USABAKER
White Belt
- Max login streak
- 13 day(s)
I was cleaning out the family room closet to remove the original warped pressboard shelving that had been there since the house was built in 1986. On the very top shelf were several old family photo albums and boxes untouched for years. As I moved everything down, I noticed a stack of six objects, each wrapped in old newspaper. When I opened one of the bundles, I realized they were sets of Arnis sticks, traditional Filipino fighting sticks, that I had completely forgotten about after storing them away upon return from a trip to the Philippines.
The moment I saw them, the memories of how I acquired them came back.
Whenever I travel to the Philippines, I usually look for handcrafted weapons to add to my collection. Most of the time, these are knives or bolos made in small barangays (villages). In 2016, one of my friends who was studying Filipino stick fighting asked me if I could find him a genuine set of Arnis sticks while I was in the Philippines visiting family and friends. As a past student of Sil Lum and later Goju-Ryu, I knew exactly what he wanted. By genuine, he meant handmade, the old way,
At first, I thought this would be easy. You can find commercial fighting sticks almost anywhere in the Philippines, especially in tourist areas. What I was looking for, however, was different. Traditional Arnis sticks made from Bahi, the dense heartwood from the center core of a coconut tree, are harder to find and are usually made by small craftsmen rather than factories.
After arriving at Manila International Airport, we met up with family and loaded into an older Toyota Hiace van for the long drive to Naga City. There were seven of us packed inside, along with luggage for the trip. As we made our way through Metro Manila and eventually onto the highway south, I could hear the van's manual transmission struggling. Having worked as a mechanic years earlier, I recognized the sounds immediately. The transmission whined loudly between shifts and rattled badly under load.
I mentioned my concerns to the driver and told him I did not think the transmission would survive the trip. He laughed and replied, "The mechanic said it would be fine." I responded sharply that the mechanic didn't know what he was talking about. Only later did I realize the mechanic he quoted was sitting in the front passenger seat listening to the conversation.
Several hours later, while climbing through the winding mountain roads near Bitukang Manok in Quezon Province, the transmission finally failed. The van came to a stop on the side of the road just as the sun was beginning to rise. Being early in the morning, the air was still cool and clean, and there was a peace of sorts as we sat at the edge of the forest, listening to my brother-in-law and the mechanic discuss the predicament they had put us in. A mist hung over the trees, and the sounds of birds echoed through the forest while everyone tried to figure out what to do next. Eventually, after a long wait, a cousin arrived in an SUV and took us the rest of the way to Naga City.
After spending a few days visiting family and recovering from the long overnight trip, the search for the fighting sticks finally began. Before arriving in the Philippines, we had contacted a trusted family friend and told her what I was looking for, authentic handmade Arnis sticks, not the polished commercial versions sold in markets and tourist shops. Through a chain of conversations and local contacts, she eventually found someone who claimed to know where traditional sticks were still being made. The problem was that there was no phone number, no storefront, and no exact address. All we had was a name and the location of a remote barangay somewhere near the Mayon Volcano region. The only way to find out more was to travel there in person and ask questions.
Early the next morning, we left the busy streets of Naga City and drove farther and farther into the rural regions of Bicol. The paved roads slowly gave way to rough stretches of concrete, coral rock, and dirt worn down by weather and time. The farther we traveled, the more isolated the landscape became. At the base of Mayon Volcano, we entered a barangay that felt almost untouched by the modern world. Small nipa houses stood scattered along the roadside beside weathered hollow-block buildings stained dark from years of humidity and tropical rain. Electricity came from generators somewhere in the distance; you could hear the steady hum drifting through the warm air. There was no running water, and certainly no western-style comforts. I learned that quickly when I needed to use the restroom.
When we finally stopped, our friend began making inquiries with the local residents. Conversations in the Bicol dialect passed between groups of men while I waited quietly inside the vehicle, unable to understand a single word. Every so often, one of the men would glance toward me through the open window with a cautious, almost suspicious look before returning to the conversation. The atmosphere was not openly hostile, but it was clear I was out of place.
Eventually, our friend walked back to the car and quietly told me I needed to stay behind while she and one other person from our party went farther into the barangay. Foreigners, she explained, were not always welcome where she was going. They disappeared down a narrow path with several of the men, leaving me alone to wait.
For the next thirty-five or forty minutes, all I could hear was the distant hum of generators, the occasional bark of a dog, roosters crowing, and muffled conversations of the locals. I remember wondering whether this entire search had been a dead end, or whether, somewhere deeper in the village, craftsmen were still making the sticks the traditional way, hidden from the commercial world outside.
When our friend finally returned, she asked me for partial payment for the seven sets I had requested. She handed the pesos to one of the men accompanying her, then, as we drove away, explained that the sticks would be handmade from Bahi, the dense heartwood from the center core of a coconut tree. Because they were crafted traditionally and not mass-produced, it would take several days before they were ready.
A few afternoons later, our friend arrived carrying seven sets of fighting sticks wrapped in old newspaper.
Now, nearly ten years later, I found them again, tucked away on a forgotten closet shelf exactly where I had left them. I still do not know why I bought seven sets instead of just one, but somehow it seemed important at the time. These aren't standard training gear; they are traditional Arnis sticks made from Bahi wood. Sliding my fingers over them, I felt the familiar smooth texture and the distinct, dense weight that makes Bahi so formidable. Hard to find, meticulously crafted by local artisans rather than mass-produced in a factory on machines.
I immediately contacted my friend in the Philippines to tell her I had found them and thanked her once again. She was the one who helped me make the trip to track them down in the first place. The journey turned out to be far more memorable and mysterious than I ever expected, especially with the secrecy of the negotiations and the areas of that remote village where I was not allowed to follow her. Looking back, that journey is now a fond memory.
I still do not know what I will do with the sticks themselves, but I am preparing a long-overdue gift to send her to say thank you once more for everything.
The moment I saw them, the memories of how I acquired them came back.
Whenever I travel to the Philippines, I usually look for handcrafted weapons to add to my collection. Most of the time, these are knives or bolos made in small barangays (villages). In 2016, one of my friends who was studying Filipino stick fighting asked me if I could find him a genuine set of Arnis sticks while I was in the Philippines visiting family and friends. As a past student of Sil Lum and later Goju-Ryu, I knew exactly what he wanted. By genuine, he meant handmade, the old way,
At first, I thought this would be easy. You can find commercial fighting sticks almost anywhere in the Philippines, especially in tourist areas. What I was looking for, however, was different. Traditional Arnis sticks made from Bahi, the dense heartwood from the center core of a coconut tree, are harder to find and are usually made by small craftsmen rather than factories.
After arriving at Manila International Airport, we met up with family and loaded into an older Toyota Hiace van for the long drive to Naga City. There were seven of us packed inside, along with luggage for the trip. As we made our way through Metro Manila and eventually onto the highway south, I could hear the van's manual transmission struggling. Having worked as a mechanic years earlier, I recognized the sounds immediately. The transmission whined loudly between shifts and rattled badly under load.
I mentioned my concerns to the driver and told him I did not think the transmission would survive the trip. He laughed and replied, "The mechanic said it would be fine." I responded sharply that the mechanic didn't know what he was talking about. Only later did I realize the mechanic he quoted was sitting in the front passenger seat listening to the conversation.
Several hours later, while climbing through the winding mountain roads near Bitukang Manok in Quezon Province, the transmission finally failed. The van came to a stop on the side of the road just as the sun was beginning to rise. Being early in the morning, the air was still cool and clean, and there was a peace of sorts as we sat at the edge of the forest, listening to my brother-in-law and the mechanic discuss the predicament they had put us in. A mist hung over the trees, and the sounds of birds echoed through the forest while everyone tried to figure out what to do next. Eventually, after a long wait, a cousin arrived in an SUV and took us the rest of the way to Naga City.
After spending a few days visiting family and recovering from the long overnight trip, the search for the fighting sticks finally began. Before arriving in the Philippines, we had contacted a trusted family friend and told her what I was looking for, authentic handmade Arnis sticks, not the polished commercial versions sold in markets and tourist shops. Through a chain of conversations and local contacts, she eventually found someone who claimed to know where traditional sticks were still being made. The problem was that there was no phone number, no storefront, and no exact address. All we had was a name and the location of a remote barangay somewhere near the Mayon Volcano region. The only way to find out more was to travel there in person and ask questions.
Early the next morning, we left the busy streets of Naga City and drove farther and farther into the rural regions of Bicol. The paved roads slowly gave way to rough stretches of concrete, coral rock, and dirt worn down by weather and time. The farther we traveled, the more isolated the landscape became. At the base of Mayon Volcano, we entered a barangay that felt almost untouched by the modern world. Small nipa houses stood scattered along the roadside beside weathered hollow-block buildings stained dark from years of humidity and tropical rain. Electricity came from generators somewhere in the distance; you could hear the steady hum drifting through the warm air. There was no running water, and certainly no western-style comforts. I learned that quickly when I needed to use the restroom.
When we finally stopped, our friend began making inquiries with the local residents. Conversations in the Bicol dialect passed between groups of men while I waited quietly inside the vehicle, unable to understand a single word. Every so often, one of the men would glance toward me through the open window with a cautious, almost suspicious look before returning to the conversation. The atmosphere was not openly hostile, but it was clear I was out of place.
Eventually, our friend walked back to the car and quietly told me I needed to stay behind while she and one other person from our party went farther into the barangay. Foreigners, she explained, were not always welcome where she was going. They disappeared down a narrow path with several of the men, leaving me alone to wait.
For the next thirty-five or forty minutes, all I could hear was the distant hum of generators, the occasional bark of a dog, roosters crowing, and muffled conversations of the locals. I remember wondering whether this entire search had been a dead end, or whether, somewhere deeper in the village, craftsmen were still making the sticks the traditional way, hidden from the commercial world outside.
When our friend finally returned, she asked me for partial payment for the seven sets I had requested. She handed the pesos to one of the men accompanying her, then, as we drove away, explained that the sticks would be handmade from Bahi, the dense heartwood from the center core of a coconut tree. Because they were crafted traditionally and not mass-produced, it would take several days before they were ready.
A few afternoons later, our friend arrived carrying seven sets of fighting sticks wrapped in old newspaper.
Now, nearly ten years later, I found them again, tucked away on a forgotten closet shelf exactly where I had left them. I still do not know why I bought seven sets instead of just one, but somehow it seemed important at the time. These aren't standard training gear; they are traditional Arnis sticks made from Bahi wood. Sliding my fingers over them, I felt the familiar smooth texture and the distinct, dense weight that makes Bahi so formidable. Hard to find, meticulously crafted by local artisans rather than mass-produced in a factory on machines.
I immediately contacted my friend in the Philippines to tell her I had found them and thanked her once again. She was the one who helped me make the trip to track them down in the first place. The journey turned out to be far more memorable and mysterious than I ever expected, especially with the secrecy of the negotiations and the areas of that remote village where I was not allowed to follow her. Looking back, that journey is now a fond memory.
I still do not know what I will do with the sticks themselves, but I am preparing a long-overdue gift to send her to say thank you once more for everything.
