Here is the original version of an article I wrote a number of years ago about a hike in the Cordilleras, in the Northern Philippines. It was published in a national newspaper with some editorial changes that, I feel, changed the tone of the content a bit, and so I put it back in its original form in my blog. I recently returned to this mountain and the magic was still there, albeit tainted a bit by the new settlements of people in what is supposedly, a national park. One of my journeys...
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I have climbed Mount Pulag more than
a dozen times, and always, she has shown me a different face. The
first time, she is motherly and serene, gently embracing us with a
soft sunrise as we sing songs of welcome and praise. One other time,
she is angry and vindictive as she lashes out with furious sheets of
rain and howling winds, rattling our pole tents till they give way
and we shiver in misery at our bivouac camp. Another time, she
radiates with wisdom, as we silently trudge through undulating
grasslands dotted with zen-like pools of clear water. On rare times,
she mesmerizes us with spectacular sunsets of myriad colors streaking
the sky as clouds roll down her sides like waterfalls. But most of
the time, she is a mixture of both, giving and taking, as we accept
and adapt to her moods.
Mount Pulag, sacred mountain of the Ibalois and the highest point in Luzon at 9,600 feet lies at the center of the Cordillera Trail, smack on the border of three provinces. Near the summit, the trail separates into four points: to the south lies Babadak where most groups begin their hike; to the west lies the summit and further down, the town of Kabayan, Benguet; to the east lies Nueva Vizcaya; and, to the north lies Ifugao. And this, the Cordillera Way is connected by a network of trails linking sitios one to the other.
My climbing partner and I plan a
hike through this system of trails, following a route that would
start at Kabayan, Benguet, up through the steep Akiki Trail to Mount
Pulag, and end at Hungduan, Ifugao, from where we can take a ride
home to Manila. We estimate that it would take about 5 days. A
cursory look at a map tells us we need to head north, then eastward.
We do not bring a map to the climb, only a picture of the terrain in
our minds.
But my story begins
after our hike to the summit of Mount Pulag, when we shed our
mountaineer skins and wander the way. Our first stop is Lebbeng,
Ifugao, perched at the side of a mountain about 6 hours hike from our
summit camp and populated by a mere 4 families. When we get there,
stooped and barefooted Nana Luisa, seventyish, gathers kamote at a
sloping little plot of land behind her hut. A cold drizzle falls
while we wait for her to finish her chores. She finally comes down
with a load of kamote in her cayabang
(a basket with a forehead strap) which as we estimate later, weighs
at least forty pounds. Her husband, Apo Tibaldo, comes in soon after
from their uma (field)
some distance away. We ask if we may stay the night and they offer
to let us stay at their sons’ hut, as their sons are elsewhere
looking for work. They offer us their dinner of boiled kamote
with mountain tea and brown sugar, while we cook our meal of corned
beef and rice. We sit in front of the fire inside their hut and as
we eat and our eyes water from the smoke, the Apo jokingly remarks
“dito iniiyakan namin ang kamote”
(“here, we cry for kamote”).
The next day, Arthur, his
son-in-law, worried that we may not find the way, accompanies us to
Tinoc, through a shortcut which takes us about 5 hours. In Tinoc,
there is a big event, a district meet, and unfortunately, at 3 in the
afternoon, just about a hundred percent of the males have imbibed
their alcohol. We stay with Brando’s family. Little by little,
Brando’s house fills up with inebriated men curious about what they
believe to be our “mission”. They cannot understand why we are
just walking through and one of them, accuses us straight out of
carrying explosives in our backpacks.
We
are completely clueless until it finally comes out that Tinoc was one
of Yamashita’s last stands and a great number of treasure hunters
had come and sought out his elusive gold. We explain that we are
passing through, hiking on our way to Hungduan and our packs are
large and heavy because we have to carry a tent, sleeping bags,
cooking utensils, a camp stove and enough food for a 5 day hike.
They prepare a dinner of pinicpican
(a native chicken dish) for us but are still unconvinced about our
identities and our purpose. And even after we excuse ourselves to
sleep, they continue their drinking and loud discussions, still
believing that we are deceiving them and that we are there to get the
gold. A retired manong,
who earlier in the night claims the cement floor in his drunken
stupor, wails out a lullaby “ay ay
salidummay, salidummay diway” in his
booming baritone. He rants and raves the rest of the night in a
dialect I cannot understand, and curses as he knocks over furniture
trying to find the door in the deep dark night. I clutch my
flashlight to my chest and leave my fate to the heavens.
I wake up enervated the
next day, just as if I had a hangover. After that sleepless night, a
strong black brewed coffee revives me. Our host simply says “lasing
ako kagabi” (“I was drunk last night”)
as if that would make up for all the accusations they had hurled at
us the previous day. I think to myself that I would not want to go
back to this place, but at the same time, I do not believe that all
of Tinoc’s inhabitants are this way. Maybe it was just a case of
bad timing: just too much alcohol around. We leave at 7:30 in the
morning, and walk ourselves hard to make up for the previous day’s
bad trip. By midmorning, I feel much better as the exercise and cool
air revives me and relegates the previous day’s events to
nothingness.
We pass Tawang, Gawang, then Binablayan, where we take lunch near a river, overlooking an authentic Ifugao village. A group of men are sitting across a rangtay (hanging bridge) and I cautiously look them in the eye as I say “lumabas kami pay” (“just passing through”), which they answer with a grunt. Along the trail, a man passes us with just an umbrella slung across his shoulders, he had left Abatan on the other side of Tinoc at 7 am to get to Kiangan at 7 pm – a 12 hour hike -- to visit a friend -- no sweat. He excuses himself as he hurries past to his assignation.
This time, wary of the previous
day’s events, we prefer to set up camp rather than stay with the
locals. It is nearly dark when we finally find a flat piece of
ground a little way up a hill in Wang-Wang. Around 7 pm, a woman and
young girl pass by. They have just come from Tinoc for the meet, and
are on their way home. We ask her if it is all right to camp here.
Manang Alice assents but tries to convince us to come with her -- why
here, she says, when she has a home a short distance away -- we can
sleep there. But stung by yesterday’s experience, we are content in
our simple camp. We tell her that we will pass by the next day and
she promises to show us the way to Hungduan.
Early the next day, we break camp
and go to Manang Alice’s. On the way, we pass by another old
woman’s home, and her strong lined face breaks out into a smile as
she gives us a lukban (pomelo) to take with us, urging us to bring
more. We are led by Gerard, young son of Manang Alice, to the start
of the old Spanish Trail up in the mountains which will lead us to
Hungduan. Again we pass countless rivers and climb up and down
countless mountains.
Here, when you ask for
directions, they hardly say left or right, they say pasangat
(going up) or salog
(going down). The trail goes up, then down, then up a little more,
then down to the river. Here, there are so many rivers. We are
enticed to take a dip in one -- it is ice-cold, but revitalizing.
Four hours later, we are in
Hungduan, Ifugao, our goal. A jeep passes here to Banaue, from where
we can go to Manila. The townspeople are concerned as to where we
would sleep as the regular jeep leaves 4 am the next morning. Some
young women quietly run around until they have arranged for us to
sleep at the town’s guest house. Luke, the municipal engineer,
shows us our lodging and tells us stories about how he is a
woodcarver from Hapao, who later takes engineering.
Our climb is a learning and getting in touch with
nature. You realize how petty your troubles are in the face of such
simplicity. You learn that you need not fight, but not fighting does
not mean giving in. All those zen books will not teach you the zen
in the heart of the Cordilleras.
Always, when I feel the world is too
much with me, then I know that it is time to find solace in
nature. Nature heals sick spirits. As I walk the Cordillera way, my
spirits lift, my soul soars and I am whole again.
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