As the ash from the eruption continued to fall, the Tagapulo (islanders) (“were realizing that they would have”) to learn to live without their island... The local authorities had in fact declared the area a ‘no man’s land’, making it off-limits to anyone wishing to live there. One resident recalls the day that decision was taken, and when he realised that returning would now be impossible:
We had to leave the island in a matter of minutes. We were in the middle of the lake when I looked back and saw that everything was covered in ash. The smoke was black... I said : “It’s over! It’s over! We’ll never be able to return to the island.”
(Tapos ‘yun, on the way na kami. Medyo nasa hati na, paglingon ko, ayun na naging abo na. As in, itim na yung usok… Sabi ko. “Wala na ! Wala na ! Hindi na namin mababalikan ang pulo.” »)
Those who lost everything in the eruption were eventually rehoused by the local government in a resettlement area; after years in temporary shelters alongside hundreds of other families, the Tagapulô were able to start afresh in new homes.
Yet, despite the promise of a fresh start, the residents of the resettlement area found it hard to come to terms with having lost everything. They had left their entire lives behind. Several years have passed since the 2020 eruption, and the women we met at the pabahay (resettlement area) still remembered their life on the island with nostalgia. Whenever they spoke of the events that followed the disaster, they described them with intensity and emotion, sometimes holding back tears, as if it were yesterday.
For the Tagapulo, now separated from their island, rebuilding a life is not just about building a house. For one of the communities hardest hit by the Taal eruption, it also means finding a way to make a living again. This is the very meaning of the Tagalog word hanapbuhay, which translates literally as ‘the search for life’ — hánap meaning ‘to find’ and búhay, ‘life’ — or, more simply, as ‘means of subsistence’. But this search is only the beginning.
Remembering and mapping daily life hanapbuhay on the island
When we first arrived at the pabahay, we were greeted by children playing in the streets and women relaxing in their homes, curious to see who these new faces might be. It was a clear day, but the air was cool as the resettlement area is situated at a higher altitude than the towns closer to the centre. This location, on the outskirts of the municipality, was deliberately chosen by the local government to settle residents outside the ‘danger zone’ exposed to the ever-present risk of a volcanic eruption. But moving the community away from the perceived danger has also distanced the residents from the conditions necessary for their livelihood.
I was introduced to Alice by a barangay official who accompanied me to the pabahay. She was one of the island’s long-standing residents. When she saw me, she invited me to sit opposite her on their veranda and immediately introduced herself. Alice, aged 47, told me that she had been working for as long as she could remember. She had worked on the ‘mainland’, where the municipal centre is located, as a domestic helper and bottle collector, pushing her cart along the motorway. However, it was on the island (pulo), where she was born and raised, that she eventually settled. To earn a living, she juggled farm work with guiding tourists on horseback. In fact, she was in the middle of a tour when the volcano erupted. This is how she remembers that day:
“We were on the island entertaining our guests. But when the tremors became too strong, we made our way down to the shore… I mean, we chose to live! We left without a second thought for what we were leaving behind.”
(Ay, nakaputok ho. Pumutok na ho ng bulkan, andun pa rin ho kami. Ini-intertain po namin yung guest. Pero nang hindi na ho kaya, lusong na ho kami… Sa madaling salita ay naisip ho namin ang mabuhay. Hindi na po namin inintindi ang gamit. »)
Like Alice, Elena used to be a horseback-riding guide on the island. She was born in Camarines Norte, a province south-east of Batangas. As she grew up, Elena came to Pulo to live with her father, who had found a hanapbuhay on the island. Years later, she settled on the island with her family and earned a living guiding tourists. It was in 1990 that she began guiding visitors around the volcano, alongside her husband. Now aged 54, she never expected to have to leave everything behind and start her life from scratch following the eruption. Along with her family, she has lost the livelihood that had sustained her for 30 years.
For Elena, leaving her life on the island was a real ordeal. She had found a beautiful environment there, whose natural resources provided her with several sources of income and enabled her to provide for her family — something she did with great satisfaction (see the map below)
Losing this way of life therefore meant not only leaving a place behind, but also giving up a way of life and the resources that made it possible. She told me how happy she was in her favourite spot on the island, by the lake. There, she could watch the tourists arrive – from whom she derived part of her income – whilst catching up with her friends and neighbours, with whom she loved to chat and relax in the shade of the nipa huts. It was a place where work, relationships, and the simple pleasures of everyday life blended together naturally. Elena recalls that she also had other ways of earning money on the island:
After guiding tourists, we could also sell them masks, hats, and other items. But the arrival of visitors was never guaranteed. There were cancellations caused by typhoons, and then that time when, after an earthquake, we didn’t see a single tourist for three months. So we had to find something else to do. We practised namúmukot, wet-net fishing, and then sold our catch to the neighbouring seaside resort or at the market.
(Yun sir… tapos pagkakatapos na mag turista… yun namang minsan nagtitinda kami ng mga masks, sombrero, ganon… Tapos sir pag na-ppending yung pasahero at nagkakaroon ng aberya, cancel dahil mayroong bagyo… minsan eh dumadaan kami ng 3 buwan walang guest kasi yun nga nagkakaroon ng lindol… ang ginagawa namin, nag-aano kami… namumukot…Tas ‘yun binibenta na sa [resort]… sa ano… bentahan dinadala na. »)
As well as these activities, she also tended her garden, where she grew banana trees, sitáw (green beans) and other vegetables, amongst other things. The abundance of natural resources enabled Elena, like many of the island’s older residents, to provide for her family on this vibrant volcanic island, where towering trees stood alongside birds and horses. But it was above all the lake, the main tourist attraction, that drew visitors.
These memories are recalled with great fondness. Nanay Barbie, 58, and her husband Tatay Alfie, 63, described how life on the island was easier and more relaxed compared to their current situation in the resettlement area. Jobs in the pabahay are scarce, and daily expenses have become too much of a burden. Whereas in the past they could cultivate their land and harvest enough to feed themselves, they now have to work hard, often far away, just to put food on the table.
Nanay Barbie and Tatay Alfie’s income depended on tourism, but they supplemented it with fishing and farming. Their house was made of bamboo on stilts and stood on the shore, surrounded by birds and trees (see the map below) (again here, would be nice to have a link to how the map fits in to this text). Behind the house, there was a small path leading up to a taniman (garden), where they grew vegetables such as balinghoy (cassava), mais (maize) and kalabasa (squash). There were also five puno ng niyog (coconut palms) on their land. In front of their house, closer to the shore (the aplaya), stood a small kubo (hut), a place for rest and relaxation.
To make ends meet, they both had to change their way of life and go where they could earn money. Tatay Alfie, who had skills in fishing and farming, struggled to find work in the construction sector, as he felt he lacked the necessary skills.
If you ask me to work on a building project, a week later I might end up limping (laughs) from all that concrete mixing! I experienced this during the previous evacuation. I didn’t last a month. I couldn’t stand it. But, of course, we have no other means of support, so we make do.”(Oo. Pag ako ang pinagkwan mo sa konstruksyon, baka isang linggo lang baka ako’y baluktot na (laughs) sa paghahalo ng [inaudible]. Nakaranas nga ako noon nung kami’y bakwit diyan sa Ala. Nagtrabaho ako kay Malmar(?). Wala pang isang buwan eh ‘di ko na nakaya. Di ko kayang [inaudible] mag-ano. [inaudible] Eh kaso nga lang pag walang hanapbuhay eh nagtitiis lang rin.)
Deep down, what he really wants is to work where he feels at home: on the lake. When we asked him what his body was telling him, what he fancied doing, he replied:
The lake. I’m used to being on the lake. That’s where my hanapbuhay (livelihood) is: on the lake. I can cope even with the biggest waves.
(Dagat. Sa dagat ako [inaudible] Doon ako nasalang. Doon ang hanapbuhay ko sa dagat. Kahit malalaking alon, nakakaya ko.)
These accounts reveal the importance of the bundok and the dagat — the mountains, the sea and the lake — which occupy a central place in their memories, both as living spaces and as sources of economic and social abundance. For the inhabitants of the pulo, what has been lost is not only material possessions, but also the opportunity to continue carrying out the activities that enabled them to put food on the table. The fact that the inhabitants of the pabahay repeatedly express their desire to live on the island underlines the value and significance of a hanapbuhay. The accounts gathered here show that the pulo was — and remains — their home, because it made life not only bearable, but also enjoyable.
Metabolic disruptions in their hanapbuhay
Since the volcano erupted, living and working has become much more difficult for the island’s former residents. In the new government-funded housing, they are gradually trying to settle in, but their thoughts often return to the life they left behind. When they talk about their current situation, memories of the island come flooding back, and comparisons are inevitable: what they had, what they have lost, what they still miss. Their words are laden with emotion and frustration; tears flow… Yet in the resettlement area, they must carry on with their lives and find new ways to earn a living.
Whilst there were many opportunities for hanapbuhay (livelihoods) on the island, conditions here, on the pabahay, are very different. Belen, who was born and raised on Pulo, used to earn a living there quite easily; for 16 years, she worked as a pánunulày, guiding tourists on a small boat. She mainly worked with tourists who did not wish to ride horses. Belen also sold them soft drinks and beauty masks. But today, at the age of 53, it is difficult to earn enough to support her family in the resettlement area, especially as she suffers from high blood pressure. (unfortunate...but why is this mentioned?) She recalls with great nostalgia how easy life used to be, lamenting that sources of income are so scarce today. Belen shares her frustration:
“It was wonderful at pulo. Over there, we had plenty of ways to earn money. We could sell soft drinks or face masks to tourists; we made quite a bit of money. But here, what can we earn? Nothing. Life was really better over there.”
(Ay maganda ho sa pulo. Dahil dun ho, maraming pagkikitaan. Pag ho ika’y nakapag-alok sa turista ng soft drinks… tsaka ho mga mask, may pera na kayo. Dito ho anong kikitain ho namin dito? Wala. Mas maganda ho ang tira dun.)
Many tagapulo, like Belen, feel deeply frustrated by the sudden scarcity of livelihoods in the pabahay since they were rehoused there. Here, in the resettlement area, she relies on her husband’s meager wages to feed her family. On the island, livelihoods relied largely on the environment’s resources; in the pabahay, they now depend mainly on paid work, to which women have very limited access.
Most of the time, Tatay Alfie is not at home: the men in the community get up early in the morning to go to work. Most of them, like him, work in ‘feed mix’ or nagpapatukâ (feeding the fish) at the many tilapia farms scattered around Lake Taal. Others work on building sites and for companies in neighbouring municipalities.
Elena’s husband and children are employed by these companies, and she is left to manage the housework and look after her children and grandchildren on her own. That is why she spends most of her time at home. She now realises that things are different on the pabahay. On the pulo, they were free to use the resources around them whenever and however they wished. Here, in the resettlement area, that freedom has vanished. Elena has come to the realization that it is not just a piece of land she has left behind, but a part of the autonomy and independence she once enjoyed:
Things are different today, unlike when we were on the island, where we could eat anything, anywhere. Here, it’s different. The crops belong to others.”
(Kasi iba na tayo ngayon, hindi tulad nung nasa pulo. Kahit saan ka makarating pwede mong kainin, pwede mong pamitasin. Eh dito sir, iba. Dahil siyempre tanim nila yon eh.)
Given the scarcity of land available for farming, and the limited opportunities for women to earn a living, Elena is grateful for the rare occasions when pechay (white cabbage) growers in the neighbouring town need workers to help with the harvest. Along with several of her neighbours – and sometimes her husband – she is contacted by nearby pechay farms to help with the harvest and sales. This is enough to cover her water and electricity bills for a month. For most of the women in the pabahay, working on these farms is one of their main sources of income.
In the resettlement area (see map below), when Elena isn’t working on the pechay farms, she spends her days at home, looking after her grandchildren. She admits there isn’t much to do here, apart from going for a walk in the afternoon to chat with her closest neighbours (kamarites).
In the pabahay, a tree offers her a little respite. Right at the back, near the flowers, she sits on a stool in the shade and lets the cool breeze brush against her face. For a few moments, she finds a little peace, like a breath of fresh air in the middle of the day.
For Nanay Barbie and many residents of the pabahay, the most important thing in the resettlement area is finding money. According to her, “if you don’t have money to spend, you have nothing”. Not even enough to eat, whereas this was available to them on the island. He explains:
If it were up to me, I’d go back to the island. Over there, when you’ve got nothing to eat, you just have to go up into the mountains to get some vegetables. Here, crops don’t grow well.”
(Pero kung tutuusin talaga, gusto ko sa pulo talaga. Lalo na pag wala kang pang-ulam, aahon ka lang ng bundok ay may gulay ka na. May puno... Dito kadali kang masira.)
Despite the constraints of the land, some residents continue to try to adapt to the circumstances, making the most of the available land and using the skills they learnt on the island, in an attempt to lead a life here similar to the one they had before. But between the pulo and the pabahay, everything is different. Living conditions are no longer comparable.
Alice, for her part, longs to grow vegetables in a garden once more. Arable land is very scarce, and she has to make do with what is available. Here, she surrounds the porch of her house with wilted plants, in noodle-shaped containers, plastic bottles and buckets, to grow them in the little soil and space she has. Despite these constraints, Alice persists in planting, just as she used to do on the island. She explains:
“The truth is, we really want to grow vegetables. We’re a bit short on space, but we make do by using plastic and these large buckets to grow aubergines and tomatoes, even though the seedlings don’t grow very tall at all...” (Dsa totoo lang po, gusto po ho naming magtanim-tanim ng gulay. Medyo gipit lang ho ang aming… ano, yung taniman. Ang ginagawa ho namin. para lang ho maka adekhan are, yung plastic ho, o kaya mga timbang…. malalaki, siya ho naming tinatanim ang talong, mga kamatis, yung tubo lang na hindi nataas.)
Memories of a lost land
In recent years, more and more female social science researchers have re-conceptualised ‘disasters’ as anything but natural. (good to include, but can you add a citation or source in addition to what you have below?) Although meteorological and geological processes – typhoons, earthquakes, tsunamis and volcanic eruptions – are recurring phenomena on our planet, the fact that we begin to label them ‘disasters’ depends largely on a complex ‘social calculation’[[Read ‘ There is no such thing as a natural disaster’. This observation helps us understand how class relations, political choices, and social identities shape the way we experience disasters: the same phenomenon can radically disrupt the lives of some, whilst having little impact on others.
For people displaced by disasters – uprooted from their homes and deprived of their livelihoods – reconstruction is not merely a matter of rebuilding houses or infrastructure: it is also a deeply emotional experience, involving the body, memories, and ties to the land. This dimension is evident in the sorrowful accounts of life on the island, which they long to regain, as well as in the way their departure has disrupted their livelihoods. Alice, for her part, still remembers with great clarity the emotions she felt that day. Years later, she remains haunted by nostalgia for the life she once led:
I remember my emotions, even four years after the volcanic eruption. I still remember them, as if we were still living on the island. That’s because our lives were more comfortable there than here.”
(Ay di yung emotion po na isa- apat na taon na naman po na pumutok ho ang bulkan. Pero naguguni- gunita pa rin namin na para lang kami nasa pulo. Dahil masarap ang tigil(?) namin sa pulo kaysa dito po.)
Through their intertwined stories, the land and the lake emerge as the foundations of their lives on the island: it was from their access to these resources that they derived the bulk of their livelihoods.
Their stories reveal how those who once were able to live off the abundance provided by nature now find themselves in an area supposedly safer – sheltered from volcanic threats – yet where the land no longer allows them to provide for themselves. With no arable land, no livestock and no tourists, these displaced people are confronted with the lingering weight of their past, and are striving to redefine their means of livelihood and survival despite the severing of their ties to the land.
↬ Bryan Pauchano
EMBODIED ECOLOGIES PROJECT – TABLE OF CONTENTS