By Marina T. Bid-ing
The journey back to my hometown has always felt different from any other trip. In late November of 2024, I traveled home through the familiar winding roads of Halsema Highway, following the long stretch of mountains that connects Baguio to the Cordillera communities. As the vehicle climbed higher, the air became colder, and the familiar landscape slowly unfolded. Pine trees lined the slopes, clouds rested heavily on the mountains, and fog drifted across the road, a gentle reminder that I was getting closer to my hometown.
Traveling this road brings a deep nostalgia. Every turn holds a memory: steep roads, passing vegetable trucks, terraces carved into mountainsides, and small communities scattered along the ridges reminded me of where I belong. After spending more than a decade in Baguio City for study and work, returning to Mankayan meant far more than arriving at a place; it was coming back to a part of myself.
I was born in Barangay Balili, Mankayan, Benguet…the community where I took my first steps, spoke my first words, and learned our people’s ways. I had been away for years, but home had remained within me. The cold mountain air, the sound of Kankana-ey being spoken, crops growing on slopes, and wood smoke brought back memories I thought were long forgotten.
My return in 2024 became especially meaningful. It coincided with the very first Nateng Festival of Barangay Balili that was held from November 26 to December 1. I had not planned this alignment, yet I felt deeply fortunate. The festival revealed my hometown not only as my birthplace but as a community that flourishes while remaining rooted in its identity.
Nateng Festival — Balili, Mankayan, Benguet fb page / The official launching of the First Nateng Festival, a celebration of our rich agricultural heritage, culture, community, and the bountiful gift of our land. Photo used with permission from the barangay.
Nateng means “vegetable”, an appropriate name for a festival centered on one of Balili’s most important sources of food and livelihood. This celebration honored not only our crops but also the people who cultivate the land, our ancestral traditions, and the shared bonds that hold our community together.
This festivity began at the Barangay Hall in Atayan. Walking the grounds, I sensed this was not just an ordinary gathering. The seven zones of Balili each built booths decorated with bamboo, mountain reeds, pine bark, and other local materials, echoing the resourcefulness of our elders, who shape beauty from what the mountains freely provide. Inside the booths were Balili’s true treasures: enormous cabbages beside vivid carrots, potatoes, broccoli, and wombok (Chinese Cabbage). Some appeared almost oversized and fresh, and their bright colors stood out against the booth’s natural materials. Beyond display, each vegetable told a quiet story of farmers rising before dawn, working through cold days, bearing heavy loads, and waiting patiently for harvest.
This celebration offered more than vegetables. Laughter and conversation mingled with the scents of damp earth, pine, woodsmoke, and cooking fires. Large pots simmered with food prepared to be shared. These aromas moved me deeper than any image. They returned me to childhood gatherings where generosity mattered more than cost, and abundance meant shared plenty.
From the agricultural displays at the barangay hall, the event moved to Balili National High School in Bay-o, where its cultural dimensions became even more visible. Gong rhythms reverberated across the mountains. For someone who grew up hearing these sounds, gongs are not merely music but a familiar voice from home.
Elders in traditional wanes (G-string traditional cloth) and getap (wrap-around skirt) danced with quiet dignity; beside them stood youth wearing modern clothes and sports jerseys, moving as one to the beat. At that moment I understood that culture need not vanish amid modern life. It simply finds fresh ways to be.
Joy erupted during the Deppap, where participants chased slippery, greased pigs. Shouts and laughter filled the air. It was playful, unscripted, and utterly delightful. It evoked childhood festivals where all ages joined freely, united simply in shared joy.
Nateng Festival — Balili, Mankayan, Benguet fb page / The lively Deppap activity, where community members join in the traditional game of catching greased pigs. Photograph used with permission from the barangay/community.
Most poignant was the Watwat. Meat boiled plainly in water and salt was passed hand to hand to all present. Its very simplicity held profound grace. Fancy preparation matters little when the gathering itself is sacred. All were invited to partake in the shared meal. People lined up to receive food handed by the local servers and event organizers alike. As I stood aside, locals and visitors smiled as they received their portions.
For me, the Watwat embodied Inayan, the value I learned growing up. Watwat means that we have to weigh one’s actions against their impact on others, to honor all people, to care for the community, and never place oneself above the common good. Sharing food taught me what no classroom ever could— life’s deepest lessons are not taught, but lived.
Nateng Festival — Balili, Mankayan, Benguet fb page / Meat prepared simply over an open fire in preparation for Watwat, which is the traditional communal sharing that embodies the value of Inayan. Photograph used with permission.
Beyond celebrating food and community, the festival also expressed Balili’s distinct identity within Mankayan. Although Mankayan is widely associated with Lepanto’s Consolidated Mining Company, Balili offered another understanding of the region’s wealth. Our mountains yield not only ore, but sustenance where the agricultural landscape reflects the endurance of the farmers who work it. Balili contributes to the supply of vegetables that reach markets in Benguet and neighboring areas.
Thus, the festival became a proud declaration: our wealth is measured not only by what we take from the earth, but by what the earth gives forth season after season. Every displayed vegetable stood for industry, livelihood, and enduring hope.
I also witnessed the quiet adaptability of Balili’s culture. Traditions do not remain unchanged; they absorb new practices while retaining older meanings. Our ancestors cultivated highland rice, sweet potatoes, and taro, crops connected to spirituality and gratitude to Kabunyan (God). Today’s vegetables arrived through history and changing practice, yet they too are now ours.
This made me realize that Balili’s culture isn’t like a museum exhibit that remains exactly the same. It breathes and shifts alongside its people. New crops, modern clothing, and improved farming methods may all coexist with ancient rhythms. Progress need not mean forsaking the past.
What touched me most was the festival’s authenticity. It was not performed for guests; it was performed by us and for us. Participation flowed from belonging; food was shared because generosity is who we are. Dances, games, music, and harvest displays were not performances. They were daily life lifted into celebration.
Standing there, hearing gongs and our language spoken all around, I reflected on my own journey. Years in Baguio broadened me, but home remained within. Leaving does not mean forgetting; we carry home wherever we go.
When the six-day festival concluded, gongs fell quiet, fires were extinguished, booths were dismantled, and vegetables once again journeyed to market. As the grounds returned to their ordinary appearance, I carried away something deeper than memories: a clearer understanding of my roots.
Balili will continue to change. New homes will rise, roads will improve, farming practices will continue to develop, and young people will leave to study and work, as I once did. The community I knew as a child may eventually look different. But change need not erase identity. The gongs will resound; the Watwat will remind us to share; green fields will cloak the hills; Kankanaey will echo down generations; and festivals will call the youth back to their roots. That, perhaps, is what coming home truly means.
It is not only seeing familiar mountains. It is realizing that, even if we travel far, childhood and heritage stay alive within. The landscape shifts, people age, and the community advances, yet the elders’ values endure in hearts that carry them.
###############
About the Author:
Marina T. Bid-ing. An ESL teacher and trainer at MONOL Academy for eight years, providing accessible education to multilevel and multinational students. She completed her Master’s degree in English at Baguio Central University, where she is currently pursuing her doctoral studies in Administration and Supervision. Her academic interests include research on language and culture, and she actively participates in seminars and workshops to enhance both professional practice and personal growth.
