Meet Real People: the Manobo Tribe of Bukidnon

Be very careful, son.

The words of his adoptive father rang in Sinumpolans young mind as he slowly and soundlessly
make his way through the forest floor, barefoot, one sure foot after another, his heart pounding,
spear in one hand, the leash of his hunting dog in the other.

Suddenly, he freezes. The two other Manobo hunters with him freeze, too. They have been following
the hoof marks on the forest floor, and the plowed clearing and fresh droppings confirmed what they
already know. Wild boar!

Sinumpolans heart raced even faster, the cacophony of sounds-- the hoots, grunts, and clicks of the
tropical birds, insects, and monkeys that populate the mountains of San Fernando, Bukidnon
completing the Avatar-like surrealism. He grips his spear even tighter, imagining himself sinking his
teeth into a sweet-smelling chunk of grilled steak, well-done, the two uneventful days eating only
fruits, berries, and the lone bayawak theyve caught playing tricks on his mind. It didn't help that
they've spent the last two nights high up in the cramped tree-houses theyve built around the forest
to keep them from becoming the prey themselves.

In a flash the dog is off, barking lustily, crazed by the smell of wild boar instilled into its mind from
birth by its trainers who alternately starved and fed it on wild boar meat. They catch up with the dog
and the wild boar near the brook where the boar went for a drink, the crouched dog keeping the boar
at bay, snarling menacingly, its fangs ugly. Sinumpolan readies his spear a prudent distance away,
his eyes on the boars tusks, remembering what similar tusks did to one of his buddies who was
gored by a boar last year.

The dog attacks, sinking its fangs into the boars left ear, bringing the boar's head down. With a
mighty squeal and a great flip of its head, the boar-- breathing fire this time-- tosses the dog away,
grazing the dogs head with its tusk. The dog lunges again, burying its teeth into the boars right hind
leg.

"Now!" Sinumpolan heard himself shouting to no one in particular, the combination of danger, roast
pig feast, and adrenaline filling him with a funny, detached feeling. Almost simultaneously, two
spears strike the boars side, just behind the front leg, skewering the boars heart.

Its easy to dismiss the Manobos life as primitive, yet theres so much in their way of life that
modern lowlanders like us could learn from.

Take respect for the environment, for instance. Tigwahanon, Talaandig, Matigsalugit doesnt
matter which tribe indigenous people respect the forest. It is their home, supermarket, hospital,
school, playground, church, and, most of all, their friend, given them by the Almighty they call
Magbabayo in his generosity.

The soil produces the root crops which provide bulk in their diet. The river gives them the fish they
grill on slow fire. The forest supplies them with the meat they need to balance their diet. The trees
and plants give them the medicine they use to cure their ailments.

Or take the hunt. Manobo hunters hunt, not for themselves, but for the village, sharing the kill with
everyone else in the tribe, the ones who made the kill getting no more than the others.

And, like everything else in the Manobo life, Magbabayo is intimately involved in the hunt. Its
Magbabayo who, through the stars, speaks to them, telling them when to hunt, plant, or clear the
forest. Its the same Magbabayo whom they thank in their effusive, high-pitched chant called Ulahing
which they open their day with, a day which invariably starts at 3:00 AM (because they sleep as
soon as its dark) in front of a bonfire made dramatic by the Ulahing, which is sang to the
accompaniment of a two-stringed guitar called Kudlong, and a smaller female version called Saluray.

Even fishing starts with Bangkakawan, a ritual invoking Magbabayos help. Manobos pound with
sticks a piece of log suspended between two A-frames in a rhythmic sing-and-dance which they do
before filling the hollowed-out part of the log with mildly nauseating berries which, when released
into the water of the river, disorient the fish long enough for them to be netted easily.

Any excess meat of the hunt or fish of the bangkakawan is preservednothing ever goes to waste--
by smoking in the Manobo kitchen called abuhan, which every Manobo house has, a house which,
invariably, is a shingled structure on high stilts with its signature steep roof and great overhangall
made of the inak-ak (scrapedoff) bark of trees, with a notched tree trunk serving as stairs.

And, Manobos never abuse the environment, taking only whats necessary to survive. For instance,
they will clear by burning a swath of forest just enough for them to grow their crops-- nothing more,
nothing less. Private ownership of the land is unheard ofindigenous people do not consider
themselves owners of the land, but only the custodians of it, ultimately accountable to Magbabayo
for its prudent use.

Sometimes lowlanders like us wonder how could indigenous tribes refuse to leave their seemingly
backward way of life in the mountains, and come live with us with our malls, iPhones, and MRIs.

But when I see Manobo hunters share their kill with everyone in the village, taking no more than the
others, I see a culture not inferior to ours, but one way superior which we can learn a lot from.