The Motorbike Diaries: Part 2—The Tarsier

The Lonely Planet introduces it well: “What’s cute, creepy, and looks like the illegitimate offspring of an ill advised drunken one night stand between a Gremlin and ET?

The tarsier—and we got to meet one.

Tarsiers are hot in Bohol—everyone wants to see one. We fell prey to the same fever, but decided we wanted to see it in its native habitat at the Tarsier Sanctuary, rather than in captivity like many of the other places that offer the tarsier as a tourist attraction. Some of these places keep them in cages. Apparently, tarsiers are more sensitive to captivity than other primates and there have been reports of them committing suicide by banging their heads against fences, drowning themselves in their water bowls, or simply dying from disease.

A few facts about tarsiers: Tarsiers are not monkeys, though they’re often claimed as “The smallest monkey in the world!” They are primates though—belonging to the same family as lemurs and chimpanzees. They’re not the smallest primate either—that title belongs to the pygmy mouse lemur. That doesn’t make them any less cool.

The pygmy mouse lemur--obviously a close relative

Tarsiers are native to Southeast Asia and found on several islands including the Philippines, Celebes, Borneo, and Sumatra. They’re about 3.5-6 inches long, and their tails are about twice that and good for balancing when they leap from branch to branch. They have disc-like sticky pads on their hands and feet which help them cling to the trees they dwell in. They’re nocturnal, which explains their enormous eyes, and they are carnivorous, eating mostly eat insects like spiders, crickets and grasshoppers, though they have been known to eat small lizards and birds. The females typically only reproduce one offspring per year; their gestation takes about six months.

Why are they endangered? Tarsiers face similar problems as marsupials in Australia. Feral cats (please neuter your cats everyone!) are a huge problem for tarsiers—as well as many other birds and small mammals around the world. Secondly, poachers hunt and capture tarsiers to keep them as pets or display them as tourist attractions. One of the biggest though is habitat destruction. Slash and burn forestry practices in the Philippines for farm plots have devastated their communities, as well as indiscriminate logging and urban sprawl.

What’s surprising is that they’ve lasted as long as they have. Apparently indigenous superstition—along with a relatively thick rainforest—has apparently preserved the species. Tribes leave the Philippine Tarsiers in the wild because they fear that the animals could bring bad luck. One belief passed down over the centuries is that tarsiers are pets belonging to spirits dwelling in giant fig trees, known as belete trees. If someone harms a tarsier they need to apologize to the spirits of the forest, or it’s thought they will encounter sickness or hardship in life. I guess sometimes superstition can be a positive thing.

Check out his fingertips and the little hooks at his feet

The sanctuary was an interesting place. We pulled up on our motorbike and found a mostly empty building where several domestic goats scrambled around the room and onto the one couch until the guide showed up and shooed them away. The guide hardly spoke at all, but led us to a large fenced off area, opened the gate and asked us to follow him inside. Another couple joined us, unfortunately, as I would have stayed and stared at the tarsier for hours. He led us through a brushy forest and pointed out our first tarsier. We followed him on a short walk through the preserve and saw several more.

I wanted to touch them, of course, they are—I hate to say it—totally adorable. But we weren’t allowed and I knew that wouldn’t be good. We took a bunch of photos of the first couple we saw. I couldn’t help feel like a complete tourist, but they were in their native habitat and the sanctuary attempts to raise money to preserve forest land for the tarsiers as well as simply raising awareness about the species.

A sense of his size

The tarsier shares a fate with many other sensitive native species around the world. It’s hard to feel like we can do anything about it, but one thing you can do is neuter your cats. Feral cats are a huge part of the problem, and it’s a small but responsible action that can really make the difference to other birds and mammals—even if they’re not as amazing looking as the crazy tarsier.

More about the tarsier check out this site: http://www.bohol.ph/article15.html

The Motorbike Diaries—Part 3: The Chocolate Hills

The Chocolate Hills rise out of the valley subtly at first. You notice that the hills are rather independent of each other instead of one leading into the next. They’re covered with palm trees and some are farmed, but nothing seems too unusual. Then they start getting bigger, and soon their tops are covered with a dry grass that gives the Chocolate Hills its name. You can’t tell until you’re at the viewing center, but there are hundreds of them in the valley, strange mounds that no one really can explain.

The Chocolate Hills are probably Bohol’s most famous tourist attraction. They get compared to everything: Hershey kisses, giant mole hills, women’s breasts. Apparently most people have a hard time believing they’re not a man made artifact, but I bet it would be an even more difficult endeavor to make those hills than the pyramids.

Some claim there are exactly 1268 hills, all uniform in shape and between 100-150 feet high. They’re covered with a grass that turns dark brown in the summertime—at other times of the year they’re green.

Matt and I at the Chocoloate Hills Viewpoint

Legend has it that the hills came into existence when two giants threw stones and sand at each other in a fight that lasted for days. Finally exhausted, they became friends and left the island, but left behind the mess they made. There’s also the romantic tale of Arogo, a young and very strong giant who fell in love with an ordinary mortal girl called Aloya. After she died, the giant Arogo cried bitterly. His tears then turned into hills, as a lasting proof of his grief.

Apparently there’s a bunch of scientific theories about how the Chocolate Hills were actually formed. The most popular belief is that they were an ancient limestone reef that was shaped by thousands of years of erosion by water and wind. Some believe that the they’re conical karst hills like in Slovenia and Croatia, but the problem is they don’t have the caves or underground drainage that define karst formations. So—who knows?

Any speculations?

For some reason, the story’s not as big as the Iraq war, or the British hostages. It’s not as exciting as the vying presidential candidates or tension with Iran. Yet, the recent news on bees carries frightening implications with consequences far more devastating than any of these tensions. And yet hardly anyone knows a thing about them.

First of all: Bees pollinate almost 80% of our flowers and food

“No one really appreciates them,” Vicky tells me. “I mean, I love butterflies, but people don’t understand the purpose of bees. I have international groups come through here and they don’t have a clue—and these are people from global organizations! Intelligent people!”

Some of the vegetables that bees pollinate: almonds, blueberries, cherries, apples, cranberries, watermelons, pears, peaches, alfalfa, alfalfa, avocados, cantaloupe, cucumbers.

They also pollinate cotton—one of our main sources of clothing.

In fact, a Cornell study says that honeybees pollinate every third bite of food ingested by Americans. Bees generate some $14billion in produce.

Yet they’re vanishing—all over the United States and the world.

According to one source, Bee numbers on the east coast and parts of Texas have fallen by 70%, while California has seen colonies drop by 30-60%. And the problem is, no one really knows why.

Scientists are calling the phenomenon “colony collapse disorder,” or CCD, as they try to figure out what is causing the bees to disappear in droves. One common cause of CCD is the varroa mite, a parasite which attacks honey bees and can wipe out a hive—but they don’t appear to be the main cause.

Bees in a colony

What’s interesting is that bees aren’t the only ones shunning the empty hives, other bees and parasites stay away as well, which leads scientists to wonder if they’re infected with a new pathogen, multiple micro-organisms, or—and much suspicion has been raised here—a new kind of pesticide or chemical, many of which are toxic to bees.

An article, in The Christian Science Monitor, states:

“For many entomologists, the bee crisis is a wake-up call. By relying on a single species for pollination, U.S. agriculture has put itself in a precarious position, they say. A resilient agricultural system requires diverse pollinators. This speaks to a larger conservation issue. Some evidence indicates a decline in the estimated 4,500 potential alternate pollinators – native species of butterflies, wasps, and other bees. The blame for that sits squarely on human activity – habitat loss, pesticide use, and imported disease – but much of this could be offset by different land-use practices.”

Domesticated bees encounter a lot of challenges: forced migration in trucks that can kill off large populations, poor nutrition when fed a sugar water diet instead of being fed with natural pollens, and exposure to not only chemicals, but GMO varieties as well. Crops with Bt genetic modifications are now in question. Though they may not weaken a healthy colony, a recent study showed that parasite ridden bee colonies fed on Bt crops quickly became diseased. It may, scientists believe, weaken their immune system.

Visiting Vicky’s bee farm not only inspired me as an entrepreneur, but woke me up to the absolute necessity of bee farming. In the U.S., there are almost half the bee keepers there were in the 1980’s. Certain groups in the UK have recognized the seriousness of this problem. According to a BBC news report, the Oxford Museum of Natural History and the Oxford Bee Company have started making and selling nesting boxes that will help attract some species of bees to gardens. They’re asking local gardeners to put nesting boxes as homes in their backyard to provide homes for the local species.

Ronelle, one of Vicky's longest staff members, and a beekeeper

But the problem also points to the limitations of monocropping. “Moving away from monoculture, say scientists, and having something always flowering within bee-distance, would help natural pollinators. This would make crops less dependent on trucked-in bees, which have proved to be vulnerable to die-offs.”

A Canadian study even suggests that if farmers leave 30 percent of their land fallow, they will increase their yields. The wild land provides habitat for native pollinators which improves pollination and increases the number of seeds.

Lora Morandin, a lead author on the study, states, "If we cultivate all the land, we lose ecosystem services like pollination. Healthy, sustainable agricultural systems need to include natural land."

There are so many important causes in the world, but the bee situation is so immediate and relevant. What will we do if there are few bees to pollinate the 90+ food varieties that compose our diet, not to mention flowers that are necessary for other animals, birds, and insects?

It seems the more you try to unravel this scenario, the more obvious it is how this system is interlinked, each part of it incredibly vital. I encourage everyone to question what they can do to support bee keepers in their communities (buy honey, for one) as well as to consider starting colonies of their own. In the UK, for example,

Any thoughts on this? I’d love to hear people weigh in, especially those who have kept bees--could you share your experiences with us?

Matt and I with some beautiful bees

Some sources:
Quote from the Christian Science Monitor:
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/04/04/national/main2646409.shtml
Some other sources:
http://www.physorg.com/news95135881.htm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/tech/1268432.stm
as well as various others…

The Bohol Bee Farm: Part Two—Vicky

It’s hard to not think of Vicky, a native Filipina, as a Queen Bee. For one thing, she lives in a house she designed herself—a spacious two story natural building in the shape of a hexagon. “The hexagon is a strong form,” she says, “It maximizes space.” Matt and I admire the way it feels rounded, yet has flat walls to hang paintings on or have book shelves. We climb up her spiral staircase and into the master bedroom. There is no fourth wall—she left the room completely open to the outside, though hung with beaded curtains. We step out onto the balcony to enjoy the view of the broad leafed tree tops and the ocean.

One of many spiral staircases

A smaller tree stretches from the garden below and up through the balcony floor, its base is surrounded by Styrofoam where is goes through the flooring, so it can continue growing. Vicky walks up to the tree and lifts a branch gently in her hand.

“I’m sorry, but this tree—isn’t it beautiful? See how it’s possible for us to live in harmony with our environment? Everyone asks us why it’s so green and healthy, why the leaves are so shiny. I think it’s because it’s happy. It feels the love we share with it.”

We sit down on a small couch and she looks around her, radiant in her loose cotton clothes and the colorful cloth handkerchief around her head. She sighs and smiles at me.

“You know, if you look at my life now, I could not have pictured this six years ago.”

One of the gardens

But the Bee Farm—the restaurant, the housing, the farm—didn’t just happen in the last six years. It was the result of many years of her adult life, starting back in 1980 when she lived in New York with her husband. He was older than her, and she fell in love while tending to him in the hospital. They married, and from 1980-1983 they lived together in New York while he worked for IBM. The company offered classes for the wives, and Vicky studied baking, cooking, and crafting. They drove along the roads and often saw honey stands, and countless vegetable and fruit stands as well.

The outside of one of the lodgings

“We are somehow prepared spiritually by our past,” she says. “Those things were so small to me then, but without them I may not have had the same success with the Bee Farm.”

Her first husband died in 1988 and Vicky moved to Hawaii with her two children to live with her parents. She worked for several years in various odd jobs, including a stint at a nursing home for several years. For various reasons, she finally decided to move back to Bohol, the island she’d grown up on. Her parents weren’t excited about the idea.

“People think about the Philippines and they think there is no future here.”

Bits of whimsy

After spending sometime in Tagbilaran, the main city in Bohol, she moved out to Panglao Island and bought a parcel of land around 12,000 sq. meters.

“Don’t think I had all sorts of money,” she laughs. “It was cheap back then—I bought it for something like 5 pesos.”

She had a neighbor build a tree house which she lived in for 3 months, and she grew a small organic garden. “I didn’t even have a bathroom,” she said, “Or maybe I should say I had a really big bathroom!”

A succulent garden

She began growing her own organic vegetables and selling them locally. I asked her if they were organic. “You know,” she said, “I learned that word ‘organic’ in the States, but we’ve been farming like that for years.”

One thing led to another. She met several other farmers in the community and a friend suggested that she grow bees.

She stops here, and smiles again. “I love insects. Do you love insects?” She laughs aloud—a light, surprised laugh. “As humans we find millions of ways to kill them, but what makes us better than them?” She pauses, places a finger on her lip. “I think that if we can respect little crawling things, then we probably wouldn’t have war.”

A romantic patio

“You know,” she says, awhile later, “We always try to find ways to end poverty when the answer’s right there—it requires a change of mind. People have to adjust the way they think. Farmers borrow fertilizer to start farming. They invest all this money, but what if there’s no rain this year? How do they pay the person back? All that money is wasted. I make my own fertilizer with composting. This ground here was 20% soil and 80% rock. And I made a farm out of it. I always tell people, if I can make a farm out of this, you can make a farm or garden in your own home.”

The farm grew over the years. She continued to grow vegetables, but started her bee colonies as well, but just as a hobby. She had bought the land in 1991, and by 1996 she began building her home and some of the other facilities. By 1998 she had her mostly organic restaurant. She had started out making oatmeal cookies, but soon her experiments led to recipes she’d learned in the states, and ones she adapted to match her own style. Her beekeeping expanded as well.
“In 2000 I purchased 40 hives, at one point I had 170—but it was just too much. What I learned was that you can only have so many bees in one area. Some beekeepers will feed sugar water to their hive, but I don’t believe in that. It’s unnatural. Instead, we spread our bee colonies all over Bohol. There just aren’t enough flowers on Panglao. Now we have about 70 colonies, plus we sell honey from local farmers as well.”

Another hexagonal house

One of their biggest buyers is the Chinese community in Manila—they add ½ a teaspoon of honey to their drinking water.

“It makes the water lighter,” Vicky says, then grins. “I tried it--it works!”

The Bee Farm has created jobs for locals. Though she started with a staff of 3 about four years ago, she now employs 78. Many of the staff do work study programs, attending college during the week and working on the weekend. She pays local children and women to make raffia crafts for wine bottles, they have a Bible study and a meeting every Saturday to evaluate the farm as well. She offers room and board to every worker there so they don’t have to spend time commuting from the city.

Some of the staff in the garden

She’s also trying to support local products. “Raffia is one of our local products, so I love using it in our crafts. Filipinos so often think that anything we make or grow is not good. It’s so hard for us to get our native fruits in the supermarkets. I tell people we have to start appreciating our local products before anyone else will. You know the corn coffee we make here? That was the native Filipino coffee before Nescafe came. Now, if you drink corn coffee you’re seen as poor. It’s all a state of mind.”

Some woven crafts using natural materials

She talks for a bit about her approach to the Bee Farm, “Filipinos are so negative. At the Bee Farm, we never say no—we always try here. When I criticize them I tell them not to take it personally. We always say the Bee Farm is evolving. It is continually getting better.”

“People often ask me, ‘What keeps you going?’ I wake up at 3am every day. But when you are enthusiastic, when it’s your passion and you live in a place like this, don’t you ask yourself: What can I do today? What can I give? It humbles you.

“I’m doing what I love to do. I feel that I have arrived.”

One part of the outdoor restaurant

Near the end of our conversation, the three of us sit in the darkness. Matt and I are completely inspired by this amazing entrepreneur and what she’s doing for her land and people. There’s a momentary pause.

Matt clears his throat.

“I have a question for you Vicky: who is your hero?”

She stops and thinks for awhile. “Mm…that is a hard question!” She pauses awhile longer, looking away. “You know—there is no hero that I bow to. The hero is…it’s your imagination. It’s the inside that has no limit. Then you must practice that every day.”

The Bohol Bee Farm--Part One: The Farm Grounds

Matt and I weren’t sure what to expect when the Bee Farm Van rolled off the asphalt and onto the dirt road that lead to the Bee Harm. Small huts and houses—mostly run down—sprinkled the landscape. The road was dusty and the forest of palms and brush sparse and dry. Though neither of us said it, we both thought: Oh god, this place is going to be a dump.

Then we started to pass some gardens, covered in black netting, a pool with a waterfall, and then we pulled up to a line of attractive buildings. The staff removed our luggage and whisked it away. A young, short woman—Jojo—walked out in a tropical print dress and greeted us. She let us know that our room wasn’t quite clean yet, and asked if we’d like to stay in another house until ours was ready. We stood in an open market area, surrounded by native crafts—hats, belts, purses—as well as shelves of honey. Several hammocks hung from the roof, a large buffet table; everything about the place felt luxurious.

Shelves of honey:

Jojo led us down to our temporary home, a house called “The Colony”--each house has a bee themed name.

The hanging vine entry way

We walked through an arbor of a hanging vine plants, the trails of vines swept us as we passed underneath. They served us organic iced lemon grass tea (sweetened with honey) and organic squash muffins (also sweetened with honey)--all on the house.

Our home for three days

We fell in love with our new home immediately—the open floor plan, the two balconies (one on each floor) that looked out onto the ocean from its cliff-top perch, the simplicity of design and building materials. The warmth of the wood, the hand made quilt on our bed, the wall of windows that let the light and breeze in. The place was beautiful. The house, which we later found out was Vicky’s old house, was available for the three nights we planned to stay there. We decided to pay the extra money and treat ourselves.

The view from our bedroom

Over the next three days we toured the facility, got massages, had the most incredibly organic and artistically inspired food, and enjoyed the beautiful scenery. I highly recommend the Bohol Bee Farm to all.

Getting ready for a massage...

When You Get Too Involved--Part 1

The fight started because of us—Adam and me—when we decided to get involved.

Adam got me hooked on a cheesy Warner Brother’s T.V. series I would never watch at home (since I don’t have a T.V.) but somehow it’s been something we watch almost nightly on DVD. Usually Mart and his friend Raul join us, and the four of us huddle in the dark around Adam’s laptop. Adam and I tell the two boys to cover their eyes when a scene gets a little risqué—and I always laugh as they pull the blankets over their faces.

May-ug (Mai-ohg)—the teenage girl who lives next door and helps the family—isn’t usually allowed to join us. Lola doesn’t want her to come to Adam’s house, but I can’t figure out why. Is it because May-ug is second class in her eyes even though she’s a relative (since she helps at the house), or is it because she’s a female and it wouldn’t be appropriate? Adam and I think it’s more likely the first reason, which angers both of us. May-ug is just a teenager. She’s a third year (junior), she paints her toe nails pink and reads Cosmopolitan when someone else buys them—they’re around 4USD here, which is expensive. She and I talk about her guy friends, the girls who gossip about her at school, and the guy who was her boyfriend once—I’m not supposed to tell.

It bothers me that Lola won’t let May-ug come over, and that she sometimes treats her poorly. Like when her birthday hardly earned a nod, and the way May-ug can’t come over and hang out with me because she has to do chores all the time. It’s not healthy for May-ug either. A few weeks ago, Lola yelled at her for not feeding the ducks (though she had) and May-ug had heart palpitations, her extremities numbed, and she almost passed out. The doctor had to come over and do a check-up. She’s not used to being yelled at or treated like second class. She’s just a kid, and when she’s finished with her chores it should be okay for her to relax and hang out. I realize that’s my opinion (and Adam’s) as an outsider, but it affected what unfolded a few nights ago.

We’d had a great dinner—good food and a lot of chatting and laughter at the table. Adam, Mart, his friend Raul, and May-ug had sat around with us for awhile after meal talking. We decided to watch the season finale of our W.B. show—Smallville. Mart and Raul were going to come over, but Lola wouldn’t let May-ug. I went into the kitchen to say goodnight to May-ug who was washing the dishes as she does every night. I saw that she was crying.

“Hey,” I said to her, “You want to talk? You need a hug?” She didn’t respond to me, which was unusual since we’ve actually gotten pretty close. She just kept washing. I put a hand on her back and stayed there for a little while, and then I left to find Adam.

“What’s going on? Why is May-ug crying?”

Adam shook his head. “I don’t know, but Lola won’t let her join us to watch Smallville.”

“Why not?”

“Well, there’s been some tension going on all night. I don’t know if you heard this, but Lola went into the kitchen after dinner and started washing dishes. May-ug saw her and said that she would do them. Then Lola said, ‘Why don’t you just sit there and keep telling your stories!’”

Basically, Lola had gotten angry at May-ug for sitting around with us after dinner.

“That’s ridiculous! What’s going on with Lola? Why is she acting like that?”

Adam looked around and then leaned forward. “I don’t know, but there’s something else too. Mart doesn’t want me to tell you—or anyone.” He started to whisper. “I guess the other night they had been joking that May-ug wants to marry a white man. Lola yelled at May-ug and said, ‘Fine—why don’t you marry a white man! Then he can get you pregnant and leave you like Adam’s father did!’”

I knew Adam’s history, and it was much like many other Americans. His parents had married, it hadn’t worked out, and his mother remarried. They don’t understand that concept here: step-families. Divorce is not acceptable in this culture, and many Filipinos judge Americans by their many divorces, even though infidelity is happenstance here in the Philippines.

“Yeah, I don’t even want to address what that says about her opinion of American men, and what she might think of me,” Adam said, shaking his head, “The point is: there’s some tension going on with her and May-ug.”

“What should we do? Just forget about it?”

“I think we should go talk to Lola,” he said, “Why don’t we go ask her if she’ll let May-ug join us? She can’t treat her like this.”

“I don’t know—I think we should talk to Auntie Lourdes, you know, go through a third party.” That’s how they address issues around here. Instead of going to someone directly, which might lead to a loss of “face;” you go to a third party who will then tell that person for you.

Adam thought that was a good idea, but thought we should see if May-ug could come and hang out with us tonight anyway. He thought if we both went in there and asked nicely that she might agree as a favor to us. I didn’t feel comfortable with it—I thought it might intimidate her and I knew she had a better relationship with Adam. I thought he should ask by himself. But, I agreed to it anyway, and we walked into Lola’s room together. Adam did all the talking, while I stood by and watched.

When we both walked in, Lola looked at the two of us, and then back at her sneakers as she sat on her bed and put in new white laces. Adam explained the situation in Ifugao, and she smiled as she responded, but she wouldn’t look directly at either of us as she shrugged her shoulders and tried to appear like she didn’t care. We walked out of the room and back down stairs again and Adam shook his head. He didn’t totally understand what she was saying, so Mart came down and explained that Lola had said it was okay if she joined us. But I knew something else was going on.

May-ug, still sniffling, walked past us and up the stairs. I could hear Lola’s voice for a minute, and then May-ug’s, and then suddenly the two started yelling at each other. I heard Adam’s name mentioned a few times, but other than that I didn’t understand. We left the house and went over to his house, just next door. He hadn’t understood what either of the women had said, and we just paced around, wondering what we should have done differently.

“Lola’s just an old woman stuck in her ways,” Adam said.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t give her any right to treat May-ug like a slave,” I said.
“I know, but what can we do about it? We have to talk to Auntie Lourdes tomorrow, I guess, and tell her to have Lola stop treating her like this.”

We talked for a bit, and then opened Adam’s back door. Because Adam’s backyard is linked to the neighbor’s (same as mine) I could see May-ug standing out in the back, on the concrete porch. She was sobbing and staring off into the dark night, the town lights below her. I wanted to comfort her, but wasn’t sure if I should. I wished we hadn’t gotten involved—hadn’t made things worse—but it was too late to turn back now.

“You should go be with her,” Adam said. “Don’t say anything, just stand next to her.”

I nodded my head and walked out into the night.

When you get too involved, Part 2.

Some of the dogs are kept out back, tied up so they don’t get impounded and eaten by the police. May-ug feeds them our leftovers every night after dinner. She walks out in a red-checked apron, a large kettle balanced in her right arm. She kicks and shoos the dogs away as they lunge and strain against their leashes towards her, towards the food. She pours a cold stew of rice and fat and bones and water into their bowls and they push each other aside to get to it. They have been fed tonight, but still they lunge at me anyway as I walk past them towards May-ug. They seem excited for the company.

I stand next to her, against an unfinished concrete wall with long re-bar poles sticking out. May-ug looks away from me, still crying, her head leaning against one of the poles. There are many houses like this, with unfinished walls, with rebar sticking out everywhere. Many projects never finished; the money run dry.

I don’t say anything; I just rub her back as she cries. I tell her to try and take a deep breath like my mom and dad used to tell me. I’m worried that she will go numb or pass out like last time. She doesn’t look at me, but I sense her effort to breathe, to calm herself. She holds out her hand to me.

“Stretch my fingers,” she says—it’s the first thing she’s said since I came out here. I don’t know what she means exactly, but I take her hand in mine and try to lay her tense, curled fingers flat against my palm.

We stand like this for quite awhile; I don’t know how long. She pulls her hand back and keeps looking out into the night. There is some kind of party going on across town—a wedding or a wake, perhaps—and because we are up on the hill we can see and hear the people below us. They are playing country music down there, and someone has a megaphone or a really loud mike system. It’s a strange soundtrack for the night, and I feel as if I’m living Smallville even if I’m not watching it.

After awhile I ask her if she wants me to leave. She doesn’t say anything. “Do you want me to stay?” I ask. She nods her head. Part of me doesn’t want to anymore—I’m exhausted and I hadn’t wanted this tonight. But I stay. We turn around and sit with our backs to the concrete wall. The dogs—some of them free, some of them on leashes mill around us. Raul and Mart play in the yard between Adam’s house and their own, a yard full of rocks, dirt and bits of concrete. They toss rocks at cans and every once in awhile Raul comes by and stands next to us, or sits nearby, not saying anything. It’s his way of showing he cares.

I can’t stretch my legs out because of the small puddles of pee and little piles of dog shit lying around. We are also sitting next to the bathroom—which they have outside. I ask her if we can move, so we get up and move to some concrete steps nearby to be more comfortable. Still, we say little.

The dogs surround us—there are six of them, and four of them are unleashed tonight. The other two strain against their leashes and bark lightly—at us, at the dogs next door, at each other—so many barking dogs in this town. One of the unleashed dogs is pregnant and she waddles up next to us. She stands near me and I do something I don’t do often here—I pet her. I didn’t get a rabies vaccine and the disease is rampant up here, so I’m careful. But I know she won’t bite me. I scratch her head for awhile, and the other dogs come up and sniff May-ug and lick her ankles.

“In the U.S.,” I say, “Some people think that dogs can sense emotion. So when you’re sad, they can tell, and they try to comfort you.”

May-ug looks at me, trying to see if I’m joking. I shrug. “I believe it,” I say. I don’t smile. The pregnant dog walks over to May-ug and puts her chin next to her thigh. May-ug reaches out and scratches her head.

“Maybe because she’s a mother-dog she is even more sensitive,” I say. I want May-ug’s mother here—that’s what this girl needs, her mother. I want to take her home tonight—her parents live in Banaue—I want her to be with people who know her and love her, not some American woman who will leave in four months.

The pregnant dog reminds me of one I saw in Batad. She had just given birth to puppies that would later be sold around the town—to protect their owners, eat leftovers, and who knows what else. My friend and I were all excited that she’d given birth, but were also disturbed. The dog was shivering—hungry and exhausted. The owners of our lodging didn’t care. “We’ll feed her by and by,” Rita, the owner, said. I wanted to give her my food, any food. I didn’t care if she was a dog, she was a mother; she had just given birth.

“Can’t they take care of her just this once?” I said to my friend. “She just gave birth!” But to the owners it wasn’t any special thing. We never even found out if the puppies were born alive.

Part of me told May-ug about the dog sensitivity to redeem them somehow; to make them more than just meat, something to eat, something to protect you. I want to redeem everyone here—May-ug, the dogs, the rice terraces—but all I can do is sit here, looking out into the darkness. All I can do is encourage May-ug when she says she will go upstairs and pack her bags; that she will move back home tomorrow because she can’t live here any more. All I can do is try and forget as I watch Smallville later that night with Adam, Mart, and Raul. Someone else’s drama helps me forget about the one outside my door.

When you get too involved, Part 3:

I couldn’t stop thinking about May-ug and I wondered if she moved home or not. Adam and I saw her the day after her fight with Lola and asked her what had happened.

“I’m not going home,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

She shook her head and looked at Adam and smiled. She didn’t like to say things in front of him for some reason. He got the hint and left the two of us alone.

“Lola apologized,” May-ug said to me once she was sure Adam had gone.

“So you are going to stay?” I asked. She nodded her head. Personally, I was glad, I liked having her next door. But I also wanted her freedom too.

“Are you still going to try and leave over the summer?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I have to wait and see what Auntie Lourdes says,” she said.

“Have you asked her?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Why don’t you have your parents ask for you?”

“Because they are too busy.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t talk to Auntie Lourdes about what happened, okay?” she asked.

“Why not?”

“Because she will not say anything anyway. She will just be quiet.”

I thought about this. Lola is Auntie Lourdes’ mother-in-law and she might not feel comfortable asking her to change her ways. At the same time, Auntie Lourdes would really want May-ug to stay—no one else could cook and clean like her; she was a huge benefit to the household. But at this point, there was nothing else Adam and I could do. We had to respect May-ug’s wishes.

Later that day Adam and I went to the market. We saw Lola on a staircase above us and waved. We all acted as if nothing had happened.

“Would you like anything at the market?” We asked.

She smiled—benign and sweet as usual. “Anything you get would be nice,” she said.

We exchanged a few more words and walked off. Pretend nothing happened. That’s what you do around here.

“Lola can be so sweet,” I said.

“Yeah, too bad she’s also a slave master,” Adam said under his breath.

We laughed. Sometimes that’s the only way to deal with these kinds of things.

Ifugao livelihoods have changed remarkably fast over the past few decades. Rita, a sixty year old woman who owns a Batad lodging house with her husband Romeo, shared one of her past livelihoods with me. The conversation started when she told us how they used to eat a local insect—quite possibly locusts.

“There were many, many insects on the trees,” Rita said in a mix of English and Ifugao. Just around four feet tall, Rita had pulled her gray hair back in a bun, and gestured to us with her long skinny arms. “They were big and they had shiny purple wings. We would be standing over here and we would look over to a tree. ‘Look,’ we’d say, ‘there are many insects on that tree, let’s go and eat them.’” Rita crouched down, smoothing her worn, tartan skirt over her knees. “We’d get near the tree like this, and we’d shake the branches. Many, many insects would fall down. Then we’d collect them in our clothes like this,” she pretended to shove the insects up her shirt. “They would crawl all over us!” She giggled, exposing her two remaining upper teeth. “Then we would get home and we would throw them in a fire and cook and eat them. They were very delicious!” She smiled again and then looked off into the distance. “But I do not see them here anymore.”

“You put them in your clothes?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine having insects crawling over my body under my clothes—willfully anyway.

“Yes, and they were scratchy too because our clothes were made from tree bark.”

“Tree bark?” I said.

“Yes, yes! I used to weave these clothes. Hold on.” She stood up and walked quickly into the house. She came back with two spindles of what looked like hemp twine.

Rita's handmade got-goto bush twine

“This is the bark from the bush. It is very difficult to prepare. Easy to weave, but many hours to prepare. You must first cook the bark for an hour, and then you let it dry for one day. Then after that you pound it, pound it.” Many Ifugao repeat a word to emphasize it.

“With the same mortar you use for the rice?”

“Yes, but you use a different one. Then you separate it into pieces and make the thread. It is very difficult.” She paused for a minute, then said, “Hold on. I have a book.”

She walked back into her house again and I saw her lift a pile of things under a table and work something out. She came back out and held a black book in her flat, wide fingers. The book was the size of printer paper, and about 80 pages or so. The embossed words were printed in gold paint, but fading quickly. The book was titled: Trails to Banaue, Ifugao: A search for Traditional Weaving, by Analyn Iking Salvador, a Japanese man who visited Batad around 1996. Rita opened the book and put her finger on a picture of herself.

“See, that is me. Ugly picture,” she said with a grimace. I flipped through several of the pages and read some of the story there. It talked about Rita’s weaving.

“Rita says she does not bring her products to Banaue [specifically the market, since Batad is part of Banaue] for fear she will be misjudged by the weavers as “old-fashioned.” She only shows it to people who are genuinely interested in her products and directly approach her about the process.”

The story continued, ending with a comment that spoke volumes. “Indeed Rita is the last link to the traditional process of the traditional weaving of the past.”

I closed the book and handed it to her. “So you are the only one who knows this weaving?” I asked her.

“Yes—they do it in the other barangays, but they are not traditional. My weaving is the only traditional one.”

Though I couldn’t imagine wearing a bush bark shirt, I felt a loss for this ancient weaving practice. It reminded me of a story I read in the Washington Post about Japanese kimonos. Apparently there are only three kimono masters left in Nishijin—the kimono district—who can create a kimono from scratch. Because of globalization, most kimonos are made from cheap silk, or made in China where the supplies and labor are cheap. The three remaining masters are all over 70—one of them is 102—and none of them have an apprentice. The Post article states: “The prosperity [of Japan] has come with an altered set of cultural values. This is a country of manga comics and glittering animation. The rising moguls driving the new economy are more likely to buy the muscled chrome from one of Tokyo’s expanding list of Ferrari dealerships than drop their spoils on Kyoto silk.”

Though Japanese silk kimonos are a far cry from tree bark shirts, they are both emblematic of cultural arts being replaced by factory sewing machines.

“When did you stop?” I asked her.

Her answer echoed so many weavers like her around the world. “When I make money,” she said, “I stop.”

Mumbakis

For many Ifugao, practicing the native traditions conflicts with their Christian beliefs. Auntie Lourdes told me a story the other day after dinner. We started to talk about the traditional Ifugao practices, and she mentioned that her father was a mumbaki (Ifugao priest).

“I never thought it was any problem,” she said. “When we left for university, he would sacrifice a chicken and pray for our safety, and when we returned he would sacrifice another chicken. He was just thanking God, and we always ate the chicken. The problem was when we looked inside the chicken to know answers about the future [a common ritual—to look for omens in chicken bile or liver placement]. That’s where there was a conflict.”

Now her family is Catholic, except for Lola, her mother-in-law, who is Evangelical. In many ways, the Catholic Church has offered the most support to Ifugao locals who wish to remain Christian as well as hold onto some elements of their native heritage. But Auntie Lourdes doesn’t have any interest in practicing the traditions now. She did, however, describe an event she witnessed as a child that she never forgot.

“There was a time when we had a smaller harvest than usual. The people in our village gathered all the rice bundles together and stored them under the [native] house.” (The space between the ground and the bottom of a native house is usually around five feet high.) “When we stacked all the bundles they only came to about halfway up—this meant we had a very bad harvest and we wouldn’t have enough rice for the year.

“Well,” she continued, “The mumbaki in our village got very angry. He shouted at the sky and shook his fist. He yelled out, ‘Why? Why did you give us such a bad harvest? We have done our rituals, we have sacrificed our chickens to you—why did you give us this bad harvest?’” Auntie Lourdes paused and smiled at me. “So then he did some small rituals; he went away for awhile and prayed. We did not know what he was thinking. Then, he came back and gathered us together. He told us we had to unstack the bundles and spread them all around again. So the people did that. Then he told us we had to restack the bundles again. Se we did.” She paused and her eyes widened. “And when we did, you know what happened? The bundles went all the way to the bottom of the house!” She was quiet for a moment as she watched my eyes widen. She added, “It really happened. It was like a miracle.”

I know Auntie Lourdes, and she’s an accountant—a very practical woman. Yet I hear stories like this all the time. I don’t really know what to make of them, but they help me understand the depth of faith the locals have, as well as their very personal relationship with God. Though their religion may have changed form, they still view God as a force interacting very deeply and personally in their lives. They still worship a God that blesses them with miracles.

Over the last fifty years, the Ifugao region has developed quickly. A few weeks ago, Auntie Lourdes’ husband, Raul, came to visit for his birthday. Unlike most Ifugao, Raul really likes to talk and make jokes. I told him that I was studying how Ifugao culture has changed over the last fifty to one hundred years.

Adam, Lola, Raul, and Auntie Lourdes--Raul's wife

He laughed, crossed his legs, and leaned back. “You know, there really have been so many changes, it’s hard to even believe. When I was a boy, we still lived in the native house. We had this concrete house too, but we rented it out to missionaries. There wasn’t a concrete road, there was only a dirt road that American jeeps sometimes went down, and sometimes buses. But mostly we had to walk to get anywhere.”

At that point, Mart [his son and my host brother] walked by us and out the front door.

“Goodness, that boy is so frail. Do you see his skinny arms? I never had arms like that—our chores made us strong. We were always active. For example, my brother and I used to walk to [a local village] to get firewood. We’d chop the wood down in the forest, and then we had a wheelbarrow. We’d put the wood in the wheelbarrow and push it all the way home.” Adam and I talked for a moment about where the village was located, and realized that they’d hiked the wood home about 10 miles.

Raul continued. “We pounded rice, which is very hard work for the arms. We winnowed the rice too. There also weren’t any tricycles, so we walked to school—up and down those steps every day. That’s good exercise. But what do kids do for exercise now? Their physical education doesn’t do anything. They don’t have any chores. That is why so many kids are skinny like Marty, or they’re getting fat. How can anyone stay healthy around here anymore?”

I have asked myself that question many times. Faced with a similar question, I bought a jump rope and some weights and I started running as well. But none of those past times are common here—I’ve never seen anyone out for a jog. Most women still wash their own laundry, and many locals who live higher up in the terraces have to walk up and down the stairs every day. But there is no gym here. The only exercise kids get is a short P.E. session, a walk up and down a couple set of stairs, and maybe Taekwondo classes if they can afford them. And yet they eat copious amounts of sugar and fried foods for snacks. It reminds me of the United States.

“You know,” Raul said, “Education is really what changed everything. In the early 50’s, the government decided that everyone in the Ifugao region had to go to school.”

At the time, Raul was in second or third grade. He lived in a “dorm” with a group of other boys his age: essentially a native house that a few kids lived in. The Ifugao believed that once children reached a certain age, they shouldn’t live with their parents anymore in their small huts. So, the kids would live nearby in a native hut—boys in one hut, girls in another. Instead of going to school, kids stayed busy playing in the terraces, doing chores, and helping with the farming.

“When the government decided that we had to go to school, they drove around in their cars and herded us to a local classroom.” He started laughing. “And do you know how they used to determine if we were old enough?” He wrapped his arm over his head. “If we could touch our ear like this, they made us go to school. Otherwise, we didn’t have to go. I was old enough at the time, so I had to start attending classes. If you were old enough but you didn’t go, they quarantined you until your parents made you.”

The method used by government officials to determine if kids were old enough to attend school--could you touch your ear?

Most of the schools were run by Catholic or Christian institutions, which are where the Ifugao learned English, but also where they had forced exposure to Christian teachings. Part of the curriculum was religious education. Teachers taught that the Ifugao ways were pagan and that if they didn’t change their beliefs, they would go to hell. At such a young age, few children really knew how to refute this new information. That’s when a large rift between their indigenous culture and their new Christian traditions began. Almost every Ifugao I’ve meet has converted to Christianity—I have only met one so far that held onto his native beliefs.

Ain't no driers in this town.

This is how you dry your clothes around here. I hire a woman, Manang Christine, to wash my clothes by hand. She takes several large tubs and sits by a faucet and washes them by hand with Tide powder. It takes her about two to three hours and costs me about 150 Pesos, or 3USD. They smell incredible and they're pretty darn clean when she's done.

Then I hang them. The only problem is that all many of my cotton clothes are a size larger now because I'm used to shrinking them with the drier. My jeans sag off my hips, my shirts are loose and baggy. I really wish someone would come in here and open up a clothes drier business. They'd make a ton of money, they'd preserve clothes that normally break down in the sun, and when Banaue's cold and overcast (which it often is) it'd replace the line drying method and stop mildew from growing in the fabric.

Any entrepreneurs out there interested?

The neighbors dry their clothes anywhere they can--hope a sock doesn't fall...

Pronounced Ba-nah-way--emphasis on the na.

Click on the link below...

http://adobe.kodakgallery.com/Slideshow.jsp?Uc=r4shijn.xe8c3in&Uy=3k0bo1&Upost_signin=Slideshow.jsp%3Fmode%3Dfromshare&Ux=0&mode=fromshare&conn_speed=1

Ever wonder where those impressive, six foot tall Native American chief carvings come from? The ones you see in New Mexico and Arizona when you’re on a road trip through the Southwest?
I never thought about it, honestly, I suppose I assumed they were carved by Native Americans. Well, the other day I was bumping along in a tricycle on my way to a barangay called Kiangan. I was looking around, enjoying the scenery—the overhang of green, the small shops along the road, the mothers standing outside chatting with their children on their hips. We passed a carving shop, and under the cover of a tarp I saw a three foot tall Native American head, complete with an elaborate headdress. I was completely stunned. Did I see that right? What was a Native American chief carving, complete with an elaborate headdress, doing in Ifugao?

My language teacher, Manang Susan, is married to a carver. I went and spent some time with them one afternoon, and they showed me around their woodshop. Manong Johnny, Susan’s husband—a quiet man with a thick chest and arms—owns a carving shop in Banaue and in Kiangan. He and his employees make all sorts of designs—beautiful benches with animal heads and tails on either side, dressers, desks, chicken bookends, tables, and…Native American carvings.

“You saw the big Indian?” Manang Susan laughed, holding her pregnant belly. “That is our shop in Kiangan!”

“You carve Native Americans?” I asked, “Why?” I just couldn’t imagine how it all happened.

Manang Susan spoke again—she often spoke while Manong Johnny sat next to her nodding with his shy smile. “Oh there was a Peace Corps volunteer in the 80’s,” she said, “And he set up a carving shop in Manila. He exports carvings to the U.S., especially those Indian carvings, we make thousands of them here.”

Thousands? I couldn’t believe it! I laughed aloud. “Manang,” I said, “That would be like if our Native Americans carved statues of the Ifugao in their ritual clothing and sold them to you in the Philippines! Isn’t that crazy?”

She just laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “Yes, but it is what they want, so it is what we carve for them.”

It’s weird to live in a world where it’s cheaper to have Ifugao locals carve Native American Chiefs and ship them to the U.S. rather than have Native Americans carve them and sell them down the road. But that’s what happens with globalization—the world gets so flat, you hardly know where you’re from anymore.

Manong Johnny with a Bulol carving

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.

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