Banaue Rice Terraces: The Batad Experience

"We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves. We travel to open our hearts and eyes and learn more about the world than our newspapers will accommodate. We travel to bring what little we can, in our ignorance and knowledge, to those parts of the globe whose riches are differently dispersed. And we travel, in essence, to become young fools again -- to slow time down and get taken in, and fall in love once more. "

- Pico Iyer, Why We Travel

---- Herb---

The Meat Bus Express

When I hear the word vacation, the first thing that comes to mind is leisure. Most people I know would rather go to beaches and If you think about it, it does seem like a sensible thing - the sand, hotels, restaurants, and of course the sun all sound stress free. However, for a friend and myself, beaches aren’t that exciting .We choose adventure over drinks with little umbrellas and sun bathing but at some point during this particular adventure, we almost regretted it.

Ally and I have always talked about going to Sagada, even after we just got back from Siem Reap, Cambodia. And finally, after quitting smoking and training for weeks to improve my cardio , we were off to Sagada. Ally on the other hand didn’t give enough effort on cutting back on cigarettes and she would later pay for it dearly. It was around 7 in the evening when I got to Ally’s place. We  already decided on dinner at her place before we left for the bus station, a station that didn’t look like much; actually it was hideous. At precisely 10 in evening we boarded the Ohayami bus. 

Honestly I was more worried about Ally’s bag rather than the supposed 9 hour bus ride. She really didn’t understand what backpacking meant and judging from the bag she chose to use, I knew I would be in trouble carrying it for her when the time came. I mean honestly, one would immediately understand that backpacking would require a backpack and not what she had, a coffin with straps. At around 15 past ten, the bus pulled out of the station and was on its way. The idea of travelling at night was so that the passengers would sleep through the entire bus ride and wake up at the final destination. This would’ve gone exactly as planned if it weren’t for the air-conditioning that was cranked way up to “Eskimo cold”, and I’m not exaggerating, it was like a meat truck transporting animal carcasses. At least one of us got some sleep, while the rest froze in our seats, particularly an American group who hardly brought anything to keep them warm. And because their clothes were wet due to the heavy rain in Manila, it just made it worse for them during the entire bus ride. Our country may be tropical, but our provincial buses are arctic.

Banaue, Ifugao and The Two Little Red Riding Hoods

We arrived at Banaue two hours late, I was just happy we were finally departing from the igloo on wheels, and truth be told, I wasn’t going to miss it. We would be going home through another route Baguio-Manila (which turned out to be the same). 

Banaue was to be in a way breathtaking, that’s because you can already see the rice terraces from town, especially at this popular Banaue viewpoint. Sadly all we could see was fog. The weather wasn’t exactly on our side and to Ally’s dismay, there wasn’t any local dressed in her full traditional attire for  photo shoots. Luckily, the manager at the restaurant we ate at knew one of the women and minutes later there she was with another, all dressed from head to toe. Nothing gets more authentic than that. I should say Ally got great photographs of them. It’s customary to hand them 20 pesos for every time you take their picture, but seeing as one of them was contracted to pose for Ally, she got a hundred. Her friend got sixty, her flute made that happen. And if you’re a photographer, paying them that much is worth it. 

By the next hour we were headed to Batad. According to Ally, you haven’t seen rice terraces until you’ve seen Batad. I still can’t believe I agreed with her on that one.

Grandmas Meet Joe Black

Batad, The Road Less Traveled

The road to Batad would be best travelled in a tank or perhaps a bulldozer. I know you will say it’s remote and I shouldn’t have expected much, but I can’t help thinking how  local government has failed to construct better roads. And according to some locals, this is nothing short of incompetence and er, corruption?

In an hour’s time we reached a place called The Saddle in Batad. According to the inn owner Ally talked with, the inn was a 45 minute downhill trek away from the saddle. This is where my stations of the cross began. Not only was I to carry Ally’s coffin of a bag, but I had to do it in the rain, in the mud, in thick vegetation. Worse, I had to wait for her to catch up. And did I mention that the alleged 45 minute walk would seem longer in the rain?

The trek was brutal. I had Ally’s bag on my back and my backpack in front of me. And because this was a downhill trek, the slippery mud plus the weight of both bags  made it tremendously hard. If I went  fast, there would’ve been a possibility I’d trip and roll down for the rest of the trek. In no time. one of my Tribu slippers snapped, leaving me with the only option of wearing one of Ally’s girly Havaianas. That was rather humiliating and uncomfortable. As the bags started to get wet, the weight started to increase greatly yet there was no other option but to press on. If not for the rest stops we came across some 15 minutes or so, I would’ve definitely collapsed.  With fear of being still on the way when the sun went down,  I was determined to make it before nightfall. But determination isn’t enough to keep you from falling and for the very first time I fell scraping my knee.

View from our room the day we arrived.

As I sat in the mud trying to block out the pain from my bleeding knee, a voice in my head kept nagging me to proceed  because the longer I stayed down there, the harder  to get up. After briefly feeling sorry for myself, I was up and walking. I finally reached the last rest stop, but this time I had company, a woman, one of the locals. The book in her hands immediately caught my attention as books are one of the things I consider precious in this world. Her book in particular wasn’t one I’ve read, or was eager to  but it was  how she had tried to keep the book from falling apart with strings and how she shielded it from the rain that impressed  me. The way she regarded the book was like it was something worth living for. I could tell she had read that book over and over as I do the same with the books I own.  The Jester is one of them. You might think I’m getting melodramatic over a book, but in some cultures books are considered as gods and the sole reason I was in Batad and kept refusing to give up was over a promised one. So go figure. 

We would later find out that her husband, Nelson our tour guide, had a passion for reading travel books. I’m always amazed by people who continue to educate themselves by reading, unlike some people from the city who would rather buy gossip magazines to know what our local celebrities are wearing or who they’re sleeping with. It’s a crying shame.

With a farewell and a free walking stick the woman Maribel had given Ally, we were once again on a road that seemed to resemble the river Styx. After meeting Maribel, I discovered a new sense of determination. If she, in spite of her status in life, refused to stop dreaming, well, neither would I from accomplishing the task at hand. I walked and walked and walked some more without stopping to catch a breather, until I finally slipped on mud and fell flat on my ass .  This time I wasn’t in a state of pity, in fact I was laughing like a child happy he got a chance to play in the rain. 

 A local of Batad with dreams, Maribel

Finally we reached the inn. At that point, all I wanted was a hot meal, a shower and a bed. But after seeing the Inn for the very first time, I felt like I was in an episode of "Lost". As we descended what looked like thousands of steps, I let out a long sigh and thought to myself, “Leaving this place is going to be hell, I can already tell.”

The room Ally and I got had a great view. It was definitely the only good thing about it because you had to climb down some stairs to get to the bathroom equipped only with freezing water. Moreover,  you have to crawl up some more stairs to get to the restaurant. With every muscle exploding in pain with  the slightest effort or touch, it would seem like the place would be a masochist’s dream come true. So when night came, I didn’t care if I drooled, and Ally sure as hell, didn’t care if she snored like some poor sap trying to play a trumpet.

The next day, after popping pain killers like M&M’s, we finally got the chance to walk through the rice terraces. Nelson, our guide, was more than willing to assist us and hold Ally’s hand if she requested it. What we didn’t expect was how steep the steps were. We were literally wall climbing .  And before we could get to walk the paddies, Ally was already huffing and puffing. The pain killers had  worn off and once again, the pain returned with a vengeance. 


Walking through the terrace wasn’t as easy as we thought. We had to balance ourselves on a one-way narrow path and avoid stepping on the occasional dog turd, but now that I think about it, it was more often than occasional.

Anyway back to the story, aside from the rain and Ally’s numerous pit stops, everything was worth every ounce of pain; especially the view from lower ground looking up. The massive face of a mountain with terraces arranged like an amphitheater is something everyone should see. To  stand in front  a world wonder is to die for.  At that moment, all the white sand beaches in the country meant nothing compared to what we were witnessing, a living legacy handmade by Filipinos for the entire world to marvel at. It really is more fun in the Philippines after all, I thought, sometimes anyway. 

More Fun in the Philippines!

That evening we had our favorite meal, scrambled eggs and noodles. Because food was quite expensive we would eat that meal until we left Batad. You can’t blame them for jacking up the price as the locals have to trek up and down mountains  to get supplies.  Honestly, I was rather impressed by their “if life gives you lemons, make lemonade” way of life. That night, we also met an Israeli couple who described Batad as a piece of heaven and I literally had to stop myself from answering the lady in a sarcastic manner, probably something like, “If this is heaven, I’m positive Hell would be shopping malls and escalators”. Although she was right,  exhaustion and pain makes one lose his sense of appreciation.

Finally, the day had come to leave Batad and this time Ally had contracted Nelson as porter.  Boy, was it a relief for me! The climb wasn’t as tormenting as I had initially thought. Sure we took more time than most locals and seasoned backpackers do, but this time we had a 3 hour headstart. Besides, we weren’t participants of the Amazing Race. 

Everything was going so well until  the last stretch, presented with two options, the long way or climbing up some stairs which apparently was described as a 'shortcut', a four hundred step stairway which seemed to never end. Why we took the alleged shortcut was a bad call. Several stops had to be made. It felt like my lungs were being ripped apart in exhaustion and when we finally got to the top, Ally looked like she had just given birth and I, a rough prostate checkup. 

Shortcuts are supposed to make the travel easier, not add more stress, and I don’t understand why the locals call it a shortcut. I’m not sure, but maybe they get their strength from chewing leaves and nuts, “nga-nga” I think it is called. Allegedly, it makes their teeth stronger  but I’ve yet to meet a person from Banaue who chewed on that cud with complete set of teeth. When asked by foreigners, they reply cheerfully “Vampire food”. I call it a disgusting habit.

Landslide, seriously?!

By 9 o’clock in the morning the daily jeep heading for Banaue from the saddle was on the move. I had this smile on my face, thinking the worst was over until, the jeep suddenly stopped before a landslide.  And boy, did I almost want to roll on the ground, kicking and screaming! It was  like a bad movie ending where you think the protagonist has made it,  then something horribly has to go wrong. Shutter Island. 

Another "F*** this!" moment

We were determined as ever and after climbing over the landslide and taking a tricycle ( at some point I had to push due to the shitty road ), we finally found ourselves in Banaue,  all muddy and late for the 11o’clock morning bus. 

With no bus, we desperately hopped on board a jeepney whose driver was a bit of a jackass. After a series of mind games from the driver who outrageously was going to charge us more than initially agreed on to get to Sagada, Ally had somehow gotten us another ride for a reasonable price saving us and five more passengers from getting ripped off. Having an impatient friend does pay off sometimes. And you should’ve seen the look on the jeepney driver’s face. He swallowed a bitter pill with a hint of constipation. Never underestimate the people of Manila. We’re f***ing insane!

 ---Ally--- 

. 

The Trek

The trip to Batad, Mt. Province  was not originally part of the plan. We were to head off to Sagada after getting pissed at someone and thought of taking a break from my online life.  Herb agreed it was time for a little adventure and Sagada would be a good place to simmer down a bit. But thanks to bloggers who wrote about where the Rice Terraces more impressive than the Banaue Rice Terraces could be found.  Batad! The place to be. 

It was 10 in the evening when we hopped in an Ohayami bus that will bring us to Banaue for an 11 hour trip from Manila. A tourist would later call it the night freezing bus and Herb would add, it was a bus that seems to think it was transporting meat. We were in a freezer. 

Around 9:30 in the morning of the following day we arrived at Banaue proper and made a quick trip to the viewpoint to take some photos. Tricycle ride was Php 200 for the two of us to and fro the viewpoint.  I was happy taking shots of Ifugao grandmas in their costumes.


From Banaue proper, we took a van to the Batad Saddle. The option offered to us was a tricycle ride of Php250.00 that will bring us to the Batad junction. Had we listened to the tricycle driver insisting that the walk from the junction to the saddle is merely 15minutes, I'd be cursing all throughout that hike. It's far! And considering that we were lugging heavy stuffs, it will surely take us more than an hour's walk. The first right decision we made is take the van instead that will take us to the saddle, the farthest that any motorized vehicle could go to reach the Batad Rice Terraces. With three American backpackers sharing the  van rental  we turned out paying Php300 per passenger. At 1:30pm we left Banaue proper. Eighteen kilometers in an hour  of rough road is all it takes  to make your boobies sag.

So we read that the trek to the Batad Terraces from the Batad Saddle isn't exactly a walk in the park but nowhere did we read that if you brave it when it drizzles, you may actually meet the grim reaper midway to the valley. No kids! There was this nagging thought of dying in that 2 hour death march. The locals, the really fit and able and perhaps a few of those who simply want to brag will tell you it's just a 45 minute walk. It took us more than a couple of  grueling hours.

My coffin of a bag, according to Herb

My stuffs were all in a big Kipling duffel which Herb would later brand as the "Hanging Coffin" for it's semblance to one of those  Hanging Coffins of Sagada. Even the color is exactly the same. :) He hated it and I can't blame him. His chivalrous alter ego tasked him to lug the monstrosity. We were hoping to hire a porter to asssist us in carrying our stuffs to the inn where we were booked for a couple of nights. The inn is right there smack in the middle of the Terraces. Tough luck, every porter in the saddle had gone home early that day thinking that no tourist would be as idiots as we were to consider hiking down the Batad trail while an impending storm threatened to claim our sanity. 

So off we went, Herb and I mustering all patience and courage trekking the unknown. There was but one trail and we were fortunate enough to hike down in semi-daylight while it was still possible to watch our steps. Nonetheless, the slippery trail, the mud and sharp rocks managed to take me down three times falling flat on my butt and losing all dignity. The Herb Man wasn't spared likewise. He had a  hard fall ( again blaming the "Hanging Coffin" for it )  and the strap of his flip-flops finally surrendered. Gone are his Tribu .

Did I cry on the way down the valley? Did I show weakness? Yes and No.  I cried when Herb wasn't looking. It's a little thing called pride.  I was too exhausted and I thought it all a big mistake to include Batad in our itinerary. My leg muscles were sore. My spirit was broken. I blamed my smoking. I blamed the slippery trail, the sharp rocks, the inconsiderate moss, the unrelenting drizzle, the creepy fog, the freaky mountain. I blamed the world! 

So where was Herb at this time? He trekked faster than I did more because of the weight that dragged him downhill. Soon through some bends and curves I could no longer see him. I was alone  standing in the middle of nowhere and all I could hear was the gushing of water from the mountains. F*** with my pride! It's time to scream "Herb!... Herb!!... HERB!!!",  followed by a silent "Where the f*** are you?! I think you're f***ing lost!!!!!!"

The trek continues. Occasionally we would meet a local or a tourist hiking up to leave Batad. Each  time , I needed to ask how much farther the inn is. Everyone would say ten minutes more. All those ten minutes were a dog's age to me. Two hours and ten minutes to be exact was our total time to reach the Batad Information Center, a tiny room with a registration book, a one-man staff and a donation box. A porter / guide waited outside with a welcoming smile greeting you with " Welcome to the Stairway to Heaven!" 

It was late noon when we checked in. Amidst the thick fog and drizzle the view from our room was spectacular! 

View from our room!

Accommodations

I can't emphasize it more, the Batad Rice Terraces as can be viewed from our room was unforgettably impressive! This was what I came here for.  I needed to keep reminding myself of how awesome it is to momentarily have one of the world's wonders as your living room. It was vital thought  in order for the less important things about the inn  to quit pestering me.  Understandably , being in a remote village means a chunk of comfort needs to be compromised.

Toilet and Bath at the Inn

If you don't mind being cooped up in a room half of its walls is "yero", moths irresistibly drawn by one fluorescent bulb, a couple of roaches,  emaciated dogs visiting you for crackers, frogs leaping across  your path on the way to the toilet, then this particular inn is close to perfect. 

Likewise, if it matters little to you a shared bath and toilet detached from the main building, temptation you take a leak over the veranda rail instead during those pitch black  hours, a barrel of cold water  for shower, manually flushed toilet, then the inn is your home away from home. Seriously, lower your expectations and keep them really low to be happy. After all, you pay Php200/person/night. What right have you to complain?

To appreciate the inn's offered comfort, 
one must be really dead tired

While the view is priceless,  the food is a bit pricey. Omelette at Php 85.00- 105.00 depending on what stuffs you want inside. Onions and tomatoes are as basic as it goes. Add a few diced cheese and you're asking for trouble with your budget. Small bottled water is  at Php30.00, a couple of fried eggs and rice at Php 50.00, a meal of one drumstick of fried chicken and mountain brown rice at Php160. Who can blame them? These food stuffs don't come rolling down the mountains. Need a lifesaver? Bring your Lucky Me pancit canton noodles and pay cooking fee of P20. The Coke junkie that I am needed to scrimp on this luxury. Coke in can reminded me of how much they cost at Charles d' Gaulle airport. Why not? the Rice Terraces were a match to the Eiffel Tower in grandeur,  even more. 

 The Village

The village in Batad cuddles the poor. The locals themselves admit to the difficulty of life in their community. Money is scarce and so are resources. If there's anything perhaps that they have constant supply of, it's betel nut. I asked Nelson our guide, what it is that makes him fond of betel nut and he says it makes his teeth strong and gives him a sensation of warmth. The teeth strengthening effect of betel nut is a bit difficult to grasp when you realize most of these chewers are without their front teeth. The irony.  As far as I know, betel nut has chemicals similar to nicotine that makes it quite addictive with the user experiencing a similar narcotic effect. While it has a mild pain-relieving effect, it also kills the appetite. Is this solution therefore to ignoring hunger pains?

Village houses are a bit claustrophobic. Nonetheless, their small yards are really clean. And i know this how? We've been accommodated for rest stops in many of the houses' front or backyards. And for those, I am truly grateful to the locals.

Day 2 of our Batad experience was semi immersion walking along the rice paddies of the terraces and meeting the locals. Dogs are everywhere translating to dog poop everywhere too.  I love dogs but poop  every few meters or so give me nightmares. Likewise, it makes you think some things are more beautiful from a distance.

In 1995, the 2,000 year old Batad Rice Terraces was named by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site. It passed UNESCO's standards of  a living cultural landscape. Unfortunately six years later it was inscribed in the list of World Heritage Sites in Danger due to deforestation and climate change. Add to that the fact that many younger Ifugaos  gained access to education and preferred to work in the capital rather than continue their farming tradition. Who could blame them? Everyone seeks for a better life and for tourists to continue appreciating the majestic Ifugao Terraces means a lot of sacrifice from the locals with many unable to pursue their dreams.

[For some reason, this year 2012, the Batad Rice Terraces has been pulled out from the Endangered List. I believe the locals and lovers of this wonder all helped in the rehabilitation.]

A loom and a skill for weaving may be an asset in Batad. We met this woman who weaves for a living and at the entrance of her house are photos of his daughter who is a nurse. Just one of those who would rather have their children become professionals and leave the life of traditional farming to the less blessed with oppurtunities. 

 Goodbye Batad!

The night prior to our scheduled hike up to the Batad saddle, butterlies in my stomach were going berserk. I had serious doubts as to whether I can really make the uphill trek in time for the lone jeepney ride scheduled to leave for Banaue proper at 9am. There was no time for my calf and thigh muscles to recover. They were more tender now and our Advil supply is almost depleted. I told Herb that we ought to leave at 6am as I am sure to be slow. Nelson our guide would think it ridiculous to allow 3 hours for the hike up. I insisted. I knew myself more than anyone else and I did not want to get stranded in Batad should we be late for the jeepney ride. Right was I, as the whole hike up took me another 2 hours and 30 minutes. That was even fast considering that this time Nelson was there to hold my hand all throughout the hike. Who to marry, Nelson or my walking stick was a difficult choice to make. Both were imperative for the inexperienced mountain hiker.

Did I mention that not everything about the hikes is agony? 

Of course, other than the painful long walk I had to have another misfortune - a leech bite. I no longer saw the leech attached to my leg and i must have charmed it in one of those rest stops. Nelson was one to notice that my leg was bleeding continuously as these leeches do inject substance that prevent blood from clotting so they can suck up blood to more than their body weight. When full, they fall off leaving you bleeding. Ingrate little bastard sucked Type AB Royal blood and left me like a faucet. As a matter of consolation,  the bite was painless.   I felt nothing and was totally unaware of a worm hitch hiking on my trek up. 

A hundred and counting!

The last leg of our uphill climb was the real challenge.  First the decision to whether to take the shorter or longer route. The longer route simply means longer trail of slippery mud and vengeful rocks. The shorter route means concrete stairs! Who wouldn't take stairs? I asked Nelson how many steps to reach the saddle and he immediately replied " a hundred".  A hundred?! But I have had enough of slippery mud and I thought I could do the hundred. 

In retrospect, everything extreme in Batad is described to be a hundred. I once asked how old the old woman I saw in the village was, the answer was " a hundred". I believe she could be more as the hundred steps of the stairs turned out to be four hundred and twenty (420)! Yes, that's right. I counted my each and every step to divert myself from senseless whining. It was like counting sheep during insomnia nights. Oh, the agony!

I'd be lying if I said i had a difficult experience. Truth is, it was almost horrible. While other travelers talk about how they would frequent Batad, I was already considering not to even mention it. Maybe we went the wrong time. Maybe it would've been so much better if the trail were dry. Maybe it would've been a breeze if i hadn't been a smoker ( then again, I might give up Batad for a pack of Marlboro green lights ) or at least physically prepared myself for this tedious task. So I say to those who want to see the grandeur of the Batad Rice Terraces and are living a sedate life or zombies in the city, prepare your will. Seriously, go to Batad during the dry season. It would make a lot of difference.

Come to think of it back in Manila, what I felt was something not to talk about  turned out to be the one I learned a lot from. As days went by, I and Herb had a lot to laugh about recalling details of our trip. Travel indeed is glamorous in retrospect.


In spite the ordeal of reaching the Batad Rice Terraces, there was the invaluable learning about a people and a culture different from what I have grown into. We later in Sagada were going to find out more about the people and their history. I could only admire the fortitude and the resiliency of the Igorots. It is of no wonder that they have been protected from any foreign domination. The mountains were their fortress and their pride as a people was their weapon, not their  infamous head hunting skills.

My respect goes to the Igorots. Long live!

As for Batad, hey government, do the roads, you idiots!

How Much

Manila to Banaue  Ohayami Bus Fare - Php 450/passenger 

Banaue Proper to Batad - P 250 via tricycle to the junction only or P150 via public jeepney to the saddle or P300/passenger via hired van with passengers sharing the total van cost 

Batad porter - P200/bag to be lugged by the porter to and from the saddle

Batad guide to the village - P400

Batad guide to the falls - P500