How Jealousy Arrived

During my short stay in Batad I ran into a familiar face—Mark, an Ifugao, who guided me and a group of tourists through the rice terraces last time I visited Batad. Mark’s an interesting character that I’ve written about in a previous blog. He’s young, about 20 I believe, and has been working in the tourist industry in Ifugao since he was 11. He’s very passionate and committed to his culture, but also embraces and upholds western traditions as well.

Mark (The Filipino) and a group of travelers playing Scrabble

We got to talking about my project. I told him that I’d be leaving on March 2nd with Adam and his crew to tour the local barangays and talk about the possibility of exporting the rice. He nodded and listened.

“I went to my home province and talked with some of my people there,” he said. “I don’t actually work on the terraces, but I look after them. Anyway, I told them about the project Adam is working on to hear what they had to say.”

“And?”

“They did not like the idea,” he said. “They feel like they work and work so hard for the tinawon; they pound it themselves, and it’s their native rice. It’s the rice their ancestors have grown for centuries. They would rather give it away then sell it because when you take money for something like that, it is like you are giving a piece of your soul.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded. “Yeah,” I said, “it may only be an option for poor farmers who need to save the money and can’t afford that emotional connection.”

He nodded. We looked around the lodge we were staying at. “You know,” he said, “They’ve only had electricity here for a few years. This place is developing so fast. You should go to my barangay to talk to people, it’s not developed like this place is. This place is already gone, really.”

I looked up at the fluorescent bulbs and over at the kitchen with all its appliances. But still, I could only see darkness just off the balcony, and I knew that people lived in native huts down below this section of town. But I knew what he meant.

“Yeah,” I said, “I wonder when they’ll build cement road here, or even one down into the town.” As of now there’s only a rocky dirt road to the saddle then you have to hike at least a half hour downhill to get to the village. That's part of Batad's charm. “I talked to a local—a young woman—on the way down who said she hopes that they build a road soon." I said. "But then another local—an old man—said that he’s glad there isn’t a road because it keeps them hiking everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Mark said, “but it won’t be long. And it’s sad because these new things like electricity haven’t been good for the people.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well before, the people looked out for each other. They all shared what they had—if someone was hungry, they fed them, if someone needed something, they gave it to them. But now people see their neighbor with a big house, or with electricity and they are jealous. They never used to be jealous before. You used to have everything you need. But now people see their friends’ t.v. and they want one. Or they see a fridge and they want one. It has not been good for the people.”

“Do you think it’ll become like Banaue soon?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head. I looked around at all the tourists, at their happy faces—we were all enjoying the place, the people. Yet our presence created an ever greater need for more: more electricity, more buildings, more food, more modern conveniences. I wondered how long it would be before a cement road got laid down to the saddle and before another replaced the trail to the village, filling the once silent hillside with the sound of motorbikes and the scent of exhaust.