Part 3—Dinner and native dancing

I can’t actually remember what part of the banana tree my plate’s made out of, but it’s not made out of paper or Styrofoam. Our dinner that night in Hunduan was a real feast: taro root on the left, sautéed potatoes in the middle, and cooked fern on the right—all served over rice. I spoke with the local woman who coordinated the night’s events, and she said that they found the fern near stream beds and in the shade, and that it looked much different from another kind of fern that is inedible. I thought the fern was delicious—I’d heard that you could eat fern many years ago, but never knew what kind was edible.

After dinner we were herded once again to a large cement clearing near the municipal hall for a demonstration of native dancing and song. A few people created a large bonfire in front of rows of chairs, and the large group of us gathered round with the locals to watch. In the shadows, standing by some native huts, a group of locals dressed in their native costume chatted with each other while they adjusted their skirts and loincloths.

Suddenly the night broke into sound—a collection of men dressed in brilliant reds banged on bronze gongs, while a group of women methodically walked out in white shirts and woven skirts. The women moved slowly, creating a circle around the fire, their left arms extended toward the center. The held their right arms close bent at the waist, and made a subtle, rhythmic lifting motion with their hands as they walked together in a circle.

And then they turned, the right hand now extended towards the center, the left hand tucked into the side as they slowly walked the counterclockwise, together. The men gestured similarly to the women, their muscles tight under their dark skin, but there was more fire in their movements—less restraint. Later, an Ifugao told me that the women’s gestures were more subtle to symbolize femininity, while the men’s gestures were meant to capture masculine power.

At some point, the circular movement stopped and they raised their hands in the air, their arms extended, moving through the air, soaring. I was also told that this gesture symbolized a soaring bird, like a hawk—though someone else said it was the native chicken dance.

Later, they enacted a portion of a native tale, much like the story of Tarzan. In this story a woman from the city comes and gets lost in the forest, only surviving off fruit trees. A native man finds her, teaches her about the forest, and they fall in love. Eventually, they get married. During the marriage, the mumbaki—the native priest with the large knife—pulls out a chicken and opens its belly to look at its entrails.

Though traditions vary by municipality, when couples married in the past the mumbaki typically held a ritual for them that involved looking at pig or chicken innards to make sure the marriage was a good one. A local woman in Banaue told me that the mumbaki looked at pig bile to see if it was on the right side. If not, then they did the ritual again after waiting awhile. If it still wasn’t on the right side, the couple was advised to separate. If it was on the right side, then the couple would marry. Apparently, in this myth the chicken innards were well placed.

They also sang a portion of the Hudhud—a non-ritual oral narrative chanted to break the monotony of backbreaking physical labor in the fields, or the silence of funeral wakes. There are more than 200 versions of the Hudhud in the Ifugao region, with some 40 episodes in each one. A complete narration can take anywhere from three to four days. The Hudhud retells the deeds of mythical heroes and heroines who represent the best of Ifugao character. In May 2001, UNESCO proclaimed the Hudhud one of the Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. The National Museum of the Philippines also declared it a National Cultural Heritage in November 2001.

My advisor, anthropologist Dr. Jesus Peralta, has been working with local municipalities to keep the Hudhud alive. Even though it’s been recognized by people around the world as a treasure, training young people to learn a four day chant is understandably difficult. As I watched the women sing, I noticed that the elder woman definitely led the chant, with the younger women following her lead. I wondered how this knowledge would get passed down, if it would. Though intangible heritages might be valued by outside communities, it can be hard to convince young people that it’s worth taking the time to hold onto it.

Finally—the night ended with another explosion of music. The emcee for the evening invited us all to get up and dance with the locals. First the SITMO volunteers jumped up and started dancing to the rhythm banged out on the metal drum, and then slowly a group of us from the audience got up and danced as well. I think this was my favorite part—invoking the gestures, feeling the joy of the dance. It was fun to watch these two worlds collide—foreigners and natives—all linked together by rhythm and song.