When I first got here I took a trip to a small terrace town called Batad. To my surprise, the inn I stayed at offered pizza on their menu. I tend to believe that you should always eat what a local culture makes best—not their western food attempts. But what they tend to make best around here is boiled meat, boiled vegetables, and rice. Besides, the thought of pizza while sitting outside looking out over a mountain of terraces tempted me too much to resist.

A half hour after we ordered, the woman brought the pizza out for my friend and I; one was simply grilled onions, garlic, and a little bit of cheese, and the other was a combination of tomatoes, tuna, egg, and a few other things—an Australian favorite, according to my Aussie friend. They were both tasty, but I couldn’t figure out how she’d made the pizza without an oven. She told me she heated it in a pan with a cover on top. Though it wasn’t gourmet—she inspired me to figure out how to do the same.

There’s a device here called a Philcraft—it’s a Teflon pan with a lid that shuts tight. You put it over the stove and the Teflon and outer metal cover heat whatever’s inside pretty evenly. People make brownies, cookies, and pancakes in them…so I figured we could try a pizza. I got Adam all excited about it and we decided to go for it one Sunday afternoon.

The pizza making coalition

Somehow the pizza making turned into a huge affair. Adam and I went to the market with some of the kids next door and bought tomatoes, pineapple, onions, and garlic. We told one girl at the market what we were up to as we thought about what kind of toppings to buy.

“What do you think we should put on it?” Adam asked her.
Within a second she replied, “Hotdog.”
Hotdog. That’s how you do pizza Filipino style. Adam looked over at me and raised his eyebrow. I shook my head. No hotdog.

The whole process took us about four hours. The neighbor kids cut and chopped the tomatoes, onions and garlic for the pizza sauce that I insisted should be made from scratch. I didn’t want to use Filipino pizza sauce recipes—all of them had sugar and MSG. Filipinos love sweet pizzas and they put MSG on everything. So, we ended up cooking the sauce and then blending it down. It wasn’t quite what I wanted—it didn’t have the tart flavor that usually comes from tomato paste—but it was good. I had kids grating cheese, cutting pineapples, peeling garlic, chopping onions and crying. Actually I did most of the onion crying—the little onions we used, while seemingly small and innocuous, were brutal.

One thing we realized afterwards is that good cheese really makes or breaks a pizza. All they have for “cheese” around here (besides Filipino soap operas) is a brand called “Eden Cheese.” It’s basically a block of cheese whiz. Faced with Eden cheese or cheese-less pizza, we figured we’d try it with the cheese.

Unfortunately all of our momentum stopped once we had to cook the pizzas. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to cook the pizza so that the cheese would melt and the crust would cook without getting burnt. I cooked one side of the crust for awhile—since it wouldn’t get grilled from the top like in a normal oven—and then flipped it over and put the sauce on. Then I just let it cook on low for about twenty minutes or so.

Pizza in the Philkraft

The pizza turned out alright. We put a few hardboiled eggs on one (won’t do that again) but the best was the tomato, cheese and pineapple. A few wonderful things happened as a result—the pizzas got eaten up by the family, who claimed they were delicious, and we got to skip dinner since we were cooking which consisted of some kind of cooked intestines.

I was kind of disappointed with how they turned out. I tried to avoid expectations—I knew it wasn’t going to be like real pizza, but the Eden cheese was horrible. I can’t stand cheese whiz, and it just took away from all the other flavors. The pizza crust, a yeast-free recipe, wasn’t that fantastic either. Mostly though, what deterred me from ever making another pizza was the time it took to make it—four to five hours for four pizzas. It was kind of a sad and funny moment—we tried so hard to recreate something American here, but in the end there are some things you just have to leave back home till you return.

A Betel Nut Chewing Northern Thai Woman

I didn’t want to moma, to chew the betel nut. I have a distinct repulsion for it—the way it reddens your teeth, the possible gum damage, its carcinogenic capabilities…I knew that in moderation I had nothing to worry about, but still, I didn’t want to chew it. Somehow, I changed my mind.

A few days earlier, Adam had told me that it was good to chew betel nut every once in awhile to connect with the locals, which is important to me since I have to interview people.

“I didn’t want to at first,” he said, “but I was at a wedding once. I got kind of bored and someone offered me moma (the betel nut). I thought, ‘hey, why not?’ Before I started chewing I was standing all by myself, but soon I had a whole bunch of people around me, not saying much, just chewing and hanging out.”

Adam and Lola prepare the moma

After dinner one night, Lola offered us moma after dinner. Short for “wahana chimomam?” in Ifugao—have you some betel nuts?—moma used to be an Ifugao greeting, a way of asking how the other person was. Moma chewing combines at least three elements: moma, a piece of betel or Areca nut—the seed of the betel palm, hapid, tobacco leaves (optional), and apor, a white powder made from lime or crushed snail shells. These two or three items are usually wrapped in a betel palm leaf and chewed or sucked on for up to several hours.

Adam sprinkles apor on his betel nut

Chewing moma requires frequent spitting—as one writer, Stephen Fowler says, “you don’t just salivate, you pour.” In Ifugao, you’ll see the sidewalks covered with bright red splotches. When I first got here I thought it was blood; I wondered if maybe they butchered their chickens and let the blood drip on the streets. But after a few days I realized what it was. You have to be careful around here. I’ve been warned more than once to watch out for buses passing by; sometimes men sitting on top of a jeepney will spit off the side and hit a passerby, staining their shirt permanently. There are signs around some towns in the province: DO NOT SPIT MOMA HERE, but I haven’t seen those around Banaue.

But betel nut chewing isn’t only practiced here; it has a presence all over the world, especially in Asia and the Pacific. In Vietnam, moma is chewed ritually at weddings, and in Assam (northern India) it is offered to guests after tea, served on a brass plate with a stand called a bota. In Guam, Papua New Guinea, and the Solomon Islands, the sidewalks are all splashed with red.

Betel chewing Papua New Guinea tribal members. Notice what they call here the “natural lipstick.”

Photo by Theo Vermulen

Most commonly, whether you’re in Guam or Banaue, betel nut chewing is recognized as a means to extend friendship, to connect with others. Lola told me, “When you chew the moma you can make friends, and you can find out who your family is. As you are chewing you will talk about who you are and where you are from. Then you can find out that your new friend is actually your cousin, and you have met a new family member.”

As a new family member here, I figured I should at least try it. Adam told me that the apor is what potentially damages your gums, as well as the tobacco leaves. He suggested I just try sucking on the betel nut itself. “It’ll help you bond with Lola,” he encouraged. One night after dinner, we followed Lola up to the living room. Adam had a big grin on his face and we both held our hands out to receive the moma materials.

“No apor for me, Lola,” I said.

“No apor? Why? That is what makes it turn red,” she said, confused.

Exactly, I thought.

“But you will not feel the warmth,” Lola said. “I like it because it makes me feel warm when it is cold like tonight.”

“Okay, Lola,” I said. “You can just put a little bit.”

She tapped the apor, the white powder, onto the betel nut. Adam put a little more on his than I did; it was his first time with apor on his betel nut at all. We sat there for awhile, looking at each other, trying not to laugh. We smiled as the spit welled up in our mouths instantly, and both leaned over to spit in Lola’s plastic lined tin can.

Adam chewing the moma

Just when we got started, Adam got a text message. “Gotta go!” he said, “gotta Skype Eva.” He ran down the stairs to chat on the internet with his girlfriend and I suddenly felt alone and awkward.

“Hey!” I yelled out after him, “You can’t just leave!”

I looked back at Lola, and smiled awkwardly. The betel nut tasted bitter and I couldn’t stand the spit in my mouth. Lola sucked on it slowly, spitting every ten minutes, but because I chewed it fast, trying to make it go away, I had to spit every minute or so. Gradually, the spot where I held the betel nut in my mouth began to warm. All these fears rose inside me—would my teeth turn red? Would my gums decay? I spent over a thousand dollars on dental work before I left Colorado, all for this? Embracing a culture is one thing, but betel nut chewing? Do I need to go this far?

Though it has had a benign purpose for thousands of years, research recently labeled betel nut as a human carcinogen. In countries where betel nut is chewed, oral cancer forms 50% of the malignant cancers. Mixing betel nut with tobacco adds the known dangers of chewing tobacco as well—though betel nut by itself is carcinogenic on its own. It is also addictive, and children have begun chewing it at increasingly younger ages. Pakistan recently made a law that betel nut could not be sold to children under five.

Betel nut chewing boy in Papua New Guinea

Photo by George Hallit

It’s not so great for your teeth either. Though the locals here often say that chewing betel nut keeps your teeth healthy (betel nut was even put in some toothpastes for awhile)—the cavity ridden, stained mouths of betel nut chewers convince me otherwise.

There’s a stigma about it too. People from Manila look down on the Ifugao because of their moma habit—they think it’s disgusting and that it makes them tribal or animal-like somehow. While I don’t judge anyone here for chewing it, I admit that it grosses me out a bit, a look I’m sure Lola saw written all over my face as I chewed it with her that night.

“You like the moma?” she asked me.

I couldn’t lie. “No,” I said, “not really!”

She laughed. “Well,” she said, “at least you tried it. It is good to try.”

I gestured to the bucket to let Lola know I wanted to spit it out. She laughed and held it toward me. I spit in it, trying to not look at the contents inside. I left shortly afterward. I ran down to my bathroom, pulled out my floss and toothpaste, and brushed until my teeth were clean, until my spit was no longer red.

“I’m sorry,” I said to my mouth, as I inspected it in the mirror. “I hope I didn’t kill you.”

But I was glad I did it. Sometimes, as Lola said, it is good to try.

Stephen Fowler’s essay on betel nut chewing can be found at:
http://www.epistola.com/sfowler/scholar/scholar-betel.html

Theo Vermulen’s photo of the Thai woman was taken from this website:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/64808388@N00/347944558/

Photo of a Northern Thai woman found on this website:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/64808388@N00/347944558/

I’ve never seen a seizure before.

I went to the Saturday market today. Every Saturday, farmers and shop owners come from neighboring municipalities—some from several hours away. They sell DVDs, all sorts of food, clothes, towels, kitchen ware, batteries, and other wares you might not be able to find so easily during the week. The whole town shows up for the event, and though I’m not a huge fan of crowds, I’ve grown fond of a few treats there, and I needed some supplies I wasn’t sure the local market would have.

After I got my odd collection of things—nail clippers and polish, eggs, a new towel, markers, a pirated DVD and some sticky rice pudding—I wandered with my bag down to the one restaurant where they sell banana shakes. The day was warm and breezy, a lazy Saturday, and I thought a shake would be the perfect thing. There’s one restaurant that serves a really good one called Las Vegas. I ordered a shake then went outside to sit.

A teenage Filipina leaned lay against a long carved wooden bench. She had a red DKNY visor on and long hair pulled into a bun in the back. She stretched her legs in front of her and gave me a sleepy smile.

“Are you tired?” I asked in Ifugao. She nodded her head.
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s so hot outside.” She waved a hand in front of her face.
“Can I join you?” I asked. It seemed silly to sit at a table by myself when I could chat with a local. She nodded her head.

We got to talking and I found out she lived in Banaue with her parents. After some conversation we discovered she was related to my family next door, which didn’t come as a huge surprise since everyone in town seems related to my family somehow. I also found out she was a fourth year in high school (they don’t use our freshman-senior terms). I asked her what she was going to do next.

“I don’t know,” she said, still relaxing against the bench. “I’m not sure if I’ll study nursing or become a doctor…I still don’t know what I want to study. I’m not ready to graduate!” She smiled and threw her hands up in the air.

“What do you want to do when you’re finished with school? Live abroad?”
“Of course,” she said, her eyes wide and excited. “My sister is in Germany now. And my mom and my other sister lived in Canada. So, I’d like to live abroad too.” She looked away for a moment, almost shy. “But that is just my wish,” she said. “We’ll see.”

We talked for awhile longer, about my project and what I’m doing here. We talked about Ifugao and she taught me a few phrases. I finished off my banana shake and began to think about how I’d end the conversation. I looked in my bag for a moment, but her sudden silence made me look back at her. She was still on the bench, but extremely still, her eyes glassed over as she stared off into space. At first I thought: what’s she thinking about? But within seconds I could tell something was wrong. Her hand curled up to her face and she began to slide off the bench.

“Oh god, is she going to die?” I thought in a moment of panic. And then I realized she was having a seizure.

One of her cousins, a girl about six years old, stood next to her and touched her arm. I ran a few feet into the restaurant and got her aunt and uncle (the people who ran the restaurant) and then ran back out. They ran over, grabbed her, and helped her to the floor. Her small body contorted and convulsed, shivering in the warm air. Her aunt held her legs down while her uncle helped her with her breathing. We pulled the table away, the table I’d just had my drink on, and they sent the little girl away to get someone—I never found out who. I stood nearby, mesmerized, making sure the adults took care of her as I had been trained to in my first aid courses.

They held her tenderly as she trembled and spat. I wanted to help, but knew it wasn’t my place. I felt so awkward; I didn’t want to leave, but I didn’t feel like I was any help there either. I didn’t want the girl to be embarrassed—having a seizure in front of a foreigner—so I thought I should leave so I wouldn’t be there when she came to. By this point, her body had calmed, though her eyes were still wide and glassy. Her continued to hold her arms and head as she lay there. I took my bags in one hand and placed a hand on her aunt’s shoulder.

“Tell her I enjoyed speaking with her will you?” I said, as I got up to leave, “I hope she’s okay.” It was the only thing I could think to say.

I walked back home, unable to get the image of her seizure out of my mind. I realized later that I didn’t even pay for the shake.

Let’s be honest with ourselves: SCUBA diving is crazy. You strap on a tank filled with pressurized air, put on a mask, and sink to depths of 60-80 feet (if you’re a beginning like me) under water. Meanwhile, fish skirt by, a forest of coral passes underneath; you float over a thirty foot drop as if you were made of air.

But you’re not—fortunately. You’re mostly made of liquid, which is why you can dive. Otherwise the pressure would cause you to burst (implode, actually)—a fact you have to remember as you plug your nose and breathe into it to equalize the pressure in your ears, a fact you must remember as you breathe continuously, in and out, like some cheesy Darth Vader imitation so your lungs don’t burst as you ascend.

Maria, one of my dive buddies, and me

I spent a large portion of last weekend (February 10th and 11th) underwater. I joined two Americans—both working at the embassy—in a dive course in Manila, and then we drove two hours down to Batangas to get checked off on open water dives. I’ve always wanted to get certified, and the Philippines has some of the best diving in the world. The region’s coral reef areas are part of what’s known as the “Coral Triangle,” which includes Malaysia and Indonesia and is considered the center of the most diverse marine habitats.

I had a great time doing the check-offs—it was incredible to breath underwater. Our first time down, the three of us were so awkward—we had a hard time descending and finding neutral buoyancy and occasionally one of the other students would float to the top and not be able to come back down. At first, there are so many things to think about that it’s hard to remember to relax and just enjoy the view. We had to swim underwater for 60 feet without a mask on (with our eyes open), practice using our buddy’s regulator in case we ran out of air—but the most important thing to remember is to always breathe continuously. Otherwise you can suffer from DCS—decompression sickness—which is potentially fatal.

I was kind of bummed about the dive spot—I’ve snorkeled in Thailand and seen more diversity. I think the biggest problem was that the visibility was really low—when the water’s clear, everything seems much more magical. In Bohol, where I’ll dive with Matt, the water is usually clear up to 100 feet, but here it was only about 15 for comparison.

Robby, our dive instructor, Jeff, Maria, and me--the students

But more than anything, it seemed to me like the coral wasn’t as healthy as I hoped it would be. Coral reefs are really sensitive ecosystems and they’ve suffered a lot of recent damage. They’re usually near developing countries, which is a challenge because often times they don’t have the same environmental standards and resources that more wealthy countries do.

For example, dynamite and cyanide fishing are huge problems in reefs. Fisherman use both methods to kill large batches of fish, and both cause irreparable damage to the reefs. Unfortunately, poor fisherman do most of the dynamite fishing—they face a desperate choice: feed themselves and their family, or save the coral reefs. I think the answer is obvious.

Logging causes problems as well. When forests are logged excessively, the rain washes the loose topsoil and silt down the rivers and into the ocean. The silt clouds the water builds and prevents essential sunlight from reaching the lower regions of the coral reefs. Sunlight is essential for reef health—without it reefs die. Silt falling on the coral smothers it as well.

Geared up...

Tourism—like my SCUBA diving adventure—is both a blessing and curse. Irresponsible boats anchor onto the coral and break it off—killing decades of growth (how fast to coral reefs grow?). Also, people touching the coral, with their hands or fins, can destroy it. The good news is that educating people about the reefs, inspiring them and connecting them with it, is a great way to raise public awareness and stewardship—but developing countries with corrupted governments have a hard time implementing any serious measures. It’s up to the tourists and the guide companies to be responsible.

Ready to dive

Lastly, climate changes found during El Nino and with global warming have a devastating affect. Temperature changes of a few degrees can cause coral bleaching—which kills it off. According to The Nature Conservancy, if coral reef destruction continues at its current rate, 70% of the world’s reefs will be gone within the next 50 years. Not only does this affect biodiversity on an unfathomable scale (think of the food chain that depends on this reef community) but the loss would also be an economic disaster for people living in the tropics. At any rate—I had a tough time seeing how damaged some of the reefs were, but it also inspired me to remember how connected the rice terraces are to the reefs—deforestation up there has an affect on the reefs as well.

I had two really wonderful moments. One was seeing this fantastic nudibranch:

Picture by Henry Boer

I’m a big fan of nudibranchs, which are essentially highly decorated sea slugs.

Another was seeing my favorite, the clown fish, tucked away in its anemone. Yes, it’s Nemo, I know. I’m a cheese ball. However, the clown fish has a really interesting symbiotic relationship with the anemone. Like in Finding Nemo, the clown fish use the anemone for protection from predators. Without it, the clown fish would most likely die (or get scooped up and taken to an aquarium in Australia). But the anemone gets a benefit too: it gets protection from a polyps-eating fish called the Butterfly fish, and it also gets fertilized by Clown Fish feces.

One thing to keep in mind if you’re crazy for aquariums—don’t get Clown Fish or anemones! Huge numbers of anemones have been torn out of the ocean for aquariums by Nemo loving kids. It’s ironic that so many people who rooted for Nemo’s escape from the aquarium caused the real Nemo to suffer the same fate. The fact is, very few people can keep either species alive for long and their removal from their native habitat is really destructive. In fact, all coral aquariums are devastating to coral reefs—so, if you know anyone contemplating getting one, maybe you can inspire them to SCUBA in the tropics or watch Finding Nemo instead. 

One of the other great parts of the weekend was just relaxing on the beach. I got a wicked sunburn (it’s still sore five days later), but it was so wonderful to have delicious food and wonderful weather down in Batangas. I’m really looking forward to diving in Bohol at the end of March—the diving is supposed to be fantastic. Getting my certification was certainly a wonderful gift to myself—and I’m looking forward to the adventures ahead.

Clownfish pic found on this website: http://www.diversionoz.com/Steve/images/tclown1.jpg
Nudibranch photo found on: http://www.topshot4you.com/

I would describe our 4’5”, 82 year old Lola as a mix between a Catholic fortune cookie and a female Yoda. She loves to dispense Christian maxims to me and Adam, such as: “If the Good Lord doesn’t wish you to be bitten by a snake, you will not be bitten by a snake,” or “If you are kind and you are good, the Good Lord will take care of you because He loves you.” She says this with an assured nod of the head, and then stands there waiting for the sage advice to soak in. She’s also a big fan of moma, betel nut chewing. After dinner she’ll sit in a chair in the corner with a small tin can lined with a plastic bag. The bag will be a quarter filled with red saliva and chunks of betel nut and Lola will smile as she spits into it.

“I like the moma,” she’ll say, “It makes me happy.” She always emphasizes the last syllable in a sentence, part of her accent I suppose. “I like the moma,” it sounds like. “It makes me hap-pi.”

Sometimes, I can’t get her voice out of my head.

The word lola means grandmother in the Philippines. Most elder women are simply called Lola—even if they’re not your actual grandmother. Adam and I have been adopted by Lola; she calls us her grandchildren. She’s Tanya’s great grandmother as well, but something about her defies typical grandmotherly stereotypes. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes or her blunt communication. Perhaps it’s her passion for moma, an addictive substance—she loves the small high. Maybe it’s her continual energy, or the way she can see right through me. I might have naïve expectations, but I bet that if an intruder somehow got in the house, she’d show us her secret Jedi moves.

The first night we met, Lola told me how her family had to hide in the mountains when the Japanese invaded Ifugao in WWII. They survived off the rice they’d carried on their backs, some greens they collected from the forests, and kamote (sweet potatoes) that they found planted on the hillsides. She’s constantly sharing her stories with us: how she married a mestizzo (half-Filipino, half Spanish), how the rice farming has changed over the years, how she had over five brothers and sisters, but by the time she reached adulthood, she was an only child.

She also told me about a time when she visited her daughter in the States. They told her to just sit around the house and relax during her time out there.

“But I could not relax,” she said. “I had to do something with my hands. I went in the backyard and helped with their fruit trees and I cleaned some clothes. They came home and they said, ‘Lola! Lola! You should not work!’ But I said, you have to keep your body busy or your mind will get old!” Lola said that she eventually came home because she was so homesick. “You have to drive everywhere and people always work there. So many times I was all alone.”

It’s important to her that we laugh a lot. She calls herself “the comic” if she makes a joke, and it’s very important that someone is “the comic” at the table if she’s not in the mood for it. Her spirit has caught on. If Lola’s quiet at the table, I’ll usually make some kind of joke just to make her laugh. “See,” she’ll say, “it is very good that you are the comic, because then we can all laugh and it keeps us young.”

Lola also loves to hamor. Basically this means “to soften” and by this I mean, she loves to soften her rice. The first dinner I had with her I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She had a small cup of Milo (hot chocolate) which she stirred with her spoon. Then suddenly she poured a splash of the hot chocolate on her rice. And then another. I gasped and then started laughing.

“What?” she said, smiling. “What is so funny?” (Lola rarely uses contractions.)
“I just didn’t expect you to do that,” I said.
“Oh? You mean the hamor? I like to hamor. It makes my rice soft so I can eat it!” She laughed again and splashed some more hot chocolate on her rice for kicks. We told her about M.C. Hammer, and his song “Hammer Time.” Somehow our joke about hamor-time got a little lost in the translation.

After dinner, Lola will gesture at us. “Okay, you must rise now so I can leave the table.” She’ll stand up, her plate still glistening with hot chocolate.

“Okay, I will go now, it is time to moma.” She’ll say, and she’ll walk over to the staircase, her small brown legs shuffling quickly. Before she heads up, she’ll turn back at the bottom step and flash us one last smile.

I have a hard time sorting through the superstition here. Locals cite mysterious happenings that range from bizarre to outright miraculous. I can’t tell sometimes if they’re just fables, or if there’s something really valid behind their tales.

About an hour’s hike from here, there’s a waterfall called Chapa falls. Adam saw the waterfall a few months ago and decided to find it himself. I hiked with him there a few weeks ago with a neighbor, Raul. It was a cool day, but after ascending numerous staircases and wandering through the terraces, the sun broke through the clouds and we heated up. The waterfall, while not commanding, is beautiful. Tucked high up in the terraces, the site offers a great view of the terraces and the landscape around the falls is lush and green.

Chapa Falls

But then we heard about another destination, even higher up that Chapa. They call the site Holy Water. On our way back from Chapa Falls, we asked a few people where it was. “Hichi,” many said: far away. They’d wave their hands towards Chapa Falls and that was the end of it. Finally we met a familiar woman sitting on the steps of a long staircase up to the marketplace.

“Chana chi Holy Water?” we asked. “Do you know?” We crouched down to her as she sat folding a betel nut into its leaf. She raised her eyebrows and smiled. She waved her hand in the direction of Chapa Falls and told Adam some vague directions.

“Is it far?” We asked. She nodded. “Can you swim there?” we asked.

She shook her head. “There is a pipe and the water comes out of it. You can bathe under that. Every Friday some locals go to the Holy Water and say prayers and bathe in it.”

It sounded intriguing. We decided to find it.

Weeks later I found myself straining up the hillside as we climbed five or six hundred feet straight up the mountainside. We passed through small citeos, little villages, where families had their clothes hung out to dry in the hot sunshine. We climbed up cement staircases, passed native huts where chickens clucked at us and numerous hungry dogs either barked or lay listless in the dirt, staring at us with defeated eyes. Older men and women sat crouched under the shade, sorting through rice, cleaning clothes, or playing with their grandchildren. Many of them smiled at us, their betel nut teeth red and decayed, as we told them where we were headed.

View of Banaue town--you can see the development along one road (the line of gray)

The sun struck down. The view expanded below us. My legs strained, which embarrassed me as I’ve spent months hiking up mountains in the past. I just arrived from Manila a few days before and hadn’t made up for the sleepless night on the bus. Mart, the 13 year old from next door, bounded up the steps as Adam and I huffed along after him. We stopped numerous times to ask directions. Mart was too embarrassed to associate himself with us—we think he might have been worried people would think he was a tour guide as many youth his age often are. For the most part, Adam ended up asking where Holy Water was in his limited Ifugao. I just trailed along behind, catching my breath.

Another young man joined us along the way, someone who knew for sure where the terraces were. He walked behind us as we reached a small bowl in the mountain where a group of people worked on their terraces. The view behind us was spectacular, but mostly we were struck by the sound of birds and the relative silence. No chainsaws, nor jeepneys or tricycles driving by, no children shouting. There was still the clink of metal on wood or the occasional conversation or laughter, but there was something unusually peaceful and silent about this place perched six or seven hundred feet above the town below.

View from rice terraces near Holy Water site

“Chana chi Holy Water?” We asked again. The people pointed to a white pagoda sitting on a terrace.

“That can’t be it? Right?” Adam said to me. I shrugged my shoulders. After two hours of hiking, I was exhausted from the sun and stair climbing and wanted to rest.

Mart waiting impatiently for us. Part of the white pagoda is in the upper right corner.

We hiked along the terrace walls and walked up to the pagoda. Inside a Virgin Mary statue held her hands in prayer. Above her, a sign read, "The Lord says: Ask and you will be given, seek and you will, knock and it will be open to you." Beneath her a small pipe leaked out water into a shallow pool below. I walked in and sat on a bench, grateful for the shade. Adam stood at the entrance, skeptical.

Inside the Holy Water Pagoda

“I refuse to accept that this is Holy Water,” he said. I laughed at first, then looked at the two locals with us.

“Careful,” I said. “I think this is it. The woman we asked the other day said the water came out of a pipe.”

“Yeah, but, you can’t swim or bathe in this. I thought this would upstage Chapa Falls,” he said. “I’m going to look around some more.”

I didn’t care what the place looked like. The hike was nice, and I was just happy to stop and drink some water. I pulled the plastic bottles I’d carried up the mountain and handed them to Mart. “You want to fill these up for Lola?” He raised his eyebrows, took them from me and filled up the bottles. Then he walked back over and took a sip.

Mart and me

“You can drink it?” I asked. He nodded. I realized it was a spring—a lot of the water in Banaue is. I walked over and took some as well. We sat there in the shade for awhile, drinking water and eating a bit of bread.

After awhile an older woman joined us. Physically worn from a life in the fields, her toes and fingers were dark and stubbed and she had few teeth left from years of betel nut chewing. Her eyes, however, glowed.

“Did you remember to pray before you drank the water?” she asked us. I looked over at Mart who tried to hide a guilty smile.

“Um, no,” I finally said. “We haven’t yet.”

She nodded. “You must pray before you drink the water so the Good Lord will bless you and heal you. Many people come here to receive the water’s blessing. That is why they call it the Holy Water.” She gestured emphatically with her hands as she spoke.

Feeling guilty, I bowed my head for a moment and then walked over and took more water from the pipe.

“We didn’t pray before we drank the water,” I told Adam later, as we wandered back down the mountain. “Now our water’s not going to work for Lola.”

Adam and Mart

“I still can’t accept that this was it,” he said. “What a let down. But man, I love it up here. It’s totally beautiful—you can actually hear the birds. I’d love to explore this place more.”

Later that evening, Lola talked to us about Holy Water. She told us that a few years back a woman from a local barangay had a spiritual vision about water pooling out from a rock. She heard a voice that told her the water could heal people. She came to Banaue and asked around and the people told her there was a place like that in a terrace up the mountain, but that someone owned the land. The woman didn’t know the owner of the terrace and so she went back home.

“Soon after, she had another vision,” Lola told us, “The Lord said, ‘I gave you a vision about water that can heal people and you have done nothing about it?’ The woman said, ‘But I don’t know the owner of the terrace!’ And the Good Lord said, ‘You should try again! This water can heal people.’”

The woman came back and talked to the owner of the terrace. They saw where the water bubbled out and they pulled a large rock out and it began to flow freely. Lola told us that the woman had some kind of skin ailment, but when she put the water on it, the ailment went away.

“The water is miraculous,” she said, “I know a man who had knee problems. He got some water from Chapa Falls and drank it and bathed and it. Now he doesn’t have knee problems anymore. They get swollen sometimes, but not like before.”

Lola went on to tell us about another woman with an infected wound on her belly. She poured the water on her belly and the infection healed. She also had several children with boils on their backs that couldn’t go to school. They drank and bathed in the water and were healed. Lola cited how she drank the water to help with her coughs and to help her stay healthy.

“If people have faith,” she said, “The Good Lord will heal them. That’s why you must pray before you drink the water and that is why it is holy and miraculous.”

I sat there with Lola, not sure how to take in the story. I have heard many stories around here about voodoo-like curses on statues that cause people to get strange ailments, and other stories as well. I was skeptical, but then I questioned my skepticism. Could these miracles have really happened? Did Adam’s and my expectations and skepticism stop us from experiencing them?

And a larger question stuck with me: what was the greater miracle in this scenario? Was it the great beauty of the terraces, unfolding at our feet? Was it the woman’s vision that led to a series of unexplained events? Or was it the locals’ faith that this particular spring water could heal them? Maybe something miraculous lay there for all of us—depending on whatever we opened ourselves up to.

View from the terraces on our way down

About three weeks ago, I moved into a different section of town called Pangat. I found an entire house to rent (it’s huge) and now I have a bedroom, a writing room, and a large downstairs with a big kitchen and dining area. I even have two areas to sit in my living room. As soon as any Filipino knows I am living there, she’ll say: You’re in that big house, all by yourself? No one else is with you?

It’s a little scandalous, really, especially when my neighbors have three bedrooms for six people and a baby. But how can I explain that it was cheaper to rent a two storey house than to rent a hotel room per month? That’s a hard one. I usually just let them make their comments; then I change the topic.

But my new place is wonderful—not only do I have a kitchen so I can cook my own food, I live next to an Ifugao family and a Peace Corps volunteer. Now it’s like I have a whole new family—they’ve completely adopted Adam, the P.C.V., and me, into their lives. Every night I go over and have dinner and spend a portion of the evening just hanging out. The food's not the best--its usually some kind of meat, a vegetable, and rice. Usually a vegetarian, I try to pick out the meat, but there's not a whole lot I can do if I want to be polite. For the next six months, I'm honoring the culture over my own healthy eating habits, if only for dinner.

I thought I could introduce each person with just a snippet—but I realized they each needed their own entry and a picture. So far, my new family has been one of the greatest gifts of my time here. Even though our evenings are somewhat predictable: dinner, then t.v. watching and quiet chatting, then we go our separate ways—the Cappleman family has become a real source of companionship and an insight into the culture as well. They’re also helping Adam and I with our language acquisition—a source of humor for all of us.

Sometimes I get a little wacky over there—here’s a picture of me with doll shoes on my fingers. Check out the other entries, which hopefully offer a small glimpse into the family life.

Tanya--in all her cuteness

Just around two years old, Tanya (John and Francie’s daughter) is quickly learning Ifugao and English. She doesn’t see a lot of white people, but she knows three names pretty well: Adam, Eva (Adam’s girlfriend) and Jennie. Usually when I come in the house, she calls me Adam, then Eva, then Jennie. She’s getting better though. Whenever a white person walks by their house, or they’re at the market, she shout out: “Adam!” even if she’s a female. It’s kind of endearing, when you think about it. She just adores him. I think I’m starting to wear on her a bit too.

Nellie with Tanya

We call 15 year-old Nellie a nickname, but I don’t know how to spell it here…it’s something like Miyog. Nellie’s actually an extended family member; Lola’s grandniece. She just moved in last year to help around the house in exchange for private school tuition. Around the Philippines, if you don’t attend a private school, you’ll have a hard time getting into college; public school education is pretty much worthless. So, in exchange for tuition she cooks a lot of the meals, sets and cleans off the table, helps out Lola when she needs it, does a lot of the laundry, and accompanies Mart, the youngest son, to school. Though she’s treated well for the most part, there’s a sense that she’s sort of second class. On her birthday, for example, she barely got a nod from the family. But if Adam or I had a birthday, it would be a huge deal. Because of this, I didn’t tell them it was my birthday—I wouldn’t feel comfortable getting that kind of attention while Nellie didn’t, and I also was concerned that they’d butcher some large animal for me—maybe the dog?—and I didn’t want to have to eat it.

Nellie’s definitely a teenager. She’s a bit sassy and a little rude sometimes—she’ll speak to me totally in Ifugao even though she speaks English and she knows I hardly speak Tagalog. She says things to Adam like: “You have to pay if you’re going to look at me, so you’d better look away.” But she’s quick to laugh at herself too. I finally got a chance to speak with Nellie the other day. No one was around and I ended up alone with her in the kitchen where she was preparing chicken adobe—a popular Filipino dish—for dinner.

We got around to the subject of school. She told me she was in her third year, and I asked her if she wanted to go to college.

“Yes,” she said.

“Which one?”

She smiled shyly. “It depends on what my parents want for me, but I’d like to study nursing.”
This is a pretty common desire among young Filipinas—it’s also a marketable degree that they can use abroad.

I found out her family lived nearby, which surprised me since she lived at Lola’s house. “Do you miss them?” I asked.

“Yes, very much.” She smiled again, as she stirred the chicken adobe—a popular Filipino dish. She learned to cook by watching Auntie Lourdes and made a lot of the dinners on her own.

“Do you get to see them often?” I asked.

“No, I can’t…I am so busy here.”

“How often do you see your mom?”

“Hmm…about twice a month, if I’m lucky.”

Nellie comes from a family of seven children. This was the only way her family could afford a good education for her. It hurts me, for some reason, to see her not treated well—I doubt she got presents for her birthday. But I have to remember that the opportunity to work in exchange for school is quite a blessing for her. While it may be painful to live far from her family, it’s a chance for her to get a college degree that she might not have otherwise. I tend to project this Cinderella image onto her, but it’s important for me to remember the whole picture. That said—I’m still going to get her a little treat for her birthday.

Tanya and her mom, Francie

John, Auntie Lourdes’ 27 year-old son, and Francie, who’s around 19, are married and have a two-year-old daughter. I don’t know much about them except that John abuses alcohol and gets into fights and Lola suggested the two marry when Francie had their baby two years ago. They’re not at the house together very often, and there always seems to be an underlying tension to their interactions—Adam and I heard that they fight a lot, but hold it in when we’re around.

Francie’s mother, the local pastor, came over the other night to watch Tanya, their two-year-old, so John and Francie could play pool in town. Tanya was out of milk and her mother continually asked her (via cell-text) to bring baby milk up to the house so Tanya could go to sleep. Francie didn’t respond—by the time I left there it was almost 10pm and the Pastor was gently bouncing Tanya on her knee to get her to sleep.

Earlier that night, Pastor told me a story. Apparently John had courted Francie, then 15, as a dare from his cousin. They dated pretty loosely in high school, but no one thought it was anything serious. Francie did so well academically that she won two scholarships from international sponsors to send her to college and possibly graduate school. About one year into school, John got Francie got pregnant. She kept the baby—the ridiculously adorable Tanya—and married John. This was Lola’s idea to help John control his alcohol—she thought that if he had a wife and child he would sober up.

Over the dinner table, Francie’s mother shook her head as she related the story.

“Francie still has a Korean sponsor. I tell her to go back to school before it’s too late, but she won’t listen to me. She’s too worried about John—that he’ll abuse alcohol again if she leaves. She is so in love.” She shook her head just a tad, and I could see a mixture of disgust and disappointment cross her face. “But that is just child’s mind. She is not thinking about her future, only John. Now she just works down at the hardware store during the day and I don’t know what she’ll do in the future.”

“Does John still abuse alcohol?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. Not so much, but yes. And I think if she waits too long, the sponsor will no longer be interested.”

“You must be frustrated.”

“Yes, because I am willing to take care of Tanya, but she will not accept that. I want her to look after herself. I want her to have a future.”

Mart, hard at work

At age 13, Mart’s the youngest of Auntie Lourdes’ children. Mart spends quite a bit of time styling his hair every morning, and I must say, it looks pretty cool. He’s also studying Tae-kwon-do, but what he’s a real expert at is what I call E.B.C.—eyebrow communication. Nonverbal language is huge here—I have no idea why. It drives Adam and me crazy, actually—we often talk about how we just want to have a normal conversation with normal responses. A conversation with Mart, however, will often go like this:

“How’s it going Mart?”
He raises his eyebrows, purses his lips—gives a slight nod.
“Does that mean good?
He repeats the gesture.
“How was school?”
A slight variation on the nod—a little to the right side this time.
“Oh yeah?” At this point, I tickle him.

I’ve started to train him though. The other day I had Adam, Mart and Raul, a neighbor friend of Mart’s, over to play Monopoly. I asked them if they’d like some hot chocolate (universally called Milo here—a popular brand—even if it’s a different brand name).
We had something of a breakthrough:

“Hey Marty—want some Milo?”
He nodded, eyebrows raised. A slight smile crossed the pursed lips.
“Does that mean yes, Mart?”
He nodded.
“I have an idea. When I ask you if you’d like something, why don’t you say ‘yes, please’ or ‘no thank you’?”
I don’t usually get like this, but it started to drive me nuts.
He sat up straight and smiled at me. “Yes I would like some Milo please!” He shouted. Then he fell back into his chair.
“Wow—that must have exhausted you,” I say.

Secretly, I’m amazed that he actually expressed himself verbally, but I won’t let him know that.

Up until recently, I thought that Auntie Lourdes' husband was dead—I’d never seen him, they didn’t mention him very often, and another son died a year ago, so I just wasn’t sure. Well, at the dinner table a few nights ago, I got the courage to ask Lola Lourdes (Auntie Lourdes' mother-in-law) how long ago he’d died. That’s when I found out (after a look of surprise) that he just worked about four hours south of Manila as a professor. Well, that was an uncomfortable moment. Fortunately, Auntie Lourdes wasn’t there—she had left for Manila that afternoon to visit the rest of her family.

The running joke with Auntie Lourdes, is that Lola Lourdes' son, Raul, loved Lola so much he wanted to marry a woman with her name just to keep it in the family. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but Auntie Lourdes is truly a wonderful woman. She's really the glue that keeps the family together.

One thing I love about Auntie Lourdes, besides her patience and good nature, is that she also kindly indulges Adam’s and my crazy whims—like our juice and smoothie attempts.

Just the other night, Adam and I sat around talking at the dinner table about food that we missed back home. I mentioned that there was a restaurant with amazing grilled cheese sandwiches, and another one with banana shakes. These are not things I would normally ever eat back home, but for some reason they are so American that I feel less homesick just knowing they’re around. Anyway, when I mentioned the shakes, Adam and I got to talking about how great it would be to have smoothies. That’s when Lola mentioned that she had a blender and a juicer. A blender? A juicer, even? Miracle of all miracles! A few days later, we made papaya, banana, pineapple smoothies that were pretty darn tasty—but would have been better with some yogurt I think.

The bigger debacle was the juicing. Adam mentioned that his uncle used to make carrot, apple, chard juice. There’s a local green here called pechai that’s a small version of chard. So, one day Adam picked up the greens and fruit at the market to juice.

The two juices:

Every one except Auntie Lourdes thought we were nuts. She had actually done demonstrations to sell the juicer some years before and knew how to work it—it was actually a Cuisenaire and juicer combo. But who wants to juice vegetables? Most people don’t even like vegetables here very much—they prefer meat and rice. I suggested we juice the apple and carrots first because it would be sweet and everyone would probably like it. We juiced about two cups worth and passed it around to the family members. I tried to read people’s facial expressions to get their real reactions. For the most part, they seemed to like the carrot-apple, as weird as it was to them.

Then came the real test—carrot-apple-pechai. We juiced it up with Auntie Lourdes’ help and the dark green juice spilled into the container below. Everyone stood around watching at this point, and Lola burst out laughing. “You’re going to juice that? It will be healthy, but maybe it will not taste so good!”

We poured the juice; Adam and I each took a sip. Tasty. Auntie Lourdes took a sip. “Mmm…naimas.” Delicious. She seemed to be telling the truth. Lola, a real champ, took a sip and then set the cup back down. “The other one I like better,” she said, gently pushing it away from her. Nellie and Mart wouldn’t even try it.

But then we had an interesting question: what do we do with the leftover greens in the juicer? “These will be eaten by humans,” Adam said, and I knew what he meant—we couldn’t waste the greens like we do in the States. Auntie Lourdes said that we could mix the carrot fiber with meat and make meatballs. I pushed for a veggie option—what if we mixed it with flour and eggs and made fritters by frying them?

Auntie Lourdes frying the pulp from the juicer:

So that’s what we did. For some reason, the pechai-carrot-apple fritters were orange initially, but turned green when cooked. So, we told a few of the family members that we were having lizard meat for dinner, which worked like a charm. Eventually, they all saw through our ruse, but with a little ketchup, the veggie fritters were pretty tasty. The next night we had carrot fritters. Lola, who’s a trifle deaf in one ear, thought someone said the carrot fritters were caribao—water buffalo. So we called them carrot-bao fritters, surprise, surprise. Carrot-bao and lizard meat. Yum.

Lizard Meat Patties:

I’m not sure we’ll juice a heck of a lot more though—we had to go through way too much work to figure out how to use the greens left behind.

One of the great benefits of my new living space is living two houses down from my new friend Adam, a Peace Corps volunteer. I originally thought I would stay pretty separate from any Americans, hoping for a more complete immersion experience. That said, Adam and I were both pretty happy with the chance circumstances—of all the places two Americans could rent a house, we’re right next door. It goes without saying that while most of the Ifugao speak English, our cultures are incredibly different. It’s a relief to have another person around who understands my frustrations and feelings of isolation, but who’s also deeply invested in the culture as well.

Adam’s 23 (soon to be 24) and also a California native. He graduated from UC Berkeley a couple years ago with a degree in economics. I asked him tonight why he’d initially joined the Peace Corps so I could include it in this entry. He laughed, sighed, and shook his head. “You know, I don’t really even remember,” he said.

“Can I say that in my blog?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure,” he chuckled again. “Put that.”

A couple of nights ago, Adam drank a little too much with a buddy and went for a walk late at night—a big taboo here since there are so many drunk men around town that time. True to form, they ended up getting verbally by a drunk man accosted on their way home. The guy cursed at him, repeatedly asking why Adam was really in Banaue.

Adam, a little tipsy and defensive yelled, “I’m here so I can learn about your damn culture and you can learn about mine, okay?”

For being drunk and pissed off, I thought he articulated his purpose in the Philippines pretty well.

Adam’s project also directly complements what I’m working on, an added benefit. There’s a woman in the U.S. (once a Peace Corps volunteer out here) who is trying to buy the native organic rice and import it into the United States—she’s built quite a market for it in the States. Adam helps her Filipina counterpart by doing quality control for farmers currently growing the tinawon rice, and trying to convince other farmers to join in. His job is fairly complicated, a topic I’ll cover in another blog. But it’s been interesting to talk about the farmer’s reactions to exporting their rice. There’s a lot of pride wrapped up in tinawon—a rice hailed as one of the most nutritious in the world. So, while some farmers are interested, Adam encounters a lot of understandable resistance to growing tinawon for exportation.

Adam and I join the family every night for dinner, which has led to a variety of funny experiences. At first it seemed the family thought there might be some potential romance between us—mostly because we’re both American, semi-close in age, and the opposite sex. That’s just how it is around here—conservative. However, Adam’s got a wonderful girlfriend in the Peace Corps named Eva, which of course gets all sorts of jokes. She lives about two hours away and comes to visit once a month. And of course, I’m crazy about Matt, who the family thinks is my husband. I have to say that I’m married around here or I’ll get constant offers and proposals. Telling them I’m married seems to have done the trick.

I also call Adam adding which means little brother, and he calls me manang, big sister. It has been frustrating sometimes when we want to watch a movie or go for a hike—we usually have some kind of chaperone join us, one of the kids in the family, or a local child. It’s kind of funny, actually, though I think they’re getting used to the fact that we’re just friends.

Lastly, I’m a little embarrassed to say that Adam’s gotten me hooked on Smallville—a drama series about Clark Kent as a young man. It’s super cheesy (I’d never watch it at home)—but hey, that’s the Philippines in a nutshell--they love cheese. They eat that stuff right up.

Here’s a picture of Adam and Eva—with Lola in the middle.

Read about the organization Adam's working with here: http://www.heirloomrice.com/

Or Adam's blog, here: http://angsten.blogspot.com/

An Evening in Quiapo

I walked into the living room to see my friend Jonathan dressed in shorts, a tee shirt, a baseball cap, and flip-flops—uncommon attire for an evening out.

“You going to work out?” I asked.

“No, we’re going to Quiapo,” he said. “We have to dress down so we don’t stand out so much.”

I laughed, imagining our white faces hovering a foot above the rest of the crowd.
“Oh, like that’s going to help us.”

I went back into my room and changed anyway. Jonathan’s girlfriend, Meredith, walked out in flip flops, a denim skirt, and a black tee-shirt, her hair tied in pig-tails.

“We’re taking a jeepney,” she said, pointing to my backpack, “You might want to leave that behind.”

“Is this part of the whole ‘we’re not wealthy tourists’ look?” I asked, knowing they both had cars.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Exactly.”

We headed out the door and into the bustle of Malate. The three of us hopped in a jeepney and covered our mouths to block out the exhaust and smog.

We rode for awhile, squeezing in between cars as the jeepney navigated Manila traffic. We stepped out finally, instantly enveloped in a world of scent and sound. Jeepneys buzzed by; hordes of people walked past us with shopping bags in their hands, their purses tucked under an arm; vendors walked around selling their wares, and everywhere the scent of fried meat, roasted peanuts, and diesel pervaded.

R.Hidalgo street (where the camera shop was located):

Photo from Wikipedia

“This used to be the center of the Philippines,” Meredith said as we walked at a brisk pace through an SM mall and into a market place. “It’s famous for the Church of the Black Nazarene.”

The Church of the Black Nazarene:

from Wikipedia

(A quick side note: The Black Nazarene has a mystical history. It’s a life sized, dark-skinned statue of Jesus Christ carved by an Aztec with supposed healing powers. A priest bought the statue in Mexico and then some friars brought to the Philippines on May 31st, 1606. For the past 200 years, the statue has been placed on a gilded carriage every January and pulled through the streets of Quiapo by male devotees dressed in maroon. People who touch the Nazarene are reported to sometimes be healed of diseases. Catholics come from all over Manila hoping to get close enough to touch the image and perhaps receive a miracle. They throw towels to the people guarding the statue and ask them to rub the towel on the statue to carry some of its power away with them. This procession, and the accompanying Feast of the Black Nazarene, takes place every year on January 9th. It is usually the single largest festival of the year in the Philippines, but somehow I missed it.)

We came to Quiapo to pick up my camera, which Meredith had dropped off for me the night before. A couple of weeks before I arrived in Manila (coming from Banaue), I dropped my camera and ruined the lens-closing mechanism. Not wanting to buy a new one, I asked Jon’s girlfriend Meredith--a local Filipina--if she knew where to get it fixed. I’d gone around and asked a bunch of camera shops but none of them fixed any cameras. Buying a camera comparable to mine would cost at least 300-400 USD, which was pretty expensive for my budget.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have much of a choice—I needed a working camera one way or the other. As a huge favor, Meredith took my camera to Quiapo, “where all the professionals get their cameras fixed.” She investigated a few of the local repairmen and found one who knew how it had broken before she even said it, and who also had the lowest price: 1200PP or about 25$.

We arrived at the booth—a small shop called “Dad’s” tucked in between several others.
Jon laughed, “If you can’t trust a camera repairman called ‘Dad,’ who can you trust?”

I’m reading a illuminating book: Jeffrey Sachs’ The End of Poverty. Sachs—an economist renowned for his work advising global economies in crisis—outlines possibilities for countries to pull themselves out of poverty. Before he launches into that, however, he lays out a map of the world economy. The early part of the book looks at global economic development, especially over the last couple centuries.

In the 1st chapter, Sachs covers how western countries such as England and the U.S. evolved from agrarian cultures, to industrial/ urban cultures, to major economic powers. “In Britain first,” he says, “and then elsewhere, industrialization meant a shift of people from overwhelmingly agrarian activities to industrial activities, giving rise to urbanization, social mobility, new gender and family roles, a demographic transition, and specialization in labor.”

He points out two reasons why economic growth and urbanization go hand in hand:
1. New technologies create more efficient farming practices. As farming productivity increases, food costs less money. Food is cheaper, less farmers are needed, and farmers and especially their children move to the city to seek employment in non-farm activities. 2. There’s a distinct advantage to high-density urban life for non-farm economic activities. Sparsely populated rural areas make good economic sense when each household needs a lot of land for farm production. However, “once the labor force is no longer engaged mainly in food production, it is natural that the bulk of the population will relocate to cities, drawn by higher wages.”

Adam Smith, history’s great economist, also wrote about the specialization that occurs during urban development. Farmers in the past were highly skilled; they could build their own houses, grow and cook food, tend to animals, and make their own clothing. Yet, they were also inefficient. Smith argues that specialization—where each person learns just one skill, limited by the extent of the market—leads to an improvement of everybody’s well being. With highly skilled individuals we can advance in every aspect of society.

Here in Banaue I see these theories in action. Just within the last few decades an enormous shift has taken place from an agrarian lifestyle to an urban one. Once farmers, many locals have become self-employed. Women and men sell local grains and vegetables at the market; they have electronic and clothing stores, and own restaurants and hotels. They sell peanuts on the side of the road, work in government offices, taxi locals and tourists in jeepneys and tricycles, and weave and carve native crafts.

Many of the people here had parents or grandparents who once farmed the fields, but the younger generations no longer do—they have found specializations, and through education, these specializations continue to diversify. In fact, I’ve met many middle-aged parents whose children are attending college in Baguio or Manila, large cities with good universities both about an eight hour drive away. While some return to their home province, many of the children never do. Just the other day, I spoke to a young woman crammed next to me in a tricycle. She was on break from a nursing program a few hours away.

“What do you plan to do when you finish nursing school?” I asked.
“I really hope to find work in another country,” she said.
“Like the United States?”
“Oh I wish,” she said, “I really, really wish that could happen.”

This is a common scenario—an increasing educated work force and not enough high paying jobs. Yet, for all practical purposes, this urbanization, this development should be encouraged, right? We want people to become continually educated, don’t we?

Well, there’s an inevitable catch. Here in Banaue, as the area develops, the terraces get left behind. Many farmers have replaced the traditional rice with imported rice with higher yielding varieties (HYVs). Unfortunately, the HYVs require chemical fertilizers and pesticides, they dry out the soil, and the chemicals destroy the native fish and snails that once grew in the terraces—also a source of food. These terraces, because of their construction and the needs of the native rice, require a lot of manual labor and constant attention. Many of the young people here are not interested in learning the old farming practices. They want to get an education, they want to live and work abroad. So—who comes first? The people, or the terraces? Can the terraces be maintained while the people develop? Who will stay behind to farm them the way they need?

I spoke to a local Ifugao about this question. He’s also a staff member with an organization that wants to preserve the terraces.

“I’m in conflict with a lot of my colleagues on this issue,” he said. “When people talk about saving the terraces, I feel like we have to choose: do we save the people or the terraces? And when people say ‘the terraces need to be preserved’ I say: come work in the fields everyday, planting rice. Walk an hour to school each way. Walk two hours to go visit your aunt because the government won’t build a road that would destroy some terraces. I know people want to save the terraces, and I understand why. But we can’t live in the stone-age just to keep an ancient culture alive.”

I think about the U.S. where agro-technologies such as mono-cropping, genetic engineering, and pesticide management have destroyed topsoil and created a list of environmental concerns. Yet organic methods, such as the ones used to grow the tinawon, are often more time consuming—especially on terraced land. But someone has to stay in the fields to work. We need farmers just as much as we need our specialized workers. The question is: how do we balance the needs of the people with the needs of the land? Is the ancient Ifugao way of farming a labor-intensive method that must be left behind?

Last stop: hot springs and rice fields

As the jeepney wound down the mountain, a small group of us perched on the top—gripping the rack below us. Riding on top of the jeepney, while a bit unnerving, offered the best view, the cleanest air, and the most adventure. A SITMO volunteer sat on top with us and chatted about the verdant scenery around us as we headed to a hot spring near the terrace community we’d visited the day before.

Within a half hour, we were hiking through terraces, along dirt walls, cement irrigation channels, and over rocks. Many of the tourists had no idea what they were getting into. The direct sun was hot and the hike to the promised hot springs continued on for over an hour. As we traversed the dikes, we had an opportunity to see the farmers at work cleaning water hyacinth and algae out of the ponds while children trudged through muddy fields, collecting small fish in their slippery hands and coaxing them into plastic bottles.

The group had split up that morning—a group of Catholics left the hotel early to attend mass in Hapao—and as we walked, their songs wafted out from the church and settled over the terraced valley. A second group, the one I had joined, left to find the hot springs. After over an hour’s hike, we found them. I wouldn’t call them hot springs, per se, but there were places where you could feel hot water coming out through the rocks at the bottom of the pool. The locals kept the water cool enough by channeling water from the adjacent river into the walled-off pool. Local Filipinos splashed around, men in shorts, women in shorts and tee-shirts. A few brought shampoo and washed themselves, rinsing off their soapy bodies directly in the water. This blatant disregard for the water always makes me very uncomfortable: I’ve spent over five years teaching watershed care, trying to educate people to take care of their water sources. But, there’s nothing I can do about it here, really—I just have to sit back and watch.

A pic of the hotspring:

Not long after, the group of church-goers arrived. Everyone lounged around on the rocks and took pictures until the SITMO coordinator herded us back to the church with her megaphone. We hiked back, more assuredly this time, for lunch. By the time we arrived, they’d laid out quite a feast for us: skewered roasted kamote (sweet potato), more fern, roasted chicken, rice, and chicken broth soup served in bamboo (the green objects in the front of the photo). They also served the native rice wine—which I had a sip of. It’s quite sweet and delicious, actually; even the French woman next to me tried it and gave it a thumbs-up.

By this point we were running out of time, but we had one important task left: to get in the fields and plant some rice. This was actually the main reason why I’d come—I wanted to walk around in the terraces and see how they planted the rice. So, a group of us walked down to the fields where some locals were arranging the bundles of rice. They had planted the rice in a nursery, the small patch of rice seedlings in one part of the rice field (the large patch of green behind me). Then they separated the rice and planted a few seedlings in one spot; the amount depending on the rice variety.

I climbed into the field with a group of others, and instantly my legs were enveloped in cool, silky mud. About two feet down the ground was solid—unlike San Francisco Bay mud, into which you could probably sink indefinitely. A local quickly instructed us on how to plant the rice. We planted about two seedlings, six or seven inches apart, moving quickly down the rows. We only had a few minutes for the whole affair, but even then I began to feel a strain in my back as I leaned over to place the seedlings in the muddy water. It made me think of the elder women I see sometimes walking down the street completely bent over—their backs bent permanently for the rest of their lives. While it was mostly just a gesture—more generous on the farmer’s part than ours—it did give me a sense of the planting process. I hope to get out in the fields some more to plant. I don’t think it will give me a true sense of the farming life, but even a deeper glimpse would be helpful.

Soon after we planted our bundles of rice, we climbed back out of the terraces and washed off—getting ready to head on our way. While I don’t think I want to attend any more tours like that, it was helpful to see what groups like SITMO are doing to educate Filipinos and tourists about the terraces. It made me think of the tourists in Banaue, traveling on their own—often with a guide who’s not even from that barangay or municipality. Do they harm the culture more by coming unannounced, by going on the standard waterfall tours and terrace hikes without really meeting any locals? Are these group tours better, since they aim to provide a more complex education about the local heritage and cultural practices?

I don’t know. I think tourism of any kind has its pluses and minuses. I definitely value the work SITMO’s doing, but at the same time, I value the intimacy in small groups—I feel like there’s more opportunity to connect with locals. Ultimately, it just made me more grateful for the length of time I have here. I get to learn the language, meet the locals, hear their stories, live closely with a family. And while I’ll never fully understand what it means to be Ifugao or to live this life—at least I’ll have had the chance to really get in and get my feet wet.

An Uncomfortable Chat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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