Here and there we met bands of Igorrotes, marching “Indian file,” carrying great bundles of rice up shortcut mountain trails, which wound through the rice terraces and were “as steep as the side of a house.” All the men had long, murderous-looking spears, while the women were evidently the burden-bearers. Along the main trail we came, now and then, upon a company of men leading home a whimpering and pitiful little pack of very thin dogs. We knew these were to be killed and eaten and, naturally, the thought was sickening, but in the Igorrote country the dog-loving white man has to get used to this. Some day, perhaps, it will be different, but not until herds and flocks have been substituted and entirely new ideas have patiently been instilled into the minds of these people. For the time being dog flesh is their most cherished article of diet.
I wish it were known just where these curious wild tribes came from; just what their race history is. They are as unlike Filipinos as American Indians are unlike Englishmen. They have but one thing in common with the Filipinos, and that is their colour, which is a soft, dark brown. There is hardly an American who has ever lived among them for any length of time who has not a real admiration and affection for them and yet, to all intents and purposes, they are naked savages. They are most amenable to civilising influences. They take to education eagerly. They are, in their physical development, beautiful to look upon—when they are cleaned up—perfectly formed, straight and muscular, with features strongly marked and with wide, clear eyes which inspire confidence. They are entirely fearless; and they are loyal to the “last ditch.” Also, it is these same incomprehensible “naked savages” who have built the thousands of acres of rice terraces which are a marvel and a mystery to every irrigation expert or technical engineer who has ever seen them.
Bontoc, which we reached after a day’s weary, wet riding over slippery trails from Sagada, is the capital of what is now known as the Mountain province. For the first time in their known history the Igorrotes are united under one central government, each tribe having its lieutenant governor—an American always. There are the Benguets, the Bontocs, the Ifugaos, the Ilongots, the Kalingas and others, and they have been engaged in inter-tribal warfare since time began, their chief pleasure being derived from the taking of each other’s heads. When I went into the Igorrote country head-hunting was still in full force and houses were still decorated with festoons of human skulls, while no man ever ventured forth, even to his rice fields, without his spear and shield and head-axe. They all carry spears even yet, but head-hunting, having been made by the American government a capital offence, is not so popular. Mr. Dean C. Worcester, as Secretary of the Interior, in direct charge of all wild tribes, actually succeeded in introducing substitutes for the sport in the form of baseball and other inter-tribal athletic contests and peaceful, though rough and strenuous pastimes. For fourteen years Mr. Worcester was to these children of the hills a most highly respected Apo-apo—chief of chiefs.
Miss Bubb, my sister Maria and I were the first white women who ever set foot in Bontoc and to say that we created a sensation is to describe our reception too mildly. We were the guests of three American miners who had a comfortable house and who, having lived among the Igorrotes for a long time—one of them for more than a year without visiting civilisation—could give us much interesting firsthand information. The people gathered around us in hordes, but they kept at a respectful, not to say a reverential, distance. I think they were afraid of us; especially the women, not one of whom would let us look at her baby. But we were used to that. Many Christian Filipinos believe firmly in the “evil eye.” There was one little dwarf who was bolder than the rest and who followed us everywhere we went. He was like a little, brown, toy-child, beautifully formed, and looking not more than one year old, but we were told that he was at least fourteen.
Everybody wanted to give us things. The evening I arrived I received a present from one of the headmen, of three live chickens, and the next day, as we were picking our way through the native village, another man ran after me and, very graciously and gracefully, presented me with two fresh eggs. We learned to say “mapud,” which means “good,” and, in connection with smiles and gestures, found it served us famously for all purposes of social intercourse.
Bontoc is in a deep valley, on the bank of a wide, swift river and surrounded by close sheltering hills, so it is not as cold as it is in Sagada and some other places we visited; but it is cold enough, and I failed to understand how the natives could live in a state of almost complete nakedness. But they do and, in fact, all these people do, even in the coldest regions. The Bontoc Igorrote wears a very bright-coloured clout called a “G-string” with a
