Sidetrip: Sagada
The following
morning, Gideon and I set out with Manong Ramon and Jessica, a
Taiwanese tourist who was also on her own. When we reached saddle point, a
half-full jeepney was waiting to take us to Banaue. I clambered up the steel
ladders. I was not going to miss toploading! An hour and a half later,
my butt sore and my shirt damp from the rain, I was crazily and giddily
grinning. After a quick lunch, I was in an old wobbly bus with wooden seats to
Bontoc where I was instructed to get a jeepney to Sagada.
Sagada is
different from Batad. Somehow it’s sadder here when you’re alone. Perhaps it’s
just because most of the activities available like caving,
sight-seeing, waking up to the Kilterpan point sunrise, and, do I daresay,
getting high are more fun when done in a group. Or maybe, ironically, it’s just
that more houses and more people you don’t know heighten the
realization of your loneness. But I think, it’s also because people here while
polite and accommodating when talked to, almost always leave visitors to their
own businesses. If you do not want to be bugged by anybody, come to
Sagada.
I chose a
quaint little inn outside the town proper. I figured a considerable
distance would force me to walk more and not just stay in. Gecko Inn was
just the way I liked it. The fragrant scent of pine from the walls eased the
senses. Hot shower, a huge window fronting the woods, Joni Mitchell from the
hallway waking you up in the morning—what more can you ask for?
My gameplan had
not changed. I was there to take it slow. Dinner at Shamrock café was very
quiet. I was the only patron and I chewed on my fried milkfish and rice as I
stared at the ceiling where a hundred pop culture postcards were haphazardly
tacked. My amusement waned only after my neck got stiff out of chewing and
looking up at the same time. I also realized I must have looked pretty stupid.
I hurriedly paid my bill, it was getting dark and I had to walk back to the
inn.
It was only 7:00
pm, two hours before the bell tower signals town curfew. However,
my twenty-minute walk back to the inn was the scariest thing I had ever
done. Forget the time when Gideon showed me where Julia Campbell was
murdered and I realized it could easily happen to me too. Forget when my
jeepney did an unexpected lurch by the cliff while I was toploading.
Scratch those. As I gingerly walked through the dark tree-canopied
Sagada streets under the dim moonlight, I was scared most of the
occasional lone person walking through the fog and the dogs who were barking at
me non-stop. I had been mauled by dogs as a kid and I shook at the idea of
being bitten with no one to rescue me. But, with the help of a friend whom I
hysterically called to keep me company through the seeming walk through the
shadow of the valley of death, I got to base, a survivor.
My first day in
Sagada was spent registering at the Municipal Hall and trying to see whether I
could join other groups to split the guide fee which was quite expensive.
Unfortunately, a last-minute detour to the local bakery for some hot pandesal
resulted to me missing a group in just five minutes. I decided to get my
own guide for the afternoon and, with a map at hand, started walking to the
caves to kill the time.
Sagadans do not
recommend going into the caves without a guide. This is because the caves run
very deep and seasoned guides with super bright gas lamps are there to assist
visitors during a very steep and slippery foray to the underworld. As for me, I
figured I’d want to see at least the entrance of Lumiang Cave before
I head back in time for lunch and my 1 p.m. appointment with the guide.
Spelunking at Sumaguing Cave was out; I vowed to be back with
some friends in the future to do it. For now, I just wanted to walk and be
lost.
Along the way, I
met two women walking home after buying some sugar and salt from
town. I asked them whether I was on the right track and they answered that the
caves were just down the road. Of course, down the road meant an hour of
walking through a picturesque winding path dotted with tall pines. When I
reached the caves, my clock read 11:25. I took a few photos and obliged three
men, soap-sellers who had previously waved at me offering me a ride, with some
small talk. I thought about my options. Going back might take 45 minutes
more. With their second offer, I agreed to hitch a ride back to town. I
got off from the delivery truck at the famous Yoghurt House and had a leisurely
lunch: tuna sandwich, granola yoghurt and native coffee definitely filled me up
for the rest of the day. I munched on my meal, writing down passing
thoughts and eyeing Tommy Hafalla’s photos of mountain life which hung on the
wall.
By 1 p.m., I was
back at the municipal hall and met my guide Orion (do all the guides here
have cool names, I wondered). Together we talked about options. I had to choose
three from the six possible sites to explore in the afternoon. I opted for
Bokong falls. Echo Valleyand Lake Danum for the sunset.
However, Orion said that considering the time and their distances from each
other, it’s better to choose other sites. I rallied to
see Bokong Falls and Lake Danum only
instead. Echo Valley I can do on my own.
Still, the
walking. Orion filled me in with information about local celebrities who often
came to Sagada. Aside from the usual tourist spots along the way, he also
showed me where scenes in Piolo and Judy Ann’s movie were filmed. It started
drizzling and the path down Bokong falls was slippery with fallen leaves. I was
only glad that we brought umbrellas which doubled as trekking poles. I took a
while to set up my gear as I started shooting.
The climb back to
the cement road was better than the trek down. It was raining steadily when
Orion and I reached St. Mary’s Episcopal Church. He suggested going
to Echo Valley instead because the Lake would be too
far to make back before dark. I hesitantly agreed and followed him through the
path that led to the public cemetery. Persimmon trees marked either side. We
reached spot where the hanging coffins could be seen. The sound of the steady
drops of rain coupled with the knowledge that I was on sacred burial ground was
a bit eerie. Our tour ended with me still disappointed at not being able to see
the lake. As it was still a bit early, I spent some time walking around, buying
ground native coffee, and getting lured inside a cute house that displayed some
desserts. Lemon Pie House specialized in lemon pies, egg pies, tea andcoffee.
For 20 bucks a slice, those pies are to die for.
Walking back to
the inn after dark for the second time wasn’t so bad. I figured I only had
to do it a few more times to be able to be smug about it. I was beat as hell.
After shuffling through the inn’s vintage vinyl record collection (The Beatles,
Burt Bacharach, The Beach Boys, The Hollies and more oldies but goodies), I was
back in my room massaging my sore legs and falling asleep while at it.
In the sunshine,
Sagada seems more upbeat. It was a market-day Saturday and as a lover of crowds
where I am anonymous, I appreciated the action. The streets were lined on
either side with people selling meat, fish, vegetables, clothes, glass
wares and plastic wares, DVDs and electronics, actually almost everything. I
snapped away with my old Yashica rangefinder loaded with black and white film
and I was happy. An old lady approached me to offer bananas “piso
ken binting” (a peso and a quarter) she said. Too bad, my bag
was packed and full so I politely declined. I bought, instead, non-bulky
items for my friends – keychains, bracelets. I was bummed that I couldn’t
bring any of the local rice wines: bugnay, persimmon, and tap-ey,
the original variety. I guess I’d have to look for these
in Manila where they’d sell for double the price.
While waiting for the 1:30 p.m. last bus ride to Baguio, I decided to eat brunch at Masferre’s Inn and Café. The place which looked like a small log cabin served their food fast and the tomato and cheese omelette was surprisingly fluffy and tasty. Eudardo Masferre, hailed the father of Philippine photography, was a half-Spanish half-Kankanaey who documented life in the Cordilleras for decades, especially before modern technology started to influence local customs and traditions. I looked at Masferre’s black and white photos on the wall and wondered when I can get past shooting cultural curiosities and really start my own photo projects. I wrote that down as one of my goals for 2009 just before “get a job,” “save up” and “shape up.” Priorities, I reminded myself, and rearranged the list.
While waiting for the 1:30 p.m. last bus ride to Baguio, I decided to eat brunch at Masferre’s Inn and Café. The place which looked like a small log cabin served their food fast and the tomato and cheese omelette was surprisingly fluffy and tasty. Eudardo Masferre, hailed the father of Philippine photography, was a half-Spanish half-Kankanaey who documented life in the Cordilleras for decades, especially before modern technology started to influence local customs and traditions. I looked at Masferre’s black and white photos on the wall and wondered when I can get past shooting cultural curiosities and really start my own photo projects. I wrote that down as one of my goals for 2009 just before “get a job,” “save up” and “shape up.” Priorities, I reminded myself, and rearranged the list.
Comfort in a cold
place
For the last
time, I walked around and said my goodbyes to the place before
boarding GL liner to Baguio where I would catch another bus back to
familiar Manila. Enough already. At last I have fulfilled my Kerouac
longings of spontaneously being on the road during my twenties. Being alone has
its downside but it has also some rewards. Forget the “being alone there’s a
certain dignity to it” quote from the 1992 flick Singles. You either are aware
of your dignity or not even when you’re always in a group. It’s just that the
silence that envelopes you (how great it is not having to entertain anyone or
be entertained by anyone!) allows for an enriched knowledge of the self you
once were, the self you are now and the self you want to be. I marvel at the
parallelism: while travelling through the mountains at the center of Luzon, I
was, in effect, voyaging through the bases, plateaus, crevices and crests of my
own center. Without a doubt, Batad and Sagada explored with friends can be
a blast (think: nights of loud humorous talks, music, alcohol and what not) but
both locales conquered alone can be quite a comfort to the vagabond soul. 
