I am Alina Tamrakar. I am an architect currently working in documentation and restoration of heritage structures affected by the massive earthquake of 2015. I belong to Newa community who are the indigenous people of Kathmandu valley. Kathmandu is the capital of Nepal. Born and raised in a typical Newa family who has always put rituals and tradition in the first place, I was always very connected to the cultural heritage of Kathmandu. As I grew up being part of the festivals and rituals, there were always numbers of questions running inside: why do we celebrate these festivals, what is the story behind it, who initiated the traditions and so on. After the devastating earthquake took down so many monuments, some of which carried centuries-old history, it gave me time to reflect on the rich knowledge and skills that our ancestors held and handed it down to our generation. It also explained how tangible and intangible heritage are interlinked with each other. Also, a realization that there is still so much to learn from our heritage and to pass on to the next generation.\nAmong the Newa community, Tamrakars are one of such communities, who follow Buddhism. Gunla is one of many festivals celebrated in Kathmandu valley. It is the tenth month in Nepal Sambat lunar calendar, in which devotees from all around Kathmandu valley visit Swayambhu Stupa that is also one of UNESCO’s World Heritage Sites. The festival of Gunla last for one whole month. In addition to this, devotees also take a visit to different Buddhist courtyards called Baha-bahi and other stupas and chaityas. The devotees in the process recite Holy Scriptures and play devotional gunla music. Music groups from different communities take part in the procession. Like other numerous communities, Tamrakar community also has the musical group named “Tamrakar Gunla Baajan Khala” who have been taking part in playing gunla music and reciting Holy Scriptures from time immemorial. The procession starts from a traditional courtyard called “Piganani” in Maru, near Kathmandu Durbar Square. Piganani is the centre point of the location where Tamrakars initially settled in Kathmandu. Every day for the month of gunla, the community of around 20- 25 (on Saturdays and holidays the number increased to around 50 attendees) start the procession from Piganani at 5:30 am and visit the Swayambhu stupa and come back to Piganani and end the tour at around 8:00 am. On holidays, the team takes a longer route covering other major Buddhist monasteries, chaityas and stupas on the way. During the procession, the devotees and practitioners cover a distance of 6 kilometres.\nUntil three years back, I used to take part in the procession just as an audience listening to people reciting the scriptures and watching the team of young members playing the drums and cymbals to play devotional gunla music. Three years back, I enrolled as one of the practitioners and started taking part in the procession. I came to know that earlier, women were not allowed to play musical instruments in the gunla procession, but only take part as devotees. However, as time passed on, the society opened the doors for women as well. In today’s time, there are a huge number of women practitioners who have taken the initiative to be a part of the team.\nThe tradition of playing gunla music, according to local experts is thousands of years old practice. As much as this musical tour is interesting, it is equally full of knowledge regarding our culture and tradition. Such practices of cultural heritage are not only a matter of pride that an individual or the whole nation takes in but also a major affirmation that such huge collection of knowledge, skill and accomplishment that our ancestors have developed are being transferred to the next generation. Apart from carrying on the tradition, it is also very necessary that we understand the depth of each of these practices in order to keep the tradition alive in the long run. It is equally necessary that we know where our roots lie while we soar up to reach the sky. This is only possible when youths take the initiative to participate in these practices and talk about the “why”, “what” and “how” while they do so.\nDuring Gunla procession different traditional musical instruments are played. “Dhā” and “Nayo khin:” are drums played on one side by bare palm and with a wooden stick on the other are the main musical instruments played during the procession. The small cymbals called “tā” give the beat to the drums and big cymbals and trumpets are played along. For the first time, starting this year, flutes have also been added to the band. The music performance begins with “Dyo lhayegu”, which is a small introductory piece played in order to invoke the “Nāsa dya”, a deity of performing arts. There are separate pieces especially played depending upon the time and place in the procession. For example, the piece played while revolving a chaitya or stupa is different from a one played while beginning the procession.\nThe practice session for each year, begin one or two months prior to gunla month. Anyone who is capable of learning to play the instruments is eligible to participate. The members of Tamrakar community enrol their younger ones once they are ready to take part, while people from other communities are also welcomed to participate in learning and later take part in the procession. The practice sessions take place each evening in the courtyard of Piganani where a guru, a teacher takes a lead in taking music classes. In addition to a regular teacher, the elders in the Tamrakar Gunla Baajan community also offer their presence as well as their knowledge so that the learners get all the support they need. The sessions are one of such encouraging steps that the elder generation in the Tamrakar Gunla Baajan Khala take that make sure that the centuries-old tradition of playing gunla music is safely being transferred to the next generation.

Performed with grace, dignity, and deep cultural symbolism, Tebe-Lilin is a traditional dance that brings together members of a community in shared celebration, remembrance, and expression. It is practiced in several regions of Timor-Leste and is especially known for its emphasis on unity and peaceful co-existence.\n\nThe word “tebe” refers to a communal line or circle dance, while “lilin” translates as candle or light. Together, the name evokes the image of people dancing around a source of light—both literal and symbolic—illuminating shared values such as harmony, hope, and continuity. Historically, dancers would carry actual candles or use candlenuts wrapped in cotton, creating a flickering trail of light as they moved through the night.\n\nTebe-Lilin* is performed by groups of men and women—young and old—who link arms or shoulders and form lines or circles. They move rhythmically in unison, stepping to the beat of babadok drums and chanting in call-and-response style. The songs are often poetic and metaphorical, expressing themes of love, sorrow, longing, and reconciliation. Each verse is rich with meaning, serving not just as entertainment but as oral literature passed from generation to generation.\n\nThe dance is deeply woven into ceremonial life. It features prominently during sau-batar (corn harvest celebrations), barlake (marriage exchanges), community healing rituals, and memorial events. In each setting, Tebe-Lilin helps strengthen the spiritual and emotional ties among participants. Its circular form is believed to create balance and connection, while the singing creates a space for open emotional expression—an opportunity to share joys and wounds alike.\n\nIn some versions of the dance, the use of light is entirely symbolic. The “candle” represents the enduring spirit of the ancestors, the resilience of the community, or the moral light that guides people through challenges. The act of dancing around it becomes a ritual of reaffirmation—a moment when the community collectively reflects on its path forward while honoring its roots.\n\nThough Tebe-Lilin remains alive in certain communities, it faces challenges. Younger generations are increasingly detached from these communal traditions, and the ritual contexts in which the dance once thrived are becoming less frequent. Elders and cultural leaders continue to play a vital role in teaching the songs, movements, and meanings behind the dance, often through village gatherings, church events, and cultural festivals.\n\nIn its form and spirit, Tebe-Lilin exemplifies intangible cultural heritage at its finest: it is an art form, a social practice, and a vehicle for transmitting identity. Every time the dance is performed, it brings light—not just to the night, but to the hearts and memories of those who dance and watch.

Simple in design but rich in cultural significance, the Lakadou is a traditional musical instrument made entirely from bamboo, found in various rural communities of Timor-Leste. Often carved from a single stalk, it stands as a testament to the ingenuity of ancestral craftsmanship—an instrument that produces sound not with strings or metal, but with tensioned strips of its own body.\n\nThe process of making a Lakadou begins with selecting the right kind of bamboo—neither too young nor too old—so that it is flexible yet strong. Using only a knife or a small carving tool, the outer layer of the bamboo is partially sliced into thin, horizontal strips along the stalk, which remain attached at both ends. These strips act as the instrument’s “strings.” Small wooden pegs or bridges are then inserted beneath them to lift the strips slightly, allowing them to vibrate when plucked.\n\nWhen played, the Lakadou emits a warm, buzzing resonance that can be heard clearly in quiet, open-air settings. The tones are soft yet sharp, melodic yet earthy—reflecting both the material and the environment from which it is made. Each Lakadou has its own pitch and personality, depending on the size of the bamboo and the placement of the tuning pegs.\n\nTraditionally, the Lakadou was played during rituals, agricultural festivals, and informal gatherings. It could accompany dance, storytelling, or simply be enjoyed as a solo instrument under the shade of a tree. It was sometimes played to express emotions—joy, longing, or sorrow—or to pass the time during communal labor in the fields.\n\nWhat makes the Lakadou especially significant is its status as a self-contained instrument. It does not require any additional materials beyond the bamboo itself—no strings, no nails, no external fasteners—just natural design and human skill. This reflects a traditional ethos of sustainability and resourcefulness, values still highly regarded in rural Timorese life.\n\nWhile the instrument is still known in some communities today, its presence is fading. Younger generations are more familiar with modern instruments, and the skill of crafting Lakadou is no longer widely practiced or passed down. In some places, only a handful of elders remember how to make and play it, and the sound of the Lakadou has become rare in daily village life.\n\nEfforts to preserve the Lakadou are growing, however. Cultural festivals, school workshops, and local storytelling events have begun reintroducing the instrument as a piece of Timor-Leste’s musical heritage. Some artisans are even experimenting with new forms, adapting traditional techniques to contemporary performances.\n\nAs a musical tool, the Lakadou is humble. But as an expression of cultural identity, it speaks volumes. In its structure, sound, and spirit, it tells the story of a people who shaped their art from the land around them—and who, with care, may yet continue to do so for generations to come.

▶ Play Video 2. Into the Heart of the Mandaya A Journey through the Wilds of Davao Oriental\nThis episode was first aired on Filipino television on November 16, 1995. This episode has been modified from its original format.\n\nAnimals were offered in the context of the Mandaya cultural ritual.\n\nThe Mandaya are a complex group that can be referred to by different terms: Mangwanga, Mangrangan, Mangosan, Magosan, Pagsupan, Divavaonon, Dibabaon, and Mansaka. Members reside in Davao Oriental. They are concentrated in the municipalities of Caraga, Manay, Cateel, Lupon, and Tarragona. The known subgroupings are: (1) Mansaka, (2) Pagsupan, (3) Mangwanga (Mangrangan, Compostela), (4) Managosan, (5) Divavaon (Dibabaon, mixed Manobo Mandaya), and (6) Karaga.\n\nThe Mandaya occupy upstream areas, practicing slash-and-burn cultivation in highly dispersed settlements. In addition to a wide range of cropping for domestic consumption, abaca is cultivated as a cash crop. Rice, various tubers, and bananas form the bulk of their diet. Communities are dispersed usually near swiddens. Two or three family units usually occupy houses, and these are usually within sight even if dispersed. Proximity of these houses constitutes a neighborhood, which is loosely organized into a larger discrete domain with all of the households related through various kin relationships. Families are either nuclear or polygynous.\n\nTraditionally, each domain has a headman, bagani, whose word is considered law and who wears distinctive red clothing. He is the recognized protector of the community. His rule is tempered by an advisory council, angtutukay, usually composed of community elders. With the disappearance of the bagani social structure at present, the civil structures of the barangay prevail. There still exists, however, a conflict between the established civil authority and the informal authorities.\n\nThe Mandaya/Mansaka women are famous for their distinctive dresses and ornaments. Their tie-dye weaving and embroidery are intertwined through a sophisticated symbolic art system that evolved design motifs that each have names. The binulanbulan motif, for instance, consists of nested circles representing the moon, and suksuk ng kasili represents fish scales. These motifs are embroidered on blouses against a contrasting red or black background. The beadwork and silver craft on body ornaments mark this group as one of the most noteworthy in terms of art. Unique among Filipino ethno-linguistic groups are the women’s large ornate silver breast ornaments (platina), their multiple fossil shell arm bracelets, and their embroidered blouses. The men wear a distinctive narrow hat constructed from the shaft of a palm frond.

The Babadok is a traditional percussion instrument of Timor-Leste, central to the soundscape of communal dance, ritual, and celebration. With its deep, resonant rhythm, the babadok doesn’t just keep time—it sets the emotional pulse of an event, weaving together the steps of dancers, the cadence of songs, and the energy of the gathered community.\n\nTypically made from a hollowed-out log or wooden tube covered at both ends with animal skin—often goat or cowhide—the babadok is lightweight and portable. Struck with the hands or sometimes with short wooden sticks, it produces a sharp, dry beat that is both grounding and expressive. The drumheads are stretched tightly and tied securely with natural fiber ropes, sometimes decorated with paint or carved patterns. Over time, each instrument develops its own distinct tone, shaped by use, climate, and craftsmanship.\n\nIn traditional ceremonies, particularly dances like tebe-tebe or tebe-lilin, the babadok is the heartbeat of the performance. It provides tempo, signals changes in movement, and helps dancers synchronize their steps. More than a musical tool, the babadok becomes a channel through which emotions—joy, sorrow, gratitude—are communicated and shared. During ritual gatherings, it may accompany singing, recitation of oral histories, or moments of spiritual invocation.\n\nThe instrument is most often played by women, though in some regions both men and women participate. Its accessibility is part of its charm—anyone with rhythm, respect, and a sense of the tradition can learn to play. Children often grow up hearing the babadok played at family ceremonies or village festivals, absorbing its patterns and rhythms before they ever try it themselves.\n\nCrafting a babadok is itself an act of cultural care. The choice of wood, the drying and stretching of the skins, and the tying of the drum all follow methods passed down through generations. Elders often guide young artisans in this process, emphasizing not just the technique but the responsibility that comes with creating something used in sacred and social spaces.\n\nDespite its enduring importance, the babadok—like many traditional instruments—faces challenges in modern times. Mass-produced drums and changing musical preferences mean that fewer young people are learning to make or play it. Still, efforts are being made to preserve the tradition, with community performances, school programs, and cultural events placing the instrument back at the center of public life.\n\nIn the rhythm of the babadok, one can hear more than music: it is the sound of continuity, of people moving together, of ancestors remembered and futures imagined. Whether echoing across a dusty dance circle or softly beating in a sacred house, the babadok remains a powerful symbol of Timor-Leste’s living heritage.

There are many forms of weaving and many items which can be woven on Kosrae. These include the weave mat (kiaka otwot), fan (pal), basket (fotoh), thatch on the ridge of the roof of a house using coconut fronds (sraho), fahsuh (weaving thatch roof using Nypa palm used only), among others. Kosraean warp-striping weaving may be considered unique among weaving cultures due to its complexity. \n\nThe Kosraean word for weaving depends on the item being woven. There exists a variety of woven items which served as currency, reinforced family ties and other relationships, as well as honor. In some cases, a chant may be shared to ensure a girl’s future in weaving. In the past and on contemporary Kosrae, weaving can be found in the preparation of food baskets for funerals, fishing baskets worn on waist of women fishing in the lagoons, loom-weaving for belts (tol), thatch roofing, hats, and cordage for example. \n\nThere can be at least three known types of baskets important in food preparation: fusanie, in the form of a star and used in storing fafa, (2) usanie kapiel or fusanie sa nu which is a larger form of the previous one and woven from young coconut leaves, and (3) kuumpäl which is a kind of basket with handles made of coconut fronds and named after the woven plate. Weaving served not only a function but can be considered a marker of the past. One particular kind of cord can be called nosunap, named after the god Nosunap (also spelled Nasrunsiap or Nazuenziap). \n\nKosrae used to be one of the largest consumers of sinnet cord, suggesting significant movement. This is consistent with oral histories collected in the recent past which connected Kosraeans all the way to Satawal and Puluwat. Among the most common materials for weaving, banal fiber, hibiscus, and pandanaus stand out as the materials of choice. The preparation for each material depends on the item to be woven. While banana fibers may be most common, the hibiscus fiber is easier to dye. Dyes for strands of weaving materials may come from terminal leaves, certain types of mud, and mangrove calyx (black), turmeric (yellow), banana suckers (blue), or marinade citrijolia (red). Of these colors, red was the most prized. The preparation of weaving materials can be lengthy, depending on the plant. The hibiscus fiber needs soaking in sea water for several days while the banana fibers need to dry in the sun and then each fiber is separated into thinner strands. Elders on contemporary Kosrae continue to practice weaving for it serves many uses.\n\nCarving : Carving in Kosraean culture is carried out by the mukul (men). They carve many items, including tok yot (stone fafa pounder), tok sak (wooden pounder for taro and banana for a dish called ainpat), tah (an axe for cutting breadfruit), fuhfak (for wooden handle of an axe used for firewood), oak (canoes), tuhp in fafa (wooden tray shaped like a boat used for presenting fafa), and mwe ahryahr (wooden spoons of many types including long or short or flat ones). The laklak (outrigger of a canoe) is another item which needs to be carved. Carving of toys and wooden sculptures. Oars that are carved along with the canoes.\nBuilding Local House : There are many kinds of houses which can be built using Kosraean methods, including in um (a cooking house), imun oak (canoe house), and iwen monglac (local resting house). Building a local house has always been a community effort, even today; although, of the heavier work is done by the mukul (men) and the weaving for the thatch on the roof is carried out by the muhtacn (women). The mukul will go into the forest to obtain materials from the forest and sometimes from mangroves, depending the type of wood needed for a particular type of house. There are five main sizes of wood needed to build a house and ten parts of the house requiring these five sizes of wood. The sru (posts) are the largest size and heavy. Moving them may be accompanied with a work chant which serves as motivation in lifting, moving, or pulling of the heavy objects. The next size includes kaclacp, lala, and ohl. The kaclacp and lala supports the ohl, which sets the height of the house. The next size wood is used for pokwuhsr (trusses). The next size smaller is used for sahkpahsr (rafters) and folo (beams). The smallest size are for the kwesrihk which is only for thatch roofing (it is where the thatch can be attached) and sukunum which is placed to support the thatch from the bottom. Cutting down the trees is according to the Kosraean moon calendar as is moving the logs from one part of the island to another to use the logs. Paksak (literally, floating of objects) refers to the right time to move the log from one place to another using rivers or channels. This is dependent on the tide. This practice existed because transportation was not available during that time so they usually cut down these big logs and used the chant to get the log to the shoreline and then move the log in the process of paksak to its new location.

Sau-Batar is one of Timor-Leste’s most cherished agricultural ceremonies, marking the successful harvesting of corn—batar, the staple crop that lies at the heart of both sustenance and spiritual life for many communities. Far more than an agricultural routine, this ritual reflects a worldview where nature, ancestors, and community are deeply intertwined.\n\nThe ceremony typically begins with a symbolic act called “taking out the old corn and bringing in the new.” This signifies a transition between agricultural cycles and expresses gratitude to the spirits of the land for their blessings. Families gather at their sacred houses (uma lulik), bringing both harvested corn and cooked rice to share in a ritual meal that reaffirms communal bonds.\n\nCentral to the ritual is the lia-nain—a customary elder responsible for oral tradition and ritual practice—who recites prayers, chants, and invocations handed down through generations. These words are not merely spoken; they are believed to activate ancestral protection and ensure future abundance. The corn offered during the ceremony becomes sacred, often preserved in specially designated granaries or placed on altars within the sacred house as a gesture of respect to the ancestors.\n\nMusic and dance are vital parts of Sau-Batar. Performances of Tebe Lilin (Candle Dance) and other local dances transform the occasion into a festive gathering, where movement and rhythm mirror the unity and joy of a successful harvest. The babadok drum keeps the beat as men and women, elders and children, participate in a shared expression of thanks and renewal.\n\nThe ceremony also involves the symbolic sharing of corn among relatives and neighbors, emphasizing that harvest is not an individual achievement but a collective gift. In some cases, leftover corn from the previous season is burned or ceremonially discarded to make room for the new yield, representing a fresh start and spiritual cleansing.\n\nBeyond its religious and social meanings, Sau-Batar also serves as a moment of informal education. It is during this event that younger generations hear the stories of how rituals are performed, why they matter, and what each gesture or offering means. Through active participation, children and youth absorb the knowledge of land stewardship, spiritual ethics, and cultural identity.\n\nIn recent years, as commercial farming methods expand and traditional schedules shift, Sau-Batar has faced challenges. Yet in many rural areas, the ceremony continues to be practiced with dedication, often with support from local schools and cultural preservation initiatives.\n\nFor the communities that uphold it, Sau-Batar remains a vital link between past and present, the visible and the invisible, and the land and its people. It is a ceremony not just of harvest, but of harmony—a living tradition that continues to nourish both body and spirit.

The Kaiui—also known as fui or be’u in different regions—is a traditional bamboo flute of Timor-Leste, cherished for its gentle, evocative sound that once echoed across rice fields, hilltops, and quiet village evenings. Long associated with solitude, emotional expression, and storytelling, the Kaiui is more than just a musical instrument—it is a vessel of memory and connection.\n\nTraditionally crafted from au-fafulu, a specific type of bamboo, the Kaiui features seven tone holes and is often about the length of a forearm. A key part of its design is the use of a corn cob or similar material to block part of the internal chamber, modifying the flow of air and shaping the distinctive tone. The player blows across the top opening while controlling the pitch with their fingers, producing melodies that are haunting, meditative, and subtly expressive.\n\nFor generations, the Kaiui was used by boys tending livestock in the fields, especially in the early mornings or during midday rest. It was played to pass the time, soothe animals, or simply to ease loneliness. Others used it to express feelings of longing—especially in matters of love, separation, or remembrance. In many communities, the flute is considered a deeply personal instrument, capable of giving voice to emotions that are otherwise difficult to speak.\n\nThe art of playing Kaiui is learned informally, typically by observing and mimicking older siblings, parents, or elders. There is no standard notation; the music lives through imitation, memory, and improvisation. Songs vary from region to region and even from player to player, with some tunes tied to seasonal rhythms or traditional events like sau-batar (harvest ceremonies) or rites of passage.\n\nThe Kaiui also plays a role in certain rituals and ceremonies, where its sound is believed to create a space of calm, welcome ancestral spirits, or accompany reflective moments. Its simple construction and natural materials reflect a worldview grounded in harmony with the environment—a flute made entirely from what the land provides, played under the open sky.\n\nToday, however, the practice of making and playing the Kaiui is increasingly rare. As younger generations turn to electronic music and imported instruments, the quiet music of the bamboo flute is fading from everyday life. In some communities, it survives primarily as a cultural demonstration during festivals or heritage programs.\n\nEfforts to preserve the Kaiui are now underway through workshops, school projects, and intergenerational exchanges. In these spaces, the flute is not only played but celebrated—as a living symbol of Timor-Leste’s musical heritage and a gentle reminder of how sound, memory, and identity are woven together in the simplest of forms.

Chewing bua-malus—a combination of areca nut (bua) and betel pepper leaf (malus)—is a widespread and deeply symbolic cultural practice throughout Timor-Leste. While it is often seen as a daily habit, its role goes far beyond oral tradition and personal enjoyment. Bua-malus is inseparable from the fabric of Timorese life, marking every major social, spiritual, and ceremonial moment with its presence.\n\nAt its simplest, the practice involves chewing pieces of areca nut wrapped in a fresh green betel leaf, often accompanied by a pinch of slaked lime (ahu) to release the active compounds and deepen the flavor. The mixture produces a distinctive red juice and is known for its mildly stimulating effects. But in cultural terms, bua-malus acts as a form of communication—an offering, a blessing, a welcome, and a bridge between generations.\n\nIn marriage ceremonies (barlake), bua-malus plays a key ritual role in exchanges between families. During funerals, it may be offered to the deceased or distributed among mourners as a sign of shared respect and continuity. When sacred houses (uma lulik) are built or restored, or when a newborn baby undergoes a fase-matan (eye-opening) ritual, elders may gently rub a paste of bua-malus onto the baby’s eyelids and forehead to protect them and spiritually anchor their life.\n\nElders and ritual leaders (lia-nain) often carry small pouches filled with the ingredients and use them to open or conclude negotiations, calm disputes, or honor guests. Offering bua-malus is a profound gesture of hospitality and peace—it signals trust, respect, and the intention to share one’s truth openly. Refusing it, in some contexts, may even be considered a subtle social offense.\n\nThe act of chewing is often done communally, accompanied by conversation, storytelling, or silence. The red-stained lips and relaxed posture of those gathered in a shaded courtyard or under a tree reflect a rhythm of life tied to land, time, and relationship. Many communities regard bua-malus not just as a habit but as a living heritage—something that must be handed down with care and intention.\n\nDespite its enduring presence, the practice is evolving. Urbanization, health concerns, and shifting social norms have altered how and where people chew bua-malus. Younger generations may engage with it more selectively, and some of the ritual meanings risk being diluted or forgotten.\n\nNonetheless, the cultural power of bua-malus remains strong. Whether offered to welcome a guest, seal an agreement, or bless a new life, this humble bundle of nut, leaf, and lime carries the weight of centuries of wisdom. It connects people not only to each other but to their ancestors, their land, and the values that continue to guide communal life in Timor-Leste.

Traditionally, navigators learn the way-finding knowledge from fathers or uncles within their family and eventually, when ready, may pass through the traditional initiation of navigators', Pwo Ceremony.\nIn the remote central caroline islands where the indigenous lifestyle of the seafearing system is still practice, it all begins at a very young age and evolves around the central facility known as the canoe house. Every navigator knows to protect his canoe when he is not voyaging. A local canoe house is an important asset and central facility of learning all about navigation. It is said that one has to first learn the stories that are told in the canoe house, then from there begins the long journey toward becoming a complete "Pwo" Navigator.\n\nBuilding Canoe House in Micronesia.\nPulling logs.\nThe debarks logs are pulled out in open spaces for pick up. Because building a canoe house is a communal effort as well as a learning process. It takes several young men to gather and manually pulled the logs out into the open. Little once are always curious and attempt to be part of the process and are remained under watchful eyes of the elders.

Baor-making is a unique skill of the Maranao people. With its embossed handmade and intricate designs – particularly called okir – this skill has claimed a recognition abroad. nOkir is folk motifs found in various artworks and objects, they are usually inspired from detailed and different curves and no machines involved.\nBaor is a maranao translation of baul or the trunk.\nAside from the famous Darangen, a singing-like epic storytelling originally from the Maranao people as well, which belong to the top three of United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) inscribed intangible cultural heritage of the Philippines, baor-making skill is listed as an element among the other 366 under the inventory of Philippine Inventory of Intangible Cultural Heritage.\nHowever, since the 2016 Martial Law declaration in Mindanao stricter regulations are implemented on trees-cutting that are main ingredient to produce baor. Tree like the Philippine National Tree Narra.\nThe absence of professional teaching also creates significant hole for the identity of Maranao younger generations. As of the moment, the only way to transmit the skill is learning the techniques by observing elders while at home.\nThese reasons lead to saddening thought that the Tugaya’s one of a kind skill is slowly dying because youth have now better, numerous options to survive the living over the dynamic society.\nAlthough baor-making is traditionally originated in Tugaya, a small municipality in Lanao del Sur, there is a man who has been living so far from the root of baor-making: Abdulsamad Usman, 58, has been dwelling his fate on making and selling baor amidst the Taguig city’s uncertainties.\nnTaguig is one of the urban cities in Metro Manila, National Capital Region. The gap between Tugaya and Taguig is at least one-thousand kilometers.\nAccording to Usman, more or less a month period before finishing a medium-sized baor. He can carve designs and paint them. He, with his team, is the only considered baor maker who practice the skill in Metro Manila.\nUsman strongly believes that baor-making will not vanish from the present and history because the skill has been playing a huge part for the Maranaos’ culture and identity.\nn기타설명nBaor-making is a unique skill of Maranao people from Tugaya, Lanao del Sur. Baor is a maranao translation of baul or the trunk. The designs embossed in it are called okir --- detailed and different curves. They are handmade and no machines involved. Tugaya is a small community in Lanao del Sur, a province in Mindanao.\nThe skill is considered as an intangible cultural heritage (ICH) among the other 366 listed under the inventory of Philippine Inventory of Intangible Cultural Heritage.

This is an original dance reconstructed based on traditional dances of Bali. To the Balinese, dance is a form of religious ritual performed according to the Balinese calendar. The traditional dances of Bali are inspired by nature and represent traditions, customs and religious value. The Balinese believe that the movements of traditional dances express the views of nature, while the mudra (hand movements) are related to their daily lives, laws, faith and customs. Traditional Balinese dances can be performed by both male and female dancers, who wear elaborate traditional costumes of bright colors, imprinted with flora and fauna patterns in gold foil, and decorated with accessories adorned by golden leaves and jewelry. The dance moves are very complex and precisely detailed. Dancers are required to possess not just skill, but also inner beauty (taksu), charisma, modesty and restraint, along with special spiritual power to bring the dances to life.\n\nDances performed in the many communities of Bali are typically transmitted through unofficial channels from elders to children in the traditional sekaa groups. The traditional dances of Bali are cultural heritage containing the customs and culture of the Balinese, and an important part of the identity of a community. The three genres of traditional Balinese dances were inscribed to the UNESCO’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity in 2015.\n\nCharacteristics:\n∙An original dance reconstructed from the three genres of traditional dance in Bali inscribed to the Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity in 2015.\n\nPerformed by Dance Company of Jakarta State University\nDirected by Ida Bagus Ketut Sudiasa