Some things we carry are not objects, but stories woven into our skin.
The story behind why we carried ginger, gold and pearls
I was born at midnight, in that quiet hour when the bulan kissed the alon.
The moon touched the tide, and perhaps something in me was marked by water from the very beginning.
Since I was a child, I have always felt more at home in the middle of the jungle than inside a classroom.
The forest did not ask me to sit still.
It did not ask me to lower my voice, follow straight lines, or fit neatly into rows of desks and expectations.
Outside, everything felt alive.
The leaves whispered.
The wind moved like breath.
The river stones held warmth from the sun.
Even the silence seemed to hum.
I remember arguing with my parents because I insisted that I was only playing outside.
But in truth, I would be gone for days.
As a child, that never frightened me.
What unsettled the adults more was when I came home and told them that my friends were tiny humans — little beings who tickled me, made me laugh, and sometimes made me so sleepy that I would lie beneath the trees and drift into dreams.
At that age, I did not know there were names for them.
Dwarves. Fairies. Spirits. Imaginary friends.
Whatever adults called them, they never felt scary to me.
They felt familiar.
They felt like part of the jungle itself.
Perhaps that is why our elders never allowed us to enter sacred places empty-handed.
We carried something.
A root.
A metal.
A blessing.
Sometimes, it was ginger.
Ginger was never just something from the kitchen.
It was protection.
A warmth held in the palm.
A medicine carried into the body.
A way of paying respect to what could not be seen.
And if someone became lost in the forest, there was something else we were taught to do:
flip your clothes inside out.
As a child, I obeyed without question.
Now I understand that this was more than superstition.
It was a symbolic reversal.
A way of disrupting confusion.
A quiet request to the forest to guide you home.
Some ancient Austronesian and Malay beliefs hold similar practices—ritual reversals, protective herbs, and asking permission from sacred spaces before entering them.
The land was never seen as empty.
It was alive.
It listened.
At twelve, I received my first gold bracelet.
I lost it.
Then came my first pair of gold earrings.
I lost those too.
Next was a gold necklace with a cross pendant.
And yes, I lost that as well.
For years, I wondered why they kept giving me gold.
Was it because I was careless?
Was it because I needed to learn responsibility?
Only now do I understand that gold was never simply jewelry.
In our tribal belief, it was protection.
Something worn close to the skin to guard the body from harmful spirits and wandering energies.
It was beauty, yes.
But it was also a shield.
As a child of water, I was also gifted a pearl amulet.
I received it when I first lost my tooth and completed my first task at the age of eight:
to climb the mountain
and bring sacrifice to our Nuno.
Even now, I can still feel the weight of that moment.
The mountain did not frighten me.
It felt holy.
The pearl was not just a gift.
It was a blessing.
A symbol of trust.
A sacred reminder that I had completed something greater than myself.
Some cultures across Southeast Asia, the Malay world, and even Hindu traditions share this reverence for sacred places, sacred objects, and the blessing or curse of Mother Nature.
Rain is never just rain.
Wind is never just wind.
A mountain is never simply a mountain.
Everything carries meaning.
Everything asks for respect.
Now, as an adult living in Germany, something has shifted in me.
I may not remember every whispered warning from the elders, every ritual, or every story told under moonlight.
But I have kept what remained.
I still speak life to all living things.
I still lower my voice near trees.
I still greet rivers in my heart.
I still believe sacred places deserve reverence.
Perhaps this is what our ancestors always knew:
Mother Nature can bless.
Mother Nature can curse.
And maybe the most sacred thing we carry is not the ginger, the gold, or the pearls—
but the memory that every place we enter asks something of us:
respect.
Some of the most sacred things we carry are invisible—memory, reverence, and the stories our ancestors left in our hands.
Thank you for reading! I’m Rhalyn. I write about life, growth, ancestry, and finding softness in the everyday.
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Cultural Notes & References
This story is rooted in personal memory, ancestral oral traditions, and cultural research across Southeast Asian and pre-colonial Philippine belief systems. Some references that informed the cultural context of this piece include:
Indigenous Philippine Folk Religions — on anito, diwata, sacred adornments, pearls, gold, and ritual objects (Wikipedia)
Orang Bunian (Malay folklore) — on hidden forest beings and invisible people in Southeast Asian oral traditions
Hyang (Indonesian ancestral spirit belief) — on sacred mountains, forests, and ancestral presence
Animism in Philippine pre-colonial beliefs — on respecting sacred grounds, spirits, rivers, and nature
As with many indigenous and tribal traditions, much of what we know lives through oral storytelling, memory, and lived practice passed down through generations.