It starts at midnight. You, your Fulbright advisor, and a group of people who work with the Ifugao leave Manila in a van bound for Legawe—a nine hour drive north. After the meeting they are driving up to attend, they will drive back down and you will ride with another woman the last hour north to your final destination, Banaue.
They are kind, talkative people and you relax. You chat for awhile with an anthropologist about the environment, about the importance of taking care of it: “People don’t understand,” he says, “if you give back to the earth, it gives back to you!” He makes a clicking sound at the side of his mouth, and shakes his head. Silver bracelets jingle on his right arm as he gestures.
You nod, exhausted, too tired to say much else. You lean against your suitcase and backpack as they shove into your head when the car winds to the right. You’re wearing your favorite green knit cap; your fleece jacket is zipped over two layers of clothing. It is cold in the van—mostly because the drivers have the air conditioning on full blast though the night is cool outside. You never figure out why they leave it on, even after the other Filipinos in the van also complain as they tighten their blankets around themselves.
The van stops several times. You and the other passengers stumble out into the cool air to the bathroom. You brought tissue with you, thankfully, for there often isn’t any in the Philippines. The two women you are traveling with tease each other, used to this drive. They make it once a month. You feel, as you have felt for the last three days, in some kind of in-between state, in a movie—as if you’re standing nearby, watching your life unfold.
“Over there is a lovely view,” one of the women says. She laughs and adds: “During the daytime anyway.” You walk over, searching for the lovely view, straining your eyes to see past the lights of the building. And you see something vague: a green valley and hills stretching out into the distance. Green. More green than you have seen in a long time, it seems.
After breakfast (fried fish and rice for the fourth day in a row) you drive one more hour to Lagawe, where you’ll meet the municipality leaders of the Ifugao province. You’ll meet the woman who will take you another hour to your new home. But before that, you get in the van again with one of the women from Manila and drive twenty minutes to another town to measure a rock. Your advisor thinks it will be a good opportunity for you to view the rice terraces—more interesting than the meeting the members of their organization have driven the long distance north to attend.
It was a good choice, you think, as you see lowland terraces unfold around you. This is what you have waited almost two years for. You get out of the van and walk with the woman, your friend now, and the van driver who guides the way in flip-flops down a muddy path. You feel steady on your feet—as if you are made for this. You pass by a small home (about ten by ten) and a group of chickens start to squawk, and you hear (and smell) a pig grunting, penned up about twenty feet away.
At some point the path becomes too slippery, so the driver suggests that you walk along a terrace wall, and you are thrilled to feel the slick clay on your bare feet. You make it down to the rock, walking over fresh plants and grasses, and you wade through the base of another terrace and climb on the rock you have driven out to see, a famous rock in Ifugao myth. It stands about six feet high, thirteen feet wide, and has a small dais on top about four by five feet that rises a foot from the surface. It is quite unassuming to the untrained eye.
You get your camera out, excited to take a picture, to show people your feet covered in mud, to take pictures of your first rice terraces—not the ones near where you’ll be living, but terraces nonetheless. You need to take a picture of this rock too, this rock you will help measure for almost two hours. You hear birds calling in the distance, you watch several women in the fields with broad hats that shade their faces. You can hear the faint sound of their voices though they are over a hundred feet away. You turn on your camera. It is out of batteries. You laugh to yourself. Of course it is.
Later you will ask the woman to tell you about this rock, nestled near several others in the terrace waters. She will tell you this story:
A group of women were harvesting rice in the fields. To pass the time they sang songs about Pumbakhayon, a well known rice god. They kept repeating his story over and over again, and each time they did, he’d show up on this rock. As they continued the story, he became repeatedly flustered.
“Every time you sing this song, I have to appear—I’m getting tired of it!” he said. So, he sat down on this rock and told them a new set of stories to sing to while the time away. The women sat and listened to the stories. But what none of them knew was that, hidden in the distance, two small girls were listening to the stories as well.
The women all died that afternoon, but the girls survived. And those stories that were passed on are now called the Hu’dhud, a collection of chants that have been memorized and passed along for centuries.
“So this rock is where the god sat, you know, in the myth,” she says pointing to the dais. “There are supposed to be marks where his feet were and where he planted his spear, as well as where his butt-cheeks rested.” You both look at the dais behind her. You find no such discerning marks.
You drive back to the meeting, muddy feet cleaned off by a driver with a hose on the side of the road. As you sit down at the table, your advisor introduces you to the municipality leaders, all ten of them. You smile and nod.
“Would you like to tell everyone a bit about your project?” your advisor asks. You don’t want to, really, because you realize suddenly that your project was never approved by this committee and you wonder what they’ll think. You say something general like: “I’ll be in Banaue for six months, writing a book about the Ifugao, especially about how they’re being affected by modernization.” You nod again, hoping they’ll return back to their meeting.
But they don’t. One of the municipality leaders, described by your advisor as “the most important man to talk to about Ifugao history” clears his throat and leans back in his chair. “William Scott lived and researched for 20 years in the Philippines, Conklin lived for 16 years in the Philippines doing his research, and ___ (some other anthropologist) lived here for 24 years, and married here as well, I believe.” He pauses, and you wonder where he’s headed with this line of thinking. He clears his throat again. “That’s how long each of them lived in the Philippines before writing a book, and you plan to write a book in just six months?”
You sit there, your face suddenly hot. “I understand your point,” you say, “but I’m not an anthropologist. I’m not doing a comprehensive anthropological study on the Ifugao. If I were, I would expect to be here much longer than six months. I will be here for six months to write about my experience here, to conduct interviews, and I will, of course, be talking with each of you. Hopefully that will be enough for what I’m working on.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, considering, never looking at you directly.
“What he is saying,” your advisor says, smiling gently, aware that you are embarrassed, “is that he wishes you could stay longer.”
The man uncrosses his arms. “Six months should be enough,” he says, “you should be able to get enough information I think.” You breathe a sigh of relief. “We’ve had many people come up here for a couple days or weeks and write some article like they think they know everything about the Ifugao. We are tired of being misrepresented.”
His comment does not go unheard. You must remember to stay sensitive, to honor the people here. You must be humble when you represent another, you know this, but it is an important reminder. What he doesn’t understand is that most people don’t read anthropological books, they want narratives, they want compelling story telling, and this is what you are trained to do. You want others, especially Westerners, to know about these people, but that will only happen if they are lured in by a story, invested somehow to find out information about these people. But this is not the time or place to justify yourself.
The meeting continues, but that moment stays with you, stinging like a slap in the face.
After the meeting you go with one of the municipality leaders, you don’t even have time to say goodbye to the group of friends you came up with. She will take you up north to Banaue, where her family owns the hotel you’ll stay in. The van you’re in winds up the road quickly and you look around each bend for the majestic mountain terraces you’ve been waiting so long to see. You talk a bit about her role in the meeting you just attended, as well as the focus of your book: how the Ifugao are being affected by modernization, which, at the moment, you wonder about.
She nods and says: “You know, the Ifugao are a friendly people. We are open to suggestions. But what we don’t like is when people tell us what to do. Like for example, one time the mayor of Banaue got a phone call from (a government official) that had a German tourist in his office. The tourist had gotten angry and stormed into the official’s office complaining. Apparently he was mad that he’d driven so many hours to visit these “indigenous people” but they didn’t have the traditional roofs, they had metal ones. Apparently, it wasn’t what he expected.
“So the (official) told the governor that they needed to change the roofs back to the traditional way and try to change the buildings so that they look more like tourists expect they will. But the mayor said, ‘Sir, I understand, but we can’t change the roofs back, it’s not convenient. The traditional roofs have to be changed every few years, but the metal ones last a long time. It’s just not practical.’” She continued to say, “They talked about putting up an example traditional village. The houses would be traditional native houses and people would live the traditional way. That way the tourists could see what it was once like.”
Here's a picture of the metal covered hut:
They are kind, talkative people and you relax. You chat for awhile with an anthropologist about the environment, about the importance of taking care of it: “People don’t understand,” he says, “if you give back to the earth, it gives back to you!” He makes a clicking sound at the side of his mouth, and shakes his head. Silver bracelets jingle on his right arm as he gestures.
You nod, exhausted, too tired to say much else. You lean against your suitcase and backpack as they shove into your head when the car winds to the right. You’re wearing your favorite green knit cap; your fleece jacket is zipped over two layers of clothing. It is cold in the van—mostly because the drivers have the air conditioning on full blast though the night is cool outside. You never figure out why they leave it on, even after the other Filipinos in the van also complain as they tighten their blankets around themselves.
The van stops several times. You and the other passengers stumble out into the cool air to the bathroom. You brought tissue with you, thankfully, for there often isn’t any in the Philippines. The two women you are traveling with tease each other, used to this drive. They make it once a month. You feel, as you have felt for the last three days, in some kind of in-between state, in a movie—as if you’re standing nearby, watching your life unfold.
“Over there is a lovely view,” one of the women says. She laughs and adds: “During the daytime anyway.” You walk over, searching for the lovely view, straining your eyes to see past the lights of the building. And you see something vague: a green valley and hills stretching out into the distance. Green. More green than you have seen in a long time, it seems.
After breakfast (fried fish and rice for the fourth day in a row) you drive one more hour to Lagawe, where you’ll meet the municipality leaders of the Ifugao province. You’ll meet the woman who will take you another hour to your new home. But before that, you get in the van again with one of the women from Manila and drive twenty minutes to another town to measure a rock. Your advisor thinks it will be a good opportunity for you to view the rice terraces—more interesting than the meeting the members of their organization have driven the long distance north to attend.
It was a good choice, you think, as you see lowland terraces unfold around you. This is what you have waited almost two years for. You get out of the van and walk with the woman, your friend now, and the van driver who guides the way in flip-flops down a muddy path. You feel steady on your feet—as if you are made for this. You pass by a small home (about ten by ten) and a group of chickens start to squawk, and you hear (and smell) a pig grunting, penned up about twenty feet away.
At some point the path becomes too slippery, so the driver suggests that you walk along a terrace wall, and you are thrilled to feel the slick clay on your bare feet. You make it down to the rock, walking over fresh plants and grasses, and you wade through the base of another terrace and climb on the rock you have driven out to see, a famous rock in Ifugao myth. It stands about six feet high, thirteen feet wide, and has a small dais on top about four by five feet that rises a foot from the surface. It is quite unassuming to the untrained eye.
You get your camera out, excited to take a picture, to show people your feet covered in mud, to take pictures of your first rice terraces—not the ones near where you’ll be living, but terraces nonetheless. You need to take a picture of this rock too, this rock you will help measure for almost two hours. You hear birds calling in the distance, you watch several women in the fields with broad hats that shade their faces. You can hear the faint sound of their voices though they are over a hundred feet away. You turn on your camera. It is out of batteries. You laugh to yourself. Of course it is.
Later you will ask the woman to tell you about this rock, nestled near several others in the terrace waters. She will tell you this story:
A group of women were harvesting rice in the fields. To pass the time they sang songs about Pumbakhayon, a well known rice god. They kept repeating his story over and over again, and each time they did, he’d show up on this rock. As they continued the story, he became repeatedly flustered.
“Every time you sing this song, I have to appear—I’m getting tired of it!” he said. So, he sat down on this rock and told them a new set of stories to sing to while the time away. The women sat and listened to the stories. But what none of them knew was that, hidden in the distance, two small girls were listening to the stories as well.
The women all died that afternoon, but the girls survived. And those stories that were passed on are now called the Hu’dhud, a collection of chants that have been memorized and passed along for centuries.
“So this rock is where the god sat, you know, in the myth,” she says pointing to the dais. “There are supposed to be marks where his feet were and where he planted his spear, as well as where his butt-cheeks rested.” You both look at the dais behind her. You find no such discerning marks.
You drive back to the meeting, muddy feet cleaned off by a driver with a hose on the side of the road. As you sit down at the table, your advisor introduces you to the municipality leaders, all ten of them. You smile and nod.
“Would you like to tell everyone a bit about your project?” your advisor asks. You don’t want to, really, because you realize suddenly that your project was never approved by this committee and you wonder what they’ll think. You say something general like: “I’ll be in Banaue for six months, writing a book about the Ifugao, especially about how they’re being affected by modernization.” You nod again, hoping they’ll return back to their meeting.
But they don’t. One of the municipality leaders, described by your advisor as “the most important man to talk to about Ifugao history” clears his throat and leans back in his chair. “William Scott lived and researched for 20 years in the Philippines, Conklin lived for 16 years in the Philippines doing his research, and ___ (some other anthropologist) lived here for 24 years, and married here as well, I believe.” He pauses, and you wonder where he’s headed with this line of thinking. He clears his throat again. “That’s how long each of them lived in the Philippines before writing a book, and you plan to write a book in just six months?”
You sit there, your face suddenly hot. “I understand your point,” you say, “but I’m not an anthropologist. I’m not doing a comprehensive anthropological study on the Ifugao. If I were, I would expect to be here much longer than six months. I will be here for six months to write about my experience here, to conduct interviews, and I will, of course, be talking with each of you. Hopefully that will be enough for what I’m working on.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, considering, never looking at you directly.
“What he is saying,” your advisor says, smiling gently, aware that you are embarrassed, “is that he wishes you could stay longer.”
The man uncrosses his arms. “Six months should be enough,” he says, “you should be able to get enough information I think.” You breathe a sigh of relief. “We’ve had many people come up here for a couple days or weeks and write some article like they think they know everything about the Ifugao. We are tired of being misrepresented.”
His comment does not go unheard. You must remember to stay sensitive, to honor the people here. You must be humble when you represent another, you know this, but it is an important reminder. What he doesn’t understand is that most people don’t read anthropological books, they want narratives, they want compelling story telling, and this is what you are trained to do. You want others, especially Westerners, to know about these people, but that will only happen if they are lured in by a story, invested somehow to find out information about these people. But this is not the time or place to justify yourself.
The meeting continues, but that moment stays with you, stinging like a slap in the face.
After the meeting you go with one of the municipality leaders, you don’t even have time to say goodbye to the group of friends you came up with. She will take you up north to Banaue, where her family owns the hotel you’ll stay in. The van you’re in winds up the road quickly and you look around each bend for the majestic mountain terraces you’ve been waiting so long to see. You talk a bit about her role in the meeting you just attended, as well as the focus of your book: how the Ifugao are being affected by modernization, which, at the moment, you wonder about.
She nods and says: “You know, the Ifugao are a friendly people. We are open to suggestions. But what we don’t like is when people tell us what to do. Like for example, one time the mayor of Banaue got a phone call from (a government official) that had a German tourist in his office. The tourist had gotten angry and stormed into the official’s office complaining. Apparently he was mad that he’d driven so many hours to visit these “indigenous people” but they didn’t have the traditional roofs, they had metal ones. Apparently, it wasn’t what he expected.
“So the (official) told the governor that they needed to change the roofs back to the traditional way and try to change the buildings so that they look more like tourists expect they will. But the mayor said, ‘Sir, I understand, but we can’t change the roofs back, it’s not convenient. The traditional roofs have to be changed every few years, but the metal ones last a long time. It’s just not practical.’” She continued to say, “They talked about putting up an example traditional village. The houses would be traditional native houses and people would live the traditional way. That way the tourists could see what it was once like.”
Here's a picture of the metal covered hut:
Here's a traditional nipa hut:
“Who would want to live in these huts?” you ask.“There are some people who might,” she says.
“Wow,” you say, “How is that any different from a zoo?”
You arrive at your room and it is much smaller than you thought—not just the rooms, but the furniture too.
You had heard that the hotel was right in a village, and you pictures something pastoral: nipa huts, green rice terraces surrounding them, a creek running nearby. And while those components are there, it’s also surrounded by run-down buildings with the terraces just out of reach.
Some houses near mine:
The hotel owner, who calls you family, goes about rearranging the room to your satisfaction. You don’t want to bother them, but you deeply appreciate their efforts. You ask to be shown around the building. She takes you to see the other rooms, one of which you’ll eventually have to move into during the high season when high paying customers will take your room. She takes you out into the backyard and points her fingers up to a small nipa hut in the back.“That’s where my mom’s mother sleeps, and my mom’s father as well.”
“They sleep in there?” you ask, surprised they could both fit in there.
“Well, they’re not alive anymore,” she says, “that’s where there bones are. When we have a ritual, we celebrate with them. We clean off their bones and bring them down with us and ask them to join our celebration.”
“Oh,” you say. It reminds you of yourself a little, spreading your mom’s ashes all over the world—carrying her with you on so many journeys. You understand.
That evening you head off to explore a bit. You feel drawn to the Banaue Hotel—a gigantic motel that caters to wealthier clients. It sits on top of a hill, has a magnificent view, a pool, and a large dining hall that serves spaghetti and grilled cheese sandwiches in addition to the traditional Filipino menu.
The fancy restaurant where I broke down and had a grilled cheese sandwich:
You find yourself drawn there, much to your chagrin, and walk almost two miles uphill to get there. You pass through the market, along the way, checking out the local fruit and vegetables, looking at the small shops and cafes nearby. You wonder if the hotel ever plays movies.You make it to the hotel, located quite far from the rest of the village, protected by a gate and a guard. Nobody questions you. You check out the restaurant, but decide to pass, then head outside to check out the view from the hotel.
Supposedly there is a “real native village” just three minutes from the hotel. You pass my a model nipa hut, and head down to the souvenir shop. An elder woman named Ana is there, and she sits there, weaving. She shows you how it works and you wonder how many people she has had to show before. Several shy grandchildren hide in the room. You ask her how long it will take to weave an intricate eight-foot-long weave of cloth.
“Three days.” she says, “Without any stop.”
Her husband, comes out and introduces himself. “My name’s Johnny,” he says. “Are you staying at the Banaue Hotel?”
“No,” you say, “I’m at Ilob Village Inn.”
He nods his head. His eyes widen a little in surprise, and then he walks towards the door. “With Moises and Pinai. You are staying with real native people.”
You feel a surge of pride.
The sky has darkened, you notice, as you walk back outside, and a soft rain begins to fall. You start the mile and half walk back down the windy road; you put your thin wind breaker on over your long-sleeved shirt. You walk down the road, down the slick tall stairs that lead to the suspension bridge.
Once you reach the bridge you hold on with both hands as the bridge sways gently from side-to-side. The construction doesn’t look particularly sound, but you trust it. You can see the river far below. 
You walk down the road towards your home.“Where are you going?” a heavy-lidded teenager asks as he walks alongside you. “There are many drunk out tonight, let me be your guide.”
You look away and say, “No thanks,” and continue walking.
“Okay ma’am, I love you,” he calls out into the wet night. You don’t turn back.
The sky has darkened, and the hotel lights shine dimly in front of you. You walk up to your room, take one look back, and see the town lights shivering in the air. You open your door, turn on the light, and shut the door as the night falls in a curtain of mist behind you.
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