Yup, they eat dogs here

Yes, it's what you think it is

I had a conversation with several Ifugao men the other day, where they sat around and told stories about feeding dog to foreigners without them knowing it. They thought it was the funniest thing.

“One time, there were these two Peace Corps volunteers. They had dinner with me and I served them some meat. ‘What is this?’ they asked me. I said, ‘It’s duck!’ and they said, ‘Oh, it is very good!’ Later on, they asked me for more and I told them it was really dog meat! They were very surprised! ‘We like it!’ they said. So I gave them some more.”

Another man chuckles over his glass of gin and takes a sip. “I served dog to some foreigners once too,” he says, “But I never told them what it really was.”

The other men laugh and tell similar stories, and I wonder if they’ve forgotten about me. It’s hard to hear these stories as a traveler because I want to trust the people I eat with.

“If you’re here long enough, you’ll eat dog meat,” Adam told me when I first got here. “I had it at a wedding once, and it wasn’t that bad.”

Like me, Adam used to be a vegetarian, but he let go of his veggie ways awhile ago. Now he eats whatever they serve. I can’t stomach the thought. I hardly eat any meat here—I pick the pork out of my vegetables as subtly as I can, though I do eat fish and chicken from time to time. But dog—I just don’t think I can do it.

A recent bill passed in the Philippines in 1998—the Animal Rights Welfare Act, which prohibits the killing of dogs for food. There is one loophole though that Cordilleran residents (the people that live in my region) are trying to use to get out of the Act. Apparently, it’s not considered a crime when an animal killing (other than acceptable animals like chickens and cows) occurs “as part of the religious rituals of an established religion or sect or a ritual required by tribal or ethnic custom of indigenous cultural communities.”

The Cordillerans argue that eating dog meat is part of the cultural practices of the tribes in the region; a recent study stated that around 90% of Cordilleran males are dog eaters. They argue that it’s part of the Northern tribe’s culture, a way of showing hospitality when one has visitors.

It’s not like Filipinos are the only ones that eat dog meat—it’s consumed in many parts of Asia: China, Indonesia, Korea, Mexico, Taiwan, Vietnam, and even some parts of Switzerland and the Arctic. The thing is Filipinos are highly influenced by western values--and we all know western have a strong emotional tie to dogs. It’s become a pressing issue among animal rights activists in the country as well.

As for me—I admit, I’m totally grossed out by the thought. I don’t personally want a dog, but I connect with them more than chickens and pigs. I can’t stand the thought of a dog being killed for food—but then, that’s my value system. Is it right for me, or others, to impress it on the Ifugao? What if a group of Indians came to the U.S. and wouldn’t allow people to eat cows because they’re sacred? Whose values get to dominate whom?

For now, I know I can’t do anything about it—but I won’t be getting to close to the dogs next door, I can tell you that.

Why I Like it on Top

Riding on the jeepney with another traveler

There’s two ways to ride on a Jeepney—inside or on top. When you’re in the city, you can’t ride on top really. But when you’re on the mountain roads, sometimes it’s the best way to travel. You get a gorgeous view in 360 degrees, instead of just a peek out the window across from you or a neck-ache of a turn behind you. You get fresh air, and you get an adventurous ride.

It's a long way down...

Riding on top of a jeepney’s like riding an elephant—which I know from experience; I rode an elephant in Thailand. You sit on a tire or a bar on top of the jeep, and you hold on for dear life as the jeepney lumbers over pot holes and makes hairpin turns. You put on gobs of sun block so you don’t get burnt as you sit on top there, especially if you’re like me and you need to wear SPF 70.

Changing the tire

Sometimes it’s crowded, too sunny, or rainy and you’ll ride inside instead. If you’re riding the back roads, chances are there aren’t too many trips to whatever town you’re going to, so the driver’s going to load up the jeepney as much as he can. Maybe he’ll put 30 passengers on and in the vehicle, like he did on mine, which will blow out the tire on the way there. Jeepneys normally hold about 16.

All those people fit into (and onto) that tiny jeepney

There will be men with chickens in handbags, huge bags of rice at your feet, luggage, small children, car batteries, bowls of vegetables, boxes of beer and soda all crammed on the floor in between the passengers’ feet.

It's hard to tell, but we're crammed in there!

I haven’t decided where I’d want to be if the jeepney tipped over or into a ravine because of an ill-placed pot hole, a tire blowout at the wrong time, or a top too loaded with passengers. I haven’t figured out which seat I’d want to be in so I’d have the best chances of survival. I don’t think I’d want to have my back towards the cliff’s drop off, because if the jeepney tipped over, all the people with their backs to the cliff wall would fall onto me, as would all of the stuff between us. I think I’d get crushed. I’d either want to have my back towards the cliff wall, so I’d land on top of the people and have an open window to escape out of, or I’d want to be on top so I could have a chance of jumping off.

Me and a traveler I convinced to ride on top with me

That’s the other reason why I like to ride on top most of the time—though it’s best not to think about such things.

It's Cold Because the Electrician Died

In case you thought I was living in a tropical paradise...it's cold here!

We had a spell of warm days in Banaue that I couldn’t help but describe as sublime, over and over again.

“It’s so sublime out,” I said to Adam as we walked to the market one afternoon.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sublime, huh? It’s nice, I’ll give you that, but I don’t know about sublime.”

But really, the weather just felt perfect—not too warm and no chill breeze. I knew it wouldn’t last, though Adam and I both wondered if it was a sign that summer was on its way. It wasn't. Recently a cold front moved in and I’ve been snuggling under five blankets again, dressed in my pajamas from head to toe.

Lola and I discussed the change in weather over marienda (afternoon snack) this afternoon.

“It’s a bit cold,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “It is. It’s because they brought a man who was electrified home from Manila.”

“What?” I said. I wasn’t sure we’d heard each other right.

“There was a man from here who was an electrician in Manila. He was working and he was electrified. They brought his body home a few days ago.”

“And that’s why it’s cold?”

“Yes,” she said, leaning across the table, her cup of Nescafe coffee steaming in her hands. “It is an old belief, but it is true. Whenever it is cold like this, or rainy, it is because something bad happened.”

I thought for a moment about how Banaue has been cold and rainy for more than half the time I’ve been here. Had there been a rash of deaths? “But the rain is good too, Lola,” I said, “Because it waters the plants.”

“Yes, the plants need the water,” she said, nodding, staring out the window at the fog tipped mountains. “So it is good too.”

I nodded my head. What else could I say? In Lola’s mind it was cold because the electrician died, and I guess that’s a good enough reason as any.

A rice granary bulol

I first heard about the power of Ifugao figurines through a young guide named Mark. I was hiking through some terraces with a group of tourists within a week of my arrival Banaue. We came upon a small figurine made from native grasses. It had a head made out of a tied knot, and “arms” of loose grass.

I asked Mark what it was. “It’s a guardian for the field,” he said.

“What’s it for?”

“It protects the owner’s property here. Whatever you do, don’t eat the kamote (sweet potato) from here!” he laughed.

“Why?”

“Because those guardians have spells put on them; they can affect your body. One time I took a kamote from a field with one of those guardians on it. My balls got so big! I mean, man, they were down to here!” he holds his hand halfway down his thighs. “So I had to go to a mumbaki. She called the woman in whose field I stole from. The woman had to chew some betel nut and spit on my nuts! Then it finally went away.”

He laughed again and turned around and continued hiking. A few of us looked at each other, not quite sure what to make of his stories. A British couple had spent the last few days with him. The husband shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “Maybe it’s true.”

I didn’t know what to believe. I know the mind is a powerful thing, and its connection to our bodies is an area much unexplored. But, this seemed a little much.

A few days later, I was on top a jeepney with another Ifugao—this fellow a volunteer with SITMO—the Save the Ifugao Terraces Movement, a non profit organization. As we drove along through Hapao, a local barangay, I saw several carved figurines standing in the terraces, their arms wide; their faces expressionless but daunting.
“Those are the bulol,” he told me. “They protect the rice terraces. That way no one steals from that person’s land because it’s protected.”

I told the volunteer about Mark’s story. “Does that really happen?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, it happened to my grandmother. She ate from someone’s rice field and her breasts grew down to here,” he said as he indicated halfway down his chest. “She had to go to a baki to have the person come and forgive her before it got better.”

I didn’t say anything—I didn’t know what to think. Instead, I researched a little.

The bulol were commonly seen as incarnations of rice deities. They were used for revenge, to invite wealth and prosperity, or to heal the sick. They were commonly made from nara wood, which represented wealth, happiness, and well-being. Every step in their production required ceremony; from tree selection to arrival at the owners house. A consecrated bulol gets bathed in pig’s blood, has myths recited to it, and has received offerings of wine and rice cakes. A true bulol needed to be consecrated by a mumbaki, though the woven grass figures can be made by any individual. Just to clarify—I say “were” because true bulols are rare these days. Modern Christian beliefs have pretty much wiped out that practice, which is now seen by many as superstitious.

A bulol on an altar--you can see how they carved them to look like the mumbaki in the picture below.

Mumbakis, the Ifugao priests, at a ritual

A few weeks after my first two conversations, I asked Auntie Lourdes about the bulol. As a very pragmatic woman and a Christian, I thought she might have a different perspective.

“Oh yes,” she said, nodding and laughing a little. “I have heard that is true. I don’t know anyone that happened to, but I have heard about it from my grandparents.” I could tell she knew I’d be a little skeptical, but she nodded, certainty in her face.

I don’t know what to believe, but I’m open to the possibility that the bulols might indeed have some special powers—perhaps given them only by people who believe. It’s interesting, because now you can find a bulol just about anywhere—they’re carved out of acacia wood these days and sold for 300 pesos (about six dollars) to tourists. In fact, I’m currently picking out a design for one of my friends who lives in Manila—I don’t know if he’ll even come out here and see the rice terraces before he picks it up. It seems weird—to have these sacred carvings sold as tourist figurines. They’ve lost their power somehow, like so many of the things they once held sacred here.

All pictures from the C.E. Smith Museum of Anthropology. Here’s a link to their website:
http://class.csueastbay.edu/anthropologymuseum/virtmus/Philippines/Crafts/Ifugao_Bulols.htm

What's made of wood, stands several feet tall, and can make your breasts grow twice their size?

A rice granary bulol

I first heard about the power of Ifugao figurines through a young guide named Mark. I was hiking through some terraces with a group of tourists within a week of my arrival Banaue. We came upon a small figurine made from native grasses. It had a head made out of a tied knot, and “arms” of loose grass.

I asked Mark what it was. “It’s a guardian for the field,” he said.

“What’s it for?”

“It protects the owner’s property here. Whatever you do, don’t eat the kamote (sweet potato) from here!” he laughed.

“Why?”

“Because those guardians have spells put on them; they can affect your body. One time I took a kamote from a field with one of those guardians on it. My balls got so big! I mean, man, they were down to here!” he holds his hand halfway down his thighs. “So I had to go to a mumbaki. She called the woman in whose field I stole from. The woman had to chew some betel nut and spit on my nuts! Then it finally went away.”

He laughed again and turned around and continued hiking. A few of us looked at each other, not quite sure what to make of his stories. A British couple had spent the last few days with him. The husband shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “Maybe it’s true.”

I didn’t know what to believe. I know the mind is a powerful thing, and its connection to our bodies is an area much unexplored. But, this seemed a little much.

A few days later, I was on top a jeepney with another Ifugao—this fellow a volunteer with SITMO—the Save the Ifugao Terraces Movement, a non profit organization. As we drove along through Hapao, a local barangay, I saw several carved figurines standing in the terraces, their arms wide; their faces expressionless but daunting.

“Those are the bulol,” he told me. “They protect the rice terraces. That way no one steals from that person’s land because it’s protected.”

I told the volunteer about Mark’s story. “Does that really happen?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, it happened to my grandmother. She ate from someone’s rice field and her breasts grew down to here,” he said as he indicated halfway down his chest. “She had to go to a baki to have the person come and forgive her before it got better.”

I didn’t say anything—I didn’t know what to think. Instead, I researched a little.

The bulol were commonly seen as incarnations of rice deities. They were used for revenge, to invite wealth and prosperity, or to heal the sick. They were commonly made from nara wood, which represented wealth, happiness, and well-being. Every step in their production required ceremony; from tree selection to arrival at the owners house. A consecrated bulol gets bathed in pig’s blood, has myths recited to it, and has received offerings of wine and rice cakes. A true bulol needed to be consecrated by a mumbaki, though the woven grass figures can be made by any individual. Just to clarify—I say “were” because true bulols are rare these days. Modern Christian beliefs have pretty much wiped out that practice, which is now seen by many as superstitious.

A bulol on an altar--you can see how they carved them to look like the mumbaki in the picture below.

Mumbakis, the Ifugao priests, at a ritual

A few weeks after my first two conversations, I asked Auntie Lourdes about the bulol. As a very pragmatic woman and a Christian, I thought she might have a different perspective.

“Oh yes,” she said, nodding and laughing a little. “I have heard that is true. I don’t know anyone that happened to, but I have heard about it from my grandparents.” I could tell she knew I’d be a little skeptical, but she nodded, certainty in her face.

I don’t know what to believe, but I’m open to the possibility that the bulols might indeed have some special powers—perhaps given them only by people who believe. It’s interesting, because now you can find a bulol just about anywhere—they’re carved out of acacia wood these days and sold for 300 pesos (about six dollars) to tourists. In fact, I’m currently picking out a design for one of my friends who lives in Manila—I don’t know if he’ll even come out here and see the rice terraces before he picks it up. It seems weird—to have these sacred carvings sold as tourist figurines. They’ve lost their power somehow, like so many of the things they once held sacred here.

All pictures from the C.E. Smith Museum of Anthropology. Here’s a link to their website:
http://class.csueastbay.edu/anthropologymuseum/virtmus/Philippines/Crafts/Ifugao_Bulols.htm

My host brother Mart recently competed in a Taekwondo tournament. I didn't get to see him play because I had to leave town for Batad, but I did get some cool pics of other kids fighting, as well as some nice ones of Mart practicing for his fight. He ended up getting a gold medal in his division--though there were only two other guys. I'm really proud of him though--it sounds like he did a fantastic job.

Here are some pictures:

Two elementary students getting ready to spar

I love watching them kick!

Marty practices his kicks

Is it any wonder this guy got a gold medal?

The gold medal winner and his Lola

Here's a picture of the destruction I waged upon this toilet:

I didn't mean to destroy it, of course. I set my backpack on the back of the toilet lid and when I lifted my backpack, the strap caught on the lid and dragged it off (it was very light). The lid then slammed into the toilet—there was no cover to break the fall—and broke the bowl in half. I stood there, watching as the water dribbled onto the floor, and started to laugh in shock.

Unfortunately, I was in a hurry, so I left for a few hours after I couldn't find anyone to tell about it. But I did take a picture.

I returned two hours later rather nervous, afraid that the whole building would be in an uproar about the toilet. I went to the bathroom to look again, but there was no tape over the door—in fact, nothing had changed. Maybe no one had even noticed. I went and approached some woman who worked there, but she just laughed.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Our maintenance workers will fix it. You can stop by sometime and pay for it if you want to, but don't worry about it."

I was kind of stunned, but grateful. I didn't really want to pay for a new toilet anyway.

Batad

I finally got to plant some rice. I planted some over a month ago, but it was with a group of tourists and done in a rush. It felt more like a photo opportunity than a genuine experience. I spend so much time sitting at my desk looking at the terraces that I wanted to actually get in the mud and get dirty. That’s how I had pictured my time here anyway—lots of time in the fields. But since I live in a city of sorts, that doesn’t really happen much.

A couple days ago, I decided I needed a break from Banaue for a few days. So I left for Batad, a town with no roads or cars that just got electricity within the last few years. I had planned on staying for two nights, but for several reasons (including an interview on Monday) I ended up heading out on Saturday with plans to return the next day.

Because the driver loaded our jeepney with 30 people (normal passenger load is 16) it took forever to make it up the rocky road. After the 2.5 hour journey, we arrived at a saddle where a hiking trail winds down to the village. A few guides leapt at me, asking if I needed assistance, but I immediately declined and walked past them and down the trail. I haven’t had a chance to hike alone here once, which is very unusual for me. Typically people think it’s not safe for a woman to hike alone, but hiking alone is one of the most important ways I connect with myself and with my natural surroundings. I needed some alone time in nature desperately.

I spent a good portion of the day hiking by myself. As soon as I stepped away from the road, I could smell the scent of crushed green leaves, hear distant bird calls, and enjoy the silence. Once I arrived in town, I knew I wouldn’t have time to make it out to the waterfall I really wanted to see—it was almost four and the sun would set before I returned. But the owner of the hostel I stayed at was out in the fields, and her husband told me I could go plant rice with her if I wanted to.

I wandered out on my own, only partially sure where I was going. Since I speak a bit of Ifugao now, the locals here seem to trust that I’ll be okay. I wandered around by myself, passing by groups of tired Koreans coming back from a hike, and found my way through the fields.

I think I really fell for the terraces for the first time. Finally able to enjoy them on my own, I stopped and looked at the construction—I noticed the amazing details. I didn’t have my camera either, which somehow made my experience more intimate; I was less of a voyeur, more able to experience the feel of the mud beneath my feet and the sounds around me. I noticed the water construction, the long tubes of bamboo that channeled water from one terrace to the next, the walled creek that the locals had funneled between the terraces, channeling the water through the beds along the way. Walking along the walls, my feet bare, I chatted a little with some local women in Ifugao as they weeded out their rice beds.

Women planting rice

Photo courtesy of Eighth Wonder

Finally I found Rita, one of the owners of Rita’s Lodge—my lodging in Batad. I mentioned that I was hoped to help plant rice and she told me take off my shoes and come in. I slid into the rice field with her, the mud slipping over my calves, and she handed me a bundle of rice. She showed me how to plant it—a much more difficult process than I’d thought.

She held two rice seedlings at the root. “You must hold it here,” she said, “so you don’t bend the stalk. Then you must use your thumb and push it deep down into the mud so it won’t get knocked over by a wind.” She nodded to me and gave me a spot to plant. I felt honored that she trusted me to help plant her crop. It took me quite a while to get the technique down; I was very careful to make sure I planted it the right way.

“Sorry I’m taking so long,” I said.

“Nevermind,” she said, bent over her own seedlings. “When we were young and we were learning how to plant, it took us a long time too.”

Rita looks much older than Lola, though she’s about twenty years younger. Their daughter, Germaine, works the lodge mostly, while her parents help or work in the field. Germaine is younger than me, around 27, but she looks older too. Her parents must only be around 50, but they look like they could be in their seventies or eighties. I imagine all that time in the sun and the back-breaking work in the fields has taken their toll on their bodies and faces.

Germaine and I. Sitting down, I am almost as tall as Germaine.

Rita and I spend much of the hour in silence, or chatting, but I don’t always understand what she says. Mostly I just like listening to her talk and I don’t ask her to clarify. I want to remember what she’s saying so I can write it down later, but my mind doesn’t want to absorb it. I just enjoy the moment instead—this time to be in the terraces.

Two German travelers, David and Benjamin

I made the acquaintance of a two Germans that evening; I had dinner with them and breakfast the next morning. We hiked out with a family of Canadians after breakfast. I even got to squeeze in a game of Connect Four.

David and I play Connect Four. After I won two games he wouldn’t play with me anymore--so German!

The one thing I enjoyed this time was that I didn’t really feel like a tourist. I enjoyed meeting other travelers and sharing stories, but somehow I felt more tied to the locals. I spoke as much of their language as I could, and I felt deeply connected to the place. It was nice to see how I’d changed over the past two months since I arrived here. At the same time, I really enjoyed being around Westerners too. I think since I’ve arrived I’ve become more comfortable with who I am and where I’m from than I ever have been before. Going to Batad gave me a chance to walk in both territories—the tourist and the local—not really belonging to either, but relating to both.

Auntie Lourdes with Tanya

Just over a week ago, for several reasons, I burst into tears over dinner. Earlier that evening, Adam had told me that Francie, the daughter-in-law next door, had said I ask too many questions at the dinner table. Our dinners are usually pretty quiet, and since I love dinner conversations I thought I would ask people about their day. Because many of them are self conscious about their English skills and just want to relax while they eat, I think they wanted me to either speak in Ifugao—which was pretty hard for me at the time—or not expect so much conversation over dinner.

At first I understood. But as I sat silent at the dinner table I suddenly felt as if all the work I’d been doing to try to relate and connect to the family had been worthless—even counter productive. It was an acute reminder that I was different from them, that I’d never completely fit in. It made me miss Matt, my friends, and my family more than I had in awhile. I tried to keep my tears in over dinner, but soon I had to get up from the table and leave. I ended up sobbing in the bathroom and finally went home. Though it was much more complicated, Adam simply told the family that I was homesick, that I missed Matt and my home.

As much as I can’t stand being so far apart from Matt, somehow it seems appropriate given the country I’m living in. I went to find a Valentine’s Day card some time ago. I stood in the aisle looking at my options—most of which were very cheesy cards, there’s not a whole lot of ironic humor here—and I realized that more than half of the cards were “Across the Miles” cards, as in, cards for loved ones far away. It reminded me how many people in this country are split up, mostly for economic reasons. I’ve spoken to countless women and men who have left or will leave their family for a few years to go work abroad and make some extra cash, countless husbands and wives who live in different parts of the Philippines and only see each other every few months at most. “There are not many jobs here,” people tell me as they shake their heads. “We have to find work where we can.”

The night after my crying spell, I sat with Auntie Lourdes at the dinner table. Everyone else had left and the two of us remained there, drinking hot cocoa.

“I’m sorry I started crying at the dinner table,” I said, “I just get homesick sometimes. It’s really hard to be away from Matt, you know?”

She smiled at me, and I suddenly felt like a fool. Auntie Lourdes was in a long distance relationship too. Her husband, Raul, had just left that morning for his teaching post about 12 hours away. He was forced to take the job there to support their four kids through college.

“It is natural to miss him, and it’s good to let your feelings out.” she said. “I miss my husband too.”

“You do?” I asked. I felt like a fool once I said it, but I’d never seen anyone in the family express any sadness.

“Yes!” she said, still smiling, but a little surprised. “Of course! When my Raul leaves I am very sad. But I am more used to it I think. We have lived apart many times.”

She told me about when he’d served in the military, and when he worked on a ship and was only home for three months out of the year. He’d come back for a couple of years, but then moved away four years ago to be the Dean at a military school south of Manila. Now they only see each other once a month at the most. I felt like a fool, listening to her story. I knew that I would see Matt in a few weeks and that after seven months; I’d be with him for good. But for many people here, financial hardship forces them to stay apart for years sometimes. Many of these spouses live in the U.S. but their partners cannot qualify for visas and so they are forced to only see each other every couple of years when the couple can afford it.

“When will he move home again?” I asked.

“When the kids are done with college,” she said with a smile and a shrug. I could see sadness in her eyes.

“Oh, but that will be a in a few years, right?”

“No, there is still Marty,” she said. Marty has three more years of high school and at least four years of college.

My heart fell. “I’m sorry, Auntie,” I said. “That must be so hard.”

“Yes, it is hard,” she said, as she cleaned off the table. “But it is life. It is what we must do to help our children get an education.”

The next couple days, a few of the women friends I made came up and asked me how I was doing. They made mention of me being homesick and I realized that Auntie Lourdes had told them about me.

“Did Auntie Lourdes tell you I was homesick?” I asked Manang Susan.

“Oh yes,” Manang Susan said, holding her hands on her large pregnant belly. “She came by and told me and asked me if I knew what might be wrong. But I told her you were just homesickness—that it was normal and she shouldn’t worry.”

Manang Mayne, the woman who owns my house, said, “Don’t worry, it’s not gossip. We just really value our guests here and she wanted to see if there was anything she could do for you.”

I was touched by this gesture. In the midst of her own sadness, with Raul leaving for at least a month, Auntie Lourdes had gone around and asked about me. It was a good reminder of the strength and kindness of the people here, how even in the midst of their own suffering, they will reach out to care for another.

Pigs how I like them...alive

I missed the pork brain feast. I haven’t decided if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but I’m a little bummed I didn’t get to witness it.

A friend of mine, Manang Susan, invited me to her house for her husband’s grandmother’s birthday (Manang means older sister in Ifugao, and we use a title in front of any person’s name who is older than us—Manong is for men). I asked what they’d be serving and she said pork, as in, pork and rice and lots of alcohol—no veggies. I have to be honest, I hate red meat. I can handle chicken and fish, but I really don’t like pork and beef. I also knew there would be about 200 people present that I didn’t know. That combination of factors, plus feeling horribly homesick, led to my decision to not attend the feast. Instead I spent quite a bit of time catching up on my writing, feeling sorry to myself, and listening to the pigs squeal down the street as they were led to the slaughter.

Well, I think I regret it. It would have been a great chance to support my friend Manang Susan, who is also my Ifugao language teacher. It also would have been a wonderful cultural experience, though I think I was a bit gun shy (understandably) after experiencing the last drunken revelry where I’d been shouted at for about two hours.

I went by today to visit Manang Susan and her husband, Manong Johnny. I could tell the feasting had ended and I decided I would pay a visit and meet her grandmother if possible. That’s when they told me what I had missed that morning. Yes, I didn’t get to witness the slaughter of six pigs for their feast, but I think that might have traumatized me. But I’d also missed the pig brain feast. Apparently, the day after a huge pig feast they have a bunch of leftover heads. Since you can’t leave any meat uneaten here, they cook the heads as well. They take the ears, the tongue, the brains, and some other choice meats and they cook it all together with some soy sauce and calamansi (like lemon). Susan said that they men particularly enjoy the brain feast but the women love it as well.

“Is it good?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Na-imas.” It’s delicious.

I’ll take her word on that one.

So much of Filipino life happens in these jeepneys, in transit from one place to another. In some ways it is more of a metaphor for Banaue than the terraces; it is a symbol of the movement, the modernization, and the western influences that shape Banaue every day.

I climb into the jeepney today on my way home from an interview in Legawe. We will wind for an hour uphill into cooler air, but as I sit in the jeepney now, waiting for it to fill up with passengers, I am hot. I exit quickly and run across the street to a small stand where they sell buko (coconut) juice. I open the worn foam cooler and pull out a sealed plastic cup from under a few chunks of melting ice. The stall, a wooden shack with a corrugated plastic roof, specializes in candy. A small group of young girls in school uniforms—red pleated skirts that brush their calves and loose white collared blouses—gather on their lunch break to buy hard candies and sweets. Some suck on blue popsicles, the dyed water running down their chins, and look up at me with large brown eyes. I duck out of the shack, away from their stares, and head back into the jeepney.

We wait for another few minutes as people crowd inside. An elder man climbs in with a chicken in his hands, her feet bound. He shoves her under the seat and I wince. To the man she is not an animal anymore, not a living breathing thing. She is food.

The jeepney driver counts heads to affirm that he has enough passengers to make the one hour ride profitable. I suck down small strips of coconut in a hurry, coaxing them from the bottom of my cup and into my mouth. A young school girl sits across from me—she looks about eight but could be ten or twelve. She wears a red and white checked dress, which reminds me of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, and her hair is pulled up at the sides with two clips. She watches me as I pull the coconut strips out of my cup with my fingers and I wonder if I am being impolite.

The driver starts the engine, now that the jeepney is almost full. Diesel bellows out of the exhaust; the engine chokes and gasps but somehow catches. The driver honks his horn and several men shout: Banaue! Banaue! We jerk forward and head up the road.

Jeepneys have been an integral part of Filipino life since World War II. The first jeepneys were surplus jeeps that departing American soldiers sold or gave away after the war. Locals stripped them down to accommodate more passengers, added metal roofs for shade, and decorated them with bright colors, hood ornaments, and sometimes lights. They became a popular form of inexpensive public transportation—something virtually destroyed during the war.

But much like the past traditions of the Ifugao, the jeepneys face threats to their survival. Because the prices of steel and other jeepney materials have increased, many small jeepney manufacturers have gone out of business. Many larger producers have gone bankrupt as well or have switched to making other products. Jeepneys aren’t very fuel efficient either. A recent study in a Metro Manila newspaper found that fuel use for a 16 passenger jeepney and a 64 person bus were the same. Because so many jeepney drivers cruise the traffic-clogged streets half empty, looking for customers, policy makers in Manila have received a lot of pressure to remove them from Manila entirely. In addition, jeepney businesses struggle to compete with newly imported models: modern looking jeepneys with Hummer-like structures, or Toyota-type vans. It seems that the loud, boisterous jeepney may soon be an icon of the past, transformed into something more modern, more efficient.

On this jeepney, life continues on, unaware of itself. I watch the passengers and soak in their details. The girl across from me in the red-checked dress and I both have our feet propped on a spare tire. She has collapsed across her mother’s lap during the drive, napping as many children do. Her arm hangs loosely over her mother’s knees, and her wrist glitters with two bracelets—one a strand of small pictures of saints, and the other a thin rainbow of fake jewels. Her mother stares out the window, her fingers absently brush her daughter’s hair. Her mother has a denim jacket on, and sky blue dress slippers with blue sequined flowers. They seem like they are from a well-off family.

Next to them another mother clutches her child, but this one is awake. He looks about two years old, and it takes a moment before I notice the I.V. tube bandaged at his wrist. I never find out why he has the tube but I wonder what he suffers from that they would leave the tube there, permanently. He looks around the jeepney with wide eyes. I smile at him but he only stares back at me, wary and uncertain. I must look strange to him—so white and tall.

About a half hour into the drive a woman climbs on the back of the jeepney. She has a wide metal bowl in her hands, one that’s used to cook large portions of food for family gatherings. She has stacked bundles of pechay, a local green, which she places at the feet of the people near the door. Her young daughter, I assume, runs after her on the street, crying. She shouts at her and the girl runs off the road and into the grass, her face streaked with tears. The mother, a small woman with a thin, pretty face, chuckles with the other passengers.

Sometimes I can see the driver’s face in the rear view mirror. I sit behind him, so every time a passenger pays I hand him the money. He reaches his hand back without looking at me, and I lay the coins and thin paper bills on his grease-coated palm. It is small, this moment, but I like the physical connection, just as I like the way the young man next to me rests his leg against mine as he sleeps. It normalizes me somehow. The driver has a handkerchief around his head and a rash of acne on his jaw. He stares out the window intensely, weaving his way around squawking chickens and dogs lying in the sun, men breaking boulders on the side of the road, and children screaming across the street in dirty tee shirts. I wonder what he thinks about.

I sit there, observing, though no one knows it. I think about my short time here, how I will capture these people in this moment and it will make no difference to them; it will not have any direct affect. I think about all the forces interacting with these people—the tourists, the United Nations, policy makers in Manila, writers, anthropologists, and me. We all see something important here, something rare, but to these people this is just their life. Things may change for the Ifugao, but they will continue on like this road we wind around.

What strikes me most here is the will to live. With so many in poverty; life is often mere survival, and you can feel that energy, that drive, that desperation in the air. You can see it in the hungry eyes of a dog, as she carries a plastic cookie wrapper to the side of the road and licks the sugar off it. You can see it in the children who hold their hands out to me when I walk by—money please, they say. You can see it in the mother who holds her child with the I.V. line close to her breast, as she speaks to him softly, brushing the bangs out of his eyes. You can even see it in the white feathered chickens—the ones that will be eaten later—as they nest at the edge of the road, as they lay their eggs on a pile of dirt and ash.

The Native Rice Dilemma, Part 2

Mature Tinawon, ready to harvest

Photo from Eighth Wonder

In 1978, Mary Hensley spent two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Kalinga, a rice terrace community north of Ifugao. Inspired by the native rice farmers there, she and her Filipina friend Vicky created Eighth Wonder, a socially responsible, shared-equity business (http://www.heirloomrice.com/) that operates under the free-trade mentality of “Trade not Aid”. Basically, she saw the same thing I did when I researched the rice—the only real way to keep the terraces physically intact would be to make it profitable somehow. The only way to make it profitable would be to sell the organic rice in an international market that can afford to pay a high price for it.

When I first thought about it a few years ago, I thought it would be simple to convince farmers to sell their rice for a profit. But it turns out that it’s not.

Adam, a Peace Corps volunteer and my neighbor, works with Mary and Vicky on their project. He helps with tinawon quality control, and also works with Vicky to talk to farmers about selling their rice for a profit. To determine if growing tinawon as a cash crop would bring a profit to the farmers, Adam and his coworkers at the Department of Agriculture (D.A.) worked out how much it costs a farmer to grow the rice here.

They figured out that if a farmer chooses to farm the tinawon, the native organic rice, he’ll spend around 3500P on the farm labor, which includes the work done by laborers all year, the pounding (tinawon must be pounded by hand to maintain the integrity of the grain), and the lunch expenses for the workers. If a farmer yields around 100 kilos of rice, he’ll get paid about 50P (1USD) per kilo—totaling 5000P (100USD). Subtract the labor costs from the check he gets for the rice, and he ends up with around 1,500P. Now that the farmer sold all of his rice, he’ll have to by the commercial variety to eat for the rest of his year. For an average family, that might cost around 8000P. So, the farmer suffers a 6,500P loss when farming tinawon for export. One obvious point: it’s almost impossible to be a farmer without some other kind of livelihood.

Farmers planting

Photo by Eighth Wonder

Now if the farmer chooses to farm lucuop, a high yielding, low maintenance variety, the story is a bit different. Lucuop cannot be grown for export (since it’s not the native, organic variety). So, all the lucuop will be consumed as food. Unfortunately, if the farmer grows around 120 bundles, or approx. 260 kilos (since it can be harvested twice a year), he will still only have rice for about three months. So, he’ll have to spend about 6000P for the rest of the year. That, plus the labor and milling costs (around 2500P) put him 8,500P in the hole. That’s 1,500P more in debt than if he were to export.

So, on paper, farming the tinawon seems to benefit the farmers, right? They’ll reduce their losses by 1,500P—around 30USD. That said, Adam has experienced a lot of resistance getting the farmers to sign on. The people that work in the D.A. office all told Adam that they would rather suffer an additional 1,500P loss than have to buy commercial rice year round. They listed several reasons: 1. The lucuop and tinawon rice varieties are grown on their Banaue rice terraces, which, even if it isn’t the traditional rice, is a source of pride. Having to eat lowland commercial rice is a shame they want to avoid. There’s a bit of inherent xenophobia in the Ifugao that affects their emotional response in this situation. 2. The tinawon is much healthier, and they’d rather take an economic hit and enjoy their organic rice for a few months than export it out of the country to foreigners.

Women separating the seedlings from mud to be planted in the fields the next day
Adam and I speculated a bit about this resistance. The Ifugao are quite proud of the fact that they held off foreign influence and colonization for so long. They maintained their cultural integrity for many years, and in many ways are uncomfortable with the toll that modernity and tourism have taken on their culture. The thought of selling their beloved rice to foreigners is like selling out to them.

But this was the also the response of the people in the Department of Agriculture: educated, relatively well off land owners who have the luxury of letting their pride and emotions create budgetary losses. Most of them rarely, if ever, work in the fields. But what about the poor farmers who would do anything to save some pesos, who would desperately like to take a step up on the economic ladder? It seems this might be just the opportunity for them.

Woman pounding the rice

Photo by Eighth Wonder

There’s been a lot of commentary in the community. Many say the project won’t work because they won’t be able to get enough supply for the demand in the U.S. That’s possible, but not definite. It is hard to get enough supply here, but that might change. Another complaint is that 50P/kilo is not enough money for all the work that goes into it, and some farmers don’t think it’s worth it. Again, it may not be for farmers who can afford to lose the money, but to those who can’t and who wouldn’t make any money otherwise, it might be. Another disturbing factor is that some farmers have also spread rumors around that they were promised 250P/ kilo (about 5 dollars per kilo, which is absurd) and that Mary went back on her promises. This is absolutely not true, but it’s hard to stop those rumors when people here operate so much by word of mouth.

But there have been other responses too. Vicky, one of the founders of Eighth Wonder, quoted the closing comments from a city council representative at the end of one of their information meetings: “This project is challenging our capability as a people—not just because we have the variety that would sell in America—but because they are inspiring us to build that bridge to let our brothers on a distant shore remember us by providing them with our rice, and through that, our culture, that they too may cherish… This is our chance to stand up and together produce a quality rice that will bring us into the international market, but also, bring our people back to their ancestral land.”

Man carrying the rice to the granary

Photo by Eighth Wonder

And another excerpt from Vicky’s journal that inspired me: “This is what I have been praying for. I would be happy to die knowing that my land and my people will go back to tilling our ancestral land and have something to look forward to. …You (Vicky) are an angel for sharing with us this project, a project that will give us a better future to work for.”

In some ways, I think this project has huge potential to link the U.S. and the Philippines in a way that educates Americans about the terraces, empowers Filipino farmers, and maintains their dignity. Presented correctly, this could be an opportunity to share the pride of their land, not compromise it. But, it remains to be seen if the farmers will actually choose to do it. I’ll be joining their team for nine days in March to tour the province, shadow their meetings, and talk to farmers. I’m interested to see if this idea—which sounds so wonderful—can really work.

Bags of rice to sell

Photo by Eighth Wonder

The Native Rice Dilemma, part 1

Rice bundles ready to be planted

The first thing to know about rice farming is that it’s not a profitable business. In fact, the farmers out here lose money every year when they grow rice—sometimes even with an additional income. I helped Adam create a sample balance sheet for farmers to show their profits and losses. The only losses we took into account were rice bought for eating, and the costs of farming and milling the rice (or pounding it, in the case of tinawon). Even with just those losses—not including rent, school, and living expenses—the farmers still lose several thousand pesos every year (5000P=100$). Unless they have a substantial alternative income, they’ll always be in the red.

This is what I’ll call the native rice dilemma—how can we make tinawon farming viable? In my eyes, it’s one of the only ways to maintain the terraces—to grow the rice that the farmers created the terraces for in the first place.

Let me back up. For centuries the Ifugao grew only one rice in the terraces—the tinawon. Sometime in the last 100 years, the Department of Agriculture (D.A.) introduced a new, higher yielding variety (H.Y.V.) that produced a harvest twice a year. The tinawon, by contrast, produces only one harvest. At first, it sounded great, all farmers needed to do was buy the rice from the D.A. and they could have twice the harvest. The rice needed less water to grow—also a huge benefit—and with the pesticides and fertilizers the D.A. provided, they could get rid of the challenges that came along with organic farming.

Many of the locals resisted at first. They were suspicious of this new variety and had reservations about using the pesticides. However, a lot of their questioning changed after the first few farmers grew their harvest and had twice the yield without all the pest problems that plagued the tinawon farmers. So, many of them—but not all—decided to grow the high yielding variety (H.Y.V.) after all.

A group of women clean mud off the rice seedlings and prepare them for planting

But it wasn’t as perfect as the D.A. had promised. After a few years, the H.Y.V. began to harden the soil, severely reducing its nutritive values. In addition, the chemical supplements from the D.A. killed off the native snails and the small fish that propagated in the rice field water. The new rice variety wasn’t working. In desperation, some of the farmers switched back to the tinawon, but since they’d dramatically altered the soil chemistry and the previous ecosystem that had nurtured it (the snails and fish), the tinawon failed the first year the farmers tried to grow it again. And so they were left desperate, with no harvest at all.

I’ve talked with several tinawon rice farmers, and they all agree that if they’d persisted with growing the tinawon, if they’d returned to creating the original soil conditions, then they likely would have been able to grow it again. But that takes time and patience, which many farmers don’t have when their life depends on their harvest.

So, the D.A. provided a solution—a new rice variety. But after a few years, they encountered the same problems: the hardening soil, the low harvests, etc. So every few years the D.A. had a new variety to introduce to the farmers—it was cheap, it worked for a few years, and then the D.A. would have a new, affordable variety for them to grow. It developed into a codependent relationship, questionable to say the least. Many farmers never grew tinawon again.

Who cares? Well, for one thing, the H.Y.V. requires pesticides and fertilizers which compromise the health of the grain and the rice field ecosystem. Secondly, the H.Y.V. isn’t native and doesn’t promote the native ecosystem and rice field health that the tinawon does; this compromises the integrity of the terraces. Thirdly, the H.Y.V. must be provided by the D.A.—which disempowers farmers who used to own their own rice seedlings without depending on anyone. Lastly, the tinawon is much more nutritious and sustaining—it’s actually considered one of the healthiest rice varieties in the world.

And there’s a foreign market for tinawon, which is huge—I’ll address that later. Some of the farm owners here are middle to upper classmen who split the harvest with tenants who live on the fields and work the land. But some are poor farmers struggling to make a living the only way they know how. 50 years ago, none of this was an issue. The locals didn’t have the cash needs they have now: there was no school, no cell phones; no houses with electricity. The Ifugao grew their own food, made their own clothes, constructed their homes with local materials, and their children learned farming, not English and math.

But with modernization, this has changed. Farmers now have cash needs they didn’t have before and the farming community they once depended on for labor has dissipated.

The big question I had before I came here was: how can farming become a viable option for the locals? The only way the terraces will maintain their structural integrity is if they’re maintained by farmers, and the only way they’ll be maintained is if farmers are growing the rice. The best chance the terraces have for long term terrace health is if farmers grow the native tinawon organically as they did before.

It’s simple, I thought: they should export the organic rice into the U.S.

Unfortunately, it turns out that’s not such an easy solution.

This cracks me up! No pun intended...

I thought a lot about the blog I wrote yesterday, about the challenges I face here everyday. I think I’ve been fighting off my feelings—I didn’t want to be overwhelmed by poverty, I didn’t want to feel lonely or needy for people I love. I didn’t want to feel awkward, to stumble my way through the language, to have people laugh at my mistakes. I felt bad because I am sick of being stared at, being different, foreign; unusual. I suppose I thought I’d be so comfortable with all these things, that finding out the contrary disappointed me some how—as if I hadn’t lived up to my own expectations.

Well, yesterday I finally decided that it was okay to feel all these things. They’re not the only things I feel by any means—I’ve had some wonderful experiences here as well, some real breakthroughs. I’ve started to get more comfortable with the language; Tanya has learned my name, my project is picking up speed, I’m writing more than I ever have before, my family next door seems to really care about me…and Matt will be here in just over three weeks. But more than that, it’s okay to be uncomfortable. It’s okay to be a foreigner, to be different and to not like it. I’m not perfect. It’s okay for this to be hard. It seemed like once I stopped ignoring my experience and I acknowledged it instead, it allowed me to look at the other elements of my time here as well—and to laugh at myself, to not take myself so seriously.

Yesterday I decided to go for a run. I hadn’t in the past because I’d never seen anyone run around here, and I just knew I’d get stares, dog barks, constant comments, etc. I didn’t want the attention. But, I decided yesterday that I didn’t care. I’d get all the same attention walking anyway, so why not run and get some exercise? So what if they think I look funny with my pink face and running shorts. I do look funny. I’d probably laugh at myself too. So—I did it. I ran for about 45 minutes uphill. I smiled and waved at people as I ran, spoke to them in my limited Ifugao, and laughed a lot. I was trying to say “I’m exercising,” but since the pronunciation for ‘I’ and ‘you’ are so similar I think I actually said, “you’re exercising,” and “you’re jogging!” as I ran along the way. They probably thought I was crazy, and I think that’s great.

I had a few conversations with loved ones yesterday. During one of them I realized that it made perfect sense that I was uncomfortable, in fact, that was why I’d come here. I decided a long time ago that I wanted to commit myself to creating solutions for poverty and environmental preservation. But sometimes people don’t get motivated until they’re uncomfortable, angry, depressed—affected, essentially, by the reality they want to change. It’s not enough to read about these things in book, I had to come face-to-face with them and experience this volatile chemistry. My experience here affects me deeply.

And while sometimes I wish it didn’t, sometimes I wish I could float placidly through my experience here, unaffected, how would I ever be inspired to create solutions for the problems I see? What would there be to write about? So—even though I struggle here, I hurt here, I am lonely here—I am grateful for the chance to experience the depths of myself. I’m not always comfortable with what I see, but at least I’m looking.

Being here is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I got a blog comment from a professor of mine after my SCUBA weekend. He said, “Up till now I haven't really been envious of your Philippine life. Now I am.” And I thought: why hasn’t he been envious? But I think the answer’s easy, really.

In some ways I feel like I’m writing about something dying. Everyday I talk to people about traditions that have fallen to the wayside. I see a barrage of drunk men on the streets. I see a town over run by tourists. I talk to teenagers who just want to get the hell out of here. I meet impoverished people who I can’t help. I look at an ecosystem that appears as if it’s slowly going downhill and I wonder if there's anything I can do about it besides having these feelings.

Just yesterday, Adam told me that a majority of the vegetables I buy here are laden with pesticides—ones that aren’t even allowed in the U.S. I know this happens often; companies can’t sell their pesticides to countries like the U.S., so they export them to developing countries that don’t have such stringent regulations. But it’s depressing when I know that just within the last 50-100 years all the food produced here was organic. Why must the poor get the pesticides too? Because the people here either aren't educated or can't afford better pesticides, they will pay for it with their bodies. It kills me to see how they are taken advantage of, and the lies that they are told. So many of their choices are made out of desperation: pesticides or an unreliable crop? The answer's easy when you're struggling to survive.

I also hear constantly about the Department of Agriculture and how they introduced these new rice varieties because they’d give higher yields. But what they didn’t know (or maybe they did) was that the new rice varieties would destroy the ecological balance that had been created in the rice fields for thousands of years, making it difficult if not impossible to grow the more nutritious native rice. I don’t assume that everyone operates from a profit motive, but when you learn about the corruption in this country it’s hard to think otherwise sometimes.

And some of the people here are so poor, I don’t know how to respond to them. I’ve been around extreme poverty before—worse than this region for sure, though it's been stated as the most impoverished in the nation. But I’ve never had to be around poverty it constantly. The family I next door to is pretty wealthy by local standards, but when I venture out on my interviews I see another reality. I have people tell me how poor they are, how they can’t get ahead, how they want to come to the U.S. And it’s tough because I don’t know what to do about it or what to say. Yes, I’m a writer, so I write about it. But so what? At the end of the day, who cares if you wrote about their story when they hardly have enough to eat and their children die because they can't afford medical care?

And then there’s the tremendous cultural loss that I witness. The rituals once performed here are now reserved mostly for tourists or cultural fairs, but rarely practiced during the rice harvests. The Ifugao fought off foreign influence for so long, but now it is finally making its way through the region. Banaue is becoming a tourist town, and locals dress in their native costume for photos, not for actual ritual events. Every day I hear how things are changing and many of the elders are sad to see it go, while others are glad—good riddance, they say, those were primitive, pagan ways.

It’s hard for me because I know what happens when people become more developed: they consume more and they often practice ways of living that are harder on the environment. Yet I want development and education for the people here. I just wonder, I always wonder, how we can do it in balance with the land. In the U.S. it is easier; we have resources and laws that can enforce environmental regulations. But the government is so ineffective and corrupt here. So I just wonder where this place is headed sometimes.

I know that change is inevitable and desirable. I know that capitalism and globalization create incredible networks of people, wonderful systems that will ultimately be beneficial for everyone—I know, or hope, for this. But still, I feel like I’m witnessing a dying elder, like I’m holding her hand as she tells me her stories, as she coughs and whispers her last words. At the same time there’s a teenager here too who also deserves my attention, but she’s young and wily—unpredictable. She doesn’t know who she is. She parties late at night and wants to travel, to see the world. I’m wary, I guess, of who she’ll become, of the choices she’ll make as she grows up. The dying grandmother is the known—I know what’s being lost in this culture. But what the future holds is still unclear. That’s exciting of course, but a little frightening as well when I witness the direction the teenager has already begun to head.

I think the most difficult thing for anyone encountering developing countries is that there’s a feeling of helplessness sometimes. I can’t stand feeling helpless. I don’t like that so many of stories I share are sad. But as my godfather told me, “Jennie, what you’re feeling is natural, it makes sense that you feel sadness out there.” I admit it, I’m depressed sometimes. I don’t know that I’m helping anyone, and it’s hard to just stand by and observe. I feel other emotions than this of course, but I wanted to share this part of it too—this part of my reality. This experience is not easy, as adventurous and romantic as it sounds. But I know I must be here, for some reason I don’t quite understand. I have faith that someday it will become clear to me. And I suppose that’s what pushes me onward, what helps me get up and continue writing every day when sometimes I'd rather just go home and forget about everything I've seen, the voices I've heard, the crumbling mud walls I've walked upon that were once so strong.

The Odyssey, Part 2:

“Is Saigon a part of Mexican?” One of Ricardo’s sons asked me as I sat down to eat lunch. He was a short man with built shoulders, a wide jaw bone and a red ‘Go Korea!’ shirt. Apparently he’d worked there for several years as a carpenter.

I had been invited to eat with the family who requested the mumbaki’s services for the morning. They slaughtered a chicken as part of the ritual and cooked up a large portion of rice. I had secretly hoped that we’d leave before lunch so I could get something to eat in town—something vegetarian. But I had a feeling they’d finish cooking before we left that afternoon, and they did. Just as we prepared to leave after scheduling a meeting to interview the mumbaki, the men in the house ushered us in, insisting that we stay.
“It’s part of the ritual,” one man said, “to eat and drink!”

As soon as I sat down, several family members descended upon me. “Is Saigon a part of Mexican?” the man in the red shirt asked again. “Because I hear it in the song…” his face screwed into a look of passion as he crooned, “I left you in Saigon…”

I wasn’t sure what made him think it was a Latino song, but I answered, “No, it’s not a part of Mexico, it’s in Vietnam.” He smiled and nodded to me. “Oh, okay,” he said, and sat back down. They placed the food on the table—several bowls with portions of the chicken, and a large flat basket lined with banana leaves that held the rice.

The man in the red shirt stood over by the kitchen counter. “Sister,” he said, they commonly use ‘sister’ or ‘brother’ before a name to address someone, “Do you need a fork? The common way we eat here in the Philippines is with a spoon and our hands. Is that okay? Or do you want a fork?”

“That’s okay,” I said, “I’ve eaten this way before. I’m happy with a spoon.” Mani, my mentor, pulled a piece of chicken from the bowl and dropped it on my plate.

“Here you go,” he said with a wry smile. “You eat that.” The chicken piece had a long leg sticking off it—still covered with skin and adorned with a claw at the end. I laughed out loud. “That is for the dog,” Mani said with a chuckle. “You don’t have to eat it.”

Soon the men around me initiated more conversation. One of the men across from me, Ricardo, was the father of most of the other men there. “He has the record for the most children in the region,” Mani said. “He has seventeen.”

“Yes!” Ricardo said, shouting to me though I only sat two feet away, “I have seventeen, but one is adopted. And they are all with one mother!” he shouted again. His stringy earl length hair flopped over his right eye. “Don’t think they are with many wives! Just one!”

“Sister!” the man in the Korea shirt shouted from down the table as I struggled to understand Ricardo. “Sister, I have another question for you!” I looked over at him and smiled. “Who are the original English speaking people? Are they the British? Who are they?”

Mani and I both attempted an answer. I don’t even know if we were right. “No it isn’t the British, it’s the English,” I said.

Mani spoke up, “You see the British all spoke different languages originally,” he said, “The Scottish spoke Scottish, the Irish spoke Irish, and the Welsh spoke Welsh. But the English spoke English which is how English got its name.”

“So was it the British or…” he asked again, looking to me, the American, to verify. The table became uproarious.

“No, I shouted down to him, “it was just the English who originally spoke it. It’s like in the Philippines, you’re all from one island, but the southern Filipinos speak Tagalog and you speak Ifugao. Two very different dialects, but you’re all still Filipino.” It was different, I knew, but he nodded anyway.

“Oh, okay, thank you sister!”

I had about four people talking to me at once. Ricardo, the virile father, began to shout at me about a book he’d written on Ifugao culture. “It is this thick!” he yelled, gesturing a couple inches, “I only have one copy but I could get it for you!” I wasn’t sure what to say, so I told him to give it to Mani and he’d give it to me.

At that point I felt something warm and gentle against my cheek. Surprised, I looked to my left and an old man, hardly taller than me sitting down, stood nearby. As he leaned forward to talk to me I could smell his breath; it reeked of ginebra, a type of gin.

“I want to ask you a question,” he slurred, his cheek near mine again. He didn’t look straight at me but just off to the side, his eyes cloudy with cataracts. He grabbed my arm with surprising strength and spoke to me but I couldn’t quite make out what he said. It sounded something like: “From where are you?” and so I told him I was from the States, California and Colorado specifically. He nodded a little then looked away, his lips trembling. One of the young men pulled out a chair for him and sat him down, telling him to let me be.

“It’s no problem,” I said with a smile. I was like a celebrity to them—a blue eyed, pale skinned foreigner in their home. It could have been the first time. I knew that they were all excited to speak to me and so I tried to honor each of them, but after awhile it got overwhelming. Ricardo, the father, continued to yell at me about his books, about Ifugao culture, about his family.

At the same time, the man in the red shirt kept shouting questions from across the table. Something about his demeanor changed a bit. I knew they were all drunk, and I got a little concerned as the man began to ask more pointed questions.

“Sister, how many states are there?” he asked. Caught off guard, I suddenly couldn’t remember. I knew there were fifty, but what about Guam and Puerto Rico, what were they?

“Fifty!” I shouted back to him. He lifted his eyebrows and smiled.

“You know,” he said, “the U.S. asked the Philippines to become a state in the 70’s, and we all voted yes! We all wanted to become an American state so we could go live in the United States and get rid of our national debt. But,” he continued, “we were put under martial law and it didn’t happen.”

“By Marcos!” someone shouted, “We were put under Marshall Law by Marcos!”

“We wanted to be an American state,” Red shirt said again, “our debt is so bad; we are so poor in the Philippines, and all we wanted was to be a part of your country.”

I didn’t know how much of this was true, so I didn’t say much in return. “Wasn’t the national debt wracked up a lot during the Marcos regime?”

“Yes, that’s when much of it started,” Mani said.

“We are very poor here,” Red shirt shouted to me, “very, very poor!”

I nodded at him, not sure what to say. I jumped in surprise as the old man grabbed my pants pocket and yelled at me again in his incomprehensible English. I pet his hand softly and another man shooed him away from me.

Throughout the conversation, I was constantly aware of my chicken grease covered fingers, and I wanted to wash them. I looked the room over, but couldn’t see a sink at all. Maybe it was outside.

“Can I wash my hands?” I asked. A couple of the men got up, uneasy.

‘Um, sure, sure, sister,” Red shirt said. He grabbed a water bottle full of water, a blue bar of industrial soap, and a plastic bowl. One of the men held the bowl for me while Red shirt poured the water over my hands. I dabbed the soap on my fingertips and washed off my hands until the oil went away. I felt so uncomfortable with this treatment.

“Thank you so much,” I said.

“Would you like a tissue?” he asked. I could tell he hoped I would say no. I couldn’t see a towel or napkin in sight.

“No, that’s okay, I don’t need a tissue,” I said, wiping my hands on my pants.

He smiled at me, relieved. “Our life is not like yours,” he said. I could see his red stained teeth now as he spoke with me. His brothers’ teeth all looked the same. “We are very poor here. We see your life on the television. There you have a couch to sit on, a bed to sleep on, running water. We do not have that here. We have a river outside. We don’t have tissues for you to wipe your hands.”

I didn’t know what to say, so all I said was, “I understand.”

“Our life here isn’t easy,” he said, “Not like in the United States.”

I’ve been faced with this conversation before—where I stand next to a Filipino and he or she points out the yawning gap of poverty between us. A similar scenario happened to me eight years ago on my second trip. A woman asked me to help her family get to the United States, she told me how wonderful the U.S. was and how much she wanted to live there. “But your country is wonderful!” I said, uncomfortable and full of romantic ideas. “People value community here and they look out after each other. People don’t even know their neighbors in the United States. The Philippines is wonderful too, in its own way.”

The woman smiled patiently at me. “You only say that,” she said after awhile, “because you can leave.”

That moment always burned me, so I didn’t attempt any such comments this time. I just took what he had to say in, agreed with him, and then looked for Mani and hoped it was time to leave. It was.

As we headed out the door, the old man grabbed my arm again and murmured to me once more. I pulled his hand away gently, and walked away. I had a cell phone number in my pocket from Ricardo that I was sure I’d never call. I just wanted to get out of there, away from the barrage of questions and the intensity. We crowded into a motorbike sidecar—Diana, Mani, Emilio—the mumbaki—and his neighbor, not to mention the motorbike driver.

Just as we prepared to leave, Red Shirt ran up to me. “Sister, sister! Here is my cell phone number, let me get your cell phone so I can text you.” I didn’t want to give him my cell phone number—I’d made that mistake before and now I get random Valentine wishes, good night texts, and “can we be text buddies?” messages. I didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t know my cell phone number,” I said. He looked at me like he didn’t believe me, but it was true. “Just give me yours.” I didn’t tell him that I could easily look it up on my cell phone.

“I will give you mine and you can text me yours right now,” he said. I wanted him to get the hint, to be let down gracefully, but he wouldn’t.

“Just give me yours,” I said, “and I can text you later.” He began to write his down, but forgot his name. “Don’t forget your name,” I said. He laughed and scribbled it at the top.

“You can text me now?” he said.

“Later,” I repeated. Finally he backed away and waved goodbye. I sighed and looked at the number. Diana looked over my shoulder. I squinted to read the name written in a pink colored pencil. Pericles.

“Pericles?” I asked Diana. “His name is Pericles? It’s been a Greek day!” I laughed.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “are the kids are named after Greeks: Ulysses, Genesis, Aphrodite, Achilles…”

I couldn’t help but laugh to imagine seventeen Filipinos with awkward Greek names. I knew Filipinos have a penchant for name creativity, but somehow Pericles was the last name I expected. Yet it was fitting, in retrospect, given the drama of the afternoon.

I looked at the paper one more time, at the numbers scrawled out for me. I knew I’d never text him and I wondered how long he’d wait, hoping, or if he already knew. I shoved the paper in my pocket and leaned back into the sunshine as we sped away, grateful to leave the scene behind.

A conversation with a Mumbaki

I hop on a jeepney at 8:45am and drive an hour to Legawe. One of my advisers, Mani Dulawan, wants to introduce me to a mumbaki, a native priest who lives in town. Though they’re sort of a dying breed, the bakis, as they are commonly called, are necessary for almost every Ifugao ritual. Similar to the African griots, the baki have memorized the oral traditions, stories and lineages for the community they belong to.

Soon after I arrive in Legawe, Mani and I take a tricycle to the baki’s house and find his daughter, probably around forty or so, outside.

“What’s your name?” Mani asks her.
She is short and stocky. With her short hair, baggy t-shirt and shorts, I could have confused her for a man. “Diana,” she says.
“Ah. In Greek mythology,” Mani said, “Diana is the goddess of the moon.”
I’m always impressed with Mani’s cultural knowledge—he’s 72, looks 50 and is considered an expert on Ifugao culture. Somehow he knows a little about everything.

Diana tells us that her father is performing a sickness rite over at a family member’s house, and offers to take us there. The three of us pile in a tricycle with another man and make the one kilometer journey to the house.

“My father is always busy,” Diana says. “There are very few mumbaki left and he has to perform rituals every day.” She tells me a bit about her family; she is one of eight brothers and sisters, and the only one not married. That, combined with her short hair and boyish appearance, make Diana, a virgin goddess, an appropriate name for her somehow.

“Has anyone in your family studied to be a mumbaki also?” I ask.
She shakes her head and smiles. “No—my father speaks deep Ifugao when he does the prayers. I know a lot of the prayers that he says but I don’t know what they mean.”

“So does Christianity get in the way of anyone wanting to study the mumbaki way?” In many scenarios, it is the primary reason the mumbaki tradition does not get passed down. The Ifugao traditions are often dismissed as primitive, pagan, and in conflict with the church.

She shook her head again. “No, it’s just that the baki has to work all the time. There are only five baki for our whole region now and my father gets called all the time to perform rituals.”

I remember that the mumbaki don’t get paid; they are usually given a portion of the meat sacrificed for the ritual. So how does he make a living?

“It is good to continue the mumbaki tradition,” Diana says, responding to my thoughts, “but who will earn money for the family?”

We arrive at the house: a yellow, run down, two-story building. Several large boards lay haphazardly in the front yard, with one plank above them for us to walk over to get to the front porch. A group of men stare out from the slatted glass window panes; several more sit on the railing along the porch. They can’t take their eyes off of me. I must be quite the unexpected visitor.

Mani introduces me to Emilio Cabbigat, an older man whose face is kind, yet proud, and lined with wrinkles. A few inches over five feet, the baki stands with his shoulders relaxed; his deeply lined face does not indicate that this is any surprise, or anything unusual. As one of the most knowledgeable mumbakis in the region, I think he’s been interviewed before. Several of the men in the house bustle around to grab us peach colored plastic stools—we grab them and have a seat off to the side. Someone brings out a plastic jug full of water and another man brings out a bottle of baya (pronounced phaya), the native rice wine.

“Would you like some?” they ask me. I shake my head. I don’t drink, but I don’t want to offend anyone. It’s only 11am, but I know that drinking rice wine and gin is part of almost every ritual. Mani takes the cup and drinks a sip but leaves it mostly untouched—he’s a diabetic and he needs to be careful about drinking too much.

The baki, is too busy today to have a long meeting, so we decide to reschedule for a week from now. He asks me what I’d like to talk to him about. I tell him I’d like to know a little bit about the rituals he practices, the ones he used to, and what his thoughts are about the changes in Ifugao culture over the past 100 years. I’m also curious about his personal history. He starts to answer me right away.

“I became a baki in the late sixties. My father was a baki and he taught me.” The baki tradition is usually passed down through families. “But I was working for awhile, in the government and I had a furniture shop, so I didn’t work as a baki. Then in 1979, my wife got sick. I needed to perform a sickness rite on her, and so started practicing as a baki again. Now, I am so busy; I have to do rituals almost every day.”

He pauses and rubs his hand down his chin. “As for the changes…you know, it wasn’t until the early 1900’s that the Catholic priests came,” he says, “to try to convert us to their religion. They talked to us about hell, and how hell was fire and that if we did not accept the Lord into our hearts we would go to hell. They made people very afraid.” His face tightens and he raises his voice a bit as he speaks. “They told us that we needed to accept Jesus into our hearts so that we wouldn’t go to hell. They told us that we need to confess our sins so we wouldn’t go to hell. They told us that our Ifugao ways were evil.”

He almost shakes as he speaks. “So I asked the priest. I said, ‘What does it take to be a Christian?’ And he said, ‘You have to accept Jesus Christ into your heart.’ And I said, ‘Is that all? How will you know you’ve accepted Jesus Christ into your heart?’ And he said, ‘Well, you also have to go to church once a week to celebrate him with others.’ And I said, ‘And that’s it? That’s what you need to do?’ And the priest said, ‘Yes, that’s what you need to do to be a Christian.”

He shook his head and looked away, then looked back at me with intensity in his eyes. “And that’s why there’s so much corruption, why they can allow so many corrupt people in the government. Because they are all Christian, and if all you have to do to be Christian in their opinion is go to church once a week, then there will be plenty of corruption there. All those people in the government call themselves Christian but they lie to the people; they steal from the people. Even here, in Ifugao. But they go to church once a week and then it’s okay. If they were true Christians, they wouldn’t be accepted in the government, they would be kicked out; the other people wouldn’t like them. I know this, because it happened to me.”

I’m not sure if Emilio is Christian or not, but I know Mani is—he’s Evangelical. I assume that Emilio is, like every Filipino in the region.

He continues, “The Philippines is the only Christian nation in all of Asia, but we are the most corrupt nation in Asia as well. There is something missing.”

Mani smiles, and nods his head. We have talked before about how he’s found a balance between his Ifugao traditions, which he fights to keep alive, and his Christian beliefs as well. Yet these men are aware, like so many, of the corruption that has woven its way into every government office, both local and federal, in the Philippines. But for the Ifugao, who only recently (the last 50-100 years) embraced formal education and official government ruling, this corruption is something new, something foreign, something abhorrent to them—especially their elders.

“In Ifugao, it is a shame to steal,” Emilio says.

“I would rather kill myself or my accuser than to be called a stealer,” Mani said, “it is the highest crime.”

“But our politicians do it all the time,” Emilio says. “I used to work in the government, with the Department of Works and Transportation. I was a construction foreman. I would get a receipt from a government office. It would say, for example, that I had received 500 bags of cement. But I would only have 250. They would say, ‘sign here.’ But I would only see 250 bags. Someone was pocketing that money in the government and they wanted me to help them, to go along with it. But I wouldn’t sign. I would quarrel with the people. Because if something went wrong, I would get the audit and I would take the blame!”

This is not an uncommon practice—in fact, this is small scale corruption compared to the federal government abuses.

“So,” he says, “this is what frustrates me, our Ifugao ways are being lost. The children don’t care any more about our old ways. In the past, people never begged. You never abused your wife. You only married someone you really liked because it was unacceptable to be with another woman during your marriage. In the past, you never sat across from your sister, your 1st cousin, or your second or third cousin because that meant you had taken her as your wife. But now, young people do this all the time. They don’t care so much about our old ways. They think they are primitive.”

Mani pulls out a book he wrote about the oral traditions of the Ifugao. He has dedicated his life to getting Ifugao traditions, oral history and ethics taught in schools. His passion inspires me. I take the book he has in his hands and flip through it. Inside are well known myths and stories from the region.

“This is incredible,” I say. “I’m so glad you’re doing this. In the States, we have our indigenous people too, the Native Americans. And they lost a lot of their identity when we colonized them and took their lands. They lost their traditions and a sense of who they are. And now there’s a lot of depression among their people, a lot of grief and alcoholism because they don’t know who they are anymore.”

“Yes,” Mani nods, “we want to prevent that here.”

But I think about the young men back in Banaue. I think about the late nights down the street at the videoke bar, the drunken brawls, the screaming, the depression in their eyes. Who are they now? I think about the young women I meet who desperately want to live abroad, working as domestic helpers, as nurses—anything. I think about the general trend among the youth to leave anyway possible, whether through alcohol or by plane, and I wonder if these efforts will bear fruit. I wonder if the region will indeed experience a surge of cultural reclaiming, or if their world will go on evolving, their indigenous ways soon just a memory of the distant past.