Sagada, Bontoc, and Banaue (Philippines)

We had contracted the country music van to pick us up a couple of days later. With no sign of the driver, and several hours of trying to frantically reach him on his cell, our guide decided we should just jump on the public jeepney before it left Sagada, rather than miss our chain of connections that culminated in a flight. We'd been enjoying another roof top ride for about a half hour when the jeepney stopped to drop off some folks. A man approached the vehicle, calling out and looking up and down at the passengers. Wait, is that the van driver? Sure enough, it was. He made some half-hearted excuses about the traffic - none of which we had noticed on the road - and a bad cell battery. After leaving us hanging, our guide and we were more than a little annoyed with his unreliability. But he had our deposit, was exchanging money with the jeepney driver for our fares, and was delaying everyone with his protestations, so we reluctantly re-joined him in country musicland.

We made a pit stop in Bontoc. The capital of the Mountain Province has a small museum on the indigenous people of the Cordilleras. There were rice god statues, pictures of the various tribes and colonial officials throughout history, and examples of traditional tools and textiles on display. Outside, there were replicas of typical structures of Cordilleras villages, including single sex dormitory houses, a pig pen with a native pig (more like a boar), and a stone circle where tribal elders would meet. The gift shop, which doubled tripled as a library and art gallery, was manned by a nun in a habit. This ticked the box for one of Rich's all-time favorite sights: nuns doing normal things!

Back on the road toward Banaue, the heavens opened and unleashed monsoon rains. Though I was a little worried for the road conditions, it didn't actually seem to be that bad, and we were puttering along nicely... until our genius driver decided he wanted to aggressively overtake a vehicle by plowing through a flooded section of road on a mountain turn. Then came the inevitable sputtering, and the engine died. There was a moment as we were coasting speedily and steeply downhill that I thought, "Oh, God, I hope the brakes still work." But we came to a stop. The driver kept trying to re-start, but no dice, the ignition would have to dry out. We were only about 30 minutes drive outside Banaue. Too far to walk with our packs and still make it to the overnight bus on time. The driver tried his miraculously now working cell phone but couldn't raise any one. Our guide tried his contacts in town, but the other drivers he knew were out. The only option was hitchhiking. A few trucks were interested enough to stop, but wouldn't take us on. Finally, our guide convinced a couple of guys driving in what could be charitably described as a mini-Jeep, or more realistically, an all-terrain golf cart!? The four of us and our packs crammed in the back with the spare tire, spool of rope, and sharp metal tools there. Our poor guide was stuck on the fabric roof in the rain with each bump convincing Rich it would rip and land the guy on our heads. I could just about read a short prayer painted on the passenger side, appealing to God for a safe trip home. As we knocked about into each other, hunched over and losing all feeling in our tangled legs, I couldn't help but appreciate the sentiment. We made it to Banaue, but what an adventure!  

Click on the picture to see the whole album.

Philippines

Batad (Philippines)

After the carnage of the celebration, we headed out for a hike. Before coming, I had debated about packing hiking boots and trekking poles for this portion of our trip. Ultimately, I decided against it due to the weight in our packs and the protestations of Rich and our other companions, "Seriously, it's just a walk. How bad can it be?" Famous last words.

There is a reason the Batad terraces are the grandest and most majestic - maybe we should have expected steep terrain? While we did some traversing, almost all of the hike was stairs. Stairs too numerous to count. Stairs of all shapes and sizes and heights, which actually made it challenging to get a good rhythm going. We went all downhill, then all uphill, then all downhill. Comparisons were made to the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, even. The knees were not pleased... or the thighs or calves or ankles. Rich and I chalked it up to being out of shape, but the runners in our group were also suffering days later. A few sections you had to edge sideways carefully along a muddy ridge, like some high-wire act. My sister had a full-blown freak out. We had to negotiate between slipping into the unknown muddy depths of a field or pitching over the edge of a 20 foot drop off behind us, with nary a hand hold in sight. Luckily, most of paths were, in fact, paved in stone or concrete. The really fun parts were akin to rock climbing, using tiny stone projections to pull yourself up to the next terrace. Narrow stone bridges in the irrigation channels - a few of which had a long fall into rushing water - reminded me of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

The rice terraces are all different fields belonging to different farmers. When you walk in them, you are effectively walking along a farmer's fence line or irrigation canal. I gathered that many tourists just trespass and potentially disturb or damage their crops. One benefit of having our guide was that he had obtained permission to cross their lands and also knew where to go when the routes were blocked off. Since the terraces are like an amphitheater, we actually could watch the perils of a French couple in the distance, who had to keep zigzagging and back tracking, trying to find an alternate route from one of the road blocks.

Our destination was Tappiya Falls. The water comes thundering down 70 meters into a pool where visitors can take a dip. On our way to it, the pounding afternoon rains of the start of the monsoon season caught us just as we were leaving the last houses, and our guide asked for shelter on a farmer's porch to wait out the worst of it. As a consequence, the falls themselves were turbulent and brownish with all of the sediment from rain. Rich, a stronger swimmer, went for a paddle, but I stuck to wading in a little, well beyond the reach of the current. I had to keep my strength up for the hike back!

Click on the picture to see the whole album.

Philippines

Banaue and Batad (Philippines)

Not far outside of town, we stopped for a better view of the landscape. Archaeological research indicates that it took the native Ifugao people over 1000 years to carve out the rice terraces from the steep slopes and construct the stone walls. To this day, the sheer amount of time and manual labor required means that only one planting of rice per year is possible though other places, e.g. in the lowlands, can get in as many as three! One of the greatest challenges to sustainability of the rice terraces is that young people these days are more interested in seeking their fortunes elsewhere rather than following in the footsteps of their ancestors and maintaining the traditional lifestyle... confirming that brain drain is the story everywhere. We were lucky that we got to meet some of the tribal elders in our roadside break. Many still hold onto a belief that photos can steal a part of someone's soul, but we were able to get permission for a couple of snaps in their traditional dress.

There was also a typical Ifugao hut to visit. It's an efficiency raised on stilts. Nearly half of the interior was devoted to grain storage, and the posts supporting it had wide discs to stop rats and other pests from coming up and inside it. For protection sought in a more spiritual sense, a family may have rice gods ("bulol," or human figurines carved of narra wood and bathed in special ceremonies with pig's blood) installed as guardians of the granary/house. The exterior of the hut seemed a tad menacing with its wall-to-wall decor of dead animal skulls - even more unnerving when you remember they practiced head hunting only way back in the 1970s!?! - but our guide told us the skulls were a signalling of wealth. It makes sense when you think killing a water buffalo (or "carabao") means you're getting rid of what is essentially your dairy and your tractor... but more, much more, on that later. 

Clambering back onto the roof of the jeepney, it wasn't that long before we hit the literal end of the road. A construction site because it's not finished. The only way to Batad is on foot so it was time to haul our packs off and get walking. It was downhill all the way, a relatively easy hike, maybe 45 minutes to an hour, and a fair amount paved. The Batad rice terraces are part of the official UNESCO World Heritage Site and were actually the first property included in the cultural landscape category. The view from Batad was certainly impressive. The tiny village sits about a third of the way up the mountain with rice terraces extending around like a vast amphitheater. It has quite a restive feel - ideal for a quiet morning cup of coffee or watching the afternoon rains of the summer monsoon across the mountains - well, at least we discovered it could be so later.

When we arrived, it was actually a cacophony. The patriarch of the family who owned the homestay had had an illness so serious that no one expected him to return from the hospital. It was now the  anniversary of his miraculous recovery and were they going to celebrate! The entirety of Batad was invited. We were lucky that they still honored our reservations as the rest of the rooms were full up with out-of-town relatives and friends for the big occasion. In addition to the personalized vinyl banner - even in the remote Cordilleras! - honoring the patriarch and praising Jesus, there was music and traditional dancing. But the pièce de résistance was the slaughtering of 2 - count'em, 2! - carabao. It took about 30 men, heavy duty ropes, and giant bamboo poles to pull, push, and hold down the first water buffalo. The appointed man wielded an intimidating machete and proceeded to slit the carabao's throat and hack the body into pieces. It was an incredible sight, although decidedly not a humane one. The stench when he cut into the stomach was overpowering but did not seem to deter the packed crowds. They had a vested interest though. Rather than cook it whole like some kind of pig pickin', much of the beast was divided into portions for people to take home with them. Hours passed, and the butchering was still going on, interrupted occasionally by the calling of a name. That person would rush up to pick up their plastic grocery bag of still warm meat. The blood was scooped into large buckets, and our guide told us this would likely not be eaten and instead used in ceremonies. He also told us the extravagance was a cultural signifier and display of the family's thanksgiving and largesse to the village and guests, which, even as a first generation Filipino-American was not at all a surprise... er, our wedding, anyone? Guilty as charged.

Click on the picture to see the whole album.
WARNING: Contains animal carnage.

Philippines