Welcome to the Great Philippine Votekanaval

By Sunriser

And just like that, the amnesia is cured.

Barangay roads that haven’t seen a mayor’s foot since the last election suddenly echo with the rhythmic beat of marching bands and the hum of rented sound systems.

It’s campaign season once again in the Philippines—a time when political memory returns, and every citizen becomes “pariente,” “kasimanwa,” or “amigo gid.”

Welcome to the grand spectacle that is the Philippine Votekanaval—equal parts parade, pageantry, and pure performance art.

If the Vatican has its white smoke and Rome its Carnivale, and if Brazil struts with feathered queens on float-mounted samba drums, then we have our very own tricycle motorcades, t-shirt cannonades, and tarpaulin tsunamis.

Suddenly, your street is part of the route.

Your sari-sari store becomes a staging ground.

Your name—yes, even your hard-to-pronounce nickname—magically appears in the mouth of a grinning politician who hasn’t visited in three years but now swears he grew up beside your lola’s cousin’s neighbor.

Vote for me, you look familiar.

Watch as barangay gyms transform into coliseums of charisma, with candidates parading like contestants on a no-elimination season of Showtime, each armed with a wireless mic, a packet of noodles, and the promise of “more jobs, more ayuda, and free Wi-Fi.”

It’s all very spiritual, really.

A rite of political rebirth.

A sacrament of selective generosity.

Food is multiplied like loaves and fishes—rice sacks rain from trucks, and roasted pigs are sacrificed in thanksgiving for your solid support since day one.

And of course, no Votekanaval is complete without costumes: the barong that fits just right, the jeans-and-sneakers look to show “ako’y masa rin,” and the requisite campaign vest—that magical garment that turns even the most invisible figure into a Lingkod Bayan.

It’s all very festive—until you ask for platforms.

What are your plans for infrastructure? “Gusto natin maayos ang daan.”

On education? “Importante ang kabataan, sila ang pag-asa.”

Healthcare? “Walang iwanan.”

Transparency? “Full support tayo diyan!”

Ah, the answers may be empty, but the smiles are full.

And lest we forget, this season also revives the ancient art of the door-to-door handshake pilgrimage, where candidates risk sunburn, potholes, and the occasional feral dog just to knock on your gate and ask, “Kumusta na?”

(They don’t really care, of course, but your vote does.)

Meanwhile, the journalists sweat.

They chase motorcades, decode recycled promises, and try not to laugh when candidates mistake “infrastructure” for “wifi router.”

They take notes and screenshots, because in a few months, when the t-shirts fade and the rice sacks run out, they’ll be the ones reminding voters who said what, and who danced with a chicken on their head just to trend on TikTok.

But hey—don’t be cynical, they say.

This is democracy in full color, democracy with a marching band, democracy with confetti and cotton candy.

Never mind if no one reads platforms.

Never mind if vote-buying is renamed “token of appreciation.”

Never mind if campaign jingles stick longer than public policies.

It’s election season in the Philippines—where governance is theater, and every voter gets a front-row seat.

Just remember, when the last float rolls away and the stage lights dim, your vote is the only thing that isn’t part of the show.