Here are a few panoramic shots of the Philippine Cordilleras. I will try to add to these over time.

Ambuklao Dam.

Ambuklao Dam and the community below it. January 2012
Heavily silted river bed of one the tributaries of the Agno River feeding Ambuklao lake. January 2012.

A small delta formed by one of the many rivers that feed Ambuklao lake. January 2012.

Fishermen's huts and fishcages, Ambuklao Lake, Bokod, Benguet.

Panoramic view of the mountains, taken along the road below Bobok, Benguet. January 2012.

Itogon, Benguet. Viewed from Ambuklao Road. January 2012.

The sun rises over La Trinidad.

One early morning in December 2011, as the sun rose over La Trinidad, twin rainbows appeared on the horizon. Even if the rainbows were vague, they should inspire us to appreciate the wondes of nature, VIVIDLY. View of Baguio from BCCCI subdivision, Lubas.

La Trinidad, viewed from the BCCCI subdivision at Lubas.

Really, sunsets are the same everywhere, so this could have been taken anywhere.

 

Lanao, Bontoc, along the Chico River. September 2010.

 

Rice terraces along the Chico River, Bontoc, Mountain Province.

La Trinidad valley, with the sun rising. November 2010.

 

Light and shadow on the mountains. Sabangan, Mountain Province.

Kennon Road. 2009

Sunset. Ambuklao Road.

Vegetable terraces. Mountain Trail. Atok, Benguet. April 2010

The road to Kalinga, viewed from Tocucan, Bontoc.

Demang, Sadanga, Mountain Province. April 2008

Annabel, Sadanga along the Chico River. april 2008

Upper Chico River. Border of Bontoc and Sadanga, Mountain Province

Bird's eye view, Bontoc Mountain Province

Bugnay, Tinglayan, Kalinga. April 2010. Home village of Macliing Dulag, Chico River Dam martyr.

 

Clouds over Ambiong, La Trinidad, Benguet.

 

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by Gary Pekas

“Parents ko lang ang Igorot.”

This statement has reportedly been uttered by different people at different times. For the most part, those who said it are the offspring of Igorots who were born and grew up outside Igorot domains and villages.

For people who readily and proudly admit to being Igorot, the statement may seem to be a betrayal of one’s roots, a rejection of our people and culture. Because of this, it is not uncommon that there is resentment towards those who do say it.

There are many possible reasons why such seemingly crass words would be uttered; the foremost perhaps is to avoid the stigma and derogatory meanings that are attached to the term Igorot. In previous decades, when the discrimination against indigenous peoples in general and Igorots and Aetas in particular was truly demeaning, it may have been but natural for some of us to deny being Igorot, or not to mention it altogether. It was in the waning years of the past century that the derogatory meaning to the term was overcome, because the Igorot people have, individually and collectively, made their mark in the world. The rest of the Filipino people also came to realize that the discrimination they originally had was wrong.

True, discrimination exists still, and Igorots have their share of mediocrity that feeds the bias, but on the whole, it is a matter of glorious pride to count oneself Igorot at these times.

But who are Igorots? By etymology, the term is known to mean “from the mountains.” As such, it includes all people who come from the mountains, regardless of any other characteristic. Since the term was used in the context of the Cordillera mountains, then all people who hail from the Cordillera are Igorots. But not all people of the Cordillera Mountains claim to be Igorot.

In general, it is only the indigenous people of Mountain Province and Benguet who have no qualms about being Igorot. On the other hand, the indigenous peoples from other provinces do not admit to being Igorot. This is especially so among the people of Ifugao and Kalinga. These redoubtable people call themselves differently, as Kalingas and Ifugaos.

For most of us who call ourselves differently but who regularly interact with each other, there is mutual acceptance of whatever term one wants to label oneself and such acceptance and tolerance arises from mutual respect and the lack of the derogatory meanings that have been attached to these different terms. Only when there is real or perceived discrimination in the use of the terms would disagreements happen.

Yet each of these terms, whether Igorot, Kalinga, or Ifugao, are vague, in the sense that there is no description or definition that applies to all who claim the name. What is probably settled in our use of the terms is the geographical meanings; that Igorots come from Mountain Province and Benguet, Kalingas from Kalinga, and Ifugaos from Ifugao. Beyond that, the individuals and the communities that count themselves as part of these labels have many differences that would make a more definitive description difficult, if not impossible.

For purposes of this discourse, this spirited rambler will focus on Mountain Province. When our communities were not yet overwhelmed by colonial influences, we referred to each other according to where we come from, aside from our names and family affiliations. Thus people would be referred to according to their village. Thus one is i-Mainit, if one comes from that village. Of course each village had their set of belief systems and economic and political systems that distinguish them from other villages. True, these systems were not dissimilar from other villages’, but there were enough differences to warrant a zealous attachment to an identity. Such labels were both necessary and appropriate, for the interaction of our people was limited to neighboring villages. Later on, government arbitrarily grouped these villages into municipalities, so that the village of Mainit became part of Bontoc.

Our people also ranged farther, interacting with villages in other provinces and municipalities more and more. Even then, we referred to each other according to our village of origin, so that an i-Belwang (a village in Sadanga) going to Sumadel (in Tadian) would be called i-Belwang. Only when referring to a group of villages or a group of people coming from a common municipality are the names of the municipalities used. Thus it is more appropriate, for example, to refer to an individual as i-Tetep-an (a village in Sagada) rather than i-Sagada.

The use of these municipal affiliations as terms of identity are more used when people go out of the province, when people we interact with are not familiar with the different villages that we call home. In the melting pots of mining towns, Baguio City, Manila, and in the agricultural boom town of Tabuk, these municipal labels were then used, yet it was also true that our identification with our particular villages was not diminished. Our affiliation to the different provinces necessitated our being referred to as i-Montañosa (for Mountain Province), i-Kalinga, i-Benguet, Ifugao, or i-Apayao. But these identities defy definition, except for our originating from provinces whose boundaries were only arbitrarily set. If, for instance, some of the villages in Sadanga, or Barlig, were included in the province of Kalinga, then the people there would now be reffered to as Kalinga. If Tubeng and Bayyo in Bontoc were included in Ifugao province, then the people there would call themselves Ifugao. Arguably, the term Igorot is the term that applies to all of us.

The term Cordilleran is being bandied about, apparently for the neutrality of the term, in that it lacks discriminatory undertones, and it may also be used to include migrants in our communities. It is yet another geographical identity, and perfectly acceptable specially to those who seek to set aside the centuries of discrimination we have suffered, instead of actively demolishing it.

In the end, the identities we have are the ones that we call ourselves, and the names others call us that we accept. If one is comfortable with being called Igorot, then he is Igorot. If one is comfortable with Ifugao, then he is Ifugao. If we refuse to be called such, then we are not.

The acceptance of an identity goes beyond names. Being Igorot, or Ifugao, or Kalinga, or i-Mainit, or i-Belwang means an acceptance of the community that calls itself similarly. We belong to a community, so we proudly accept its name. By belonging, we adhere to the rules of the community, live by its culture, speak its language, and are part of its evolution. If we seek to distance ourselves from these communities, or actively reject their social, economic and political systems, then we lose that identity. Only when we continue to be a part of a community do we retain that community’s identity.

“Parents ko lang ang Igorot.”

This statement is not a betrayal of one’s roots, or a rejection of our people and culture. It is saying that they belong to a different community that accepts them, live by a different culture and language. It is no help at all that when they visit the villages of their forebears they are treated as visitors, even as objects of curiosity, by the very people who are offended by the statement.

 

 

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The past century, specially the latter half of it, showed humanity’s growing concern the destruction that it has wrought upon the environment. Habitat loss, ecosystem destruction, species extinction and endangerment, and pollution are among the many concerns raised by environmentalists and like-minded people.

At the start, those who espoused these concerns were voices in the wilderness, literally and figuratively. Policy-makers largely ignored them. Later on, environmental advocacy gained many adherents, and policy-makers could no longer ignore their calls.

Now, there is global concern about the environment, what with the perceived escalation of human-caused environmental problems that threaten to accelerate climate change and threaten the very survival of the human race.

The survival of the human race is the core of the issue.

While we mouth slogans about saving the environment and nature, what we are really doing is trying to save ourselves.

This planet we call home has already witnessed many cataclysms that have radically altered its environment. These cataclysms include several ice ages, global warmings, meteors that affected the entire planet, and a host of other changes that we could only imagine.

Climate change is constant, and has been happening since the beginning of Earth.

The constancy of change has caused the extinction of species, and the evolution of others able to adapt to the changing environment. In fact, our species, Homo sapiens, has evolved because of these changes. Other species, humanoid ones included, became extinct as they failed to adapt to environmental changes. The dinosaurs are a well known example of this phenomenon of extinction.

All the creatures on Earth are part of the environment. We all play a part in the evolution of the planet, either as causes of the ever-happening-change, or products of it as we adapt to the changes. If we fail to adapt, we become extinct, or we evolve into another being altogether to be able to survive in the changed environment.

Nature and the environment can very well take care of itself. Even if humanity unleashes its most destructive activities on this planet, nature and the environment shall go on. Many of the species as we know them might become extinct, and the human race might itself become lost, but life in this planet shall go on.

The direction of the evolution of life is always to improve upon existing species. Should humanity succeed in destroying the planet as we know it, we might become extinct as a species. But even if we do become extinct, life shall continue on this planet, and new forms of life shall appear. Humanity itself might evolve into another race more adaptable to the changed conditions. Perhaps this planet will even become a better place with us out of the picture.

If we continue to make this planet inhabitable for our species, we are threatening our survival as a race.

This is the reason why humanity is now concerned with the environment. It is only in the interest of self-preservation that we are overly concerned, even if only belatedly, about environmental destruction.

We are not saving the environment or nature. We are simply trying to save ourselves.

If we fail, we shall merely become extinct like the dinosaurs and the dodo. In our absence, nature shall continue, and surviving species shall continue evolving.

Our species has only existed for less than a hundred thousand years. If we manage to engineer our extinction, our presence in this world would be a very tiny speck in the billions of years that the Earth has existed and the additional few billion years that it shall continue to exist when we are gone.

This space does not say that we should stop being concerned about the environment. On the other hand, we can never be overly concerned about it. Let us find ways to keep it habitable for our species, for, as is oft repeated, it is the only planet we call home.

Let us try to save ourselves, hopefully for a time long enough for our race to do away with our frailties, hopefully for a time long enough that a better human species evolves from our flawed existence.

But we should not delude ourselves into thinking that nature or the environment needs us.

Nature and the environment have survived before humans walked this Earth, and this planet shall survive even without us.

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A previous piece on shit has produced some feedback, making this writer rather elated, as it is an indication that this space is being read after all. Other topics discussed in this space did not warrant any response from readers, so I presumed that nobody reads my pieces, or, even if somebody does, my spirited thoughts did not deserve feedback at all.
It’s nice to know that somebody reads what I write, and I thank those who do so, even if they think I am a shithead.
The reactions tothe piece were generally funny. One unknown texter, to whom I apologize for not knowing who he or she is (even as I asked who it was, the texter did not identify him/herself), said that what I wrote was “full of shit but it was nice.” The texter quite obviously thinks shit is nice.
I posted the piece on the bibaknets email list, and some members of the list recounted other stories of shit. I suppose shit at anytime makes for interesting conversation.
For this reason, I would like to oblige shitheads like myself by recounting another shitty story.
There was a foreign visitor to our shores back in the eighties, and I accompanied her to one of the villages in Sadanga so that she could observe conditions there. As in many other villages at the time, there were no outhouses or toilets, and one had to defecate in pigpens.
When the visitor had to move her bowels, we informed her of the age-old waste disposal system of feeding the pigs with our aromatic faeces. The foreigner quite naturally did not like the idea of squatting at the edge of the pigpen, with a couple of grunting pigs beneath her buttocks. I suppose she was also rather embarrassed that she had to do it in the open.
After we told her of how she has to do it, she lost the urge to defecate.
Unfortunately, we had to stay overnight in the village, and even though she ate very sparingly that night, her stomach and intestines resumed the pressure on her anus, wanting to rid her body of fecal waste, battling with her sensibilities. It was around nine o’clock at night that her insides won the war, and she finally went out to the pigpen.
Our hosts and I supposed that she waited until dark to defecate, for then at least she would be able to deny the pigs and voyeurs the spectacle of her bared buttocks and her other hidden anatomy.
Inconsiderately and insensitively, we had a few laughs as we listened to the pigs grunting outside the house, trying to stifle our laughter lest our visitor be offended. When at last she returned, visibly very relieved to have gotten rid of body toxin, we became embarrassedly very quiet.
Our visitor proceeded to her assigned sleeping space immediately, with just a murmured good night. She was probably as embarrassed as we were.
As things turned out, I had to move my bowels the morning after. As I positioned my rectal end at the edge of the pigpen, I noticed I was doing more grunting than the pigs. The pigs in the pen were unusually quiet, and quite unnaturally kept their distance, instead of waiting directly underneath my anus waiting for the manna to fall. 
I eventually finished, still puzzled as to the odd porcine behavior. 
When I was done, I remained near the pigpen, trying to solve the mystery of the quiet pigs. I noticed that the pungent delicacy that came out of my rectum was just lying there on the floor of the pen. The mystery got even more mysterious. The pigs’ behavior was not only odd; it was a total betrayal of the nature of their species! 
Then I noticed that beside my pile of shit was a much bigger pile of shit, obviously untouched by the pigs. It must have been the deposit of our foreign friend the night earlier. Now, even as the pigs wanted to get to the food I deposited, they could not find a way around the mountain of the foreigner’s faeces.
Our hosts in the village noticed the very same phenomenon when they deposited their own shit. It became a conversation piece. The whole village was talking about the mystery, trying their darnedest best not to do it in our visitor’s presence, and trying to hide their mirth.
Everybody was relieved when we finally left the village at midmorning. Now the villagers could puzzle over the mystery in all hilarity, and their foreign guest could finally set aside the shitty ordeal she has been through.
She did not mention anything about it in the long quiet ride we had back to toilet heaven. 
I did not have the heart to tell her of the prevailing theory the villagers had as to why the pigs acted oddly: that even as the guest hated her ordeal, the pigs hated her shit more. 

 

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Long considered the epitome of culture, languages reflect how people live, how they think, how they dress, how they work, their belief systems, what they eat, and the whole gamut of existence. In earlier times when our communities were more or less isolated even from our neighbors, either by geography and topography or by ethnocentric bias, our languages also developed differently.

A difference of a few kilometers between villages resulted in variations of the language, with different enunciation and pronunciation, different contextual use of terms, or the use of entirely different terms for the same idea.

(Photo: Bugnay, Tinglayan, Kalinga. This is the home village of Macliing Dulag, Cordillera martyr. People of this village belong to the Butbut tribe, but they have trouble communicating with the neighboring Basao tribe in their original language, thus communication is done in Ilocano.)

In Kalinga, people of neighboring villages do not even understand each other’s language, a testament to the extent of isolation of their villages from each other.

The variations of language in history and in present times, and the misunderstandings or lack of communication that result, are often the subject of our jokes and puns, and not in a few instances have these jokes and puns also resulted in conflicts between individuals or entire villages.

(Photo: Young Igorot children in Baguio City dressed in Filipiniana. They speak in several languages.)

 

In a sense, our languages or dialects served their purpose, for we were able to communicate with the people we interacted most with: our families and the people of the village of our birth. There was no pressing need to learn other languages, because the villages were relatively self-sufficient (even if merely subsistent), and thus interaction with other villages was limited. Further, these small villages had their biases and fears of their neighbors, further restricting interaction.

The isolation of our villages eventually loosened. We began to interact with people other than those of our village. The traditional biases we held against our neighbors were relieved by the intermarriages we had with them. People strove to develop common terms for use in our communication with others. We varied our enunciation and pronunciation in order that we would be understood by other communities.

Neighboring villages normally did not have much difficulty in communicating with each other, with minimal adjustments in the dialect. However, the farther away one goes away from his village, communication became a bigger problem. True, it was not impossible to communicate, but it was not easy.

This development in our languages became necessary specially as our people began to congregate in population centers, whether it be in the cities, the mining boom towns, or provincial capitals. As we interacted with people from faraway villages, it became necessary to find a common language that could bridge the chasm of communication.

The people of the Cordilleras thus adopted the Ilocano language. While initially Ilocano was a language as alien as any other, it assumed character as a regional language. The extent of this adoption is best exemplified by the Kalinga villages mentioned earlier. They could not understand each other in their dialects, but they could arrive at an understanding using Ilocano.

Our becoming Ilocano speakers was by no means sudden, and many an old folk left this world not understanding the language. Even at this time, there are people from our villages who have difficulty with it, liberally spicing their discourse with terms unique to their native language. Yet there is no question that with some knowledge of Ilocano, they could get themselves understood.

(Photo: Schoolchildren at Easter College in Baguio City participate in the celebration of the Philippines' "Linggo ng Wika," showcasing the national language, Filipino.)

As our horizons expanded, we eventually learned to speak other languages, like Tagalog (or, as it is now officially known, Filipino). We also learned English, long the language used in our schools.

Correctly or not, we generally considered our proficiency in English as superior to that of other Filipinos, even. Of course we also observed that this “advantage” has somehow been diluted, with latter generations suffering from the perceived national “decline of education.”

At present, most of our people speak several languages: our native dialect, Ilocano, Tagalog, and English. With varying degrees of fluency, of course, but conversant enough. Our exposure to these different languages results in a hybrid language, where terms from our many tongues often get mixed up in everyday conversation. Communication-wise, it is no problem, for we understand each other quite easily. However, we tend to confuse the syntax of one language for another, or make literal translations that mangle grammar and language rules.

As we continue to use the hybrid language, our children could no longer distinguish from whence the different terms come. What we pass on to them is a language that is effective for communication, but at the same time it is a language that is neither English, Tagalog, Ilocano, or our native dialect.

This hybrid language is the native language of our children.

We, the earlier generations, could readily distinguish which of the terms we are using came from what language, and if necessary, we could revert to an unadulterated discourse solely in our native dialect or in our adopted tongues. We could also speak in Ilocano without the smattering of un-Ilocano terms. And we could speak in relatively fluent English as well. In this sense, we are truly multilingual, for we do speak in several languages.

Alas for our kids, for the language they speak is neither this nor that. 

 

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It was immediately after the communities in the villages of central Sagada have harvested their rice crops that the young boys of the town would group together into “armies.” These armies would engage each other in war games (buknit or buwág).

The locale of the “battles” was traditionally in the rice fields between the villages of Demang and Dagdag, with the armies coming from these places. The rules of engagement dictated that the two groups would start from opposite sides of the rice fields, and meet in the middle, to throw at each other the full force of their “weaponry,” which consisted mostly of pebbles. After one’s pebbles are depleted, it was common to just throw whatever one could pick up from the rice fields, mostly mud.

The boys have varying degrees of accuracy, and indeed some of them would go home with bumps on their heads where pebbles hit them; or with sore eyes when a lump of mud hit them square in the face. Gashes and skin wounds are also not uncommon, either from well-aimed projectiles, or self-inflicted as the boys scrambled on the rice terraces.

Yet the games were generally harmless, and indeed the wounds are part of the business of growing up. If one goes home with a bump, he must merely await another day so he could participate once more in the games, and hopefully escape unscathed.

The group that drives away the other from the rice fields is considered the winner of the day’s battle, though more often the battle is more or less a draw, with neither side succeeding in driving the other away. The “losing side” is often first at the rice fields the next day, raring to wage another battle.

The battles continue almost daily until the fields are plowed for the next rice crop. Some of the fields by then would have already been plowed over by the many small feet of the boys fighting their war, which was one of the reasons why the games were tolerated or even encouraged by the elders of the village.

Boys with leadership qualities naturally take command of the opposing groups, either as a single general, or several who work together as captains in leading their army. These leaders sometimes gain legendary prowess, and strike fear in the heart of the opposing army when they choose to engage in the battle themselves. They are adept tacticians, adopting worthy maneuvers, feints and frontal attacks. Sometimes, prisoners are taken, and the boys learn to parley and negotiate for prisoner release of exchanges.

It was a heady experience of boys acting like men. The boys who join in these games learn those tactics; they become stronger from the physical exertion; and learn to respect their betters and adversaries; they learn to cooperate with their peers. In this way, they become better members of the community.

But what makes it all the more popular is that it is fun. There is perhaps no latter-day equivalent to the pure joy of rolling and frolicking in the mud, dodging missiles and pitting wits with one’s peers. After the battle, the entire army would bathe in the river, and camaraderie would be reinforced.

Occasionally, instead of throwing projectiles at each other, the opposing groups’ leaders would decide to instead have a different contest. They might choose to have wrestling contests (damá). To do these, each side chooses a contender, according to size and ability, and the chosen contenders would try to overcome each other. After a wrestling bout is finished, another pair of contenders will be chosen, then another. It was a way of training the boys in the fighting arts.

Another variation to the battles was for kicking contests (gagtin), where the boys are allowed to use only their feet to hit their opponents. Either singly or in groups, with cheering from both sides, the boys become better fighters.

These games persisted until the early 1980s. By then, however, the people in Sagada and in the neighboring communities have already absorbed many foreign influences.

Parents would no longer tolerate these contests, saying that these were violent. Some parents also adopted the impression that these were “barbaric” and contrary to “modern” values and Christian teaching. Playing in the mud was no longer considered fun.

In the 1970s, the opposing sides also changed weapons. Whereas before they only used their hands to throw projectiles, they now used slingshots. With pebbles projected by the slingshots, accuracy was greatly increased. The damage from the projectiles also increased.

It was also around this time that the boys also learned to take their battles away from the fields and into the trees around the villages. The use of slingshots eventually had its toll, with more serious wounds being inflicted. Some lost their eyes in these war games. The serious wounds bred vengeful rivalries, and instead of promoting camaraderie and fair play, the games taught animosity and treachery.

Eventually, the war games ceased. They ceased because they no longer performed their original function of helping make the fields ready for the next rice cropping. They ceased because parents considered the games “barbaric” or anti-modern, and thus no longer served to physically and emotionally prepare the boys for adulthood. They ceased because the boys now used new weapons and thus devised new rules increasing the violence, and forgetting the lessons of life that the original games taught.

They ceased because we changed.

 

My generation is that generation that had the privilege of living at a time when our communities did not have outhouses, much less toilet bowls in our homes. When one had to defecate, one did it more or less in the open.

In Sagada, pigs were kept in pits lined with stone walls. Part of the pit was cobbled with stones, and relatively dry. Half of it was however laid bare and a little deeper, and it was there where the pig manure was gathered. All varieties of waste were put into this part of the pit, and allowed to compost along with the manure. Yearly, the compost was taken out and used to fertilize the fields. It was a workable and efficient waste disposal system, and since waste at the time was mostly organic material, our communities did not have a problem of accumulating waste.

But I digress.

It was in these pigpens where everybody had to shit. The pigs liked human waste, and human shit was part of their daily diet. At this time when pigs are fed commercial feeds and are no longer integral in the waste management system, since houses in the villages already have outhouses or even toilets right in the houses, old timers like me would say that pigs that ate human shit had that peculiar and favorable flavor no longer present in present-day pork. Other people may go “Yuk!” reading this, but I insist on its unmitigated truth.

Anyhow, there was no toilet paper back in those times. Even other types of paper were rare and precious. It was good if there were old newspapers or any other paper that may be used to wipe the anus after feeding the pig with your shit, but even if there was, the general attitude back then was to prefer other material to clean the anus with.

My favorite was the rocks used to line the pigpen. The pens were actually designed so that some of the rocks used were purposefully placed at an angle so that one may slide the crack of one’s buttocks over them, thereby getting rid of any residue of shit from one’s anus.

Now, in a household with many members, the number of rocks placed for this purpose may not be enough. Even in our “barbaric” times, we went “Yuk!” if we had to wipe our ass over a rock where somebody has already deposited residues of his shit.

What does one do then? Well, a solution would be to donate one’s shit to the neighbor’s pig and make use of their wiping rock. Or one may pick up some smaller rocks and use it to wipe the ass with.

If my favorite rock was already used, I would wait until the residue dries up before I do my own thing. The rocks were left like that until the next day. Dogs do their part by licking the rocks “clean” so that they may be used again.

The leaves of several plants were also often used for the purpose, but leaves had the habit of tearing, and if they do tear, you might end up wiping your anus with your bare hand.

In other communities, like in Kalinga, pigs were kept in a common fenced area, and everybody had to go inside the fence to rid oneself of his waste. Once inside, and you prepare to do your thing, every pig within smelling distance would crowd around you, wanting to get a bite of that delicacy that comes out of your anus. It often occurs that an impatient pig would prod you with its snout.

The trick was to shit in a corner, so that you could see the pigs coming. One should carry a stick, so that you could drive impatient and insistent pigs away before you are done. The stick has an additional purpose. After defecating, it may be used to slide over the anus, thereby cleaning out the residue of shit. If the stick you happened to pick up to drive the pigs away was used for the same purpose earlier, you would know when you smell your hand and savor that aroma of shit that the pigs like so much.

Such was the way it was.

 

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Up and down rocky paths

 

Five men were walking up the rocky path up a mountain. The lead man, the guide, was understandably the fastest of them, setting a pace that would enable the group to reach the top of the pass before the April sun would climb higher on the horizon.

(Photo: the farther mountain is where Saknong, the steep climb, is found)

 

Already, even as the sun has yet to reach its hottest position in the sky, the walkers were sweating profusely, except perhaps for the guide who was just ambling along as if on a Sunday stroll. The other four behind him were however drenched in sweat, with their shirts wetly clinging to their backs and sweat dripping down their brows, the salt from the sweat irritating their eyes. Nevertheless, they persisted, trying their best to keep the pace set by the guide.

(Photo: Bridge halfway up Saknong)

 

The last in the line of hikers was himself a fast walker, and familiar with the paths they walked. He perhaps chose to take the tail-end position for this reason, as he would then be able to encourage the less able walkers in the middle.

The second in the line was very able to keep the pace, never lagging far behind the guide, though he perhaps also had difficulty doing so.

(Photos: Some of the walkers, on the way back. Upper photo shows Constantino Sudaypan and Kolbel Acquiapat, lower phot shows Acquiapat and Raleigh Agdaca)

 

The third in the line was also an able walker, steadily following the leaders. He was aided by a walking stick, one of those lightweight collapsible metallic canes. He was correct in bringing along the cane in the hike, for a cane certainly would have helped the fourth walker. The fourth walker was the slowest of them all, repeatedly pausing to catch his breath every once in a while, and drinking more than his share of the water that the hikers brought along.

The leaders would, every once in a while, stop in a shaded portion of the path to wait for the others. But before the sweat stopped flowing, the group would once again strap their backpacks on and continue the hike. Their pace for the most part prevented them from appreciating the view of the surrounding mountains, mountains that seemed to be made up of rock, mountains whose sides were steep faces that showed interesting formations, mountains that, either bare of vegetation or covered with it, were spectacular sceneries.

The hike was supposed to take five hours, at the pace of the locals. With this group of walkers, they would take seven hours.

The earlier part of the hike was down a much gentler slope, taking the walkers an hour to the bottom, probably some 500 meters lower in elevation than where they started. The long climb up the mountain was much steeper, going up to the top of the pass 500 meters from the valley floor. The climb, due to the steepness of the path, would take them more than two hours before they reached the top.

(Photos: Kids of Tawang, Kapangan, the village found in the valley before the climb up Saknong)

 

Yet after reaching the top of the climb, they still had to go down the slope before they would arrive at their destination.

Were they backpacking tourists, or thrill-seeking mountain climbers? Nay, they were not.

Badeo, in Kibungan, is arguably the most remote village in that town, though Takadang, also of that town, holds the same claim. It was in these barangays that the Igorot Global Organization (IGO) gave 20 solar home systems (SHS) so that the people could have simple lighting. The hikers were going to Badeo to see how these solar home systems were faring. Were the SHS still working? How have the people benefited from the project? What changes resulted in their lifestyle after the SHS were installed? Etcetera, etcetera.

(Photo: the mountainside along the road was planted with sayote. While the group was in Badeo, police officers reportedly found marijuana planted underneath one of the sayote plantations.)

While walking down the mountain earlier, the group met two sets of walkers from Badeo. These walkers were carrying two sick persons to be brought to the hospital in Baguio City. The people of Badeo have to carry their sick some 17 kilometers, by their estimation, of uphill and downhill paths before they can reach the road, and so transport their sick to the hospitals, either in the Kibungan town center or in the farther places of Baguio and La Trinidad.

The remoteness of the place was underlined by the spectacle of the village people carrying their sick, and to see two groups in succession was truly sad.

People would ask, why did the people of Badeo build their village so far from the road? Why did they build their homes in so inaccessible a place?

They did not do it intentionally. these villages were there before roads were built. These villages rose in these places because it was in these places that people found some arable land that could support them. These villages rose because it was in these places that earlier people found water, and game.

If colonial road builders happened to build their roads passing through Badeo or Takadang, then the situation will be reversed, so that the it would be the other parts of Kibungan that will be far from the road, and thus remote. But perhaps the rocky terrain in these barangays kept this from happening, so that we are stuck to the present reality that to reach Badeo and Takadang, one has to hike for more than five hours.

And the village people would have to carry their sick the same distance, along the same steep and rocky paths, to reach the hospitals.

 

Solar home systems

From the provincial road linking Kibungan municipality to the rest of the world, the first settlement of Badeo, Kibungan that may be reached is the village of Tableo. Yet one may reach the place only after nearly five hours of rigorous hiking down a mountain to Tawang village in Kapangan, up “Saknong,” a rocky mountain pass, and down the mountain to Tableo.

(Photo: another suspension bridge on the way to Badeo)

 

Tableo has 38 households, an elementary school, and a daycare center. In the school year 2010-2011, there were some 12 pupils attending the school, being taught by an intrepid volunteer teacher. The teacher was solely responsible for teaching the various grades. In the past year, the 12 pupils were distributed in three grade levels, so that the teacher was handling three classes all at once, trying her very best to impart the necessary skills and knowledge that the state educational curriculum required.

It was in Tableo that 3 solar home systems (SHS) were installed in April 2007, 2 in the school and 1 in the Daycare Center. 8 other SHS units were installed in other settlements in Barangay Badeo. 9 similar units were installed in Barangay Takadang.

The Australia component of the Igorot Global Organization (IGO-Aus) funded the solar energy project, through a scheme being implemented by the Philippine National Oil Company (PNOC). The original plan was for 40 SHS to be provided to Badeo and Takadang. The plan was hatched in the 6th Igorot International Consultation in Australia in 2006.

(Photo: Part of Badeo "proper" one of several dispersed hamlets composing the barangay.)

 

The SEP scheme was for the SHS to be provided to private household beneficiaries, with the beneficiaries paying for the SHS units at a subsidized price of P20,000, and with an initial installment of P2,500. However, villagers in Tacadang and Badeo were lukewarm to the idea of paying for the units, even at the subsidized price. Intent to help, the IGO-Aus, with the help of charitable persons, raised the necessary amount so that beneficiaries in Badeo and Tacadang will not have to pay for the SHS units. It was also decided that the SHS will be installed in public structures such as schools, barangay halls, and daycare and health centers.

(Photo: one of many surviving cogon houses in Badeo)

 

Also, only 20 SHS units were brought to Kibungan, instead of 40 units. The remaining 20 units were brought to Asipulo in Ifugao where private households were more willing to pay for the units at the subsidized price. The PNOC contractor in charge of the installation of the SHS was expected to properly orient and train the beneficiaries as to the maintenance of the solar units. The contractor was also expected to visit the units at least once a year for two years after installation.

It was in April of this year that IGO-Aus, now called MABIKA Aus, sent a group to Badeo to check on the status of the SHS installed there. The group found that only one of the units installed in Tableo is functional. The two other units were not functioning. The main cause of the malfunction was the battery electrolyte solution drying up. Normal maintenance requires that distilled water be added to the batteries when the solution levels drop. Because the batteries dried up, the zinc and copper plates necessary for the batteries’ function became warped, rendering these useless.

Apparently, while the SHS were installed to benefit the entire Tableo community, no single person was identified to be primarily responsible for maintenance. In addition, the promised visits by the contractor never materialized. At the time of the recent April 2011 visit, the Tableo villagers said that it was the volunteer teacher and the Parents Teachers Association (PTA) who became responsible for the maintenance. Yet the villagers admitted that they were ill-equipped to do it. And so the batteries were destroyed, and 2 of the SHS ceased to function.

The solar panels and the supplied control panels continued to function, however, and an enterprising villager bought a car battery from far-away Baguio that they could charge using the solar unit in the daycare center. After charging, the battery is then brought to their home, where they make use of it for lighting. In a way, then, the SHS continued to function for the very reason it was donated to the community for: rudimentary lighting.

The SHS installed in Kibungan were supplied with 2 fluorescent fixtures for 10-watt tubes, as well as for 2 compact fluorescent lamps and 2 DC outlets. Since these were installed in public buildings, it was expected that their primary use was for public activities.

Well and good, but then its uses became limited. After all, schoolchildren are dismissed when it is still light, and normal daylight makes the lighting fixtures superfluous. The lighting function of the solar units was more helpful to the teachers, who could continue working on their reports and lesson plans after dark.

Of course the SHS were used for other public functions, such as village meetings and social activities, for the people could continue in their activities even after dark. It is noteworthy that in the classroom with the functional battery, a stereo component that could run on DC power may be found. The villagers have been using the stereo component during these public gatherings.

But social gatherings and meetings are few and far between, and while the batteries are expected to be fully charged after each reasonably sunny day, making use of the solar units for these purposes is an under-maximization of their potential.

The people also found another use for the solar units, perhaps with the intention of maximizing these, and that is to make use of the DC outlets to charge cellular phones. Before the solar units were installed, people had to hike the long distance to the road where they could charge their phones in AC outlets, at the cost of P20 per hour. Now, with the DC outlets, they could charge their phones right there in the village, for free.

The villagers admit that owning a cellular phone prior to the coming of the SHS was not practical. With phone charging right at their village, however, more and more of them found the necessity of purchasing these marvels of technology that would enable them to communicate with their relatives and friends in the outside world.

While the people would not admit it, there were some of them, aside from the one already mentioned, who were also charging their own car batteries using the SHS, and so could have electrical lighting in their homes, if only for a few hours at night and in the early morning.

The whole exercise of providing the SHS highlighted the functionality of the system, so that some of the villagers are have acquired their own solar units, belying their initial rejection of the proposal for them to purchase the SHS at a subsidized price. One of these households even has a DC-powered television set. The TV set becomes particularly popular during media events such as the Pacquiao boxing bouts, when the entire community would gather to watch, and the children acting out the punches delivered afterwards.

Perhaps it was the discovery of these many uses of the solar units, and the realization that the solar panels cost so much, that prompted the theft of 2 of the solar panels installed in other parts Badeo. Some of the lighting fixtures in Tableo are also lost, perhaps taken by people with battery-powered lighting systems in their homes.

Thus, while the SHS are still under-maximized and one of three non-functional in Tableo, the project has had a profound impact on the community. It has made the people realize that they could do much more with nighttime lighting, and their means of communication with the outside world has vastly improved.

If only for this, the IGO SEP project in Kibungan could be deemed successful.

 

Electric-powered predictions in a remote place

The Igorot Global Organization donated 11 solar home systems to Badeo, Kibungan, and another nine SHS to Tacadang, in the same municipality. Aside from these, the Benguet State University-Affiliated Non-Conventional Energy Center (BSU-ANEC) also brought to the same barangays solar charging systems specifically designed so that beneficiary communities could charge batteries for use in their homes.

These solar energy projects have brought rudimentary lighting and DC-powered current to these communities.

(Photo: The sun rises over Badeo)

(Photos: Steep rock faces that are the main feature of the Kibungan landscape.)

 

Prior to these projects, the people in these places had no electricity, apart from those who went through the trouble of lugging their heavy batteries for charging in the distant central villages of Kibungan. These projects also heralded the acquisition of similar solar home systems by the more affluent households, so that the two remote barangays could now be described as energized, even as many households have yet to benefit from the technology.

Perhaps the most noticeable effect of the coming of electricity, albeit solar-powered, is that the people in these places have developed the need for electricity, whether for lighting, to power their transistor radios, to charge their cellular phones, or to watch DC-powered television sets. Arguably, these are basic needs in other parts of the world, and it is quite wrong to deny the people of Badeo and Tacadang the same amenities. Indeed, the right to information and the need for the same; as is now conveniently made more available through the radio, cellular phones and television; is a development that would sufficiently justify the solar energy projects. The ease of communication made possible by the cellular phones is also another powerful justification, as is the simple lighting systems that enable the people to extend activities into the dark hours at night.

Then again, beyond answering these basic needs, the coming of solar energy has introduced other needs that may mean far-reaching and profound changes in the way of life of these erstwhile simple communities. An example would be the cellular phones that now have become regular implements in several households. The cost of a cellular phone is no laughing matter, and to use these it is necessary to pay the cellular companies, or to buy “load,” that expires after a period of time, necessitating another purchase. As would be expected, the cellular phone users would not limit the use of their phones to essential communication, but would include the less-than-necessary text messages and calls that would increase their consumption of airtime and “load.”

(Photo: Light mist covers the mountains that are part of the uphill and downhill climb to Takadang.)

 

While these phones answer the need and convenience of instant communication, they nevertheless also mean that the people have to spend for something they originally did not.

It is yet unfathomable how the incessant advertisements in radio and television shows affect the people’s thinking. It is however expected that continuing exposure to these advertisements would develop other needs, at least in the people’s perception, that would entail additional expenditures for their fulfillment.

These developments would gain more speed when the villages are fully energized via the national electrical grid, through the Benguet Electric Cooperative. As of the moment, the Beneco has already laid out electrical lines to some villages in Badeo and Takadang. A month ago, however, the Beneco has yet to energize the lines since the villagers have yet to signify their intention to avail of the utility service.

(Photo shows high tension electric wires along the path to Badeo.)

 

The reason why the villagers have not yet applied for electrical connections is their perception that it is beyond their means, specially the initial outlay that they have to shell out for the electric meters and wiring in their homes. In a way, they have yet to understand the potential of electrical energy, and the profound change that would result once they get used to it.

We could just imagine when one of the villagers would buy a refrigerator or freezer, and would learn to make the Filipino cold treat “ice candy.” When the children would taste the sweet frozen delight, then they would definitely develop a liking. This would introduce another “need” for frozen treats. Then other treats like ice cream or cold soda drinks would also become part of the people’s fare.

(Photo: Young children of Badeo, with the village's oldest living resident, Uyad Guwapo)

 

(Photo: Uyad Guwapo and Raleigh Agdaca, MABIKA- Aus representative)

The manifold electronic devices, like radios and stereos, computers, television and DVD players, as well as power tools and everything that runs on electricity, would later on be craved by the people of Tacadang and Badeo. Rightfully so, for these are already regular fare in other parts of the municipality and the country.

Yet the question that begs to be asked is whether the people of these villages have the means to sustain the enjoyment of these amenities, from the small value of “load” to the cost of electricity, from the cost of DVDs to the cost of elaborate home entertainment systems.

The price of electricity and the amenities it brings with it is no small thing, but once it gains a foothold in Badeo and Tacadang, there would be no stopping it.

The people would then be hard put to satisfy the introduced needs. As it is, the economy of the place has hardly changed in the past several decades, owing to its remoteness from the market centers.

The people themselves recognize that, in terms of priority, what they most need is access to the market for their goods. What they most need is a road connecting their place to the rest of the world. They need the road so they could transport their goods, and engage in commerce, and thereby become economically empowered.

Without greater economic empowerment, they would have to continue to rely on the traditional subsistence economy, an economy barely able to provide for their daily needs.

Even without the costs of electricity and electrical amenities, the people of Badeo have had to resort to the planting of “high-value crops” that would be profitable despite the remoteness of the place. This high-value crop just happens to be contraband, so that more than a dozen of the people of the place are now languishing in jail. Yet many choose to plant marijuana still, for it is one product that, even if transported for hours of backbreaking trails, would result in a profitable sale.

Of course electricity would make the transport of this contraband much easier, for then they would discover that the weed may be compacted using electric-powered presses, and then processed into hashish or hashish oil. Electricity would then become truly affordable, and those who engage in the trade would acquire all the amenities they would want.

Yet we know that only a small fraction of the population are actually engaged in the trade. It is unfortunate that, with the entry of electricity, they might be the only ones who might be able to maximize its use.

If other livelihood opportunities are not made available to the people there.

 

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It was in the 1960s and the 1970s that our grandfather, Angel Agpad, was recognized as an indigenous healer.

His prowess as a healer was perhaps better appreciated in villages other than his home village in Sagada, Mountain Province, though even then many of the local folk would approach him for remedies to whatever ailments or discomfort that they might be feeling. Remedies that he prescribed were mostly concoctions from the many herbs that he had, with indigenous prayers and sometimes with the ritual slaughter of chicken.

He was also skilled in a form of reflexology and acupressure, as well as in the mending of dislocated joints or strained muscles. “Mangngilot” was a term used to refer to him to reflect this skill.

These remedies are mostly lost to us now, though we his grandchildren were beneficiaries of his skills, as the odd headache, sprained ankle, diarrhea or other complaints seemed to disappear after we ingested a bitter herb, were massaged by him, or drank chicken soup.

His remedies were primarily traditional, but he was astute enough to recognize the shortcomings of some of his prescriptions, specially in dealing with infections. For this, he also carried with him powerful antibiotics that he mixed with the traditional cures when the complaints involved dangerous infections. In other cases, he would actually recommend that the patient seek the help of medical professionals, if the malady is beyond his prowess.

Our grandfather walked with a limp, with one of his legs always askew, making it necessary for him to carry a cane wherever he went. That he walked with a limp perhaps bolstered his reputation as a healer, for to reach the many villages he ministered to, he had to walk many kilometers. His perseverance in these long treks perhaps added to people’s faith in his abilities, and thus ultimately increased the effectiveness of his cures, as “patients” were psychologically more receptive of the cures.

For one reason or other, our grandfather was referred to as “Injun Joe,” another example of how the people of Sagada bestowed names upon their brethren. The name stuck, and until now, we his grandchildren would occasionally refer to the patriarch as Injun Joe.

Injun Joe visited many villages as a healer, going to Ilocos Sur, Abra, Kalinga and wherever he was called to serve. In these places, he invariably made friends – with the people he healed, and with people in general. It was not uncommon that these friends would give him gifts when he finally left their village. Thus Injun Joe would come home to Sagada laden with goods such as tobacco, dried meat, dried beans, and whatever his “patients” gave him in appreciation of his work.

Up to now, his descendants are not surprised when the descendant of those he healed would visit Sagada and renew friendships with the family, in an enduring appreciation of Injun Joe’s healing abilities. They are manifold, and it is not uncommon that his indigenous name Agpad has become part of the roster of names of those he helped.

One of the more significant friendships that Agpad has developed is with the people of Betwagan, Sadanga, Mountain Province.

He has been to the place several times as a healer, and also as a guest to the many traditional ritual feasts of that village. His continuing interaction with the amiable people of Betwagan further bolstered Agpad’s relations with them.

Yet perhaps what makes his relationship with Betwagan so special is the story of how he performed a seeming miracle as a healer.

In one of his visits to the place, he came upon the people at a wake, watching over one of their kin, apparently dead. Agpad did not believe that the person was dead, and convinced the people that they should first try to revive the “dead” person. Agpad came up with herbal concoctions that they force-fed or otherwise ingested into the person.

The person was revived, and lived a long life.

Perhaps some other person could have noticed that the person being mourned was not yet dead and could be revived, and perhaps that person could have administered a remedy to make it happen. A medical professional most certainly would have been able to, and in the process would have gained the enduring appreciation, and friendship, of the people of Betwagan.

Serendipity however put Injun Joe in the place where he could help, and it was upon him that the people of Betwagan bestowed their generous friendship.

Since then, our extended family in Sagada became the close friends of several large families in Betwagan. Our names, both the indigenous ones and Christian baptismal names, became the names of our friends in Betwagan. Nay, they are more than friends, but brothers, sisters, family.

They come in numbers to join us in our celebrations, or to help us in our hardships. Whenever we visit their place, they treat us like royalty, so that we often are reduced to embarrassed gratitude. Whenever they visit us, they bring with them the usual token gifts of rice, and the ever-present basi or sugarcane wine.

Such relations have endured for several generations already, and we hope that it will continue forever, so long as our lines endure. We hope that eventually one of the descendants of Agpad marry into the families in Betwagan, and so seal a relationship he started by being a healer.

 

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The indigenous peoples of the Cordilleras invariably perform several rituals in the life cycle of an individual, from pregnancy until death, and most of the time even after death.

These rituals for the most part involve the slaughter of sacrificial animals, or what may be more appropriately called ritual animals. The type and number of ritual animals depends largely on the ritual itself, and the social status of the family for whom the ritual is performed. Thus a single chicken might suffice, or the ritual might involve the slaughter of several pigs. Some communities would require the slaughter of carabaos, cows or bulls, horses, or dogs. Ritual celebrations might last for a few hours, a day, or several days. And because there are several animals butchered, the entire villages, as well as friends and relatives from neighboring villages, are invited to partake of the feast.

(Photo: A carabao is prepared for cutting up prior to a wedding in Baguio.)

(Photo: Butchering one of two carabaos slaughtered.) (Photo: Separating the meat to be distributed to those who participated during the slaughter.)

There are a variety of reasons for these ritual feasts. One of the most popularly known are celebrations of indigenous weddings. In many parts of Mountain Province, these weddings are scheduled during particular months of the year, mostly when there is a lull in the activities of the rice agricultural cycle. The reason for this schedule is that the village people would not be unduly disturbed when the wedding feasts are performed. For the same reason, the weddings were performed all at once, together. It was not uncommon to have more than a dozen couples wed at the same time, with celebrations on-going at different houses of a village, and gongs-a-plenty being played in melodious cacophony when several couples wed are neighbors.

The number of ritual animals prescribed as necessary for weddings were the same, and it involved feasts before, during and after the actual wedding. And since no animals are butchered for no ritual reason, this number may not be added to, so that the amount of meat may actually not be enough if the guests to the feast are many. However, if the meat cut up into small pieces still do not suffice, the guests would be as content to sip the stew or soup, and would be just as content in their participation. It was not an uncommon occurrence, since the pigs bred in earlier times were really small, and took several years to mature. The chickens were the same. Even if several pigs and chickens were slaughtered according to the rituals performed, there might not be enough for the assembled guests, and thus while it remains a feast, it would not be a feast of unnecessary extravagance, as indeed nothing is wasted, and sometimes the meat is not enough.

In latter times, this might have changed, since the pigs that we have now grow to gigantic sizes, and so the meat from a single pig now would exceed the meat from five pigs of the traditional variety. The number of required ritual animals have however remained the same, so that the amount of meat now available during feasts has significantly increased. Often, therefore, these ritual ceremonies truly satisfy the meaning of a “feast” in the sense that there is abundance of culinary delights. With our absorption of foreign influences, these feasts now include other delicacies as cakes and salads of all kinds, pasta preparations, candy, and many other purchasable whatnots to tickle our discriminating palates.

Many communities have also lifted the prohibition on the slaughter of animals more than those required by the rituals, so that in many cases, the hosts of these ritual feasts would butcher several more animals than ritually required.

These present-day realities might be the reason why there are more and more people who say that the old ritual ceremonies and the requirement of ritual animals are unnecessarily extravagant. Critics of traditional feasts say that these rituals unnecessarily strain the economic resources of those hosting the rituals, that these hosts are better off investing their resources rather than “wasting” these in “extravagant” feasts.

What is conveniently forgotten by these critics is that ritual feasts traditionally were graduated, that is, the number of ritual animals varies according to the social standing of the hosts, and with those relatively well-off expected to slaughter more, according to their status.  In a way, it was the communities’ way of redistributing wealth among the villagers, for the lesser-off are expected to slaughter less animals for the same ritual. Further, these rituals do not happen only at the behest of the hosts, but as an affirmation of the hosts’ belongingness to the community. It becomes their social obligation, and the rest of the community are expected to help in whatever way they can, either by “lending” mature animals, by helping in the preparations, and assisting in the different tasks during the ceremonies. In many rituals, too, people quite naturally help out by donating to the hosts, either in the form of their labor, rice and other foodstuffs, or by donating ritual animals. These donations are regulated only by the villagers’ ability to extend help and certainly not mandatory. Thus the ritual feasts are actually a culmination of the oneness of the community.

The success of a feast is more aptly measured by the cohesion and mutual-help systems of the village, and the number of guests during the feast.

(Photo: Part of the more than a thousand guests at the Baguio wedding.)

In weddings and wakes, guests are allowed to give donations in many forms. Of course, in older times, these were in the form of rice and other food, their physical labor and presence during the festivities, ritual animals, wine, and most anything else that might be needed. It encouraged the mutual-help systems that existed in those times. Family relations also figure prominently, with relatives, no matter how far removed, chipping in whatever they can to help.

Current times have not diminished the feeling of community and family relations in indigenous feasts. Rather, because we have become more affluent as we engaged in non-traditional economic endeavors, the gifts we give during these feasts have also gained affluence. Instead of the traditional rice and foodstuffs we donated to each other, the availability of cash has many of us giving cash donations during special feasts. It is arrogant for any of us to refuse whatever help our guests give us, for these guests are merely affirming their belongingness to the community, or our relations with them, or both. It is their way of saying that they are one with us.

With all the donations that our guests and the members of the family and community readily share, it is but natural that newly-weds, for instance, would not scrimp on the preparations, and provide the community with a feast worthy of their being counted as members of that same community.

The mutual-help systems, while they yet exist, are the reasons why our feasts continue to be relevant and practicable. When we lose these systems, then indeed feasts like the ones we hold now would really strain the economic resources of hosts, and would become truly unnecessarily extravagant.

Of course, critics of indigenous feasts might base their notions on their acquired religious biases, but that is another story. 

 

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