Backpacking Banaue, Ifugao 2013: My First Solo Trip to the Rice Terraces

“This trip taught me how to enjoy my own company, how to listen to silence, and how to see beauty in the ordinary.”

It began with no plan, no map, and no sleep—just a backpack and a stubborn itch to see the Cordillera. In 2013, I set out solo to Banaue, Ifugao—the heart of the Cordillera Region. No reservations. No local contacts. Just a long weekend and a gut feeling that something good would unfold.

After work on a Friday night, I headed to Lacson Street in Sampaloc and bought a one-way ticket. The overnight bus left around 9 PM, taking roughly nine hours to reach Banaue. The ride was cold, cramped, and sleepless. At 7 AM, we arrived, drowsy and stiff, but finally there.

The bus rumbled through the night, its windows fogged with dreams I hadn’t yet dared to name. Mountains rose like quiet sentinels, and with each curve of the road, I felt the weight of the city fall away.

The Banaue Rice Terraces, carved by ancient Ifugao hands, stood nearby like a quiet legend. You see them on the old Php1000 bill and now the Php20 coin, but up close, they’re something else. These are national treasures, and you can feel it in the air.

Instead of serenity, Banaue greeted me with pushy tour guides and tricycle drivers eager to seal a deal. The hum of negotiations was constant. Locals chewed moma (betel nut), switching between the Ifugao dialect, Tagalog, and English.

I checked into Uyami’s Green View Lodge, a cozy hub of backpackers near the bus terminal. My room cost Php250—a good deal despite the shared bathroom. Breakfast? A simple combo of fried egg, corned beef, and brown rice (Php110), plus a cup of mountain-brewed coffee (Php35). It wasn’t cheap, but the misty terrace views made it worth it.

I took a tricycle to Hapao Rice Terraces in Hungduan, about 10 kilometers away. The road was rough, scattered with landslide debris from the night’s rain. But upon arrival, peace. Verdant fields rolled calmly through the valley, and I let the stillness fill me. The entrance fee was just Php10.

Aside from Banaue and Batad, I learned about other stunning terrace sites: Bangaan, Hungduan, Mayoyao, and Nagacadan. Each one tells its own story—etched not just in soil but in heritage.

After Hapao, we stopped at Chango Viewpoint, one of the best spots to admire the green folds of the Banaue Rice Terraces. It’s humbling to think these were carved by hand—no machines, just generations of Ifugao craftsmanship. I snapped a photo of three elderly women, likely in their 80s or 90s, sitting quietly near the souvenir shop. Their presence felt like living history.

Back at Uyami’s Lodge, I meant to eat but ended up napping. I woke at 5:30 PM, hungry and wrapped in fog. The cold crept in, and visibility dropped to zero. The sun never showed up that day. After dinner—brown rice, sinigang na manok, and mountain coffee—I wandered through the nearby market and souvenir shops. By 6 PM, the once-busy street had gone silent. By 8 PM, I was hungry again.

The next morning felt like 5:30 AM, though it was already 7. Energized, I walked to Banaue Catholic Church and attended mass in a mix of Ifugao and English. It was grounding—simple, sincere, and deeply local.

Skipping tricycles, I walked again, this time toward Banaue Ad Café for a late breakfast: brewed coffee, rice, corned beef, and egg (Php 95). It was the only thing available, but it hit the spot.

I decided to visit the Cordillera Sculpture Museum, thinking it was nearby. It wasn’t. I walked nearly a kilometer, asking locals for directions—some hadn’t even heard of it. Eventually, I found it tucked away across from Las Vegas Lodge. The entrance fee was Php100, and it’s open daily from 8 AM to 5 PM. The museum was quiet, strange, and fascinating—like stepping into a carved-out memory.

After the museum, I rode a tricycle back to town and stopped at Sanafe Lodge, just a few meters from Uyami’s. I ordered Pancit Canton and coffee (Php 170) and chose a veranda seat overlooking the rice terraces and Bocos village. The view was breathtaking—misty, majestic, and still. It reminded me why these terraces are called a wonder of the world.

By 6 PM, I was at the bus station, clutching a 7 PM ticket back to Manila—a slip of paper that felt heavier than it looked. The day had folded into itself, and twilight settled like a soft blanket over the terraces.

The cold deepened. Fog drifted across the ridges, curling around the rice fields like a final embrace. Locals moved quietly, as if not to disturb the hush that hung in the air. I stood there, quietly amazed—not by anything grand, but by how stillness could feel so full. The mountains didn’t ask for words. They simply watched me go.

The Cordillera has a way of staying with you—its quiet mornings, winding trails, and stories etched into stone and soil. Thanks for walking with me through these mountain memories. May your own journeys be just as grounding.

I came back to Banaue a year later—read what changed in Returning to Banaue in 2014.