On Provinces and Ancient Spirits
As a child, going up to the mountainous province of Bukidnon had never been a fun activity for me. Roads kept winding to the curvature of the mountain often making me car sick. I never liked the feeling of fresh earth yielding to the weight of my body leaving tracks behind, nor did I like the feeling of the cool grass grazing my feet. As a child that grew up in the city I hated the earth in it's primality and loved it's finality—the full absence of green. I never quite liked looking out the window either fearing I'd stare into the eyes of an ancient forest spirit and being condemned to a life of misfortunes, or accidentally pointing and offending one. My family had always made it a point to say the words: "tabi apo" (I am just passing by) when we go into cemeteries or dense greenery. A way of respectfully announcing yourself to the spirits that have dwelled in that land for longer than any human has. Despite the Philippines being a very religious country, respect—veneration for the land that our pre-colonial ancestors managed to preserve till this day. I remember some people getting cursed by some ancestral spirits—contracting diseases with seemingly no cause, suddenly experiencing misfortune after another, or dying in horrendous ways. The only way one could really break the curse is by going to a shaman that acts as a medium between the two worlds and following the spirits demand. Some may ask you to make a small animal sacrifice, but some may not be willing to settle at all so people might end up expelling them, forcefully cutting off the connection through a ritual, or by calling a priest/exorcist. Despite the forest being a dangerous place filled with ancient spirits there are also many threats of venomous snakes and wild boar, parts of the earth that might give away making you fall to your death, or rebel organisations hiding deep within the forests that don't look kindly upon civilians. The last one sounds absurd, but it does happen especially in the southern main island of the Philippines. My recent trip back home was an entirely different experience from what I felt as a child. I still felt car sick, but once I stepped out of the car and got a whiff of fresh, cool and unadulterated air it felt heavenly. Every morning I was greeted by the beautiful sight of the mountain encompassing me on all sides. I heard birdsong that was indescribably beautiful—I understood my duty as a human to protect kalikasan—the root word "likas" means "nature" and the prefix and suffix "ka-" and "-an" are used to denote a large area—what I'm getting at here is that it isn't just this mountain or that forest I am responsible for, but it's the entirety of nature itself from the Canadian rockies to a small and unknown brook deep within some remote island. That is my—our (unsaid) duty to take care of.
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