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| Little cutie all dressed up for the Begnas di Yabyab |
It was not strange to find the street empty. Thousands of miles above and
away from the lowlands where I was raised, the people of Sagada rose before the
sun did, and at almost 8am I had already missed them by hours. It was the
morning after a storm, and plants that had been too weak against the rain and
wind lay helplessly in the mud. The air hung warm with the steam of the wet
earth, relief from the cold. Minutes ago, a friend had said brusquely through
the phone, to come out by the road and wait. Not knowing what to expect, I
drifted into a nearby weaving shop to pace, first out of faith, and then
desperation. The storeowner, amused at my unease, later took me aside, asking
if I was there to watch the indians, and, confused, I stood with him by the
door as he explained what warranted my waiting.
