TRAILS UP NORTH

Mayoyao on my mind
GLO A. TUAZON

MAYOYAO, Ifugao -- I've been whiling away three days in Lagawe, Ifugao when I heard a distant town in the province would be holding a harvest festival. I have not been to the place yet so I thought it would be a good idea to see it now and join the festivities at the same time.

Riding a bus to Mayoyao from Lagawe took more than four hours, through the narrow, winding roads. Most parts are unpaved, the roads are still bad along the Banaue side going to Bangaan Village and Batad where the famous terraces are located.

Turning right on the other side of the river that was the "divide," Mayoyao was in sight. My mouth and eyes were the same circular shape of ohs as we went along. Rugged, distant beauty all its own. Mayor Romeo Chulana humbly commented during his welcome address that he would not say their town is beautiful or awesome, that would come from the people visiting the place themselves.

So I'm saying it now, the place is a sight and the people are cool and very accommodating. First day I was housed and warmly welcomed in a cozy nook overlooking the village and terraces below. Farther was a large white and green structure that is the Mayoyao Hostel.

Yes, a hostel alone on top of a hill, like a castle looking over its domain of plantations, the grains now golden, blowing with the shift of wind. I was taken to the municipal plaza, the paired orbs of green and red lights glowing in the early evening, lighting the facade of the municipal hall and the stone-tiled playground. The sound of glee from children playing pierced the chill of the night.

Harvest time is often one of the most joyous season of the crop cycles anywhere. When the efforts and fatigue of planting and tending to the crops end and then comes pay back time. All the pressures vanish to the sights of reaping the fruits of the labor.

Mayoyao, along the lower regions is almost done with the harvest but the upper areas are still pushing on ahead to reap the crops. The pale gold grains sway with the winds at a steep elevation. Barangay Chaya this place is called. And then people came to meet and greet us, that all too familiar grin of teeth stained reddish-brown with the habit of momma chewing.

The calloused hands that shook ours were warm and strong, like the will that persevered all those times tilling the lands that fed them. My defenses of good poise broke and then I was all about mingling with them, clicking here and there, some at angles leveling me face to face with the dogs sniffing at my intrusions. My face as red as he stains of the momma on the ground, the adrenaline worked too well with a swig or two of the baya (tapuey or rice wine).

The ritual for harvest begun with the slaughter of a native pig, it being struck right below the pit of the foreleg, directly thru the heart. It did not take a minute for the pig to bleed and squeal, then lay silent, an apt sacrifice for the good health, luck and prosperity of the host family and those who will be participating in the harvest.

While the men started to butcher the pig for cooking, the women paraded down the rice paddies to start the harvest. I caught up with the women, running the paddies like a child, unmindful of the heat. My cameras clapping the sides of my leg and arms as I ambled my way down. The kel-leng (individual rice paddies) I noticed were wet, unlike the dry paddies I went to in the lowlands during harvests.

The harvesters sloshed their way in a line, each armed with that circular blade for cutting one rice stalk at a time. The bantering started, consequently interrupted once in awhile by the joyous singing to shoo away the boredom and heat. As they moved forward they trample the empty stalks to the mud on their feet, to rot there and become fertilizers for the next crop. Incidentally we were told to remove money, especially coins from our pockets to the harvest area. It is considered taboo as belief goes that with money, it was like we were buying the souls of the rice crop.

Only the women are allowed to harvest. The children may help too and they were there to collect the bundles of rice stalks from the harvesters which they in turn hand over to the men to tie in bigger bundles. Tied now, the bundles would pass to another man for the raw stalks to be trimmed. When the bundles reach ten, the owner of the field would bring it to the house and placed first in a ceremonial kayabang.

From there, the head of the family (the father), takes the bundles out to arrange it under the house or granary for stocking. It goes on until the fields are done. Ironically nobody is allowed to eat until the harvest is over. To fill up the tummies and invigorate the tired, sunburned harvesters, baya is passed around. These days however, light snacks are allowed.

With harvest done, we were fed with rice and big slices of boiled meat skewered on a stick. The baya flowed, like bottomless tea orders. The gong-beaters started again and merrymaking continued with some dancing. The ritual was concluded with the chanting of the menfolk, a prayer to the Maker and Giver of Life.

I viewed Mayoyao again from above, the wind gently skimming my face. For a long time, Majaojao and its people will be on my mind. -- email: twilight_glo@yahoo.com