GAMABA Awardees

Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan Awards or GAMABA is an award that acknowledges folk and indigenous artists
who, despite the modern times, remain true to their traditions. It is administered by the National Commission for
Culture and the Arts (NCCA) through Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan Committee.

GAMABA began as a project of the Philippine Rotary Club Makati-Ayala. In 1992, it was adopted by the government
and institutionalized through Republic Act No. 7335. This award aims to support and motivate these artists to preserve
their artistic heritage for the present and future generations. These artists are also recognized as the country's
National Living Treasures.

2005

Darhata Sawabi is a Tausug weaver of pis syabit - the traditional cloth tapestry worn as a head cover.

Eduardo Mutuc is an artist from Apalit, Pampanga who has dedicated his life to creating religious and secular
art in silver, bronze, and wood.

Haja Amina Appi is recognized as a master mat weaver among the Sama indigenous community for her
unique designs, straightness of her edging (tabig), and fineness of her sasa and kima-kima.

2000

Alonzo Saclag is a Kalinga master of dance and the performing arts who mastered not only the Kalinga
musical instruments but also the dance patterns and movements associated with his peoples ritual.

Federico Caballero is a Sulod-Bukidnon epic chanter from Kalinog, Iloilo who ceaselessly works for the
documentation of the oral literature, particularly the epics, of his people.

Uwang Ahadas is a Yakan musician who is a master of the kwintangan, kayu, and tuntungan instruments.

1998

Lang Dulay is a T'boli traditional weaver of "tinalak" or T'boli cloth made of colorful abaca fabrics.

Salinta Monon is a Tagabanwa-Bagobo traditional weaver of distinct abaca fabrics called inabal.

1993

Ginaw Bilog is a Hanunoo Mangyan poet who is considered as a master of the Ambahan poetry.

Masino Intaray is a prolific and pre-eminent epic chanter and story teller recognized for his outstanding
mastery of various traditional musical instruments of the Palaw'an people- such as basal, kulilal and bagit.
 Samaon Sulaiman is an acclaimed kutyapi master and teacher of this instrument and is also proficient
in kulintang, agong, gandingan, palendag, and tambul.

GINAW BILOG (+ 2003)

Poet
Hanunuo Mangyan
Panaytayan, Oriental Mindoro
1993

A common cultural aspect among cultural communities nationwide is the oral tradition
characterized by poetic verses which are either sung or chanted. However, what distinguishes
the rich Mangyan literary tradition from others is the ambahan, a poetic literary form
composed of seven-syllable lines used to convey messages through metaphors and images.
The ambahan is sung and its messages range from courtship, giving advice to the young,
asking for a place to stay, saying goodbye to a dear friend and so on. Such an oral tradition is
commonplace among indigenous cultural groups but the ambahan has remained in existence
today chiefly because it is etched on bamboo tubes using ancient Southeast Asian, pre-
colonial script called surat Mangyan.

Ginaw Bilog, Hanunoo Mangyan from Mansalay, Mindoro, grew up in such a cultural
environment. Already steeped in the wisdom that the ambahan is a key to the understanding
of the Mangyan soul, Ginaw took it upon himself to continually keep scores of ambahan
poetry recorded, not only on bamboo tubes but on old, dog-eared notebooks passed on to
him by friends.

Most treasured of his collection are those inherited from his father and grandfather, sources of
inspiration and guidance for his creative endeavors. To this day, Ginaw shares old and new
ambahans with his fellow Mangyans and promotes this poetic form in every occasion.

Through the dedication of individuals like Ginaw, the ambahan poetry and other traditional art
forms from our indigenous peoples will continue to live.

The Filipinos are grateful to the Hanunoo Mangyan for having preserved a distinctive heritage
form our ancient civilization that colonial rule had nearly succeeded in destroying. The nation
is justifiably proud of Ginaw Bilog for vigorously promoting the elegantly poetic art of the surat
Mangyan and the ambahan. (Prof. Felipe M. de Leon, Jr.)

MASINO INTARAY (+ 2013)

Musician and Storyteller
Palawan
Brookes Point, Palawan
1993
Living in the highlands of southern Palawan are the Palawan people, who, together with the
Batak and Tagbanwa, are the major indigenous cultural communities of Palawan.

The Palawan possess a rich, intense yet highly refined culture encompassing both the visible
and invisible worlds. They may not exhibit the ornate splendor of the Maranaw nor the striking
elegance of the Yakan, but their elaborate conemology, extensive poetic and literary
traditions, multi-level architecture, musical concepts, social ethic and rituals reveal a deeply
spiritual sensibility and subtle inner life of a people attuned to the myriad energies and forms
of luxurious mountain universe that is their abode, a forest environment of great trees,
countless species of plants and animals, and a magnificent firmament.

The Palawan have no notion of property. To them, the earth, sea, sky and natures elements
belong to no one. Their basic social ethic is one sharing. Their most important rituals such as
the tambilaw and the tinapay are forms of vast and lavish sharing, particularly of food and
drinks, skills and ideas.

The tambilaw is a collective cooking and sharing of rice which is a ritual offering to the Lord of
Rice, Ampot Paray, while the tinapay is the rice wine drinking ceremony. It is during such
occasions that the basal, or gong music ensemble, plays a vital role in the life of the
community. For it is the music of the basal that collectively and spiritually connects the
Palawan with the Great Lord, Ampo and the Master Rice, Ampot Paray. The basal enlivens
the night long fast of the drinking of the rice wine, bringing together about one hundred guests
under the roof of the kolon banwa (big house).

The gimbal (tubular drum) begins the music with a basic rhythm, then enter the sanang ( pair
of small gongs with boss and narrow rims) and one to three agungs (gongs with high bossed
and wide turned in rims).

Basal ensemble playing is an accurate and wonderful metaphor for the basic custom of
sharing among the Palawan . For in this music no one instrument predominates. The
techniques of interlocking, counterpoint, alternation and colotomy ensure a collective
oneness. The two sanang play in alternative dynamics. When one plays loudly, the other
plays softly. Contrapuntal patterns govern the interaction of the agung with the sanang and
gimbal. It is the music of punctuation, rhythm and color rather than melody. Its very essence
is creative cooperation and togetherness.

A non-musical instrumental element of the basal are the young womens rapid stamping
rhythm of their foot as they move back and forth on the bamboo slatted floor of the kolon
banwa, carrying taro leaves on both hands at their sides. This percussion dance is called
tarak.

Further highlighting the intensely poetic and subtle harmony of human beings with each other
and with nature among the palawan are the kulilal and bagit traditions. The kulilal is a highly
lyrical poem expressing passionate love sang with the accompaniment of the kusyapi (two-
stringed lute), played by a man, and pagang (bamboo zither), played by a woman. The bagit,
also played on the kusyapi, is strictly instrumental music depicting the rhythms, movements
and sounds of nature, birds, monkeys, snakes, chirping of insects, rustling of leaves, the
elements and the like.
An outstanding master of the basal, kulilal and bagit is Masino, a gifted poet, bard artist, and
musician who was born near the head of the river in Makagwa valley on the foothill of
Mantalingayan mountain. Masino is not only well-versed in the instruments and traditions of
the basal, kulilal and bagit but also plays the aroding (mouth harp) and babarak (ring flute)
and above all is a prolific and pre-eminent epic chanter and story teller.

He has the creative memory, endurance, clarity of intellect and spiritual purpose that enable
him to chant all through the night, for successive nights, countless tultul (epics), sudsungit
(narratives), and tuturan (myths of origin and teachings of ancestors).

Masino and the basal and kulilal ensemble of Makagwa valley are creative, traditional artists
of the highest order of merit. (Prof. Felipe M. de Leon, Jr.)

SAMAON SULAIMAN (+ 2011)

Musician
Magindanao
Mama sa Pano, Maguindanao
1993

The Magindanaon, who are among the largest of Filipino Islamic groups, are concentrated in
the towns of Dinaig, Datu Piang, Maganoy and Buluan in Magindanao province. Highly
sophisticated in weaving, okir designs, jewelry, metalwork and brassware, their art is
Southeast Asian yet distinct in character.

In the field of music, the Magindanaon have few peers among Filipino cultural communities.
Their masters on the kulintang (gong-chime) and kutyapi (two-stringed plucked lute) are
comparable to any instrumental virtuoso in the East or West.

The kutyapi is a favorite solo instrument among both Muslim and non-Muslim Filipinos, and is
also played in combination with other instruments. It exists in a great variety of designs,
shapes and sizes and known by such names as kotapi (Subanon), fegereng (Tiruray), faglong
(Blaan), hegelong (Tboli) and kuglong or kudlong (Manobo).

The Magindanao kutyapi is one of the most technically demanding and difficult to master
among Filipino traditional instruments, which is one reason why the younger generation is not
too keen to learn it. Of its two strings, one provides the rhythmic drone, while the other has
movable frets that allow melodies to be played in two sets of pentatonic scales, one
containing semitones, the other containing none.

Magindanao kutyapi music is rich in melodic and rhythmic invention, explores a wide range of
timbres and sound phenomena both human and natural, possesses a subtle and variable
tuning system, and is deeply poetic in inspiration.

Though it is the kulintang that is most popular among the Magindanaon, it is the kutyapi that
captivates with its intimate, meditative, almost mystical charm. It retains a delicate, quiet
temper even at its most celebrative and ebullient mood.
Samaon Sulaiman achieved the highest level of excellence in the art of kutyapi playing. His
extensive repertoire of dinaladay, linapu, minuna, binalig, and other forms and styles
interpreted with refinement and sensitivity fully demonstrate and creative and expressive
possibilities of his instrument.

Learning to play the kutyapi from his uncle when he was about 13 years old, he has since, at
35 become the most acclaimed kutyapi master and teacher of his instrument in Libutan and
other barangays of Maganoy town, deeply influencing the other acknowledged experts in
kutyapi in the area, such as Esmael Ahmad, Bitul Sulaiman, Nguda Latip, Ali Ahmad and
Tukal Nanalon.

Aside from kutyapi, Samaon is also proficient in kulintang, agong (suspended bossed gong
with wide rim), gandingan (bossed gong with narrow rim), palendag (lip-valley flute), and
tambul.

Samaon was a popular barber in his community and serve as an Imam in the Libutan
mosque.

For his exemplary artistry and dedication to his chosen instrument, for his unwavering
commitment to the music of the kutyapi at a time when this instrument no longer exists in
many parts of Mindanao, Samaon Sulaiman is worthy of emulation and the highest honors.
(Prof. Felipe M. de Leon, Jr.)

LANG DULAY (+2015)

Textile Weaver
Tboli
Lake Sebu, South Cotabato
1998

Using abaca fibers as fine as hair, Lang Dulay speaks more eloquently than words can.
Images from the distant past of her people, the Tbolis, are recreated by her nimble hands
the crocodiles, butterflies and flowers, along with mountains and streams, of Lake Sebu,
South Cotabato, where she and her ancestors were born fill the fabric with their longing to
be remembered. Through her weaving, Lang Dulay does what she can to keep her peoples
tradition alive.

There are a few of them left, the traditional weavers of the tnalak or Tboli cloth. It is not hard
to see why: weaving tnalak is a tedious process that begins with stripping the stem of the
abaca plant to get the fibers, to coaxing even finer fibers for the textile, then drying the
threads and tying each strand by hand. Afterwards, there is the delicate task of setting the
strands on the bed-tying frame made of bamboo, with an eye towards deciding which
strands should be tied to resist the dye. It is the bud or tying of the abaca fibers that defines
the design.

A roll of tnalak must be individually set on a back strap loom, so called because of the broad
band the weaver sets against her back to provide tension to the work. There is great strain on
the weavers back and eyes, particularly since Tboli women are required to help out in the
fields to augment the family income. It is only after the farm work is done that the weaver can
sit down to her designs. Also, due to the peculiarity of the fiber, of its getting brittle under the
noon day sun, working on it is preferred during the cool evenings or early morn.

Lang Dulay knows a hundred designs, including the bulinglangit (clouds), the bankiring (hair
bangs), and the kabangi (butterfly), each one special for the stories it tells. Using red and
black dyes, she spins her stories with grace. Her textiles reflect the wisdom and the visions of
her people.

Before the 1960s, the Tboli bartered tnalak for horses, which played an important role in their
work. Upon the establishment of the St. Cruz Mission, which encouraged the community to
weave and provided them with a means to market their produce, the tnalak designs gained
widespread popularity and enable weavers like Lang to earn a steady income from their art.
However, the demand also resulted in the commercialization of the tnalak industry, with
outsiders coming in to impose their own designs on the tboli weavers.

Ironically modern designs get a better price than the traditional ones. Despite this, and the
fact that those modern designs are easier to weave, Lang persists in doing things the old, if
harder, way, to give voice, in effect, to the songs that were her elders before her. Her textiles
are judged excellent because of the fine even quality of the yarn, the close interweaving of
the warp and weft, the precision in the forms and patterns, the chromatic integrity of the dye,
and the consistency of the finish.

She was only 12 when she first learned how to weave. Through the years, she has dreamed
that, someday she could pass on her talent and skills to the young in her community. Four of
her grandchildren have themselves picked up the shuttle and are learning to weave.

With the art comes certain taboos that Tboli weavers are careful to observe, such as passing
a single abaca thread all over the body before weaving so as not to get sick. Lang Dulay
never washes the tnalak with soap, and avoids using soap when she is dyeing the threads in
order to maintain the pureness of the abaca.

Upon learning that she was being considered to be one of the Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan
awardees, tears of joy fell from her eyes. She thought of the school that she wanted to build,
a school where the women of her community could go to perfect their art. (Maricris Jan
Tobias)

SALINTA MONON (+ 2009)

Textile Weaver
Tagabawa Bagobo
Bansalan, Davao del Sur
1998

Practically, since she was born, Salinta Monon had watched her mothers nimble hands glide
over the loom, weaving traditional Bagobo textiles. At 12 she presented herself to her mother,
to be taught how to weave herself. Her ardent desire to excel in the art of her ancestors
enabled her to learn quickly. She developed a keen eye for the traditional designs, and now,
at the age of 65, she can identify the design as well as the author of a woven piece just by a
glance.
All her life she has woven continuously, through her marriage and six pregnancies, and even
after her husbands death 20 years ago. She and her sister are the only remaining Bagobo
weavers in her community.

Her husband paid her parents a higher bride price because of her weaving skills. However, he
left all the abaca gathering and stripping to her. Instead, he concentrated on making their
small farm holding productive. Life was such that she was obliged to help out in the farm,
often putting her own work aside to make sure the planting got done and the harvest were
brought in. When her husband died, she was left alone with a farm and six children, but she
continued with her weaving, as a source of income as well as pride.

Salinta has built a solid reputation for the quality of her work and the intricacies of her
designs. There is a continuing demand for her fabrics. She has reached the stage where she
is able to set her own price, but she admits to a nagging sense of being underpaid
nevertheless, considering the time she puts into her work. It takes her three to four months to
finish a fabric 3.5 m x 42 cm in length, or one abaca tube skirt per month.

She used to wear the traditional hand-woven tube skirt of the Bagobo, of which the sinukla
and the bandira were two of the most common types until the market began to be flooded with
cheap machine-made fabrics. Now, she wears her traditional clothes only on speacial
occasions. Of the many designs she weaves, her favorite is the binuwaya (crocodile), which is
one of the hardest to make.

Today, she has her son to strip the abaca fibers for her. Abaca was once plentiful in their area,
but an unexpected scourge has devastated the wild abaca crops. Now, they are starting to
domesticate their own plants to keep up with the steady demand for the fabric.

When she has work to finish, Salinta isolates herself from her family to ensure privacy and
concentration in her art. At the moment, she does her weaving in her own home, but she
wants nothing better than to build a structure just for weaving, a place exclusively for the use
of weavers. She looks forward to teaching young wives in her community the art of weaving,
for, despite the increasing pressures of modern society, Bagobo women are still interested in
learning the art.

Few women in the 1990s have the inclination, patience or perseverance to undergo the strict
training and discipline to become a weaver. Salinta maintains a pragmatic attitude towards the
fact that she and her younger sister may be the only Bagobo weavers left, the last links to a
colorful tradition among their ancestors that had endured throughout the Spanish and
American colonization periods, and survived with a certain vigor up to the late 1950s. (by:
Maricris Jan Tobias)

If someone wants to learn, then I am willing to teach, she says. If there is none, she
shrugs off the thought

ALONZO SACLAG
Musician and Dancer
Kalinga
 Lubugan, Kalinga
2000

History, they say, is always written from the perspective of the dominant class. It is not as
objective an account as we were led to believe when, as elementary schoolchildren, we were
made to memorize the details of the lives of Jose Rizal and the other notable ilustrados.
History is about as impartial as the editorials we eagerly devour today, the ones that extol and
chastise the exploits and the foibles of government, but with a distinct advantage: by virtue of
its form, it takes on an aura of authority. And this authority is one ordinary schoolchildren and
adults alike are hardly likely to challenge.

Seemingly maligned by both history and popular media are the people of the Kalinga. Even in
the earliest Spanish Chronicles, they were depicted as so hostile that Dominican missionaries
were forced to abandon their plans to build Christian missions in the area. Their more recent
battle against the Marcos administrations plans to build a series of hydroelectric dams along
the Chico River only added to their notoriety. The very name they have taken on was a label
tagged on to them by the neighboring Ibanag and Gaddang. It meant enemy a throwback,
no doubt, to the days when head taking was a common and noble practice, intended not only
to demonstrate bravery but, more importantly, to safeguard lives and property.

Such was the emphasis placed on the fierceness of the Kalinga that, except for scholars,
researchers, and cultural workers, very few know about their rich culture and heritage. Which
is why the efforts of Alonzo Saclag, declared Manlilikha ng Bayan for 2000, become all the
more significant. A Kalinga master of dance and the performing arts, he has made it his
mission to create and nurture a greater consciousness and appreciation of Kalinga culture,
among the Kalinga themselves and beyond their borders.

As a young boy in Lubuagan, Kalinga, Alonzo Saclag found endless fascination in the sights
and sounds of day-to-day village life and ritual. According to his son, Robinson, he received
no instruction, formal or otherwise, in the performing arts. Yet he has mastered not only the
Kalinga musical instruments but also the dance patterns and movements associated with his
peoples rituals. His tool was observation, his teacher, experience. Coupled with these was a
keen interest in a passion, if you would the culture that was his inheritance.

This passion he clearly intends to pass on to the other members of his community, particularly
to the younger generation which, he notes, needs to understand and value the nuances of
their traditional laws and beliefs. Although Kalinga life and culture have remained generally
unchanged partly due to their relative isolation, he observes that some of them are tempted
by the illusion of city life. He actively advocates the documentation of their philosophies
before they become completely eroded by foreign influences whether cultural, political, or
economic and are completely forgotten by his people.
He cites as an example the budong or the peace-pact, an established remedy for the tribal
wars that continue to rack their region. He notes sadly that some fail to grasp the true
meaning of the pact and the lives that are lost in a tribal war. These he sees as akin to a
sacrifice made to keep the peace intact. His attitude towards the present-day institution is one
of uncertainty. His disillusionment stems from bitter experience. Notwithstanding the many
tribal wars and peace-pacts he and his people have fought and sworn to, lasting peace stays
elusive.

Much of his energy is channeled towards different preservation efforts. He has for years urged
the members of his community to preserve their artifacts and archaeological sites. While the
unwritten laws and epics chronicle their victories as a people, their artifacts afford us a
glimpse into their day-to-day existence. One such artifact is the Kalinga gong or the gangsa,
the making of which is a disappearing trade. He has endeavored to revive this dying craft.
And to hold these and other treasures, he lobbied for two years with the provincial
government to grant funds to convert the abandoned Capitol Building into a museum. His
persistence was finally rewarded when, with support from the provincial government and
other patrons, the Lubuagan branch of the National Museum was established.

His campaigns have brought him to schools where he discusses various issues with
administrators. One striking result of these efforts is the childrens practice of donning the
Kalinga costume for important school events such as graduation and First Communion. To
celebrate indigenous values, he puts up skits and other creative presentations in various
schools. At his cue, the mountains seem to resound as elementary schoolchildren learn the
folk songs their parents and grandparents once sang. He has even argued for the broadcast
of traditional Kalinga music alongside contemporary music in the local radio station.

To guarantee that his knowledge in the performing arts is passed on to others, he formed the
Kalinga Budong Dance Troupe. He takes the young men and women who come to him under
his charge and they learn about the music and dance of their ancestors. While many have
expressed a genuine desire to represent and promote Kalinga performing arts, he admits that
a handful have other, more personal, motives. Because the troupe occasionally goes on tour,
joining it is perceived by some as a chance to see places other than mountains they call
home. Who can resist the lure of foreign places, he concedes.

His own wife and children have joined him in his travels and performances, and though they
match his commitment and his dedication, he acknowledges, with a playful grin, that his nine
children have yet to equal his graceful movements.

While his young charges dream of visiting other places, he hopes to recreate a Kalinga village
comparable to those he remembers from his youth. In it, he hopes to build a traditional
structure that will house the art and artifacts of his people, a showcase of Kalinga artistry and
genius and a source of pride for his community. He remembers with fondness the Kalinga
House in the grounds of the Expo Filipino in Pampanga. Cool even in the midday heat, he
says it served as a retreat not only for the Kalinga participants but also for some of the
students who had visited the Expo.

Already he has purchased a piece of land where his village is to take root. To the people of
his community, he has entrusted the task of planting a shelter of trees and other plants,
providing the seedling himself, just as he did years before to counter the threat of erosion. In
this village, he imagines waking up to a symphony of bird song, a rare occurrence of late yet
one he zealously sought through his call for a prohibition on hunting.

But so far, the village remains a picture that he sees only in his minds eye. The house
remains a vision on paper, peopled only by the folk of his imagination. The seedlings of wild
fruit trees fill his house, like sentinels, waiting to be transplanted. One, in fact, has already
begun to flower and bear fruit, proof of the long wait he has had to endure.

Waiting, however, is a small difficulty. The greater obstacle appears to be gaining the support
of those who continue to question and challenge his motives. One would think that with such
a noble purpose, one would have no trouble finding allies, not the least among the Kalinga
themselves. Reality, though, suggests the contrary.

But Alonzo Saclag remains unfazed. With characteristic generosity, he does not, for instance,
begrudge nor fear the efforts others take to put up a group similar to his much-celebrated
Kalinga Budong Dance Troupe. Moreover, he welcomes the idea of collaborating with them,
should the opportunity present itself.

In the meantime, he perseveres in his work, braving long hours of travel even in the face of a
tribal war. His wife, Rebecca, who faithfully follows him wherever his travels take him, says
this is his mission: to continue to nurture and uphold the Kalinga culture, the birthright of his
children. (Salve de la Paz)

FEDERICO CABALLERO
Epic Chanter
Sulod-Bukidnon
Calinog, Iloilo
2000

Stories are the lifeblood of a people. In the stories people tell lies a window to what they think,
believe, and desire. In truth, a peoples stories soundly encapsulate the essence of their
humanity. And this circumstance is not peculiar to any one group. It is as a thread that weaves
through the civilizations of the ancient East and the cultures of the industrial West.

So significant is the role they play that to poison a peoples stories, says African writer Ben
Okri, is to poison their lives. This truth resonates in the experience of many. In the folklore of
the Tagalog people, tales abound of a mythical hero who, once freed from imprisonment in a
sacred mountain, would come to liberate the nation. The crafty Spaniards seized upon this
myth and used it as a tool for further subjugation. They harped on it, enshrining it in the
consciousness of every Tagalog, dangling this legendary champion in front of their eyes as
one would the proverbial carrot. So insidious was this myth that suffering in silence and
waiting for deliverance became a virtue. And for a time, it lulled the people into a false sense
of hope, smothering all desire to rise up in arms.

Yet stories can also stir up a people long asleep, awaken senses that have lain dormant or
been dulled by the neglect of many centuries. Throughout history, not a few have expressed
the belief that the pen is more powerful than any sword, double-edged though it may be.
Nonetheless, that the purpose of stories is to change lives may not be immediately self-
evident. But history, or more significantly individual insight, stands witness to this truth. And
perhaps it is partly this realization that compels Federico Caballero, a Panay-Bukidnon from
the mountains of Central Panay to ceaselessly work for the documentation of the oral
literature, particularly the epics, of his people. These ten epics, rendered in a language that,
although related to Kiniray-a, is no longer spoken, constitute an encyclopedic folklore one
only the most persevering and the most gifted of disciples can learn. Together with scholars,
artists, and advocates of culture, he painstakingly pieces together the elements of this oral
tradition nearly lost.

His own love for his peoples folklore began when he was a small child. His mother would lull
his brothers and sister to sleep, chanting an episode in time to the gentle swaying of the
hammock. Sometimes it was his great-great-grandmother, his Anggoy Omil, who would chant
the epics. Nong Pedring remembers how he would press against them as they cuddled his
younger siblings, his imagination recreating the heroes and beautiful maidens of their tales. In
his mind, Labaw Dunggon and Humadapnon grew into mythical proportions, heroes as real
as the earth on which their hut stood and the river that nourished it. Each night, he learned
more about where their adventures brought them, be it to enchanted caves peopled by
charmed folk or the underworld to rescue an unwitting prisoner from the clutches of an evil
being. And the more he learned, the greater his fascination became. When his mother or his
Anggoy would inadvertently nod off, he would beg them to stay awake and finish the tale.

His fascination naturally grew into a desire to learn to chant the epics himself. Spurred on by
this, he showed an almost enterprising facet: when asked by his Anggoy to fetch water from
the river, pound rice, or pull grass from the kaingin, he would agree to do so on the condition
that he be taught to chant an epic. Such audacity could very well have earned him a scolding.
But it was his earnestness that clearly shone through. Not long after, he conquered all ten
epics and other forms of oral literature, besides.

When both his Anggoy and his mother had passed on, Nong Pedring continued the tradition,
collaborating with researchers to document what is customarily referred to as Humadapnon
and Labaw Dunggon epics. Although his siblings also share the gift of their forebears, he
alone persevered in the task, unmindful of the disapproval of his three children. He explains
that like a number of people in their community, they find no pride in claiming their Panay-
Bukidnon heritage. In the Light of things, such an attitude is completely understandable.
Clearly experience has not been kind. Even history is rife with instances of intolerance.
Prejudice, after all, has always been the recourse of those who cannot look beyond
differences in speech and clothing.
Nong Pedring takes upon himself the task of setting things right. He works with the Bureau of
Nonformal Education, travelling from barangay to barangay, trying to convince the older folk
of the necessity and benefits of learning to read and write. Although he is warmly received in
these places, he has an admittedly difficult assignment. The older people generally no longer
feel up to the challenge of learning a new skill. Besides, they see little use in it. He appeals to
them by saying their help is needed to put into writing their indigenous beliefs, traditions, and
literature. Once documentation is completed, teaching the younger people, especially those
who have expressed interest, becomes simple and uncomplicated.

In the epics of his ancestors, he finds the root of many of the convictions they adhere to even
today. And the concerns addressed by the epics are diverse, from human and family relations
to matters that affect the environment. In the epic Tikung Kadlum, a man incurs the wrath of a
man-eating witch for cutting down a tree without permission. To make matters worse, the tree
happens to be one that the witch particularly held in regard. In exchange for the tree, she
demands the life of his two daughters. This in her mind is a truly fair exchange. The lesson is
clear, universal, and enduring, one every person would do well to heed: at all times, justice
must be meted out.

In his own way, Nong Pedring strives to dispense justice in the community through his work
as a manughusay an arbiter of conflicts. In the days before the advent of the local
government system, arbiters like him were consulted on matters concerning family, neighbor
relations, and property. Even today, the barangay officials in his home in Garangan call for
him to help in resolving these affairs. Nong Pedring willingly assists, believing this to be the
better way. He feels disputes need to be discussed by those concerned at the level of the
local government. He disagrees with the rashness of immediately going to the courts without
attempting any resolution. Apart from being expensive, it has the tendency of alienating
people further, threatening to destroy the very fabric of the community he, as manughusay,
has sworn to safeguard.

And his influence extends far beyond the bounds of his community. He is considered
bantugan, a person who has attained distinction. Dr. Alicia Magos a respected folklorist from
the University of the Philippines in the Visayas who has worked with him on the
documentation project, says Nong Pedring has the heart of a scholar. He understood her
vision for the culture of the Panay-Bukidnon. Perhaps even to say that he shares her vision is
not an overstatement.

For his part, Nong Pedring stays resolute in his purpose. Unlike the hammock that has played
so important a role in his story, he is swayed neither by the criticism of some nor the adulation
of others. He continues to travel form his home in the mountains of Calinog to the busy district
of Iloilo City , patiently doing his share in the work that has spanned nearly a decade. Dr.
Magos credits him with opening the eyes of academicians, advocates, and artists to the
beauty of Panay-Bukidnon oral tradition. Yet the greater triumph is one nearer to Nong
Pedrings heart. His children and family have of late rediscovered pride in their heritage. They
are no longer ashamed of their roots as they once were. To Nong Pedring, there is perhaps
no better reason than this to carry on with his work.

UWANG AHADAS
Musician
 Yakan
Lamitan, Basilan
2000

Much mystery surrounds life. And when confronted with such, it is but natural to attempt some
form of hypothesizing. In the days when hard science was nonexistent, people sought to
explain away many of these enigmas by attributing them to the work of the gods or the spirits.
In this way, rain and thunder became the lamentations of a deity abandoned by his capricious
wife, and night and day, the compromise reached by a brother and sister who both wanted to
rule the world upon the death of their father.

Many of these heavenly beings hold sway over the earth and all that dwell within its bounds.
In the folklore of a northern people, a story explains why, in the three-kilometer stretch of the
highest peak of Binaratan, a mountain in the region, there is a silence so complete it borders
on the eerie. Legend has it that the great Kaboniyan went hunting with some men to teach
them how to train and use hounds. When they reached the peak of Binaratan, however, they
could no longer hear their hounds as the song of the birds drowned their barking. One of the
hunters begged Kaboniyan to stop the birds singing, lest the hunt fail and they return home
empty-handed. So Kaboniyan commanded the creatures of Binaratan to be silent in a voice
so loud and frightful that they kept their peace in fear. Since then, a strange unbroken silence
reigns at the top of the mountain, in spite of the multitudes of birds that flit from tree to tree.

And because they belong to this sphere, it is believed that mortal men are as vulnerable to
the powers and the whims of these gods and spirits as the beasts that roam the land and the
birds that sail the sky. Though they are hidden behind dark glasses, the eyes of Uwang
Ahadas speak of such a tale, one that came to pass more than half a century before. They tell
story of a young boy who unknowingly incurred the ire of the nature spirits through his childish
play. The people of his community believe Uwangs near-blindness is a form of retribution
from the nature spirits that dwelled in Bohe Libaken, a brook near the place where he was
born and where, as a child, he often bathed. His father, Imam Ahadas, recalls that the five-
year-old Uwang quietly endured the pain in his eyes, waiting out a month before finally telling
his parents.

Music was to become his constant companion. Uwang Ahadas is a Yakan, a people to whom
instrumental music is of much significance, connected as it is with both the agricultural cycle
and the social realm. One old agricultural tradition involves the kwintangan kayu, an
instrument consisting of five wooden logs hung horizontally, from the shortest to the longest,
with the shortest being nearest the ground. After the planting of the rice, an unroofed platform
is built high in the branches of a tree. Then the kwintangan kayu is played to serenade the
palay, as a lover woos his beloved. Its resonance is believed to gently caress the plants,
rousing them from their deep sleep, encouraging them to grow and yield more fruit.

With this heritage, as rich as it is steeped in music, it is no wonder that even as a young child,
Uwang joyously embraced the demands and the discipline necessitated by his art. His
training began with the ardent observation of the older, more knowledgeable players in his
community. His own family, gifted with a strong tradition in music, complemented the
instruction he received. He and his siblings were all encouraged to learn how to play the
different Yakan instruments, as these were part of the legacy of his ancestors. Not all Yakan
children have such privilege. Maintaining the instruments is very expensive work and sadly,
there is always the temptation presented by antique dealers and other collectors who rarely, if
at all, appreciate the history embodied in these artifacts.

From the gabbang, a bamboo xylophone, his skills gradually allowed him to progress to the
agung, the kwintangan kayu, and later the other instruments. Even musical tradition failed to
be a deterrent to his will. Or perhaps it only served to fuel his determination to demonstrate
his gift. Yakan tradition sets the kwintangan as a womans instrument and the agung, a mans.
His genius and his resolve, however, broke through this tradition. By the age of twenty, he had
mastered the most important of the Yakan musical instruments, the kwintangan among them.

Uwang, however, is not content with merely his own expertise. He dreams that many more of
his people will discover and study his art. With missionary fervor, he strives to pass on his
knowledge to others. His own experience serves as a guide. He believes it is best for children
to commence training young, when interest is at its peak and flexibility of the hands and the
wrists is assured. His own children were the first to benefit from his instruction. One of his
daughters, Darna, has become quite proficient in the art that like her father, she too has
begun to train others.

His purpose carries him beyond the borders of Lamitan to the other towns of Basilan where
Uwang always finds a warm welcome from students, young and old, who eagerly await his
coming. His many travels have blessed him with close and enduring ties with these people.
Many of his onetime apprentices have come into their own have gained individual renown in
the Yakan community. He declares, with great pride, that they are frequently invited to perform
during the many rituals and festivals that mark the community calendar.

Similar to his mentors before him, Uwangs teaching style is essentially hands-on. He teaches
by showing; his students learn by doing. His hands constantly keep a firm hold on those of his
students, the gentle pressure encouraging them to tap out music from the silent bamboo
blades and the splendid brass gongs. His soft voice sings praises when merited and lightly
censures when necessary. And each student receives his full attention while the others
persevere in learning and perfecting the art.

His younger brother, Rohas, worries about how best to preserve his techniques so that they
can be passed on to others even after he is gone. For his part, he has started documenting
his brothers instruction, creating a notation system that will simplify instruction. Already he
has begun using this method for training students and declares that it shows promise.
However, this is only the beginning and much work is still called for if the hills of Basilan are to
continue to resound with ancestral music.

Foremost among these is to give Uwang back the kind of mobility that will permit him to
continue his mission to educate. He admits his dimmed eyesight makes him slightly wary of
travel, as it would compel him to be constantly dependent on others. Of late, he has found it
more difficult to walk, particularly when it is extremely bright and even his dark glasses afford
little protection. To a man of his stature, this admission is certainly one that is very difficult to
make.
Yet when asked how he felt about treatment to correct his condition, he smiles and nods his
head. With possibly the same tranquil with which he faced up to both his fate and his peoples
tradition, he expresses a willingness to endure whatever is necessary. And strangely, even
through his dark glasses, one can almost imagine seeing a not so faint glimmer in his eyes.
(Salve de la Paz)

DARHATA SAWABI (+ 2005)

Textile Weaver
Tausug
Parang, Sulu
2004

In Barangay Parang, in the island of Jolo , Sulu province, women weavers are hard at work
weaving the pis syabit, the traditional cloth tapestry worn as a head covering by the Tausug of
Jolo. This is what weve grown up with, say the weavers. It is something weve learned from
our mothers. Darhata Sawabi is one of those who took the art of pis syabit making to heart.

The families in her native Parang still depend on subsistence farming as their main source of
income. But farming does not bring in enough money to support a family, and is not even an
option for someone like Darhata Sawabi who was raised from birth to do only household
chores. She has never married. Thus, weaving is her only possible source of income. The
money she earns from making the colorful squares of cloth has enabled her to become self-
sufficient and less dependent on her nephews and nieces. A hand-woven square measuring
39 by 40 inches, which takes her some three months to weave, brings her about P2,000.
These squares are purchased by Tausug for headpieces, as well as to adorn native attire,
bags and other accessories. Her remarkable proficiency with the art and the intricacy of her
designs allows her to price her creations a little higher than others. Her own community of
weavers recognizes her expertise in the craft, her bold contrasting colors, evenness of her
weave and her faithfulness to traditional designs.

Pis syabit weaving is a difficult art. Preparing the warp alone already takes three days. It is a
very mechanical task, consisting of stringing black and red threads across a banana and
bamboo frame to form the base of the tapestry. At 48, and burdened by years of hard work,
Sawabi no longer has the strength or the stamina for this. Instead, she hires one of the
neighboring children or apprentice weavers to do it at the cost of P300. It is a substantial
amount, considering the fact that she still has to spend for thread. Sawabis typical creations
feature several colors, including the basic black and red that form the warp, and a particular
color can require up to eight cones, depending on the role it plays in the design. All in all, it
comes up to considerable capital which she can only recover after much time and effort.

Sawabi faces other challenges to her art as well. In the 1970s, when Jolo was torn apart by
armed struggle, Sawabi and her family were often forced to abandon their home in search of
safer habitats. The first time she was forced to abandon her weaving was very painful
experience as it was impossible for her to bring the loom along with her to the forest where
they sought refuge. They returned to their home to see the pis she had been working on for
nearly a month destroyed by the fighting. There was nothing for her to do except pick up the
pieces of her loom and start again. Because of the conflict, she and her family had been
forced to relocate twice finally establishing their residence in Parang. During this time, Sawabi
supported her family by weaving and selling her pieces to the participants in the conflict who
passed through her village. Because of her dedication to her art, generations of traditional
Tausug designs have been preserved and are available for contemporary appreciation and
future study. She continues to weave at home, while teaching the other women of her
community. In recent years, she has had several apprentices, and more and more people
have bought her work.

Sawabi remains faithful to the art of pis syabit weaving. Her strokes are firm and sure, her
color sensitivity acute, and her dedication to the quality of her products unwavering. She
recognizes the need for her to remain in the community and continue with her mission to
teach the art of pis syabit weaving. She had, after all, already been teaching the young
women of Parang how to make a living from their woven fabrics. Some of her students are
already teachers themselves. She looks forward to sharing the tradition of pis syabit weaving
to the younger generations. (Maricris Jan Tobias)

EDUARDO MUTUC
Metalsmith
Kapampangan
Apalit Pampanga
2004

Eduardo Mutuc is an artist who has dedicated his life to creating religious and secular art in
silver, bronze and wood. His intricately detailed retablos, mirrors, altars, and carosas are in
churches and private collections. A number of these works are quite large, some exceeding
forty feet, while some are very small and feature very fine and delicate craftsmanship.

For an artist whose work graces cathedrals and churches, Mutuc works in humble
surroundings. His studio occupies a corner of his yard and shares space with a tailoring shop.
During the recent rains, the river beside his lot overflowed and water flooded his studio in
Apalit, Pampanga, drenching his woodblocks. Mutuc takes it all in stride.

He discovered his talents in sculpture and metalwork quite late. He was 29 when he decided
to supplement his income from farming for the relatively more secure job of woodcarving. He
spent his first year as an apprentice to carvers of household furniture. It was difficult at the
beginning, but thanks to his mentors, he was able to develop valuable skills that would serve
him in good stead later on. The hardest challenge for him was learning a profession that he
had no prior knowledge about, but poverty was a powerful motivation. Although his daily wage
of P3.00 didnt go far to support his wife and the first three of nine children (one of whom has
already died), choices were limited for a man who only finished elementary school.

Things began to change after his fifth or sixth year as a furniture maker, when a colleague
taught him the art of silver plating. This technique is often used to emulate gold and silver leaf
in the decoration of saints and religious screens found in colonial churches. He left the
furniture shop and struck out on his own with another friend. One of his first commissions
came from Monsignor Fidelis Limcauco, who asked him to create a tabernacle for the parish
of Fairview , Quezon City . Clients began to commission him to create other pieces, many of
which are based on Spanish colonial designs. Peak seasons are before Holy Week and
Christmas. He derives inspiration from traditional religious designs and infuses his own ideas
into the finished product.

While he finds meaning in making pieces for the church, orders for commissioned pieces
have become fewer because of the economic slump. But even for his secular pieces, he finds
inspiration in church art.

When he is working on metalwork, he begins with a detailed drawing. He then transfers the
design on a block of wood by chiseling out the details. He then covers the wood with a metal
sheet, and then coaxes out the design through careful hammering with a mallet and an old
rubber slipper. Afterwards, he dips the solid metal sheet in molten silver, a dangerous task
that must be done in the open air lest the poisonous fumes overcome him. He then proceeds
to do more hammering and polishing to bring out the details of the piece.

Each piece has its own demands. Many times the size of the subject demands larger and
more expansive designs to make a statement from afar. Other times it may best be expressed
through careful detailing that needs close observation before it becomes evident. Mistakes
are costly, as brass and silver are expensive. While small tears or mistakes in cutting out the
design could be easily remedied, an error in measurement or carving might require him to do
it over. He acknowledges that he makes fewer mistakes now that he has become more expert
in his craft.

Mutucs works are more than merely decorative. They add character and splendor to their
setting. His spectacular shiny retablos that decorate an apse or chapel provide focus for
contemplation and devotion while the faithful commune with the Divine in regular church
celebrations.

He notes that handmade pieces are finer and more delicate than machine pressed pieces,
particularly when commissioned pieces involve human representations. Facial expressions
are among the hardest to do, says Mutuc who uses different molds for each cherub to ensure
their individuality. His cherubin are engaging creatures, whose strikingly lifelike quality comes
through the silverplate. They look out at the worshippers with a concerned, kindly air,
seemingly on the alert to guide their prayers upward.

According to him, craftsmanship begins with respect for ones tools and the medium. The first
thing he teaches his students is how to hold the chisel and hammer properly to promote ease
of use and prevent fatigue and mistakes because of improper handling. He also cautions
against working with an eye towards easy money. The only way to improve ones skills, he
says, is to immerse oneself, learn the technique, and to practice. Only in perfecting ones craft
can there be real reward. (Maricris Jan Tobias)

HAJA AMINA APPI (+ 2013)

Mat Weaver
Sama
Tandubas, Tawi-Tawi
2004
Haja Amina Appi of Ungos Matata, Tandubas, Tawi-Tawi, is recognized as the master mat
weaver among the Sama indigenous community of Ungos Matata. Her colorful mats with their
complex geometric patterns exhibit her precise sense of design, proportion and symmetry and
sensitivity to color. Her unique multi-colored mats are protected by a plain white outer mat that
serves as the mats backing. Her functional and artistic creations take up to three months to
make.

The art of mat weaving is handed down the matrilateral line, as men in the Sama culture do
not take up the craft. The whole process, from harvesting and stripping down the pandan
leaves to the actual execution of the design, is exclusive to women. It is a long and tedious
process, and requires much patience and stamina. It also requires an eye for detail, an
unerring color instinct, and a genius for applied mathematics.

The process starts with the harvesting of wild pandan leaves from the forest. The Sama
weavers prefer the thorny leaf variety because it produces stronger and sturdier matting
strips. Although the thorns are huge and unrelenting, Haja Amina does not hesitate from
gathering the leaves. First, she removes the thorns using a small knife. Then, she strips the
leaves with a jangat deyum or stripper to make long and even strips. These strips are sun-
dried, then pressed (pinaggos) beneath a large log. She then dyes the strips by boiling them
for a few minutes in hot water mixed with anjibi or commercial dye. As an artist, she has
refused to limit herself to the traditional plain white mats of her forebears, but experimented
with the use of anjibi in creating her designs. And because commercial dyes are often not
bold or striking enough for her taste, she has taken to experimenting with color and
developing her own tints to obtain the desired hues. Her favorite colors are red, purple and
yellow but her mats sometimes feature up to eight colors at a time. Her complicated designs
gain power from the interplay of various shades.

Upon obtaining several sets of differently-colored matting strips, she then sun dries them for
three or four days, and presses them again until they are pliant. Finally, she weaves them into
a colorful geometric design. Instead of beginning at the outermost edges of the mat, she
instead weaves a central strip to form the mats backbone, then works to expand the mat from
within. Although the techniques used to make the mats are traditional, she has come up with
some of her own modern designs. According to Haja Amina, what is more difficult than the
mixing of the colors is the visualization and execution of the design itself. It is high precision
work, requiring a mastery of the medium and an instinctive sense of symmetry and proportion.
Despite the number of calculations involved to ensure that the geometric patterns will mirror,
or at least complement, each other, she is not armed with any list or any mathematical
formula other than working on a base of ten and twenty strips. Instead, she only has her
amazing memory, an instinct and a lifetime of experience.

Haja Amina is respected throughout her community for her unique designs, the straightness
of her edging (tabig) and the fineness of her sasa and kima-kima. Her hands are thick and
callused from years of harvesting, stained by dye. But her hands are still steady, and her eye
for color still unerring. She feels pride in the fact that people often borrow her mats to learn
from her and copy her designs.

Happily, mat weaving does not seem to be a lost art as all of Haja Aminas female children
and grandchildren from her female descendants have taken it up. Although they characterize
her as a patient and gentle teacher, Haja Aminas passion for perfection shows itself as she
runs a finger alongside the uneven stitching and obvious patchwork on her apprentices work.
She is eager to teach, and looks forward to sharing the art with other weavers. (Maricris Jan
Tobias)

TEOFILO GARCIA
Casque Maker
Ilocano
San Quintin, Abra
2012

Each time Teofilo Garcia leaves his farm in San Quintin, Abra, he makes it a point to wear a
tabungaw. People in the nearby towns of the province, in neighboring Sta. Maria and Vigan in
Ilocos Sur, and as far as Laoag in Ilocos Norte sit up and take notice of his unique, functional
and elegant headpiece that shields him from the rain and the sun. A closer look would reveal
that it is made of the native gourd, hollowed out, polished, and varnished to a bright orange
sheen to improve its weather resistance. The inside is lined with finely woven rattan matting,
and the brim sports a subtle bamboo weave for accent.

Because he takes pride in wearing his creations, Teofilo has gotten many orders as a result.
Through his own efforts, through word of mouth, and through his own participation in an
annual harvest festival in his local Abra, a lot of people have discovered about the wonders of
the tabungaw as a practical alternative. Hundreds have sought him out at his home to order
their own native all-weather headgear. His clients have worn his work, sent them as gifts to
their relatives abroad, and showed them off as a masterpiece of Filipino craftsmanship. With
the proper care, a well-made tabungaw can last up to three to four generations, and the ones
created by Teofilo are among the best there are. They are so sturdy that generally, farmers
need to own only one at a time. Even Teofilo and his son only own one tabungaw each.

Although he has been a master artisan since he learned how to make gourd casques and
weave baskets from his grandfather at the age of 15, Teofilo is still principally a farmer. Most
of the year is spent working the land to coax a good harvest to enable him to send his five
children to school. But during the months that his land is not planted to rice and tobacco, or
caring for his herd of cows, he devotes his land to planting upo (family Cucurbitaceae), which
he then transforms into the traditional tabungaw. Crafting the tabungaw from planting and
harvesting the upo, refining the uway (rattan) that make up the lining of the tabungaw,
weaving the puser (bamboo) that serves as the accent for the work, and finishing the work
takes up a lot of time. It takes at least seven days to finish one tabungaw, assuming that all
the materials are available. He uses only simple hand tools that he designed himself and he is
involved in each stage of the production.

His craft demands a lot of personal input from him because there is hardly any way for him to
source the materials he needs for his work unless he makes them himself. He has had to turn
down large orders because he has no one to help him, and in any case, there is no one who
matches his level of skill. Sometimes, he wants to give up because its hard work, but he
doesnt do it, for fear that the art will end with him.
His output is also limited by his harvest of gourds. In a good year and blessed with good
weather, he can make up to 100 pieces. This year, inspired by increasing orders, he plans to
increase the area of his farm dedicated to gourd planting. His increased visibility is also partly
the result of the local agricultural fairs organized by the local government where he takes out
a booth every year to showcase his work.

Since he learned the craft, he has not stopped innovating. Each handcrafted tabungaw is the
product of years of study and careful attention to the elements that make up the entire piece.
Previously, he used nito (vine trimmings) to decorate the outside of the headgear and sourced
it from Cagayan, but when his relative who supplied him with the raw materials passed away,
he decided to experiment with more locally accessible materials. His training in weaving
baskets served him in good stead, and he was able to apply that skill when he turned to
bamboo as an alternative to nito.

He has developed a feel for each component, and engages in a lot of experimentation to
determine why this particular variety of upo is more resistant to decay, why this particular
species of rattan is unsuitable because it is less pliant to his touch. He has been looking for
other varieties of upo to use as raw materials, but it has proven difficult since he does not
have access to a plant database that would make his work easier. He had been interested in
certain varieties that showed promise but he has been unable to track them down and now
they are no longer available in his area.

It would be to his advantage if he could outsource the preparation of the raw materials so that
he can focus on the more technical aspects of production. But its not that easy to
develop in others the same feel for materials with which he has been gifted.

He rues the fact that there is very little interest by other people to make tabungaws even
though it has potential as an export product. Now that his children are grown up, he has time
to teach others the craft and is looking forward to the possibility. He is also eager to explore
new designs, and he has been innovating on his traditional designs based on inspirations
from his trips to the nearby provinces. He has developed many patterns and built on the
traditional patterns that he learned when he was young. He is interested in developing new
ways to show contrast between the shades of matting, and how to keep the tabungaw
colorfast regardless of the weather. Years after he first learned how to make a tabungaw, it
still takes him a long time to perfect the casque because he is still perfecting his art. (Maricris
Jan Tobias)

MAGDALENA GAMAYO
Textile Weaver
Ilocano
Pinili, Ilocos Norte
2012

The Ilocos Norte that Magdalena Gamayo knows is only a couple of hours drive away from
the capital of Laoag, but is far removed from the quickening pulse of the emergent city.
Instead, it remains a quiet rural enclave dedicated to rice, cotton and tobacco crops. 2012
Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan awardee, Magdalena Gamayo still owes a lot to the land and
the annual harvest. Despite her status as master weaver, weaving alone is not enough.
Also, even though the roads are much improved, sourcing quality cotton threads for her abel
is still a challenge. Even though the North is known for its cotton, it does not have thread
factories to spin bales of cotton into spools of thread. Instead, Magdalena has to rely on local
merchants with their limited supplies. She used to spin her own cotton and brushed it with
beeswax to make it stronger, but after the Second World War, she now relies on market-
bought thread. She still remembers trading rice for thread, although those bartering days are
over. Thread is more expensive nowadays, and of poorer quality. Often, she has had to reject
samples but often she has little choice in the matter. There are less local suppliers of thread
nowadays, a sign that there is less demand for their wares, but nonetheless, the abel-weaving
tradition in Ilocos remains strong, and there are no better artists who exemplify the best of
Filipino abel weaving tradition than Magdalena Gamayo.

She says good thread has to be resilient, able to withstand several passes through the loom.
It should have a good weight and color, its fibers should not be loose, and it should endure
years of use. Magdalena prefers to work with linen, because it is obedient to the master
weavers touch. In her personal collection are abel that have been in use for generations,
gradually getting softer from handling, but retaining their structural integrity and intricate
designs. Evident is the handiwork that went into painstakingly arranging bolts of different-
colored threads on the four-pedal loom and the math that went with it to ensure that the
patterns are sharp and crisp and evenly spaced.

There is more to weaving than knowing how to choose quality thread and how to intuit thread
placements on the loom. One must also know the proper tension to the threads so that the
warp, or the lengthwise threads that make up the frame of the cloth, can sustain the punishing
over-and-under insertion of the crosswise threads, known as the weft. To tie the warp threads
too tightly to the anchoring pins would cause them to break easily and result in unsightly
bumps in the fabric where the threads were knotted together; to tie the warp threads too
loosely would result in the pattern coming apart. There is also a matter of keeping a steady
rhythm so that the shuttle bearing the weft threads passes through the warp evenly to ensure
a smooth finish. This complicated process is no big deal for computerized machines but
imagine recreating the same process everyday manually, relying only on instinct, practice,
and innate skill.

Magdalena has been relying on her instincts, practiced hands, and innate skills for years,
starting at the age 16, when she learned the art of weaving from her aunt. She was never
formally taught, but picked up the art on her own by copying the patterns. At that time, every
girl in her village knew how to weave, and there would be an informal competition among her
cousins and friends as to who could weave the finest, who could be more consistent. Her
father bought her her first loom at the age of 19; he obtained the saggat or hard wood himself
and gave the task to a local craftsman. Her first loom lasted her at least 30 years, sustaining
her through years of marriage and motherhood. When it was beyond repair, she considers
herself lucky to have been able to buy a secondhand one. Today, there are few locals who
have the skills to put together a loom similar to the ones Magdalena uses: a sturdy wooden
frame with three foot pedals with wide horizontal beams to support the warp and an even
longer lengthwise frame to keep the threads in place. It is different from the backstrap loom
traditionally used in the Cordillera, where the warp is anchored to a stationary object on one
end and to the weavers body on the other end.
Today, Magdalena has two students: her cousins daughter-in-law, who moved to
Magdalenas community after marrying into Magdalenas family; and her sister-in-law, who
learned how to weave relatively late, at the age of 38. She has had other students before.
She starts them on the triple-toned warp binakol, and only when she is satisfied with the
quality of their work does she teach them other designs.

Even though Magdalena is already 88 years old, her eyesight still holds true and she still
takes care of arranging the threads on the loom. Weavers agree that in weaving, it is the
hardest task of all. The slightest miscalculation can result in a misaligned design that doesnt
reveal itself until its too late.

Magdalena has taught herself the traditional patterns of binakol, inuritan(geometric

design), kusikos (spiral forms similar to oranges), and sinan-sabong(flowers), which is the
most challenging pattern. She has also taught herself to recreate designs, which is a useful
skill particularly when she is only able to see the design but does not have a sample of how it
is done.

Threading the shuttle through the warp, over and under the strands to tease out the pattern,
while expertly manipulating the foot pedals to ensure that the right column of fibers is raised
or lowered at the exact instant to make way for the onrushing shuttle, is also a challenge for
the dexterous. It is punishing work, hard on the back and leg muscles, demanding on the
eyes, resulting in rough calluses on the hands. Still, when a master weaver is done with her
work, what results is a thing of beauty.

Magdalenas handiworks are finer than most abel her blankets have a very high thread count
and her designs are the most intricate and can sometimes take up to five colors. Making sure
the right colored threads are spaced evenly and keeping accurate count is a challenge that
Magdalena has always unerringly met. The beauty of her designs lies in how delicate the
patterns are, and yet how uniform the weave. Magdalenas calloused hands breathe life to her
work and her unique products are testament to how machines can never hope to equal the
human art. (Maricris Jan Tobias)