Lightning Teeth Help Win a Lover’s Heart and Guarantee an Election Victory
Posted on 04. Mar, 2025 by Paul Sochaczewski in Articles

Lily Tatong (left) , a Filipina healer, at her roadside amulet stall and Governor Orlando “Shane” Fua, Jr. (right). Win a heart, win an election. Everything’s possible with the right magic elixir.
Lightning Teeth Help Win a Lover’s Heart and Guarantee an Election Victory
An isolated Philippines island has cornered the market on love potions and magical healing.
SAN ANTONIO, Siquijor Island, The Philippines
What a wonderful world we live in, I thought. For just $10 a person could buy a small bottle crammed with a magical potion made out of herbs and scrapings of “lightning teeth.” According to Juan Ponce, the elderly traditional healer who created the concoction, the mystical brew will help the bearer entice new lovers. Enjoy business prosperity. Even win a gubernatorial election.
* * *
Moving slowly, 97-year-old Ponce showed me a cuspid-shaped chunk of basalt resembling a prehistoric ax-head. “Very rare,” Ponce’s daughter Tata said. “These lightning teeth mysteriously appear at the base of the tree where lightning has struck.”
Juan Ponce’s house, in the rural Siquijor village of San Antonio — Ground Zero for mystical happenings in the Philippines — certainly had the allure of a sorcerer’s residence. Set up on a small hill away from the road, his wooden residence and overgrown garden emitted a vaguely uneasy aura in an otherwise sunny and tranquil Siquijor Island.
Ponce is one of some 50 mananambals, or traditional healers, who live on the half-Singapore-sized island in the center of the Philippines.
Sorcery, magic, and things that go bump in the night are part of Siquijor’s allure, along with a forest nature reserve and a down-at-the-heels 19th-century Catholic convent, claimed to be the oldest in Asia.
So important is magic to the island’s tourist development, that, at the time I visited in the early 2000s, the Siquijor tourism office had proclaimed the destination as “The Mystical Island” (a designation changed since to “The Healing Island”). Mysticism is in the island’s DNA. The governor of Siquijor Province, Orlando “Shane” Fua Jr. regularly offers guests small bottles of “love potions” made by either Juan Ponce or Lily Tatong, another mananambal.
Juan Ponce suggested that the potions are more than official giveaways: “The governor uses the potions while campaigning.” Ponce added that before the vote that put him in power, Governor Shane, as he is widely called, rubbed a bit of magic elixir into his palm before shaking hands with the electorate.
* * *
At first glance, Siquijor, population 87,000, doesn’t appear to be a haven of magic arts. It’s as laid-back and as verdant as any out-of-the-way Philippines island. Some 70,000 tourists a year stop by; the Filipino visitors come for a quick equivalent of a one-day Magical Mystery Tour, the foreign tourists visit for the white-sand beaches and excellent scuba diving.
I had first visited the island in 2001 with my son David and my friend Bill. I returned in late 2008, accompanied by Abner Bucol, a Siquijor native and research biologist who works in Silliman University in Dumaguete, a hour’s ferry ride from Siquijor.
During our three-day visit, Abner and I visited half a dozen healers, and we quickly learned that there is no fixed route to health in Siquijor.
When we arrived unannounced at Genelou Magsalay Sumalpong’s house, she was breastfeeding her five-month-old daughter. She lives in a comfortable, but not luxurious concrete house, and like most healers, has enough disposable income to afford a nice TV and sound system. Abner explained that he had a cyst on his neck. Sumalpong, 24, listened, examined the cyst, and got out her simple equipment. She uses a technique called bolo-bolo, onomatopoeic for “blowing bubbles,” which detects and removes evil spirits that are causing illness. The key mechanism, she explained after some prompting, is the ordinary-looking oblong black pebble that she put in a water-filled jar. Her grandmother found the stone, “glittering like a crystal egg sitting on a nest,” took it home, and placed it on the family altar. That night Sumalpong’s grandfather had a dream that he would become a mananambal, and a family vocation was born. Sumalpong placed the jar against Abner’s neck and blew bubbles through a metal straw. The water stayed clear, and she declared that Abner’s problem was natural; no devil was involved. Had the water turned murky with dirt, pebbles, and grass, she would have concluded that Abner had been infested by an evil spirit, necessitating an exorcism.
* * *
Most residents of Siquijor are quick to differentiate between “good” and “bad” mysticism.
Simply put, “good” mysticism, practiced by a mananambal, is the stuff of herbal massages, traditional herbal medical healing, love potions, tourist souvenirs of “dragon’s teeth” concoctions, heart-shaped carved wooden amulets, and colorful plastic bracelets to protect against, as one dealer suggested, “snake bites, voodoo spells, and vampires.”
“Bad” mysticism, practiced by sorcerers, locally called mamamarang, is the “dark side,” the world of devil-influenced spells. In the isolated hills of Siquijor, people say, there are mamamarang who turn themselves into animals, who talk with the dead and concoct powerful poisons that kill on contact. At least that’s the way Josette Armiola of the Siquijor tourist office, who acknowledges she “half-believes” in magic, sees it. “Herbal medicines are good. Witchcraft isn’t.”
* * *
Armiola has a powerful ally in her “good/bad” differentiation — the Catholic Church.
Monsignor Larry Catubig welcomed me to his office next to the ruins of a two-century-old bell tower. He acknowledges that the Church has no problem with healers but does not welcome magicians. I suggested to him that Catholicism, like many religions, is based on miracles. “Yes,” he agreed. “Miracles build. But magic destroys.”
Pastor Dario Ocay, a Pentecostal pastor of the Blessed Hope Global Outreach, had a more draconian view of traditional healing and its associated magic. Sitting in the cool room that doubles as the church’s kindergarten, Ocay said, “It’s all the work of Satan, and all healers are demon-possessed.” Ocay’s world view is refreshingly black and white. He is an articulate and friendly man (he used to be an encyclopedia salesman), who admits that his father was a sorcerer. “All diseases are caused by demons,” he says. “What about something like cancer?” I ask.
“Everyone is a sinner,” he answers.
* * *
But how bad could the “bad” stuff really be?
Evil enough to kill someone, if Telesforo Lumactod is to be believed.
We went to his easy-to-find house on the main road that runs through the commune of Ponong in the hills about half an hour from the slightly busier coastal road. There were no cars, just a few motorized tricycles and motorcycles. Village life went on at its own sleepy tempo — children played, chickens ran around, shopkeepers languidly chased flies from their produce.
Lumactod wore a green golf shirt and blue denim shorts. He is an unimposing Voldemort, with a wispy Van Gogh-style beard and a few missing front teeth. We disturbed him from his afternoon nap, a sensible pastime in the tropics. He was sprawled on a white plastic chair on the front porch of his concrete house, a half-empty bottle of rum close by.
“Yes, I can kill someone,” Lumactod said.
Lumactod’s modus operandi for mystical mayhem is not as straightforward as, say, Martha Stewart’s recipe for apple crumble. His atelier is a secret cave, where he calls up wandering souls. He performs his incantations, aided by a picture of the intended victim or a lock of the person’s hair.
I thought for a moment about some truly evil people whom I would like to see injured. I decide to let fate, whatever that might be, take responsibility for their future, and I do not engage Lumactod’s services.
I asked whether Lumactod was worried about what will happen to him after he dies.
“I’m already in hell,” the 57-year-old man says. But the rum confuses him, and he rambles. “Heaven is only a story. And anyway, God doesn’t give me food.”
Lumactod also deals in more mundane love potions and concoctions to ensure business success. Could we buy one of his ready-to-use potions? “Come back later,” he says, explaining that his wife handles the retail side of the family business. She is a village counselor and had gone to town on official duties.
* * *
Call it what you will. Healing. Magic. Mysticism. Hucksterism. The work of the devil or affordable health care? How did Siquijor become Grand Central Station of things that go bump in the night?
Perhaps the early Spanish explorers had a sense of the distinctive personality of Siquijor when they dubbed the island Isla del Fuego or “Island of Fire,” because it gave off an eerie night-time glow. No matter that this strange light came from the great swarms of fireflies that harbored in the numerous molave trees on the island — “Fire Island” has a pleasant metaphysical ring to it.
Vergie Bonocan Miquiabas, associate professor at Siquijor State University and author of The Mystical Siquijor, says one reason for Siquijor’s magical positioning is that people are poor and isolated, so they turn to alternative medical healing. “And there are plenty of herbal plants in the forests that provide raw materials for the healers,” she adds.
Of course, isolation, poverty, and biodiversity occur throughout the Philippines, and other parts of the country have strong metaphysical reputations. But somehow Siquijor has jumped to the front of the queue when people think of magic, and a steady stream of visitors, including high society matrons and high government officials, seek treatment and protection from Siquijor’s practitioners of the grey arts.
Imelda Marcos, the imperious shoe-collecting wife of Philippines President Ferdinand Marcos, was among Siquijor’s A-list adherents.
In a generally accepted urban legend, the first lady had a skin disease that resisted treatment by the best Western-trained dermatologists in Manila. She consulted a Siquijor healer who explained that Marcos’ disfiguration was caused by a curse placed on her by angry mermen (brothers of mermaids) injured during the construction of the San Juanico Bridge linking Samar and Leyte islands, at the time the longest bridge in the country. This edifice was hailed as a “love bridge,” built in honor of the First Lady by her husband. At the urging of a Siquijor healer, Madam Marcos made offerings to the aquatic spirits, and her skin problem cleared up.
(A related popular San Juanico Bridge tale says that the woman in charge of the bridge’s construction, annoyed by building delays, consulted a fortune teller who explained that the bridge would never be completed unless the blood of children was mixed in with the concrete to strengthen the foundations. She ordered the bridge laborers to kidnap street children, drain their blood, and throw their bodies into the river. These acts were witnessed by the River Fairy, who cursed the woman in charge, causing her legs to grow scales and eternally smell of rotten fish. The bridge’s name became a euphemism to describe a form of torture used by President Marcos’ military to punish political opponents. It involves a person being beaten while the victim’s head and feet lie on separate beds and the body is suspended as though to form a bridge.)
* * *
Buying amulets in Juan Ponce’s home was the rural Philippines equivalent of spiritual fast food — make your choice and take it home. I didn’t like it. It was too easy, all cash and no soul. My experience with healers and magicians in Kenya, Zaire, Madagascar, Indonesia, Thailand, China, and India usually called for at least a cursory discussion of my needs, at least the pretense of giving me something specially concocted for my situation. I found I missed the “personal blessing” aspect of acquiring something mystical. I wanted a human communion, not a retail transaction.
The commercialization of magic in Siquijor extends to the handful of talented illusionists who live on the island.
Arguably the most famous Siquijor conjuror is Vicente Tumala. His home, also on the main drag in San Antonio, is spacious, cool, and comfortable. When we arrived, a relative was installing a stereo system on steroids and a bossa nova version of “I could have danced all night” from My Fair Lady pounded out the massive speakers, shaking the tin roof.
Up until 2008, Tumala was the David Copperfield of Siquijor and was much in demand by tourist groups who enjoyed watching him eat burning coals, turning vines into pythons, and making dried, salted anchovies swim.
He’s retired now. He told me he became a charismatic Catholic and now believes that magic is the work of the devil. And he is still bitter about being shortchanged by a group of Japanese tourists, who promised him $120 for a “dead-fish-swimming” performance but only gave him $5. It’s hard to tell which was the greater reason for his quitting show business — religion or cash flow.
* * *
Regardless of the nomenclature — spiritual, supernatural, magic, mystical, or just plain nuts — people around the world put an inordinate amount of faith in talismans, amulets, good-luck charms, and magic incantations.
Almost everyone has some superstition or quirk. Knocking on wood to retain good luck. Refusing to walk under a ladder. Changing course when a black cat crosses their path. And who’s to say those tactics don’t work?
* * *
I asked whether Juan Ponce used his own concoctions to keep him going. What’s his secret?
“Just a glass of rice wine every day,” he said.
I tried his rice wine — delicious but headache-inducing in the mid-day sun. But I had a more immediate physical problem than longevity — a chronically stiff lower back. I rubbed on some of Juan Ponce’s haplas healing oil, which he says is made from some 50 herbs he stores in a giant-sized Johnnie Walker bottle. My back felt better immediately, and the feeling of relief lasted all day.
During a visit to Siquijor a decade ago, my son bought a love amulet — a few years later he married a wonderful woman. (I thought of the sound-bite-worthy comments of Monsignor Larry Catubig, who had opined that the best love potion is the way you speak and your money.)
Lily Tatong’s daughter, Ferlie, claims empirical proof that her mother’s love potions work. “Just look at my four children,” she says proudly, as her cute kids scamper around the living room that doubles as a medicinal-bracelet manufacturing center. “Every time I wanted to have a baby I would use this magic bracelet,” she said. “With your husband?” I ask gingerly. “No. No need for husbands. When I need a man, this bracelet is all I need.” It was the first time I had heard of a woman requiring supernatural assistance to get pregnant.
* * *
But the most eloquent answer I got about whether amulets and magic potions work came from Siquijor’s Governor Orlando “Shane” Fua Jr, the man whom Juan Ponce suggested used potions to get elected.
By happy coincidence, on my last day in Siquijor, Abner and I found ourselves having lunch at a simple open-air restaurant in the main town. The governor sat at an adjoining table with several friends and aides.
I waited until he finished his grilled fish lunch and introduced myself. After good-naturedly blaming journalists for exaggerating the bad things and ignoring the good, Governor Shane happily talked about his plans for Siquijor and why people should visit his small province. Beaches. Nice people. No traffic. Fresh air. Marine nature reserves. We chatted for 10 minutes, and I sensed he was getting ready to leave to take care of his gubernatorial duties. “Governor, is it true you rubbed Juan Ponce’s love potion on your hands when you greeted potential voters?” I asked.
He didn’t quite deny it but had a comeback that no doubt he had used previously. “I have something much stronger than any magic potion,” he said. He waited a beat before continuing. “My personal charm! That’s what won me the election.”
This article is excerpted from:
Quests: Searching for Heroes, Scoundrels, Star-Gazers, and a Mermaid Queen
ISBN: 978-2-940573-43-1 (paperback) | 978-2-940573-44-8 (ebook)
Available at Amazon or independent booksellers.