You spend these moments by yourself, lost in thought, unable to distinguish between real or imagined. When the light finally arrives, its brilliant, multi-hued rays illuminating the landscape, it renders you spellbound, entranced by the glorious scene that unfolds. It beckons, caresses and holds you. It keeps you under its spell.
Here in Siquijor, magic does exist.
By that I do mean magic, both worldly and otherwise. The kind that beguiles and bewitches men – or destroys them. For as long as anyone can remember, this island has always been associated with the unexplained. Located at the south end of the Visayas region (between the islands of Cebu, Bohol, Negros and Mindanao), Siquijor is the legendary home of shamans and sorcerers. Its name alone conjures images of withered old witches chanting cryptic prayers amid cauldrons of bubbling, burning, toil and trouble. Their folklore speaks of dark deeds performed with these shady rituals. They tell of bitter potions, sinister hexes and strange incantations heard in the middle of the night . . .
Very few individuals, if any, would know how these tales came to be. The origins of Siquijor, you see, are as obscure as its notorious inhabitants. Little is known about the pre-colonial history of the place. Much less is revealed about its first settlers. Some say the land rose from the sea behind a fiery curtain of thunder and lightning. The early Spanish explorers, in fact, called it Isla del Fuego – the Isle of Fire – because of the dark, moonless nights when it basked in an eerie glow of its own.
The more definite, historical accounts of this province, however, first appeared during the mid-1500s, when conquistadores arrived to "discover" the area. It wasn’t until the late 1700s when the first of six towns was established on its shores. Churches were then built, as well as towers, convents and government buildings. Still, this flurry of development was brought about mainly for religious reasons. Siquijor, being a small island with few industrial or strategic "advantages," was bypassed by the government in the greater scheme of things. Thus, for over two centuries, it lay in its own corner of the archipelago, almost a mere spectator to the events that shaped the rest of the Philippines.
These days, traces of this colonial heritage are still present throughout the province. Nowhere is this more evident than in the now-antique churches that dominate the rural landscape. At the municipality of Lazi, down south, one such cathedral looms high over the horizon. With its spacious, tree-lined church grounds and a massive facade of coral rock, this house of God is known simply as dako or big. Countless processions have been held in honor of its benefactor, Saint Isidore Labrador. These solemn parades would march through the town’s streets, often passing by the nearby Lazi convent, said to be the oldest and largest in the country.
The natives have the Agustinian friars to thank for these structures. Nevertheless, this Hispanic legacy does extend into other aspects of Siquihodnon culture. Many of their homes, for instance, possess a unique form of architecture. "Hybrid antillian design," I call it, which translates physically into tall doorways and wooden homes that have changed little since the Spanish times.
Here in Lazi, as in most other communities of Siquijor, time seems to march in slow motion. Save for the presence of an occasional car or the ubiquitous motorbike, its main streets resemble those of small-town, post colonial-era Philippines. The prevailing lifestyle is also that of a leisurely weekend, where on any day, one would see the locals unhurriedly walking about. Manay (Aunt) Bertie Miraflor, one of Lazi’s older citizens, best describes the Siquijoran way of life: "Everyone takes it easy in this place," she says. "We have no traffic, no pollution – and no hectic schedules to follow."
We might even say that the natives are on a perpetual holiday. Indeed, with an island like Siquijor, they do have the right ingredients for it. Ancient trees, bushes, and all sorts of lush greenery are a common sight along its many roads.
Natural formations also abound here, from craggy limestone cliffs that form Lazi’s Crocodile Hill (so-called because its shape resembles a croc’s head) to the emerald-green waters of nearby Cambugahay Falls. On the coastline itself, sparkling waves crash over pristine, white sand beaches, giving the place an atmosphere that might as well be called paradise.
For the Siquihodnons, of course, this unspoiled setting is merely the place for another day at work. At the coastal town of San Juan, to the west of Lazi, I watch a group of fishermen bring in the morning’s catch: small scaly banak fish, gathered using a variety of fishing techniques. The natives ride slowly toward shore, resembling their forefathers on man-powered bancas (outrigger canoes). "We owe a lot to these waters," one of them later tells me. "Out here, we don’t need money – only our nets, spears and lines to get food for our tables." A few feet away, another crew is busy harvesting sea urchins. Cracked open for their salty, yellowish meat, these delicacies will be bottled and later sold at the town market.
Most of Siquijor’s inhabitants are clearly members of the working class. Be they farmers or fishermen, they live off the land and sea, laboring with their bodies for daily sustenance. At a more secluded part of this island, however, there exists a small community of people whose occupations are less clearly defined. These individuals live far from the shoreline, in the mountain village of San Antonio. These are the witches of Siquijor.
Surprisingly, none of them have a special fondness for broomsticks. And contrary to popular belief, they also possess the same good-natured, kindly disposition that most Siquihodnons are born with. I discovered this on a rather festive Black Saturday morning at the home of Pedro Tumapon, one of Siquijor’s more popular shamans. "Uncle Indoy," or Iyo Indoy as the villagers call him, looks no different from any other old-timer. Clad in shorts and a plain T-shirt, he might well be your friendly neighborhood lolo.
"We are known as mananambals (witch doctors) . . . ," he says, "and we only use our powers to heal." He then goes on to refute some commonly held misconceptions. "We don’t do kulam (a form of hex wherein rag dolls are stabbed with needles, causing unbearable pain to the intended victim), or cut off fingers from religious images, or visit graveyards in the middle of the night to steal human bones."
The ones who perform such sinister acts, it turns out, are the insidious mambabarangs (black witches). Fortunately for us, these sorcerers are now quite rare. It seems the locals have sent them off with a more potent form of magic: shotgun and dynamite.
Iyo Pedro, however, is still very much present in Siquijor. He is also at his busiest during the Roman Catholic Holy Week, when mananambals from all over the country converge here for their annual rite of potion brewing. This ritual is a scene to behold: dozens of witch-doctors, chanting their prayers while gathered around a large cooking pot containing candle wax, flowers, and all sorts of strange ingredients. Many Siquihodnons claim that this mixture does work. A few of them even recount stories of relatives, sick with some grave illness, being miraculously cured with a dose of the dark oily liquid.
But while these mananambals have their incantations and their brew to bestow healing, another mystic uses a somewhat more conventional set of tools.
Iking Bonatsita lives in Larena, the province’s northernmost town. He clearly remembers this day in 1946 when his father passed on to him an unusual gift. "He gave me this black pebble . . . and he taught me how to cure with it." Iking’s method of healing is called bolo-bolo, and is performed by dropping the stone into a glass of ordinary water. By means of a plastic straw, he blows bubbles into the liquid, all the while moving the glass over his patient’s body. The water gradually turns cloudy, then muddy as the pebble "absorbs" the disease.
Further from Larena, the natives recount other weird events. They speak of fire-walkers, dancing paper dolls and enchanted balete trees (where fairies are said to reside). Eventually, one cannot help but wonder how a small island like this can be home to so much of the unexplained. What strange, unseen force could have made it so? Is Siquijor truly the Philippines’ center of witchcraft?
Maybe. But then again, the real magic of Siquijor may not even lie in these mysterious occurrences. Perhaps its true charm rests elsewhere, far from Iyo Pedro’s potions, or the mambabarang’s sorcery, or Iking Bonatsita’s pebble.
I choose to find it in the Siquihodnons themselves. In one lazy afternoon with them, we chatted like old friends over a cup of brewed coffee and pan de sal.
I choose to find it in their genuine character. By the way they approach you with their friendly smiles, with nary a hint of pretentiousness, welcoming you open-heartedly into their homes, and asking for nothing in return.
Never mind the witches, the shamans and the fairies. The real magic of Siquijor, I tell you, lies not in these oddballs of nature.
It lies in its people.