Unknown Territory
By Bridget Crocker ©2002

First published as a field report in Patagonia catalog Fall 2002

     Just downstream, machete-clad onlookers of all sorts, from tiny boys wielding bolos to tattooed men and women with long, sword-like blades, press tightly together on the swinging bridge over our heads. We finish rigging at the put-in near the Philippine town of Tinglayan and travel with the current under the crowded bridge.
     As our rafts pass below, someone tosses a dead runt piglet off the bridge. It plunges into the swirling, rising water three feet from my boat. I pry at the pig with my paddle, bring it closer, then grab it by the leg and haul it into the raft, dripping wet. From somewhere—a cultural etiquette book or a lecture from my mother—I recall that it’s never a good idea to refuse food given as a gift unless you want to insult your host. I especially don’t want to insult these hosts: newly recovered headhunters of the tribal highlands.
     The Kalinga people of northern Luzon Island have a reputation around the Philippines as being both fearsome and homicidal. Even though today’s Kalinga largely refrain from the practice of beheading their enemies, stories abound of retributional hack jobs around the province. Just the day before, on the way to the put-in, our overloaded jeepney staggered through a memorial vigil near the most recent, not-that-isolated hacking incident, making the danger all the more real.
     With this in mind, I smile graciously at the armed crowd on the bridge and hold the very dead little pig up by the leg, conveying my gratitude. Nobody smiles. They look, instead, very displeased. Two young Kalinga men who are paddling in my raft, training as river guides, whip around in their seats and frantically motion for me to throw the pig overboard. They explain that this is a test of our intelligence, which in Kalinga culture translates as survival prowess. No one in their right mind eats a stinking dead runt piglet. To the Kalinga, refusing such an insulting gift demonstrates survival intelligence. You’ve clearly lost your head if you accept it.
     Bewildered, I stand up and launch the pig overboard, back into the swollen maelstrom. I close my eyes and wait for machetes to start flying. Instead, exuberant cheers and whistles pierce the lifting afternoon mist. We pass the Kalinga intelligence test and drift further downstream into unknown territory.

Links to Stories

Links to Video

Links to Outfitters