The Road to Sagada
Text and Photos by Jeneen R. Garcia
first published in Sun.Star Cebu on Aug. 12, 2004
Seven hours. The long and winding trip along dusty mountain cliffs is not for the impatient or the faint of heart. In the middle of Igorot country, Sagada is a land as fierce as its warriors. Sharp rocks jut out between the pine trees, narrow dirt roads twist and turn among boulders.
Anyone taking that 7-hour bumpy ride to Sagada after traveling the 6 hours from Manila to Baguio must be crazy. But there we were, the seven of us who had made up our minds to go no matter what, sitting in the rickety 6 a.m. bus at the Dangwa terminal in Baguio. Because the journey is long and the roads are risky, the last trip out usually leaves by 11 a.m.
Alternating between sleep and awed stares at the view along the way, we got down at St. Joseph’s, a pension house on top of a hill. We had a late lunch (budget meals from P50 to P70 for poor souls like us), then met up with our guide at the Municipal Hall, near the marketplace. Guide fees depended on the size of the tour group and the place to be toured. We knew what we wanted to see: Sumaguing, the largest of a network of caves.
Sumaguing is reportedly at least 150 ft. high from floor to ceiling. The way down is slippery and dark, but once at the bottom, there are only flesh-colored rock formations and pools of ice-cold water. You have to swim to get from one side to another during the rainy season as water cascades down the rocks; in December and January, the pools can freeze from the cold.
That night, our bodies aching from the squeezes, ducks and climbs, at one point having to climb up a 180˚ rock wall with just a rope for support, we celebrated by the fireplace with a bottle of cocoa wine. Tapuy, their rice wine, was out of stock.
We chose to visit three nearby sights the next day: Echo Valley and its hanging coffins behind the church, an underground river, and a small waterfall. We could barely see the coffins from the cliff, so our guide, Kennet, brought us nearer. Up close, we could see what looked like graffiti on the rock face. Reading the writing, we realized they were the names and year of death of those in the coffins. One had died just the year before.
Re-tracing our steps, we trekked past the famous Sagada Weaving Center down another valley, this time for the underground river. The cave looked normal enough, but it had a river with sandy banks coming out of its wide mouth. Because we didn’t rent a lamp, we only stayed near the entrance. The next stop, the small waterfall, we saved for last to wash off the tiredness.
The waterfall was indeed small and unremarkable. Except that it flowed at the edge of a valley of rice terraces, green and earthy even on an overcast day. We took another path back to our pension house, through rice paddies and cabbage patches. Our limbs were quivering from exhaustion, but the view on the way up charmed away the pain.
As we hiked, we learned about the Igorot culture, especially about Sagada’s Kankana-ey tribe. Kennet, wearing shades, a jacket and rubber shoes, was an Igorot himself. Strangers are not allowed to live in Sagada, he said, unless they marry into the tribe. A Frenchman who had wed one of their lovely, rosy-cheeked women had to learn the Igorot dances; everyone in town had to be invited to the wedding. On these occasions, he said, they wear their traditional dress again. They also have an unspoken rule that whoever cuts a tree must plant several more.
On the way down to Manila via Banaue, we had to change jeepneys at Bontoc, the capital of Mt. Province. We stayed long enough to drop by a museum that showcased the many Igorot tribes, their differences in clothing and practices. One Kanakana-ey named Masferré, half-Igorot and half-Spanish, had had enough vision to capture the Igorot way of life on film before modernization changed the landscape and the culture.
We took the last bus from Banaue at 5 p.m. and arrived in Manila around 3 a.m. Ten hours. We must have been crazy. But only to the crazy does Sagada give its rewards.
first published in Sun.Star Cebu on Aug. 12, 2004
Seven hours. The long and winding trip along dusty mountain cliffs is not for the impatient or the faint of heart. In the middle of Igorot country, Sagada is a land as fierce as its warriors. Sharp rocks jut out between the pine trees, narrow dirt roads twist and turn among boulders.
Anyone taking that 7-hour bumpy ride to Sagada after traveling the 6 hours from Manila to Baguio must be crazy. But there we were, the seven of us who had made up our minds to go no matter what, sitting in the rickety 6 a.m. bus at the Dangwa terminal in Baguio. Because the journey is long and the roads are risky, the last trip out usually leaves by 11 a.m.
Alternating between sleep and awed stares at the view along the way, we got down at St. Joseph’s, a pension house on top of a hill. We had a late lunch (budget meals from P50 to P70 for poor souls like us), then met up with our guide at the Municipal Hall, near the marketplace. Guide fees depended on the size of the tour group and the place to be toured. We knew what we wanted to see: Sumaguing, the largest of a network of caves.
Sumaguing is reportedly at least 150 ft. high from floor to ceiling. The way down is slippery and dark, but once at the bottom, there are only flesh-colored rock formations and pools of ice-cold water. You have to swim to get from one side to another during the rainy season as water cascades down the rocks; in December and January, the pools can freeze from the cold.
That night, our bodies aching from the squeezes, ducks and climbs, at one point having to climb up a 180˚ rock wall with just a rope for support, we celebrated by the fireplace with a bottle of cocoa wine. Tapuy, their rice wine, was out of stock.
We chose to visit three nearby sights the next day: Echo Valley and its hanging coffins behind the church, an underground river, and a small waterfall. We could barely see the coffins from the cliff, so our guide, Kennet, brought us nearer. Up close, we could see what looked like graffiti on the rock face. Reading the writing, we realized they were the names and year of death of those in the coffins. One had died just the year before.
Re-tracing our steps, we trekked past the famous Sagada Weaving Center down another valley, this time for the underground river. The cave looked normal enough, but it had a river with sandy banks coming out of its wide mouth. Because we didn’t rent a lamp, we only stayed near the entrance. The next stop, the small waterfall, we saved for last to wash off the tiredness.
The waterfall was indeed small and unremarkable. Except that it flowed at the edge of a valley of rice terraces, green and earthy even on an overcast day. We took another path back to our pension house, through rice paddies and cabbage patches. Our limbs were quivering from exhaustion, but the view on the way up charmed away the pain.
As we hiked, we learned about the Igorot culture, especially about Sagada’s Kankana-ey tribe. Kennet, wearing shades, a jacket and rubber shoes, was an Igorot himself. Strangers are not allowed to live in Sagada, he said, unless they marry into the tribe. A Frenchman who had wed one of their lovely, rosy-cheeked women had to learn the Igorot dances; everyone in town had to be invited to the wedding. On these occasions, he said, they wear their traditional dress again. They also have an unspoken rule that whoever cuts a tree must plant several more.
On the way down to Manila via Banaue, we had to change jeepneys at Bontoc, the capital of Mt. Province. We stayed long enough to drop by a museum that showcased the many Igorot tribes, their differences in clothing and practices. One Kanakana-ey named Masferré, half-Igorot and half-Spanish, had had enough vision to capture the Igorot way of life on film before modernization changed the landscape and the culture.
We took the last bus from Banaue at 5 p.m. and arrived in Manila around 3 a.m. Ten hours. We must have been crazy. But only to the crazy does Sagada give its rewards.
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