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.*
