Last stop: hot springs and rice fields

As the jeepney wound down the mountain, a small group of us perched on the top—gripping the rack below us. Riding on top of the jeepney, while a bit unnerving, offered the best view, the cleanest air, and the most adventure. A SITMO volunteer sat on top with us and chatted about the verdant scenery around us as we headed to a hot spring near the terrace community we’d visited the day before.

Within a half hour, we were hiking through terraces, along dirt walls, cement irrigation channels, and over rocks. Many of the tourists had no idea what they were getting into. The direct sun was hot and the hike to the promised hot springs continued on for over an hour. As we traversed the dikes, we had an opportunity to see the farmers at work cleaning water hyacinth and algae out of the ponds while children trudged through muddy fields, collecting small fish in their slippery hands and coaxing them into plastic bottles.

The group had split up that morning—a group of Catholics left the hotel early to attend mass in Hapao—and as we walked, their songs wafted out from the church and settled over the terraced valley. A second group, the one I had joined, left to find the hot springs. After over an hour’s hike, we found them. I wouldn’t call them hot springs, per se, but there were places where you could feel hot water coming out through the rocks at the bottom of the pool. The locals kept the water cool enough by channeling water from the adjacent river into the walled-off pool. Local Filipinos splashed around, men in shorts, women in shorts and tee-shirts. A few brought shampoo and washed themselves, rinsing off their soapy bodies directly in the water. This blatant disregard for the water always makes me very uncomfortable: I’ve spent over five years teaching watershed care, trying to educate people to take care of their water sources. But, there’s nothing I can do about it here, really—I just have to sit back and watch.

A pic of the hotspring:

Not long after, the group of church-goers arrived. Everyone lounged around on the rocks and took pictures until the SITMO coordinator herded us back to the church with her megaphone. We hiked back, more assuredly this time, for lunch. By the time we arrived, they’d laid out quite a feast for us: skewered roasted kamote (sweet potato), more fern, roasted chicken, rice, and chicken broth soup served in bamboo (the green objects in the front of the photo). They also served the native rice wine—which I had a sip of. It’s quite sweet and delicious, actually; even the French woman next to me tried it and gave it a thumbs-up.

By this point we were running out of time, but we had one important task left: to get in the fields and plant some rice. This was actually the main reason why I’d come—I wanted to walk around in the terraces and see how they planted the rice. So, a group of us walked down to the fields where some locals were arranging the bundles of rice. They had planted the rice in a nursery, the small patch of rice seedlings in one part of the rice field (the large patch of green behind me). Then they separated the rice and planted a few seedlings in one spot; the amount depending on the rice variety.

I climbed into the field with a group of others, and instantly my legs were enveloped in cool, silky mud. About two feet down the ground was solid—unlike San Francisco Bay mud, into which you could probably sink indefinitely. A local quickly instructed us on how to plant the rice. We planted about two seedlings, six or seven inches apart, moving quickly down the rows. We only had a few minutes for the whole affair, but even then I began to feel a strain in my back as I leaned over to place the seedlings in the muddy water. It made me think of the elder women I see sometimes walking down the street completely bent over—their backs bent permanently for the rest of their lives. While it was mostly just a gesture—more generous on the farmer’s part than ours—it did give me a sense of the planting process. I hope to get out in the fields some more to plant. I don’t think it will give me a true sense of the farming life, but even a deeper glimpse would be helpful.

Soon after we planted our bundles of rice, we climbed back out of the terraces and washed off—getting ready to head on our way. While I don’t think I want to attend any more tours like that, it was helpful to see what groups like SITMO are doing to educate Filipinos and tourists about the terraces. It made me think of the tourists in Banaue, traveling on their own—often with a guide who’s not even from that barangay or municipality. Do they harm the culture more by coming unannounced, by going on the standard waterfall tours and terrace hikes without really meeting any locals? Are these group tours better, since they aim to provide a more complex education about the local heritage and cultural practices?

I don’t know. I think tourism of any kind has its pluses and minuses. I definitely value the work SITMO’s doing, but at the same time, I value the intimacy in small groups—I feel like there’s more opportunity to connect with locals. Ultimately, it just made me more grateful for the length of time I have here. I get to learn the language, meet the locals, hear their stories, live closely with a family. And while I’ll never fully understand what it means to be Ifugao or to live this life—at least I’ll have had the chance to really get in and get my feet wet.