2009 in a nutshell,

The UBBOG founding members (left to right)

Ton, Maya, Junley, (Roch), Nap, Eki, Sharma, Melvin, Freda, Jm, Charisse, Clifford

welcomes new members into the family:

Rochelle (third from right)

Rocky, Gawani, Florenda, Jerema, Jen, Richard

*the lelot balatong was yummy*

Carol (in gray, between eki and sharma), Evita (in orange)

Mac and Aileen.

*In Sagada, now Melvin's home.

Agubbog!

Of posters and plans

To begin with, we need to bow to Sacha's beautiful photo and design of our poster. The poster made me want to keep one for myself and just put it up in my room, sadly however, the only entities my room entertains are ghosts, so it is highly inadvisable to do so. Still, a bow *takes a bow*

Next, Valentines Day. We had plans for that event, and it would have been quite an amusing thing to do. Unfortunately, we had to bin that plan for one particular reason: the limitations of time. It is quite unfortunate that for an event that celebrates such a universal concept, it only gets to be celebrated for one single day. Although of course, the advertisements like to begin early. Perhaps we could move our amusement-generating plan next year and start early too?

Flintstone's Club and the Igorota

By Freda Dao-ines

My dad said my calf muscles, butoy in my native Kankana-ey tongue, are big and round camote tubers. My very objective but highly euphemistic friend told me they are the "most developed ambulating device" she has ever seen. And I see my legs as the flogging club that Fred Flintstone carries on his shoulder when he goes out to hunt for dinosaurs.

Yes, I am talking about my calves, which are distinctly muscular, same as almost every Igorot woman-be they pencil-thin or living in the lowlands, chances are their calves will give away their Igorot heritage. I had a classmate before who could have been a Ford model if her body and legs were a bit longer, but once her pants were peeled off her legs, the unmistakable bulge showed up.

The Latin anatomist termed the calf muscles gastrocnemius. The gastrocnemius contracts when one is walking or standing. For a bodybuilder whose goal in life is to flex his muscles, the developed gastrocnemius is welcomed. But for a woman who has to wear a skirt, with half her legs showing, a developed gastrocnemius is a bane, like contraband to be hidden.

A well-toned body, especially the abs and glutes, is sexy, but a thick ankle and calf might be mistaken for a pine branch! This is the fate of the notorious Igorota's calves.

Nobody seems to know what to do with their calves; the Igorotas are even in a love-hate relationship with it. Some Igorotas hail their "flogging clubs" with glowing pride while others shun their "kamotes" from public eyes.

Many theories try to explain why the Igorota's calves were such. The forerunners Charles Darwin and Herbert Spencer would account it to their famous mantra "survival of the fittest, elimination of the unfit."

Living in the mountains, with its waterfalls and morning mists, looked tempting only on postcards as my Lolo vehemently agreed to. He was around at a time when men still go out into the woods to hunt for wild boars or any game and even birds, to be roasted for dinner. Women were not exempted from such physically demanding tasks of feeding the family. The women hiked for hours up to plant or harvest their fields in the next mountain from their homes. The gastrocnemius developed then, mainly, for them to survive the twisted paths, endure long hours on the trail, and run after a pig's warm flesh.

On anatomical view, the law of "use and disuse" may shed light on the not-so-mysterious Igorota's calves. Accordingly, a muscle is developed if it is used for physical activity, and may grow to accommodate the person's lifestyle. If it is not used often, it will stay the same if not sag altogether. I don't put much faith in this theory, though, when it comes to the Igorota's legs. Except for the environmental factor, women in the lowlands who can be as active physically as the Igorota still don't have bulging calves.

Young Igorotas today, although they don't have to climb mountains or endure torturous paths as their ancestors did, are still endowed with sinewy gastrocnemius. In a society obsessed with perfect body proportions, its notions reaching the traditional view of beauty, it is understandable why young Igorotas are embarrassed with their legs and forever wrap them in pants. For their ceaseless "why me?" genetics perhaps pose the answer. It is all in the genes, they say; the good ones you would want to flaunt and the bad ones to be treated as a plague. However, one can't say possessing big gastrocnemius is bad, since others see the good in it.

So far, I was not able to dig up myths surrounding the Igorota's calves. I would like to think there was once an Igorot Adam who pleaded to Kabunian to give him an Eve as brawny as he is. So Kabunian fashioned a woman, not just from lumps of clay, but also gave her arms and calves of stone before baking and breathing life into her! Or if it is a contemporary myth, perhaps Flintstone was hunting in the Cordilleras when he lost his flogging club, and here comes an Igorot man who picked it up and gave it to his wife to strengthen her legs.

The measly legend I have concocted in 10 seconds may sound silly, but I have heard others as silly. My former biochemistry instructor's theory is that Igorots eat too much potato that they were stored on their calves! (Perhaps Kabunian did not give the Igorot Eve calves made of stone but of kamotes instead?) I would have accepted her theory if not for the glaring fact that women from other ethnic groups or tribes, if they become fat or ate too much mashed potatoes or French fries, would still have slender legs and calves.

Whatever the reasons behind my bulky, ambulatory flogging device, I couldn't care less. Along with other equally-endowed women, I'd like to think of my gastrocnemius as an Igorota's trademark. It is a trademark of endurance, strength, and a great sense of adventure. Passed on to me through a chromosome strand, my butoys are the trophies of my ancestors' struggles to conquer a savage land, and later live alongside the tempers of nature.

There may be time I wish I also possess the slender and seemingly endless legs of my lowland counterpart, especially when showing off legs are necessary. But I take heart in the thought that mine is also a great asset because I have in my legs a living tradition and the history of my Igorot culture.

Now, don't I wish there were still wild boars to hunt, and a wilderness to get lost in?

Diminishing memories and a tree

By Rachel Pitlongay

THE dispute over the tree began after the last typhoon of October when the new neighbor got to thinking that the tree might get uprooted by one more storm and fall on his newly-built house, such as what recent incidents have shown.

Content with the belief that the old man from whom he bought his land had also included the tree, he immediately filed for a permit to cut it down. It was around that moment that my cousin heard about the neighbor's intentions, reporting it to the immediate heads of our family who immediately contested any possible outcomes that would result to a tree cutting.

The dispute took itself legally and went to the barangay officials where it was summarily agreed that the tree would be cut down to avoid the real possibility of it falling upon the neighbor's head.

My mother was greatly saddened by the outcome, and a little angered by it too, because for her, the tree was a legacy from their late father who planted it to mark the division between his land and the old man's. The memory of her father reminding them to take care of that tree still echoes in my mother's mind, and perhaps this was the reason for her anger, for she feels that somehow, they are betraying their father's memory, which had already begun when her siblings sold part of his land.

I never knew him, this man who planted that tree, but I knew from stories that he was poor; living in a time where having land does not entail wealth, unless it also includes a herd of cows or seeds to plant. He claimed a whole mountain side though, and took care of it, perhaps anticipating the future where his children have prospered by themselves and will need land to build their own homes and to give to their own children.

Such foresight, if indeed it was, proved beneficial as my mother and aunts and uncles built their homes and had their own families. In family occasions of old, these siblings would get together along with their spouses and children, coming up to 50 people at the most, excluding the littlest of cousins or nephews and nieces.

My grandfather's land had diminished as the years passed. Typhoons stripped a little soil and caused bigger landslides. Some neighbors encroached and went beyond the agreed boundaries.

Mostly however, some of my aunts and uncles sold a few square meters, mainly on the sly or perhaps because they believe that it is their right and their other siblings do not deserve to know; causing a great deal of heart ache that was discussed only in whispers.

Like the tree, the land had been the subject of disputes, internally and externally. Unlike the tree however, the land had been saved somehow, and my generation will get its own piece of legacy.

Hopefully, we will keep it better than our elders, even if most of us haven't set foot on that land for years as we scattered around the world. It is yet home. I hope that it will still be there though when everyone comes home, unlike the tree, which would be cut down before this year ends, unremarkable to us grandchildren, and secretly mourned only by my mother, and her siblings as one more thing lost to memories.

To join Ubbog, writers in Ibaloi, Kankanaey, Iluko, Ifugao, Bontoc, Kalinga, Kalanguya as well as in English and Filipino below 30 years old may send manuscripts composed of any of the following: 5 poems or essays or 3 short stories or one-act plays to ubbogcordillera@gmail.com.

Marapait: For the Bitter and the Sweet

By Chinee Sanchez-Palatino

THEY are the beautiful receptionists greeting you a warm welcome amid the frigid breeze as you enter Baguio that you cannot but smile back at them. For some visitors however they are like little stars placed in a green sky -- visibly shining still in the midst of a bright sunny day. It is as if you are only an inch away from heaven, they say. On a gloomy, rainy day moreover they are like cheerleaders trying to perk you up.

With its sun-colored petals, one might imagine it is sweetly smiling. It is one of Baguio's trademarks indeed.

Marapait is the local term for the wild sunflowers growing like grass here in Baguio City -- common and abundant. How it got its name is because of its bitter-tasting leaves. Mara is an Ilocano term for "parang" (like, similar to) while pait, as we know it in Filipino means bitter.

But these Marapait are more than just an apple to the eye. For a Baguio local like Manong Larry, the mere sight of it brings him back to his childhood, to the simple pleasures in life and to the Baguio he had known before.

Having stayed here in Baguio for 32 years now, Manong Larry saw Baguio's transformation in the same way the Marapaits served as a witness to it as well. But his memories with the Marapait when he was just eight or so could never be altered. During his elementary years in a public school, he and his classmates used Marapait as floor wax whenever they were to clean the classroom.

"Pinagdodonate kasi kami ng titser namin 'nun ng floor wax," Manong Larry recalls.

But instead of buying one, he and his other classmates just brought stem of Marapait with leaves. They just continuously beat the stem against the floor. A glossy but greenish floor was the result. This obviously left an impression on his memory for they had fun while doing their responsibility.

Since Manong Larry's recollections was in the early 1980s, there where not much commercial toys unlike today where supplies are overflowing.

He and his playmates call the Marapait game tumba-tumba the goal is to "knock-out" the wild sunflower using a stick. Imagining it is an "enemy" they derive joy when the Marapait finally fall down. Insects living in the Marapait area were, in his own words like snowflakes dispersing as they hit the Marapait.

Moreover, that these wild sunflowers have its proven medicinal value is sutured with his memory of the childhood crush who threw stone at him because he was teasing her. He was hit in the forehead that he and his friends rushed at the back of their campus to get some Marapait leaves.

Of course, they also do the popular "she loves me, she loves me not," picking the petals until there's no more.

Manong Larry had a sudden shift in tone as he recalls how their place in Balsigan looked like before.

But the hills Manong Larry was talking about were now teeming with houses. He said a place near Balsigan was once a vegetable and rose garden but it is now a subdivision.

Bulldozers came and the other areas with a lot of Marapait where flattened and constructed into a road.

As Baguio becomes more and more urbanized, more and more areas are turned in to roads and if not roads residential or commercial lots, more and more Marapaits are cut down as well.

The mushrooming of houses here and there might perhaps be attributed to the growing population of Baguio in relation with its further urbanization.

Sweet smile, bitter taste. In a nutshell, these are the basic characteristics of Marapait. And just like the Marapait, Manong Larry's memories of these wild sunflowers were a mix of the bitter and the sweet. On the other hand, Baguio's continued urbanization is as bitter and as sweet. Today, what is left of the old Baguio, we try to preserve amid developments. For feedbacks and comment please email the writer: Xien81@yahoo.com or text 09174415398. Email Ubbog Cordillera Young Writers at ubbogcordillera@gmail.com.

Poetry and the Ibaloi Literary Tradition

By Melvin Magsanoc

THE Ibaloi literary tradition is an oral tradition; thus, it doesn't have the art of writing poetry.

Poetic lines are found in other literary genres such as the budikay (riddles), ba-diw (chants), and songs. The Ibaloi sayings, idioms, curses, and praises are also poetic in nature. Most of which are metaphorical.

But most of these literary pieces remain in the mouth of the Ibalois while some are written in personal journals like anthologies, and researches.

Before, the Ibalois weren't able to develop a system of writing although the spoken language is well-developed. Everything in Ibaloi is spoken.

The Ibalois started to learn how to write after the Americans in the early 1900s taught them the ABCs, However, not everybody was able to write and so even the brightest chanter wasn't able to write his chants.

And even if there were those who learned how to write, creatively writing and translating these literary pieces were not the main concern. The only book that was translated is the New Testament of the Bible.

The Ibaloi culture doesn't also put much emphasis on the literary arts. The focus of learning was more on the industrial and agricultural arts. The riddles, for instance, were just favorite past times and a good social activity in gatherings. Nobody has really taken the job of being a literary genius.

The Ibalois gather not to hear somebody deliver his speech or oration but to perform rituals and ceremonies.

If somebody has to speak, it is the mambunong (local priest) or the nagka-ama (elders) presiding the rituals and ceremonies.

At present, most Ibalois can read and write and even write poems. Many studied in the universities but only a few would take up literary arts and write poetry. There's a minimal interest in it.

Up to now, the industrial and the agricultural arts are the main concern of the people. And the use of the Ibaloi language is also becoming limited. Most would only use it at home and with fellow Ibalois.

My fellow Ibalois use other languages at work, in school, and in other institutions. The English language, Filipino language, and the regional language Ilocano became the dominant language of the Ibalois in the city.

Most became Christians also and have done away with the rituals and ceremonies which have these poetic lines. Who would recite the mambunong's chants since there are no more mambunongs?

But I'm happy because lately there's a growing interest among linguists and intellectuals in the Ibaloi language.

Hence, I'm very much happy to share what I know about the language. Just a week ago, an instructor from UP Los Banos, Monica Macansantos, the daughter of Palanca-winning poet Butch Macansantos and UP Baguio Chancellor Priscilla Macansantos, who is doing her paper about the use of languages in their respective communities, asked me about the Ibaloi language.

UP Baguio, in partnership with the National Commission on Culture and the Arts (NCCA), initiated a Cordillera Literary competition and one of the target languages is the Ibaloi language.

Baguio City is also celebrating its centennial year as a chartered city and I think it is just appropriate that its native beginnings would be recognized. One of it is its Ibaloi heritage and that the use of the Ibaloi language should flourish here.

With these initiatives and the continued use and appreciation and support from other people, it's not impossible that the Ibaloi language be intellectualized.

And so long as more Ibalois will write poems in their language and put to writing these oral literary pieces, the Ibaloi literary tradition will no longer only be in the oral tradition. There would be poetry as part of its literary genre and that there would be a word equivalent for poetry in Ibaloi.

Literature brings back 'relics'

By Charisse C. Acquisio

NOVEMBER is usually attributed to burning lamps on the eaves of our homes and setting out food for the departed.

In like manner, one could feel that the veil between the two separate worlds is just thin. Thus, November would always pull me back to my Lola's memoirs.

As a cultural practice, we set fires and light torches near our houses to guide her and other bereaved family members to the funeral meal that awaited them. Then, we would gather as complete families to eat, drink, make music, dance, and celebrate the love that we continue to share with them.

As the burning torch would keep its blaze, it always brings me to medias res when Lola used to tell stories.

Most of her stories speak volumes to Cordillera's past and even present philosophies and belief systems. In one way or another, her stories brought out my indulgence to the fascinating facets of Literature.

Every time my Lola is done sharing a chapter of her story, I'd always think -- if the history of Cordillera was not exactly written and, if its literature was not thoroughly transmitted, or they were at least hinted, in the dump.

For rummaging through its foul purlieus, I had several times been surprised and shocked to find relics of my own life tossed out there to blow away or not.

And yet not the blow that something else was, something that impressed me even more is with how closely the dump reflected the village's intimate life. This tingling thought often gets in my mind whenever I get to recall the story of my Lola about the relics of her nuang or carabao.

She once had this carabao, whose picked skeleton lay out somewhere in Bakun. Her nuang had been incurably crippled with no much reason to consider. She had worked then for months to make her nuang well, had fed it by hand, curried it, and talked to her forefather into having iron braces made for the carabao's front legs.

Although, Lola had not known that the nuang would have to be destroyed. A few days later, she found the nuang's skinned body, with the braces still on his crippled front legs, lying on the dump.

Now, I've been thinking, not even finding the nuang's body cured me of going to the dump, though my father forbade me on pain of cholera or worse.

The place fascinated me, as it should have. For this gave me the most tantalizing glimpses into our neighbors' lives and our own; it provided an aesthetic distance from which to know myself, ourselves.

The village dump was our poetry and our history.

We took it home with us by any vehicle, bringing back into the village, the things the village had used and thrown away.

Probably, the best way for us to keep our treasures which, always depict our rich culture, is to deem just how helpful literature is I our lives. Yes, it's maybe seldom useful, but always memorable.

I remember lola's nuang and her stories; I regret her yet. I regret her more whenever I hear elderly stories and chants during mourning nights.

Hence, in loving memory of our bereaved "chanters and story-tellers", let their chants and stories be recreated into any would-be-remarkable pieces that rather depict the rich signs of our culture.