We
were bobbing off the coast of Pamilacan Island,
one of a sparse stubble of island specks located
off the coast of Panglao Island, located on
the southwestern chin of Bohol. Panglao, connected
to the main island by two causeways, is proud,
laid-back, gorgeous, and expected to be a hotter
destination than it now is with the planned
construction of an international airport.
Which should make it easier for tourists to
get to outlying islands like Balicasag, Cabilao
and, yes, Pamilacan, known for its marine sanctuary
and some of the best dive spots in the world.
Today, however, is not about diving. The waters
off Pamilacan are known as dolphin playground.
And, if we had scheduled our mid-June excursion
a few weeks earlier, we could’ve been
lucky, just as a disbelieving TV reporter Dyan
Castillejo was three years earlier, to spot
the “bungkaras” or Bryde’s
whales as they swam by on their migratory path.
A little over seven years ago, those whales
would’ve been, well, dog meat. Whale hunting
for the 200 odd families of Pamilacan was a
tradition that dated back to at least a hundred
years. In fact, the island was named after the
word “pilak,” which stands for the
heavy fat hook hunters used to kill whales.
The method is said to be unique to Pamilacan
as nothing like it exists anywhere else in whaling
lore
From
food to dollar signs
Once hunted only for food by the islanders,
with the excess meat traded for crabs and other
goods in the market of Baclayon located on the
main island of Bohol, whales turned from sustenance
to dollar signs for the folks of Pamilacan after
demand soared for whale meat from overseas markets
such as Taiwan.
“They use it to make tofu,” our
tour guide Jojo Baritua deadpanned. “In
Taiwan whale sharks used to cost US$14-15 per
kilo. One whale shark is from 10 to 20,000 kilos
and it’s absolutely big money. Dito ang
bilihan, P70-100,000 ang isa. In one season
(January to March), makahuli minsan sila ng
50 to 100 heads.”
So with a screaming market demand, paradigms
shifted for the fisherfolk of Pamilacan. Where
once they gunned only for the smaller varieties,
whale hunters realized that size really mattered.
And things were prosperous for a while, evinced
by the truckloads of beer, rum and, yes, soft
drinks the islanders swilled after a successful
hunt.
Too
much pressure
But pressure from conservationist groups and
a grisly TV documentary that showed the fisherfolk
of Pamilacan in the act of slaughtering their
catch put an end to the good times. The Philippine
government banned whale hunting along with that
of dolphins (used only as bait for whales) and
manta rays (often salted and dried) in 1992.
In fact, our guide Jojo, was part of the NGO
Kabang Kalikasan ng Pilipinas dispatched to
wean the residents of Pamilacan from what they’ve
done for ages and introduce them to alternative
livelihoods including dolphin-watching tours.
I am looking at our boat captain in a new light.
He used to be a whale hunter. And so was our
especially preternatural spotter, who seemed
guided by gut radar, rising straight from his
nap at the stern of the boat to point to a tell-tale
splooshing in the distance. Jojo tells us former
hunters can spot dolphin activity from as far
away as two to three kilometers.
Pamilacan Island itself is rustic as they come.
Power is pumped by a diesel-run generator, but
only from 6 to 11 pm. Drinking water is ferried
to the island during market day while islanders
catch rain water and treat it with chlorine
powder so they can use it to cook their food.
Tourists willing to go au natural can rent two
cute nipa cottages at P700 per night, inclusive
of meals. A toilet and bath connect both huts,
which look out to the sea and lie just beyond
the shade a large leafy tree where fisherfolk
mend their nets.
A
visual anthropologist on the island
As was the case Taku Kawamura, a gangly 24-year-old
from Japan due to begin his visual anthropology
course in London University in September. For
the past eight days, he’d been renting
one of the huts fronting the sea and spent his
days training his mini cam on the island folk
who talked about their whale-hunting traditions
and folklore. The people from Pamilacan did
not regard whales as gods or attach superstition
to their hunting, Taka found out. The only significant
thing he discovered from an old-timer who lived
on top of the island’s hill were two rituals
to ensure a good hunt – strewing cotton
and rice on the sea. Cotton expresses the notion
of floating as cotton hangs above water, Taka
quoted the islander as saying, while rice represents
plenty.
Sucking on local Fortune cigarettes and delighting
in the photogenic triple-layered sandwiches
and flask of satisfyingly bitter hydraulic coffee
our host, Ananyana Resort, packed for us, Taka
mused on how whaling had become an emotional
issue, especially in the West which, in his
view, regarded whales as “pets.”
And even if the islanders had bravely given
up their old whale-hunting ways in exchange
for some chickens from the Department of Agriculture,
skills training in making stuffed toys and engaging
in touristy stuff like whale- and dolphin-watching
tours, many still rue the old ways. They greet
guests with a lei of kalachuchi and wide open
smiles, but there is a tightness when they begin
to tell their stories.
Short
end of tourist boom
It
doesn’t help that Pamilacan seems to be
on the short end of the tourism boom –
especially when one thinks of what the islanders
gave up. Plans to restore the crumbling Spanish-era
stone structure perched at the edge of the approach
to the island haven’t pushed through.
It was supposed to house the Pamilacan museum,
which would give tourists a glimpse of the island’s
whale hunting traditions The structure was once
a fort and a watchtower built to warn the "prayles"
in Baclayon of marauders from Mindanao.
Instead, we take a 10-minute motorcycle ride
across a thin ribbon of concrete to the other
end of the island where the makeshift museum
lies. “Makeshift” is as kind as
it gets. The museum is a ramshackle extension
of a hut in a not-especially-prosperous cluster
of homes. When our islander guide unlocks the
door, the odor of dried fish hits us in the
gut, as it’s also used as storage.
Then we notice what’s hung willy-nilly
on the nipa walls and the bamboo rafters: dolphin
bones and whale maws, the dried , “buntot
pagi” or stingers of the manta ray, now
also put under the threatened species category,
bits of other specimen and the disused “pilak”
hunting hooks.
A donation box in the museum seemed equally
forlorn. As was the island’s “entrance
fee” of P10 per head for island hoppers
or day tourists wanting to dock their bancas
on the island for a day of hiking, swimming
and snorkeling off its marine sanctuary alive
with coral gardens.
But Pamilacan soldiers on. Already, one of Bohol’s
largest developers who put up the swank Eskaya
Resort in Panglao (“the Amanpulo of Bohol,”
a breathless sightsee-er had described –
and with matching rates to boot), has built
a private resort that they soon hope to roll
out to paying visitors.
Maybe then Pamilacans will be able to enjoy
24-hour electricity, a potable water system,
and the nuts and bolts of a kabuhayan that’s
not too dependent on dolphin sideshows, elusive
whales and modest donations to a museum.
They, after all, willingly but painfully gave
up the only way of life they’ve known.
Jojo Baritua’s Pamilacan Island and Whale
Watching Tours (whales.bohol.ph) offer both
dolphin-watching and Bohol countryside tours.
Contact tel. (038) 540-9279, fax (038) 540-5545,
mobile (0919) 730-6108, email pamilacan@yahoo.com.
