Up in the hills

Bontoc is capital of the Mountain Province, a small workmanlike town gathered around a noisy, dusty main street, full of taxis and tricycles looking for business. But look up, and behind. Under the modern fascias many of the houses are the old thatched huts of the original Bontoc tribal village, re-roofed with more practical metal sheeting, and with the piles of the ground floor filled in to provide secure storage. Some of the villagers still wear their tribal dress too, the only place where I saw it outside tourist photo opportunities, but you have to look closely to catch it. In the market some of the old women have strings of snake’s vertebrae wrapped round their heads, given to them at marriage, and proud proof that they are the mothers of sons. The coloured beads entwined with the snake bones show which tribe they come from. As they walk away with their bundles of vegetables you can often see the tell-tale fringes of their hand-woven sashes, hanging down below the shapeless polyester cardigans, or the soft tones of a traditional vegetable-dyed sarong.

Above the roofs of the town are the mountains, visible from anywhere in the place.

Quick Tips:

Best Way To Get Around:

No need to do anything but walk. The air is fresh, the town is compact, and you can get away easily to the surrounding villages by public bus.

A large hotel of varnished pine, within sight of the bus terminus in Bontoc, looking rather like a Swiss chalet from the outside. I declined the small dark airless singles (only 100 peso a night), with shared shower space behind a curtain on the main corridor, and splashed out instead on a huge luxury double with bath as I had a lot of washing to catch up on. The room wasn’t made up when I arrived – the door was missing – but they promised to put it right within the hour, and everything was fine when I returned, although still lacking a few minor objects such as mirror and rubbish bin. Large carved wooden bed, covered with a local hand woven spread, and carved wooden shutters which didn’t quite fit, but it didn’t matter, because there aren’t any mosquitoes at this altitude anyway. The windows overlooked the backyard of the house behind, full of dogs, children, chickens and old car parts. I could hear the happy grunting of pigs as well, but never saw them. If cock-crowing keeps you awake, take ear-plugs.

The hotel is owned by an indomitable old lady, about four feet tall, who is full of useful information, although it is mainly staffed by an assortment of young hangers-on of variable efficiency, most of whom were more interested in the large TV set in the dining room/reception than in the few guests. The dining room is also a hangout for local guides, looking for custom, who are polite, but very persistent. They couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to spend a couple of days visiting a typical Kalinga village, and pursued me relentlessly round town, striking up conversation in the most unlikely places. "Ah, you use Lonely Planet guide. That is me, on page 208." "I see you are looking at Kalinga handicrafts. You can get much cheaper in Kalinga village. I know the chief very well." But they all smiled and waved goodbye cheerfully enough when I finally left, without having succumbed to their entreaties.

500 peso ($9) a night for double with bath..

Set in lovely gardens on a hill above Banaue, the hotel looks like an expensive private house. There is nothing on the outside to indicate that it is a hotel. It was late afternoon, and I was surprised and relieved when I found that I had arrived at the right place, and wouldn’t have to climb the steep road again to somewhere else. My room was at the top of the house, another three floors up, under the pitched roof. It was clean, airy and spacious, with wooden floors and walls, and minimal furnishings, rather like a room at guides’ summer camp. It was the only place in the Philippines where I felt cold at night, and, of course, the only place that didn’t provide sufficient bedding. I had to add my coat and towel to the covering from the second bed before I felt warm enough to get back to sleep. But the night was clear and quiet, as well as cold. The ubiquitous Filipino fighting cocks, who justify their privileged position in society by proclaiming their masculinity competitively all night, were all far below in Banaue village, and the mountain air ensured a good sleep.

The view from the gardens is breathtaking, and worth the climb up from the village in its own right. Garden chairs, including a large carved wooden swinging chair for two, are arranged along the east wall of the hotel in the garden, facing the valley, the village, and the famous rice terraces. At dusk, the setting sun picks out the glassy surface of the flooded terraces. The road up to the hotel is swathed in butterflies, many small ones coloured yellow and blue, like English butterflies, but big exotic velvety Filipino varieties too.

Good value at 500 pesos for the double room with shared bucket of cold water for washing, but pricey as a single. The large restaurant on the first floor was closed, which was unfortunate, as the village is just far enough away to make an awkward journey uphill on foot at night. I got the impression that most other guests had their own transport, or used taxis to get everywhere.

The road from Baguio to Bontoc is as much a wonder as any of the official world heritage sites in the Philippines, and equally worth experiencing. It was hacked out of the side of the mountains by the Americans to provide access to the inland mines, and zigzags up and over the Cordillera range without any of the benefits, or restrictions, of civic planning. There are many stretches of single-track road, where two vehicles cannot pass without one having to reverse back to the nearest farmyard, and the edge of the roadway is often barely a foot outside the bus’s tyres, with rarely any wall or fence between the road and the precipice. It was probably only ever intended for small numbers of utility vehicles. Fortunately, there is still little traffic, consisting mainly of occasional private cars and motor-cycles, and the few intrepid buses, which know every twist and turn in the road, and can spot trouble several valleys away. In many places the road is little better than a farm track, with the edges worn away by rain, even in the dry season. We were delayed an hour while a small gang of labourers laid temporary sleepers over a section which had dissolved down the cliff face (and another half hour while the driver and some able-bodied volunteers changed a tyre). I do not think this route would be passable after heavy rain. But the views are stupendous, unobstructed by roadside vegetation, of steep hills and valleys, terraced cultivation on the lower slopes, and raptors hovering above, hoping for someone to make a mistake. In the villages you can see women companionably washing clothes at the village tap, as their mothers must once have gathered by the stream in the valley below.

Don’t even think about this journey if you are of a nervous disposition, or don’t have a good head for heights. If you enjoy excitement, don’t miss it, and make sure you get a window seat on the bus. Either side will give you a breathtaking view, sometimes simultaneously, but the right side is marginally better.

Cramped shop, piled high with tribal artifacts of all kinds – beautiful hand-woven materials, carved wood masks, baskets, everything you will find in craft shops anywhere else. But the young girl behind the counter was charming and helpful, explaining what the things were used for, and how they were made (by a local co-operative). I bought a couple of silver pendants with animal heads, which I hadn’t seen for sale anywhere else. She told me that an old man makes them, and brings them in to the shop from time to time.

The prices here are no higher than on the market stalls in Banaue or Baguio, and considerably lower than in Manila. Sagada is a dreamy, remote place, among its cemeteries and pine forests. This is a good place to buy memories.