A week before Dinagyang, the city already changes its posture. Banderitas begin to bloom. Sound systems get tested. Food stalls start rehearsing their own kind of choreography: grill, wrap, sell, repeat. The streets feel like they are holding their breath for January 24–25. And if we are honest, the biggest question is not whether the Ati-Ati and Kasadyahan will be electric. They will. The bigger question is what our city will look like after the drums quiet down.
Every year, the same aftertaste returns: plastic water bottles, disposable cups, Styrofoam food containers, food wrappers, plastic bags/straws, fishball sticks, liquor bottles, and soda cans left where people stood, ate, laughed, and recorded their reels. It is always the same excuse too, delivered with a shrug: “May maglimpyo man.” That line sounds harmless until you imagine saying it to a person sweeping at 3:00 a.m., shoulders bent, eyes half-awake, clearing the remains of somebody else’s good time. Dinagyang is a celebration, yes, but it should not be a permission slip to forget basic decency. By morning, the damage is not only visual. It is olfactory. The sour mix of spilled beer, discarded food, and urine clinging to sidewalks and corners—often where portalets were too few or ignored—lingers long after the drums have stopped. That smell is the part of Dinagyang no one posts for posterity.
Iloilo, after all, has long carried the reputation of being among the cleanest and most beautiful cities in the country. That distinction was not earned by slogans alone, but by habits—quiet, consistent ones—practiced by ordinary Ilonggos on ordinary days. What makes the littering during festivals sting more is that we know we are capable of better. We have seen it ourselves: Filipinos abroad lining up properly, holding on to their trash, following rules without needing reminders. The discipline magically appears when we are guests elsewhere. The question worth asking is uncomfortable but necessary: if we can behave that way abroad, why do we forget it at home?
The “reeler” culture makes this worse, not because filming is bad, but because filming sometimes creates a strange entitlement. Some visitors arrive as if they rented the city for content. They treat sidewalks like disposable tablecloths: eat, toss, walk away, post. Some locals do the same, which is more embarrassing because we know better. There is no “outsider” to blame when your own leftovers is the one wedged near the gutter. A clean city is not a backdrop. It is a shared home.
At the same time, it is fair to admit what people complain about every year: bins can be too few, too far, or too overflowing. The city and province have been pushing zero-waste drives and reminding the public about CLAYGO, but anyone who has walked a packed route knows how quickly a few bins can drown. This is why the debate online always splits into two camps: discipline versus infrastructure. The truth is both matter. Bins should be visible and adequate, and people should still behave like adults even when bins are imperfect.
There is a simple reason litter multiplies fast: it is contagious. One wrapper on the ground quietly tells the next person, “Okay lang diri.” One bottle left behind becomes a weak invitation for another. On the other hand, a clean area encourages restraint because nobody wants to be the first to ruin it. This is why the first few hours of a crowd often decide the whole day’s cleanliness. Small choices early in the celebration can prevent the “snowball” of garbage later.
So what does “working together” look like before Dinagyang week even begins? It looks like planning that respects human behavior, not wishful thinking. Put bins where people actually stop: near food stalls, waiting areas, crossings, and bottlenecks. Make waste stations easier to notice than the nearest milk tea. Require food vendors, as part of their permits, to keep their immediate area clean, practice basic waste segregation, and face sanctions if they repeatedly fail to comply. If the festival can be organized down to choreography and judging areas, it can also be organized down to where trash goes.
Working together also means making good behavior convenient, not heroic. Bring a tumbler. Bring a small eco-bag. Slip an extra plastic bag in your pocket for wrappers, just in case. That last one sounds very elementary-school, and maybe that is the point. Many of us were taught: if there is no bin, keep it in your pocket first. It is not glamorous, but it works. Ten minutes of inconvenience is cheaper than one clogged drain. I will be writing more about that “pocket habit” in a related column soon.
During the Dinagyang highlights on January 24–25, the city will be full of movement: tribes, tourists, vendors, marshals, volunteers, and families with kids on shoulders. That is exactly why reminders need to feel like part of the festival rhythm, not like angry sermons. Friendly volunteers pointing to waste stations. Clear signs that do not sound like threats. Announcements that feel like neighbors talking to neighbors. And yes, enforcement where it matters—because some people only learn when “pakiusap” becomes “may multa.”
After the celebration, the real test is what we do when no one is clapping anymore. Cleaning should not be a one-week personality. A city that stays clean only after big events is like a person who showers only for reunions. Sustainable cleanliness is habit: how we treat plazas on ordinary nights, how we leave classrooms after meetings, how we behave in a jeepney, how we handle wrappers in a minibus. Festival season only magnifies what is already in us.
Cleanliness, after all, is not something we switch on for festivals and switch off after. It is lived from the inside out. A city cannot stay clean if homes are careless, just as a home cannot stay orderly if we treat public spaces as somebody else’s problem. The way we manage leftovers in our kitchens, wrappers in our bags, and waste in our daily routines quietly shapes how we behave on crowded streets. The city is only as disciplined as the people who live in it.
There is a quiet kind of pride that does not need hashtags. It is the pride of carrying your trash until you find a bin. The pride of teaching your child to hold on to a cup instead of tossing it near a tree. The pride of leaving a viewing spot looking the same way you found it. It is not self-righteousness. It is respect—for workers, for neighbors, for the city you claim to love, and for the next person who will stand where you stood.
Dinagyang will always be loud, joyful, and beautiful. Let the city look the same way after. The most meaningful “Hala Bira” this year might be the one we do not post: the decision, made quietly and repeatedly, to celebrate without leaving a mess for somebody else to carry.
Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.
