Land of Promise, Palawan
Retelling Magellan’s Southeast Asia
500 years ago in the early Summer of 1521, Magellan’s surviving voyagers wandered to an island that is still one of the most popular travel destinations in the Philippines. At that time it was already hosting frequent international visitors from China, Brunei, Indonesia, and Malaysia, to say the least. Though these were traders, not tourists. And the Europeans of Magellan’s Armada de Molucca fancied themselves explorers, though at this point they were more like survivors. The following is a fictional short story informed by real historical accounts and other anthropological data. Notes and sources on some of that data are also below.
Antonio Pigafetta pulled his paddle through the water and lifted it again, feeling like each time the paddle weighed just a bit more. He stared down at the wood clutched in his frail fingers. Finally the boat hit sand under the surf and he struggled to catch himself against the rail. When he straightened up he felt pain return to his stomach; a pain like there was a hole in the center of him.
He looked up and along the shoreline: the inlet was a beach of thick-grained sand to either side enclosed by towers of gray stone under green leaves. In the sand close by were several houses raised on stilts with thatched roofs. By now these sights were familiar to Antonio. Hunger and time had clouded his head to the point that memories of marble bridges and plazas in Venice were little more than dreams and fantasies.
Paddles cluttered against the floor of the boat. The crewmen from La Trinidad were climbing out. Antonio splashed his broken boots into the water after them, which soaked his feet instantly. But at least it spared his soles from the rough coral just under the sand.
A few men were standing ashore with embroidered wraps around their waists and upper legs, each with sheathed swords or long knives tucked in their belts. One also wore a bright yellow vest and a red headband that kept his long hair out of his eyes. Gold necklaces hung across his chest and thick gold earrings from both his ears. A dark scarf was hanging from one shoulder to the opposite hip. Pigafetta knew this was the leader — a datu or a raya — as the others around him were not quite so well-dressed.
Quietly and sluggishly, Pigafetta and the other men from La Victoria approached, cautiously keeping their tired hands off the swords at their own hips. They stopped several paces apart from the islanders, who seemed welcoming enough, calm as they were. In the corner of his eye, Pigafetta felt João Carvalho’s stare. He mustered a greeting in a local language, from what little he knew of it,
“Maupay,” he spoke. “Ako si Antonio…”
Antonio and the Armada officers carried through the motions of first contact and negotiation almost automatically. It was a familiar process by now. Gifts were offered: Spanish steel knives were the highest-value product they gave. And gifts were received: ginger was the highest-value product they received. The Venetian watched Captain-General Carvalho’s eyes glitter when a heavy jar of ginger root was opened in front of them on the sand.
Before the island Datu invited them into his home, he performed the customary sign of new friendship in these islands: a blood pact. With his newly acquired Spanish knife, he pulled aside his vest and drew blood from his tattooed chest. He didn’t even flinch. With one finger he swiped his own blood across his tongue and then his brow.
Each of the men from the boat did the same, the Venetian included. He pulled his stiletto from his belt and tried to hide his grimace as he pressed its point behind the buttons of his shirt. Pigafetta’s blood was warm on his own brow and metallic on his tongue.
Inside one of the houses, the Datu had his people present fruits on porcelain platters. As on the other islands, Pigafetta was offered coconut milk to drink and yellow figs to eat. Pigafetta leaned over the platters of figs arranged on a mat on the floor in front of him. Curiously, one platter held figs larger than any he’d seen before: half a cubit long and as thick as his arm. As Antonio marveled at the fig for its scale, the Datu offered to him another fig: a smaller one that fit in the palm of his hand. When he peeled it and finally ate it, Antonio found it to be the best fig he’d ever tasted…
This marked the end to their latest bout of starvation at sea. Antonio smiled and thanked his host, “Salamat, Datu!” And he asked the island’s name… “Unsay… ngalan diri?”
“Palawan,” the Datu answered proudly.
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Having restored his energy on sweet fruits and juice, Pigafetta ambled around the settlement. More crewmen had come ashore. The boats were making rounds between the shore and the Armada, carrying local foods out and wayward sailors in. Local islanders had gathered too: fishermen, hunters, warriors, and women with children. On the steps of their houses or on the rails of their boats, many were quietly watching from a distance. But some others were mingling with the crew in animated gestures and undecipherable words. Antonio recognized Hans the gunner taking lessons in blowpipes and in arrowheads of different lengths and materials; fish bone, iron, bamboo... Some locals were showing off enormous roosters, which evidently were prize animals not to be eaten. Two islanders set their roosters on the ground and demonstrated how they would exchange trinkets to gamble over whose rooster could best the other’s in a fight. Several young sailors seemed eager to throw in their own wagers already.
Captain-General Magallanes wouldn’t have seen such open revelry in his Armada, or so Pigaffeta imagined. But that God-fearing man was dead. And then Pigafetta found that he had wandered towards the officers: João Carvalho was in the middle of a conversation with Espinosa and D’Elcano.
“…until we procure navigators from one of these villages,” Espinosa was saying.
Still walking, Antonio heard d’Elcano reply, “We need provisions, everybody knows, but nobody knows if we’re closer to the Molucca Islands, or to Malacca city…”
João Carvalho, Magellan’s countryman from Portugal, tried to placate the others, “We’ll find our way. And whatever we need we’ll find between here and there. We’ll barter it or we’ll take it.”
Pigafetta didn’t linger to hear or see d’Elcano’s and Espinosa’s reactions. But he knew that the Spaniards generally mistrusted the Portuguese, even after these 2 years at sea.
“Buenos días, señor…”
Pigafetta looked up to see the mixed-blood boy from Brazil crossing his path. “Buenos días, niño!” Antonio returned the polite greeting with a smile and tousled little Carvalinho’s hair.
As he strode on, Pigafetta looked over his shoulder just as Carvalinho joined his father. That concluded the officers’ conversation for now. And turning his head forward again, Antonio Pigafetta found he had reached the edge of the town. At his side he found a corner of the natural stone wall half-hidden in green. Beyond lay a lake shimmering like emeralds under a cathedral of cliffs. Fruits and flowers of every color adorned the trees and cliff walls within. Fowls floated across the air and called to him in birdsong that he’d never heard before. The starving scholar of Venice found himself in the Land of Promise.
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On the opposite coast of that island of promise, a wind blowing from the northeast carried a ship with paper sails dyed blue. On its deck, the sounds of air and water were accompanied by rattan sticks clattering against each other. “River Dwellers” of Maynila, “taga — ilog” were training their hands, their bodies, and their instincts for armed combat.
Young Mabilis was squared off against an older opponent: about the same height, but visibly heavier. Even had a bit of a gut. And his arms looked rather soft; not muscular and certainly not wiry. And yet Mabilis couldn’t match the old warrior’s speed.
Mabilis flashed the baton directly at the opponent’s head. A smack from the other man’s stick intercepted it. Mabilis took three steps to the left, swinging the weapon three times: right, left, right. All met with three noisy blocks. Then the counter-attack came; Mabilis dodged, leaning their head to the left side but keeping their feet and hips in place. And then with haste and strength Mabilis twisted in the hips and the wrist to send a powerful blow from the left to the old man’s head.
But just when the strike should have cracked across that weathered face, instead something cracked across Mabilis’ knuckles. The loose stick knocked against the deck and the old man was already following up with a strike from the left. Mabilis’ empty right hand slipped under the attacker’s wrist and redirected the weapon from left to right. Mabilis reached with the left hand to steal the stick but caught only empty air.
The man had pulled the stick back and chambered for a third strike. Both hands blocked the attack at the man’s forearm before Mabilis had even registered it. But then the air left Mabilis’ chest as the warrior slammed their left hand into it. Mabilis flopped backwards against the deck with a thud.
Fellow Tagalogs scoffed, laughed, or cheered as Mabilis winced and tried to breathe, and then rolled over and got to one knee.
“Mabilis…” someone called. Mabilis opened their eyes and saw Salam kneeling and smiling. “Ayos ka lang ba?” the navigator asked with a chuckle. Are you alright? Salam wasn’t Tagalog, but had served enough masters to know several languages.
Mabilis physically couldn’t answer. Salam raised a hand and said, “teko mo na…” Wait a moment. Mabilis stared at Salam’s open hand. After a moment, Salam turned it toward their chest and breathed in deeply. Mabilis did the same, and it worked!
The two leaned against the rail of the ship, crouching. Mabilis found a sack they’d left under the rail before training. “Salamat, Salam.” Thank you, Salam. That phrase still felt funny for Mabilis to say, so they both chuckled at it. Mabilis pulled something small from the sack; it was neatly bundled in a banana leaf. Salam watched Mabilis open the wrapping to reveal a boiled sweet potato.
“I bought it on-shore yesterday. Want some?”
Salam happily accepted, “Terimah kasih, Mabilis!” Thank you, in Malay. And then in Tagalog, “do you know why you lost that fight?”
The smile faded from the youth’s face. “…I wasn’t fast enough,” was the eventual response.
Salam shook their head quietly.
“You saw how fast they were!”
Salam nodded, “yes, I did, but they weren’t faster than you. They were just on time.” The navigator’s words inspired only annoyance rather than insight. They continued, “Imagine you’re crossing the Pasig River in a bangka boat — I mean like as a race with just paddles — How do you win?”
“You paddle as fast as you can,” Mabilis answered without hesitation.
Still Salam’s head shook side-to-side, “if you and I ever race across a river, I’m gonna beat you.” And they wagged a finger at Mabilis.
Mabilis punched Salam’s arm and teased that they were too skinny, “payatot ka! You’d never keep up!” But that immediately triggered the pain in the young fighter’s freshly-bruised knuckles. Mabilis winced and squeezed the injured fist.
Salam laughed and finally explained, “Moving a boat fast requires paddling in a rhythm! …I would pull and push the paddle at just the right time. I’d be way ahead of you and I’d still be going looong after you’re out of breath!”
Mabilis pondered, and Salam continued, pointing up at the sails, “You see even with the wind, it helps to move at just the right speed to get over the waves. And speaking of that, that’s why you lost your balance, you weren’t even in rhythm with the boat!”
Mabilis scoffed and grabbed the sweet potato back out of Salam’s hand, then swallowed a big bite out of it. Salam pushed Mabilis at the shoulder and they both laughed, nearly spitting out their food.
The Raya-Matu’s adyong boat based off Chinese design continued on it’s southwest course; soon they would meet the grandfather of Manila’s royal family.
This is part 5 of Retelling Magellan’s Southeast Asia
Next Chapter: Follow the White Elephant, Brunei
Previous Chapter: Queen of Kipit, Mindanao
The sweet potato is native to Central and South America. In modern Filipino or Tagalog, it’s called “kamote,” From Spanish “camote,” from Náhuatl (native Mexican) “camotli.” But even before the Spanish brought the word (and some foods), genetic research indicates that varieties of American sweet potato were already in the Pacific Islands (“Polynesia”) 400–500 years before Spanish Acapulco-Manila trade. (900-1000 years before today).
But also what’s often translated as Pigafetta’s “sweet potato” in the western central Philippines might have been a species of yams. Yam species have various genetic origins in the Americas, West Africa, South Asia, and East Asia. Before the Europeans traveled between Africa and the East, Arabs and Indians were doing so, and bringing yams on their ships because they store well.
