by Cesar Miguel Escaño
Though he and his brother arrived early, Pedro felt he was late to the tournament. It was his first time to attend the National Sungka Championships, the most prestigious sungka competition in the country, though he had qualified for the turn-based game of strategy six years before.
Better late than never, Pedro thought, as he surveyed the game tables and the competitors who had arrived before him.
He counted 32 tables in total for 64 competitors, two competitors per table for a match. At this time before the tournament, the tables were empty. The sungkahan, the narrow wooden board used to play the game, would be distributed for each table twenty minutes before the start of the tournament to prevent players from tampering with any board before their match.
As he did before every tournament, Pedro visualized himself sitting in every chair, facing himself across the table, a sungkahan separating his imaginary selves. The wooden board’s design was etched in his mind like a blueprint he could retrieve at any time. No matter its size or variations to its appearance, a sungkahan was composed of two rows of seven equidistant carved basins on both sides of the board. An additional larger basin on each player’s left, at either end of the board, was called his Head. The basins on the side of the board closest to a player represented his “friendly” houses, while those on the opponent’s side were considered “enemy” houses.
As Pedro imagined each sungkahan filling with shells, he noticed eyes staring at him. Everyone assembled outside the tournament area fixed their attention on him—not because they saw him as a threat, but as an oddity. All eyes attempted to pierce the metal shell encasing his true form.
From the outside, the exo-apparatus made by Pedro’s brother, Basilio, resembled a strange amalgamation of several pieces of farming equipment. An old diving helmet protruded from a tank-like chassis, the shape and size of a large barrel. A single robotic arm, the hydraulic components salvaged from a grain thresher and cow-milking equipment, dangled from the left side of the chassis like a scarecrow’s limp limb. The barrel-like chassis itself rested on a pair of tractor treads, the same sort found beneath a rice harvester.
From the inside, the exo-apparatus was home to Pedro. For the last three years, he’d spent more time inside it than outside.
At the start of its creation, the exo-apparatus straddled the threshold between coffin and life-support device. Basilio had kept worrying that the rudimentary air-circulation system would fail at any moment or the steam-piston assembly would overheat, discharging noxious gas into the cockpit. None of these worst-case scenarios had so far come to pass, thanks to Basilio’s mechanical genius and diligence.
Over time, the exo-apparatus had transformed from a stationary cradle for Pedro to a mobile transport system with a robotic arm and hand capable of deft movements. The intricate metal limb had been a non-negotiable for Pedro—the arm allowed him to continue to play competitive sungka, the sport he loved.
Two hours until the start of the tournament, the competition tables remained empty. Practice tables were set up at the side for participants to use. As Pedro moved—hearing Basilio grunting and puffing, carrying a portable sungkahan at his side—the exo-apparatus trailed smoke from exhaust pipes on its back, and its tractor treads flattened grass freshly cut for the event.
The venue for the National Sungka Championship had no roofs, unlike its counterparts for Chess or Go. Sungka tournaments were held outside as tradition dictated. “Play sungka inside and you will be met by misfortune,” a saying went. This belief harkened back to the mystical roots of sungka when its board and shells had been used by soothsayers to tell individual fortunes and predict the future.
The game’s preternatural undertones were quite appropriate for the venue, Pedro mused. The National Sungka Championships were always held in the town of Dolores in the province of Tayabas. Dolores was located along the foothills of Mount Banahaw, a mountain sacred to many faiths.
Pedro was discussing the mythical history of Mount Banahaw with Basilio when their conversation was interrupted by boisterous laughter.
“Just wait, you’ll see. I’ll avenge my loss in the finals last year and win the hand of the beautiful queen of Basilan!” a man bragged to a throng of people gathered around his table. He wore a pis syabit headwrap and a malong held by an empty leather sword belt around his waist. The intricate design and loud colors of his clothes indicated royalty.
“Who’s that arrogant lout?” asked Basilio as they passed his table.
“Likely Datu Sakili Panglima from Tawi-Tawi,” answered Pedro without looking to confirm. He didn’t need to if the person’s claim of losing in the finals last year was true.
“What was he talking about, winning a queen’s hand in marriage?” Basilio asked as they passed underneath the banner for the tournament grounds.
“The defending champion, the queen of Basilan, promised to marry whoever would unseat her in this tournament. That was five years ago.”
“Maybe you will win her hand in marriage, by the time this tournament is over.” Basilio grinned, poking his little brother with an elbow, a habit of his from when they were growing up. The tip of his elbow banged against the metal casing of Pedro’s exo-apparatus. Basilio yelped and retracted his elbow, gingerly rubbing the skin with his other hand.
“You know that’s not why I joined this tournament.” Pedro tried to shrug his shoulders at his brother’s teasing—a habit of his while growing up—but couldn’t.
He had been diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, a motor-neuron disease, six years before, just after he had won his first provincial sungka championship. Doctors had no idea what caused it or how to treat his condition. All Pedro and his brother knew was that the disease was progressive, although the rate of its spread was unknown. He would eventually lose control of all his motor functions.
Before that happened, Pedro vowed to continue playing sungka until he could no longer properly hold a shell in his hand. When Pedro made that vow, two years after he was diagnosed, Basilio created the exo-apparatus to allow his little brother to continue playing the game he so dearly loved.
An hour remaining until the first match, Pedro and Basilio explored the bazaar surrounding the tournament area. Most of the wares on display were sungkahan of different colors and designs. The sungkahan for children were carved from plain wood and lacked adornments, focusing instead on loud and vibrant colors to draw youthful eyes and eager hands pulling their parents. The sungkahan intended for art patrons and sungka enthusiasts dispensed with loud colors and intricate etchings. Instead, these elaborate sungkahan subtly showed off their craftsmanship through the natural quality of the grain and rich skin tones of the hardwood they were carved from. Some of the sungkahan on display resembled reptiles like geckos and crocodiles. Their necks stretched out or bent slightly to the side as they seemed to carry a bowl carved into their heads. Their tails curved around a carved bowl of the same size on the opposite end.
“I’m amazed at the level of craftsmanship of some of the sungkahan here,” Basilio said. He pointed at a sungkahan displaying a pair of mythological creatures on both ends of the board. On one end, a Bakunuawa, depicted as a gigantic sea serpent, opened its jaws wide to swallow the moon, represented by the carved basin of one Head. On the other end, a Minokawa, an equally gigantic dragon-like bird, stretched its beak wide to engulf the burning sun, a carved basin ringed with engraved flames, the other Head.
“I wish I were a better craftsman, so I could make your exo-apparatus more pleasing to the eye,” Basilio said, glancing at Pedro.
“God is in the details. Look here,” Pedro said, pointing with a mechanical finger at a display of unadorned sungkahan.
Pedro compared the exo-apparatus housing him to the portable sungkahan Basilio had also designed. It could be disassembled into the very box his brother was carrying through a clever array of hidden wooden bolts holding the entire structure in place.
Like the portable sungkahan, the beauty of Basilio’s creation lay not in its clunky appearance, but in its inner workings. Beneath its metal casing, a pneumatic valve system enabled the crane-like arm to be controlled by Pedro’s left hand, as if it was a prosthetic limb. It had taken Basilio more than a year to perfect the finger-to-robotic-arm movement ratio that allowed his brother to execute delicate movements such as picking up and dropping shells on a sungkahan.
An inventor and engineer, Basilio wanted to learn something new from every sungkahan he encountered. His eyes lit up the first time he saw a sungkahan that folded in half and had rattan handles on both ends that locked together with a cleverly placed hook and catch.
A sungka enthusiast and competitor, Pedro imagined playing a game with every sungkahan that caught his eye. Though he could no longer hold and feel objects in his own hand, he relished the texture of the markers–smooth for seashells, rough for pebbles, soft and hollow for dried corn kernels–placed in each basin on his side of the board.
At the start of a game of sungka, both Heads would be empty while each of the players’ seven houses were filled with seven markers, usually stones or seashells. To play the game, both players would simultaneously grab all the shells from one of their friendly houses, then begin dropping shells, one for each basin, starting with the next friendly house on the left. Proceeding leftward, the player would drop a shell in each basin, including his Head. Crossing over to the enemy houses, a player would continue dropping shells into each basin, skipping his opponent’s Head, until he had none left.
“All competitors, please go to your designated tables. The first round will start in ten minutes.”
Basilio stopped looking at the sungkahan around him. Turning to Pedro, he said, “That’s our cue. Maybe I should take a few minutes for a last round of inspection and tuning up.”
“Kuya, you worry too much. I’ve learned not to—my condition took my nerves from me! Nerves, get it? They don’t function, so I don’t get nervous anymore.”
“Oh, so now you’re making jokes, are you?” Basilio, grinning, was about to swat his brother on the back of his head but caught himself just as he raised his arm. His sore elbow reminded him to resist old habits. “I was about to slap you silly like I used to.”
“Don’t let this get in your way.” Pedro motioned with the mechanical arm toward the door in front of the exo-apparatus. “Come inside so I can beat you up.”
Basilio covered the front viewing grille with his hand. That was the closest he could get to ruffling his little brother’s hair anymore.
“Hey, I can’t see.” Pedro feigned annoyance. His brother had installed other viewing grilles around the chamber, giving him other options for a clear line of sight.
This was their version of brotherly roughhousing, mostly verbal, because of Pedro’s condition.
This is likely going to be my last chance to play in a sungka tournament. As he and his brother waited for the tournament to start, the thought stayed in Pedro’s head like a lone sungka shell at the bottom of a house.
Dropping a shell into an empty house meant your turn was over. In most instances, ending your turn was seen as a mistake —a result of poor play—but on some occasions, ending your turn was the right move. If the last shell from your hand landed in an empty basin, you would collect that shell and all the shells in the basin on the opposite side of the sungkahan. Those shells would be yours until the game ended and counted in the final tally to determine the winner.
In Pedro’s mind, if his condition deteriorated further and he could no longer play after this tournament, he would be happy collecting his shells and ending his turn at the sport’s highest stage.
The horn for the start of the first round sounded. Pedro faced his opponent across the table. It was courtesy to bow to your opponent or shake his hand before a sungka match.
Pedro was unable to bow to his opponent. Instead, he offered his mechanical arm. His opponent stared blankly at the metal hand, unsure of what Pedro was trying to do. His hand hung between them for a few seconds before it moved to his side of the sungkahan. Recognizing the gesture, Pedro’s opponent did the same.
“On my mark, when I count down to zero, drop your hands.” A judge stood beside the table to moderate the proceedings. “Three, two, one… zero.”
Pedro’s mechanical hand dropped down and grabbed a fistful of shells from one of his houses. He moved leftward, dropping one shell at a time into each house.
A game of sungka usually ended in fifteen minutes—shorter if one player was considerably more skilled than the other, longer if both players had an equal or close to the same level of skill.
If a player dropped the last shell from his hand into a house—whether friendly or enemy—filled with other shells, he would grab all the shells in that house and continue his turn.
If a player dropped his last shell into an empty house that was friendly, he would grab that shell and all the shells in the enemy house directly opposite the empty friendly house and place all of them into his Head. Then his turn would end.
If a player dropped his last shell into an empty enemy house, his turn would end.
If a player dropped his last shell into his Head, he could choose from any one of his houses, grab all the shells in it, and continue his turn.
When he was active in the local Sungka circuits, Pedro had one of the fastest average winning times at eight minutes. When he advanced to the national level, that number was bumped up to ten minutes. Since he started playing inside an exo-apparatus, his average winning time had risen to twenty minutes.
After Basilio completed the robotic arm of his brother’s exo-apparatus, Pedro labored with every movement of his fingers, frustrated that the mechanical arm was too slow to respond and could not execute the simplest of fine movements such as grabbing a single shell from a basin and dropping it into the next. It took months for Basilio to improve the pneumatic system and fine-tune the human-finger-input-to-robotic-digit coordination to a degree that satisfied both him observing outside and Pedro operating inside. With every major adjustment he made to the robotic arm of the exo-apparatus, Basilio was able to shave seconds from Pedro’s average winning time, but the saved time never seemed to be enough.
In his first National Sungka Championships, it took Pedro over twenty-five minutes to beat his first-round opponent. The length of the match made his brother jittery especially after the referee’s timepiece showed the game had passed the twenty-minute mark. Any longer than forty minutes, Basilio feared that the pneumatic system would start overheating.
Competitive sungka matches had a time limit of one hour. At the end of an hour, if the game had not otherwise been resolved, the winner would be determined by the most number of shells collected in a player’s Head, excluding all of the remaining shells in the houses, whether friendly or enemy.
After the match, Basilio opened the radiator cap and let the engine rest. Pedro blamed the length of the game on his being rusty. He assured Basilio that in the next round he would play better and faster.
The National Sungka Championships were attended by a total of sixty-four players, winners of different qualifying provincial tournaments. Only the defending champion was assured a slot. There would be a total of six rounds, the last two being the semifinals and the championship round. The format was single-match elimination. Lose one game and you were out of the tournament.
Pedro breezed through the next three rounds, eliminating his opponents in less than fifteen minutes each match.
When both players ended their turns, they would gather all of the shells from the houses on their side and redistribute them among their friendly houses, seven shells to a hole, starting with the leftmost house beside the player’s Head. Houses that didn’t contain any shells following the redistribution would be considered “burnt” and could no longer receive any more shells until the end of the game. After the redistribution of shells, both players would resume their turns simultaneously like at the start of the game.
The fifth round was a semifinal match. Pedro’s next opponent was last year’s finalist, Datu Sakili Panglima, who they had overheard earlier announcing his impending championship victory before the tournament started.
Only two tables were left. Rani Sitti Rohaira, last year’s champion and reigning champion for five years running, sat at the other table. Pedro tried to see who her opponent was but Datu Panglima stood up and blocked his view.
“In my kingdom, there are rules for honorable combat. Both combatants should show their faces to each other, as a matter of respect.” Datu Panglima pointed a finger at the front viewing grille of Pedro’s chamber. “He is disrespecting me.”
The judge tapped his timepiece and snorted.
Basilio walked up from out of the crowd of observers and tapped the judge on the shoulder. The judge turned around and saw the inventor gesturing to Pedro’s exo-apparatus.
“If I may, I can open the chamber door and reveal the face of my brother.”
The judge nodded. Basilio went to the front of the exo-apparatus, placed a key from his vest into the lock, and opened the door.
As the door swung open, the observers gasped to see the frail form of Pedro glued to his chair.
The datu’s laughter boomed, stealing their attention. “Is this the face of my enemy? He definitely needs a handicap against a true warrior like me. Let me defeat him swiftly and be done with it.” The datu sat down, eager to start their semifinal game.
Basilio waited for confirmation from the judge before he closed the chamber door of the exo-apparatus and locked it with a key.
Before the match started, Pedro raised his mechanical arm toward the datu in a gesture of sportsmanship. Snorting, the datu swatted the hand away and held his own hand, palm down, above his own side of the board.
Barring time limits, a game of sungka would end when all the houses on one side of the board become “burnt.” Then players would count the number of shells collected in their Heads. The player with the most shells would win the game.
The match between Pedro and Datu Panglima crossed over the twenty-minute mark, not because of the competitive level of play, but because the datu repeatedly complained to the judge over imagined violations committed by Pedro.
At the thirty-minute mark, Basilio was about to raise his hand to complain about the datu’s slow play when Pedro suddenly spoke to his opponent for the first time. “You said you would beat me swiftly but listening to your voice has been slow murder.”
Laughter cascaded through the observers. The datu’s face reddened like a tomato but he kept silent. He pondered his next move while slowly unfurling the cuffs of his sleeves. Only three of the datu’s houses remained unburnt. It was his turn.
Pedro waited for the datu’s turn to end. He had an almost insurmountable advantage of more than a dozen shells in his Head, though there was still a slim chance the datu could overtake Pedro’s shell count if he made the right move next. Pedro played the datu’s possible moves in his head: three houses, three possible moves.
After fully unfurling his cuffs, the datu made his move. As his hand traveled across the board, trailing shells in its wake, Pedro counted the shells hitting the basin of each hollow. The datu’s hand dropped his last shell into Pedro’s leftmost house, which was empty, therefore ending his turn.
To Pedro’s surprise, however, the datu’s hand hovered over Pedro’s Head and continued to the next unburnt house. It was the house he had chosen to grab the shells from, when he had begun his turn. It was now empty while the opposite house on Pedro’s side was filled to the brim with shells.
The datu’s hand stopped over that empty house and dropped a shell. The shell hit the side of the basin and spun around until it rested at the bottom. The sound triggered a collective gasp from the observers. The judge told the crowd to quiet down.
After the crowd had settled, the datu reached over to grab the shells in the opposite house and deposit them in his Head.
Pedro raised his hand.
“What, you’re complaining because I’m going to win?” the datu sneered.
“I’m complaining because I want the judge to check your hands and wrists.”
The datu dropped the shells in Pedro’s house as the judge moved over to inspect his hands. He fumbled with the cuffs on his sleeves, hurriedly folding them toward his elbow. In his haste, a few shells slipped from underneath his sleeve and flew into the air. The datu tried grabbing them, but they slipped between his fingers. Pedro’s metal hand grabbed the telltale shells and presented them to the judge.
The judge announced that Datu Sakili Panglima was disqualified for cheating.
Red spread across Datu Panglima’s face like wildfire. He stood up and overturned the sungkahan with both hands. The wooden board glanced off the front of Pedro’s exo-apparatus with a clang.
The datu’s timawa rushed to his side. The closest to him offered his kampilan. Fire in his eyes, the datu unsheathed the sword and pointed the blade at Pedro.
Basilio hurried to close the distance to his brother.
But someone else beat him to Pedro’s aid.
As the datu’s kampilan flew toward a gap in the view grille of Pedro’s chamber, another sword swung downward to deflect its forward thrust.
In the wake of that resounding clang, Rani Sitti Rohaira, the tournament’s defending champion, lifted her kampilan and pointed it at the man she had just parried. “Datu Panglima, scurry away before I cut off the parts that make you a man, if you can still call yourself a man after the dishonor you have brought upon your kingdom today.”
The datu’s timawa gripped the handles of their kampilan. Still red-faced, Datu Panglima motioned for his guards to stand down. He spat in Pedro’s direction. Then he turned around and headed outside the tournament grounds.
Rani Rohaira sheathed her own kampilan and faced Pedro. “I look forward to playing against the man who bested that fool.” She gave a short bow to Pedro before walking away, trailed by an entourage of her timawa.
Unlike the slow passage of Pedro’s semifinal match, the championship round moved like a complex dance. To his eyes, the Rani’s movements were deft and precise, as if she was performing the proverbial “Dance of the Queen.” It was a classical dance that showcased the queen, garbed in colorful Moro attire, holding a fan in each hand while she stepped between several pairs of bamboo poles held by her male attendants. The queen’s movements needed to be precise as her feet dipped and sprang between the gaps of the poles, gaps quickly sealed by the bamboo poles slamming together.
Pedro acknowledged Rani Sitti Rohaira’s skill, but he considered himself an equally adept dancer when it came to sungka. He matched her step for step as they darted through the maze of traps like pairs of bamboo poles striking each other across the sungkahan.
Sweat pooled on Basilio’s brow as he watched his little brother match the queen’s movements turn by turn. Pedro started his second turn with one house burnt but he rebounded the next turn with two of the queen’s houses burnt.
At the 30-minute mark, their match seemed to reach a stalemate with three Houses burned on each side. At the 42-minute mark, Pedro pulled ahead, burning another house on the queen’s side and leaving only three of her houses unburnt. At the 44-minute mark, only two of the queen’s houses were left.
At the 45-minute mark, the motor powering Pedro’s mechanical arm started to overheat. His hand hung in the air as the pneumatic pistons wheezed and sputtered. It seemed Basilio was going to overheat as well, wiping rivers of sweat from his brow.
The metal hand twitched in the air as it hung above an empty house on Pedro’s side. Metal fingers trapped the solitary seashell like a pearl of great price. On the opposite side was a basin filled halfway with shells. The number would be enough to seal their match, if only Pedro could drop the final shell.
Silence blanketed the air like a heavy shroud. The observers waited for Pedro to complete his turn.
The sound of a chair moving broke the silence.
Rani Rohaira stood. She reached over to the mechanical hand and unclenched its fingers. Holding the freed shell in her palm, she dropped it into Pedro’s empty house.
Her hand now empty, she offered her congratulations to her opponent. “That was magnificent. I don’t regret losing.”
Cheers erupted from the crowd. Basilio sprinted to Pedro and opened the door of his exo-apparatus, releasing the heat trapped inside. Pedro exhaled deeply, savoring the moment.
A shadow fell across the two of them. “I would like to talk with my prospective husband in person,” said the queen.
Basilio quickly gathered his little brother in his arms and lifted him out of the exo-apparatus that had now become an immobile shell. Pedro smiled reassuringly at him as the queen bent down to murmur in his ear.
Straightening, Rani Sitti Rohaira raised her voice to the crowd assembled around the exo-apparatus.
“This man,” she said, motioning to Pedro, “is to be my husband.”
The crowd erupted again. From the corner of his eye, Basilio noticed Pedro’s lips moving. He put his ear beside his brother’s lips since Pedro no longer had a mechanical system to amplify his voice.
Pedro was whispering, “It’s not over yet. I need to start training you to beat the queen.”
Basilio offered a puzzled face in reply.
With much effort, Pedro made the slightest of frowns. “I won’t make a good husband in my condition. You would, but you have to beat her first.”
Basilio grinned and shook his head. He whispered back to Pedro, “You shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. Enjoy your victory. Enjoy the wedding.”
Pedro’s left eyebrow twitched slightly. It was the best he could do to express his annoyance at his big brother.
He wanted to say something more, but Rani Sitti Rohaira started moving forward. Basilio hurried to catch up with her, still carrying Pedro in his arms, the crowd swallowing the three of them as if they were fingers plunging into a basin filled with shells.
About the Author. Cesar Miguel “Miggy” Escaño loves playing all kinds of games: from videogames to boardgames and tabletop RPGs. He taught a subject called “Videogame Design and Theory” when he was a college teacher at the Ateneo de Manila. He’s a retro videogamer who pines for the old-school games he can never play again. He would like to believe that he was an expert in playing holen, shato, and sungka while growing up but it’s likely he wasn’t as good as he remembers. He’s always trying out new games for himself and his wife, for his children, and to play with his entire family.