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Sunday in Baguio

Baguio, urban gateway to the Philippines’ Cordillera mountain range, six hours north of Manila:

Philippines Journey Map

The map of my journey around the northern part of the Luzon island in the Philippines, starting in Manila and working my way counter-clockwise. Flags represent locations where I overnighted.

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The Tribal Village of Butbut

It’s got a funny name, and I didn’t feel particularly welcome in this village. Or perhaps I was simply tired from all the trekking. Regardless, we did not stay long.

The Tribal Village of Tulgao

Remote, without phone or electricity, with only tiring and treacherous footpaths to reach it, the friendly mountain village of Tulgao:

Again, I have to thank my backup Panasonic camera for all these images. My regular Canon SLR, despite my best efforts, got wet during the previous day’s trek. Although the camera was functional, both lenses had internal moisture and fogged up, making them unusable for the remainder of the trek until I could properly dry them out. The little Panasonic was a real trooper though.

The Monkey Bridge

I took one long look at the plan my guide had hatched to cross the raging rapids, shook my head and said “no bleeping way.”

The regular bridge had, for whatever reason, been knocked out. It had been raining for a week straight (still was), and the water levels and intensity of the rapids had risen dramatically over their normal standards. Maybe if you fell in you’d be able to get out, but I’d had enough experience with rapids to know never to underestimate them. There was an even greater probability of serious injury or worse: strong currents smashing into hard rocks were not something to be trifled with.

Friends who have traveled with me know that I am not averse to risk. In fact, I tend to thrive on challenges and will admit to being the occasional adrenaline junkie. Skydiving, mountain climbing, bungee jumping, hardcore mountain biking and so on are all wonderful fun. But I like to think that I’m not insane, and certainly not suicidal.

There was also another factor weighing on my mind. Apart from the danger to myself, I was carrying two bags: a backpack with my overnight trekking essentials, and a pack on my front with some very expensive camera equipment. Even if I fell and made it out safely, the camera gear would be ruined.

And yet, what options did we have? The rapids had to be crossed, and we’d already strayed down from the path and hacked through dense underbrush to access this possible crossing spot. There was no visibly better spot anywhere else that we could see, and the rain would only make things worse, so waiting it out was not possible. I sat staring at it for a minute, practically paralyzed with fear.

There is only one antidote to fear: to shut off your mind and just act. As one of my colleagues once said to a subordinate in one of my all-time favorite expressions: “You have two options: just do it, or just bleeping do it.”

There were two parts to crossing the river at this location. The second part involved a makeshift bridge using two logs, as shown in the picture. But it’s the first section that had my heart pumping in my throat. You first had to reach that bridge.

To do that, I had to slide down a wet boulder on the banks of the rapids. Then reach my leg waaay out and step on a small, pointy rock visible in the middle of the water, six inches under water. Hope that my foot would not slide off the rock, or that the current would not push me in.

My left foot plunged into the icy cold water and found the rock, and I precariously found my balance. I was essentially doing the splits, facing upriver, with nothing for my hands to hold on to, my right foot on a wet rock on the shore and the other underwater in the middle of the water, rapids raging underneath between my legs. As I found my balance, I reflected that this had to be one of the stupidest things I’ve ever attempted in my life.

Then came the tricky part.

I had to use my right foot, the one still on the wet boulder on the banks, and propel myself off of it. Pivot 90 degrees on my left foot that was underwater, and launch myself over more rapids at the next boulder, in the middle of the river.

For this to work, I had to hope the following three things. That I could launch myself with enough force to not come short of the next boulder. That when I pivoted on the foot that was underwater, it wouldn’t lose its precarious grip and slip off, plunging me into the rapids. And that even if I made it to the boulder, which was rather steep and drenched in water, that I would be able to find some kind of grip on it and not bounce or slide back down into the water.

I hurled myself at the boulder. All or nothing. Crashed into it, the camera bag in front of me knocking the wind out of me and bruising my knees. Started slipping back down, but clawed desperately at the rock and found holds to stop myself. Paused for a second, whole body tense and catching my breath, then scraped my way up onto the rock. A step over to the next boulder, and then the bridge.

Two wet logs strapped together with sticks and vine, dangling over the rapids. Uneven, slick and wet, and each flexing and rolling differently under your weight (the smaller one had way more give).

Trying to cross those standing up was out of the question. No way I could keep from slipping with the slick logs turning and twisting. On my hands and knees, I’d have no way to check my balance, and my bags made me top heavy. One moment of instability and I’d instantly topple.

I had to cross sitting down, my legs dangling on either side, and inch my way forward. This meant both my feet were in the rapids, feeling their cold, strong current.

Slow going, but the nerve-wracking part came when I reached those little cross-beams tied to the logs. I had to inch up as close as possible. Then slowly–very slowly–raise my right leg up, out, and over the stick. All my weight was up, so one small twitch would have me tip over the left side and into the water. Slowly get my balance again, then raise my left leg, swing it out and over, then back down again. And so on.

When I finally reached the other side, stood up, and took stock, I could hear my heart beating in my ears. Couldn’t believe we’d just done that.

My guide Francis turned to me, wide-eyed. “That was very dangerous,” he said. You don’t say. He repeated it several times, whether to himself or to me I don’t know. I asked him later if anyone else had ever had to cross like that, and he admitted that I was the first one. The rapids had never been that bad.

Note that the picture shows the bridge after I had crossed it, looking back to the side from which we came. I was in no mood to take pictures prior to the crossing. The rock I had to jump onto in the first part is not the one the bridge is resting on, but the big one behind it, on the other side. You can’t see the rapids I had to straddle, but they looked much like the ones below the bridge, except wider and with an underwater rock visible in the middle.

We reached Tulgao an hour or so of vigorous, difficult climbing later. Both of us were exhausted, drenched and muddy, not a single dry piece of clothing between us. With no electricity in the village, when night fall came at 5:00pm, we were in bed sleeping by 5:30.

Trekking Through the Rain

Although you can’t necessarily tell from the images, it was raining hard all through the afternoon. Occasionally I would stop, marvel at the scenery, and decide that this was worth exposing my camera to the elements. I used my backup pocket camera for this task, a Panasonic LX3. Given the amount of rain that fell on it, my wet and muddy fingers, and its exposed location right in the cargo pocket of my wet pants (where it hit against ground and rocks on more than one occasion), it’s truly remarkable that it stood up to the elements.

Between the Fields

The drizzle turned to an unrelenting downpour, but despite the unfavorably wet conditions we had to press on. From our brief respite in Dananao we set off towards the even more remote tribal village of Tulgao.

Immediately, I learned something about rice fields. Pretty as they may be in pictures and postcards, when you get right down to it what we’re really talking about are little swamps walled in by mud. Sometimes, the walls between the fields have a few rocks, or a little grass, but even then the ubiquitous ingredient is most definitely mud, and mud is slippery. Especially when it rains.

Take a look at the picture to the right. The narrow little path to the left of the middle field is our trail. Swamp to the right, 10 – 15 foot dropoff with a swamp to the left, and a slippery little track of mud separating the two, just waiting for that little misstep or slippage. Oh, and you can’t step on the grass-it’s a trap. The grass grows out from the side of the wall and only looks solid, but should you be so foolish as to put your foot down on it, down you will go.

It required massive focus and concentration to deftly place one foot in front of the other, make sure it wasn’t going to slip on the slick uneven muddy surface, then advance with the next foot, and so on and on and on. Between rice field after rice field. I had visions of losing my precarious balance and plummeting into the field below, my camera equipment instantly and irrevocably massacred by a swamp of rice.

Inevitably, it happened. I slipped.

In all the glory of slow-motion, I lost my balance, and every sentient cell in my body cried out in unison: “fall to the right!” There’s just no way I wanted to plummet those 10 or more feet into the field on my left. My body lurched itself to the right with all the panicked effort I could muster, and my right leg plunged into the swamp.

Thankfully–and luckily–that was all it took. Only my leg went in. Cursing profusely, I pulled it out, now covered and dripping from mid-shin on down with a thick coating of fresh, slick mud. Which only made it that much more slippery going forward.

The Tribal Village of Dananao

A few images from the tribal village of Dananao. One family was kind enough to take us into their house for hot fresh coffee and some rice and soup before we headed out into the rain again.

Secrets of Regular Posting

A few people have asked how I am able to post regularly given some of the remote environments. There are two answers to that.

First, you’d be surprised at some of the places where you can find a computer with internet connection. All you need is a phone line, and a local savvy enough to make a buck (Filipino teens are particularly fond of online gaming).

Second, I have also been scheduling posts ahead of time. There are indeed places with no electricity, let alone phone service or an internet connection, and when I know I’m going to be inaccessible for a few days I try to schedule several posts ahead of time. So a new post can be coming online at the same time that I’m trudging through mud and dense jungle far away from civilization.

Like this post: I wrote it 24 hours ago. And I scheduled another one to post 15 minutes after this one…

Drizzle and Climb

“When you leave Philippines, maybe you find me wife,” my super-cool local guide Francis suggested. “Even fat one okay. A few months here in hills will make her into Coca-Cola shape.”

I burst out laughing at that one, but it was both true and practically an understatement: anyone spending more than a few months in this region would get in ridiculously good shape. Between the strenuous mountain footpaths that are the only traveling options from one village to another to the forced diet of rice and beans (with perhaps the occasional egg, chicken or pork thrown in now and then), it’s the kind of environment that would make even your local sweatpant-wearing, protein-bar eating gym rat weep and beg for mercy.

The rain made it worse, but that didn’t start in earnest until later. For the first part of the climb towards the tribal village of Dananao, we enjoyed those intermittent drizzles and sprinkles that have you constantly taking your poncho on and off. On to not get too wet and to protect your bag and camera gear, and off because the extra layer made it that much more hot and at a certain point the extra sweating might be worse than the drizzle. On, off, on, off, on, off. Blasted drizzle! Either way, you end up hot, uncomfortable and mostly soggy.

On the way, I learned about the hill tribes. For instance, each village has its own dialect, another reason why a guide is necessary. Wars between villages once led to the practice of headhunting, where a warrior would return with a kill and bring the head back as a trophy, the whole village would have a celebration, and the warrior would get new tattoos to commemorate his skill. While this particular tradition has mostly died down, skirmishes between tribes still occasionally continue to this day, only now they’re fought with guns and rifles instead of spears and arrows. Perhaps this explains why at the local police checkpoint in Tinglayan the officers walk around with M-16 machine guns, although I’m told the government does not get involved in these tribal disputes. Hmmm.