My mother used to
tell us the legend of how Barrio Lalab got its name during our tender years.
The story circles around Kagiyaw, a fisherman who made his living down the
brackish portion of the Jal-o during his days. By his days, she meant the time
when the Spanish colonizers were still arguing whether the world is round or
not.
The story started
with a decision. Kagiyaw decided to fish down the Jal-o one morning in summer
despite the threat of a dreaded river monster called Kugtong. Soon enough, as
he was rowing his boat downstream the river, the giant grouper swallowed
him—and perhaps his boat. Wow, that's a really huge fish if it can swallow a
boat! But Kagiyaw is the protagonist of the story. So he did not instantly die,
otherwise the story would not go further than that. Besides, my mother's story
was not a tragedy. It was meant to inspire us despite the apparent tribulations
life gives us from time to time.
So, while in the
belly of the giant grouper, Kagiyaw heard a voice of a fairy or a bird singing,
"Eab-eabi! Eab-eabi!" Was it a kingfisher? The fear and
disorientation took flight, and he remembered the knife tied to his hip. He
grabbed it and started eab-eab—stabbing the belly of the Kugtong until
he got out of it and breathed the fresh, sweet morning air.
His resurrected
life.
And the birth of
the barrio named Eaeab—Lalab.
Kagiyaw swam with
the current and led the dead fish ashore. He salvaged the best part of it and
called the attention of other fishermen to help him out with the carcass. Those
who joined him scaled the Kugtong in what is now called Sitio Himbis,
where, on the bank of the river, one could note the scaled formation of some
stones.
Soon enough, the
news of the feat of Kagiyaw spread out. People from all over were attracted by
the prospect of taking a part of the carcass of the vanquished Kugtong and of
meeting the man of the hour. Some of them managed to have a share, which they
sun-dried for preservation. Today, the place where they sun-dried the fish is
called Sitio Kaeug-a, meaning a place of dried fish.
Some of the meat
rotted after long exposure to the elements. The place where some of the carcass
decomposed is now called Sitio Ban-os. Residents thus decided to bury
the rotten meat to get rid of the foul odor. That place was called Sitio
Maeubong, signifying the place where they buried the remains of the
Kugtong.
People upstream
along the brackish Jal-o waited for their errands to arrive with their prize,
only to see them come empty-handed. That place is now known as Sitio Hueaton,
or the place where people waited.
Upriver, people
grew impatient with the waiting and decided to catch fish for their lunch. They
were those from the place called Sitio Pinamunitan, meaning a place
where people decided to catch fish through line, hook, and sinker.
The story began
with a personal decision on the part of Kagiyaw. It ended with a decision made
by a community whose waiting had failed them. They chose to follow the river
themselves and go fishing.
And so, along the
Jal-o, the story of a fisherman who escaped the belly of a giant grouper lives
on in the names of places. The river carries their memories downstream, past
Lalab, toward Banga Bay and the Sibuyan Sea.
The people may
have long departed, and the Kugtong may have returned to the realm of legend.
But the names remain, each preserving a fragment of the story: where the fish
was scaled, where its meat was dried, where its remains rotted and were buried,
where people waited, and where they finally decided to fish for themselves.
Perhaps that is
how a community remembers—not only through the stories passed down by our
mothers, but also through the names of places we continue to inhabit.
The river flows
on.
The decisions
remain.
