Tamed by the Spirits

“Could you please drive me to the ilot? My baby has been crying since last night and I don’t know what to do,” my friend Manang Pia asked me some months back, her eyes drooping, her hair disheveled. Rocking her little boy, she would soothe him whenever he cried.

“Why don’t we go see your pediatrician?” I asked, puzzled that my friend is willing to endure an hour of bumpy drive to Virac, one of Itogon’s barangays, just in the outskirts of Baguio, to see her ilot or massage healer.

“I don’t think this one’s for his doctor. He’s so active maybe he has strained some muscles,” she said with certainty in her voice. I have been to blind reflexologists several times in the past when back pains would keep me wide awake at night. But babies being massaged? Their bodies look so fragile to be kneaded and pressed. Curious and eager to see just how effective ilots are, I agreed to her request.

The four of us, Pia’s two sisters and myself, and our restless little boy, went off to see the ilot, Baket Pitnay. She turned out to be an old woman of about 75, blind and paralyzed, confined to her bed. Manang Pia gave the ilot’s daughter the bread we bought at a bakery along Kias as she ushered us to her mother’s room. The seven-month-old boy’s eyes surveyed Baket Pitnay’s room that smelled of liniment. His eyes grew a little wider as Manang Pia handed him to the old woman, her wrinkled, sagging arms reaching for him.

Manang Pia told Baket Pitnay a few things about her baby: he has been crying the whole night, he was restless, and he would cry for no apparent reason. The old woman said maybe he has indeed twisted an arm or a leg. “That’s the way with small children,” she said softly, nodding her head.

Propped up by pillows behind her, Baket Pitnay sat on her wooden bed and began to massage the little boy’s neck, arms, back, and legs. She worked slowly and gently, her arthritic fingers adroitly pressing the boy’s flesh. She would put down the bottle of liniment beside her, groping for it later when her hands got dry. Her lips would move, forming inaudible words, perhaps praying to some spirit? The little boy would whimper once in a while, but kept silent for the most part of the “session.”

After about 30 minutes, the old woman said the little boy was okay. Manang Pia, now smiling and sharing anecdotes, thanked Baket Pitnay. When we got back to Manang Pia’s house, the boy was quiet but his face looked serene, the creases in his forehead gone, his eyes alert and shining. I was greatly impressed that the massage had proved effective.

I have nothing against ilots (for Tagalogs, hilot), or massage healers. I just can’t remember being brought to an ilot by my parents when I fell ill as a child. What I remember were thermometers, water bags, stethoscope, and BP apparatus inside the cabinet of our parents’ room. My siblings and I were also used to taking generic tablets that were commonly used in our hometown at the time: there’s sulfadiacin for fever, cough or colds, and sulfaguanadin for loose bowel. These were medicines given by the Belgian nuns from the infirmary in Bauko. But my most vivid recollection of illnesses was rather traumatic. Whenever we had lingering cough and colds, Papa would inject us with antibiotic, and we would embrace Mama as the needle hits our buttocks. Sometimes, it would be our mother who injected us as we tightly held on to our father. My parents are not doctors and I have yet to find out how and why they learned to do these things.

As my siblings and I grew older, we learned to be less dependent on medicines or injections. Although my two older sisters are nurses, and another older sister turned up a medical technologist, I ended up being allergic to hospitals and everything associated with illness and medicines. Despite, or perhaps because of their trainings, my sisters advise water therapy, rest, proper diet, and a dose of laughter over medicines whenever any one of us got sick.
Still, science has a rational way of explaining our discomforts and illnesses. Every illness has signs and symptoms; it can be either cured, prevented or managed. A strange experience, however, would teach me a valuable lesson on the mystical and spiritual.

Several months ago, I was awakened by my kidneys at about four in the morning. Just after closing the door of the rest room, I suddenly felt dizzy, my throat turning dry and my mouth tasting bitter at the same time. As I sat down on the couch, I felt like a bucket of ice had been splashed down my spine. An early riser, Aunt Letty came down and saw me looking helpless and weak.

“Are you ill?” she asked, taking my cold, clammy hands, her eyes wide with concern. My hands and feet were beginning to feel numb and I was getting nervous by the minute. Aunt Letty went hurriedly upstairs, in search for something. Unable to find what she was looking for, she went out to the porch, coming back with leeks or kutsay, an herb that smells like garlic when crushed.

“I couldn’t find a dengaw (the root of sweet flag),” she told my cousin who was now massaging my hands and feet. I found out later that dengaw, an aromatic root, is often used in rituals as sumang (antidote) to drive away evil spirits.

Looking grave while holding kutsay leaves, she stood beside me and prayed in Kankana-ey, calling out the spirits of our ancestors, asking them to forgive me if I have offended them in any manner.

“Please spare her from any illness or misfortune. Have pity on her and restore her health,” she murmured, crushing the leeks over my head. She continued to appeal to our ancestors while I silently prayed to God to heal me and spare me from untimely death. For the third time in my life, I could almost feel the hand of death grip me. We were silent for a few minutes and slowly, I began to feel warmer, my breathing steadier.

“Now, you look better. Na-am-amlingan ka samet. I think you have displeased some spirits. Maybe you accidentally stepped on their dwelling or met a bad spirit. Your lips were so white a while ago I got frightened,” Aunt Letty said.

Was it the strong smell of kutsay that brought me back to my senses? Or was it God’s way of letting me experience his power over life and death? Or maybe, just maybe, I have indeed upset spirits around me? I remembered asking some cousins why they have to offer (atang) to the spirits a serving of dishes they cooked during birthdays and other special occasions. Why does an uncle or an aunt suffering from a lingering illness have to butcher a pig and invite the community to partake of the food? Maybe the spirits got tired of my endless “whys.”

In this age of the Internet, palm tops, and other high tech gadgets, massage healers and evil spirits seem a leap back to time. But when one has first hand experience of the mystical and unexplainable, one can’t help but question, even abandon science, at least at that instance when one teeters between life and death. Baket Pitnay, Aunt Letty, mambunongs, mumbakis, alopagans, babaylans, and other traditional healers in different parts of the country bring us closer to our humanity, grounding us to truths about the limits of science and the mysteries of life.

Now, I stand back in quiet reflection when my father, an uncle or male cousin opens a bottle of wine, pours a little of it outside the window, as he offers a short prayer of thanksgiving to the spirits of our ancestors. I silently join them in their prayers, “Come join us in celebrating life.”