The Palapâ Oath: proof in the pudding

Manila's mossbacks are wont to say to anyone fresh out of the boat from the peer that the thing you're apt to lose first when you're new in the city is your virginity; the last being your accent. In 1971, just three-days after shedding off my high school toga, I couldn't wait to see the Capital and took the defunct Air Manila's last Fokker flight out of Mumungan airport in Lanao (before it had closed down forever) and never looked back. I did struggle with my promdi accent for a while especially in my freshman year but I eventually licked it, and along flowed my innocence as well. Barely a year right out of college, I went abroad and again I never looked back. To think of it, I virtually spent half my life outside the country then, but through all my adventures and miscues, one thing had never left me: my constant craving for palapâ.

Designed for this post by N. Sharief © 2015

Palapâ is a spice no Maranao worth his name could eat without. It's a pounded concoctions of scallion bulbs (sakurab), devil pepper, ginger caramelized by ultra-slow cooking and mixed with a moderate dollop of coconut oil. When done properly in proportionate ingredients, palapâ has a fulsome bite to it that stays in the tongue, its piquant aroma making it irresistible. I grew up eating palapâ, so I never leave home for an extended time without it or its taste would haunt me.

When I worked for Saudi Arabian Airlines in Jeddah in 1979 after a short stint with SGV1 in Makati right off college, I had to do a regular trip to the customs clearing to claim for the lone can of palapâ sent to me by my folks. Those were the snail-mail years when my folks would pour out all their pining in a good-old kirim scribbling and ask me—their orak—what would I want sent to me. I would then write back that I had ran out of palapâ, and slip in a few Benjamin Franklins or King Khalids inside for good measure.

I  was a progressive Maranao then (whatever that means), donning the fashion of the time, virtually lost in the homogeneity of the modern crowd. I did a lot of travelling. But wherever I went I would never be without my stash of palapa. My tongue was a virtual prisoner. It's what gives me away. One time at a formal dinner in downtown Manhattan, I could not stay my hand and found myself unwrapping my palapâ from a sealed sachet out of my coat pocket. The host and the guests at the round table instantly knew as they watched me spooning a dollop of it onto a small plate that this was not something you could just order from the hotel kitchen.

I saw all eyes on me, so I invited everyone, rather shyly, to try this condiment which goes well with any viand. A grand dame beside me with a vaguely European accent made a tentative taste, and her report: "fantastic!" Soon, everyone, tasted it and giving me the thumbs up. I won't bore you with the details of their enthusiastic (if polite) suggestion that I should introduce it in commercial quantity to the state of New York, etc. But you' d be asking: what has the darn palapâ got to do with this blog, unless I'm embarking suddenly on the cuisine aspect of the Ranaū-Iranūn! (And I have to confess upfront that cuisine is my Achilles' heel. My confidence level in cooking goes no further than frying a sunny-side-up egg.)

The Oath of Palapa, Size 200x100 cm, oil on canvas, Soedibio Collection

But the palapâ episode that night allowed me a platform to tell with aplomb a little known episode of  Southeast Asian history to my small audience, which made them better appreciate the condiment I had brought half-way around the world:

Gajah Mada (c. 1290) was a loyal, if passionate elite guard of Majapahit kings and their family. When he rose to the rank of mahapatih (Prime Minister) in 1329 he (Gadia muda in Ranaū-Iranūn) made a solemn oath to the Queen Tribhuwanatunggadewi his famous oath, Palapa Oath. The telling of the oath is described in the Pararaton (Book of Kings), an account on Javanese history that dates from the 15th or 16th century. He said that he will never taste the palapâ until he conquered the islands of Southeast Asia for the Majapahit Empire. At first his friends and detractors alike doubted his sincerity, but the Gadia Muda kept to his promise and pursued relentlessly his quest. Soon Bali fell followed by Lombok (1343) and then he brought the thalassocratic kingdom of Sriwijaya in Palembang to its knees. He then went on to extend the territories: Temasek (Singapore), Malaysia, Brunei, East Timor and the most far-flung, the last frontier, the southern Philippines.

To this day, thus, the modern Ranaū-Iranūn is blissfully unaware that such a sumpa (sapâ) had existed at all, although they relish their palapâ and their culture is informed by this once mighty empire. But such is the twist of fate that in the pungent aroma of the palapâ is trapped the history of our race.

1Sycip, Gorres, Velay & Co.