The overnight bus to Sagada is a twelve hour argument between your body and the mountains. There are forty seats. I have sat in most of them. Here is what I learned.
The front seat
The front seat is the only seat, according to people who have never been sick on a switchback. You see the road coming, which is both the best and the worst thing about it. The windscreen is huge. The driver’s radio is also yours.
The window seat, left side
Cold. Take a jacket. In the small hours the glass turns into a refrigerator door, and you will learn, somewhere in the mountains, that a rolled up towel is a pillow, a scarf and a draught stopper.
A rolled up towel is a pillow, a scarf and a draught stopper.
The last row
The last row bounces. If you are young and not hungover, it is a ride. If you are neither, it is a lesson. Take it only if the rest are full, and keep your bag between your feet.
The aisle
The aisle seat gets you to the toilet stop first, and every stop is a decision: buy the roasted corn, or save yourself for breakfast. The choice is yours. I have never regretted the corn.
Arriving
You come into Sagada on a cold, bright morning that smells of pine and woodsmoke. Your knees will not work for five minutes. Walk to the nearest cafe, order something hot, and let the mountains keep on being enormous without you.
Everything above is a sample from one trip. Schedules and fares change.