By Conrad J. Benedicto

“It was a light bonus ending to each spiritually exacting evening. ”

At the end of each evening Ipat, it is customary to eat the blessed food offerings. It is also customary for the shaman to read fortunes based on the order in which a subject picks the different food items: turmeric rice, hard boiled egg, stewed chicken, and a glass of water. The trio who got their fortunes read was decided by a raffle. For the first two nights, I watched Den carefully study each person as they made their selections. Faisal, who I must say, kept announcing how tasty the chicken was, translated the shaman’s readings. It was a light bonus ending to each spiritually exacting evening. The excited discussions about how accurately Den seemed to have described dramas and storylines currently weaving through each subject's life provided great conversation the next day.

On the third and final night, I drew the last slot. At first I was excited about having my fortune read, but how many times had I encountered epic tales of woe that began with some wrinkled wisewoman/man making a prediction? Den was definitely not wrinkled—he had flawless skin—but still, I had no room in my life for whatever he might see, even if I did make sure to choose that chicken stew last. I hastily proffered up my paper for someone to take.

The beneficiary was extremely grateful, and I was commended for my generosity, but I knew the guilty truth: I did it to save my own hide. I held my breath as Faisal translated Den’s reading of the person, and was finally able to let it out when the fortune ended without a calamity. I would have felt so guilty, and probably would have had to come along if Den had invoked some risky quest involving pain and sacrifice. Sigh of relief.

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Memories of Mindanao, Part 12