In a country where beach escapades and city tours often dominate travel itineraries, there’s something refreshing—necessary, even—about tourism that doesn’t revolve around five-star resorts or air-conditioned malls, but instead centers on communities, culture, and care.
That was the main takeaway from a six-day immersion in the Cordillera region, organized by the Tourism Promotions Board through its Community-Based Tourism (CBT) Marketing Enhancement Program. This wasn’t just a tour. It was a chance to experience something more grounded. Something more human.
This trip was about stories, not schedules. It was about people.
And by the end, I realized we hadn’t just visited a string of destinations—we had shared a journey with communities who opened their homes, their traditions, and their kitchens to us.
The slow road up north
Our adventure began in Baguio City, but it took us much farther—not just in terms of distance (yes, Kalinga is a solid 14 hours from Manila by land), but in perspective.
At Burnham Park’s Rose Garden, the 6th Mangan Taku Food Fair spotlighted the bold, diverse flavors of the Cordillera. But more than just a food event, it doubled down on promoting cultural preservation through cuisine—a reminder that food isn’t just something you just eat, but something you inherit.
Lunch at Um-A in Tuba, Benguet, felt warm and familiar. Highland flavors tend to do that. My favorite part is the Uma Tea, made from blue ternate, mint, and tarragon—floral, minty, and surprisingly calming.
That afternoon, we explored Mt. Camisong Forest Park in Itogon, a 10-hectare woodland sanctuary that remains mostly untouched. There’s forest bathing here, rainwater harvesting, even vermicomposting. It’s the kind of eco-tourism spot you hope more people discover—but not too many, just enough to keep it sustainable and serene.
Floral detour, then the long haul
The next day, we made a quick but memorable stop in Atok, Benguet, to visit Northern Blossom Flower Farm. And what a refreshing detour it was. Perched high in the Cordilleras, the farm is a quiet riot of color—cabbage roses, snapdragons, and other cool-climate blooms thriving in the crisp mountain air.
Complimentary Arabica coffee and soft bread are served as you exit, a small but thoughtful gesture that adds to the homey charm. There’s no rush here—just you, the flowers, the view, and the breeze. The kind of place that resets your senses.
After that, the long road began. We traveled to Lubuagan in Kalinga, and days later, to Pasil. Some stretches tested our patience—and our vehicle’s shocks—but the farther we went, the more the landscape shifted. The air turned sharper. The mountains loomed larger. And the conversations grew deeper.
Culture that lives and breathes
In Lubuagan, we stayed at the Garden House and Awichon Cultural Village—where CBT stopped being a concept and became something you could actually feel.
Some companions received traditional batok tattoos, tapping into a cultural legacy passed down through generations. Others danced with locals or listened to chants and gongs. It wasn’t a performance. It was a celebration. We weren’t an audience. We were participants.
What struck me most was how the warmth of the locals didn’t come from customer service training—it came from pride. Pride in their heritage, in their octagonal houses, in their beadwork and fabrics and food. It’s infectious. You find yourself wanting to ask questions, wanting to stay longer, wanting to understand.
Weaving, waterfalls, women’s wisdom
In Mabilong, we met women from the Weavers Association, who’ve dedicated decades to backstrap weaving. Their hands moved with the confidence of ritual. Their work is as much about art as it is about legacy.
Later, we trekked to Kadamayan Falls—a quiet cascade hidden in the mountains. No entrance fees. No souvenir stalls. Just cold, clean water and the scent of pine. A place so unspoiled, it feels like a secret.
In Barangay Dangoy, creativity took another form: intricate beadwork made from recycled plastic spoons. Proof that sustainability doesn’t always need funding—sometimes, it just needs imagination.
The slow food movement, Kalinga-style
In Barangay Dangtalan, Pasil, we were welcomed by the local Slow Food Community with the “Banga Salidsid” dance—graceful, precise, and mesmerizing. Women balanced clay pots on their heads like it was second nature.
Lunch was a spread of traditional dishes—kiniing, inandila, and more. Nothing fancy, nothing curated for Instagram. Just food made from memory and served with pride. The kind of food that tastes of time.
We also learned about local pottery traditions—some dating back centuries. We met potters in their 70s and 80s, still shaping clay by hand. In a world obsessed with speed and convenience, this was a reminder that craftsmanship and care are timeless.
Listening, connecting
It’s easy to chase convenience—fast travel, fast food, fast photos. But CBT asks something different of us. It asks us to slow down. To listen. To connect.
For communities, CBT isn’t just a source of income. It’s a way to preserve identity, keep young people rooted, and sustain pride in place. It creates opportunities without uprooting culture. For travelers, it’s a deeper kind of adventure. You don’t just “see” Kalinga—you meet it. And it meets you right back.
It’s not always easy. The roads are rough. The signal’s weak. But maybe that’s the point.
Because the best parts of travel—the ones that stay with you—aren’t always comfortable. But they’re always worth it.
