The mountain range of the Philippines holds a marvel that is more than 2,000 years old: the rice terraces of the Ifugao. But the true marvel of this remote place is the Ifugao people themselves, who have carved the mountainsides to survive, who venerate them as gods because they believe, above all, in the force of Nature. People who not only do not forget their ancestors, but who have them present every day in their prayers, because they are their religion, their baki.
A strong people, with an everlasting smile, who left a mark on us and whose women we remember with great affection. They are born and die among the earth, between the rice and the water. They turn their hands into roots with which day by day they feed the land that, grateful, will later feed them.
From a young age they are taught to love those mountains; they learn to take their first steps on the edge of the rice terraces. They are raised as part of a people that instills in them respect for their ancestors, where their strength resides, but a people that also looks to the future. Even in villages lost among the rice paddies, such as Cambulo, difficult to access and without even electricity, girls like the one in the photo learn to speak English.
Perhaps she will leave the mountain range when she grows up, but most likely, she will stay there to continue the task of her mothers and grandmothers because they are anchored to the land in such a way that it is difficult to pull them away from it. They do not retire until their ancestors come to look for them. They have even shaped their bodies to the needs of the terrain.
And those rough hands, capable of pulling oxen, of building stone walls, convey an incredible tenderness when you see them work. They pamper the land, leisurely stripping it of weeds, cleaning and grooming it with great care. In this way, it is inevitable that the mountains return to them in the form of sustenance all the affection they deposit.
Discovering them in their day-to-day life, crossing paths with them, observing them in silence, receiving their hospitality in the rain was quite a pleasure. Getting to know them without artifice, without the traditional costumes with which they seem to dress up for the tourist, is the best reward for a hard trek through the villages of Pula, Cambulo, and Batad.
If a few lines serve to pay tribute to these Ifugao women, here they are with all our admiration and respect. Sometimes a smile, a sincere greeting from a window is more effective than many other things. We return the smile to them virtually so that they do not falter in the exhausting task of continuing to carve the mountain with hundreds of rice terraces without losing sight of their ancestral beliefs.
