The Building of the Rice Terraces of Banaue
The Building of the Rice Terraces of Banaue — a history story. 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder History.
Page 1
From the ridge lookout, the whole amphitheatre of Banaue's terraces fell away below like a staircase built for giants, each stone-walled step holding its own square of bright green. Bugan planted her bare feet on the lookout rock and leaned out, scanning the valley floor far down, when she spotted it — a brown gash of water chewing through one of the lower walls, spilling where it shouldn't. She spun around to point, shouting over her shoulder, and in the twist her flat basket tipped off balance. Sweet potatoes burst free, bouncing and rolling down the terrace steps one after another. Lipang yelped and threw himself after them, scrambling down the muddy stone edges, chasing a potato that bounced past his reaching fingers. Apu Binayon planted his tall pole hard against the rock to steady himself and leaned to grab Bugan's basket strap before it slid off her shoulder entirely. Inay Haliap, rope still coiled across her chest, caught Lipang by the back of his shirt just as his foot slipped toward the drop.
Page 2
Apu Binayon set his bare feet into the notches of the house ladder, each foot-hold worn smooth by generations before him, and began climbing down the tall stilt posts toward the mud yard where pigs grunted below. One by one he lowered the tools, calling out as each swung down on its cord — a bolo, a hoe, a coil of twine — and Inay Haliap caught them at the bottom, stacking them against the granary post. Bugan ran out from under the pyramid roof to steady the swinging bundle of rice seedlings, grabbing for the cord, but her fingers slipped on the wet fiber. The bundle dropped, splashing straight into the churned pig mud below. Lipang shrieked with laughter and dove after it, both hands plunging into the muck, hauling the dripping seedlings up over his head in triumph as a startled pig squealed and trotted away. Mud ran down his elbows and onto his oversized ochre shirt while Inay Haliap reached down and scooped the bundle from his small arms, shaking it clean.
Page 3
Dumangeng drove the grey chisel wedges into the boulder's crack, swinging his iron-bound mallet with both arms until a slab the size of a door cracked free along the Ibulao's edge. 'Mind your toes!' he shouted, shoving the heavy piece sideways with his shoulder. Lipang scrambled over the wet stones, dragging a carrying basket almost as tall as himself, while Bugan knelt to help wedge the flat slab upright inside it. Apu Binayon planted his tamarind pole in the river mud for balance and pointed with his free hand at the next boulder to split. As Dumangeng hefted another slab toward the baskets, it slipped from his grip and slid down into the shallow rushing water. 'It's going!' Bugan cried, dropping her own load. Inay Haliap didn't hesitate — she swung her coiled rattan rope off her shoulder, looped the wooden toggle hook under the stone's edge, and hauled hard, walking backward up the bank until the slab scraped free of the current and thumped safely onto dry rock.
Page 4
Deep in the mossy woodlot the spring channel lay choked, a whole fallen pine as thick as Dumangeng's chest jammed sideways across the trickle. Bugan dropped to her knees and clawed wet ferns away from the blockage while Lipang pressed his small hands against the bark and shoved uselessly, his crooked hat slipping over one eye. Apu Binayon shuffled close, planting his long tamarind pole under the trunk like a lever, and Dumangeng threw his whole weight onto the far end beside him. Inay Haliap wedged a stone under the pole for a fulcrum and hauled back with both arms, rope slapping her shoulder. The pine groaned, shifted, then rolled free with a wet crack. Water that had been pressed back for who knows how long burst through the gap in a sudden white rush, slamming straight into Lipang and knocking his hat down over his whole face, soaking him collar to toe in an instant. He staggered backward, spluttering, as everyone else laughed and scrambled clear of the spreading flood.
Page 5
The plank crossing was only as wide as two bare feet, strung across the gorge with the waterfall roaring white below, taller than three men stacked on each other. Dumangeng went first, the long split-bamboo pipe braced across his shoulder, each section longer than he was tall. Bugan and Inay Haliap hauled the far end, feet gripping the wet plank, while Apu Binayon planted his tamarind pole against the pipe to steady it from sliding off. "Hold it level, don't let it dip!" shouted Inay Haliap, looping her rattan rope around the pipe and a post to lash it tight. Lipang, too small to carry, pressed his whole weight against the near end to stop it swinging. As the rope cinched down, water burst sideways through an old split in the bamboo, fountaining straight into Dumangeng's face and soaking his green headband flat to his hair. "It bites like a fish!" he laughed, shaking his head as droplets flew. Bugan grabbed a wad of leaves and jammed them into the crack while Apu Binayon pressed the pole against it until the spray dropped to a trickle.
Page 6
The bulging wall sagged like a tired animal, stones shifting under their own weight. Dumangeng dropped to his knees and grabbed the loosest stone, a slab wider than his two spread hands, and hauled it free. Inay Haliap seized the next one, bracing her sandaled feet against the slope, dragging it sideways before it could crush her brother's fingers. Apu Binayon jammed his tall pole into a crack above and levered, grunting, his topknot bobbing. 'Pull now, before it all comes at once!' he called. Bugan and Lipang scrambled along the top, yanking loose rocks away from the edge and tossing them down the bank. Then it happened — a whole slab of grey mud, taller than Lipang's knee, slumped loose and slid, and the pond-field's water rushed out through the gap, leaving bare cracked clay behind. Lipang shrieked and jumped back from the spreading mud tongue. Overhead, the sky cracked open and the first fat raindrops slapped down on their shoulders, heavy and sudden, as everyone froze staring at the empty field.
Page 7
Rain slanted hard across the stone stairway climbing through Bangaan, each step slick as river glass. Bugan hauled a flat slab against her hip, bare feet gripping the wet stone ridges, while Apu Binayon braced his tamarind pole below her to stop any stone sliding back. Inay Haliap climbed with the rattan rope looped under a heavy slab, dragging it up step by step, her strong arms taking the strain. Lipang struggled behind, his stone slab too heavy, his oversized shirt soaked through — and then his bare feet shot out from under him. He slammed down onto his bottom with a splash, and his wooden buffalo tore loose from his belt cord, skidding and spinning away down the streaming steps. He yelped, scrambling after it on hands and knees, but it slipped past his reach. Dumangeng, climbing two steps at a time below, whipped open his loose sack jacket and caught the little buffalo neatly against his chest before it vanished over the edge.
Page 8
Thunder cracked and a fat stream of rain punched straight through the thatch, slapping onto the floor mats. Bugan grabbed a halved gourd and slammed it down to scoop the rising puddle, flinging the water out the low doorway. Lipang scrambled on hands and knees dragging a second gourd, spilling half of it on his own knees before he found his rhythm. Apu Binayon braced his tamarind pole against the leaning center post, holding the whole frame steady so the roof would not sag further under the wet weight. Inay Haliap stood on tiptoe, reaching up with fresh banana leaves, pinning them over the torn thatch with sharpened bamboo pegs, her rattan rope looped around a rafter to keep her balance. Dumangeng climbed onto an overturned basket to reach the highest gap, pressing leaves flat with his palm while water ran down his arm. The little oil lamp swung wildly from its rafter hook, throwing their shadows jumping across the walls, but nobody stopped moving until the drip slowed to a trickle and then, finally, to nothing.
Page 9
Grey light crept over Nungulunan as half the village waded into the broken pond-field. Dumangeng hauled a flat stone waist-high across the mud and slammed it into place against the others, stacking the wall higher than his knees. Inay Haliap looped her rattan rope around a slab too heavy to lift and dragged it up the bank, calling the men to grab the end. Apu Binayon drove his tamarind pole into the gaps, packing wet clay with slow strong jabs. Bugan and Lipang stamped the seams with bare feet, squelching the grey clay until it sealed smooth. Everyone pressed and pounded, hands and heels working together, until the wall stood firm as a low stone fence reaching Lipang's chest. Slowly the spring water crept up the new stones, climbing, climbing — then stopped exactly at the top stone and held, trembling but still. A ripple of relief ran through the villagers. Bugan laughed and flicked muddy water at her brother, who shrieked and stamped harder, sending up a fine brown spray in the grey dawn light.
Page 10
The whole bowl of Batad glows pink and gold, water sheeting over every terrace like scattered mirrors stacked to the sky. Bugan kicks off running down the last stone step, laughing, and splashes out into the topmost pond-field, mud sucking at her ankles up past the little brass bell. She drags bundles of green seedlings from her basket and jabs them one by one into the soft shining mud, pressing each root down firm with both thumbs. Lipang wades in after her, wobbling, and she flicks a spray of water sideways to catch him full in the face. He shrieks and splashes back, nearly dropping his wooden buffalo into the flood. Behind them Apu Binayon plants his tall pole upright to steady himself on the slick stone wall, while Inay Haliap uncoils her rattan rope and loops it round a loose anchor stone to brace the new wall's edge. Dumangeng braces his shoulder against the same stone, shoving it tight into place. High above, a hornbill glides black and yellow across the brightening water, and everyone pauses a breath to watch it pass.
About this story
- Audience: kids (ages 6–12)
- Format: 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder History
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