by: Megan Moran
My heart swells with excitement and gratitude as my senses feast on the beauty of the Jeepney ride from Kiangan to Batad. We drive through the province on a newly paved highway, passing by homes and people going about their lives. Among the dense, velvety green mountain forest terraformed landscape, goats munch on the foliage and young girls play on their porches. I see my whiteness and foreign appearance reflected in their faces when they animatedly smile and wave at me as we pass by. In front of some houses along the highway, an old man carries a baby in a blanket wrapped around his chest. Further along the drive, another, much older man and I notice each other. He walks nearly horizontal, walking stick in one hand and a plastic grocery bag in the other, peering up at our Jeepney top-loaded with Americans and scholars. I admire his beard of longish grey bristle as I consider the possibilities of all of the lives he may have lived, the community he has formed in these Cordilleras, and the types of activities he could have performed to shape his posture I see so often in the elders here. Lola Marta, the elder woman who so kindly allows us to excavate on her property, shares a similarly horizontal posture, walking low and half-bent over to dutifully cultivate her crops even at such an old age. Our bodies say so much about who we are, where we come from, and the lives we lead.
Looking out of the window of the Jeepney, breathing in the fresh mountain air, I wonder. How am I so fortunate to experience the beauty of the Ifugao province, the heritage of the Cordilleras and the rice terraces? I realize my fortunate position in this moment has mostly to do with my cultural capital as a white middle class American young woman. My cultural capital (and, of course, a little hard work) translates into amazing research opportunities and archaeological adventures. So too does the cultural capital of the rich Cordilleran heritage translate into nominal economic capital. I can’t help but feel a bit disheartened at the transactions between bodies commanding disparate levels of privilege in Banaue and Batad, two major tourist centers of the Philippines. As with the current official dating of Banaue as a 2,000-year old UN World Heritage Site, tourism in the region produces a romanticized indigeneity.
The IAP group witnessed, and to an extent, participated in the consumption of this romanticized Ifugao indigeneity at the tourist home stay we dropped in for lunch. Over cups of “native coffee” and lemongrass tea, we quickly notice photos of people dressed in traditional Ifugao attire posted on the wall in the dining area. Already feeling a little uncomfortable at the sight of the staged photos, a family emerged from what must be the costume room, fully dressed in the most traditional Ifugao ensemble. The daughter and mother match in woven shirts and tied skirts. The son and father wear woven cloth “g-strings”, headdresses, and carry wooden staffs. As a group of anthropologists, we become fascinated by the dystopic spectacle. The Norwegian family costumed as traditional Ifugaos were very glad to have their photo taken by me when I asked. The mother looked of Filipino descent, her husband very clearly a white Norwegian. What could these photos and the act of dressing up Ifugao mean to them? Do they notice that nearly no other local in Batad is dressed in such costume? How is indigeneity demanded, produced, and consumed, and what are the implications?
My heart swells with excitement and gratitude as my senses feast on the beauty of the Jeepney ride from Kiangan to Batad. We drive through the province on a newly paved highway, passing by homes and people going about their lives. Among the dense, velvety green mountain forest terraformed landscape, goats munch on the foliage and young girls play on their porches. I see my whiteness and foreign appearance reflected in their faces when they animatedly smile and wave at me as we pass by. In front of some houses along the highway, an old man carries a baby in a blanket wrapped around his chest. Further along the drive, another, much older man and I notice each other. He walks nearly horizontal, walking stick in one hand and a plastic grocery bag in the other, peering up at our Jeepney top-loaded with Americans and scholars. I admire his beard of longish grey bristle as I consider the possibilities of all of the lives he may have lived, the community he has formed in these Cordilleras, and the types of activities he could have performed to shape his posture I see so often in the elders here. Lola Marta, the elder woman who so kindly allows us to excavate on her property, shares a similarly horizontal posture, walking low and half-bent over to dutifully cultivate her crops even at such an old age. Our bodies say so much about who we are, where we come from, and the lives we lead.
Looking out of the window of the Jeepney, breathing in the fresh mountain air, I wonder. How am I so fortunate to experience the beauty of the Ifugao province, the heritage of the Cordilleras and the rice terraces? I realize my fortunate position in this moment has mostly to do with my cultural capital as a white middle class American young woman. My cultural capital (and, of course, a little hard work) translates into amazing research opportunities and archaeological adventures. So too does the cultural capital of the rich Cordilleran heritage translate into nominal economic capital. I can’t help but feel a bit disheartened at the transactions between bodies commanding disparate levels of privilege in Banaue and Batad, two major tourist centers of the Philippines. As with the current official dating of Banaue as a 2,000-year old UN World Heritage Site, tourism in the region produces a romanticized indigeneity.
The IAP group witnessed, and to an extent, participated in the consumption of this romanticized Ifugao indigeneity at the tourist home stay we dropped in for lunch. Over cups of “native coffee” and lemongrass tea, we quickly notice photos of people dressed in traditional Ifugao attire posted on the wall in the dining area. Already feeling a little uncomfortable at the sight of the staged photos, a family emerged from what must be the costume room, fully dressed in the most traditional Ifugao ensemble. The daughter and mother match in woven shirts and tied skirts. The son and father wear woven cloth “g-strings”, headdresses, and carry wooden staffs. As a group of anthropologists, we become fascinated by the dystopic spectacle. The Norwegian family costumed as traditional Ifugaos were very glad to have their photo taken by me when I asked. The mother looked of Filipino descent, her husband very clearly a white Norwegian. What could these photos and the act of dressing up Ifugao mean to them? Do they notice that nearly no other local in Batad is dressed in such costume? How is indigeneity demanded, produced, and consumed, and what are the implications?