It was a very long, bumpy and dusty ride from Baguio, but being mildly masochistic, I enjoyed it. No, actually, the scenic beauty of the unspoiled forest (no villas along the slopes here), the dangerous maneuverings in zigzag roads and along cliffs, and the anticipation of what is to be seen and experienced when we reach our destination made me forget the inconvenience I was supposedly experiencing.

            My sister works for NAPC and I tagged along to witness the cañao, in the guise of a volunteer interviewer. Hehe. But it was a pretension that I later played on seriously, as I got to mingle with the tribal people.

            The morning air was bitingly cold and the fog was so thick you could not see beyond five meters from where you stood. Children sucked on popsicles and giggled as you recover from the initial shock. It actually helps them adapt to the cold, since it lowers their body temperature, too, someone tells you. You look across the neighboring mountain as the sun begins to shine and notice that you could not see its peak. There are clouds covering the mountaintop, and following the reflexive property in mathematical logic, you must be surrounded by clouds, too. Cool!

            Since it was a festival, the young adults who had been sent to live and study in other places like Baguio or Manila have come home to participate in the celebration. I was impressed to see how these educated youths, who sometimes get teased in Manila for  being different, have remained true to their identity. They did the courtship dance wearing their indigenous clothing to welcome us, visitors. Even without words, you understand how the men try to impress the girls with their stance and grace, and vice-versa. (I probably wouldn’t be able to impress anyone here). The movements, the facial expressions, the effect of sunlight/ shadow on their dancing bodies… all these collaborate to tell a story. It was a story that was deeply personal and yet, universal; a story that the audience was free to connect to and interpret. Poetry in motion. It was beautiful.

            We feasted on a simple but abundant spread of food: mountain rice, vegetables, and rice wine. Surprisingly, I ate a lot of vegetables. They were fresh and sweet! During harvest, those vegetables are bartered for salt and other commodities. Some are stored for domestic use, and some are carried down to the nearest marketplace on foot. The sad reality is, when their harvest exceeds market demands, all they can do is bury the excess vegetables (kilos of it) under the ground. It’s a lot cheaper than transporting them to another market. Another problem is, because they can’t read or do computations, they are sometimes taken advantage of by greedy middle men. And that is why my sister’s team, as well as the other NGO’s, come here: to teach the elders how to read and do math, and help them understand documents that ask for their “signature”.

            Their day ends with the setting of the sun, and that is around 5:30- 6:00 p.m., because there is no electricity yet. But at least, they receive some help with irrigation, and tubes dangle from mountain to mountain, bringing water to their homes. The other problems, like paved/ cemented roads, will have to wait, though. For how long, no one can tell, but it definitely depends on the budget and the conscience of people who are elected into position.

            After resting for a while, we went down to the plaza where people from different communities merge for the celebration. Cañao was performed, and after that blocks, as in BIG blocks, of boiled, unsalted pork were served to us for lunch. Luckily, I sat in a corner unnoticed, because a round of soup (the water used to boil the pork in) was served right after. I couldn’t imagine myself drinking a cup of half pork stock- half pork fat, but (knowing that they consider this a special meal) if cornered, I would have. But I wasn’t, so…

            After the meal, there was ceremonial dancing, and then a free-for-all, much like in parties here in Manila, only the steps and music are indigenous. It was fun, but the graceful movements of the elders imitating that of a flying bird are hard to do. The movements, I can, but the grace… uh, well… It was also kind of funny seeing how the elders scorn at the youth who make mistakes or miss a beat, how they smirk/ mumble and take over to “show ‘em”. Ah, impatient parents. They’re everywhere.

            We went home the way we came to Atok. Another long, bumpy and dusty ride. I guess life, both for us and for them, is just like that ride, and will be just like that ride, for a long time. But I hope that positive changes will happen to them soon, just as positive changes have happened to me. For, through them, I have learned to appreciate in this journey through life the scenery, the adventure, and the anticipation of what is to come and what is to be.