Categorizing spirits is a futile task. Each one has their own personality, their own rituals and their own rules. Trying to force some imagined grouping is arbitrary at best. But humans try to normalize the world of spirits and the world of earth into easily digestible parts.

One such attempt of this is to group the “Unbound” nature spirits or personal spirits – these can come in different names – “Abyan”, “Baylan” “Bantey” (Meaning ‘guide’ Bisaya-Cebuano) or even sugujen (Spirit companion). In other literature they are called “Spirit familiars”, “Spirit companions”, “Spirit guides”, “Guardian spirits” or “Detachable spirits”.

It is thought that some of these spirits were formerly bound to a certain place, but they had “befriended” humans.

These spirits are known to be helpful to the medium’s family, though that is not always true. They give reasons why one is sick, assist in looking for the lost, seeing the future or even “magically” make riches.

They are separated even further by classifying them into two types, those that entail spirit possession and those that don’t.

Those that possess human beings are “sociable” spirits that are offered different things based on their origins: Betel nut for spirits of the mountains, cigarettes for spirits of the coasts, animal sacrifice (Cooked without salt and spice for Manobo speaking/singing spirits and with salt and spices for coastal spirits and beverages).

They appear to people in human form though they have no eyebrows nor philtrum (A notch between the nose and upper lip). These spirits have names and are attired in Manobo costumes during seances. It is taboo to mention personal names of spirits in non-ritual conversations for fear of provoking the spirits.
Though it is also fascinating how the spirits can reflect the present.

Take for example the spirit from Manwali. (Also called The Mute Spirit, and Pehaq).

It resides in a place where coastal Visayan and inland Manobo people meet.

Yet it does not speak either language.

In the space where these groups cannot understand each other’s languages, the mute spirit demonstrates the circumstance.

When it possesses a medium, it expresses things that cannot be said in words.

The violent gestures.

The crude emotions.

Nothing lexical, though the tantrum of syllables conveys anger.

This, and other spirits cross the bridge between human society and the supernatural. Even if there are those that do not want to associate with the spirits have no choice. It is through the spirits that health, protection, and visions are found.

There are those that ask, “What good is a spirit you can’t understand?”

The mute spirit will not answer in words.

But close your eyes and dream.

And you will find your answers.

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Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza

Inspired by the spirit descriptions in Buenconsejo, José Semblante. (2002). Songs and gifts at the frontier. New York: Routledge

The Mute Spirit (Pehaq)

Illustration by Abe Joncel Guevara
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(1994) Nichter, M. Anthropological approaches to the study of ethnomedicine. Amsterdam: Gordon and Breach Science Publishers.

Wait, no, that isn’t right.

Nichter, M. (1994). Anthropological approaches to the study of ethnomedicine. Amsterdam: Gordon and Breach Science Publishers.

Goddamned citation formats. I always forget if the date goes before or after the author.

I let out a loud sigh (okay maybe a grunt) and everyone in the coffee shop stares.

I also forget when I’m in public.

I sink into my chair and hope that the rest of the shop goes on about their day.

Whatever. This paper’s going nowhere. Why the hell did I choose healing rituals as my topic for this anthropology class. I could’ve been in a bar somewhere interviewing people about their body modifications but no, I had to get dengue and think about how indigenous people dealt with sickness.

Now I’m in a coffee shop staring at a Wikipedia article about the history of medicine in the Philippines and wondering how I can find more information on the similarities between traditional Chinese medicine and native Filipino medicine.

Another sigh escapes me, but this time it’s a lot quieter. I’m certain no one heard it.

No one except her.

She was a small woman, about my height, with nut-brown skin and curly hair. She asked if she could sit with me (it was then I noticed that there were no free chairs in the shop) and I said yes.

The irritation on my face must have been obvious because she asked if I was okay. I gave a soft chuckle and explained that today wasn’t my day.

The paper (that was 40% of my final grade by the way) was a hurdle that I didn’t know how to jump. There were just so many variables. Do I list down all the different methods of folk medicine around the country? Do I just limit it to a certain area? Do I just focus on herbal remedies? What about modern practices that were amalgamations of indigenous rituals and foreign influence (hence the Wikipedia article)?

The woman smiles at me and quietly asks me to calm down. The tranquility in her voice washes over me and switches my mind from erratic racing to soothing stillness.

I lean back into my chair and apologize to the woman. The paper’s my problem, not hers. No sense in letting the stress spill over to other people.

She tells me that the life of a university student isn’t easy and it’s perfectly normal to feel out of control.

I thank her and offer to buy her a cup of coffee (or tea). It’s rare to find someone that understands what you’re going through and won’t use it against you.

She declines my offer and instead asks me about my paper.

I tell her there isn’t much to say. About a month ago I was in the hospital fighting for my life. Between the fever, the blood transfusions and the big white room I called home, something struck me – What if I didn’t have this hospital? What would happen if I was in the middle of the province, unable to leave the house? Without western medicine, how could you cope?

And that was it. As soon as I was well enough to go back to school (facing a mountain of work I had to finish) I made a decision. I took incompletes in all my classes except one: Anthropology. I figured I could convince my prof to let me use this as the topic for my final paper.

It seemed like a good idea then. Now is another matter.

Instead of nodding her head and changing the topic (like I expected), she actually seems interested in what I have to say.

So, I ask her what I should do.

Her brow furrows and she takes a minute to reply. She asks me where I’m from.

I tell her I’m a city girl, born and raised in Makati.

She corrects herself and asks me where my family is from.

As far as I know my parents are both from Negros. My dad is from Bacolod and my mom is from a place called Tanjay in Negros Oriental.

Her eyes light up when I mention Negros. She says she’s from there as well. In a city north of Tanjay called Bais.

The coincidence surprises me. It was a welcome distraction from my paper, but time’s growing short and I tell her that I have to get back to writing.

She tells me that maybe she has something that could help. We agree to meet at this coffee shop at the same time tomorrow. I’m not sure what’s going to happen, but curiosity compels me.

I let a day pass, order a large Americano, and settle in my usual spot.

And just as promised, she’s at the coffee shop like clockwork.

She tells me she can’t stay and she was only here to give me something: an old book. As she leaves, she says that maybe I should research something closer to home and to check page 419.

I don’t even get a chance to say my goodbye so I sit back down and leaf through the pages.

Studies in Philippine Anthropology (In Honor of H. Otley Beyer) – Edited by Mario D. Zamora (Associate Professor and Chairman, Department of Anthropology). Copyright 1967 – Alemar-Phoenix Publishing House.

I recognize the name Beyer – he was an American anthropologist that spent most of his life dealing with Philippine indigenous cultures. At the very least this seems legitimate because of his name.

Flipping to page 419, I’m met with the title: The Bais Forest Preserve Negritos: Some Notes On Their Rituals and Ceremonials by Timoteo S. Oracion – Silliman University.

She was right, this was much closer to home.

The study is about 20 pages long and it’s perfect. There are nearly a dozen rituals cataloged, 6 of them about sickness. If she had stayed, I would’ve given her the biggest hug. This is just what my paper needed.

Going through the rituals is easy (the author made them very clear) and my fingers dance on my keyboard until all 30 pages of the paper is done.

I do my due diligence and edit the paper, making sure the citations are correct and fixing any spelling errors. And one part catches my eye – the Daga or Dolot ceremony.

It is a ritual for those that had just recovered from sickness. Varieties of food are prepared: beko, a sticky rice cooked with sugar and coconut milk (Biko in other words); dinogo-an, pigs blood stew with its internal organs (dinuguan’s my favorite); a rice cake called bodbod (the internet tells me that it’s like suman); rice, liquor cigarettes and tuba.The tambalan (or babaylan) recites a few words, waiting for the spirits to arrive and dances the sinulog (which I guess is more than the festival). The tambalan continues this until they are exhausted at which point they pick up bits of food and places them on empty plates on the ground. When all the plates have been filled the tambalan signals to the owner of the house to bring the rice and the people gathered have a feast.

I wish they had something like that after I beat dengue.

I turn in the paper and I score an uno (1 is the highest grade you can get). I feel a sense of relief that it’s finally over, though it’s weighed down by something.

I never saw the woman again. Whenever I stop by the coffee shop, I ask the baristas if they’ve seen her and they always say no.

That leads me to tonight. I don’t know what compelled me to do this, but it just seems right.

My dining room table is filled with biko, dinuguan, suman, rice and some tuba. I’m going to tell my family that it’s a surprise dinner for them, but before I let them in, I have to say:

Bulalakao sa kabukiran

(Falling stars from the mountains)

Mga tomawo sa talon

(Supernaturals from the other side)

Sa amihanan, sa habagatan,

(From north, from south)

Palapit na kamo yari ang pagkaon

(Come nearer all of you, here is food)

Guina dolot namon sa inyo

(We offered for you)

Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza

Inspired by The Bais Forest Preserve Negritos: Some Notes On Their Rituals and Ceremonials by Timoteo S. Oracion  in Studies in Philippine Anthropology (In Honor of H. Otley Beyer)

Tomawo Illustration by Abe Joncel Guevarra
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“This is the spot.”

Miguel reached for his first catch and breathed deep. It was a large fish, something that he would be proud to show to the other fishermen, but pride could wait another day.

He was performing the panangyatang and he would not be disturbed.

“Nono* I present this catch to you. Please accept my offering.”
Miguel waited, he had to respect the tradition by witnessing it finish eating his catch.

An hour passed, then he saw the box. The offering had been accepted and it would be going back to the depths to enjoy its meal.

Miguel didn’t know when the tradition started. He always wondered why fishermen would give up their first catch, no matter how big.

He knew that the buwaya was a friend to the aswang and partook of human flesh when it was particularly hungry, but simple fear wasn’t enough to explain the panangyatang.

This was respect, pure and simple. There was something about the buwaya that commanded reverence. He thought to the reason why the buwaya was called ‘grandfather’.

Maybe it was human once, cursed by the gods, and it seeks the respect of its descendants.

Maybe it is a wandering spirit bringing a bountiful catch to those that remember the traditions.

Maybe it is a bloodthirsty beast that needs to be fed before it seeks out human prey.

And what of the box on its back? Does it just keep its victims there, until it is time to feed, or is there something more mysterious at work?

Whatever the answers, Miguel was glad not to be in that box, and even gladder that he was on his way home.

“Goodbye nono*, until the next time,” he whispered softly to the river.

*Means grandfather or ghost

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Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza

Inspired by the buwaya description in El Folk-lore Filipino. Isabelo de los Reyes, trans. Dizon and Peralta-Imson. 1994. (Original Spanish Manuscript Printed 1889)

Buwaya Illustration by Kael Molo of Agla – The Graphic Novel

The Last Days of the Wind Part 1

The wind was playful today, she had rarely been to this part of the coast and her sense of adventure was overflowing. The wind pushed the stubborn sea in ripples of delight, she smiled and danced along the sand, gently moving the grains around her. The dance reached a dizzying peak, when she suddenly stopped.

She wasn’t used to this feeling, there was a place where her gusts would not touch. The wind collected herself and approached an unassuming cave by the shore.

She felt the thrumming of something through the stone. There were spirits here, but far too many to count. Curiosity took over and she stepped in the cave.

HELP US SAVE US PLEASE HELP ME I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM I CAN’T FIND MY MAMA PLEASE HELP

The wind was greeted by a harsh cacophony, hundreds of voices all screaming at the same time, begging and pleading.

“ENOUGH!” Another voice cut through the discord and there was silence.

“I hope you weren’t troubled, mistress.” The wind was greeted by what looked to be an old human, but she could see past his tawdry disguise. This was a powerful spirit, made even stronger by the lives he stole.

“There was no trouble at all.” The wind tried to flow through the cave, but the air was thick and heavy with the souls around her. “May I know who I am speaking to?”

“I am Tan Mulong.” The old man stared through the wind, smiling with a toothless grin. “I would like to say what an honor it is to have you in my humble cave.”

“I am just passing through.” She could feel the stagnant atmosphere take a toll on her movements, the breeze wasn’t listening to her anymore.

“Please, you must stay. I insist.” Tan Mulong took a rope and tied it around the wind’s neck. “I’m sure you’ll find pleasant company here.”

She tried to move, tried to push away against the power that was paralyzing her, but it was a losing battle. Every inch of the cave was covered with Tan Mulong’s prisoners and the souls could not help but listen to their jailer.

“A spirit of the wind, what a wonderful addition to my collection.” Tan Mulong smiled and pulled the rope.

“You’ll have a wonderful place next to the lolids.”

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Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza

Story inspired by Tan Mulong description in The Soul Book. Demetrio & Cordero-Fernando 1991.

Tan Mulong Illustration by Leandro Geniston fromAklat ng mga Anito
FB: That Guy With A Pen

To my lovely daughter,

I don’t know where you are right now. I wish I did. I wish I could see you one last time. I don’t know if I can put into words how much I miss you.

You looked so beautiful in that dress. I remember you picked it out yourself. You were so proud. You styled your long, black hair so wonderfully and your smile lit up the entire room. I still remember your smile. It was your first grown-up party, and you tried so hard to act like an adult. I just wished you didn’t grow up so fast.

You were a beautiful young woman, but all I could see was my baby girl. The girl that played with her beanie babies for four hours a day, the little girl that refused to eat her vegetables until we sang her a song. My baby girl.

You spent so much time getting ready that you didn’t notice you were late for the party. You were panicking so much that your daddy and I couldn’t help but laugh. You thought your whole world was going to end.

I’m sorry. I should have been there. I should have been there when that boy broke your heart. When you were so heartbroken you ran across the street without even looking. I will never forgive myself for what happened to you.

I was your mother. I was supposed to be the one who protected you from the world. I should have saved you.

I miss you so much. I cry every day because living without you is so empty. I want to hold you in my arms and never let you go. This world doesn’t mean anything if I can’t have you with me.

I will see you again.

Please wait for me.

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Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza

Story inspired by the White Lady legends

White Lady Illustration and Watercolor by Yanna Gemora
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