It was ten o’clock on the evening before the final day of the Pintaflores festival. If it is possible for a city to buzz, then that is what San Carlos on the island of Negros was doing, alive with the tense expectation of tens of thousands of people who had no work the next day and were excitedly awaiting a party of truly gargantuan proportions that constituted the very embodiment of their homeland’s culture and history. On some level the city’s soul buzzed, vibrating back and forth, up and down, barely containing the tension, ready to explode, that could be felt everywhere: in the behaviour of the citizens, barely able to contain their excitement, laughing, shouting, dancing and drinking at every corner; in the constant questions, “Hey Joe, you coming to the street parade tomorrow?”; in
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