A NIGHT WITH THE KABIHUGS

A NIGHT WITH THE KABIHUGS

(Personal Experience)

Nestor Alagbate

J216

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                    The highlands of Camarines Norte is home to more than four thousand Aetas today, living a semi-nomadic life in small bands. These indigenous people, generically labeled Negritos by our textbooks, call themselves Kabihug which means "friend." Elderly lowlanders used to call them the derogatory name Abyan which means "unhygienic," a name which they understandably resent. Though the majority of them roam the shoulders of Mount Labo, bands are also found in the outskirts of the towns of Capalonga, Jose Panganiban, Paracale, and Basud. Small in stature, dark-skinned and kinky-haired, they have long given up their bahag (g-string) and tapis (wrap-around skirt) in favor of contemporary clothing. They still converse in the Manide language among themselves, but are equally conversant in Tagalog when dealing with lowlanders.

                    Myself and three other companions alighted in Barangay Malibago in Labo town along the Maharlika Highway, and unloaded bags of used clothing intended for the Kabihugs of Barangay Malaya. Two Kabihugs were waiting in their log canoe on the banks of Palale River some half kilometer from the highway. They instinctively helped us load the baggage into the only mode of transportation they are comfortable with, but which I was apprehensive of. Devoid of outriggers, the canoe was loaded to the brim. Baggage unloaded on the other side, the literally breath taking twelve-kilometer steep hike began. Though that one January afternoon was cooled by Amihan breeze, the sun was searing my nape.

                    Having been oriented in advance that it was advisable to bring bolos with us, I brought one myself. I was busy cutting eight-foot talahib grass which hampered the hike along the narrow trail, when one of the Kabihugs authoritatively commented, "Ay, gagabihin." They, being small of stature, would just ease themselves into the bush, let the grass grow in peace, and save precious time in the hike. Requesting my companions that we took some rest, I asked the Kabihugs how far we still were from their camp. "Mga tatlong sigarilyo pa," one calculated. The concept of kilometer being alien to them, they measured distance by the number of cigarettes they consumed during the hike.

                    Arriving at the camp, we were met with mutual curiosity. The place was a clearing in the forest, planted to root crops, corn, and vegetables. The conspicuous absence of ornamental plants, coconut and other fruit-bearing trees attested to the Kabihug's semi-nomadic subsistence. They cleared areas of their ancestral domain alternately, allowing time for the forest to replenish itself. Their butukan (shacks) were built in close proximity to each other, with anibong roofs penetrated by smoke coming from the stoves.

                    A presumably respected elder invited us into his shack, the biggest in the camp. I asked him to gather the band around, and my request was met with puzzled eyes. Inasmuch as their shacks were almost adjacent to each other, they were already gathered as far as they were concerned. "Wala namang nasa malayo," he had to tell me the obvious.

                    Having distributed the goods towards dusk, my exhausted companions thought it was time for a well-deserved dinner. We had with us canned goods for viand, and to our surprise, the Kabihugs consumed them without rice or any equivalent carbohydrates. The civilized in me realized that the concepts of viand and three square meals are lowlander fixations. The Kabihugs enjoyed the freedom of eating carbohydrates alone at their pleasure, or viand alone for that matter.

                    It was evening and two naked toddlers were frolicking on the equally bare ground. The Kabihug casually smiled, the concept of pulmunya being alien to him. If frolicking naked on bare ground were bad for babies' health, we would have not found any surviving Kabihug there in the first place. Looking at the babies, I wondered how they were born without the benefit of cotton and alcohol. I was told of cutting umbilical cords with sharp bamboo skin, which I thought, being organic, is guaranteed tetanus-free. I was told of treating wounds with with ash (being a product of fire, is guaranteed sterilized) to control bleeding. I was told of the ulaw system of communication with faraway bands in times of emergency - charge-free, load-free. I was told of rubbing snake bites with pepper - no cuts, no sucking. "Ang nakamamatay ay ang takot," I was told, the elder preparing another mouthful of nganga (betel nut) from his takupis (locally woven pouch).

                    I realized that I was, a teacher at that, who had to learn much from the Kabihug, and not the other way around. I found an unexplored mine of a gem called indigenous wisdom, rendering all my knowledge wanting. Nocturnal birds and insects orchestrated a lullaby of calls and chirps. I surmised such exotic sounds inspired the tune and rhythm of the Kabihug tribal  music adopted by the mayor of Daet for the Pinyasan Festival. I shivered into the night an enlightened man, the Kabihug earning my highest respect.

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