Memories of Mindanao: Tawi-Tawi
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The Kularts crew. Datu or Dats in the middle and Alleluia Panis/Manai two seats from him to the left (Photo by Kularts)
From 2/17/23 to 3/4/23 I participated in TribuTur, a “hands on field study custom-designed for participants to explore, discover, and draw empowerment from indigenous Filipino cultures of Mindanao.” The tour is conducted by the venerable SF arts organization Kularts and its visionary artistic director, Alleluia Panis. The following snippets from the province of Tawi-Tawi are derived from daily letters to my spouse, Catherine, chronicling this unforgettable experience.
Tawi-Tawi (Source: Google Maps)
If the ocean currents are at odds with the winds during the three-hour boat ride to these isles from Bongao, you will find yourself surreptitiously scanning the passenger cabin for the compartment filled with life vests only to realize no such compartment exists. And no, the brown jute sack on the floor is filled with fruits no matter how much you want those outlines to look like blocks of buoyant foam encased in orange fabric. Yes, the violent lurching of the wooden vessel from the waves licking at the cabin window, and the seeming lack of safety regulations Americans are accustomed to are anxiety-inducing, but what you fail to grasp is that your once-in-a lifetime, perhaps never to be repeated voyage across the Celebes Sea is but one instance in the thousands upon thousands of voyages over centuries that have been made by the people of this region, whose maritime history is vast and without peer. No, you may not be on an American state-regulated ferry across the bay, but you are, in fact, in the hands of experts.
The vessels captained by the Sama people in the province of Tawi-Tawi do not have the outriggers common to Philippine boats. Here they have plied the deep waters to Brunei, Jolo, Zamboanga, Indonesia and back for generations on the kumpit or lepa, which range from large trading vessels reminiscent of galleons to the speedsters that navigate t the maze of canals in Sitangkai. Models and replicas of the traditional sailing kumpit/lepa of yore are beautiful works of art—sleek yet stable, with keels shaped like an eagle’s beak and ornate bowsprits carved to look like billowing wind. The spade-shaped sails are set on the main mast at an angle, like a raised shield. The form settles on your imagination, and you begin to dream of the voyages people here have taken, the accumulation of everything individuals might have witnessed in all those countless journeys. You ponder the effect all of that has had on the cultures and traditions of the people, their knowing, and you are filled with awe. Now you are ready to be here, to visit your hosts with the proper respect and regard. Just like the tilting earth-map on your phone, your world shifts.
Elegant kumpit/lepa on display in Sibutu (Photo by Conrad Benedicto)
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I love geology, but I’m no geologist. So, when I say that Sibutu appears to be a volcanic island, that’s not an expert assessment. But there seems to be vesicular basalt everywhere, black, sharp and filled with little air pockets. And there is a conical outline of a weathered volcano on one side from which the rest of the island formation seems to have flowed. The absolute highlight of our short afternoon visit here was a natural spring, called Kabankaban. It is a deep dark pool of chilly freshwater at the bottom of a huge crevice in the basaltic bedrock in the middle of the island, ringed by ancient mossy banyans.
Boarding our modern lepa to Sibutu (Photo by Kularts)
After repeatedly checking with our amazing guide, Al Raffy Harun, to make sure that we were truly being invited to do so, I jumped into its depths and was breathtakingly engulfed by the land. All around the pool, the roots of the old banyans hung down from the rocky cliff—thick vertical veins of gnarled wood ending in bulb-like knobs enveloped within the delicate fronds of tiny green ferns. It felt like a page out of a fantasy book. And since I jumped in after asking permission, both from our hosts and, with a quiet petition, from the land, it felt as close to being blessed by the waters as a person could feel. Afterwards, we got a chance to simply sit by the seaside and watch youngsters, their glinting hair made blond-red by the sun, harvest the Agal Agal seaweed the island is known for, while the distinctive boats of the Sama sailed by. The breeze was just right, blowing by us on its way to Brunei, less than two hours away.
Agal Agal farmer (Photo by Conrad Benedicto)
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After Sibutu, we went onward to Sitangkai. The captain of the boat made us all stay inside the cabin for fear of the rough seas jostling us overboard if we sat on the rooftop. This leg didn’t seem that bad though, despite Alleluia’s warning that it would be “serious stuff.” The vice-mayor of Sibutu did mention the clash of winds and currents during this time of year and commended us for our adventurous spirit. Perhaps we were just lucky that afternoon.
It felt like all of Sitangkai came to greet us (Photo by Kularts)
The municipality of Sitangkai promotes itself as “the Venice of the South” and indeed the settlement is a maze of canals and upraised paths above the tides. Arching bridges crisscross the main waterways, which are lined with shops of all kinds. Observe the architecture, the faces of the adults busily buying and selling wares from boats or storefronts, or the children helping with chores or playing in the water, and you realize Sitangkai is connected to a longstanding trading network, culturally and genetically interconnected with this region of the world.
Sitangkai’s main thoroughfare (Photo by Conrad Benedicto)
The diversity, richness, and long legacy of Sitangkai is indisputable, but it would be inaccurate to paint it as a rich trading port. The children splashing about in the canals or running in and out of alleyways, playing with their plastic toys and looking at us American Filipinos with those bewildered yet knowing eyes are near cousins to the ones selling sampaguita necklaces in the impoverished streets of Manila.
Sitangkai has long been connected but currently occupies a disadvantaged position within today’s global market. The long arms of the industrial system that we live in as Americans, that affords us much, reaches all the way here, and so the people find themselves with all kinds of things. Mostly disposable plastic things; 90 percent of all the disappointing and disturbing garbage floating through the canals and coating the seashores was not produced here. It is literally our garbage, not theirs. Sitangkai is connected to an industrial world that generates mountains of commodities, but the means to dispose of them does not exist here. So, when the people are done with these things, there is no answer for what to do except what has always been done: let the sea take it.
Music and Dance workshop in Sitangkai (Photo by Kularts)
I don’t think for one second that any of us could do better, or that no one here is actively trying to tackle the mounting refuse accumulation. In fact, Raffy informed me of the many educational programs and municipal policies Sitangkai has implemented to address this problem. There is community engagement about it, and we can be allies in the process instead of being judgmental foreigners.
Also, anyone who scoffs at the municipal government’s self-description as the “Venice of the South” at the sight of Third World conditions is simply blinded by First World chauvinism. Sitangkai is, in fact, a tiny Venice in the Celebes Sea when one considers the depth and meaning of its precious and enduring traditional arts.
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I have no personal experience with spirits. As a child, I was quite fascinated by and fearful of otherworldly beings. Later, the fear has faded due to a complete lack of objectively verifiable encounters. But on one starlit evening in Sitangkai, my wonder was rekindled when I witnessed a ritual dance that I believe was as close to an otherworldly encounter as I will ever have.
That night our inestimable guide, Raffy, led us past the concrete walkways above water to the edge of the settlement where all the homes stood on traditional stilts. We carefully made our way from dwelling to dwelling on wooden planks until we came upon a large wood and bamboo platform in the middle of the community. Below us, the waters rose with the coming tide. The ocean breeze was a quiet whisper in the dark.
We came to witness a community ceremony called the Igal Djinn. Igal is the name of the traditional dance that greeted us at every stop in our journey through this province. In the United States it might be recognized as pangalay, a graceful dance that echoes the movements of nature and water. The dancers wear the curves of the janggai, golden fingernails, on their hands. Igal Djinn is a healing version in which the dancers are possessed by benevolent spirits. These dancers are then able to bring healing to community members in attendance, whether these ills are physical, emotional, or spiritual.
Janggai fingernails accentuate the arc of an Igal dancer's fingers (Photo by Kularts)
Surrounding the center of this rickety platform, over two hundred Sama men, women, and children sat cross-legged to bear witness to the event. The members of the Kularts tour were dispersed among them, some seated on rugs laid down on the floor, others, like me, standing on the edges by the outer wall of the surrounding houses. Farther out from the ceremonial circle lay the vast ocean surrounding our tiny little island, and beyond that still was the glittering dome of the cosmos.
The ceremony began with an old woman playing the kulintang, accompanied by younger musicians on the drum and agong. In what became an obvious precursor for things to come, the music was technically brilliant while befitting our setting perfectly. The melodies borne by interlocking percussion drew in the vastness of ocean and sky as they floated up into the dusk. Then the Igal dancers emerged from the nearest dwelling and began. All of them, both men and women, were taken over by the spirits, their graceful movements suddenly interrupted by a fall or a sudden stillness. Then they would dance near or with individuals who needed healing, or reenact and resolve through dance a conflict within the community.
Between the pillars of the Sheik Makhdum Shrine in Sibutu (Photo by Kularts)
Everyone present seemed in agreement that the Igal Djinn dancers were being possessed. But it wasn’t in the wide-eyed awestruck way that a foreigner from the United States might imagine, as if a miracle was happening. The people present agreed to what was happening rather like how we Americans might agree that when a doctor starts doctoring, or a lawyer starts lawyering, something medical or legal is happening. The dancers had a role to fulfill for a community ritual and they were simply playing their parts. And if I read the room correctly, it seemed that there were quite a few skeptics among the locals as well, who, like me, were not convinced that actual spirit possession was transpiring. Although the ceremony did feel sacrosanct, it wasn’t otherworldly.
Then the Purple Woman came out.
She was middle-aged and wiry in her purple sawal (pants), patadjuk (headdress), and tawi (blouse). Her movements were of a seasoned and sure-footed veteran at the height of her powers, like Megan Rapinoe circa 2019 on the pitch. That night she attained spiritual heights, completely engaged, and committed to her part as an actor in this communal play. It was incredible to witness a perfect melding of movement and music within the context of a collective ritual. To ask if an actual spirit possessed her or if it was merely an instance of artistic transcendence was moot, really. She attained the divine. It is impossible to describe what it was like, but I tried my best:
Ritual Dancer
eyes inward seeking
glistening portals for moonless night
spirits gathering
pass into, through
her procession of movements in time
the float of gong-runes bearing her
each bend each arc and turn
of phrase of night breeze of stars
beyond time
sinew and soul heart
in weightless effort
the World shifts
constellations swirl around Her
in rhythm with her part
as Vessel
that the gathered spirits might witness
their stories made flesh
Naturally, I could not stop blabbing about “The Purple Woman'' the next day, and it turns out that our affable but imperturbable guide, Raffy, was also “shook” or in Pilipino slang, made “kilig to the bones” by her because Raffy knew everyone in Sitangkai but—get this—he had no idea who that woman was. Also, we never saw her again.
All epic journeys include events that take on mythological qualities in the mind of its participants. This one had a little mystery sprinkled on top of a transcendent act. Our very own folktale from this trip.
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A longstanding stereotype of Filipinos has begun to permeate even social media these days—that our hospitality is lavish, perhaps overindulgent. Well, it's true. If there was one reliably recurring event during our whole tour, it was being the guest of honor at a breakfast, second breakfast, lunch, dinner, dinner, festival, ceremony, or show. Sitangkai even commissioned a large vinyl banner with a picture of the Kularts group and had it displayed in front of one of the municipal buildings. The kindness and generosity we were shown by our many hosts were bewildering. The food was always the best they could offer and, invariably, there was fanfare—kulintang music, igal, beauty contests, singing, whether planned or spontaneous.
Igal lesson by Master Nursida Diamson (Photo by Kularts)
The first event we were invited to was an all-grades school assembly in Bongao, which is the island you fly into when visiting Tawi-Tawi. It was an endearing event complete with fashion show, dancing, and beauty pageant. What struck me during this production was the prevalence of traditional rhythms within the completely synthesized modern music they played throughout the program. It was all electric keyboard and drum, but the foundational beats were familiar kulintang patterns. After the assembly, master Pah Hadjii Elingan Jana actually came to our lodging and demonstrated the gadang, a traditional bamboo instrument similar to a wooden kulintang, played by the Sama people. Within the songs he exhibited were the same rhythms and patterns I heard in the electronic music the students at the school preferred. The ancestral beats were still there, running just below the surface of innovation and modernization like an invisible current.
High school assembly in Bongao (Photo by Conrad Benedicto)
Master Pah Hadji Elingan Jana demonstrating the gabang (Photo by Conrad Benedicto)
That night our group had a heartfelt discussion about our experiences, and there was much talk of loss and rediscovery of culture and tradition, of preservation and evolution. It was an echo of conversations I had as a student organizer decades ago and countless others as a teacher and kulintang musician. It recalled conversations during the civil rights awakening of Filipino Americans in the ‘60s and ‘70s, and even further back to the colonial struggles of the Pilipino people. We have always been in a constant state of loss, rediscovery, reimagination, and change. Even in peace, change occurs.
But communities confronting colonialism and imperialism feel this constant state of flux more acutely. The stakes are higher when culture and identity become a means of resistance, when they are bound up in the actual struggle over material conditions. I understand when people want to hold on to traditions so tightly that they view any change as negative. This also sometimes leads cultural practitioners in the United States to idealize traditional arts in their homeland as being preserved from time immemorial; but in the birthplace itself we observe these traditions in flux. We came to witness cultural and traditional practices and quickly saw that the living actual examples are more rich and complex than our ideas of them.=
Among cultural troupes in the U.S. there is often talk of learning indigenous songs and dances to preserve them. This is a noble gesture, but perhaps paternal and misses the point. Alleluia, who is called Manai as a term of respect and endearment by those of us who are under 55 years old, sagely nails it on the head when she says we are the ones being preserved when we learn these arts. I feel this in the marrow of my bones. How can a thirsty person floating on a raft in the middle of the ocean look at a jug of water they were given and say, “I must now drink this water in order to preserve it”?
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As our sleek wooden ferry, the Waikiki Express, departed Sitangkai, I kept offering my seat to different people in the crowded passenger hold because I wanted an excuse to crawl up to the roof. Finally, a middle-aged woman with a large leather satchel accepted my offer and I grabbed my opportunity to pretend that crowd dynamics had pushed me onto the upper deck. As we motored away, I looked back at the settlement and thought of its sprawling shape as seen from the sky—like a snowflake radiating dendrites, or mycelium fanning out in delicate branches into the open sea.
A local passenger named Marvin was slightly worried by my presence at the top, especially since the spots with all the handholds were already taken. But it was a calm sunny day and soon the whipping wind cooled and exhilarated us both, making us forget our concerns. We chatted the entire way—me sharing my geological theories and him listing all of the other wonders in Tawi-Tawi I had missed. I gazed wistfully at those unvisited shores receding in the distance and thought of returning one day.
As our boat was about to enter the large inlet leading back to Bonggao where Cebu Air was scheduled to fly me away, we encountered a rough patch of water. Waves jostled the boat from every direction and my heart rate spiked when, like a pebble skipping across a pond, my backside thudded close to the edge of the roof deck. There was at least a foot left between me and a soggy emergency, and I’m sure I could have grabbed a handrail or a hand, so it was not as exciting as it felt. But Marvin did tell me we had entered the most dangerous part of the trip. This particular area was filled with cross currents and enough accidents had occurred here that people thought of it like a gateway, where the sea was most likely to demand its toll.
Eventually, we crossed the portal. The sudden calm whispered that my time in Tawi-Tawi was sadly at an end. I breathed the salt sea air, committing everything to memory as my thoughts turned elsewhere, to Cotabato.
Conrad Benedicto is a teacher, author, and musician. His fantasy novel, Musalaya’s Gift, was published by Kularts in 2021 and the music of his band, Kulintang Dialect, is available on all streaming platforms courtesy of Gongs Away Music.
