© 1998, Harry S. Pariser. All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced in any form without permission of the author.

All photos © 1998 Harry S. Pariser.

Scenario: The year is 1979. I am visiting the Philippines from Kyoto, Japan where I am living. Marcos is still dictator. A German visitor tells me about the Kalinga region and Lubuagan. I decide to visit. What follows is what happened during these few days of my trip.

"Give me your bag," he insists." I call for help. Some of the band appear, to be followed shortly by a uniformed military man who, in turn, is followed by a jeep. It takes three men to pull him off me. "You know me, don't you?" he pleads to impassive faces. "You know me." I am ushered into the drinking place as he continues to argue outside. The local people apologize profusely. "He's not from here," they tell me. "They've been drinking since this morning." Another of the band, long-haired and semi-incoherent, assaults me with a wave of inebriated questions: "Why do you come here? Kalinga culture? (He grimaces). No! Why did you come here? You should have given him your bag."

He stomps off to be followed by the local commander who apologizes and promises that the first soldier will be punished "so that the next time he is drunk he will know what he is doing." "If you come back here five years from now it will not be like this," a lady informs me. "The dam will have been finished and we will all be living in mansions." "The dam will not be built until the last drop of the people there is shed," I had been told in Tabuk. The Dam. This is the big issue. The dam, which will generate electricity to be used in neighboring provinces, will flood the homes, ancient rice terraces, and cemetaries of the 18 families here. The government has had new houses built near Tabuk, but the land is inferior, the climate is different, and the promised monetary compensation has not arrived; the people fear it never will. "If the government grants 10,000 pesos at the top level, by the time it reaches the local level it will be 1000." Drunkenness and corruption--i.e. a "tax" on coffee passing by road, levied by soldiers with pointed rif1es--coupled with antipathy towards the locals as well as rather indiscreet actions on the part of the soldiers (such as firing into an cccupied house by accident when a truck unknowingly ran a checkpoint)--have generated sympathy and support for the leftist New People's Army.

"Have you met the nice people?," I had been asked in Tabuk. Although some have surrendered under the Marcos amnesty program, many are still fighting and living in the jungle near Lubuagan. This is is the reason for the presence of the military. "Mrs. Bravo says she will be afraid for your safety if you stay here. The drinking place is just below, and they might come at any time." You may stay in Mrs. Gayagay's home. She's the attorney here."

At dinner the adult members of the family converse, switching back and forth between Kalinga, Ilocano, Tagalog, and English. "Our training was in English. So when we use technical terms, it's easiest to speak in English."

Lubuagan is a modernized town with running water and electricity. The next morning I see weaving and visit the sole remaining traditional house. It has been constructed using little save bamboo and grass thatching. The sides are wood while parallel half-inch strips of bamboo lie as matting on the floor. It is a simple matter to slip any refuse down through to the garbage disposal-pig in-residence. One large room serves as kitchen, bedroom, and living room. There is no privacy, but it has a simple and attractive atmosphere. Three generations have lived here.

That afternoon, 75-years-old but stll vigorous Pablo appears, tattoos boldly displayed across his bare chest. "I killed five men," he told me: two Kalingas (with spears) and three Japanese (with guns).

According to tradition, a boy must kill and taste the blood of his first victim before he can be accepted into the community as a man. The blood of his victim gives the Kalinga warrior strength, without which he would die at a young age. The jaw of the victim is detached and boiled from morning to late afternoon, by which time most of the flesh will have disintegrated. Then, it is used as a handle for one of the ancient, brass Chinese gongs which are used in dancing. One pig or water buffalo is slaughtered as a sacrifice for the ceremony, and a slaughtered pig is also given to the man who performes the tatooing. Tattoos are made using a needle dipped in a paste concoction consisting of pine juice and sugarcane juice. For additional kills, more tattoos are added. (Females are tattooed strictly for beautification purposes).

Although tattooing and the taking of heads may be a thing of the past, tribal wars are still going on. At present, three villages are at war with each other. The rule is that when blood is drawn, a tribal war results. The entire village will take it upon itself to revenge a death. Often, years of feuding may pass before a po-podan or peace pact is arranged, giving cause for a celebration. Aside from the gangsa or brass gongs, the past remains in the form of dance, musical instruments, antique Chinese ceramics, and trading beads. Musical instruments include intricately engraved bamboo nose and mouth flutes, as well as various percussion instruments made from bamboo. Gosi are large Chinese jugs which, together with Ming plates, form a precious inheritance. But, probably the most highly prized possessions are the lo-wang or beads, one of which may be priced as high as one water buffalo. Today, they are increasingly rare, but once they were worn by both sexes.

The most famous creation of Kalinga culture, an accomplishment shared with but not equaled by the neighboring Igorot and Ifugao tribes, is the system of rice terraces. These terraces, built up from the river and stacked to imposing heights, are majestic and imposing features upon the natural landscape. They are irrigated by a system which has been thousands of years in the making. Rice is the lifeline of the Kalingas, and the terraces are the symbol of their struggle to survive.

The next afternoon I traveled along a hot, dusty, and precipitous road to Tinglayan where I stayed with the Barrio Captain. Tinglayan is a poor village where there is little to eat save rice and peas. The children are undisciplined, unruly, and obnoxious. Pigs run loose everywhere. A head was taken here just seven years ago. Tinglayan is situated below the mountain known as the "Sleeping Beauty," Resembling the profile of the reclining face of a woman, it has a legend attached to it: Once, a beautiful girl fell in love with and married a brave young warrior from another village. Just after their marriage, he was called to fight in a tribal war and was killed in battle. Filled with sorrow, she climbed to the top of the mountain and rested until death overtook her. Gradually, the the mountain has come to take on her features. As warriors who have gone there to hunt have never returned, locals regard this mountain as an enchanted place.

My next move is to cross the mountain to the isolated village of Dacalan. The route is steep, slippery, and treacherous. "You are shaking hands with every tree along the way," a local puts it. This route, however, is traversed with ease by women carrying sacks of rice on their heads or babies on their backs--leaving in the morning and returning by late afternoon.

My host in Dacalan wears amulets around his neck. He claims that he was instructed in a dream as to where to find them; they contain herbs which will protect him on the trail. In the evening, I offer to sleep ouside on the porch, but Tony argues that it is dangerous. I learn that a one-eyed demon may descend from the mountain and suck my blood while I sleep.

From Dacalan, I cross the rice paddies, rising high above the river, to the settlement of Lubo. Halfway there, I stop to ask directions and am invited to stay in the house of a middle aged schoolteacher. She points out plants in a nearby rice paddy. Irritating to the skin, they were planted in the belief that evil spirits could not coexist with them. She tells me of a Kalinga belief that if a small bird flies across your path and cries twice, you will meet with some misfortune when you arrive at your destination.

The Oldest Man in the World?

In the evening, I am introduced to the family's blind and nearly deaf father whom they claim to be 120 years old.I am introduced to the family's blind and nearly deaf father whom they claim to be 120 years old. They say he married his second wife after a barrenless 30-year marriage. But this would mean that he fathered his youngest child, now 26, when he was 94, a seeming impossibility. But if their claim is correct, it would make Dumayag Bagacon, the oldest man in the world!

Escorted to Lubo the next morning, I stay at the home of the barrio captain. His son, who is employed as a policeman in Tabuk, informs me that there will be a feast and dancing the following day. And a second one will be held the day after that. Here, as in Tinglayan and Dacalan, rice is threshed by hand but is plentiful whereas vegetables are scarce. Coffee is a major crop and is bartered for rice brought from Tinglayan.

The next morning the dancing commences with the sound of gongs. Various generations of males take turns in groups, banging on gongs and stepping around in semicircles, while women and young girls come out to dance in the center, their hands on their hips or spread out like wings. The men pound a frenetic beat until the end of each number when there is a frantic rush to lay the gongs down in unison.

Lunch, consisting of beef and rice, is served on split halves of bamboo. Throughout the day, consumption of San Miguel Gin and locally made sugarcane wine is heavy.

Towards late afternoon, an elderly tattooed lady, clad in native dress and wearing a ski cap, comes into the center of the circle. She is followed by the initiate who is wearing jeans, a tee-shirt, and a headdress with a feather inserted above each ear. Holding a dead chicken and carrying a loincloth,she circles around him like a hawk, rubbing these against his clothing. Then, suddenly, she veers away and falls in a dead faint. As the music and dancing continue for a few minutes, this seems to be part of the ritual. However, everything does grind to a halt. When she is attended to, she is shaking all over as if she had malaria. She claims to have seen a devil: "The devils were dancing with the people." And then one of the male elders comes into the center of the circle. A bottle of local wine is placed on a plate which rests, in turn, on top of a wooden pestle for threshing rice.

The old man then enters and says a few words in Kalinga about his headhunting days. With this, the formalities end, but the dancing goes on until late in the afternoon.

The next morning I watch as the pig is slaughtered. It lets out an unholy howl as it is tied up with strands of bamboo. As its throat is slashed, a bowl held below the throat catches the blood.

The next morning I watch as the pig is slaughtered. It lets out an unholy howl as it is tied up with strands of bamboo. As its throat is slashed, a bowl held below the throat catches the blood.

After carving up the sow, the liver is taken aside for a reading. The reading of the first pig slaughtered is unsatisfactory so the liver of the second is consulted. A pig's liver may show the future of a harvest, a family, or an about-to-be-married couple. If the reading is unsatisfactory, a wedding may be stopped. A reading may depend upon such details as how the gallbladder hangs in relationship to the liver.

Pork, chicken, and water buffalo are standard fare throughout Southeast Asia. However, Kalingas also eat dog, bat, eel, and monkey. The tribal elders caution against consuming the last, telling tales of men, having eaten monkey, suddenly stopping work, sticking a piece of wood up their anus, and running off into the forest, never to be seen again!

The rest of the day is a near replication of what went on the day before except that the devils fail to make an appearance. These devils or demons or spirits can be either good or evil and have different names, depending upon whether they live near humans or in the forest.

The next morning, together with my policeman friend and his two brothers, I depart to Tinglayan. However, as we are ascending, someone sees a little bird. They all decide to turn back. I go on alone and soon meet up with some other locals. As we hike, they complain about the lack of a good road and the proposed Chico River Dam: "Are we second class citizens? When will we get a road? If Marcos came here and saw how we are living, we would get one! If we ask the American government for aid, will they help us? They're trying to take our land, our livelihood! We will have to fight and die!"

about the author: Harry S. Pariser is the author of a number of travel guidesto the Caribbean and Central America. See http://www.savethemanatee.com