I walked off the night bus to Banaue and into the bright sun after a nine hour bus ride and about three hours of sleep. I wasn’t sure what to expect since I left last week, the day they found Julia’s body. Would the tour guides ask me if I wanted to go to Batad, the place where Julia died? Were they already taking tourists there again so soon? Would any of them recognize me?

“Where you going, ma’am?” One of the guides asked with a smile. “Batad?” he asked.

I shook my head; an angry shock must have flickered over my face for an instant. I had hoped he wouldn’t ask me, especially with such seeming disdain. Adam and had gotten frustrated by the little laughs people gave, though we knew they just weren’t comfortable expressing their emotions—especially the men.

I spoke in Ifugao, partly to surprise him. I told him I wanted to go to the publacion where the restaurants were. I just wanted breakfast. He smiled and laughed at my Ifgugao, impressed, then nodded to his tricycle and I got in. We sped down the street, past other tricycles and shops, and we ended up in the town center.

I handed him some coins. “No,” said, “Nevermind.” I insisted. “No, it’s no problem.”
I reached out to him and handed them again. “Thanks,” I said, “but we have to support each other.” I didn’t really know what that meant; I just wanted him to take the money since he deserved it. But his gesture was so kind, I didn’t know what to say.

I walked into a popular restaurant, not sure I wanted to see anyone I knew. Within minutes, my friend, a young tour guide named Mark, walked up to me. He didn’t even say hello.

“Jen, did you hear the news?” he said, “We found out the suspect isn’t actually Ifugao, he’s from Abra (a town in a different province). He just married a local Ifugao woman, but the name isn’t even Ifugao. And they say he’s in Baguio now, so they will probably find him in a day or two.”

I hadn’t heard this info and I didn’t entirely believe it, but I knew why he’d say something like that. Later I’d hear he was from another town, Benguet, but then Auntie Lourdes would insist he was from Banaue. I wondered people didn’t want to accept that the murderer was one of their own—so many people were ashamed of him. I didn’t press the issue.

We sat down and talked at the table over breakfast. Mark explained how bad Julia’s death has been for local tourism. “My friends hardly make any money as tour guides anymore,” he says, “This town is going broke. All our tourists are canceling, and this is supposed to be high season.” He shook his head. I figured it would affect the local economy but I wasn’t sure how badly.

“You know, it might be tough for awhile,” I said, “but it will be okay again eventually.”

“Yeah,” he said, “there are already people coming who haven’t heard of Julia at all. They are on vacation and they don’t read the news or watch the t.v. so they don’t know. They are fine going to Batad.”

I understood this, but thought they were foolish. Maybe I was just overreacting. I wondered if the guides told them what happened, or if they just stayed silent about it. “Yeah,” Mark continued, “I’ve just been telling them that he’s in Baguio and he’s not a local.”

Unfortunately, as good hearted as I knew Mark was, I doubted that is information was true.

“What do the locals think?” I asked.

He shook his head again. “They want to punish him our way,” he said, and made a chopping gesture with his hand. “They chop off his body bit by bit till they get to his neck.”

“What? While he’s still alive?” I say, disgusted.

He nods. “Yeah, you start with the hands and feet and chop away at his arms and legs slowly till you get to his neck. That’s the old punishment for murder here.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit brutal?” I say. “You need to let the police handle this—they need to take him to court and he needs a trial.” I feel a bit naïve as I say it, but I still believed it was better than this vigilantism. I was so tired of it.

“Well, if the locals find him first, that’s how they’ll do it,” he said with a shrug.

“But he could be innocent,” I said, “And they’ll want to question him too, to get the story.” But something deeper bothered me. “But besides that, you have to be really careful of the image you’re sending right now. The whole world has their eye on the Ifugao, and if you do that you’ll just look brutal and uncivilized. No one will ever want to come here.”

“Oh don’t worry,” he leaned forward, still rather flippant. “They’ll do it in a hidden place so no one can see. Like a forest or something.” He paused. “You know, there’s a rape in Sagada (a popular tourist destination) every year. But the media never reports on that. Just Banaue—it’s like they hate us or something.”

I shook my head, disturbed. I really liked Mark, a young guide who’s been very westernized by over ten years of guiding, but is still very passionate and loyal to his culture. He’s been one of the locals who looked out for me the most. But this was hard to hear. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to judge people because of it. I knew Mark was young and passionate, and sometimes prone to exaggeration. Maybe the method he described wasn’t even true.

Later that morning I went to visit another friend, Susan, a Filipina who owns one of my favorite restaurants and lodging houses. We sat down with her laundry woman, an Ifugao, and I asked about the punishment that Mark had described.

The laundry woman nodded. “Yes, it’s true,” she said. When I asked her what they used it for, she said, “Murder, stealing, rape.”

“Do they do it in a forest?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Oh no, they do it in public.” She turned around and pointed to the public square in another part of town. “Like there—they do it in the town square.”

Susan nodded in agreement. “Yeah, they do it in public so people will be afraid and never do what that man did.”

I shuddered. “Well, I hope they don’t do that to this man. He needs a fair trial and finding him will help solve what happened. That what they hope anyway.”

Susan frowned, “If he hasn’t killed himself already.”

“He needs the electric chair,” the Ifugao woman said.

“No, that’s too sudden,” Susan said, frowning again. “I think they should chop him so he can really know the pain that he has caused.” I looked at Susan, surprised. Her family was from the region, but she now lived part time at the hotel and part-time in Manila. I hadn’t expected that vengeance from her, that level of brutality.

I left the restaurant, not sure what to think. I wandered through the market place where numerous women who recognized me chatted with me about Julia, about how sad they were. A few crowded around and asked if I knew her; they listened to my description of her memorial and my time in Manila. One woman said that seeing me made her sad because I reminded her of Julia. I didn’t know what to say to all of them, so I mostly listened or put a hand on their shoulders. Their tender grief was such a respite after the previous talk—I didn’t even want to ask about their thoughts on what kind of treatment the murderer deserved.

It was a lot to take in—so much emotion from a people that hardly expressed their emotions at all. Everyone seemed extra kind to me for some reason—perhaps I had just returned refreshed and happy to be back and my outlook was better. Or perhaps they just wanted to be kinder to foreigners, to overcompensate somehow, even unconsciously. I think it was me though, and my change of mind.

However kind everyone seemed though—I was still haunted by the image of their torture. It made me grateful for our justice system, even with its flaws. I found myself struggling: part of me wanted the Ifugao to retain the purity of their culture, and another part of me thought it might be better if they continued to evolve into a more civilized culture. I saw right through my own hypocrisy and wasn’t sure what to think. When it comes down to it, who determines what practices and values remain, and which get left behind?