TAGO AND ITS CURSE
The common question for the three finalists in last year’s Search for Mutya ng Tago was: How would you describe Tago to a blind person?
As contestants groped for words, an answer formed in my head: Tago is like an orgasm---intense, beautiful, and above all, addictive!
Addiction is the essence of Tago’s curse.
My father once told me what is perhaps an apocryphal story that happened many, many years ago when Tago was still an agricultural horn of plenty; when birds hovered low over streams sparkling and pristine; when winds could be summoned by mere whistles from the unpainted lips of women winnowing rice under fruit-laden trees; when every year, at harvest time, Tago turned into a nerve center of commerce and trade, with people from as far as Luzon peddling their wares to farmers whose kalero dotted the fields like golden hills.
Lording over these peddlers with his multicolored blankets and mats was Simon, a Batangueno with an easy smile. One early morning, as he was leaving Tago for Batangas, Simon was robbed and murdered.
What was strange about Simon’s death was not the single stab wound in the form of a tiny crescent moon on his chest; it was the soil that crammed his mouth.
It took an old mediko who lived by the Camagong river to unravel the mystery. In the throes of death, he said, Simon must have eaten soil and uttered a curse. Eating soil is the ultimate form of curse because it’s irreversible and everlasting and condemns the person or place for whom the soil is eaten to live a life of misery and misfortune!
The only way to shake off the curse, the mediko said, is for Tagon-ons to leave Tago and find their luck somewhere. But because the curse has imbued Tago with a certain charm to make it hard for them to leave, many continue to suffer.
And like them, I’ve chosen to stay.
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