The first time I heard of the puwek di kiling – the “typhoon of kiling” (puwek pronounced poo-poowǝk) – was from my grandmother. I was young then, and I didn’t ask much about it. All I knew was that it referred to a kind of bird. When I asked why it was called kiling, she said it was because of the sound it makes, like the ringing of a small bell. That day in my cold place of Natubleng, the winds were getting cooler, and the clouds were thinning after a full day of rain.
Later on, my mother told me how the elders interpret this typhoon, often strong but short-lived, lasting only a day and a night, was believed to be the last storm of the year, the one that “takes away all other storms.” In her stories, the puwek di kiling marked the end of the typhoon season. In the Kankanaey calendar, November was associated with this bird.
Years later, I learned that the bird my grandmother called kiling is known to science as the Siberian Rubythroat (Calliope calliope), a small migratory songbird that breeds in the taiga and grasslands of northern Asia, then travels thousands of kilometers south for the winter. Scientists describe it as a winter visitor to the Philippines, often appearing in the Cordillera around October to November.
The arrival of the kiling signals the shift of seasons, the end of the Habagat, the southwest monsoon that drenches our lands with weeks of rain, and heralds the coming of the Amihan, the cool northeast wind that sweeps down from Siberia. For us in the highlands, Amihan means foggy mornings, clear afternoons, and the chill that creeps into our blankets at night.
In a way, our elders’ wisdom was their own kind of meteorology. They didn’t have satellites or Doppler radars, but they had ears tuned to nature’s language. The kiling’s arrival was their way of announcing the coming of the Siberian breeze, the same cold air mass we call Amihan that pushes across Luzon and gives the Cordillera its reputation as the coldest region in the country. When the kiling filled the forests with its bell-like song, it wasn’t just birdsong they heard; it was the whisper of the north wind.
Some researchers now write that migratory birds like the Siberian Rubythroat often use changing wind patterns to guide their flight. They may even take advantage of the wake of typhoons, the calmer, wind-assisted corridors that form after storms to travel more efficiently on their journey to mainland China before returning to their breeding grounds in the taiga. Whether or not this has been proven for the kiling, our elders seemed to have known it instinctively. The elders would say “the kiling comes before the last storm, and then fill the forest with their songs after the typhoon is gone. Then they seem to follow its wake coz they disappear after.” And perhaps, without calling it science, they were describing a truth written in both weather and birds’ songs.
I have never seen a Siberian Rubythroat, or perhaps I have but I just don’t know what it was. But every November, I still try to guess which typhoon will be the puwek di killing, the last storm that takes away all storms and signals the upcoming chilly nights.
– by Carl Taawan
