WE STOPPED AT a clearing where the driver said we couldn’t go any further. The road didn’t end, but he had never made it past that ridge before, he said and Fil translated. We had to walk the rest of the way. The driver would come along, even spend the night with us, for Fil might not make much sense to the tribe, ha ha ha ha ha.
Nonoy the driver was right. The village was just a couple of cigarettes away, off the old logging road and down some damp paths through thick jungle. Suddenly we stumbled upon a cluster of huts in a grassy clearing. A good thing it was, too, for the mountain dark was fast closing in on us.
The villagers were all excited at the sight of the visitors, especially the white man with the Cokes and cameras. They offered freshly boiled yams I couldn’t believe the sweet
