Burials in the Sky: On The Trail of the Hanging Coffins of Sagada
As I unfold myself from the bus seat I’ve spent the last 12 hours crammed into and cajole my legs down the high street one step at a time, I’m struck by just how quiet Sagada is. Quieter than the grave, in fact, which is somewhat fitting for a village that is home to one of the world’s most uniquely fascinating ‘burial’ practices.
Sitting just short of 5,000 feet above sea level and surrounded by vicious limestone spires, Sagada – or Ganduyan in the language of its native Igorot people – is one of the few places in the Philippines that resisted Spanish occupation for much of the colonial period. This fierce sense of identity can still be felt today; villagers refer to their compatriots exclusively as ‘lowlanders’ and stubbornly resist sanctions placed on them by the Filipino government. It’s hardly surprising then, that this is a place where tradition has endured.
I’m keen to see the hanging coffins – the most recent of which was erected in 2008 – so I waste little time in enlisting the services of local guide Gary. As we descend into the hauntingly named Echo Valley, Gary is keen to explain the interment process to me.
“We build scaffolding against the side of the cliff,” he tells me and then, rotating his fists around an invisible axis in the universal sign for a hand drill, “We drill into the rock and place long metal bars into the holes. The coffin sits on the metal bars.”
Gary tells me that the coffins are too heavy to hoist up the cliff with the body inside, so they are fixed into place empty. The body comes up afterwards on a chair, before being placed into the coffin. “Sometimes,” he adds with a grim smile, “the bones have to be broken to fit the body into the coffin.”
Gary explains that the Igorot custom is to lay their dead to rest in the foetal position, a practice that is symbolic of returning to the womb.
With the unwelcome sound of breaking bones echoing in my ears, we emerge from the trees onto a plateau and there, suspended high up on the cliffs across the valley, the coffins keep watch over the verdant vegetation and coffee plantations. Arranged in columns and adorned with bright blues, they look like a morbid set of windchimes caught in the light November breeze.
Gary points out the lowermost coffin, boat-shaped with a name scrawled across its side. “My mother’s cousin,” he says with a hint of pride in his voice.
I’m fascinated by the spectacle and the arduous labour that the ritual demands, but what I really want to know is why. Why go to so much effort only to leave their loved ones exposed to the elements? Gary’s answer is less than inspiring and sounds like something I’d expect to hear from an overly bureaucratic HR department: “We don’t know why we do it. It’s just what we have always done.”
It's a deeply unsatisfying response and I’m unable to lay the question to rest so I decide to visit the Ganduyan Museum in search of more fulfilling answers. Its curator Lester is an affable and entertaining host - a font of knowledge when it comes to the culture of the Igorot people.
He happily shows me his displays of Igorot dress, jewellery and pottery, his collection of beautifully crafted wooden house guardians, and garments lovingly woven by his late mother and founder of the museum. It doesn’t take long for the conversation to move in a more morbid direction, though it’s not the one I’m expecting.
Lester shows me his collection of Igorot shields, uniquely shaped with a half-moon carved out of the bottom edge. The shields were used to pin the Igorots’ enemies to the ground by their necks to better remove their heads because, as it transpires, the Igorots were – until very recently - fierce headhunters. “But,” Lester assures me just one too many times for comfort, “we do not practice headhunting anymore!”
His tour culminates with a photograph of a traditional drum, the handle of which is fashioned from a human jawbone. “Don’t worry,” he reassures me with a smile, “It was probably a foreigner.”
This insight into his people’s former headhunting practices perhaps serves to shed some light on their comfortable relationship with death. Does Lester think this might have something to do with why they display their dead so prominently? He shrugs in a non-committal fashion, “The hanging coffins are there for everyone to see. There’s no need to feature them in my museum.”
Not all of the coffins are suspended from the cliffs. Some are piled into crevices in the rock.
So far, my encounters have borne a frustrating reluctancy to speculate on the symbolism behind the hanging coffins. Not everyone is so hesitant though, and the further I probe, the more apparent it becomes that the locals all have their own theories about the coffins. One villager tells me that the sky burials enable the deceased to rest closer to their gods, while other theories are less romantic and more pragmatic; the abundance of karst limestone cliffs means that there is simply more space in the air than in the ground, and suspending the coffins keeps the bodies out of reach of scavengers such as dogs and wild pigs.
One intriguing explanation comes from an unexpected source. I’m at Masferré Photograph’s [sic] on the outskirts of town. Often referred to as The Father of Philippine Photography, Eduardo Masferré was a Spanish-Filipino photographer who documented the life of the Igorot people and their neighbours throughout the 1930s, 40s and 50s. His works are on display here, curated by his daughter.
She guides me through his stunning black and white portraits, pointing out the differences in tribal dress and the significance of tattoos among warriors. Some of the larger prints depict beautiful landscapes of the famous rice terraces at neighbouring Bontoc and hand-coloured vistas of the province’s fertile valleys.
Much of the exhibition is focussed on the ceremonies and hunting practices of the Igorot people. It’s not until we reach a small 6x4 print - buried among two dozen other prints as if it’s of no significance – that the exhibition includes any depiction whatsoever of the hanging coffins of Sagada. Aside from a few missing coffins that have been added in the intervening years, it looks as if it could have been taken just yesterday, Masferré standing shoulder to shoulder with me as I captured my own photograph.
When I ask his daughter why she thinks her people inter their dead on the side of the cliffs, she smiles at me contemptuously as if the answer is obvious. “It’s so that their spirits can watch over us and bring good luck to the village.”
I wave goodbye to Masferré’ Photograph’s and collect my belongings from my deserted accommodation, mentally preparing to fold myself into another bus seat for 12 hours. As I make my way up the high street, I bump into my guide Gary. Still smarting from his standard-issue HR response, I press him on why he thinks his people are laid to rest on the sides of the surrounding cliffs.
Gary thinks for a moment and then reminds me of a particular coffin overlooking the valley, one with a large wooden cross affixed to its side. Smiling, he says, “We have a dual religion here. We practice Anglicanism alongside our traditional beliefs. Why we bury our dead in this manner is not as important as the fact that we do. The amount of effort it requires is a demonstration of our love and respect for those we have lost”.
Perhaps Gary is right. Perhaps, sometimes, the ritual itself holds more power than the motives that give it life.