This is an interesting article i took off STonline....very good read on how extreme is extreme

The pain of faith

Good Friday in the Philippine village of San Pedro Cutud is a religious - and bloody - affair
By Lester V. Ledesma

THE crackly, speaker-borne sounds of the 'Our Father' assault my ears as I step outside my parked car.

UNSPEAKABLE PAIN: Good Friday in the Philippine village of San Pedro Cutud is a religious -- and bloody -- affair.
It is Good Friday during the Catholic Holy Week, a time of fasting and prayer throughout the Philippines.

I have come all the way from Manila to the village of San Pedro Cutud in San Fernando, Pampanga, to witness the age-old Filipino rituals of self-mortification.

Believed to have been introduced by the Spanish friars in the 1600s, such practices have become common in this country, most notably in the Central Luzon and Southern Tagalog provinces.

Here in Cutud, they are the gory centrepieces of a bizarre tourist attraction, one that has drawn journalists, as well as 'cultural voyeurs', from all over the world.

8am: The sun is already high at mid-morning, the intense heat bearing down on me as I make my way to the village square.

At this time, the 'main event' is still a few hours away, foretold fittingly by a traditional via crucis - a solemn portrayal of the Stations Of The Cross.

I watch as the classic story of Christ's betrayal and death unfolds on the street, enacted by costumed villagers playing biblical roles.

Quotes from the scripture are uttered, followed by the continuous praying of the rosary. I get a glimpse of 'Jesus' in the midst of this holy gathering: He is wearing an immaculate robe, looking perfectly at ease despite the ongoing 'trial'.

On ordinary days, I am told, he earns a living as a tricycle driver.

True to tradition, the via crucis ends with the messiah's death on the cross. Salvation will come on the third day, of course. Until then, the people of Cutud are content to dwell on the sufferings he underwent.

10am: Even as the crowd dissipates, the flagellants begin to appear.

HELPING HAND: Doctors attend to those who need medical assistance after the ceremony.
They arrive in small groups, clad in little more than jeans and a headcloth.

On their hands are the burillos - long, thin whips made from bamboo and rope - the preferred tool of worship for this special occasion.

Their wielders range from teenagers, to middle-aged adults and a few seniors. None of them are female.

I talk to the flagellants about their peculiar form of devotion.

'I inherited this practice from my father,' one says to me behind the veil covering his face. 'When I was a child, he made a vow to perform the pagpapadugo (self-flagellation) for 20 years, in thanksgiving for a sickness I was cured of.'

'He died before he was able to complete his promise,' the lad adds. 'Now I feel it is my duty to finish what he started.'

For others, the ritual is a way to put Christ's ordeal in perspective.

'No matter how painful it may be, none of this compares to what Jesus had to endure for us,' explains another devotee.

Comforting as the thought may be for them, I can't help but cringe at the sight of the taktak - a wooden paddle that bristles with blades.

The flagellants use this to lacerate their backs, letting the blood flow freely as they start whipping themselves. In no time, the streets become filled with shirtless, faceless men, their wounded backs glistening with scarlet and sweat.

PAIN GAIN: The faces may be covered but the self-flagellation is very evident.
Some of them stand in front of the closed chapel (they are not welcome inside, as the Catholic church discourages self-mortification). Others walk on their knees, or simply lie flat on the ground as they get lashed.

Drops of blood fly in all directions, accompanied by the sharp, thwacking sound of burillos hitting flesh. I glance down at my shirt, now peppered with rust-coloured circles, and wipe the red-tinged perspiration from my brows. My lips taste of salt and copper.

Noon: 'Pontius Pilate' looks stately in his yellow robe as he steps onto an improvised stage. It is time for the literal version of the last act.

He talks forcefully to 'Jesus' and the audience, his hands waving dramatically as he asks the fateful question: 'Are you the king of the Jews?'.

Everyone knows the saviour's answer - and the grave consequences that follow. He is stripped of his robes and given a cross, and then led to the street by his 'Roman guards'.

'Mag-uumpisa na ang kalbaryo nila' (Tagalog for their calvary will now begin), whispers the man beside me. 'Christ' and his entourage walk slowly towards the flagellants, who make room for their object of devotion.

The procession begins. The scourging and the praying intensifies as the cortege makes its way through the streets of Cutud. It is a relentless march in the midday heat.

'Jesus' falls a few times, and is promptly picked up and handed back his cross. They march to a hilltop at the outskirts of the village, no doubt a perfect replica of Golgotha - 'the place of the skull' - save for the droves of vendors selling ice cream and soft drinks.

Kristo the tricycle driver, aka 'Jesus', lies down on his cross, exhausted, his ordeal not yet over. He is joined by two other devotees.

Their hands and feet are swabbed with alcohol, in preparation for much bigger wounds to come.

The crowd that has assembled watches as steel nails are driven into their palms. An eerie silence pervades the air, broken only by the sound of hammering.

Next come the nails on the feet. They seem to feel little pain. All three are hoisted up, completing this bizarre view of calvary. After a few minutes, they are brought down, to be replaced by nine other Kristos awaiting their turn.

By the fifth crucifixion, I decide I have seen enough. I walk away from the hill and take a quick breather under a nearby tent.

4pm: I drive home in a blood-spattered car, still wearing my soiled, bloodstained shirt. In few other countries will you find so much emphasis placed on Good Friday, I reflect. Where other Christians might look forward to Christ's resurrection on Easter Sunday, Filipinos choose to celebrate his suffering and death, comparing it with the trials of their everyday lives.

I spend the rest of the day in my own village, helping to push a carroza-borne Pieta during the evening procession.

Along with the crowd, we push the carriage, on which there is a sculpture of the Virgin Mary mourning over the body of Jesus, over a distance of 20km.

My sacrifice doesn't seem hard at all.

** The writer is an award-winning travel photojournalist based in Manila and Singapore.