An Uncomfortable Chat

The morning after the native dancing, the women in my room rose early to pack their things, standing in line to take scoop showers with water they’d boiled in the kitchen. I grabbed my backpack and headed uphill to the other hotel where we’d had dinner the night before. I grabbed my breakfast, a cup of native coffee—grown in the Cordillera mountain region (where I’m living)—fried eggs, leftover fern greens, and rice.

It wasn’t until I sat outside that I met Jenny. A petite young woman with a slight frame and long black hair, I was surprised when she told me she was 25 and getting her masters in history UP Manila (University of the Philippines—one of the top in the country). An Ifugao native, she had come on the tour to get back in touch with her roots.

“So,” she said, “I hear you’re working on a book about Ifugao.” Word gets around fast in the Philippines. “What’s your focus?”

I sensed an edge in her voice, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I decided to proceed with caution. “I’m writing about Ifugao culture and how it’s being affected by modernization.”

“Oh really?” she said. “And how do you plan to do that?”

I outlined my ideas: to interview as many people as possible, to talk to farmers, read more about the area, etc. I explained that I’d been researching the terraces for over a year and a half.

“And what books do you plan to read?” she asked—still with that edge.

I listed off a bunch of anthropologists. “I’m mostly trying to interview people—that’s the most important part of the book anyway, not so much what I have to say. I’m interested in the voices of the Ifugao.”

“Hm…” she said, looking at me with narrowed eyes, “and how long are you here for?”

“Six months.” Not this again. I’d already been questioned about my ability to write a book in six months on an entire culture—a valid question.

“That’s not very long. And what do you plan to do when you get back?”

I wasn’t sure what the right answer was. “I don’t know what I plan to do—write the book, get it published.”

“And what about Banaue? Will you come back to Banaue? Will you continue to help the people you wrote about?”
I paused, not sure what to say. “I don’t know. I think so. I don’t even know what I’m doing here for the next six months. I’m not sure what my life will look like when I get back.”

Jenny propped a knee under her chin, nodded, and looked away. “Six months is a short time to make a bunch of conclusions about the Ifugao. Why do you think you can write a book about us? Don’t you think an Ifugao should do that?”

I sighed. It was an honest question with an uncomfortable answer. “I knew you had something on your mind,” I said. She raised an eyebrow and smiled a little.

“Yeah, I do think an Ifugao should write about her people, in fact, I encourage it.” I said. “The problem is that the only books available in the US about the terraces are anthropological, and no one’s read them. I’m trying to write a book anyone would want to read, not just something for anthropologists, you know?” I paused and took in her pursed lips, her hard brown eyes. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind?”

She sat there for a minute, considering. Then she leaned towards me. “You know, all those books you mentioned were written by westerners. Here’s what I think about western writers. You come here for a few months and write about Ifugao for your own purposes—to get published, to get a P.H.D., whatever. In the meantime, you make a bunch of false assumptions about my people. You don’t really care about the Ifugao—we’re just subjects to you, something interesting to write about to further your career.” She leaned back and waited for my response.

I paused, trying to figure out how to navigate this. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. “Well, you’re right. I think a lot of people do come here for that reason. But, I don’t think we all do. Like me, for example. I’ve been to the Philippines three other times.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah—and I haven’t done any tourist things; I’ve worked on a farm, visited orphanages, went to a trash dump community. I’ve never been to Palauan or a resort. Also, I had to leave my boyfriend for six months to come out here—and everyone else I know and love. If I was just coming here for my career I could have done something easier, I think.”

What I didn’t point out was that she had made a bunch of assumptions about me—the very thing she didn’t want me to do to her or her people.

I explained to her that I wasn’t here to make assumptions, and that I knew I had to be careful about such things. I wasn’t coming here as an anthropologist, and my book in no way would be touted as an anthropological work. I had read various commentaries on what should be done to save the terraces, and I had come out here partly to find out what the Ifugao thought. A lot of the newspaper articles had quotes from anthropologists in Manila, government officials, even the president—but those people often lived a long way from the Ifugao. I wanted to write something filled with Ifugao voices, not observers. I think she was relieved to hear this.

“What would you like to tell me then, as an Ifugao? What do you want me to be aware of when I’m writing?”

She looked taken aback. “Well, just talk to a lot of people, and try not to make assumptions. If you don’t know why people do something during a ritual, or farming—ask them. Ask a lot of them. Then maybe your book will have more voices of the people, and not so much of your own.”

I told her I was glad to talk to her, but the conversation certainly haunted me for the rest of the day. Even now, some two weeks later, I think about it. It reminds me of how cautious and respectful I must be when writing about “the other.” It reminds me that these people here are sacred and complex, and that I must write with the knowledge that I will never fully capture the vastness of their lives or experiences. I can only provide a glimpse.