BORN in ambiguity from a vanishing aboriginal tribe, she died a giant among men. This was how the town mayor of Bansalan, Davao del Sur described the demise last month of the last celebrated Bagobo weaver.

Salinta Monon was 91 and though her passing was deeply mourned by her family and community in Bansalan, there was even wider and more vast regret in the cultural circle, especially among those who knew of her and of her art. Her art was the craft of her ancestors, stripping abaca leaves into fine fibers and weaving them into fabric.

The last of a dying breed, Salinta had been one of only two recipients of the Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan (GAMABA) awards given out by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) in 1988.

She was cited “for fully demonstrating the creative and expressive aspects of the Bagobo abaca ikat weaving called inabal at a time when such art is threatened with extinction.”

The GAMABA award is the equivalent of the National Artist award given to individuals “engaged in any traditional art uniquely Filipino, whose distinctive skills have reached such a high level of technical and artistic excellence.” The award hopes to “bring age-old customs, crafts, and ways of living to the attention and appreciation of Filipino life.”

Such distinction was the reason Mayor Edwin G. Reyes referred to Salinta’s death as “an irreparable national loss.” It ended an era that put Bansalan in the world map. “We lost a priceless cultural treasure,” the mayor added.

Salinta’s practice of her distinctive craftsmanship had led to features in international and local media.

She was welcomed in Malacanang by then President Fidel V. Ramos, and had traveled to the United States where she had a personal encounter with then President Bill Clinton. She was also written about in several publications abroad.

But despite such achievements, she was relatively unknown in her hometown. “Ask anyone from Bansalan about her, and their reply would be, ’Salinta, who?’” said Lord L. Espina, who was then a town councilor and had introduced this writer to the accomplished weaver.

When Reyes became the town mayor, however, he took out Salinta from her barangay (village), and during the town anniversary in 2007, bestowed on her the recognition she rightfully deserved. She was also part of the grand parade that year when a program was held in her honor.

Not too many people had the opportunity to meet her personally. One deterrent is the remoteness of her barangay, Bitaug, which can be reached via dirt roads that can only be traversed by so-called “skylab” vehicles (motorcycles to which wooden planks have been strapped to accommodate other passengers).

Salinta was still a little girl when she watched her mother’s nimble hands glide over the loom, weaving traditional Bagobo textile using fragile abaca fibers. At 12, she asked to be taught how to work the loom, and quickly excelled in the craft.

Salinta developed a keen eye for traditional designs. According to New York-based anthropologist Cherry Quizon, one of the first people to meet her, Salinta’s designs could be traced back to as far as 100 years.

Because of her weaving skills, Agton Monon, a farmer, had to pay a higher bride price to Salinta’s father, Datu Bansalan Barra, so he could marry her on July 4, 1946.

The couple was blessed with five children: daughter Roda and sons Sayko, Elias, Marciano and Danilo. After her husband died in the early 1970s, Salinta tended the farm, took care of her children and continued weaving as a source of extra income as well as pride.

She said it took her three to four months to finish a fabric 3.5 meters by 42 centimeters in length, or one abaca tube skirt per month. “It takes time but the result is great,” she told this writer once.

The painstaking process begins with the stripping of the abaca plant to get the fiber for textile, drying the threads and tying each strand by hand. Then follows the delicate task of setting the strands on the “bed-tying” bamboo frame. The bud or the tying of abaca fiber is what actually defines the design, she explained.

For Salinta, she was just doing what her mother and grandmothers did before her. So when she became one of the GAMABA awardees, she was lost for words to describe her emotions. “I was totally caught by surprise when I was chosen one of the country’s folk artists,” she recalled.

Serapion Metilla, known as the father of bonsai in the Philippines and who also hails from Bansalan, is one of the very few people who had the pleasure of meeting the young Salinta. “She was still in her teens when I first met her,” he said. “Soft-spoken and industrious, she was determined to follow in the footsteps of her parents in the art of weaving. She never wanted to wear clothes that were not of their own culture and style.”

Edwin Bibera of Fullerton, California, once wrote: “Even if I did not get the chance to meet her in person, I know that she is a source of pride for us Bansaleños. I’ve only seen photos of her but I’m happy that through her craft, our town Bansalan is mentioned in the same breath alongside her creations.”

“I have always wanted to meet a great artist like her,” said Attorney Imelda Mabandos, who lives in Germany. “I regret that I no longer have that chance. Sayang [It's a pity]. I should have done it earlier. But she lived a long, good, though sometimes hard life, I imagine.” •