G’day, and welcome back!

This time, we’re venturing deep into the untamed, mist-laden mountains of the Cordillera, in the north of the Philippines. Here, ancient rice terraces cling to the slopes like stairways to the clouds, and traditions run as deep as the valleys below. Through my photos and words, I hope to give you a glimpse into the raw beauty, rich culture, and enduring spirit of this land. If you’ve been here before, perhaps this will stir a bit of nostalgia.

As always, I appreciate you taking the time to read and view my work. Let’s dive in.

After a gruelling bus ride from Manila, I spent hours pressed against the window, my spine arranged like a tower of poorly stacked Tupperware. But discomfort is the price of adventure, and I was eager to pay it. The tricycle rattled to a stop at the edge of a washed-out track. The driver gave me a knowing nod in the direction I was meant to go, and with that, I set off.

The slippery descent into the UNESCO-listed terraces was nothing short of breathtaking. I use that word often, but I mean it to my core. A soft shroud of mist clung to the jungle-covered peaks, the dappled light shifting across the endless, sculpted fields. Below, bent figures moved methodically, planting rice in perfect rows. It was a world suspended between time and gravity, where buildings clung to the mountainside as if by sheer will. The steps were unforgiving, carved for smaller feet than mine, and before long, sweat beaded and rolled from my forehead. But the mountain goat in me refused to falter. At the bottom, I was greeted by Christina, a kind old woman who ran the main inn for travellers. The coffee was always hot and ready, and after that descent, it was exactly what I needed.

Batad, a small oasis in the Cordillera Mountains, is home to the indigenous Ifugao people. This region is layered with breathtaking amphitheatre-modelled rice terraces that envelop the sides of the imposing mountains. The indigenous people of the area are believed to have begun constructing the terraces roughly 1500 to 2000 years ago using only ancestral knowledge and mere hand tools, though some scholars argue that Spanish colonial influence played a role in their development. Vast bamboo conduits are used to syphon water from pure mountain springs, increasing irrigation from top to bottom. The rice cultivated in the region has gained fame, with Tinawon rice now considered a traditional heirloom variety. Farming practices, rituals, festivals, and social hierarchy are all deeply connected to rice, highlighting its central role in survival. The work and lifestyle are hard, but the people seem happy. Although this lifestyle, like in many other cultures, is under threat of harsh external forces such as deforestation, climate change, population growth and technological advancement.

I spent a few days trekking through the countryside of Batad, crossing valleys to photograph the workers. I drank deeply from fresh mountain streams and felt the sweat from my brow sting my eyes as I climbed the sheer, slippery steps. It was cathartic—slow, yet there was always something tugging at me, an unease with stillness. So I kept moving. As I was leaving, climbing the vertical steps out of the village, I met a local who told me about a trail through the mountains leading to another small village. He also mentioned a Punub happening there, though he warned me that recent rains had washed away parts of the path, making it treacherous.

The hike was stunning. A soft mist blurred the road ahead, wrapping around the trees and leaving a cool residue on my skin. I arrived faster than expected (yes, I am a superhuman athlete). In the village, I met an old man, 68 years of age, wearing a flat cap and an old windbreaker jacket (he looked so cool). he sat sharpening a spear as we talked. I assumed it would be used for the Punub. Later, I found a small inn to host me, run by the granddaughter of the very man whose Punub was taking place. A stroke of luck, I thought. She gave me directions to the gathering. Once I reached the village, two young boys guided me to the right house where it was happening.

What is a Punub, exactly? Good question. And to be completely honest, I didn’t really know until I trekked to the small village where it was taking place. A Punub is a traditional pig slaughtering ritual, a gathering where the entire family comes together. Pigs are killed, butchered (poorly, might I add), and the meat is distributed to everyone—including me. This ritual, which has been practiced for centuries, is deeply rooted in the traditions of the indigenous communities in the Cordillera region. Nearby, a small group of women, elders, and children stood around a fire, cooking bits of pork with rice in a large pot. They offered me a bowl, but unfortunately, I wasn’t sure my body could stomach it.

When I arrived, I felt the eyes of everyone burning into me with intense curiosity. The pigs had already been killed, each with a small stab wound on the side of the neck. They began scalding the pigs with a gas torch to loosen the hair, then used a shovel and scraper to remove it. Once dressed, the pigs were carried by five or six people to a small, covered area at the front of someone’s home. There, two men with dull machetes and small knives began butchering the carcasses. I’m used to Western-style butchery; I appreciate a sharp knife and a bit of finesse. Unfortunately, none of that was found here. I watched as they first removed the belly, then the gizzards into an empty rice bag, before separating the forequarters and legs. The meat was stacked to the side on a flattened out used bag, waiting to be trimmed and prepped. I was caught between awe and frustration, grateful for the rare chance to witness such an intimate ritual, yet the butcher in me itched to lend a hand.

Somehow, I finagled a seat on a flat stone step covered in dry blood right near the action—well, I’d call it the splash zone. It's a good thing I wore a white tee. I was surrounded, sitting at the feet of elders like a child, my camera pressed to my face as a man in a bright red shirt lifted a machete high over his head. With calm precision, he swung it down onto the severed carcass, the dull blade thudding against flesh and bone. Each cut reduced the meat further, until it was nothing but bite-sized pieces riddled with bone shards. Beside me, a man dragged a blunt knife across a dry, clogged whetstone, passing it to the butcher in a continuous rhythm—back and forth, back and forth. It wasn’t efficient, but it was raw, real, and mesmerising. To be here, so remote, the only foreigner, yet a welcomed guest, was beyond special. Like always, every time I take a photograph, I end up with far more than I expect.

Once again, I felt that itch, the need to move, to keep moments from growing stale. I had found exactly what I yearned for, something raw, rich, and remote. An experience that felt untouched, something I alone had witnessed, a memory only mine to keep. But through my images, we share the experience together. I hope you take the time to look at them. To me, they are mosaics, each pixel telling a story, and I love that. A full photograph, complete, untamed, and true, where negative space doesnt exist..

On this adventure through the Philippines, I’ve come across more than a few unforgettable faces and stories, and I’ve been lucky enough to capture just a handful of them. One that stands out is a young girl who became the gatekeeper of my journey. She guided me through Cambulo, past the school she attended, and toward the swing bridge I had to cross. She had vitiligo, a striking marking that I couldn’t help but admire. I found myself envious of her unique signature.

That is just a glimpse into my time in the remote corners of the Philippines. I count myself lucky to have witnessed it firsthand, to have felt the weight of each moment, and now to share it with you. For those who have made it this far, I appreciate you more than you know.

If my work has sparked something in you and you want to support more of these journeys, you can find a donation link, or better yet, grab a copy of my coffee table book or a fine art print. Every bit fuels the next adventure.

Thank you,

Michael