Bontoc: Taking the High Road

Over our years of traveling, we’ve gotten around by a number of different vehicles: planes, bikes, Rosie the Honda, ships, ropeways, pogo sticks, etc..  The most odious of these for long-distance travel is, arguably, the night bus.  We took a number of night buses in Japan between Osaka and Tokyo or Hiroshima, and typically it combines all the fun of taking an airplane with all the suckiness of a long driving trip.  At least the Japanese highway buses were as safe as everything else in Japan -- though I may have gotten some bad nights of sleep (and subsequently squandered the following days napping or sitting in coffee shops, staring into space), at least I never had any fear for my possessions or, you know, my life.

The bus from Quezon City to Bontoc was different, at least at first.  When the taxi driver had had a difficult time finding the bus terminal, we pulled over in front of a Starbucks to squint at a map for ten minutes.  While we idled there by the side of the road (which turned out to be just around the corner from our destination), a shoeless street boy began tapping on Jenn’s window.  She did her best to wave him away, but he stood there, crying something we couldn’t understand, and his tapping started to grow more insistent.  Eventually we puzzled out our location and zoomed away from the boy.  Our taxi driver, a charming older man, had warned us that the roads to Bontoc could be “steep.”  We thanked him, confused, wondering what our duties were as passengers to ensure our safe arrival, and got out at the bus terminal.

The terminal was, basically, a couple of buses under an electric light.  Feral dogs prowled around the buses, chasing each other and scratching themselves more than I was comfortable with.  Occasionally they would stalk the feral cats, who themselves were occupied with chasing the mice.  The bus was kept in place with chunks of concrete in front of its wheels.  Nobody else was around except for the ticket booth attendant; somehow we had gotten there an hour early.  With nothing to do except look at the bus and watch the circle of life play out around us, I began to imagine the various things that could go wrong on this trip (not recommended).

Jenn posed while I worried.

Eventually we did make it onto the bus, which was much more comfortable than the outside suggested, especially when we found we could stash our big backpack in the aisle rather than at our feet.  I was even able to sleep a little, though the first time I was awakened it was by our neighbor across the aisle lurching to his feet, opening the window, and sticking his head out of it.  Groggy, the only thing I could think at first was that he was trying to commit suicide by traffic-related decapitation (also not recommended), but when I saw streaks of something splash on the window, I realized that the motion had gotten to be too much for him.  Before he had finished, another passenger stood to do the same, then another.  Maybe it was the motion, maybe they had eaten some bad balut, but whatever the reason, it got all Stand By Me in there in a hurry.

I awoke again to realize that we were the only ones on the bus.  Looking out the window, I saw the other passengers eating breakfast at a roadside canteen.  “Oh well,” I thought, and tried unsuccessfully to shut out the dawn light and go back to sleep.  When that proved unsuccessful, I checked out our surroundings.  Ten hours on the bus, and we may have been on a different planet.  The mountains rose above us, green and sharp, and the valleys below were filled with mist.  Of course, with the improved view of our scenery that daylight allowed, I also got to see just how terrifyingly narrow and poorly-maintained our road was.  Time for some retroactive worrying!

We pulled into Bontoc, capital of the Mountain Province in the Cordillera Mountains, at about 7:30, a whole hour before our scheduled arrival.  The town was considerably bigger than we had imagined: the main street at which we had stopped was lined with general stores, tailors, hotels, restaurants, hotel-restaurants, restaurant-bars, general store-restaurants, and hotel-restaurant-bar-general stores.  It’s a nice, quiet place, a welcome respite from the smog and crowds of Manila.  We noticed immediately that the Jeepneys were rather subdued compared to Manila’s, though the tricycles are much more tricked out, some to the point where they look like popcorn stands/pinball machines.

Of course, our first order of business was to get some food, find somewhere to put our bags, and begin to explore the town.  We wandered into the “Drop By Cafe,” which fulfilled all of our requirements for eateries (that is, it was within sight).  The food at this cafe was good enough that we went again for breakfast the next day; they make a mean longsinog.  Also, we were privileged to meet The Most Awesome Kid in the World, who is already far more badass than I will ever be, and at the time was playing with a giant-ass knife (pictured).

May I draw your attention to the giant-ass knife?

He then went on to try to steal a motorcycle.  I fucking love this kid.

After a cup of coffee and a heavy breakfast, we were now recharged and fully ready to go back to bed for awhile.  Fortunately, one of the local hotel-restaurant-etc.s was willing to let us check in at 9 a.m.  A little nap did us a world of good, giving us the energy to take a photo out of the hotel window, then go out to lunch.

Bontoc, our guidebook told us, is notable for its location high in the Cordillera Mountains, and has traditionally been a trading point for local mountain tribespeople (Alex had described it as “like that bar in that movie ‘Star Wars,’ what was it called again?” and that’s how Harry rolled his eyes so hard they fell out of his head).  It’s also a destination for hiking, trekking, and other adventurous activities that really shouldn’t be attempted after a heavy lunch.  It is worth noting at this point that we have not had any meal in the Philippines that hasn’t been heavy.  We decided to puzzle this one out while exploring the Bontoc Museum.

On the way, we passed by the school, which, in my expert opinion, found the best “X” for its alphabet that I have ever seen.

The Museum, as promised by the guide, was excellent, and contained a great deal of interesting artifacts from traditional daily life of the indigenous tribes.  Though few of the artifacts or photographs had dates on them, we were able to deduce that it was probably from the ‘60s or ‘70s due to three major clues: first, the map of the Philippines mentioned that the indigenous peoples were about four million strong, accounting for 12% of the nation’s population (the current population of the Philippines is around 86 million); second, it kept using words like “Mohammedan” and “tribals”; and third, one of the photos featured two young people in traditional garb with a guy wearing bell bottoms behind them.

Indeed, as we wandered around the museum, appreciating the rattan baskets and photos of elderly tribespeople smoking pipes, we started to get our Critical Thinking danders up.  One group of photos of Kalinga people working on their farms was captioned “The Tribals Rely Upon Mother Earth.”  Also, the insistence on referring to some of the indigenous residents as “headhunters” was ignorant and insulting.  That is, until we came to the “headhunting” section of the museum, which featured actual human skulls, gongs with jawbone handles, and a photo of a guy holding up a head he had just cut off.  That was...ah...some persuasive support of the term “headhunter.”  Also there was a picture of a headless corpse being carried on one of those sticks, y’know, the ones that are used to carry human beings as prisoners or...um...would it be insensitive to say that it made me think of "Return of the Jedi"?  You know, more than I already do?

We ended our evening the way all evenings everywhere should conclude: eating a delicious plate of sizzling sisig (that’s fried pork jowl and brain), downing some Red Horses, and talking international politics with a couple of Europeans.  My only quibble with the Cable Car Bar was its choice of entertainment, which was a couple of Filipino women (with great singing voices!) singing karaoke for our pleasure for two hours -- they were immediately followed by a cool younger dude with a guitar and a nice, mellow voice, who sadly chose to follow up his groovy introductory chords by saying “This is a song by Coldplay.”  =/ to the maximum.