Banuang Tree in Tumaga

The Banuang Tree in Tumaga

Standing tall about 150 feet from the banks of the Tumaga River, this magnificent tree could be seen even from Lunzuran or the hills of Upper Luyahan. Once upon a time, Banuang trees were common across the Zamboanga Peninsula, but most have long since vanished. Some trees still bear the name “Banuang,” but they lack the full trifecta of qualities that made this one in Tumaga truly special—its towering height, its massive buttress roots, and its wide, sprawling canopy with branches the size of small trees.

This particular Banuang tree was a giant among giants, reaching an astounding 75 meters (about 246 feet) into the sky. Its trunk, a colossal 10 feet in diameter not counting the root buttresses, was sturdy enough to build a payak (a small hut) right on one of its roots. Speaking of roots, it had five massive buttress roots, each about 15 feet tall and stretching 16 feet away from the trunk, forming an almost triangular fortress around it.

But this tree wasn’t just a landmark—it was a bustling ecosystem. At dusk, a murder of crows would gather, settling into its branches for the night to sleep and rest. However, peaceful sleep was a luxury they rarely enjoyed. Just as they were getting comfortable, the bats would arrive—hundreds, maybe even a thousand of them. But these weren’t just any bats; these were the giant flying foxes, with wingspans of three to four feet and heads that actually looked like foxes. Unlike the crows, the bats weren’t there to rest—they were there to feast, noisily munching on fruits while the crows begrudgingly put up with the ruckus.

Now, these creatures weren’t just smart—they were opportunistic. Our house sat directly under their flight path, which led to some unexpected problems. Some of the smarter crows figured out that our farm had chickens and ducks. Instead of flying straight to the Banuang tree, they would perch on the nearest trees in our yard, waiting for the mother hens to lead their chicks into the coop for the night. Then, like feathery thieves in the night, they’d swoop in and snatch up some chicks for an evening snack.

My father did not take kindly to this.

A former military sharpshooter, my father was sickly and frail in his later years, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing his .22 caliber rifle and hobbling over to the nearest fence post for support. He would wait patiently, and as the crows flew overhead, he would take his shot. And let me tell you—he never missed. He’d pick off two, sometimes three crows in a single late afternoon, careful not to waste bullets. Within a week, the entire murder of crows got the message. They started detouring around our house, probably thinking, There’s a crazy guy down there with a gun. Fly anywhere but there!

Even years after my father passed, the crows never forgot. They continued making that small loop around our home, avoiding the airspace like it was cursed. If any of the crows would dare swoop down and perch on a nearby tree, my brother and I would simply point a stick at them, and they would frantically fly away.

And then, of course, there were the bats. Unlike the crows, the bats weren’t interested in our chickens. They had their eyes (or rather, their noses) on the fruits of the Banuang tree. We never tried hunting them up there—not because we respected them, but because they had a unique defense mechanism. As they feasted, they rained down urine from above. Walking under that tree at night was like stepping into a fine, misty drizzle—except it wasn’t rain.

So, if you ever find yourself near the old Banuang tree in Tumaga, take a moment to admire its towering presence. Just don’t stand under it after sunset.