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Helping People Help Themselves
Foundation for Aid to the Philippines, Inc.
By Greg B. Macabenta It has become a matter of great concern among overseas Filipinos that the money they send to the Philippines has unwittingly been fostering a pensionado attitude among their beneficiaries. Even worse, a culture of mendicancy. It is in this context that the programs and projects of the Foundation for Aid to the Philippines, Inc. (FAPI), a private non-profit organization based in Maryland, deserve recognition and emulation.
A Writer Worth Writing About
By Anthony E. Maddela Bestselling author Melissa de la Cruz brings teenaged vampires and their immortal longings to life. The many readers who were introduced to Melissa de la Cruz, age 38, by her profile in Entertainment Weekly’s vampire issue on July 31, 2009 have lots of reading to catch up on. Published by Disney imprint Hyperion, the Blue Bloods series is the latest of several novels Melissa has authored since her first, Cat’s Meow, was released by Simon and Schuster in 2001. That book displayed her uniquely Filipina gift for the absurd in a work she describes as “P.G. Wodehouse meets Sex in the City.” Melissa’s eye for the inane soon went into investigative mode in 2003 with the nonfiction exposé on overexposure she co-wrote with Karen Rabinovitz, How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less (Random House), which originated from an eponymous article in Marie Claire.
Painting with Words, Writing with the Body: Genre-Hopping with Merlinda Bobis
By Renee Macalino Rutledge
There are stories all around us, though we may not always hear them. Author and playwright Merlinda Bobis considers it her job to listen. If stories are like music, Merlinda listens to even the quietest of murmurings, keeping her ear tuned to the small, human experiences that often go unrecognized. Everyday moments of tenderness, suffering, cruelty, and bravery inspire her most. “It’s the story that we stumble upon, or sometimes don’t see or don’t comprehend, that snags us into some conspiracy of feeling, of passion,” she says.
Journalist and Mistress of the Dark: The Enigma That Is Yvette Tan
By Alex G. Paman The art of juggling is a skill seldom associated with writers. But for freelance scribe Yvette Tan, it best describes her life as a journalist. When not contributing to a seemingly endless stream of newspapers, magazines (including Filipinas), and even television shows, this self-described media mercenary and obsessive foodie even finds time to write a blog for the GMA network website.
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Treasures
of the Cordillera
By
JP Alipio
 His
eyes stared over the horizon. Half blind from
cataracts he surveyed his home from his perch
on the side of the ridge. His feet were splayed
from a lifetime of journeys through these rugged
mountains without shoes or slippers. He was old,
no doubt, yet his arms betrayed his strength as
he held on to his rifle, the glazed eyes watching
as we filled our containers with water from a
spring.
A few minutes before, we had arrived at the top
of the ridge. Carved rocks sprouting with green
covered the mountains around us. It seemed like
an eternity as we stood silent on a small plateau
of grass, an island in the midst of grandeur.
Three years ago I was climbing a pine-filled ridge
through a rainstorm, the first few drops of rain
that touched the earth after the dry season. I
watched as drop by drop the water seemed to breathe
life into the land, the colors suddenly vivid,
the trees and grass springing to life. The air,
clean and crisp, healed by the droplets from the
sky. Suddenly, the smell of earth and pine pierces
the nostrils, like life being created within one’s
body. The mountain was alive as the crystal water
flowed out of its breasts and the green crests
of its ridges reached for the heavens. The clouds
soon gave way to a few glints of sunshine, making
everything sparkle in the afternoon light.
I asked myself how long it would remain that way;
would I be able to take my children to see these
wonders, or would I only be telling the tales
of my adventures? I could not stand to simply
watch as the mountains I called home slowly disappeared
before my eyes. Already many areas had been ravaged.
Large-scale mining operations had destroyed the
very mountains I speak of. Dams had stopped the
once great rivers. Commercial agriculture had
destroyed much of our forests. Slowly, our culture
and land were being poisoned by values not our
own.
On April 1, 2005 after three years of planning
and pouring through maps, historical accounts
and notes on my own personal forays into several
areas in the Cordillera Mountains, we started
our walk. Supported in a large part by a grant
from the National Geographic Society and equipment
from our sponsors (Patagonia and Salomon), we
headed out into the wild, but was it truly as
wild as we thought?
We walked down the riverbed, our goal of crossing
these mountains still a dream away. In the heat
of the sun and with the 25 kilos of food and equipment
we each carried, it seemed that crossing the span
of ridges and peaks was all but impossible. Yet
23 days later we stood staring out at the beauty
of man’s creation—the Rice Terraces—hundreds
of kilometers from where we first began.
Our skin dark from the constant exposure and the
weight of a cavan of rice on our backs, we must
have seemed strange to these people (just as we
were strange to the villages we passed for most
of the trek—always the question: Why do
you walk these mountains?). Passing through the
many fields perched high up on the mountainsides,
it felt like being in a fishbowl as anxious eyes
scrutinized us suspiciously. Every so often one
of the villagers would pass by carrying a long
rifle, fingers ready at the trigger if we showed
the slightest sign of being one of the enemies.
Being regarded with suspicion was a new sensation.
We had passed through the villages of the Ibaloi
and the Kalanguya, where we were often regarded
as guests or even part of the community, our intentions
or even identities unquestioned. We were invited
to sleep in their homes and share their meals.
We often began our walks with boiled camote (sweet
potato) for baon (packed meal), from the community’s
fields, and always these arrived without our asking—to
them it was simply the decent thing to do. But
as we walked down the ridge of Betwagan it was
as if we had entered another world. They were
at war with a village in Kalingga—Botbot—and
it had claimed lives on both sides. A ridge right
across from where I stood, I was told, was where
the last killing occurred—a person from
Betwagan was the victim. His body was chopped
up and scattered, his head taken home as a prize.
These were like stories of the old Cordillera;
I was surprised to hear they were still happening
in these mountains. I wondered if these very people
who told me this story had committed similar savagery.
I would not know, as it was not my place to ask.
The date for the weddings had not been set, but
the previous day a carabao (water buffalo) had
fallen into a ravine and meat was a precious commodity.
And so it came to be that four dark and weary
travelers who had walked all the way across the
Cordillera Mountains found themselves invited
to celebrate five weddings. The gongs played from
every corner of the village. Basi (sugarcane wine)
flowed like water, while the families of the newlyweds
arranged to exchange the dowries of basi, rice
and meat. In their colorful loincloths, the old
men of the village squabbled over the proper way
of performing the rite, each one recounting what
each had experienced in his own time. Eventually
the wedding arrangements were settled and the
old men went back to their old tales, the dancing,
pattong (gong playing) and jars of basi. I woke
up to the gongs the following morning and only
when the sun had risen did the gongs finally cease
to play.
A week later we were again walking down a river
valley, heading towards the coast of Ilocos Sur.
How many valleys we had gone through, I had no
idea. Some, like this valley today, were hot,
the mountainsides barren. Aside from the dry brush
there were no trees for shade. The river rocks
had absorbed most of the morning sun’s energy
and were now radiating this heat towards us. Lost
in our thoughts and without a word, we each dropped
our packs, stripped our clothes and jumped into
the cool flowing river… so far away now,
we were nearing the end of our long walk.
The trail passed along the river’s edges
down the gorge; the far mountainside is covered
with pine and the mist glints from behind the
edges of the forest while the flowing river sparkled
under the afternoon sun; four seemingly insignificant
figures in the center of all this magnificence,
wondering how long beauty would remain in these
mountains before the rest of the world caught
up with it. The problem was—it was catching
up too fast. I awoke from a dream; the water flowed
passed my body, my thoughts flowing with it.
Many nature writers have called their long sojourns
through the untamed places, adventures. Although
I am a member of this region’s indigenous
peoples, I had been raised in settings quite apart
from indigenous culture. Thus I, too, saw this
trek as a great adventure in the natural wonders
of the central Cordillera Mountains. But more
than the indescribable beauty I came to treasure
the people. Without a moment’s hesitation
and without knowing us and why we came, they invited
us to share their lives. On those days we were
not travelers or tourists or adventurers. We were
part of the landscape, just as the people were
part of the streams that flowed freely through
the rocky gorges and the trees that sprang to
green when it rained. We were part of the soul
of the Cordillera.
Illuminating the darkness with my headlamp, I
found myself staring down the end of two very
menacing M-16 rifles. Five minutes later we were
surrounded by a squad of drunken government soldiers
and subjected to a very uncomfortable interrogation.
Fortunately, after repeated answers and a very
long discussion, we were able to convince them
that we were not rebels despite our dark skins
and my long beard. They finally gave up and let
us be for the night, returning to the bottle of
gin that had occupied them before our arrival.
We finally arrived at Tirad Pass, 38 days after
we started walking through the mountains. Here
was the last stand of the Philippine’s youngest
Revolu-tionary general. We were standing on the
ground where 60 Filipino soldiers died defending
the pass from advancing American forces. We had
finished the traverse, retraced the trails that
connected the region—Spanish, Japanese and
Igorot trails that went through the mountains.
Some of the trails had disappeared and turned
into roads (some were even sprawling four-lane
highways). We had finished our walk, 38 days,
400 or more kilometers. Strangely waking from
a dream, we now knew more of our mountain region.
Our journey at an end, we were going home. But
before setting foot on the coast of Ilocos Sur
the thought occurred to me: Was I not home for
the past 38 days? I was.
JP Alipio is an Ibaloi who traces his roots from
La Trinidad, Benguet. He’s a graduate of
the University of the Philippines and is currently
taking his master’s in Environmental Management
in a joint program of Ateneo de Manila University
and San Francisco University. The team: JP Alipio,
Francis Gerard Alipio, Reuben Muni, Jen Godio
and Clint Bangaan.
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