat facing a window. He shimmied his body trying to be as comfortable as he could—Achaean buses were handy, but weren’t known to be the most comfortable, even though this is changing with the SITUC (Metro Corola’s integrated public transport system, said to be the most advanced in the Caribbean), but not so for the buses in the city’s metropolitan outskirts that oftentimes lack air conditioning. Regardless of that, the bus driver changed gears while people are still standing inside the bus, leaving some to spill their coffees, lose some pages of the Spanish-language newspaper to the wind, or some women with their ruined makeup and painted teeth out of the bus driver’s brusque moves. For the young man sitting on the bus, this was an oddly reminder of his acclimation back home. Resigned, he nodded and looked towards the window to appreciate the hills of Bovingdon for one last time, the smooth roads, the sleekly-dressed populace for a summer’s day, and he noticed two children playing baseball on an open diamond, one of them with a Britonish flag T-shirt and another with an Achaean flag T-shirt and gloves. Hmm, he didn’t expect that Britonish were into baseball! Nevertheless, he shrugged this sudden sight as he slowly rested his head on the window and drifted himself to sleep while listening to an old bachata song the bus driver put on the radio.
The screen faded to black with the Achaean hopper bus driving on the right of the road, while the Britonish cars were maniacally swerving to the side, if only to avoid an accident.
The screen slowly regained color with the same bachata playing on the radio and the guagua carrying over and showing a somewhat dilapidated welcome sign that said BIENVENIDOS A LA CAÑADA (“Welcome to La Cañada”) on the top, the city’s coat of arms on the side and another sign that says CIUDAD DE LAS CUEVAS (“City of [the] Caves”) and a small electric alarm that says 01:54 PM, a not-so-subtle and quite obvious reference to both the end of lunchtime in the city and the harbinger of events that would be unfolding soon. Beside the welcome sign, two men were smoking on a corner next to a no-smoking sign in Spanish, while teenagers were sitting under the sign fiddling with their phones.
As the hopper bus zipped and zoomed past the bumps in the road, one of them jolting the young man awake and lightly tapping his head to the windowpane. Shaking his head and trying to get his bearings, he looked on the window and saw the city’s hilly terrain and beautiful grasslands, the crisscrossing roads and the smile of the peoples driving in the road. There were two or three citizens once in a while walking through the dangerous ledges beside the roads, perhaps to visit a runaway colmado to buy some supplies or a barrita perched near the barranca to grab some rum. There were many trees with their roots overstretching the concrete and breaking the road, which forced the bus driver to make quick swerves to avoid them—or, at least, not crash into them so forcefully.
As the guagua passed by the city, the young man appreciated more views of La Cañada as it reached its final destination: the small Roman Catholic church as the priest entered the doors in order to start Holy Mass beside a small Evangelical church where the pastor was greeting worshippers—and some of his Catholic brethren as well.[/url] An old man on the side of the road selling many kinds of fruit and vegetables and eggs on the side of the road at cheap prices coming from his finca on the outskirts of the city. A billetero selling décimas or tenths of lottery tickets for players hoping to strike it rich with a (no-longer) tax-free jackpot, drinking a small cup of coffee and waving at passers-by on the side of the street. A group of men playing dominoes and drinking beer while a woman was preparing some tostones or twice-fried plaintains. He missed the lovely display of Achaean longing and familiarity, the constant celebration and exuberance for life. Far away from his view, overlooking the city, was the famous La Cañada Caves National Park, the Caribbean’s largest natural cave system and one of the nation’s largest underground aquifer systems that supports potable water for two out of five Achaeans. Then, the guagua would travel to the pueblo where a collection of colonial and neoclassic buildings constructed as refuges for the Corola aristocracy would be preserved as private homes, hotels, casinos, community centers, schools, homeless shelters and government offices.
But the young man couldn’t help but notice that a man was walking around a clearing with a young woman beside him. It was a dry, dusty road heading near the famous caves at La Cañada. He was wearing a bone-white tunic and sandals made of leather and coconut. There was a faint trail of blood behind him, one that grew larger and larger as they walked towards the caves. She remembered the deep holes in his hands, the prickly wounds in his chest, the damp smell of iron and sweat and water and flesh discharging from his body. But it never smelled as his skin was putrefying or his veins were rotting in and of themselves—no! It was him and her, walking together through the dusty road, over a cave shaped like a pentagon and a very heavy rock sliding behind him as he walked inside it.
This was a strange sight, one that shocked him. What was he doing? What was his mystery…?
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