One was a love story of a datu’s daughter betrothed to a rich datu but she elopes with a seafaring infidel (aka non-Muslim) and a chase ensues. The other was a pure documentary movie on Jolo, showing the rites, rituals and ceremonies of its people and was made the backdrop.
I was 1 year old in 1931 but I had cousins (Leonor Orosa Goquinco and Rosalinda Orosa) who had lived in Jolo as children, and of course I had heard of juramentados with shaved heads charging into crowds and hacking away with their bolos. I had no idea what Jolo looked like back then, and here was a feast of Philippine culture (yes, our very own!)
Stilt houses, connecting bamboo bridges, betel nut chewing, sipa games, even a blood curdling carabao fight-to-the-death. To the accompaniment of bamboo xylophones (gabbang) and drum. A wealthy child bride, a princess, was brought down the stairs on the shoulders of grown men. The Tausog bride is not allowed to step on the ground. Her bridegroom was in the traditional Tausug make-up of pasty white with polka dots. One of the daddies had gleaming gold teeth.
The entertainment was the pangalay dance which, until then, I had only seen on stage. There were vintas galore. What a feast! The moviehouse was full, with more queuing outside. How hungry we are for our own culture!
Serene, peaceful
I remember going to Jolo in the ’70s, way before all those bloody encounters, when life was still serene and peaceful. In those days I had an antique shop specializing in artifacts from Mindanao and I was interested in buying direct. I was encouraged by my friend, Santanina “Nina” Rasul, who was not a senator yet then. I was, therefore, disappointed to find out that it had not a single antique shop! The only antique merchandise was displayed by an old woman on a mat on the street outside the lone “hotel” (actually just a house) where I stayed.
“Where can I see more?” I asked the old woman in exasperation. She told me to ask the policeman at the corner. He has a lot of old confiscated kris (swords) which he gets from the police station where they disarm surrenderees, she explained.
His name was Jalilul. The policeman told me that, indeed, he had a number of old kris to sell.
“Where can I see them?” I asked. “In my house,” he said. “Just get on the back of my motorbike and I’ll take you there.”
Without a thought, I jumped onto the back seat, my belt bag bulging with money and we breezed through the town. Jalilul’s house was on the outskirts. I was having second thoughts about my impulsive act. I was still young then, I was alone, and nobody knew where in Jolo I was, much less my young husband in Manila.
Gorgeous heirloom kris
Jalilul’s house was dark and ramshackle, with a dirt floor and a mezzanine. I was expecting to be met by a family but obviously he had none. He planted me on a stool.
“Wait,” he said, and went up to the mezzanine, coming down in a while with a big armalite! But he was just showing it off. Armalites were obviously a prized possession in Sulu then.
“Can I see the kris?” I reminded him. He went back to the mezzanine and came down with a dozen or so of the deadliest, most gorgeous heirloom kris I had ever seen. There were pearl-handled ones with black mother-of-pearl trimmings, others with intricately carved wooden handles, still others had scabbards with fine tree fiber wrapped around them. Some of the blades were straight, some were wavy, with the watermarks of well-crafted steel. One was attached to a faded printed cloth belt that had lately been around a rebel’s waist.
I bought them all. With the treasure, we rode back to my “hotel.” Nina was standing at the door fuming. “Where have you been!” she said. “We’ve been searching high and low for you. I was so worried about you and was just about to send out an alarm.”
Dear protective Nina who cared for me. How I loved Jolo and its colorful inhabitants! No one can frighten me about them.