What your gut knows

by Pia Gray (France)

I didn't expect to find Philippines

The months leading up to my departure were filled with despair. News that my mom had fallen ill pained me in a way I couldn’t handle. Buried deep inside me rested unwavering faith, one that was fading but that I had been determined to restore. I was encouraged to go and quickly found myself purchasing a one-way ticket to a country I was born in, yet knew so little about. Months past and I was now preoccupied with my unremitting reverie, I had mapped out an entire adventure in my mind but was somehow still in Manila when all I wanted was to explore the archipelago- alone, in search of peace, inner silence. I sought to quiet the buzzing chatter of my mind, this complicated structure I deemed unaccountable. I had managed to get myself entangled in a relationship that took up most of my time and left me dithering. I'd always been the solo type and the purpose of my trip now seemed flawed. I decided to take Eli along with me anyway. We boarded flight after flight, traveling to Baguio, Cebu, Dumaguete, Siargao all the way to the very last leg of the trip, Siquijor. I was careful to save the best for last. It was everything I had built it up to be- magical and eerie all at once. An island known best for its folklore and Babaylans, the Philippines’ traditional healers, bridges between our physical world and the spiritual one. I was intrigued. I wanted to meet one, my spirit was calling for it. It wasn’t difficult to arrange, and soon a man named Alvin would meet me at the doorstep of our nipa hut, perched upright on the edge of a cliff. He was the conduit for my tête-à-tête with the ‘Godfather’, the oldest Babaylan on the island, a man held in high regard. Alvin explained that he didn’t speak a word of English and we agreed he would be my interpreter. I asked about payment and learned that Babaylans, in keeping with their tradition, do not accept money. I rode behind Eli on a scooter, Alvin led the way. A backdrop of perfectly aligned rows of green dazzled my senses. The scenery was thick with coconut trees all the way up to the mountain. A welcoming sound of laughter grew more audible as we drew nearer to the modest house. I recognized the smell of grilled corn as we walked up. We were greeted and offered some. We ate silently and I was reassured by its familiar charred and smoky flavor. The ‘Godfather’ took one glance at me, muttered something signalling me to follow him inside. Without the need for words, I lay down flat, my straightened back meeting the coolness of the tiled floor. A strange smell of smoke filled the room and immediately, I was covered in thick, black fumes. The ritual had begun. The smell was pervasive and stung my nostrils, it was unpleasant like the smell of burning rubber. I felt dizzy, and soon my eyelids were too heavy to keep open. I lay there vacillating between slumber and consciousness. He repeated what the healer was telling him in the dialect I couldn’t make sense of- an event that occurred a few years ago had disrupted my digestive system. I was a ball of nerves and my gut was a testament to it. Shortly after, I was kindly helped up and told I had to calm my roaring mind. The healer began cutting from a tree in his backyard, his wife collected the branches and placed them securely in a bag for me to take home. She spoke softly. Alvin translated her instructions, I was to drink the bark of Kalingag until I felt my blockages dissipate. We thanked them all warmly and Eli and I made our way back to our hut. The sun was setting as I sluggishly prepared myself to sleep. I tossed and turned restlessly that night, a nightmare forcefully waking me up. A pocket of air was wedged in between my lungs, I couldn’t catch my breath and I was frantic. Waking Eli up, still half asleep, I exclaimed “I don’t want this. I’m sorry.”