Christmas in town and country
While in the Philippines, I read An Assembly Such as This which is the first part of Pride and Prejudice written from Mr. Darcy’s perspective. He states very clearly that he abhors the folks and mannerisms of the country and much prefers the culture and civilization of the town. While I do not share Mr. Darcy’s sentiments on town being better than country, I do recognize the extreme differences between the two, which were apparent while I was in the Philippines.
The time I spent in Baguio City was like being at a wealthy English manor. The house was huge: four stories of stone, grand windows, and hand carved crown molding. Cathedral ceiling in the great room. Two kitchens. At least five bathrooms. Landscaped grounds with climbing roses and hundreds of orchids. The maid, Millie, lived downstairs and cooked all the meals, washed the laundry by hand, and cleaned. A couple college-aged boys were always around to do manual labor, feed the dogs, and run errands. At first it was awkward being served. I felt a little guilty but before long it was pretty nice having my morning coffee brought to me, sitting down to a full meal and not having to help with dishes, giving my dirty clothes to someone else and having them returned to me cleaned and pressed.
In addition to staying at a full service residence, there were many gatherings in the town. One night Albert and Shirley hosted a caroling dinner party at the house. About twenty people came over and we sang Christmas carols and then sat down to a wonderful dinner. We attended a Christmas luncheon at a judge’s house in a nearby town. Another lunch was hosted at the Marcello’s house, where we were privileged to hear a nineteen year old child prodigy play Chopin on the piano. I attended a beautiful wedding for one of the pastor’s at the Methodist church in Baguio City. A birthday celebration was held on another night for one of the church members where there were over twelve different dishes of food, several cakes and three different types of wine.
Now, the country proved to be much more rustic. I had the pleasure of going to Boklaoan, where Albert and Shirley have built a church and their retirement home, and to Anchingching, home to Shirley’s eldest sister and the Ibaloi people. Both afforded me with unique experiences quite different from the town.
Baklaoan is a two and a half hour trek up into the mountains, reached only by a gravel and dirt road boasting treacherously sharp turns. The kind of road where you have to honk your horn before rounding a corner. A slow journey but beautiful. Poinsettia trees growing in the wild. Terraced rice fields could be spotted in the valley. Trees heavy with bananas, jack fruit, and mangoes graced the roadside. I thought I saw grapes running rampant along the hillsides—a vineyard, perhaps? Turns out it is sayote, a common vegetable in the Philippines that I had already tasted at more than one meal.
As we wound our way into the uplands, I saw a few houses. Small corrugated tin dwellings. Occasionally a cement building. There were hardly any personal vehicles up there, only jeepnees—jeep type buses with long beds and benches used as taxis. People also ride on top of the jeepnees or stand on the back holding handlebars. Sometimes you would see people sleeping on top of them. I wonder how they manage to stay on up there?
Once we reached the church and the house, all you could hear was the river rushing by far far below. Perfect serenity. As for country events…
I attended a wedding at the church Al’s parents built. It was very much like weddings I have been too before, except that it started one hour late and lasted an hour and a half. Remember, this was not a Catholic wedding but a Methodist one. The flowers were beautiful (calla lilies, bougainvillea, statice, and alstromeria—locally grown?), there were bridesmaids, groomsmen, and all that jazz. Only one or two people in the congregation were dressed up. It was crowded though, standing room only. The groom’s family all walked over from the other side of the mountain to attend the ceremony. Afterwards, there was a reception down the road (we walked) at what I guess constitutes their gathering place. It was more or less a picnic shelter, but not as sturdy, attached to a building made out of the corrugated tin. There was way more people at the reception than there were in church. I think everyone from ten miles around came to eat the boiled pork, pancit, adobo, and rice which was being cooked right next to some tables amidst all the guests. We sat at one of the few tables and were served locally made rice wine. This is different from sake in that it is sweeter and there is still rice in it. When you are poured a cup of rice wine you get a nice helping of rice at the bottom of your cup, which I couldn’t bring myself to drink (or eat?).
The other gathering I attended in Boklaoan was Christmas Eve service at the church and a feast afterwards with lechon (roasted pig), red rice, and pancit. We were late to the church service because we had attended a two hour, “Nine Carols and Nine Readings” service in town. On the way to the mountains, we listened to Miss Davis’s CD of out-of-the-way Christmas music which included “Go Tell the Congregation” by The Black Crowes and a biblical reading that was a longer version of one of the nine readings we had heard earlier in church that morning. (By the way, Albert and Shirley liked it all, especially the reading.) By the time we made it to Boklaoan, we had missed the readings and the sermon which was fine by be. As we arrived, the games were starting. The games were supposed to be for the children but they were too shy to play at first, so the adults had to demonstrate. They were mostly boys against girls, relay type games (which Mr. Darcy would have frowned upon but I found most entertaining). There was make the longest line (which was unfair because the guys were taking off their clothes), knock down the coke bottle with an eggplant tied on a string between your legs (imagine that one), and which couple can eat the apple tied on the string the fastest (the nineteen year old pastor was better than I thought he would be at this one). Most amusing.
My other adventure in the country was the Grand Canao in Anchingching, the highlight of my visit to the Philippines probably because it was the most foreign to me. From Baguio, we drove an hour and a half into different mountains and then parked the car and waited for a boat. The parking area was by the spillway for a huge dam. The little thirty person boat, a cross between a canoe and a john boat with a small motor, arrived after a while. We all piled in with our accoutrements for an overnight stay and made our way to the other side, about a twenty five minute boat ride away. When Stefanie attended the Grand Canao, the boat dropped them off right next to the village. However, due to low water levels and the dam, we were dropped off a mile and a half from the village.
As we were trekking through the valley, wading through river streams and padding across mud flats, I was reminded of A River Runs Through It. Crystal clear streams rushing over brightly colored stones, surrounded by mountains and trees. Walking on the dry mud flats was easy, but some of the not-so-dry mud flats were an obstacle. Only for me though. None of my traveling companions were plagued by the quagmires the way I was (the reason for my difficulty was later pointed out to me, as if I didn’t know already!). At different points in the crossing, I would just sink. Knee deep in mud I went down like a stone in the water. I would try to gain some leverage with my other foot and pull out my sunken one, only to find the situation reversed—the other leg now buried in the mud with the opposite one gaining purchase. And it went on like that, a vicious cycle. I was so glad to have to wade through the thigh deep, ice cold river in my jeans because it washed off all of the mud.
The river crossing was pretty exciting and not just because the men took off their pants in order to cross. Standing alone in the middle of the swiftly moving current, amidst the glittering stones, was thrilling. It almost made up for the humiliation of my public mud bath.
We eventually made it to the village which seemed more like a camp site to me. There were only three houses; crude structures made out of wood and/or tin up on stilts with only ladders to gain access. The large house was enclosed in a fenced in area and that is where all the action took place. The dancing, music, slaughtering, eating, and washing. Past the man-made gate comprised of branches and bamboo there was another smaller house, this one lower to the ground with steps instead of a ladder. And Shirley’s ancestral home was a little distance off surrounded by another rustic fence. These buildings were all simple in design and only the ancestral home had any furniture to speak of. The one bathroom was located near the main house, a shed with a squatter and huge vat of water for flushing purposes. The one shower was about ten paces from the toilet, pieces of tin lashed together to create an enclosure with a spigot about chest high (for me anyway). The bath was a few meters away…in the river. I skipped the bath and shower and opted to employ the largest tree I could find in the woods for my rest area.
The celebration centered around dancing and music to rouse the ancestral spirits, to invite them to come and dance and bless the village in the future. The music was created by what at first I thought were merely pans, but turned out to be copper gongs. There were two of those and one guy hit together two pieces of metal to create a rhythm. These men walked around in a circle with the dancers, while two other men sat nearby playing long, cylindrical, ceremonial drums.
There were always two people dancing. The lead dancer was draped with two swaths of fabric, one on each shoulder and he represented the eagle. He danced with his hands alternately waving above his head and then outstretched down by his waist, knees bent like he was coasting through the air. The second person had a swath of fabric tied draped over her and tied in a knot on one shoulder. She represented the carabou (water buffalo) and danced with her fingers fanned out and pointing towards her temples, palms facing outwards. Musicians and dancers circled around a certain number of times, all the while the gongs, drums, and tin instruments were going. The crowd would collectively call out something like “ooooh eeeeee”. Then a pause. And then “ahhhhhh ooooo.” This showed their appreciation for the people dancing. After the group called out, the eagle and the caribou would switch their drapes and their symbolic roles and do it again. The noise making and the dancing was to rouse the spirits of the ancestors and to ask for their blessings. Dancing went on all night, except for when we were eating the slaughtered animals.
Yes, I danced—after I’d had my share of rice wine.
The time I spent in Baguio City was like being at a wealthy English manor. The house was huge: four stories of stone, grand windows, and hand carved crown molding. Cathedral ceiling in the great room. Two kitchens. At least five bathrooms. Landscaped grounds with climbing roses and hundreds of orchids. The maid, Millie, lived downstairs and cooked all the meals, washed the laundry by hand, and cleaned. A couple college-aged boys were always around to do manual labor, feed the dogs, and run errands. At first it was awkward being served. I felt a little guilty but before long it was pretty nice having my morning coffee brought to me, sitting down to a full meal and not having to help with dishes, giving my dirty clothes to someone else and having them returned to me cleaned and pressed.
In addition to staying at a full service residence, there were many gatherings in the town. One night Albert and Shirley hosted a caroling dinner party at the house. About twenty people came over and we sang Christmas carols and then sat down to a wonderful dinner. We attended a Christmas luncheon at a judge’s house in a nearby town. Another lunch was hosted at the Marcello’s house, where we were privileged to hear a nineteen year old child prodigy play Chopin on the piano. I attended a beautiful wedding for one of the pastor’s at the Methodist church in Baguio City. A birthday celebration was held on another night for one of the church members where there were over twelve different dishes of food, several cakes and three different types of wine.
Now, the country proved to be much more rustic. I had the pleasure of going to Boklaoan, where Albert and Shirley have built a church and their retirement home, and to Anchingching, home to Shirley’s eldest sister and the Ibaloi people. Both afforded me with unique experiences quite different from the town.
Baklaoan is a two and a half hour trek up into the mountains, reached only by a gravel and dirt road boasting treacherously sharp turns. The kind of road where you have to honk your horn before rounding a corner. A slow journey but beautiful. Poinsettia trees growing in the wild. Terraced rice fields could be spotted in the valley. Trees heavy with bananas, jack fruit, and mangoes graced the roadside. I thought I saw grapes running rampant along the hillsides—a vineyard, perhaps? Turns out it is sayote, a common vegetable in the Philippines that I had already tasted at more than one meal.
As we wound our way into the uplands, I saw a few houses. Small corrugated tin dwellings. Occasionally a cement building. There were hardly any personal vehicles up there, only jeepnees—jeep type buses with long beds and benches used as taxis. People also ride on top of the jeepnees or stand on the back holding handlebars. Sometimes you would see people sleeping on top of them. I wonder how they manage to stay on up there?
Once we reached the church and the house, all you could hear was the river rushing by far far below. Perfect serenity. As for country events…
I attended a wedding at the church Al’s parents built. It was very much like weddings I have been too before, except that it started one hour late and lasted an hour and a half. Remember, this was not a Catholic wedding but a Methodist one. The flowers were beautiful (calla lilies, bougainvillea, statice, and alstromeria—locally grown?), there were bridesmaids, groomsmen, and all that jazz. Only one or two people in the congregation were dressed up. It was crowded though, standing room only. The groom’s family all walked over from the other side of the mountain to attend the ceremony. Afterwards, there was a reception down the road (we walked) at what I guess constitutes their gathering place. It was more or less a picnic shelter, but not as sturdy, attached to a building made out of the corrugated tin. There was way more people at the reception than there were in church. I think everyone from ten miles around came to eat the boiled pork, pancit, adobo, and rice which was being cooked right next to some tables amidst all the guests. We sat at one of the few tables and were served locally made rice wine. This is different from sake in that it is sweeter and there is still rice in it. When you are poured a cup of rice wine you get a nice helping of rice at the bottom of your cup, which I couldn’t bring myself to drink (or eat?).
The other gathering I attended in Boklaoan was Christmas Eve service at the church and a feast afterwards with lechon (roasted pig), red rice, and pancit. We were late to the church service because we had attended a two hour, “Nine Carols and Nine Readings” service in town. On the way to the mountains, we listened to Miss Davis’s CD of out-of-the-way Christmas music which included “Go Tell the Congregation” by The Black Crowes and a biblical reading that was a longer version of one of the nine readings we had heard earlier in church that morning. (By the way, Albert and Shirley liked it all, especially the reading.) By the time we made it to Boklaoan, we had missed the readings and the sermon which was fine by be. As we arrived, the games were starting. The games were supposed to be for the children but they were too shy to play at first, so the adults had to demonstrate. They were mostly boys against girls, relay type games (which Mr. Darcy would have frowned upon but I found most entertaining). There was make the longest line (which was unfair because the guys were taking off their clothes), knock down the coke bottle with an eggplant tied on a string between your legs (imagine that one), and which couple can eat the apple tied on the string the fastest (the nineteen year old pastor was better than I thought he would be at this one). Most amusing.
My other adventure in the country was the Grand Canao in Anchingching, the highlight of my visit to the Philippines probably because it was the most foreign to me. From Baguio, we drove an hour and a half into different mountains and then parked the car and waited for a boat. The parking area was by the spillway for a huge dam. The little thirty person boat, a cross between a canoe and a john boat with a small motor, arrived after a while. We all piled in with our accoutrements for an overnight stay and made our way to the other side, about a twenty five minute boat ride away. When Stefanie attended the Grand Canao, the boat dropped them off right next to the village. However, due to low water levels and the dam, we were dropped off a mile and a half from the village.
As we were trekking through the valley, wading through river streams and padding across mud flats, I was reminded of A River Runs Through It. Crystal clear streams rushing over brightly colored stones, surrounded by mountains and trees. Walking on the dry mud flats was easy, but some of the not-so-dry mud flats were an obstacle. Only for me though. None of my traveling companions were plagued by the quagmires the way I was (the reason for my difficulty was later pointed out to me, as if I didn’t know already!). At different points in the crossing, I would just sink. Knee deep in mud I went down like a stone in the water. I would try to gain some leverage with my other foot and pull out my sunken one, only to find the situation reversed—the other leg now buried in the mud with the opposite one gaining purchase. And it went on like that, a vicious cycle. I was so glad to have to wade through the thigh deep, ice cold river in my jeans because it washed off all of the mud.
The river crossing was pretty exciting and not just because the men took off their pants in order to cross. Standing alone in the middle of the swiftly moving current, amidst the glittering stones, was thrilling. It almost made up for the humiliation of my public mud bath.
We eventually made it to the village which seemed more like a camp site to me. There were only three houses; crude structures made out of wood and/or tin up on stilts with only ladders to gain access. The large house was enclosed in a fenced in area and that is where all the action took place. The dancing, music, slaughtering, eating, and washing. Past the man-made gate comprised of branches and bamboo there was another smaller house, this one lower to the ground with steps instead of a ladder. And Shirley’s ancestral home was a little distance off surrounded by another rustic fence. These buildings were all simple in design and only the ancestral home had any furniture to speak of. The one bathroom was located near the main house, a shed with a squatter and huge vat of water for flushing purposes. The one shower was about ten paces from the toilet, pieces of tin lashed together to create an enclosure with a spigot about chest high (for me anyway). The bath was a few meters away…in the river. I skipped the bath and shower and opted to employ the largest tree I could find in the woods for my rest area.
The celebration centered around dancing and music to rouse the ancestral spirits, to invite them to come and dance and bless the village in the future. The music was created by what at first I thought were merely pans, but turned out to be copper gongs. There were two of those and one guy hit together two pieces of metal to create a rhythm. These men walked around in a circle with the dancers, while two other men sat nearby playing long, cylindrical, ceremonial drums.
There were always two people dancing. The lead dancer was draped with two swaths of fabric, one on each shoulder and he represented the eagle. He danced with his hands alternately waving above his head and then outstretched down by his waist, knees bent like he was coasting through the air. The second person had a swath of fabric tied draped over her and tied in a knot on one shoulder. She represented the carabou (water buffalo) and danced with her fingers fanned out and pointing towards her temples, palms facing outwards. Musicians and dancers circled around a certain number of times, all the while the gongs, drums, and tin instruments were going. The crowd would collectively call out something like “ooooh eeeeee”. Then a pause. And then “ahhhhhh ooooo.” This showed their appreciation for the people dancing. After the group called out, the eagle and the caribou would switch their drapes and their symbolic roles and do it again. The noise making and the dancing was to rouse the spirits of the ancestors and to ask for their blessings. Dancing went on all night, except for when we were eating the slaughtered animals.
Yes, I danced—after I’d had my share of rice wine.
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