Sometimes at my home in Batangas, a guest will note the fragrance of a flowering tree. “That’s a kamuning,” I’ll say proudly. If there’s a QC resident in the group, they’ll usually react with something like, “Kamuning is a tree?” Then follow up with a joke about how their Kamuning, the main street with its stagnant puddles and black jeepney fumes, is not fragrant.
Then that little exchange often becomes a conversation about how many places in the Philippines were actually named after trees, most of which have been forgotten because they’re hardly seen anymore.
How many know that Mabalacat in Pampanga is named after the balakat tree? Or that Apalit in the same province is the local name for narra, the majestic hardwood with delicate yellow flowers that fall like snowflakes with every slight breeze? Or Naga in Camarines Sur is also narra but in the Bicol language?
Our little town in Batangas probably had so many lofty trees at one time that its namer couldn’t decide so just christened it “Mataasnakahoy” (yes, one word). But our sitio is called Lipote after the native tree whose sweet berries can be turned into wine.
Even our barangay of Kinalaglagan is associated with the native tree Anubing. A saint was said to have dropped here his cane made of wood from that tree species. Hence Kinalaglagan (“where it was dropped”).
The next town to the north of us is Balete, also the tree with gnarly roots, while the barako city to the south — which native son T.M. Kalaw once likened to Athens for its cultured people — is named after the obscure Lipa tree that can cause itchiness and has no obvious value to humans.
The odd Lipeño who may know that Lipa is a tree has probably never seen one. There aren’t too many anymore, where once they were likely so numerous the itchy Lipa was top of mind when it came to naming the community.
Jose Rizal’s old forested homestead in Dapitan, preserved by the government, is still called Talisay after the moisture-loving coastal tree. When the exile Rizal bought the 16-hectare property with lotto winnings in 1892, he noted that it didn’t have any talisay trees “of any worth” and considered renaming his land “baluno” after the tall, fruit-bearing tree in front of his house that is still alive in the same spot. I’m glad though that he retained the name talisay, a much more lyrical sound than baluno.
I don’t know if wild kamuning trees ever thrived anywhere near Kamuning Road in Quezon City. Streets in modern communities are often named thematically rather than after any natural features of the place. With more streets came less land for trees. QC perhaps channeled its guilt over lost trees by naming streets after them.
Kamuning after all becomes Kamias Road just after crossing EDSA. Kamias then intersects with Anonas which connects to Marang, Pajo, and Molave, among other streets named arbitrarily after trees.
When I was a QC resident myself for several years and biked all over that flat, unforested terrain, I don’t recall seeing any of the trees those streets were named after.
I wonder how many residents even know their streets were named after trees. I rode the LRT-2 line this week starting at Anonas Station where I randomly asked commuters if they knew what the station and the nearby Anonas Street were named after. Most said they didn’t know but one passenger confidently believed that Anonas was a historical figure, perhaps confusing the Anonas tree with Ananias Diokno, the Tagalog revolutionary leader of the 1890s.
The LRT-2 ends in Antipolo, a name much more famous for the balmy, elevated city than the tall tipolo tree that lent the place its name. Supposedly, references to “ang tipolo” became Antipolo officially.
Legend has it that the hallowed, wooden Birhen statuette in the cathedral would disappear centuries ago from the Antipolo church only to be found perched in a tipolo tree. So the Birhen is now enshrined above the altar on a pedestal made from tipolo wood. The site is the holy grail for many a pilgrim.
This tree species then is as intertwined with religious worship in Antipolo as perhaps any other tree anywhere.
Yet there seems to be a contradiction — if the tipolo tree is so sacred in Antipolo, why is it so hard to find there? Shouldn’t the devout be planting lots of tipolo trees in case a wandering Birhen needs to find another tree refuge?
Since the tipolo tree is so rare in Antipolo, most residents will not see it and not know it’s even a tree. So it is with nearly all native trees.
Consequently, the names of many trees are now associated purely with places that bear their names rather than the living things that inspired the naming. On the scarce occasion that native trees are even seen in a city, most passersby will not know their names. It’s all just further evidence of our disconnection from nature.
Why do names matter? Ronald Achacoso, the curator of the Pinto Museum’s remarkable arboretum of native trees and plants in Antipolo, has this to say:
“Towering trees once dominated our native landscape. Their names belong to a once rich lexicon of native flora now largely forgotten; names that reflected and shaped the imagination of our people and subtly molded our racial consciousness and cultural identity. In forgetting them we have impoverished ourselves, perhaps to the point of affecting our sense of pride and self worth.
The act of naming something forges a strong link between the namer and the thing named. It’s prewired in the DNA, it seems. The first thing a child asks, upon learning the rudiments of speech, is the name of the thing at hand. Even our stories of creation intrinsically recognize this taxonomic relevance – Adam’s first task in Eden was to name all the plants and animals to create a sense of order amidst the immensity of creation.
Everything begins with the simple but sublime act of giving or learning a name, which leads to knowing. That leads to caring.”
So why not this simple start towards redemption: In the LRT stations where thousands pass every day entering and exiting stations named after Bambang, Anonas, Kamuning, Antipolo and other trees, why not display posters of what those trees look like? And state for the record that long before those streets and train stations, those names were trees.
Veteran Kapuso journalist H. Severino writes occasional reflections for this website under a column entitled, “Essay.” In 2023, he was given the Gawad Balagtas, a lifetime literary achievement award given to Filipino writers by the Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas (UMPIL), the country's largest organization of Filipino writers.
