Fiction: Artifacts He Unearthed I

Exactly two years ago this month, I attended the 53rd Silliman University National Writers Workshop as a fellow for fiction. As part of the three-week event, my co-fellows and I were asked to create an anthology of our works. There was no deadline for it, but my batch decided to have a finished output before the three weeks ended. In between sessions--both workshop sessions and drinking sessions--we scribbled new poems and stories or revised slightly older ones. At the closing ceremony, we were able to release printed and bound copies of our anthology, which we titled Interstices, a byword during discussions.

The electronic version of the anthology was made available in the Silliman University website, but it was taken down a year after, as a new batch was ushered [sniff]. So to give you a glimpse of Interstices, and to mark my second year as an alumnus of SUNWW, I'm posting here the story that I contributed. The story is coming out in three parts; the second and third parts will appear next Monday and the Monday after that. If you enjoy reading this blog, I believe you will enjoy the story too, for it is set in Kulaman Plateau  and has Dulangan Manobo and burial jar elements. It also has an unusual format:


September 12, 2017, Monday

There Was Once a Friend
Posted at 9:00 by Rolly Jude Ortega
Labels: Dumaguete, Jovy Almero, Kulaman Plateau, burial jars

More than two years ago, my friend Jovy Almero decided to spend the summer in Kulaman Plateau, my hometown in Sultan Kudarat Province. He was there as a member of the team that excavated a cave for Neolithic limestone burial jars. He did not do any actual digging since he was not an archaeologist. He was a writer, and he was there to document the project for the Ceramics Society of Southeast Asia, a private organization that was one of the sponsors of the exploration.

The job was supposed to be mine, but since I was still doing my MA thesis here in Silliman that time, I could not go back home. Jovy, a native of Naga and my co-fellow in the 2014 Silliman University National Writers Workshop, happened to be in between jobs when the archaeological exploration was about to commence. He also shared my passion in many things cultural and political, so I emailed him about the opportunity, and to my delight and gratitude, he accepted the offer. With lust for adventure, love for life, and a huge black backpack bearing down on his lanky frame, he roughed it up in Kulaman. He was twenty-nine.

In his fourth or fifth week in the plateau, Jovy decided to create a personal blog. It could be read only by five or six people, and I was not one of them. I came to know about the existence of the blog long after it was created, a month or so after Jovy passed away, and though Jovy was in the plateau to write about burial jars, the blog is not about the archaeological artifacts. What prompted him to reach out to the outside world, or at least to people he felt understood him, was a gruesome killing.

May 7, 2015, Thursday
In Cold Blood
Posted at 13:42 by Jovy Almero
Labels: Kulaman Plateau, massacre, Manobo, personal

You must have heard about the massacre right now. It’s on national news. It happened a village away from where our project is. I’m not sure yet of the extent of the danger, and much as I want to assure you of my safety, I can’t. The archaeologists I’m with, though, have requested for additional security. We are expecting two more soldiers to join us tonight, in addition to the two who have been with us since we got here in Kulaman Plateau, almost a month ago.

I know nothing more than you do. Whatever I’ve learned so far about the gruesome killing I just got online, through my satellite-dish Internet connection and from websites of TV stations. As I’ve told you in previous posts, this town is fucking remote. The roads here are so bad that the next village might as well be half the world away. Barangay Tinalon, where the massacre happened, shares a boundary with Barangay Kuden, where the archaeologists I’m with are excavating Neolithic burial jars, but the crime scene is three long hours away by skaylab (public utility motorcycle) from our location. Still, we are surrounded by the Dulangan Manobo, and though they have been friendly with us so far, and they seem to be as disturbed with the news as we are, we are not really sure if they have a connection to the killers.

The news says that the other night, a group of not less than 10 Dulangan Manobo gunned down in cold blood a family of Visayans. All six people who were in the house were later found dead: the husband, 46; the wife, 42; two of the children, both male, 18 and 24; the wife’s distant cousin, male, 35; the husband’s nephew, male, 20. The last two were stay-in helpers in the family business. The family owned a sari-sari store of considerable size, and the store was reportedly raided by the killers, none of whom has been apprehended yet. The missing items in the store include cash estimated at ten thousand pesos and two secondhand chainsaws that were bought on the same day the killing happened.

I think I’ve spent enough time on this blog, which is personal. I must get back to work. I’ve got to email my bosses to update them of what’s going on around here. See you. I’ll create another post in a few days. If you want to know where I got my facts about the massacre, check out inquirer.net, abs-cbn.com, and rappler.com. The articles on the websites, though, contain the same bare information. Their source is apparently the same, the provincial director of the PNP here in Sultan Kudarat.

May 9, 2015, Friday
The May Massacre
Posted at 15:45 by Jovy Almero
Labels: Kulaman Plateau, massacre, Manobo, personal

I’m supposed to be blogging for every few days, not every day, but I learned of something that I feel I have to share with you right away. The family that was massacred Tuesday night? I’ve actually met them. I’ve been to the crime scene before the crime happened.

On the second weekend of our stay here in Kulaman Plateau, the archaeologists decided to unwind a little in a cave resort in Barangay Kuden, and we dropped by the Pelibas’ sari-sari store on our way to the resort. Peliba, by the way, is the victims’ family name. My companions and I had some Coke and biscuits, and it was Fely Peliba, the wife, herself who served us. I only remember this last night when one of our cooks, a Visayan, who went with us to the resort, reminded the archaeologists and me.

I heard from a village official that the local authorities have asked for help “halin sa ubos” (from down there), referring to investigators from the provincial headquarters of PNP or even agents from the regional office of NBI. Hearing the development—or the non-development—frustrated me. Ineptitude of local officials always irks me, though I must add that I’m not singling out Kulaman Plateau. The problem is present in almost all parts of the country.

Questions hound my mind. How were those Dulangan Manobo able to get hold of guns? Why haven’t anyone of them been caught? If I were the mayor of the town, I would have been insulted. I wouldn’t allow any group to carry guns and commit crimes right under my nose. It’s 2015, for crying out loud. The natives here already use formalin for their dead, instead of letting the cadaver rot in a coffin for years and then putting the bones in a limestone urn. I’m tempted to lay out a timeline of human rights milestones, but you get what I mean. It’s 2000-fucking-fifteen.

May 10, 2015, Saturday
The Existential Question
Posted at 05:35 by Jovy Almero
Labels: Kulaman Plateau, Rolly, Rolly’s pots

The archaeologists and I were barely able to sleep last night. I heard them tossing and turning inside their own tents, and when I went out twice or thrice for coffee, I saw each time at least one of them doing the same, sipping silently from the mug, glancing warily every now and then at the darkness.

With us now are four soldiers from the 108th Infantry Brigade, guarding us day and night, and some barangay tanods who drop by at around midnight as part of their roving routine. Still, we don’t feel safe enough.

If Rolly, the one who persuaded me to take this job, were with me right now, I’d bash a burial jar on his skull. The prick. He said it’s safe here, this being his hometown and him knowing the place so well. He said he is friends with the mayor and the mayor would do everything to ensure the safety of the archaeological team. Days after the massacre, nothing and no one has assured us that we’re free and far from danger. I should have known better. Mayors could not be trusted and Rolly could not have been friends with anyone. I can’t believe what I’ve gotten myself into. Why the fuck am I here?!

I can now see what would be carved on my tombstone: “He died digging for pots.” Shit.