I chuckle. Indeed, I’m looking at objects that I’ve been wanting to see for a long time and I’ve been spending considerable time and resources on. They’re not toy trains, however. They’re not fancy toys or expensive gadgets or anything weird but still somehow not so weird. They’re just plain weird, for most people. The objects in the display case are burial jars—made of soft stone, about 1,500 years old, and taken from Kulaman Plateau. Reno and I are in the Museum of the Filipino People.
Reno and I are supposed to check out the other galleries in the museum and to drop by the National Museum across the street, but we’re pressed for time. It’s past four in the afternoon, and I want to see all the Kulaman burial jars that I can see that day, so we skip our other destinations and ride a pedicab straight to Silahis Arts and Artifacts, a private gallery inside Intramuros.
When we step inside Silahis, I ask at the front desk where the limestone burial jars are displayed. I’m told that the artifacts are on the third floor. Reno and I walk upstairs without inspecting the other items, mostly native handicrafts, in the jam-packed gallery. The scene earlier is repeated; I take out my digital camera and take photos like I’ll never see the burial jars again. Silahis Arts and Artifacts has fourteen in its collection, and all save for the smallest one is complete—meaning, they have lids.
Scotch-taped on the jars are large cards, and the cards don’t look good in my photos, so before I take the photo of each jar, I remove the piece of paper and put it where the lens won’t catch it. After a while, I pick up some of the cards to reattach them to the jars. I’m flabbergasted. I thought the cards merely contain a general description of the jars. I read them and find out that at the bottom of each is a price. Now I don’t know which card belongs to which jar. Reno chuckles. Hastily, I put a card each on the jars without attempting to be accurate. It’s difficult to try, anyway. Most of the jars have the same size and priced at P4,000, P5,000, or P,6000. It’s not easy to tell which jar should be P1,000 or P2,000 more expensive.
“They’re cheap!” says Reno upon learning the prices. I think the same way. Some of Kulaman jars that have been taken to the U.S. are offered for sale online for at least $2,500. “This one especially,” adds Reno, pointing to a coverless jar that is much smaller than the rest and priced at P500 only. The label erroneously describes the jar as a “vase.” We compute the total cost of all fourteen jars. Two of the jars do not have price tags, but their sizes are average, so they probably cost P6,000 each at most. One or two of the jars cost P7,000 or P8,000. One jar, by far the biggest in the collection, costs P20,000. The total amount is no more than P90,000. “I can buy all these without asking money from my parents,” says Reno.
I’m a bum and not as rich as Reno, but I have enough extra money in my wallet to get myself one of the medium-sized jars, in addition of course to the “vase,” which is simply a steal. I’m having a serious moral dilemma. I told myself before that I should just write about the limestone jars and maybe convince all their current possessors to give them back to the province of Sultan Kudarat. I should not be involved in the trading of the jars. I should not acquire by any means even just one burial jar for the living room at home. But I tell myself that I won’t commit any sin if I buy the “vase” and another jar and then donate them to Delesan Menubo, a display room operated by Catholic nuns in the municipality of Senator Ninoy Aquino.
I continue taking photos while talking to Reno and mulling over buying some burial jars. From behind me, a stern voice asks, “Para sa ano yan?” (What is that for?) I turn and see a middle-aged woman in some kind of uniform. Her face is serious, and her arms are folded on her chest. I assume she’s an employee of the gallery. “Sa blog ko lang po,” I answer. “OK lang ba?” She doesn’t answer and then walks away. Reno and I resume talking about the burial jars and other things.
I begin to lose interest in buying the jars. It occurs to me that transporting archaeological artifacts might require special permits and I might be held in the airport if the scanners show I have suspicious rocks in my luggage. I have not checked the laws on cultural treasures and similar stuff. Besides, it seems better to stick to my original plan and be not involved at all in any financial deals involving burial jars.
I would probably not think of such matters if the gallery attendant had been friendlier. She has irked me. But she can’t stop me from taking several photos more after the dozens that I’ve taken. These burial jars belong to my province. The people of my province have more right to the jars than the owners and employees of the gallery. I take out my camera and click away again.
“Para sa ano yan? ” the woman asks me again from behind after a while. I thought she has left me and the burial jars in peace. I explain again that it’s just for my blog. “Bawal po ba (Is it prohibited)?” I ask. “Have you asked permission downstairs?” she says in Tagalog. “Hindi po,” I admit. She asks a few more questions, and I answer them honestly and politely. I tell her researching about the jars is my personal hobby. She must have noticed that I’m a perfectly decent or sane person after all. We keep on talking, and after a while, as though another spirit has possessed her body, she becomes accommodating, sympathetic even. She tells me the jars have been in the gallery for maybe ten years and she believes they should not have been for sale because burial jars used for the dead. My irritation with her dissipates. All the same, I have lost interest in buying jars or anything else from the gallery.
I have nothing but photos of the fourteen jars. If I write about them in my blog, if I tell the public about them, some private collectors might become interested and buy them and hide them away forever from the people of Kulaman Plateau and even of the Philippines. If more people become interested in the jars, they might fetch a higher price in the black market. I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing by writing about them, but I’m a writer, and my duty is to write. Some things are beyond my control, and there are some risks that I have to take.
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