What was the Baguio Grand Caniao?

hen I first wrote for the Gold Ore in 1980, the mayor of Baguio was retired air force general Ernesto H. Bueno. The president, of course, was Ferdinand E. Marcos and it was martial law.

I remember that besides the AFP, which Marcos spoiled rotten, the two other most prominent national agencies were Imelda’s Ministry of Human Settlements (MHS) and the Department of Tourism (DOT), under secretary Jose D. Aspiras.

“Sunshine Joe” was his nickname and he held the reputation of being so close to Marcos. Urban legend has it that when he oversaw the rehabilitation of the Agoo Basilica, he caused the faces of two of the cherubims adorning the church’s ceiling to be painted in the likenesses of Ferdinand and Imelda.

How government money was used to defray the cost of rebuilding a church (remember “separation of church and State?”), I will explain in class in Facebook School of Law later.

Marcos loved coming to Baguio. In fact, it was probably during his long presidency that Mansion House on Leonard Wood Road was busiest. He even renamed the Baguio Botanical Garden “Imelda Park” (it had since been restored to its old name).

The DOT’s thrust then was to monetize traditional Philippine festivals, making them the attractions to draw foreign tourists to the country.

For example, Aklan province had its Ati-atihan Festival, Marinduque had the Moriones mardigras, Iloilo had its Masskara Festival, Naga City in Bicol had their Peñafrancia Fluvial Parade, etc.

Marcos chided “Sunshine Joe” and Ernie Bueno why Baguio, such a well-known Philippine city to the world, didn’t have its own “signature tourism event.”

The two knocked heads together with then-City Tourism Officer Narciso “Nars” Padilla and came up with an event-concept, which they dubbed “The Baguio Grand Cañao.”

For a full week in summer, Melvin Jones football grounds was transformed into a living diorama showcasing the DOT’s understanding of “cañao.”

A miniature “Igorot Village”--Marcos was fond of this type of "Nayong Pilipino" type of presentation--was set up, complete with several traditional Igorot cogon huts and fire pits.

All day long tourists can watch and photograph or film (there were no cellphones yet!) cultural groups, in full native regalia “perform” a simulated “cañao”—butchering black native pigs and devouring them in a frenzy of animal carnage and dancing to the never-ending-never-fading rhythmic staccato of the ubiquitous native gangsa.

All this is taking place right before the eyes of an international audience.

Reaction was mixed.

Animal rights activists (like M.A.S.H. actress Loretta Swit) were revulsed by the sights and sounds of squealing pigs, and grossed out by “mambunongs” ripping out these pigs’ raw livers in order to “read” them for their ethno-occultic messaging.

Some others soaked in the exotica of the “National Geographic” atmosphere, feeling like they were engorging on some kind of Philippine safari experience.

Others just used the occasion to showcase their own misgiving--nay, general ignorance--about Cordilleran culture. Their typical reaction went, “Aaay shet, kadiri!” yes those expressions were already around in 1980, “ganyan pala ka-primitive ang mga Igorot! Far out!”

“Halika, pa-Kodak tayo,” that’s vintage-1980 jargon for ‘selfie.’

“Tawagin mo yung Igorot na nakabahag, tabihan tayo, abutan mo ng limang piso.”

I have never heard the word “Igorot” used so derisively and so malcontextually so much in my whole life. But as a young reporter (I was 16) I just wrote down everything and interviewed everybody inside the festival and out. I was determined to just let the story tell itself.

None of the tourist reactions shocked me. They’re tourists, what do you expect?

Withdrawing from the madding crowd, I spoke with the late Antonio Gumabol, a respected high school teacher at Baguio City High School, who was the adviser of the BIBAK (for “Benguet Ifugao Bontoc Apayao Kalinga”) community in the city. He was in tears and sullen.

“This is not what cañao is all about. It’s not a dance. It’s not a party. It’s a heritage. You cannot simulate a heritage. You cannot perform a heritage.”

I can’t remember exactly now everything he said, but he said plenty. In capsule, though, he said lowlanders all have this Hollywood-inspired “African-esque” stereotype of the mountain culture. Most people who think they’ve been IN the Cordilleras have actually only seen Kennon Road or the Banawe Rice Terraces. Two places that are hundreds of kilometers apart, they just assume that everything in between is the same homogeneous cultural conundrum of butchery and dancing—and the one-word-fits-all term for it was “cañao.”

He was pained in his description of several “anitos”—monoblock carvings in black wood depicting the ethnic pantheon of ancestral gods—scattered all around Melvin Jones grounds. Tourists thought they were stylized trash bins, somewhere to snuff off a cigarette butt.

But his bitterest critique was this: not only was the cañao depicted totally wrong by event planners who understood little or nothing of Igorot culture and ethos, they even named it just the “Baguio Grand Cañao” after this melting pot city, the one place where the cultural heritage is LEAST manifested.

After the story came out, slowly, level heads began stepping forward, academia especially. Conscientious objectors began pelting local officials with one manifesto after another, denouncing the prostitution of the Igorot cultural heritage.

In typical Marcosian response, government spin doctors started defending the festival, crunching numbers that showed the “economic boost” that the Baguio Grand Cañao brought to the local tourism industry.

Somebody spanked the “why Baguio” sentiment by saying shut up you crybabies. “Baguio is Benguet and Benguet is the gateway to the Cordilleras. Ergo, Baguio IS the Cotdilleras, period.” It is what it is, so shove it. They lectured the public about the practical advantages of learning how to “market your culture on a global scale,”—and to get rid of the “barriotic mentality” of always keeping your traditions mothballed in selfish xenophobia.

I remember how proud I felt when a group of retired MSAC (Mountain State Agricultural College, forerunner of Benguet State University) faculty came out and rebuked those government apologists.

They said, “Our people are not for sale, our traditions and institutions are not for sale. Our culture is not for sale.”

They roundly rejected the transactional politics that Manila tourism officials were peddling to local leaders, on Marcos’ marching orders to keep the Baguio Grand Cañao at all costs.

Promises, even guarantees, were made that the local government units that would throw their full support to the Grand Cañao program would be in the priority list to receive budgetary support and national subsidies—meaning more infrastructure programs, more ambulances, more police cars, the whole enchilada.

I also remember how ashamed I was that my own city was the most rabid in pushing for the Grand Cañao—even agreeing, or offering, to drop Baguio from the festival name, to bring “parity” with Benguet and other Cordilleran provinces and municipalities.

I don’t know why it was labeled in Baguio’s name, to begin with. But the parity offer was rejected by Benguet’s “panglakayan.” Even the sheen of tourism’s gold couldn’t make Benguet salivate (to think that gold comes from Benguet!)

The thought of, “apay aya nu haan nga Igorot ti nakapanunot, basta makatulong!” was anathema to the ears of Benguet’s social, cultural and political leadership in 1980.

Which makes me realize one thing. Transactional politics was way ahead of its time for proud and noble Benguet in 1980.

Perhaps if the Grand Cañao were resurrected today, the math would be quite different. Benguet today is more practical and hardly sentimental anymore. Because today “Basta Makatulong” is the new mantra in Benguet. Everything is for sale, if the price is right.

And when the highest office is bought and paid for, the conscience doesn't struggle so much with selling anything else.*

BAGUIO CENTRAL SCHOOL MEMORIES 4

alk about the wonder of social media—specifically, Facebook. Who would think that after more than forty six years I would reconnect with a gradeschool classmate I haven’t seen or heard from since 1974?

He read my article about our gay classmate, my personal hero, Jimmy Patacsil and how he carried me to the school clinic after a sound beating by a playground bully. So he texted me.

“Hello, Joel. If the nurse you’re talking about is Mrs. Abad, she was my late mother and she was our school nurse. This is Warren Lee Abad.”

My bad, I had gotten her name wrong! I said she was “Mrs Warren.” Actually, Warren is the name of her SON who was my classmate in Grade Four in Baguio Central School.

I replied right away, “Yes! That’s her! Mrs. Florence Abad, your mom. She was the kind nurse who fixed my nose!”

We were both very excited. “Darn it!” I said, ”kahit nung nasa Central pa tayo hilong hilo nako sa pangalan mo!” Warren Lee is actually his two-word FIRST name, and Abad was his surname. But if you didn’t know better, any one of those three names Warren, Lee and Abad could be jumbled in any order—which many of our teachers did.

In some teacher’s alphabetized class record he was listed at No. 1 “Abad” and in some he came in last, “Warren.” So this smartass took advantage of it during flag ceremony when we kids lined up in alphabetical order. If there was a program to watch onstage up front, he stood first in line with the best front row view, “I’m Abad!” he would say. But on days when he wanted to be inattentive, he stood in the back, out of the teacher’s view, “I’m Warren!”

Anyway, today, this smartasses’ proper name is DOCTOR Warren Lee Abad, MD! Wow. On second thought, that part didn’t surprise me at all. He always aced all our Science class quizzes.

But I’ll never forget her mom, Nurse Florence Abad. She was a plump kindly woman who now has wings in heaven. She was mother to all of us “Baguio Central boys” back in the day, and she didn’t play favorites.

One time she yanked me aside and started running her hands all over my body—it tickled so—and said, “My God, Joel, you are too thin. You’re not eating right.” Then he grabbed Warren Lee’s apple from his lunch bag and gave it to me. Nothing Warren could do about it except, as they say, if looks could kill…

Warren’s name wasn’t the only one that caused a lot of confusion. We had other classmates with reversible first and last names: Lee Ignacio, Aniceto Mateo, Andres Bernardo or Leo Clemente. That last boy--some called him Leo, some called him Clem. I called him "Speedy Gonzales" because in the game of "kin-natcher" you could NEVER catch this greased lightning! He was speedy as the devil which is ironic because today his name is REVEREND PASTOR Leo Clemente, Senior Pastor of the International Church of Praise in San Diego, California.

I don’t know what baby name book 1970s parents used but there was a lot of imagination that had evidently gone around.

For instance, the school’s music teacher had two sons our age and their names were “Lei Me Hope” and “Lei Me Luck” (both 3-word first names). Those are NOT Chinese names, explains their mother Anita. Each of those names is a complete English sentence that means “put a garland of hope/luck around my neck.” Wow.

My best friend in Grade 5 was the son of the First Baptist Church minister who named him “Reeve”—not to pay homage to the actor who played Superman, Christopher Reeve. Reeve was short for “Revelation” Velunta. Revelation, in case you REALLY didn't know, is the last book in the New Testament of the Christian bible. Wow.

The girls' names were no less unique. The prettiest of them all--heartbroker non pareil--was Soidemer Timbol. "Soidee" had the face of an angel so her mom Remedios thought of the most unique name for her: Remedios spelled backwards!

Of course, not all kids in our school were happy with the names their parents gave them, some obviously in haste. For instance, our school had the first TRIPLETS in the pupil roster. (By the way, you were a “pupil” in elementary, a “student” in high school and a “coed” in college)

Those three brothers, just born within minutes of each other, were ALL bullies—who wouldn’t be with the names they had. The oldest one was “Buddha” (I’m not kidding), the middle one was “Ba-kes” (Ilocano word for chimpanzee, again I’m not kidding) and the youngest one was “Bal-log” (Ilocano word for happy-go-lucky, or if you want a more mean-spirited translation: truant)

If their parents were aiming for funny, they overshot it because everytime these boys introduced themselves, everybody just broke out laughing in guffaws. And yet these three were so proud of the novelty that their names all started with the letter B. Wow.

Warren and I were unimpressed. Warren whispered to me, “I really think their parents could have used a little more imagination, assuming they had any.” I said, “I’m sure they do. They have a family dog.”

Warren said, “Really? What did they name their dog?”

“Kennedy.”

Wow.

BAGUIO CENTRAL SCHOOL MEMORIES

had no idea NAMES would be such an endearing topic to write about, based on the number of comments, text messages and emails I’ve been receiving after those two articles--the first one about my hero Jaime “Jimmy” Patacsil and a follow-up piece on my recent reconnecting with Dr. Warren Lee Abad.

I even learned that our music teacher Mrs. Anita Peña’s two boys are now ALSO medical doctors, both of them: Dr. Levi Hope Peña and Dr. Leni Luck Peña (there you go, apparently those are the correct spellings). She absolutely adored those two boys of hers, that’s why she even went out of her way to explain the origin of their names to us, her music class.

Ma’am Anita—who must have been the tallest teacher in Baguio—was a music pioneer in her own right. She had formed this four-voice “girl group” with Mrs. Thelma S. Ferrer (the only piano teacher in Baguio Central School), Miss Basilisa O. Peña (my Grade 3 adviser, no relation to Anita) and Mrs. Leonora C. Adalim (my Grade 5 adviser). Don’t be impressed how I remember even their middle initials. Kids in my day had to memorize practically the biodata of their homeroom class-advisers. The title “Maestra” and “Maestro” carried such high esteem, and embodied the essence of substitute parental authority. If they whacked our provocative little bottoms whenever we misbehaved, no parent sued them in court for “child abuse.” Not a one.

In fact, many millennials may find this hard to believe, but do you know what our parents did if we came home with a welt on our behind because Teacher had spanked us?

Our parents gave us a follow-up beating at home that’s what, “walanghiya kang bata ka, pinahirapan mo na naman si Maestra kasasaway sa iyo anoh?!” Parents and teachers in the 1970s—they were in cahoots!

Those four music teachers—Mesdames Ferrer, Adalim and the two Peña’s—became known as the “Central Minstrels” and they were all over the city. They would get invited to perform at school programs, division meets, and countless “meet-and-greet” receptions for visiting high government officials from Manila. Their repertoire was an eclectic ‘playlist’ of kundiman, opera and Broadway. In my 1975 Baguio Central School, they were like the “Spice Girls” in DepEd uniforms!

For some reason, names of people in my generation were a portent of unique things to come. Long before Tiger Woods came on the scene, I already had a classmate named Tiger McNamara, my first Fil-Am friend in campus. He was an authentic karate kid (a brown belter if I remember right) who always stood by the little people (mostly moi).

The name Bert was all-too common, so stylized versions like “Bart” (with an “a”) became the fad in the 80s and 90s—like US Olympic gymnast Bart O’Connor. But even back in 1974, I already had a classmate named Bart Serrano. He was from Cabanatuan.

Names taken from the bible were dime a dozen. There was the Old Testament patriarch ABRAHAM Biteng, Lion cage survivor DANIEL Astudillo, Moses' successor JOSHUA Cariño, and a cross-enrollee fron Tarlac DELILAH Samson (that's a real classmate's name, I swear!). I already mentioned my best friend Revelacion "Reve" Velunta, who I learned is now an international theologist and author of several books.

And then there’s Mrs. Adalim’s nephew, Reynaldo Romero—the second anchor of the triumvirate of proud gays in my class that I wrote about. Long before I even became aware of Filipino fashion designers like Pitoy Moreno, I was already going crazy admiring Rey’s sophisticated fashion designs which he drew on pages of Grade 5 ruled pad. Make no mistake, I’m no lousy artist myself—a drew a syndicated cartoon strip “Anak ni Bugoy” in the 80s that came out on the Gold Ore and Malaya—but I could never draw a woman’s face. All my cartoon strip characters were male.

Rey could draw a woman’s face of any age, facial characteristics, hair style, front view, side view and everything--with his eyes closed. He could draw Soidemer Timbol—prettiest girl God ever made and our class muse—in under ten seconds. He tried in vain to teach me. He would take one look at my best attempt, scratch his chin and say, “Babae yan? Bakit kamukha ni Kingkong?”

The unique thing about Reynaldo Romero was how he signed his work. He wrote his name as “Wreigh” which was even more elaborate than the “Rhey” convention (adding a useless letter “h”) that was all the rage in the 90s.

He explained it to me, “it’s called adding oomph to an ordinary name, tranforming a common name to a unique name without changing it, that’s the challenge.”

I was totally impressed, “Galeng! O sige turuan mo ako, ano rin pwede kong gawin sa name ko para gumanda?”

Wreigh said, “Palitan mo.”

BAGUIO CENTRAL SCHOOL MEMORIES

ne of the best features of Baguio Central School when I studied there from 1970 to 1976 was that it had an excellent all-string ensemble: the Baguio Central School Rondalla.

It was mentored by one of the most unforgettable teachers, Mr. Pedro B. Fontanoz who could play anything that had strings on it: ukelele, guitar, octavina, banduria, mandolin, acoustic base (“bajo de arko” he called it) violin and the harp. Amazingly, he could also play the harmonica and a little bit of the French accordion.

More than being a virtuoso on these musical instruments, he was an excellent music teacher. But he was not a regular music teacher. He did not handle a regular music class "on circuit" like the other teachers. “On circuit” is when the same teacher goes from classroom to classroom, teaching the same subject to different sections.

Instead, Mr. Fontanoz had a small mezzanine floor studio in the main building beside the principal’s office. Every afternoon he would hold a free clinic on how to play the traditional six-string guitar and the banduria, which is a 14-string Philippine version of the European mandolin. Any pupiI was welcome to join and if through persistence you acquired a certain level of playing ability you became part of the 30-or-so-strong school rondalla. This rondalla played the Lupang Hinirang (“Bayang Magiliw” to us then) during daily morning flag ceremony. They also played the “waiting music” interlude before the national anthem, as well as the “walking music” afterwards when we kids dispersed from the school quadrangle and walked to our classrooms.

I auditioned many times for the rondalla but could never make the cut because my fingers were too short and stubby. I could play the open chords C, E, A and D-major but struggled to press down all six strings for the bar chords F, G and B.

But Mr. Fontanoz wouldn’t give up on me. He picked up a tambourine and said “see what you can do with this.” I used the darned thing to hit my head.

But that spoke nothing of how good Mr. Fontanoz himself was on the guitar. He was all over the neck (the fretboard) and he only used an overgrown thumbnail (the literal one, not the digital icon) for a pick. Strangest of all things, he was lefthanded. But he did not play a special “lefty” guitar. He picked up any “normal” right-handed guitar from the rondalla rack and played it---UPSIDE DOWN!

That’s why we couldn’t copy him. That’s why we couldn’t crack the code. That’s also why Eric Clapton couldn’t copy Jimi Hendrix.

On Fridays, Mr. Fontanoz taught a special class--of faculty members. If anyone could put together a special rondalla comprising of a bunch of tone-deaf adults approaching compulsory retirement, many with early onset arthritis, he had to have been THAT good.

Mr. Fontanoz was good at one other thing: calligraphy. He was also the school commandant for the school Junior Police. For this one, I qualified. I was amazed at how Mr. Fontanoz drew by hand all our Junior Police cardboard badges and ID’s—complete with an elaborate coat-of-arms and our names in block letters that totally resembled letters on a Pica-size typewriter. That ID looked so authoritative--you flashed that thing and it intimidated everybody. Even the toughest bully backed off.

He also gave each one of us “junior police kids” short wooden billy clubs and taught us how to use them. For guys you whacked them squarely on the rump. Girls, you never whacked them under any circumstances. So we learned how to properly commit human rights violations very early in life.

The Junior Police--I think that’s where I learned that a little power can be a dangerous thing. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. But not under Mr. Fontanoz, he was very adamant against whacking even troublemakers indiscriminately. And we heeded his guidance, we didn’t whack indiscriminately.

Kapag nanlaban lang.