The jeepney comes to a halt. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and lift my head to find five bearded faces glaring back. The sun’s harsh rays fall directly from above, intensifying the ruthless expressions on the disembodied heads that hang from a wooden frame.
The centurion masks are a riot of colors and textures. A playful mix of black, red and white feathers spring from their helmets. Intricate carvings adorn the gold visors and hinged cheek pieces. A faint shade of red tinges the skin-toned faces, while long, thick lashes outline big, piercing eyes.
A small work shed stands on a grassy knoll behind the display. I find him amidst disassembled tricycles and scattered car parts. His table is strewn with crafting tools, paintbrushes, feathers, and empty cans. Three bright masks sit in the middle, awaiting the final touches from their maker.
Refine Janda had been preparing months in advance for Holy Week. In the heart-shaped island of Marinduque, men don centurion masks, called “morion,” and parade them across towns as a Lenten sacrifice. He had been crafting them for 20 years now.
A calloused hand reaches behind the table to retrieve a crude, gray face carved painstakingly from the wood of a dapdap tree. No two masks are alike, he tells me. I ask if he ever leaves his shop to watch the parade. The age-lined face breaks into a smile. Of course, it’s part of his yearly ritual; nothing brings him more joy than to see his masks come to life.
On the way back, I settle into a silent reverie. Outside, lush green fields speckled with trees extend far into the horizon. Warm air kisses my face as we pass the verdant scenery. In the town, I see the angry centurions, in the full regalia of Roman soldiers, marching on under the unforgiving heat of the sun.
As they trudge past me, I notice how each one is remarkably different from the others. Refine was right – no two masks are alike; each one is as unique as the maker intended.
