Enjoying the view of Batanes

I travel solo. Not because I don’t have any options but because I like the freedom it entails. I don’t want to wait for people to decide to go, to freak out when there’s no set itineraries, to wait for consensus on what to do, what and where to eat and stay. I travel solo because I want to linger in a place without other people telling me that we have to go and head to another attraction. I don’t want to say to myself: This is another place that I have to go back to and visit again.

I’m not a tourist who visits for the sake of visiting. I’m a photographer and travel blogger and I prefer to be given time to explore through images or to immerse myself in asking questions, taking notes, enjoying time with the locals and feeling the soul of what the destination offers. I want to be given free reign of what to do and where to focus so that I can give justice to the place when I write and feature it.

Most of the time, there are lonely nights, and lonely journeys. Where thoughts race through my head as the scenery zip pass me while aboard a bus or a boat. Where a book can be a good companion or a chit chat with strangers can fill the gaps of waiting for the next trip to another town, or a break from the monotonous whirring of the motorcycle.

I travel solo because it affords me time to think for myself, of myself. Of pains and relationships. Of dreams and plans. And I travel solo because, as I wrote in my first post in this blog, it’s a personal journey to oneself.

This is my entry for the Pinoy Travel Blogger’s Blog Carnival hosted by Nina.

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The carroza bearing a replica of the 17th century image of the Black Nazarene which was brought from Mexico in 1607.

Time ticked to 1400H and the crowd, filling all available spaces in Plaza Miranda in Quiapo, Manila, are already roused. Men are already standing while some are warning others who were wearing shoes to stay away or for women to go to the sides. Whistles are blown, the announcer at the stage is crying out instructions but already drowned out by the crowds’ chants of “lubid, lubid, lubid” (“rope, rope, rope”) and “viva, viva, viva.”

Suddenly, the gates of the church are flung wide open and the pair of abaca ropes stretches out to the sea of people where it is grabbed by the devotees. The small carroza bearing the 17th century image of the Black Nazarene starts its crawl as the devotees pull. Firecrackers erupt and smoke spreads, smelling of pulbura (gunpowder). Towels and handkerchiefs are thrown to the image while men atop the carroza wipes the statue and throws it back. Some men and women are ready to give an arm or a leg in order to jostle, climb up and touch the Christ.

Male devotees dominate this chaotic event. Here, they tug at the rope connected to the carroza.

“Viva, viva, viva…” is again chanted, this time louder and with much fervor. As the carroza is crawling out at a snail’s pace, tracing its centuries old route, people are now in a chaotic mode. Like a ripple in the water, pushing and shoving starts, emanating from where the image is borne and reaching the sides of the Plaza. Cries and shrieks are heard but then drowned out by the vivas. Slippers and shoes are parted from their owners. Feet are stomped and bruised. People fell to the ground. More shrieks and cries. Some faint, but the madness just ensues.

A member of one of the many cults that congregate during the feast of the Black Nazarene dressed as Christ the King.

As the carroza leaves the plaza and then the chaos starts to ebb. Men, women and children bearing candles can now be found. Old women clutching rosaries and mumbling Hail Mary’s. Private carrozas now follow and the plaza is in a somber mood. People are eating. Vendors are roving around and a media crew is interviewing people. The religious sects are singing, praying. All is calm.

The vice president of the country doing his yearly panata or sacred promise being protected from the crowd.

After a few hours, vivas can again be heard. People are chanting, raising hands, clapping. The pushing and shoving starts again as the carrozza is starting its way back to the church after turning from a side street. Some are rushing or scrambling out. Some going nearer and took a hold of the rope. More chaos. Even the vice president of the country, a devotee, was rushed to the side of the road surrounded by bodyguards, soaking wet with perspiration and ruddy.

Having accomplished his sacred vow, he rests.

After the push and pull, after the shrieks of Viva! and after the event is done, this male devotee, dead tired, finds a spot to rest and feel at peace. At the same time, he might probably be thinking: “Next year…”

All is calm again.

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The part of the Batad Rice Terraces that I crossed and broke a ritual taboo. A Frenchman followed me and met the same fate.

If I’ve stuck to my original schedule of going on a Friday, I would not have come into problems. Saturday, during the tailend of the cool month of February 2005, and I was doing the leisurely trek to Batad via the small village of Naggor and at the same time taking in the wonderful scenery before me. This is the trail that have been written in the Lonely Planet guide book as marvelous, which I wholeheartedly agree.

After more than two hours of walking, I came across an old lady and she was saying something to me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t understand a thing. She was gesticulating and mumbling but not a single action nor a single word was discernible. All I was able to do was just to shyly smile, tell her in Filipino that I didn’t understand her and went my way.

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As I advanced through the trail, I came into a portion of rice terraces carved out from the mountainside. While it looked liked I have lost my way, the confusing trail just seem to lead to nowhere and a short cemented path bridging two portions of terraces just don’t connect until I found out that the series of jutting stones neatly descending at one part of the terrace wall were the steps I was looking for. I continued my trek, crossing to the other side of the mountain until a man’s voice called from above. Looking up, he was frantically waving and at the same time shouting at me to come. I walked to his direction. Just as I was to arrive at the spot where he was standing on, the tall frame of a foreigner with a backpack, from the distance, followed my footsteps and he too was called.

A boy wearing a read shirt runs through the narrow and steep terrace walls of the famed Batad Rice Terraces in Banaue. This is a World Heritage Site.

“You crossed the terraces!” The man, in a raised voice, admonished me. I was flabbergasted. He continued to rant that they had a ritual, a canao the day before. That it was there holiday for the entire Batad area and no one was allowed to cross or step on the terraces. That the elders would not be pleased and I might be penalized. PENALIZED. While trying to gather my wits, that word struck me! I was more than dumbfounded and stunned. And he continued to lecture me that I might be made to pay to the tune of ten thousand pesos! What? There and then, while still digesting and trying to understand the words that he was saying, I realized that I might be in deeper shit than I expected.

By this time, the foreigner with blond hair, blue eyes, quite tall and wearing eyeglasses arrived. When told about the infraction, he too was shocked. We followed the man to the group of houses and then I realized that I was already in Batad. The wonderful sight of the terraces down below made me forget for a moment the trouble we were in.

At the Hillside Inn, the lady barangay captain explained the problem. The elders of the village decided two days ago that that Saturday, from 0500H – 1800H, no one was to set foot on the terraces as they just performed a ritual, done only once every 4 or 5 years, the day before. This involved a group of men led by a mumbaki, a native priest, who went to the forest to find a particular plant and use its toxic properties as a natural pesticide. To make it effective, they have to perform this rite, slaughtering and offering chickens, rice wine and rice to the gods. Our transgression just rendered the efficacy of the plant’s pesticidal effects useless and has to be performed again, else, they will have a bad crop season. And in order to do it again, we will be the one to provide the resources.

Batad elders and barangay officials deciding our fate.

It was made clear to us that no one is spared this penalty and is imposed even on Batad residents who fail to observe it. A few years ago, an Israeli tourist suffered the same fate as ours. We also need to wait for nightfall to talk to the elders as they were in the village below, and were unable to come as they can’t also cross. We reasoned that nobody told us about the taboo. Not at the Banaue Tourist Information Center where I went first to check on the area. Not at the Family Inn nor at the waiting shed at the start of the trail in Bangaan. Not even in Naggor where I passed by a few people and nothing was said about the prohibition. But it was just hopeless. Then I remembered the old lady who I met earlier at the trail.

To kill time, we ate at the restaurant, trying their Yemeni fried, flat bread malawach, went about the area sans crossing the terraces, taking photos at a promontory, talking with some locals regarding the place and our predicament.

Night time came and we just waited. By about 2000H, two elders from the village below came accompanied by the barangay officials. While they don’t speak Filipino or English, the barangay officials interpreted and interceded for us. We explained and reasoned out but the elders just gave no option but to repeat the ritual. With no choice, I asked how much will it cost us. A quick accounting was done:

The ritual shopping list given to us so that the rite can be done again. I have kept this paper in between my Lonely Planet guide book as a souvenir.

WHEW! I was quite relieved when I saw that the cost was just P3,700.00 instead of the earlier quoted P10,000.00. If the elders sacrificed a pig, it would have jacked up the expenses. And I still have to divide it with Henri. While I didn’t have enough cash at hand, we agreed that I’ll go to Solano in Nueva Vizcaya the next day to be accompanied by one of the villagers. With everything settled, we called it a night.

The breathtaking amphitheater like Batad Rice Terraces that consoled us from our predicament.

Looking back, it was really a great experience. It’s not always that one can have this kind of incident; to think that the ritual is done only rarely. I was at the right place and at the right time. While it is something that I would not wish to happen again, it was also an eye opener. It made me more careful the next time I go to remote places. It made me respect the culture and heritage of these people. And it also made me realize that there’s still so much that I have to discover, many places to go to, countless people to meet and many adventures still to enjoy.

Strangely, this was really so much fun and exciting. Not even my Marinduque incident a few years back can top this wherein I was interrogated by the military, trying to make me admit that I’m a New Peoples Army rebel on a mission, during a solo trek. But that is another story.

This is a pre-qualifying entry to the Intramuros Bloggers Challenge 2012by IntramurosManila.Asia. This campaign is fully supported by the Intramuros Administration, Barbara’s Restaurant, Celdran Tours, Mabuhay Guides, Pilgrimage Pilipinas,Castillan Tours, Federation of Philippine Photographers Foundation, Inc., Starbucks Philippines, Starbucks Facebook Fanpage, Payless Pancit Shanghai, Ruthilicious andRuthilicious @ FB.

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