Kabalantian

Some weatherworn thatch huts nestled in a little clearing at the breast of the grand mountain range cradling the great Davao River. A village that could only be reached by a winding 80-degree steep and upward path that could be lethal for the weak of heart yet a charm and a challenge for the adventurous soul. 

Picturesquely breathtaking and heart stopping, it is a pity that this spot is not available for viewing unless one leaves the highway on foot and treks for four punishing hours, although being there is balm enough for the aching and cramping muscles.

Legend has it that an ancient guy by the name of Di-an used to live on the ridge just above the village where a small waterfall still flows up to this day. At his death he was buried beside the cascading water, which is life to the slope where the village of his namesake is located [Kabalandi-an].

It was in this village that a team of Christians with the heart for the missions arrived one hot summer day to learn the ways of the tribes and how it is to live in a totally new setup from the usual. The dialect was new, the housing was a skimpy version of a Hawaiian grass skirt, and the weather was a bone chilling wind at night and a boiling caldron in midday. Water came via a plastic pipe from the spring and was hand carried to the kitchen where cooking was precariously balanced on a smoking dirt stove composed of three strategically placed rocks.

Their hosts consisted of Matigsalug natives who eked out a living of a hand-to-mouth existence on the slopes. The women carried their babies in a piece of cloth around their necks with the baby’s mouth perennially anchored on a milk-rich teat which was always available anytime of the day or anywhere the mother happened to be. Children scampered almost everywhere and anywhere the dogs, chickens, ducks, goats and pigs were, even sleeping and eating with them.

The top-guy or chieftain of this village is an intimidating hulk that at the first sight would make one stare at the ground rather than on his hardened and mean face, which would turn friendly when he would show his stained, broken and unbrushed teeth in a wide and unusually sweet grin. The mere mention of his name would make one tremble and hesitate to engage him in a conversation. 

Datu Buwaya [vernacular for crocodile] got his name not by birth or baptism but rather he earned it after killing his enemies who in those warring days easily outnumbered all his gnarled fingers and toes combined.

Kabalantian, you may be a distant and formidable fortress, your people may have been fierce and untrusting and your nights may be as cold as your days are hot, but your charm is captivating, enchanting and entrancing, and will forever remain in my indelible memory.