Monday, May 11, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Sagada: 2.14-2.16.09
My housing drama resolved, I hurry out of the office to buy a backpack, snacks, pick up dinner. Exhausted from the week of transition, I knock out for what seems like 10 minutes before the alarm goes off.
The six hour bus ride north, into the heart of the Cordillera, begins before sunrise. Most of the road is paved, but for the last hour on the bouncy bus we literally eat the dust kicked up from the dirt road by passing vehicles. On a few occasions early in the trip our bus is passed by trucks transporting chicken manure used to fertilize the commercial vegtetable farms in Benguet. The stench is nauseating, forcing most riders to cover their faces with shirtsleeves or pano. But I only mention the noxious smells and the hurtling switchbacks of the road so my descriptions of the land aren’t so patently scopophilic. The view on the ride to Sagada is absolutely spectacular, undoubtedly one of the best features of the trip. In the early morning chill, the sun rises, transforming the sky from azure to peacock to lilac. We ascend, rising above clouds thickly ringing adjacent peaks. The ridges protruding from clouds resemble islands in an ethereal, white sea of sky. I cannot help but think of O`ahu, and early morning rides on the Pali.
I do not know how to read the land, so I snap endless photos of the picturesque terraced vegetable farms that cover the mountainsides. I do not realize until later that these commercial farms represent ever-increasing conversion of land from subsistence to cash crop production. Agriculture is the dominant source of income for families in the region. People who have land and want to farm can no longer afford to produce only for regional or national markets. I’m told coffee and vegetables from the region are prized commodities in Japan and Australia. Along with commercial mining and deforestation, input-heavy commercial agriculture is criticized for diverting water from subsistence farmers and for polluting the watershed.
After our arrival in Sagada we check into our hotel, Alapo’s Inn. It is sparse but cozy. After dumping our bags Vangie and I head off to the Yoghurt House, famed for its homemade pasta, organic veggies, fresh herbs, and killer yogurt from free-range cow’s milk, all local. Our meal of grilled fresh veggies (talong, green beans, carrots, red peppers), taro fries, and yogurt with saging does not disappoint. Then it’s off for a hike in Echo Valley.
The Northern Kankanaey ili of Sagada was the seat of Anglican missionary work during the U.S. colonial period, and the U.S. priest/ethnographer/historian and radical advocate of Cordillera peoples, William Henry Scott, lived here for many years. Sagada is a town in Mountain Province beloved by lowland and Korean tourists for its bucolic setting, and indeed, “eco-tourism” has become a primary driver of economic development in this town as it has elsewhere in the region. From the map of Sagada I purchase across the street from the barangay hall, where we must register and pay a fee in order to go caving, I learn that the community here has attempted to control tourism in different ways. These include regulating the number of guide groups, refusing to develop rapaciously consumptive resort-style hotels that cater to high-end tourists, and refusing to perform sacred rituals on tourists’ whim: “Tourists are welcome to observe scheduled festivals or ceremonies that are open to the entire village, but these will not be performed on demand.”
We encounter French and Manilena/o tourists on our hike through Echo Valley, which concludes at caves famed for “hanging coffins.” Traditional burial ceremonies of the Northern Kankanaey include wrapping the body of the deceased in a blanket, then placing it in a coffin to be carried into a forest cave and suspended in the rock. That these burial sites have become tourist attractions is especially appalling to me. Eleven years ago, when I came to Sagada for the first time, I could not bring myself to enter the caves with my cousin and kapatid to view them. If my ancestors’ burial place were the backdrop for photos of grinning, raucous, high-fiving tourists, I would be disgusted. I may be a tourist in Sagada, despite the formal educational premise of our trip, but now, again, under such circumstances, I cannot bring myself to enter this resting place for the dead. I am met with strange looks when I explain that I would prefer not to disturb any spirits, and so will wait outside for the group.
The next morning we go on a guided tour of Sumagong Cave (which, I am told, is not a burial cave. But how can I know?) A beautiful, icy cold underground river runs through Sumagong. I vividly remember swimming in it with my kapatid my last time here. The caving experience is physically demanding and deeply affecting. Memories of my childhood trips to Luray Caverns in the Shenandoahs, and my last trip here with my brother, sister and cousin, fill me with gratitude to be where I am, and a longing for my family. I vow to learn stories about these caves.
After a mammoth bowl of pasta with grilled eggplant and fresh basil from, again, Yoghurt House, our crew heads out for a hike to Lake Danum (danum means water in Ilokano and Kankanaey, making “Lake Danum” a redundancy). There are fishermen and Manilena/o tourists there when we arrive. The students talk about their impressions of the trip and connect their experiences to what they are learning in their Environmental Psychology class. I am impressed by their insights and their fervor for protecting the lupa, the kalikasan of the Philippines.
Two final striking anecdotes. When I speak in Filipino to the Yoghurt House proprietress (and others throughout our time here), she responds in English, confirming that some here view the language of postcolonial power with greater disregard than that of the former colonizer. I am always asked to turn to historical accounts for explanations of this dynamic. For starters, the U.S. is associated with health and sanitation campaigns and Thomasite education. Filipinos are associated with much worse.
In conversation with a theory-head student/photographer/Anak Bayan and Cordillera People’s Alliance organizer, Jay, I discuss the violence of militarization in Hawai`i. I mention the history of the 1898 overthrow and the occupation of 30% of land in the islands by the U.S. military. Jay listens with great interest. “And is there rape and torture, disappearances, extrajudicial killing of activists in Hawai`i as there is here?” he asks in Filipino. He knows that I know that he knows the answer to this question.
I think of everything Keanu Sai’s family lost over Perfect Title. I think of George Helm. I think of the endless evictions, of the disproportionate poverty and incarceration and poor health and un-/under-employment, of the institutions of miseducation, of the toxic waste left everywhere by the U.S. military, of the myriad other forms of violence experienced by Kanaka Maoli as a consequence of illegal U.S. occupation. But Jay’s question is pointed. He highlights the many faces of militarism that are sometimes enabled by, but invisible or absent in, the experience of militarization in Hawai`i.
“No,” I respond.
The six hour bus ride north, into the heart of the Cordillera, begins before sunrise. Most of the road is paved, but for the last hour on the bouncy bus we literally eat the dust kicked up from the dirt road by passing vehicles. On a few occasions early in the trip our bus is passed by trucks transporting chicken manure used to fertilize the commercial vegtetable farms in Benguet. The stench is nauseating, forcing most riders to cover their faces with shirtsleeves or pano. But I only mention the noxious smells and the hurtling switchbacks of the road so my descriptions of the land aren’t so patently scopophilic. The view on the ride to Sagada is absolutely spectacular, undoubtedly one of the best features of the trip. In the early morning chill, the sun rises, transforming the sky from azure to peacock to lilac. We ascend, rising above clouds thickly ringing adjacent peaks. The ridges protruding from clouds resemble islands in an ethereal, white sea of sky. I cannot help but think of O`ahu, and early morning rides on the Pali.
I do not know how to read the land, so I snap endless photos of the picturesque terraced vegetable farms that cover the mountainsides. I do not realize until later that these commercial farms represent ever-increasing conversion of land from subsistence to cash crop production. Agriculture is the dominant source of income for families in the region. People who have land and want to farm can no longer afford to produce only for regional or national markets. I’m told coffee and vegetables from the region are prized commodities in Japan and Australia. Along with commercial mining and deforestation, input-heavy commercial agriculture is criticized for diverting water from subsistence farmers and for polluting the watershed.
After our arrival in Sagada we check into our hotel, Alapo’s Inn. It is sparse but cozy. After dumping our bags Vangie and I head off to the Yoghurt House, famed for its homemade pasta, organic veggies, fresh herbs, and killer yogurt from free-range cow’s milk, all local. Our meal of grilled fresh veggies (talong, green beans, carrots, red peppers), taro fries, and yogurt with saging does not disappoint. Then it’s off for a hike in Echo Valley.
The Northern Kankanaey ili of Sagada was the seat of Anglican missionary work during the U.S. colonial period, and the U.S. priest/ethnographer/historian and radical advocate of Cordillera peoples, William Henry Scott, lived here for many years. Sagada is a town in Mountain Province beloved by lowland and Korean tourists for its bucolic setting, and indeed, “eco-tourism” has become a primary driver of economic development in this town as it has elsewhere in the region. From the map of Sagada I purchase across the street from the barangay hall, where we must register and pay a fee in order to go caving, I learn that the community here has attempted to control tourism in different ways. These include regulating the number of guide groups, refusing to develop rapaciously consumptive resort-style hotels that cater to high-end tourists, and refusing to perform sacred rituals on tourists’ whim: “Tourists are welcome to observe scheduled festivals or ceremonies that are open to the entire village, but these will not be performed on demand.”
We encounter French and Manilena/o tourists on our hike through Echo Valley, which concludes at caves famed for “hanging coffins.” Traditional burial ceremonies of the Northern Kankanaey include wrapping the body of the deceased in a blanket, then placing it in a coffin to be carried into a forest cave and suspended in the rock. That these burial sites have become tourist attractions is especially appalling to me. Eleven years ago, when I came to Sagada for the first time, I could not bring myself to enter the caves with my cousin and kapatid to view them. If my ancestors’ burial place were the backdrop for photos of grinning, raucous, high-fiving tourists, I would be disgusted. I may be a tourist in Sagada, despite the formal educational premise of our trip, but now, again, under such circumstances, I cannot bring myself to enter this resting place for the dead. I am met with strange looks when I explain that I would prefer not to disturb any spirits, and so will wait outside for the group.
The next morning we go on a guided tour of Sumagong Cave (which, I am told, is not a burial cave. But how can I know?) A beautiful, icy cold underground river runs through Sumagong. I vividly remember swimming in it with my kapatid my last time here. The caving experience is physically demanding and deeply affecting. Memories of my childhood trips to Luray Caverns in the Shenandoahs, and my last trip here with my brother, sister and cousin, fill me with gratitude to be where I am, and a longing for my family. I vow to learn stories about these caves.
After a mammoth bowl of pasta with grilled eggplant and fresh basil from, again, Yoghurt House, our crew heads out for a hike to Lake Danum (danum means water in Ilokano and Kankanaey, making “Lake Danum” a redundancy). There are fishermen and Manilena/o tourists there when we arrive. The students talk about their impressions of the trip and connect their experiences to what they are learning in their Environmental Psychology class. I am impressed by their insights and their fervor for protecting the lupa, the kalikasan of the Philippines.
Two final striking anecdotes. When I speak in Filipino to the Yoghurt House proprietress (and others throughout our time here), she responds in English, confirming that some here view the language of postcolonial power with greater disregard than that of the former colonizer. I am always asked to turn to historical accounts for explanations of this dynamic. For starters, the U.S. is associated with health and sanitation campaigns and Thomasite education. Filipinos are associated with much worse.
In conversation with a theory-head student/photographer/Anak Bayan and Cordillera People’s Alliance organizer, Jay, I discuss the violence of militarization in Hawai`i. I mention the history of the 1898 overthrow and the occupation of 30% of land in the islands by the U.S. military. Jay listens with great interest. “And is there rape and torture, disappearances, extrajudicial killing of activists in Hawai`i as there is here?” he asks in Filipino. He knows that I know that he knows the answer to this question.
I think of everything Keanu Sai’s family lost over Perfect Title. I think of George Helm. I think of the endless evictions, of the disproportionate poverty and incarceration and poor health and un-/under-employment, of the institutions of miseducation, of the toxic waste left everywhere by the U.S. military, of the myriad other forms of violence experienced by Kanaka Maoli as a consequence of illegal U.S. occupation. But Jay’s question is pointed. He highlights the many faces of militarism that are sometimes enabled by, but invisible or absent in, the experience of militarization in Hawai`i.
“No,” I respond.
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