(Note: The story that follows is a work of fiction and should not be quoted in part or in whole as a traditional Manobo narrative. This is the second of three parts. The first part was posted the previous Monday, and the last part will be posted next Monday.)
Tomigel’s mother objected to the relationship, knowing that human beings would persecute her daughter, as what they had done to her. She did not succeed, though, in separating the lovers. She died not long after. Living in the harsh confines of the jungle had taken its toll on her frail, mortal body.
The hunter brought Tomigel home as a wife. The couple let the people believe that she was from a faraway village and did not mention anything about Tomigel’s life in seclusion with her banished mother. Though Tomigel’s ways were a little peculiar, the other people did not take much notice, for the hunter built a hut for him and his future family at the edge of the jungle and away from the center of the village.
For quite a long time, the hunter and Tomigel lived in bliss, and they were blessed with a son, whom they named Tomelos. Tomigel was half-spirit, and Tomelos was a quarter spirit, so the mother and son had the longevity of immortals. The father, however, had a body that was vulnerable to diseases and deteriorated with age. He passed away while Tomelos was still a kid.
Tomigel and Tomelos eventually lived with the human beings. Though the mother and son did not move to the village, the village came to them. The population of human beings grew, and from the center of the village, more huts were built outward, up to the edge of the jungle. Fortunately for Tomigel, by the time she had neighbors a stone’s throw away, she had been exposed to human beings long enough. She had adopted their ways and could pass off as pure human.
Being half-spirit half-human, Tomigel could understand and communicate with both groups. She became aware of the helplessness of human beings against the forces of nature and the power of spirits to control the same. She used this knowledge to help human beings. Whenever heavy rains or long droughts came, she would see to it that her neighbors were safe and had enough provisions. She would dance around the fields and sprinkle magical dust on the crops so that the grains would cling to the stalks and continue to grow, unhampered by the elements. She would play an invisible flute, the music from which lured game to the village, making hunting a less arduous task. Oftentimes, because the tasks were too great for her to do alone, she would ask for assistance from the spirits.
Tomigel’s acts of helping her neighbors became so frequent that the human beings started to notice that their lives had become much easier. It also did not take long for them to associate Tomigel’s presence with the occurrence of the blessings. Eventually, Tomigel had to admit that spirits really existed and she could talk to them because she was one of them.
By this time, the story about Tomigel’s mother—“the woman impregnated by a beast and driven out of the village”—had become a legend. All the people who had seen the woman had died of old age. Tomigel’s neighbors realized that the story was indeed true and Tomigel was the child of the spurned woman.
The human beings distanced themselves from Tomigel and Tomelos, who was a young man now. Though they could not bring themselves to persecute Tomigel, because they had seen how good her heart was and how valuable to them her help had been, they doubted her story. They could not accept that the parents and grandparents they revered had been wrong.
In no time, though, compelled by need and indolence, the people came back to Tomigel and asked for help. Tomigel was only too willing to lend a hand. The news of Tomigel’s gift spread to other villages. Later on, the requests she received became so great in number and scale that she had to spend most of her day entertaining the supplicants. Tomelos was left with the responsibility of securing his and his mother’s daily food, which he did with a happy heart, since he had become a skilled hunter much like his departed father. Tomigel never received anything in exchange for the help she was giving because it never occurred to the people to thank her and she would refuse if they had offered. Tomelos, meanwhile, could not see or talk to the spirits, probably because only a quarter of himself shared their nature.
Because of the overwhelming number of requests, Tomigel had to stop doing some of them herself and spend all her time instead on communicating with spirits. The requests had also become so complex that they had to be accomplished by several spirits or by spirits from faraway lands. Tomigel later developed a systematic ritual for summoning spirits, and the ritual came to be known as beliyan.
The people took Tomigel’s help for granted. And like most things given free and readily, they abused it. Their demands became unreasonable. At first, they only came to Tomigel for food whenever they had exhausted all means to find such and came home empty-handed. Later on, they demanded that the spirits provide their daily food while they waited for mealtime lying in a rattan hammock. Much later on, they wanted the spirits to stock each house with enough food to last for at least forty years. At first, all they wanted was for the spirits to identify what herbs could heal their ailments and where the herbs could be found. Later on, they wanted the spirits themselves to gather the herbs and cook the potion. Much later on, they wanted the spirits to bring back to life their dead kin.
Human beings started to regard spirits as not much above animals and plants. Because the spirits responded to the requests without any reservations, the people started considering the spirits mere servants obliged to follow them, not as higher beings to plead for blessings from. Whenever a spirit was delayed in granting a wish, the people grumbled. Whenever a spirit failed altogether, the people denigrated all spirits in the vilest of terms.
The spirits decided they’d had enough. They ignored the demands of the petulant people.
The people were outraged. Some accused Tomigel of begrudging the powers of spirits to them. Others accused her of being incompetent, that she had lost her ability as a medium. Tomigel pleaded the spirits to understand the people and resume their deeds, but the spirits were adamant. They told her they would help the people again only if the latter showed humility—if they fell on their knees, asked for forgiveness for their arrogance, and offered something in exchange for each request.
Instead of seeing the error in their ways, the human beings were appalled. They turned their backs on Tomigel and the spirits. They told her they could live without her and her invisible friends. Soon the people faced many difficulties. Having used to being given whatever they wanted, they were no longer able to fend for themselves. Many of them starved to death or succumbed to illnesses. For this and other misfortunes, they blamed Tomigel. Carrying torches, they thronged to her hut, intending to burn her and the hut down.
Tomelos came to his mother’s rescue. He had not shown any superhuman abilities before, so to everyone’s surprise, including Tomelos himself, extraordinary force came out of him. He snuffed out the torches with one blow, and he flung the people away with one swipe of hand. His power as a part-spirit must have lain dormant in him, and it was unleashed only now. Horrified by Tomelos’s strength, the mob retreated.
The people remembered again the story about Tomigel’s mother. They began to speculate that Tomigel’s father must have been a beast indeed and Tomelos inherited the beast’s strength. They began to suspect, and soon believed, that whenever Tomigel conducted a beliyan, she was calling for the help of lowly, filthy beasts, not powerful spirits.
The rumors reached Tomigel’s ears, and at last, her eyes were opened to the cruelty human hearts were capable of. She thought it better to leave the human beings and dwell with the spirits for good. The spirits rejoiced her decision. However, because Tomigel had a mortal body, the people could still see and talk about her even if she ignored them. The only way for Tomigel to be completely rid of the people was to separate the realm of spirits and the realm of human beings. Doing this, however, seemed impossible.
Of course, the spirits could drive away and even annihilate the human beings, but this course of action never crossed the minds of the spirits, for purity and kindness dwelt in their hearts. The solution they came up with was to move their home to another place. They must live far above the earth! The spirits began to prepare for the greatest migration in history.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Monday, May 20, 2013
Fiction: The Gods of Yore
(Note: The story that follows is a work of fiction and should not be quoted in part or in whole as a traditional Manobo narrative. This is the first of three parts. The second part will be posted on May 27 and the third part on June 3.)
I am studying literature, particularly that of the Manobo people living in Cotabato Cordillera, and I notice that most academics and religious missionaries engaged in the same endeavor had not been enthusiastic with their findings, especially on the tribe’s myth of origin. Some of them even went on to describe the myth as “crude” (Montaño 1961), “devoid of logic” (Schmidt 1974), and plain “boring” (Belen 2010). I am thus delighted that my own research proved the opposite, though I must admit my methods were a little unorthodox and would not likely pass the punctilious eyes of my thesis adviser.
So as not to get ahead of myself, let me quote first the object of disappointment and criticism. Of all the versions other than mine, this one has the most details:
“In time long past, the shamaness Tomigel prepared to conduct a beliyan, a ritual through which human beings could communicate with spirits. When she invited the other people to participate, they refused. They believed the woman was out of her mind. Tomigel was disappointed that the others had lost their faith. She thought it better to leave them and join the spirits instead.
“Heaven then was still very near earth. Tomigel pounded some rice on a mortar, and as she drove the pestle up and down, it hit the sky, causing the great body of clouds to rise higher and higher, until it became so far no human being or winged creature could reach it. Tomigel then ascended to the sky.
“Tomelos, the son of Tomigel, was left behind because he had been out hunting in the jungle. He became aware, though, that his mother was ascending to heaven when he saw bright light piercing through the dense foliage. Tomelos came upon a boulder and decided that if he could split it in two, he should go after his mother.
“Tomelos was able to break the rock with his bolo. The game he had captured fled and turned into rats. He shot up to the sky and reached it even before his mother did.”
The researchers tried to make sense of the story. They evaluated it using established paradigms in education, anthropology, or whatever field of study they were in. Much remains to be explained, however. Inadequate accounts make comprehensive deconstruction nearly impossible. The myth of origin, even before it is known in the academic and literary world, is being dismissed as insignificant and sliding into obscurity.
Believing there was more to the folklore of the Manobo—and wanting to complete my thesis, of course—I set out to find the complete and detailed myth. I began by interviewing the chieftains and other prominent figures in several communities, just like what my predecessors had done, and unsurprisingly, the respondents had nothing new to impart to me. With further perseverance, however, my search led me to the hut of old woman Babat, the last person known to conduct a beliyan.
At first Babat had nothing more to tell me than the others. But I wasn’t willing to give up, and I came up with an idea: I would obtain the story from Tomigel and the spirits themselves. I would request Babat to perform a beliyan so that she could ask the gods of yore what I wanted to know.
There was much hesitation, and even disbelief, on the part of old woman Babat. But to cut the story short, I was able to persuade her and she succeeded. (For a more detailed account of the ritual, see my paper on the lost art of beliyan practice.) Now what follows is the complete and most accurate version of the myth.
In time long past, when heaven and earth had no known boundaries between them, human beings and spirits lived together. They occupied the same space at the same time, but the two groups did not interact with each other. Human beings were not aware of the existence of spirits, while the spirits, though they could see and hear human beings, had no interest in mingling with the latter. The spirits found the concerns of human beings too shallow and trivial. All the people wanted were to fill their stomachs with food, copulate, and compete against one another. The human beings would see who was the best in anything and decorate the winner with a wreath or engrave his or her name on a rock. The spirits, meanwhile, found joy in singing, dancing, and reciting poems. The spirits all looked alike—or more accurately, they all had no faces—and they had the same faculties, so they never saw the need to compete and decorate themselves with wreaths. Furthermore, they could pass on their memories to their progeny, so they did not have to engrave their names in stones for the latter generations to know who they were.
The mutually ignoring existence was perturbed one day when one spirit found himself obsessed with a female human being. No one could tell what exactly the spirit felt; my respondents (i.e., Tomigel and several of the spirits) have differing views on the matter. One said it was that indescribable, unpredictable, uncontainable thing called love. Some said it was lust; having lived with human beings for so long, the spirits had begun to acquire the filthy ways of humans. Whatever it was, it led to a union between the spirit and the woman. Some said it was consensual, others said it was forced, and others yet said it was something in between.
The copulation of the spirit and woman led to the death of the former, but the latter bore a child, who was no other than Tomigel. The spirits were taken by the child. Because they had been used to their homogeny, the peculiar creature fascinated them. They took turns in helping the mother take care of Tomigel. Which was a good thing for the infant. In the realm of human beings, she was a pariah. Her mother was accused of copulating with some beast in the jungle and was banished from her village. The woman tried to explain that it was a spirit, an entity of incalculable power, that got her pregnant, but her neighbors did not believe her. They could not accept that some other group had greater gifts than they had. For them, human beings were the masters of the earth and all other breathing things existed at their disposal.
Tomigel and her mother lived in the middle of the jungle until she reached adolescence. One day, a dashing young hunter came upon Tomigel while she was bathing in a stream. Tomigel had never seen a man before and malice had not been sown in her mind, so instead of being scared of the stranger or ashamed of her nakedness, she approached the man with curiosity. The hunter was as respectful of women as he was ruthless with anyone or anything else; instead of taking advantage of Tomigel’s innocence, he turned his back and asked the lass to get herself clothed. The man only looked back at Tomigel when she told him she had covered herself with leaves and vines.
It did not take long for Tomigel and the man to fall in love with each other, or as the more romantic would say, the two fell in love at first sight.
I am studying literature, particularly that of the Manobo people living in Cotabato Cordillera, and I notice that most academics and religious missionaries engaged in the same endeavor had not been enthusiastic with their findings, especially on the tribe’s myth of origin. Some of them even went on to describe the myth as “crude” (Montaño 1961), “devoid of logic” (Schmidt 1974), and plain “boring” (Belen 2010). I am thus delighted that my own research proved the opposite, though I must admit my methods were a little unorthodox and would not likely pass the punctilious eyes of my thesis adviser.
So as not to get ahead of myself, let me quote first the object of disappointment and criticism. Of all the versions other than mine, this one has the most details:
“In time long past, the shamaness Tomigel prepared to conduct a beliyan, a ritual through which human beings could communicate with spirits. When she invited the other people to participate, they refused. They believed the woman was out of her mind. Tomigel was disappointed that the others had lost their faith. She thought it better to leave them and join the spirits instead.
“Heaven then was still very near earth. Tomigel pounded some rice on a mortar, and as she drove the pestle up and down, it hit the sky, causing the great body of clouds to rise higher and higher, until it became so far no human being or winged creature could reach it. Tomigel then ascended to the sky.
“Tomelos, the son of Tomigel, was left behind because he had been out hunting in the jungle. He became aware, though, that his mother was ascending to heaven when he saw bright light piercing through the dense foliage. Tomelos came upon a boulder and decided that if he could split it in two, he should go after his mother.
“Tomelos was able to break the rock with his bolo. The game he had captured fled and turned into rats. He shot up to the sky and reached it even before his mother did.”
The researchers tried to make sense of the story. They evaluated it using established paradigms in education, anthropology, or whatever field of study they were in. Much remains to be explained, however. Inadequate accounts make comprehensive deconstruction nearly impossible. The myth of origin, even before it is known in the academic and literary world, is being dismissed as insignificant and sliding into obscurity.
Believing there was more to the folklore of the Manobo—and wanting to complete my thesis, of course—I set out to find the complete and detailed myth. I began by interviewing the chieftains and other prominent figures in several communities, just like what my predecessors had done, and unsurprisingly, the respondents had nothing new to impart to me. With further perseverance, however, my search led me to the hut of old woman Babat, the last person known to conduct a beliyan.
At first Babat had nothing more to tell me than the others. But I wasn’t willing to give up, and I came up with an idea: I would obtain the story from Tomigel and the spirits themselves. I would request Babat to perform a beliyan so that she could ask the gods of yore what I wanted to know.
There was much hesitation, and even disbelief, on the part of old woman Babat. But to cut the story short, I was able to persuade her and she succeeded. (For a more detailed account of the ritual, see my paper on the lost art of beliyan practice.) Now what follows is the complete and most accurate version of the myth.
In time long past, when heaven and earth had no known boundaries between them, human beings and spirits lived together. They occupied the same space at the same time, but the two groups did not interact with each other. Human beings were not aware of the existence of spirits, while the spirits, though they could see and hear human beings, had no interest in mingling with the latter. The spirits found the concerns of human beings too shallow and trivial. All the people wanted were to fill their stomachs with food, copulate, and compete against one another. The human beings would see who was the best in anything and decorate the winner with a wreath or engrave his or her name on a rock. The spirits, meanwhile, found joy in singing, dancing, and reciting poems. The spirits all looked alike—or more accurately, they all had no faces—and they had the same faculties, so they never saw the need to compete and decorate themselves with wreaths. Furthermore, they could pass on their memories to their progeny, so they did not have to engrave their names in stones for the latter generations to know who they were.
The mutually ignoring existence was perturbed one day when one spirit found himself obsessed with a female human being. No one could tell what exactly the spirit felt; my respondents (i.e., Tomigel and several of the spirits) have differing views on the matter. One said it was that indescribable, unpredictable, uncontainable thing called love. Some said it was lust; having lived with human beings for so long, the spirits had begun to acquire the filthy ways of humans. Whatever it was, it led to a union between the spirit and the woman. Some said it was consensual, others said it was forced, and others yet said it was something in between.
The copulation of the spirit and woman led to the death of the former, but the latter bore a child, who was no other than Tomigel. The spirits were taken by the child. Because they had been used to their homogeny, the peculiar creature fascinated them. They took turns in helping the mother take care of Tomigel. Which was a good thing for the infant. In the realm of human beings, she was a pariah. Her mother was accused of copulating with some beast in the jungle and was banished from her village. The woman tried to explain that it was a spirit, an entity of incalculable power, that got her pregnant, but her neighbors did not believe her. They could not accept that some other group had greater gifts than they had. For them, human beings were the masters of the earth and all other breathing things existed at their disposal.
Tomigel and her mother lived in the middle of the jungle until she reached adolescence. One day, a dashing young hunter came upon Tomigel while she was bathing in a stream. Tomigel had never seen a man before and malice had not been sown in her mind, so instead of being scared of the stranger or ashamed of her nakedness, she approached the man with curiosity. The hunter was as respectful of women as he was ruthless with anyone or anything else; instead of taking advantage of Tomigel’s innocence, he turned his back and asked the lass to get herself clothed. The man only looked back at Tomigel when she told him she had covered herself with leaves and vines.
It did not take long for Tomigel and the man to fall in love with each other, or as the more romantic would say, the two fell in love at first sight.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
May Updates
I made a little change in the description of this blog. It now reads, "A Guide to Kulaman Plateau and Its Manobo People, Lost Burial Jars, and Hundred Caves." Before, it was "A Research Guide to Kulaman, Its Manobo People, and the Lost Burial Jars." I dropped the word research because, lately, I've been posting more travel write-ups than academic texts, and I added the phrase about caves because I realized that Kulaman means caves mean Kulaman. The natural wonders are probably what's going to put the plateau in the Philippine tourism map. As I've said before, this blog will never stop evolving.
With the changes mentioned above, I felt that the page "About This Blog" had become unnecessary, so I deleted it. For nostalgic and record-keeping reasons, I'm keeping here a copy of its short content:
Starting this month, I'm including original fiction in this blog. The first such story is "Gods of Yore." It's composed of more than four thousand words, so I decided to divide it in three parts. The installments will run on May 20, May 27, and June 3. So Portal to the Plateau can also be categorized now as a literary blog.
Meanwhile, I'm not sure how to classify my May 13 post, "The Hidden Treasure of Kulaman." The main character, Charito Santiago, is an actual person, and he only told me the barest of facts about the events narrated in the article. I just made up the rest. I guess I can call it semifiction. I want to post the second part next week, but recently I can't find enough time to write. I've been employed again, and I'm on adjustment period. By June, hopefully, I will be able to continue writing and finally reveal to you what really the hidden treasure is.
Thank you, friends and readers! My stats shows Portal to the Plateau has been visited for more than 1,900 times. I think it's not a bad performance, considering that, aside from occasionally posting on my Facebook timeline, I don't promote this blog. Don't get me wrong. I don't practice SEO and stuff not because I don't know how to but because I want to keep this blog low-profile. All I want is for this blog to serve a special, specific community.
With the changes mentioned above, I felt that the page "About This Blog" had become unnecessary, so I deleted it. For nostalgic and record-keeping reasons, I'm keeping here a copy of its short content:
If you are conducting a research on the Manobo people of the Cotabato Region, this is probably the best place to start. This not-for-profit site provides links to available resources online, downloadable documents gathered by the author (none yet), and some original write-ups. Feel free to use materials and data provided in this blog, but kindly observe proper citation of sources. Furthermore, check with the original source for copyright concerns. For your comments and corrections, or if you want to contribute relevant information, contact rj2ortega@gmail.com.Furthermore, "News" is now "Kulaman in the News," and "Bibliography" is now "Webliography." The latter, though, still has five items only, and the latest title is dated 2002. Sultan Kudarat State University has quite a number of theses on the Dulangan Manobo, conducted just for the past few years, but copies are not available online.
Starting this month, I'm including original fiction in this blog. The first such story is "Gods of Yore." It's composed of more than four thousand words, so I decided to divide it in three parts. The installments will run on May 20, May 27, and June 3. So Portal to the Plateau can also be categorized now as a literary blog.
Meanwhile, I'm not sure how to classify my May 13 post, "The Hidden Treasure of Kulaman." The main character, Charito Santiago, is an actual person, and he only told me the barest of facts about the events narrated in the article. I just made up the rest. I guess I can call it semifiction. I want to post the second part next week, but recently I can't find enough time to write. I've been employed again, and I'm on adjustment period. By June, hopefully, I will be able to continue writing and finally reveal to you what really the hidden treasure is.
Thank you, friends and readers! My stats shows Portal to the Plateau has been visited for more than 1,900 times. I think it's not a bad performance, considering that, aside from occasionally posting on my Facebook timeline, I don't promote this blog. Don't get me wrong. I don't practice SEO and stuff not because I don't know how to but because I want to keep this blog low-profile. All I want is for this blog to serve a special, specific community.
Monday, May 13, 2013
The Hidden Treasure of Kulaman (Part 1 of 2)
Charito Santiago had spent all his life looking for hidden treasures left by fleeing Japanese soldiers in World War II. With fellow prospectors and wanderers, he had dug many a hole around Kulaman (official name: Senator Ninoy Aquino), a town in Sultan Kudarat situated some 800 meters above sea level. He didn’t know that the Japanese could not have set foot in his hometown. The invaders had occupied major cities and towns, such as Davao and Koronadal, and Kulaman in 1940s was a dense jungle populated only by loosely organized Manobo people.
Santiago had become a senior citizen—his missing teeth had made him look as though he was sucking in his cheeks; his bronze skin had turned gray, like fresh-from-the-sack cement—and the hidden Japanese treasure still remained hidden from him. His family was only able to make both ends meet because he farmed and did some odd jobs when not digging holes. In 2005, with a string of failures behind him and the clock ticking, Santiago had almost given up his dream of finding the elusive treasure, when a Manobo friend of his told him of something that brought vigor to his veins. He felt as though he was young again, and endless possibilities—bottomless wealth!—were waiting for him. Kampo Dapat, a tribal chieftain, told Santiago that he had discovered a “tunnel.”
Like his Ilocano friend Santiago, Datu Dapat was nearing the end of his life. He was younger than Santiago, but he would die much sooner, as Manobo people had shorter life-spans and were more susceptible to diseases than the Christian settlers, who started flocking to Kulaman in search of fertile soil in 1970s.
The tunnel was near the top of a mountain, about 900 meters above sea level, and the mountain was not distinct from the other peaks around it—filled with towering trees and weeds that were taller than human beings. At first what Dapat saw was a mere groove on a wall of rock and not a tunnel. He did not even notice the opening until a bird flew past him and disappeared into it. The hole was large enough for a puny man like Dapat to crawl in, but he did not dare venture in. He had a suspicion that the tunnel would lead him into a lair of pythons, but much more than the huge snakes, he was afraid of a busaw, or evil spirit, that might be inhabiting in the hole.
No python or busaw could get in Santiago’s way to his last chance at finding a chest filled with gold bars or a gilded statue of Buddha. Armed with a spade and four flashlights, he inched his way through the tunnel. The spade was almost useless. He could barely budge, and he had to crawl like a python. His hand pushed and scooped aside the sticky mud as he moved forward. He could barely breathe, and he could not tell if it was because of excitement of being so close to a treasure or because of decreased amount of oxygen in the air.
About seven meters from the entrance, as Santiago was about to lose his breath, he felt cold air caress his face. He had reached the end of the tunnel. But instead of bumping into a metallic chest inscribed with Japanese characters, he was ushered into an immense space. He pointed his flashlight straight ahead, and the ray of light dispersed in the darkness. Something screeched, and the sound brought disappointment instead of fear in Santiago’s heart. He instantly recognized the sound as that of a bat—just a bat. It meant he had discovered a cave—just a cave, not necessarily a hideaway for stolen treasures.
As Santiago stood up and stared at the nothingness in front of him, he wondered if all his efforts were worth it. The cave was in Siokong, a sitio, or hamlet, of Barangay Kuden. Though Santiago was living in the same village, Siokong was quite far from his home at the center of the village. From the barangay hall, he had traveled by motorcycle on rough road for nearly two hours to reach Datu Dapat’s home in Sitio Siokong. Datu Dapat and he then climbed the mountain on foot for about forty minutes. He wondered if he should continue exploring the cave or if he should go out to the mouth, where Datu Dapat waited for him.
Cave exploration did not excite Santiago much. Kulaman, a plateau with Karstic topography, had more than a hundred caves scattered all over—or under—it, each boasting of its own magnificence. While he could appreciate the beauty of nature, leisure was not Santiago’s priority. He wanted to spend the years left in him searching furiously for the gold that could be measured in karats, not like someone on pension basking at the sight of golden grains at the tip of stalactites that no pawnshop would accept.
Despite the failure that just hit him, Santiago’s spirit had not been dampened enough to make him abandon the quest. He had the indomitable spirit of a treasure hunter. After all, though the tunnel did not lead to the chest of gold, the chest might be buried somewhere inside the cave. He plodded along.
(The second part will be posted next month.)
Santiago had become a senior citizen—his missing teeth had made him look as though he was sucking in his cheeks; his bronze skin had turned gray, like fresh-from-the-sack cement—and the hidden Japanese treasure still remained hidden from him. His family was only able to make both ends meet because he farmed and did some odd jobs when not digging holes. In 2005, with a string of failures behind him and the clock ticking, Santiago had almost given up his dream of finding the elusive treasure, when a Manobo friend of his told him of something that brought vigor to his veins. He felt as though he was young again, and endless possibilities—bottomless wealth!—were waiting for him. Kampo Dapat, a tribal chieftain, told Santiago that he had discovered a “tunnel.”
Like his Ilocano friend Santiago, Datu Dapat was nearing the end of his life. He was younger than Santiago, but he would die much sooner, as Manobo people had shorter life-spans and were more susceptible to diseases than the Christian settlers, who started flocking to Kulaman in search of fertile soil in 1970s.
The tunnel was near the top of a mountain, about 900 meters above sea level, and the mountain was not distinct from the other peaks around it—filled with towering trees and weeds that were taller than human beings. At first what Dapat saw was a mere groove on a wall of rock and not a tunnel. He did not even notice the opening until a bird flew past him and disappeared into it. The hole was large enough for a puny man like Dapat to crawl in, but he did not dare venture in. He had a suspicion that the tunnel would lead him into a lair of pythons, but much more than the huge snakes, he was afraid of a busaw, or evil spirit, that might be inhabiting in the hole.
No python or busaw could get in Santiago’s way to his last chance at finding a chest filled with gold bars or a gilded statue of Buddha. Armed with a spade and four flashlights, he inched his way through the tunnel. The spade was almost useless. He could barely budge, and he had to crawl like a python. His hand pushed and scooped aside the sticky mud as he moved forward. He could barely breathe, and he could not tell if it was because of excitement of being so close to a treasure or because of decreased amount of oxygen in the air.
About seven meters from the entrance, as Santiago was about to lose his breath, he felt cold air caress his face. He had reached the end of the tunnel. But instead of bumping into a metallic chest inscribed with Japanese characters, he was ushered into an immense space. He pointed his flashlight straight ahead, and the ray of light dispersed in the darkness. Something screeched, and the sound brought disappointment instead of fear in Santiago’s heart. He instantly recognized the sound as that of a bat—just a bat. It meant he had discovered a cave—just a cave, not necessarily a hideaway for stolen treasures.
As Santiago stood up and stared at the nothingness in front of him, he wondered if all his efforts were worth it. The cave was in Siokong, a sitio, or hamlet, of Barangay Kuden. Though Santiago was living in the same village, Siokong was quite far from his home at the center of the village. From the barangay hall, he had traveled by motorcycle on rough road for nearly two hours to reach Datu Dapat’s home in Sitio Siokong. Datu Dapat and he then climbed the mountain on foot for about forty minutes. He wondered if he should continue exploring the cave or if he should go out to the mouth, where Datu Dapat waited for him.
Cave exploration did not excite Santiago much. Kulaman, a plateau with Karstic topography, had more than a hundred caves scattered all over—or under—it, each boasting of its own magnificence. While he could appreciate the beauty of nature, leisure was not Santiago’s priority. He wanted to spend the years left in him searching furiously for the gold that could be measured in karats, not like someone on pension basking at the sight of golden grains at the tip of stalactites that no pawnshop would accept.
Despite the failure that just hit him, Santiago’s spirit had not been dampened enough to make him abandon the quest. He had the indomitable spirit of a treasure hunter. After all, though the tunnel did not lead to the chest of gold, the chest might be buried somewhere inside the cave. He plodded along.
(The second part will be posted next month.)
Monday, May 6, 2013
Five Youtube Videos on Kulaman
I'm back in Cebu, but rest assured that I will maintain this blog. I'll continue posting here at least one write-up per week. For the first week of May, I'm featuring five videos I created recently. They're all about Kulaman Plateau, and they're uploaded on Youtube.
They're the very first videos I've ever created. I wanted to expand a little the reach of this blog, so I decided to capture some scenes in a digital camera, download Windows Movie Maker, and create a Youtube account. The product was five very short videos, each running for just one minute or less. Two of them are merely slideshows of related photos.
The first video shows a raft taking a motorcycle across the Kulaman River. People traveling from the east usually ride the bamboo raft instead of crossing the concrete bridge to save some mileage. The bridge is a few kilometers away, while the part of the river featured in the video is a shortcut. It leads travelers directly to the public market. The fee is P5 for every motorcycle regardless of the number of people riding it. For those who are not riding a motorcycle, the fee is P2 per person.
In the video, you can hear my brother's and my mother's voices. My brother is bantering with the three teenage boys in the raft, his schoolmates. My mother, in Karay-a and at the top of her lungs, is greeting the "driver" of the raft, Tiyoy Tony, a relative of ours. The two nearly naked boys are either sons or grandsons of Tiyoy Tony. The passengers of the raft are on their way to the poblacion, while my companions and I were leaving the place.
The second video was taken at the top of Ilyan Hill, in Barangay Buenaflores. I went up there with my brother (singing off-key) and his classmate (in red jacket) last month. From the peak, we could see at least five barangays. The course of Kulaman River was also a sight to behold. The water winded through the mountains and flattened the earth on both its sides. The snakelike plain the river formed had become a fertile ground for rice paddies.
The next video shows how corn is ground the traditional way. My companions and I were on our way to the White Cave of Kuden when the video was taken. We were resting in a house in Sitio Siokong when I saw the crude yet intricate machine. I asked how it was used, and my two cousins and my mother, all public high school teachers and aspiring Youtube sensations, demonstrated for me.
The last two videos are each a compilation of related photos. One is on the Kulaman limestone burial jars at a museum in Cebu, and the other is on the White Cave of Kuden, also known as Lagbasan Cave. I've featured the jars in this blog quite a number of times, while the White Cave will be a subject of my future posts.
Enjoy the videos. I know they're never going to be phenomenal, but I'm sure they will be helpful to those who want to know more about Kulaman.
They're the very first videos I've ever created. I wanted to expand a little the reach of this blog, so I decided to capture some scenes in a digital camera, download Windows Movie Maker, and create a Youtube account. The product was five very short videos, each running for just one minute or less. Two of them are merely slideshows of related photos.
The first video shows a raft taking a motorcycle across the Kulaman River. People traveling from the east usually ride the bamboo raft instead of crossing the concrete bridge to save some mileage. The bridge is a few kilometers away, while the part of the river featured in the video is a shortcut. It leads travelers directly to the public market. The fee is P5 for every motorcycle regardless of the number of people riding it. For those who are not riding a motorcycle, the fee is P2 per person.
In the video, you can hear my brother's and my mother's voices. My brother is bantering with the three teenage boys in the raft, his schoolmates. My mother, in Karay-a and at the top of her lungs, is greeting the "driver" of the raft, Tiyoy Tony, a relative of ours. The two nearly naked boys are either sons or grandsons of Tiyoy Tony. The passengers of the raft are on their way to the poblacion, while my companions and I were leaving the place.
The second video was taken at the top of Ilyan Hill, in Barangay Buenaflores. I went up there with my brother (singing off-key) and his classmate (in red jacket) last month. From the peak, we could see at least five barangays. The course of Kulaman River was also a sight to behold. The water winded through the mountains and flattened the earth on both its sides. The snakelike plain the river formed had become a fertile ground for rice paddies.
The next video shows how corn is ground the traditional way. My companions and I were on our way to the White Cave of Kuden when the video was taken. We were resting in a house in Sitio Siokong when I saw the crude yet intricate machine. I asked how it was used, and my two cousins and my mother, all public high school teachers and aspiring Youtube sensations, demonstrated for me.
The last two videos are each a compilation of related photos. One is on the Kulaman limestone burial jars at a museum in Cebu, and the other is on the White Cave of Kuden, also known as Lagbasan Cave. I've featured the jars in this blog quite a number of times, while the White Cave will be a subject of my future posts.
Enjoy the videos. I know they're never going to be phenomenal, but I'm sure they will be helpful to those who want to know more about Kulaman.
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