Nuno sa Punso

The mound sits at the edge of a rice paddy, no taller than a man’s knee, its surface threaded with pale roots and sometimes crowned by a ring of small mushrooms. Ants move across its flanks in deliberate columns. To a passing stranger it is dirt and insects. To the people who farm the fields around it, the mound is a doorway, and the old man who lives inside does not suffer fools.

The nuno sa punso, the “ancestor of the mound,” belongs to a tradition older than any cathedral or colonial archive in the Philippines. Before the Spanish galleons dropped anchor, the peoples of the archipelago practiced animism rooted in the concept of anito, a broad category of ancestral and nature spirits woven into every feature of the landscape. Mountains, rivers, balete trees, and termite mounds all had tenants. The nuno was the tenant of the punso, and the word itself carries weight: “nuno” means grandparent or ancestor in Tagalog, with cognates stretching across Austronesian languages from Kapampangan “nunu” to Malay “nenek.” The mound spirit was not invented as a fairy tale for children. It was a member of the community, older than anyone living, and owed the deference that age commands in Filipino culture.

What does the nuno look like? The stories are remarkably consistent. He is small, roughly the height of a toddler, with skin dark and weathered as the soil he inhabits. A long beard, white or grey and often tangled, hangs past his chest. Some accounts dress him in a salakot, the conical hat woven from rattan or reeds that Filipino farmers have worn for centuries. His eyes are sharp. His temperament is worse. Female nuno appear almost nowhere in the oral tradition; this is a solitary old man’s domain, and he keeps it that way.

The nuno’s home is not exclusively the anthill. He may settle beneath a large rock, among the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, along a riverbank, or in the quiet corners of a backyard. But the punso, with its intricate architecture of tunnels and chambers, remains his signature address, and the logic of the belief is elegant: a structure that complex, built by creatures that small, must have a patron. The mound becomes sacred ground. Children learn early not to kick it, step on it, or relieve themselves anywhere near it. The punishment for that last offense is specific and memorable enough that it tends to stick in the mind of any boy who hears it once.

A farmer clearing new ground pauses at the edge of the field where a termite mound rises from the grass, its surface warm in the midday sun. He lowers his bolo, bows his head slightly, and murmurs “tabi tabi po,” the phrase that asks the unseen occupant to step aside, to grant passage without taking offense. The words translate roughly as “please move aside” or “with your permission.” He waits a moment, then begins to work. This small ritual, performed without ceremony or embarrassment, is one of the most persistent acts of folk piety in the Philippines. It survives in cities and provinces alike, spoken by grandmothers and by construction workers breaking ground on building sites.

The nuno’s curse operates through proximity. If a trespasser comes close enough, the spirit can spit on any part of their body, and the afflicted area swells, aches, or worse. A kicked mound produces swollen feet. Urinating on the mound produces swollen genitals. Other punishments recorded in folk accounts include vomiting blood, urinating black liquid, high fevers that resist modern medicine, and, in one particularly unsettling detail, sudden excessive hair growth on the back. The condition of being cursed is called “nanuno” or “nabati,” and when antibiotics and clinic visits fail to resolve a mysterious ailment, the diagnosis often circles back to the old man in the dirt.

The cure belongs to the albularyo, the traditional healer whose practice syncretized pre-colonial spirit work with Catholic prayer during the centuries of Spanish rule. The albularyo performs pagtatawas, a divination ritual in which a piece of alum or candle wax is melted over a flame and dripped into a basin of water. As the molten material cools and solidifies, it forms shapes on the surface. The healer reads these shapes the way a doctor reads an X-ray, looking for the silhouette of a spirit, the outline of a mound, any clue pointing to the source of the affliction. Whispered prayers accompany the melting. The water used in the ritual is applied to the patient’s body, and the spent wax or alum is thrown westward, toward the setting sun, to banish whatever was drawn out. If the reading confirms a nuno’s involvement, the family must bring offerings to the mound: fruit, rice, coconut, sometimes tobacco or drink. In severe cases, a white chicken is sacrificed, its blood sprinkled at the base of the punso. If the offerings fail, the victim must return to the mound and ask forgiveness in person. The alternative, according to tradition, is permanent possession by a malevolent spirit, which leads to madness.

The nuno is not a demon. That distinction matters. He does not hunt, seduce, or scheme. He sits in his house and expects to be left alone. The violence he inflicts is reactive, proportional in its own logic to the insult received. In this way the nuno functions less as a monster and more as an enforcer of a social contract between people and land, a contract that requires acknowledgment, courtesy, and restraint. Filipino culture places enormous value on respect for elders, and the nuno is the eldest thing in the field. His temper is simply the consequence of his seniority.

The nuno is distinct from the duwende, though the two are often confused. The duwende, a term borrowed from the Spanish “duende,” is a more playful spirit, a hobgoblin prone to showing himself to children and engaging in mischief. The nuno is older, meaner, and more territorial. He does not play. He does not befriend. He guards. This separation is important within Philippine folklore because it reflects a layered spirit taxonomy that predates colonial influence, even as colonial language reshaped some of its vocabulary.

His power is considerable within his territory but narrow in scope. He cannot pursue a victim across distances or wage war on communities. His curse requires physical proximity, his spit the delivery mechanism. He can be appeased with the right offerings and the right words, and in some accounts he can even be killed if caught and his head crushed between a person’s fingers, though this act is said to invite the vengeance of every nuno in the surrounding area. It is not recommended.

What the nuno cannot survive is indifference. Bulldozers do not say “tabi tabi po.” When construction crews level mounds without pause, when urbanization paves over the old paths between rice paddies and forest edges, the nuno loses his address. Stories persist in Metro Manila of unexplained illnesses among work crews who flattened anthills on building sites, and these stories carry the same structure they have carried for centuries: someone ignored the old man, and the old man made them regret it.

Frequently Asked Questions

What is Nuno sa Punso?

Nuno sa Punso is an ancestor spirit from Philippine mythology who dwells inside anthills, termite mounds, and similar earth formations. The name means “ancestor of the mound” in Tagalog, and the figure belongs to the pre-colonial anito tradition of nature and ancestral spirits tied to specific features of the landscape. He functions as a territorial guardian who punishes anyone who disturbs his dwelling.

What does Nuno sa Punso look like?

Nuno sa Punso is described as a small old man roughly the height of a toddler, with skin dark and weathered like soil and a long white or grey beard hanging past his chest. Some accounts dress him in a salakot, the conical hat woven from rattan or reeds worn by Filipino farmers. Female nuno appear almost nowhere in the oral tradition.

What does “tabi tabi po” mean and why do people say it?

“Tabi tabi po” is a Tagalog phrase that asks Nuno sa Punso to step aside and grant passage without taking offense, translating roughly as “please move aside” or “with your permission.” Filipinos say it when passing near mounds, large rocks, old tree roots, or any place a nuno might inhabit, and the practice survives in both rural provinces and urban construction sites. Speaking it is one of the most persistent acts of folk piety in the Philippines.

How do you cure a curse from Nuno sa Punso?

A curse from Nuno sa Punso, called “nanuno” or “nabati,” is treated by an albularyo, the traditional Filipino healer whose practice blends pre-colonial spirit work with Catholic prayer. The albularyo performs pagtatawas, a divination ritual in which alum or candle wax is melted and dripped into water, then reads the cooled shapes to identify the spirit responsible. The family must then bring offerings such as fruit, rice, coconut, tobacco, or drink to the mound, and in severe cases sacrifice a white chicken.

What is the difference between Nuno sa Punso and a Duwende?

Nuno sa Punso and the duwende are often confused but belong to different categories of Philippine spirit. The duwende, whose name comes from the Spanish “duende,” is a playful hobgoblin that shows itself to children and engages in mischief. Nuno sa Punso is older, meaner, and strictly territorial, and he neither plays nor befriends.

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