FIELD SPORTS OF NORTHERN LUZON 



255 



LISTENING TO THE TALKING MACHINE 



tal of the subprovince of Ifugao, passing 

 en route over the crest of the Polis range 

 at an elevation of 6,200 feet on a trail 

 which for many miles runs through a 

 magnificent forest. 



At the edge of this forest, on the east- 

 ern slope of the mountain, we are met 

 by a delegation of Ifugaos, short-haired 

 barbarians who until very recently have 

 been inveterate head-hunters. Having 

 shown their friendship by giving us a 

 drink of bubud, they precede us, their 

 headman carrying an American flag. He 

 is followed by three gansa men, who play 

 march music, to the tune of which we 

 continue our journey. The country is 

 thickly settled and each village sends out 

 its flag-bearer and gansa men to escort 

 us to the next. The trail runs along the 

 steep mountain-side among the terraced 

 rice fields of the Ifugaos, which are one 

 of the wonders of the Philippines. When 

 we sight the plaza at Banawe it is filled 



with a solid mass of humanity, which 

 forms a great splotch of brown and 

 black, relieved only by the white roosters' 

 feathers and strips of white paper which 

 the Ifugaos so dearly love to wear in 

 their hair. There are no gay colors here. 

 Clouts and blankets are of dark blue or 

 black cloth, at the most with white 

 stripes or small scarlet figures. 



Again we are greeted by a tremendous 

 shout, instantly followed by a sound of 

 a very different nature. We could shut 

 our eyes and imagine that we are at a 

 football game, for a genuine college yell, 

 given with a snap and vim that would 

 do credit to Harvard or Yale, is ringing 

 in our ears. "Wah-wah, wah-wah, wah- 

 wah, yi-i-i-i" shouts the crowd, and then 

 it repeats the performance, trying to 

 make a little more noise than it did 

 before. 



Dancing begins the moment we arrive 

 and keeps up continuously throughout 



