FRAMES OF PICTURES

At a street in Baguio City, Philippines, Feng To-Su turned a corner and unceremoniously bumped into Ah Kong, his ugly pal, who was strolling aimlessly like he owned the world.

Ah Kong had a dreamy look like he was in love – when in the first place no gal in her right mind would like to cuddle this monster-looking android.

“Ah ni zao,” (Good afternoon) Feng greeted his  long-time pal. Ah Kong puffed deep at his cigar and raised a hand in salute. Dusk was already settling, darkness  creeping stealthily into house corners and flinging away the remaining  sunlight.  Road neons were lighting up.

“Tian le?” (What time is it?) Ah Kong asked.  Feng showed six fingers. “Ahhh,” Ah Kong sighed in understanding.

“Won men qu chou he he,” (Let us go sit down for a drink) Ah Kong murmured.

Further up the street they strolled, entered a bar and ordered drinks. Nursing their drinks, they listened to country music being belted out.

The Ah Kong caught Feng studying the pictures framed along the bar’s walls. For an hour, Feng had been steadily concentrating on one framed picture.

Something was going on in Feng’s mind. Now, mind, you. Feng’s vocabulary was remarkable and with it was the completeness with which he had assumed a well-rounded attitude towards things.

But this time, it was apparent that he could not understand the picture. “That picture – what does it mean? I do not understand.”

Ah Kong looked at the picture. A man, with a preposterously wicked face, his right hand pressed dramatically to his heart, was falling backwards to the floor. Confronting him, with a face that was a composite of a destroying angel, was a man with a smoking revolver.

“One man is killing the other,” Ah Kong said.

“Why?” Feng asked. When Ah Kong said he didn’t know, Feng lamented. “That picture is all end; it has no beginning.”

“It is life, “Ah Kong objected.

But Feng retorted, “Life has beginning. That picture has no beginning. It has no end.”

For this matter, Ah Kong had no answer.  Feng was bent upon compelling himself to show Ah Kong the wisdom of pictures. Besides, Feng has remarkable powers of visualization. He saw life in pictures, felt life in pictures, generalized life in pictures. How he always said that pictures are bits of life. You remember it afterwards. It is like a picture in your memory. The window is the frame of the picture.

Ah Kong slowly started to understand. Life is a picture. Even that beautiful waitress serving them drinks is a picture. He leered at her.  Feng admonished him. “Ben da!”  (You are stupid).

Feng stood up, a signal for them to go home. “Yao hui jia woma.” (I will go home.)

“Nigeyiqu  kennima! (Please, let me go with you!)  Ah Kong, already drunk, pleaded. “Po!” (No!)  Feng said sternly.

Ah Kong, pictures reeling in his mind, nodded his understanding. “Wo ken ni ming tian  le, “ (I will see you tomorrow) he said.  Reeling drunkenly, he could not understand why pictures, when seen through other men’s eyes can be assumed different from another point of view.

“Wan an, “(Good night) Feng shouted at him, adding, “Ni hui jia le,” (Go home straight).

“Shi,” (Yes) Ah Kong answered “Zei jian,” “Yi wan xie, (A million thanks).

Feng heard and waved back. “Shi-shi,” he said.

If only both of them looked up, they would have seen their silhouettes momentarily framed in the darkened sky. --- Bony Bengwayan Jr.

A GLIMPSE INTO THE IGOROT DAW-ES TRADITION

The atmosphere was tense. Those present in Albert’s house looked grim and determined.

On the first week of April, 2012, Albert, long-time pal, waited for a ride home when he was accosted by drug-crazed gang members out to snatch his cell phone. He grappled with his tormentors and was stabbed repeatedly.

Some of the attackers were apprehended and incarcerated for attempted murder.

But Albert’s brothers, cousins, uncles and other relatives chafed under the collar about their kin’s near death, evident in their fiery countenance; they harbored a no-holds-barred form of justice.

They were only held at bay because the “lakays,” or “lalakays” meaning elders were calling the shots.

In close-knit families of the Igorots, decision of elders packs a punch among these indigenous tribes inhabiting the Cordillera region in north Philippines.

Final decision: no one shall don war paint and traverse the warpath. The laws of the Philippines shall prevail.

Warrior descendants of a gone era but now molded into our modern technological society, the relatives submitted to the verdict. No war chest will spring open.

But Albert was under extreme physical and mental duress due to a traumatic experience.

Elders decided he must undergo cleansing in the tradition of the “daw-es,” and return his mental and physical faculties with the natural order of the universe.

Daw-es, an ancient cultural tradition invoking prayers, songs, sacrifice of a dog and abstinence, are all believed to unify into a force and fortify ability of a distressed person to overcome physical and emotional disorders. Elders plead before their ancestors, gods and the Creator for “sumang,” protection for the distressed and to bring the errant spirit (ababi-it) back into the fold of the physical body.

It is very fascinating to note how during the olden times, the Igorots were keen about a disorder presently tagged nowadays as posttraumatic stress disorder and how they believe they can ward it off.

Done very solemnly, it seems a complicated ritual for the uninitiated. It commences at the crack of dawn, never during evenings. A council of elders troops to the house of the distressed carrying an indigenous plant and placed besides a bowl of water.

Household members are advised to maintain equanimity in the house. Television and radio sets are pulled off the plug. Banging of pots, breaking or dropping of kitchen wares and banging of doors or windows are definitely no-no. Those who scoff at the ritual are advised to leave.

First, animated discussion ensues for the need to implement the ritual. Subject- person of the ritual is directed to abide near the elders. Except when nature calls, the person is not allowed to leave the abode.

The ritual involves recitation of prayers and songs by the elders for almost a day.

Before high noon, an elder picks up the bowl of water and plant, heads outside where he splashes the liquid in a sweeping motion using the plant while praying. The plant represents home of spirits living with nature and as a “sagad,” or sweep, can clean misfortune.

Immediately thereafter, the person is asked to slay swiftly a bound dog, an act intended to restore the person’s mental and physical strength and overcome any future threats. It serves to unshackle the mind of the person who is considered in a state of despondency.

The dog is butchered and cooked.

Now comes the bone of contention: why a dog? Why not pigs, cattle, carabao, chicken or any animal for that matter? What is the difference?

Igorots have long valued dogs for their bravery, devotion and as protectors. Traits needed to complete the balance of order in daw-es. In short, dogs can do all these what other domestic animals cannot.

Only the elders partake of the dog meat. Any leftover is taken away by them. Pots used in cooking the canine are cleansed and set aside by the household never to be used again. This act ensures to put the lid down on any misfortune that may hound the household.

Before the elders departed, Albert was advised not to sleep with his spouse for the ensuing night and stay at home for three successive days. This process in the daw-es is called “ngilin,” or abstinence. Neither was he allowed to partake of liquor. They were advised not to get into a family spat. On the third day, the elders came back, butchered a chicken, a sign that Albert’s abstinence was over.

The Philippine Animal Welfare Act of 1998 prohibits killing of any animal except those utilized for domestic consumption. Killing is exempted when it is done for ritual required by tribal or ethnic custom.

The Dawes ritual can also tame desire of avenging members of tribal communities that can flare into tribal conflicts.

Two weeks after the dawes elapsed, the patience Albert relatives paid off: the long arm of the law finally caught up with the remaining perpetrators.

The daw-es that I witnessed at Albert’s house was led by Primitivo Alibang, a respected elder from the municipality of Tadian, Mountain Province, Philippines. He does not know his age but community members say he is over 90 years old. For many decades, Alibang presided over numerous rituals.

When will daw-es become history’s footnote? Future will tell for a culture and tradition-rich people with a niche in time and possesses a genuine sense of their own antiquity. --- Bony Bengwayan Jr.

In celebration of the United Nation Intergovernmental Committee on Intellectual Property Rights and Genetic Resources, Traditional Knowledge and Folklore, 21^st Session; 16 – 20 April 2012

The Tea That Never Was

Know what scatology means? Darn right you are. It is the study of feces.

Another distasteful duty in my environmental work was completion of scatological studies.

I had been instructed to devote part of my effort to collecting and examining dog scats. This was not a chore with which I was delighted, but do it I must.

With a pair of long forceps, I collected the feces and placed them in a tin water pail.

At home, I dumped some the dog feces on a table and, donning a gas mask, started to analyze them. Mind, dog scats are loaded with eggs of a particularly dreadful parasite which, if inhaled by human, hatch into minute worms that tunnel their way into the brain where they encyst, usually with fatal consequences to their host.

Deeply engrossed in my work, I failed to notice the group that stealthily crept behind me. They were my neighbors. They were Igorots, Ilocanos, and Tagalogs – all my friends. They previously heard that I was collecting dog feces but nothing they had heard beforehand had prepared them for the sight when they arrived.

As we talked, I noticed several of them casting surreptitious glances at the scat pail and the mound of feces on the table. I interpreted this as curiosity and pompously decided their interest as subtle suggestion that they would appreciate a cup of tea and sandwiches.

Keenly observing me, they watched as I threw the dog feces on the ground, thoroughly washed out the pail with soap and water then filled it with fresh water to boil.

I told them to wait and retired in the house to boil water and prepare bread.

Laden with food, I stepped out thirty minutes later. My cheerful mood did not survive for long.

All my visitors were gone.

I was offended and puzzled. When Berto Sandoval, another good friend of mine, came one day, I told him what transpired and demanded an explanation. He cross-examined me, searching questions about a pail, dog feces and urine, and other matters – queries which didn’t seem particularly relevant to me.

In the end, Berto, with tongue in cheek swore before his ancestors that he could not possibly explain why my hospitality had been so unceremoniously spurned. – Bony Bengwayan Jr.

Five-Fingered Green Gold

I was admiring my pechay nursery last April 13, 2012 when lo! From the corner of my eye spotted I a different-looking seedling thrusting upwards and seeking out the sun.

Upon closer inspection, it delighted me no end to discern it was a marijuana seedling. Fiendishly smiling, I savored the thought of raising marijuana at my backyard away from the ever- snooping eyes of drug enforcement.

My thoughts raced: After it had grown, I would sell its leaves and earn; I would give them to my friends. My, how popular would I be among my amigos? They would drool over it Girls would flock to me … But then, I paused.

What in tarnation was I thinking? I knew the plant was illegal. I knew its side-effects, having been a health spokesman for so long.

To top it all, my eldest son, Bismarck, happens to be the public information officer of the Philippines Drug Enforcement Agency.

With my dark thoughts, I reconsidered; I would be committing suicide with such plans.

But what titillated my curiosity no end was how that marijuana seeded land among the pechay seeds when I bought them at an agricultural outlet.

Then I recalled how the Cordillera region in northern Philippines was tagged the marijuana-producing area in the country and merchants of the illegal plant devising ingenious ways in transporting it to prospective buyers. Even hiding them among vegetables grown in the Cordillera and trucked to other regions for distribution. There, I got it. Somehow that wayward marijuana seedling growing at my nursery was part of an illegal drug trade utilizing upland vegetables.

A plant lover, I hated to slay the illegal weed. With a trowel, I gently lifted it from the seedbed, hoping to replant it in the wilderness adjacent my home. If it survives on its own, well and good. If it doesn’t, I did the best for it.

Then out of nowhere appeared Ayof, a huge drug-sniffer dog of the Philippine Drug Enforcement Agency taken into our home as a pet by Bismarck.

True to its calling, Ayof took a sniff at the plant and sat down, an indication he found an illegal drug. I paid our dog no mind and walked towards the forest with the plant.

But Ayof got miffed from my insult and refused to take it. He barreled towards me, knocked the trowel with the marijuana plant to the ground. In an instant, he sat on the fledgling plant, squashed it then yawned satisfactorily. He placed his head on his paws and closed his eyes, but not before he opened one malicious eye of satisfaction at me.

I laughed at Ayof’s antics and rested my case.---Bony Bengwayan