Sagada
I have a long journal entry about Sagada; I talk about the chaotic ascent into this mythical mountain-top town, the people we met, the night we spent drinking beers and smoking cigars, googling at young men with large bags of Marijuana as casual as a set of keys; I talk of the famous Filipino's who filled our night with acoustic epic's such as 'Hey Jude', 'Knocking on Heaven's Door," and many more, and the time we spent wandering among the hills and through the caves with our new friends.
But for now I am done reporting. I have had enough of hazy eyed accounts of our travels. Something much deeper began stirring in those mountains, something lurking around with the fog that dripped into the inns, taverns and barely lit porches, and it was enough to settle my words for once.
One of the men from the town told us the coffins hanging on the side of cliff faces' had been there for a hundred years; and they feared that if they were buried, the dead would not rise to the heavens, instead they would remain trapped, forever wandering the tall pine trees and rock faces of the town, bringing with them the chill of dawn and fog so thick it covered everything. He appeared to us as the town drunk, this man, barely sitting against a pillar on a cobbled floor, telling the stories that his forebears had told him. When we tried to find him the next morning, and even that night, he was gone.
Sagada...
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