The ‘CEOS’ of Sagada
In the same land where their ancestors thrived, the local business people who offer visitors the “gifts” of Sagada may seem worlds apart from the business titans who gather yearly, also in a cold mountain retreat in Switzerland. But they do realize they have a unique wealth that no one else can take from them.
SMALL is big. Meet George Dapliyan and his wife Jessica, whose newfound venture as one of the small producers of the now famous high-quality “Sagada coffee” became an overnight success in this quaint yet scenic mountain resort town in the Cordillera Administrative Region (CAR).
The Dapliyans started their coffee business right after the nationwide lockdown at the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, by harvesting their Arabica coffee beans which were grown in their backyard.
The Arabica variety, which makes up 60 percent of the world’s coffee but thrives only in the country’s highland areas like CAR, was already a fast-growing crop before the lockdown. “Sagada coffee,” on the other hand, became one of the favorite blends in local coffeeshops merely by word of mouth from foreign and local tourists who had immersed in the town, which has lately been tagged as one of the major international ecotourism destinations.
Still, its coffee production was merely a backyard crop since the local farmers were dependent on high-value vegetable crops.
According to Jessica, she started their business by converting the ground floor of their house into a coffeeshop, being strategically found near the outskirts of the población, or town proper. It turned out that the coffee shop was more of a showroom since it became a hangout for visiting traders looking for additional supply of the Arabica coffee because of its big demand in Metro Manila.
“We never expected that our backyard business would prosper in a pandemic. We just wanted to survive the crisis,” says George, a Baguio State University-trained forester, who decided to plant coffee before the pandemic since he was having problems sustaining the production of bee honey from his wild sunflower flower farm due to the recent surge of erratic rainfalls in the region.
According to the couple, they never had any formal training when they decided to shift to coffee farming. “Being natives of Sagada, we know our land and what is best to make it productive while conserving our environment,” says George.
Although they still continue to sell bottled honey, he recently transferred its production near Buguias, Benguet, and converted their farmland into an upland coffee plantation. Instead of buying coffee from nearby backyard farms to cope with increasing local demand of their “Dapliyan Coffee” brand, he opted to plant 3,000 upland coffee seedlings last year.
Natural rainfall
MEANWHILE, Sagada’s natural rainfall all year round has become a blessing for local vegetable farmers like Linda Atiwag, who sells vegetables near the local municipal hall; and Agay Tamy, a regular vendor during the town’s “market day” every weekend.
Atiwag says their produce, which are displayed for retail and wholesale, were normally brought by visiting traders for distribution in major urban centers. She says they really wanted their vegetables to be more affordable, but they were dependent on agricultural inputs if they were to be commercially viable. This explains why Atiwag says she sells Sagada onions at P250 per kilo in the retail market, though it’s already half its regular cost in urban centers after being peddled by middlemen.
Preserving a cultural tradition
A VISIT to Sagada isn’t complete without a meal at the Pinikpikan House. Its owner, Helen Omaweng, 57, says she had to stop its operations—after 19 years—for almost two years, only to reopen again last December when tourists have began returning as the local government loosened its Covid-19 restrictions.
Being a member of the Applai community, she found it an obligation to serve pinikpikan, which is only being offered in her restaurant to continue to promote a “cultural tradition.” The Applai indigenous people, often referred to as Kankanaeys even if they have different identities, are known to continue observing their own customs and traditions during occasions like weddings, deaths and other village-related activities, including convening to do the ceremonies for Kabuyan as their supreme being.
Pinikpikan, a “must-cook” food during these festivities, is prepared by beating a live native chicken with a stick prior to cooking, bringing the blood to its surface to improve the flavor of the dish. The chicken is then hung by its feet and briefly beaten with a stick, the feathers are then removed using a blowtorch, which adds to its smoky taste.
The cutting up of the chicken is, in itself, a ritual process since it has to be handled by an elder who examines its organs and bile.
Cooking is done like the tinola, with ginger being mixed for flavor, but with the salted pork locally known as etag to add flavor to its soupy broth.
Surviving as a people
OMAWENG admits that she has to continue hurdling the problem of serving a local cuisine that may be considered in breach of the Philippine Animal Welfare Act, which prohibits the “torture” of animals.
“I don’t want to comment on this,” says Omaweng, referring to the Philippine Animal Welfare Act of 1988, which prohibits “any person to torture any animal.” “It’s our tradition and I intend to preserve it,” she says.
Surprisingly, while foreign governments had been criticizing the pinikpikan and dog meat, which are traditional comfort food in the Cordillera region, Omaweng says most of her customers are curious foreigners.”
“I never heard any of my foreign customers complaining about the food. That means they appreciate it,” says Omaweng, who has been serving only pinikpikan since she reopened her restaurant with help from her two daughters who are public-school teachers.
“Actually, my problem now is that it’s more difficult to find local helpers because of the recent surge of restaurants and lodging inns,” she says. But only the locals are allowed to set up new businesses since the local government has decreed a ban on outsiders.
Her neighbor, Evelio Aspoen, a 48-year-old storeowner who processes etag for commercial production, agrees that their customs and traditions must be preserved if they were to survive as a people.
“Since our forefathers’ time, our village has been known for cooking pinikpikan with the etag, which some people consider unsanitary,” he says.
One local writer concedes the etag “may not be appealing to the uninitiated because it has a foul odor and most often has maggots after several days of air drying the meat, probably because of its exposure to flies.” During its aging process, the meat is then often covered on the surface with a thin layer of milky white molds similar to the process of aging cheese. The molds are then rinsed off, and the etag is then “safe and ready to cook.”
Every February, the residents and the local government of Mountain Province even mount an annual celebration of the Etag Festival if only to highlight their favorite preserved meat and their tradition.
That also explains why Esther Pecdasen, at 91, continues to plant traditional upland rice and camote, which the natives consider their staple, and sells them during the weekend at the market through her daughter and other relatives who put up their own food stalls.
“We are a proud people, and we want to show that we will always have an abundance of nature’s bounty because of our ancestors,” she says.
Indeed, the “CEOS” of Sagada may seem worlds apart from the business titans who gather yearly, also in a cold mountain retreat in Switzerland. But they do realize they have a unique wealth that no one else can take from them. And for that, they always feel blessed and grateful.