BENCHWARMER

Igorot slant
RAMON DACAWI
(A recent letter to the Baguio Midland Courier whipped up anew the off-and-on debate on whether we, Igorots, deserve that name. Expat Miggs Meru of Mines View, whose grandpa Melanio Cayapa and my father produced petunias at the old Pacdal Forest Nursery e-mailed, asking more information about the letter-writer who was uneasy being called Igorot. Instead, I retrieved and reprint the piece below that I wrote in 2004 to toast my being Ifugao - and Igorot.)

Excitement gripped students from lowland provinces when some Igorot coeds boarded with them in a Metro-Manila girls dormitory. Their imaginations ricocheted to what they've heard about Igorots, told by elders and neighbors back home. They ached to validate their neighbors' knowledge - or ignorance - about these specimens of a lesser specie rumored to hide tails within their G-strings and, until recently, were sleeping on tree tops.

Unable to rein in her curiosity, one made her move when she chanced upon three of the newcomers from the boondocks along the dormitory hallway. "Taga Cordillera nga ba kayo?" she asked, mustering her most friendly tone. "Oo."

"Di Igorot din kayo?" "A, hindi," one of them answered, her voice as casual as the question was posed. "Yong mga parents namin ang Igorot," she qualified and then cut the talk. "O, sige ha at may pasok pa kami."

Before she could make sense of the retort or notice their cheeks reddening, the three had already stepped out, leaving her open-mouthed in stupefaction. Recovering, her eyes followed them, scrutinizing their behinds. But there was no sign of a tail. She noticed, however, their "wagwag" signature jeans were more fashionable than hers.

When they were student government presidents at the same time, Manong Vic Laoyan of the University of Baguio, Felix Cabading of Baguio Colleges and William Hamada of St. Louis University attended a National Union of Students of the Philippines conference in Manila.

The "Baguio Delegation" tag on their reserved table caught the attention of a waiter. In no time, he also caught their attention as he started circling their table, alternately ogling at their behinds and their handsome Igorot faces. Unable to repress himself, the waiter opened his mouth. "Taga-Baguio pala kayo, sirs." "Oo, bakit?," Manong Vic answered. "Marami bang Igorot do'n?" "Gusto mo bang makakita ng Igorot?," Manong Vic countered, trying to figure out what the guy was up to.

"Sana nga eh. Marami na akong naririnig tungkol sa kanila nguni't di pa ako nakakita kahit isa." "Nakakita ka na, kanina pang aali-aligid ka. Igorot kaming tatlo. Ito si Felix, tribung Kalanguya yan. Ito naman si Billy, may dugong Ibaloi at Hapon. Ako naman ay Ibaloi. Igorot kami lahat."

"Si sir naman, nagbibiro. Paano kayo Igorot e ang guapo n'yong tatlo. At saka wala naman kayong buntot." When Manong Vic narrated to me the encounter, I knew he held himself from voicing out a fitting repartee: Ikaw naman, pare, tanga saan ka rin ba?

Most likely, the first anecdote is apocryphal. Like the second, however, it is enough to trigger nervous laughter. Or cause the hands to ball into fists. Like a “hinalong”, the sharp, double-bladed knife my uncle Tayaban used to fashion out towards perfection, the stories can cut both or several ways. One subjected to stereotyping can develop the art of denial and selective amnesia triggered by shame. Or react with anger, pride and even reverse discrimination and recrimination.

The stories reveal our own sensitivities and sensibilities, whether we admit or deny we're Igorots by birth, blood, roots, upbringing, residence or choice. I've met some Igorots who, by their language and behavior, give you the impression they dream of being an Ilocano or Tagalog. And Ilocanos hoping to be mistaken as Tagalogs. And Tagalogs who would readilyproclaim to all and sundry they've earned the right to be called Igorot.

"Igorot na rin ako, di ba, pare?" someone asked me, his eyes pleading for affirmation. “Nakatikim na ako ng pinikpikang manok gaya ng broiler, broiler-cull, cull, pato. Pati pinikpikang baboy at aso, natikman ko na, pare."

Several years ago, members of the Igorot Global Organization repaired to the Green Valley Country Club here for their second biennial consultation. Most came from abroad, taking the opportunity to renew ties with kin and the homeland, and relish pinikpikan that's hard to come by in their adoptive homes in the West.

Several locals also attended, mostly to listen, having failed to register as the fee was quite hazardous to their wallets. Before long, the discussions focused on collective and individual identity of the indigenous, similar to the debates (which eventually died out) on whether we, as a nation, should shrug off our colonial baptism after Spain's King Felipe and declare ourselves as Maharlika, not Filipinos.

The IGO issue to be resolved was: Shall we call ourselves Igorots? Or Cordillerans? (Another conquistador imposition easily dismissed as there are other mountains and places with such name.) Or what?

As the debates heightened, Eric de Guia, the noted filmmaker of "Mababangong Bangungot" (Perfumed Nightmare) fame stepped into the picture. "An Igorot by any other name is just as sweet," Eric, better known as Kidlat Tahimik (lightning combined with peace or tranquility or peaceful silence, and, I want to believe, sobriety), pointed out in a Shakespearian parody.

Eric, or Kidlat the Igorot by choice, would later repair to Nunggulunan, Hungduan where he built his Ifugao home. He's into documenting the vanishing rituals on the rice terraces with my cousin Reynaldo Lopez Nauyac, an Igorot by birth, orientation and work. Kidlat finds comfort in his G-string, never removing it even when he slips into a pair of jeans or pants.

For what he's doing, I often think Eric's more Igorot than I am. I'm referring to his work, not his G-string, the front end of which he once pulled out of his pants for me to see. To be continued. E-mail:rdacawi@yahoo.com for comments).