chronicles of an igorot in australia. a photoblog in parts, this is intended as a diary, travelogue, memoir, journal, palimpsest, igorot blog, accounts of misadventures, running battles or whatever it turns out to be. there might be souls out there with common interests. do post a comment.
Saturday, 3 February 2018
Barlig is situated in the
rugged high mountains and deep canyons of the remote center of Mountain
At every corner
you can view breathtaking scenery, winding streams, lush montane cloud forests,
waterfalls and fields.
Ricefields through the fog.
Remnants of some old
native huts with thatched roofs made of stick and grass straw - cogon, remind of an age just gone.
The warmth of February comes
to end the cold nights. It is the time to sow the rice seedlings for the
season. And when the young rice shoots are in bloom, the hot season or maybe chacon will be here soon. But the cooler
climes of Barlig is the reason - for the travelin’. And as the roads continue
to wind, so strays the wanderin’ mind of the travelin’ kind.
Stunted hardwood in the cloud forests of a high mountain.
Modern times and roads
have long transformed the communities and lifestyles of the indigenous peoples of
the Cordillera. Yet their customs continue to survive in these remote mountainous
and self-sufficient communities that are also blessed by Nature’s bounty.
Centuries of established practices
in preserving woodlots and watersheds have kept forests untouched and intact, thus sustaining the environment.
Deeply ingrained in the psyche of the Ibilig, is this respect of nature and recognition
of the mutual connections between forest and field.
Tradition demands respect of
customs and laws, land and forest rights; and responsibility and stewardship for the natural environment, including the observance of good practices of soil and water conservation.
And it is customary
to leave certain areas alone, like the sacred places the spirits call home.
If you are passing through, go lightly. Do not stray, do not disturb. Tarry but not sully.
However, with the changing
times the ancient knowledge systems from sangadom
are disappearing/ through the thinning smoke rings of the woodfires/ down the
foggy ruins of mournful pines/ felled before their prime…
And as the traditions
of the ancestors are dissolving into distant memory,
the mountains are
washing out to sea.
Oh. Ole! Awllae (A what
looks like an eskimo) seems lost in the jungleland.
Wandering the damaged mountainsides once grand.
Now I see two eskimos, inspecting
a typical road construction conundrum up in the mountains.
Can they engineer a solution? This is a slippery slope, literally. But rather think laterally.
Oh lonesome me. Just
walking, heart aching, still yearning.
Crossing bridges burning, not
Yes, and still the streams are flowing, and the waters fall.