Heart of Lake Sebu

By Butch Ledesma Ferrer, SCCAFI

It was four o’clock in the afternoon.

 A cold, damp wind started to blow on the murky waters, creating small waves as it hovered on the surface of the placid lake. Nearby, a tilted hut sitting on bamboo stilts guarding a cluster of fish pens seemed to defy the wind’s silent blows that pushed the afternoon fog to spread on the water surface like a giant ghost, devouring a rustic scene with gray misty haze. Soon, rains started to drop, creating countless minute ripples as it made its impact like bullets on the surface of Lake Sebu, driving schools of tilapias to cower into the deepest recesses of its netted cages.

She was there, sitting snugly on the lap of Marina, her grandmother. Dressed in a faded lavender smock with lace frills probably bought from an “ukay-ukay” stall down town, she lent a significant contrast to the older group around her in their exotic Tboli raiment. The senior females wore the traditional “kegal nesif” blouse, either embroidered or embellished with opaque white sequins, matched with a hand-woven black or red tubular cloth “kumut” worn as skirts, tied to waists and supported by brass girdle-belt with bells called “hilet”. Completing the ladies’ ethnic fashion were a pair of dangling earrings made of tiny brass wires made into a chain trimmed on its ends with horse hair or broken shells called “nemeng”, a necklace made of colored beads called “lieg” and a choker, either made of braided horse hair and brass wire or colored beads made from melted plastic hair combs called “bekelew”. On their heads sat the “suwat”, a wooden comb with minute fragments of broken mirror with trails of stringed beads on both sides, dangling almost a foot in length, supported by a chignon of “h’nolo” or coconut-oiled hair, a crown fit for ethnic royalty, a fashion niche Tboli women created among the ethnic groups in the Philippines as the most adorned.

In contrast, the younger males wore the traditional vests and “sawal” pants made of tie-dyed abaca fibres, hand woven into a sought-after Tnalak cloth with geometric designs in black, red, brown and beige. The designs were believed to be a gift from their deity Fu Dalu to the chosen one, the highly-esteemed weaver, through her dreams. A red square cloth, the “tubaw”, creatively folded and tied into a head cover marked their ethnic masculinity, a princely headgear worn with pride, like that of their epic hero, Tod Bulol.

The group was silent as I approached them, welcoming me with faint smiles on their faces. They were quietly waiting at the other end of the long queue of cottages in Punta Isla Resort, along the banks of Lake Sebu’s famous resort strip. They were three huts away from a group of diners waiting for their orders to be served. And just like the diners, their faces showed the strain of waiting for hours.

 The little girl on Marina’s lap was sleepy as her hair was being made into a ponytail which would be coiled and balled into a neat chignon. “Haven’t you performed yet?” I asked. Marina’s resigned voice cut the silence which had enveloped the group. “We are not allowed yet, sir,” came her curt reply. “We have to wait until the convention ends in the function hall. They said we couldn’t create noise or they would be disturbed!” True enough, a few steps up, in the function hall just above the food huts, blared the PA system of an ongoing convention about to end at five thirty in the afternoon.

For those in the convention hall, noise would be the music that would come from Marina’s group. Disturbance would be the frenzied percussive beats of the “t’nanggong” that would accompany the sinewy bird-like movements of their “madal tahaw” dance. Noise and disturbance were the main reasons why Marina’s group was holed up in the far-corner of the resort from eleven o’clock to five-thirty in the afternoon - them, who has yet to earn their daily keep for family dinner when they leave the resort to their “gono” in the mountains surrounding Lake Sebu....them, who could only earn from a thirty-minute show as entertainers to the diners and them, who could only share whatever amount was found inside a tnalak purse they pass on the tourists’ hands for donations to the little show that they had prepared for the day, and that, if they were in luck!

That particular day, the group seemed to be in bad luck. The schedule for entertainment in the resort did not come as usual. In Marina’s eyes, upset was evident as twilight was looming over the serene lake. They might go home empty handed to their houses built on altitudes worth two-kilometre trek or more, with several mouths waiting for food and stomachs which never knew the exact time food comes...if ever it comes!

“Bong s’lamat, Dwata!” I heard Marina say when the PA system once again blurted through the biting cold mountain air signifying the end of the day’s session. It was the signal they were waiting for – the end of the day’s activity for the convention....... the beginning of a performance for life for the Tbolis!

Hurriedly, Marina assisted her granddaughter in dressing up – the faded lavender smock with lace frills gave way to the small “kegal nesif” and “kumut”.....and as she placed the beaded “suwat” on her hair, the small girl transformed into a princess who would join her seniors in entertaining guests.... the girl who almost always could elicit warm applause from her audience..... the girl who would save the group from going home empty-handed..... the girl who is named Heart of Lake Sebu.

Heart is seven years old. She looks fragile; her gait has the timidity of a grown-up Tboli woman. Watching her walk with the grace of a prima ballerina in an assuring pace leads one to believe that she lives a protected and pampered life. But alas! She grew up without knowing her father who died in a motorcycle accident while she was still an infant. Her mother soon remarried leaving her in the care of her grandmother, who reared her through thick and thin with Tboli dance and music, and occasional invitations to showcase her Tnalak weaving skills in travel marts and expositions. “She’ll be in Grade One this school year,” Marina enthused.

“Hilets” soon tingled and jingled while the ladies walked, announcing their approach to the hut where the group of diners with whom I belonged were waiting for their orders. Uninstructed, they quietly laid their musical instruments on the floor and as an old lady dancer with a tubular cloth called “slibay” worn by her neck took center stage to prepare, Marina’s voice came alive: “Heyu kekol...”she said in a nervous voice, gaining confidence as she spoke on, oblivious of the people in front of her but mindful of the time as the skies started to turn bleak. “Welcome to Punta Isla Resort...”

Marina recited what had been memorized annotations in English to introduce the show in a peculiar pattern, exposing the accent which is undeniably Tboli. The ongoing talk on the dinner table hushed, as all eyes and ears were focused to the ensuing activity in front, giving them a short respite from their agony of waiting for food, at least.

The “tnanggong” broke the silence in the air like rapid gun-fires. Soon the atmosphere became festive as the boy beating the hand-made deerskin drum became frenzied to signal the opening of a pocket show inside the diner’s hut. The old lady dancer approached the drummer and with her right foot, tapped the drum once – a ritual a Tboli dancer performs to ask the blessings of their gods of Music and Dance, believing that some mystic energy would flow from her foot up, guiding her every movement, from the creeping footwork to the fluid flapping of her arms, immersing her spirit in infectious joy as she emulates the animism of her ancestral domain.....

The dancer started with accented right foot taps followed by fine creeping steps and occasional leaps like a bird on the ground. Her hands went up and down in rhythm with the drum emulating the forest dove in graceful flight. She then held on to the ends of her “slibay” and spread it like wings and spun, her body slightly bent. She did her routine for three minutes until she approached the drummer once more and tapped the drum with her foot to signify her performance’s end which was welcomed by a rousing applause from her audience.

“The next dance is called ‘madal mit mata’....a dance where you can find Tboli maidens beautify themselves with make-up and prepare themselves in courtship,” Marina announced as she sat by the “klintang”, a set of eight brass gongs in graduated sizes and started playing the intro, rhythmically joined in by the drum as another boy struck the bamboo floor with sticks, the orchestration ascended into a tribal concerto. This time, Heart took center stage after doing the ritual and started to move in accordance with the spine-tingling music, her confidence imminent. Her movements created an unexpected spell, the dedication she had for her craft learned from her grandmother hushed everyone in the hut that silence mantled the diners, transfixed on the little girl doing her dance for life.

Cameras soon flashed! Awed and mesmerized by the sinewy flow of her hands and body, some diners stood, enveloped by silent respect for the girl’s talent - until she gaily flirted with her winks and body language that broke the spell into a generous applause short of ovation.... “madal mit mata” delivered its message across the hut to the hearts of everyone inside. Then, as if on cue, she handed the tnalak pouch to the nearest guest in a silent gesture to make that generous applause into a token of reality that everyone fully understood....they started opening their purses or searched their pockets for whatever amount in bills or coins, in response to generosity being asked.

With this accomplished, Heart repeated her routine as a final bow, dancing her way to the drum and tapped it with her right foot to end her performance in a curtain call; the generous applause trailing, deafening and drowning Marina’s parting words: “Bong s’lamat, thank you for making Punta Isla Resort one of your destinations....” The group bowed and left the hut in haste for another show somewhere in the resort, now assured of food on their tables when they go home.

At last the waiters arrived with food to address our gustatory strain. And as everyone enjoyed tilapia as the new star of the show, Heart was easily forgotten.

 In the distant hut somewhere, the beating of the tnanggong begun once again as the skies over Lake Sebu turned black...I panned my sight across the horizon and on the farthest north, I saw a lonely star! Only then did I remember Heart. There was something quite not right. What was it I could not recall.... but there was something that pained me when, while performing, she looked at me and smiled.....I knew she stared at me but her left eye seemed to look the other way...yes, that was it...it was drooling....Heart of Lake Sebu is diplopic! Then my heart bled for them.......for the Tbolis who do not have Heart’s eye but had remained cross-eyed in their lifetime!