In the 1990s, on my first New Year in the Philippines, my host yanked me inside as midnight neared. I wanted to watch the fireworks, but he didn’t want me shot. Many here enjoy firing guns into the air, either not having paid attention in their physics classes or just not caring that bullets actually fall to the ground. Until recently, police were among the worst offenders.
Locals tend to favour fireworks with names such as ‘Goodbye Philippines’, ‘Goodbye Earth’ and ‘Bin Laden’. These are so powerful they can be considered bombs.
From early on the thirty-first, occasional ‘booms’ grew into one almighty, year-greeting ‘KA-earsplitting-continuous-BAM’. This surrounded the house and exceeded in intensity any real artillery fire I’ve ever seen. I would dash from under cover and quickly get a picture. Anyone who’s ever taken fireworks photos from a safe distance knows the problems, so forgive my shaking hands as I shot through the fence.
The smell of gunpowder wafted through the neighbourhood and reverberations continued long after midnight. Oh, by the way, the fireworks result from an old Chinese superstition that noise helps to drive away evil spirits.
Very early New Year’s Day, I wandered up the street to get the newspapers. I didn’t find the remnants of a ‘Goodbye Earth’, but did find fireworks that back home would only be allowed in carefully controlled displays.
Here’s newspaper packing from fireworks along the main road into our area.
Back home, Gord’s driver helped to tidy up.
The TV news last night showed graphic pictures of casualty wards filling with victims being interviewed as, dripping blood, they were wheeled in for treatment. Missing fingers galore. Hundreds injured, some killed, from fireworks and bullets. Most were under ten.
Still, the fireworks were spectacular.
