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THAILAND
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Philippines |
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Once upon a time
in Sagada /1 |
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Source: Inquirer |
Author: Resty S. Odon |
Date: 1999-09-12 |
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IT is with much trepidation that you
decide to see Sagada. But the truth is
you really don't have a choice.
First, you love life too much to risk losing it too soon to a
terrible cave, which Sagada is known to have lots of, or to a
ravine along the highway where your bus might hurtle into if it
loses its brakes.
Second, the aftershocks of that terrifying earthquake on July 16,
1991, are still making themselves felt every now and then. You
shudder at the idea of getting sandwiched between boulders or
pierced alive by stalactites.
Third, you have a bad cold.
Fourth, you won't graduate from college on time if you don't
take the finals of your outdoor recreation course, i.e., a two-day
cave exploration.
And so, with heavy baggage, you join the rest of the outdoor
rec class of Sir B. in boarding, single file, the only chartered bus
from Baguio to Sagada.
The Baguio-Bontoc road is so bumpy and gravelly that your
bottom is short of getting blisters after eight gruelling hours of
travel in a Lizardo Transit bus.
There's a point along the Baguio-Bontoc Road where you pass
over the highest spot on the Philippine highway system. The
marker says so. It's de rigueur for the bus to stop here so
everybody can scamper to the door to see how it feels to stand
on a record-high vantage point.
You'd think that after all the small talk with which you whiled
away the hours, Sagada would be just a nap away. Well, you're
mistaken. You're deep in your nth nap and yet, when a
especially mighty pothole on the road jolts you, you look
around to see your classmates snoring away. You shrug your
shoulders and go back to sleep, hoping that the driver won't
drift off himself.
Sagada is an acid test on your patience, or impatience. This
early, the trip is getting on your nerves. What are you doing on
this road? Why do you have to go to Sagada when you can
stay in relative safety in your boarding house and get vicarious
thrills by watching movies at FEN station with your landlady's
kids? Do you really have to endure this trip just to graduate on
time?
You see two grouchy days ahead.
Other-worldly
But from the bus window, you see the mountains rise above the
clouds. Like fluffy-white cotton candy, a plume of cumulus
clouds hovers over the forbidding terrain and then nestles on
the nearest valley. The sight is so other-worldly it drives
everyone to silence.
As the creaky bus struggles its way to the town proper, you see
some rice terraces. It's such a treat to see rice terraces, but what
a disorienting treat. Am I in Sagada or in Banawe?
Sagada is a veritable Shangri-la. To describe it as ''sleepy'' would
be the height of political incorrectness. ''Vigilant'' is more like it.
People who know how to take care of themselves deserve
utmost respect, not condescension.
Sustainable development has long been in practice here, as
evidenced by the Sagadans' unflinching resistance to so-called
modernization. Development is kept to a minimum. You see rice
paddies in varying shades of green. You see a river whose
banks are lush and whose meandering path is riddled with huge
and small boulders resisting (much like the people) the silvery
onrush.
The fertile valley is partitioned into plots of purple cabbages,
wong bok (Chinese pechay), potatoes and other mountain
crops. The farmers' dwelling places look unprepossessingly
box-like.
From St. Mary's Church, which sits prominently on a hill, you
survey the proud stands of pine trees. Curious children smiling
shyly welcome your snooty group. Despite the cold, or because
of it, the people are pigmented dark brown. Maybe it's because
they're significantly nearer the sun, as some have observed.
You note the luminous limestone boulders which dot the
mountainous landscape like walnuts on a scoop of Double
Dutch ice cream. Your jaw drops as you catch sight of a little
boy munching on a raw carrot like a rabbit.
Expectant
Your PE instructor hollers at the group, mouthing the rules to be
strictly observed --stuff like ''Leave nothing but footprints, take
nothing but pictures''--then signals the boys to start putting up
the tents.
You flinch. ''What?'' Tents, you fool, tents. What were you
expecting, an inn or a resort hotel?
Later, you realize that the only reputable hostels around town
look much like private homes at best. In fact, you run into a girl
in her pambahay (house clothes) reading a comic
book--apparently one inn's sole valet cum bellgirl.
In the vicinity of the Sagada Municipal Building, lo and behold:
Caucusian backpackers pickling their ruddy bodies in San
Miguel beer.
Your heart thumps at the prospect of sleeping inside the tent
with all the girls. Geez, that means lying by the entrance,
guarding them against would-be rapists and robbers, aside from
real snakes, of course.
The camp site is a clearing in the middle of all those conifers,
wide enough for about five tents to huddle around a bonfire.
It takes you hours just to drive the pegs into the rust-colored
soil, set up the tent itself, and gather dried pine needles to serve
as cushion against the unforgivingly hard ground.
Standing up by way of taking a break from the back-breaking
task, you all but stop breathing when you spot a big jet-black
bird perched on a branch of a Benguet pine.
It goes ''Aaaak! Aaaak!''--probably an expression of satisfaction
over a recent repast. It's a bit ferocious-looking; maybe it's a
bird of prey. It's not a crow, not an eagle, and perhaps not a
crane. What is it? (Your classmate Ria is just as clueless. But
then, this Manila-born girl cannot tell a cow from a carabao.)
For merienda, you partake of raisin bread brought by one of
your wealthy classmates straight from the Baguio Country Club.
Yummy. You eat corned beef directly from the can. Everybody
loses his or her poise.
You long for a hot bath. You worry about your cold. You annoy
all the girls. Grouchy turn-off.
to be continued....
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