If you were asked to chart a map of a place you deemed meaningful but haven’t visited in a while, how would you begin? What specific landmarks would you determine first? Which details stand out when remembering this meaningful place?
These were just some of the questions my partner and I asked ourselves before conducting our most recent community mapping activity in Batangas. Here, we spent three weeks visiting and conversing with previous residents of the pulo or Taal Volcano Island – survivors of the eruption in January 2020 which ushered the entire island population to permanently evacuate their homes. After three years of moving from one evacuation center to another, around a hundred families from the island community were recently relocated into the pabahay, a housing project high up on the midlands of Talisay, which ultimately became our site of ethnographic inquiry.
As part of the Embodied Ecologies Project, our field work sought to look at how communities are interconnected with the spaces they live/d in, placing emphasis on how environments continuously impact and are shaped by their lives. The act of ‘sensing’ is considered vital in this particular project – the framework posits that when we employ our capacities to see, smell, taste, touch, hear, and feel, our bodies are able to ascribe varying layers of meaning, emotion, and memory to the places we move around in. In this particular framework, mapping is seen as an appropriate method in actively exploring and illustrating these sensorial experiences on a more tangible medium, combining spoken narratives with visual elements such as colors and line-elements that construct a deeper and fuller story. This article hopes to impart some of the insights we gathered during our exploration and employment of the process as novice mappers. We also wish to acknowledge the support and guidance of Philippe Rekacewicz, Embodied Ecologies’s associate researcher and cartography consultant, who was gracious enough to mentor and accompany us during this endeavor.
Making the map
Initially, we were stumped as to how we would start with the maps. We had a number of different approaches in mind and a plethora of academic references to use as the basis for our mapping activity, but knowing which particular one would be most effective was crucial. Our questions mainly revolved around the varying possible scenarios that would come up: should we let our research interlocutors try to draw maps from scratch? Should we provide labels of landmarks like the different sitios (rural centers) and mountains beforehand? What materials should we use to help better facilitate the activity? Would it be better to place the map spread out on a table or hanging from a wall? What should be the limit of the number of participants who could join the discussion? Resolving these questions was pertinent because, although we acknowledged that there was room for trial and error, our time and opportunities to conduct the activity with members of the community were limited.
Ultimately, we decided to lead with a more collaborative approach. After conducting a few trial individual sessions with some of our previous contacts (read Remembering and (Re)making Home by Bryan Pauchano), we concluded that it might be too difficult to try and construct a map of such a large scale from scratch. Instead, we used an existing map of Taal Volcano island from @mapmakerdavid (Fig. 1), then edited it to remove the background and recolor it into grayscale format (Fig. 2.) To make it easier for printing, we used an online software to divide the image into twenty separate pages, which we then cut along the borders before pasting them on a blank sheet of manila paper (Fig. 3.) This would serve as our base map.
Fig. 2 (center): the edited version of the original image;
Fig. 3 (right): the printer grid of the repurposed image after plugging it into an online software.
Materials were also a point of concern for us. We wanted to make the activity as simple as possible, but the goal of choosing the most effective way of illustrating their memories of the island remained significant. One of my initial ideas was to stick Post-It notes on the base map, allowing space for participants to write lengthier comments and to facilitate a more discussion-based activity. This proved to be logistically impractical, as repeatedly attaching paper was time-consuming and posed a risk of detachment during transport, potentially compromising the integrity of the base map. In the end, we decided to keep it simple: colored pencils and crayons would consist of our primary art tools. We hoped that this would make drawing miniature figures easier, while also allowing space for erasures if the participants were unsure of their drawings. The range of colors available could also be useful in depicting highlighted emotions and sensorial expenses, or even as indicators as to who drew which particular sections.
Mapping from Memory
Each time we drove up the mountainside to visit the resettlement area, our interactions were predominantly with women. Most of them considered themselves ‘housewives’: mothers and wives who stayed at home to take care of both the children and the residence while their husbands were away at work (usually either in construction sites or atop Taal Lake tending to tilapia). The hospitality of these women in welcoming us to their spaces graciously gave us the opportunity to smoothly collaborate with them on this project.
We were able to invite five women to join us for the mapping session. Again, the kindness of our hosts shone through as they allowed us to use one of their private office spaces as the venue for the activity. It was a quaint space, barely enough room to fit more than who was already in attendance, but that would soon prove to be well-suited for our discussion. The limited space would turn our gathering into a comfortably intimate bubble, one that made it easier for us to hear each other and encouraged the participants to interact more closely with the map itself.
The first step – or hurdle, we would soon find out – was to recognize the map. Once the map was spread in front of us, we asked the participants if they were familiar with the image laid out in front of them. There was hesitation initially, for sure, as our participants tried to guess what they were looking at as we stood around the spread, looking at the greyscale print from above. My partner and I started asking them questions, careful to not be too leading with our line of inquiry. Spelling out the answers for our participants would make the goal of the activity obsolete, so I became worried when the group spent the first few minutes either staring in intense contemplation or stating highly inaccurate guesses as to what the image in front of us represented.
The first feature of the map they identified was the bibig ng bulkan or the mouth of the volcano. Recognizing the white space in the middle of the map led them in search of other notable landmarks. Debates arose when some of the participants disagreed on where certain places could be found on the map, citing topographical imagery from memory, but eventually they established two of the next most important landmarks: Binintiang Malaki, the largest mountain on the island, and Pira-piraso, a group of islets hanging off the coast of Taal. Along with them, the cardinal points were also verified, which led to the participants being able to name the municipalities surrounding the island such as Sampaloc, Laurel, Balete, San Nicolas, and Talisay. Once all of these were established, we progressed much faster. Looking back, this was a crucial moment for the activity. At this stage, we observed that the participants were still having some difficulty using the conventional bird’s eye perspective of the map and placing themselves in that particular viewpoint. Determining such markers before everything else sets up the foundations for the rest of the map, serving as reference points to make plotting succeeding locations and visualizing the map itself much easier.
Remembering Life before the Eruption
As they became more familiar in using the map, the discussion eventually led to where specific, more personal locations could be found. We asked each participant to choose a color that would represent them on the map in order to highlight these individual experiences. The colors red and pink were chosen by participants from Sta. Milagrosa, the sitio found on the western side of the island, while participants from San Isidro found on the eastern side chose light green, dark green, and orange. Assigning colors for everyone helped to not only distinguish one participant’s illustrations from the others, but also provide an artistic aspect to the entire output where creativity and imagination was encouraged.
Using these colored pencils, as well as regular lead ones to represent communal spaces, the group was able to identify a variety of places. First, they drew little houses to mark where their homes used to be located. Next, they recalled where certain prominent places in their barangay were, such as the local church, elementary school, and basketball court. Remembering these places in detail seemed to evoke a mix of excitement and hesitation, because while their descriptions were shared with much enthusiasm, they also constantly checked with the others before placing points and drawing borders along the map. We understood that it could take a little bit more time for them to get familiar with the map we were using, so my partner and I made sure to guide them in regards to placement and spacing. Again, the initial landmarks and directions we established helped immensely during this section, as they allowed the group convenient guides to recheck the alignment and ‘accuracy’ of the map whilst completing it.
In exploring different places on the map, we were also able to revisit the activities of their everyday life when they were residing on the island. Taniman (vegetable gardens), babuyan (pig pens), and palaisdaan (fish cages) were common for those living off the island’s bountiful resources. Produce would be sourced daily for meals, and could even be sold in nearby markets for extra income. Various trees such as sampaloc and kalamansi were also notably mentioned, not just as fruit-bearing plants that provided sustenance, but also markers for where friends and neighbors could come together and relax. Water was also plentiful on the island. Taal Lake provided a bounty of food, with its diverse menu of fish and marine life, as well as a seemingly endless supply of water for everyone’s daily needs. Bathing, doing laundry, and cleaning were done at the convenience of the nearby lake shore. In addition, many deep-well pumps called poso were also prevalent, used primarily for drinking and cooking. Not everyone had their own poso, but water was generously shared among neighbors, even extending to those visiting from adjacent sitios. These places highlighted how the communities who lived on the pulo were sustained by the land and lake, and how much of their spaces were devoted to reaping the benefits of their abundance.
Our participants also recalled areas of the island where they felt at ease resting. Lily, who once worked as a horse-riding tour guide, remembered how peaceful it was when she stayed in her in-laws’ house. Since it was near the shore, they could easily look at the sparkling waters of the lake and forget their problems. It gave them a sense of serenity, even as they lived underneath the threat of an active volcano. Tanya, a current housewife who used to work in the tourism office, says that her ideal place to tambay (spend time doing nothing) was at the basketball court near her house. Here, she could meet her friends and gossip about anything under the sun. Meanwhile, Lourdes, a 43-year old store-owner turned homemaker, recounts how she would spend hours by the lake, waiting for tourists to come. This made her happy because more tourists meant more money!
True to that idea, work become the most emphasized activity. Before the volcano erupted, the island hosted a flourishing tourism industry centered around the natural wonders of Taal Volcano. Most residents of the pulo worked under this industry, and the kabayuhan or horse-riding stations in particular were repeatedly mentioned. These stations and their four-legged companions were apparently so memorable for them that we all spent a whole five minutes laughing while trying to see who could draw the best horse icon for the map (a surprisingly arduous, yet entertaining task). Various tindahan were also listed – stores that sold food, hiking gear, souvenirs, and even coffee (they named a cafe sTAALbucks!), along with a couple of view decks and offices. Popular tourist sites such as ‘red lava’ (a cliffside with iron-rich soil famous for picture-taking) and Mukha ni Hesus (‘Face of Jesus, a rock formation that resembled the image of Christ when looked at from a specific angle) were also discussed in length – almost as if they were tour guides on the island once more. Our participants were not only knowledgeable, but also observably animated when talking about how it was like working on the island. Three years have passed, yet the detail and sharpness in which they remember the intricate systems of their livelihood remain.
Charting Land and Labor
A day before we conducted the mapping activity, Bry and I grabbed the opportunity to get some tips from our resident cartographer. Our primary concerns were with the ‘accuracy’ of the map; what if our final output was geographically incorrect? What if places were not where they were supposed to be? Philippe thankfully reassured us that these questions were completely valid, and were important to raise before we formally implemented our project. According to him, one of the most essential aspects of counter-mapping as a method is to challenge the rigid notions of ‘scientific’ cartographic practice. [1] What matters the most for maps created through counter-mapping is not the precision in which places, things, and labels are inscribed, but how participants are able to illustrate their experiences onto the chosen medium. Philippe discussed a number of ways these illustrations could be interpreted; how big or small something is drawn could indicate a greater or lesser value ascribed to a certain place, or how specific colors could imply particular emotions they feel toward an activity or location. Lastly, a recurring theme or subject in the map could also point towards an issue that holds significance and relevance to either their past or present situations. For the relocated residents of the pulo, the subject of land and labor evidently persisted throughout our discussion.
Displaced from the ways of life they were accustomed to back on the island, the resettled community is troubled by the lack of opportunities for stable, sustainable livelihoods. While most of the men were offered jobs in construction or fish farming, many of their women counterparts – mothers, sisters, wives – were all rendered with little choice but to stay and tend to the home. We asked about which part of the island they deemed most important to them by shading the corresponding place with their respective colored pencil. Nanay Cassie, who proceeded to shade a part of the lake red, was the first to share how dearly they missed their economic situation:
« Marami kaming source of income na talaga namang tamad lang ang di kikita. Kasi may kabayo po kami, may baboy, nagkaroon pa kami ng tatlong tindahan doon. Tapos nagpapatuka pa ng isda... Kumbaga mahirap naman ho yung kalagayan, nakakapagod siyempre magtrabaho… Pero ngayon po, di na. Kasi lahat ng kabuhayan, naiwan doon. Kumbaga, malaki po ang pinag-iba na nandito na. »
« We used to have multiple sources of income, where only the lazy would not earn. We had our horses, our pigs, I even maintained three stores there. We even took care of fish… Our situation was not easy, it was tiring to work, of course... But now, nothing. All of our livelihood was left behind. So much has changed now that we are here. »
On top of having jobs that provided them income, the island also allowed them easy access to its rich natural resources. Andrea, an intern at the newly-established DOLE GIP Office at the pabahay, used the pink pencil to color in her palaisdaan, recalling how convenient it was to live off the island:
Kasi malapit sa aplaya, pwede kumuha ng isda, may pang-ulam ka na! Bundok din ang amin, may taniman. Pag nakapanguha ka dun ng gulay-gulay, okay na, solb na! Dito talaga iba. Kailangan talaga kumayod.
Because [we were] near the shore, we could easily get fish, then we would already have something to eat! The mountains were also ours [to use], so there was land to plant. If you could source your vegetables there, you were all set! Here it is very different. You need to work hard.
In relation to this, many of the expenses they worry about at present were remembered to be mostly non-existent back on the island. Tanya detailed how life was more pleasant back then without the additional costs of living:
Dun nakakarelax, kasi wala kang iisipin na babayarang ilaw, wala kang binabayarang tubig. Wala kang iniisip na utang. Ang iisipin niyo lang yung kakainin mamaya. Pero pag naka-biyahe ang asawa, may pagkain na. Yun lang.
We could relax because we did not need to think about electricity bills, or payments for water. We did not think of [acquiring] loans. We only had to think of what food we were going to eat. But once our husbands got to ride for the day, we had food already. That was it.
What these excerpts illustrate, more than what was written and colored on the map, is how the women of the pabahay community treasured the natural gifts the island provided them with. When asked ‘where’ on the island they deemed most important, they instead answered what aspect of life they longed for: livelihood. The term they use is kabuhayan, which can be understood as ‘the essence of living.’ Rather than treating the concept of ‘livelihood’ as merely a means to earn income, the stories of the island as a source of kabuhayan for its residents elaborate on the intimate, nourishing relationship the community had with the land. Moreover, their emphasis on such places often come in contrast with their present situation; a looming reminder of what they once had and no longer have. But while evoking these memories may remind them of the grave disparities they face from five years ago, they also serve as markers for their continued aspiration for a better life.
Conclusion
Before wrapping up the session, we asked our participants how the activity made them feel. I expected answers like “happy”, “nostalgic,” or even “sad” – all emotions that were noticeably displayed at different parts of our time together. I never expected for them to thank us. Speechless, we listened to them as they shared how grateful they were for having the opportunity to look back on the life they lived, for providing a space for them to remember. Nanay Cassie, ever the leader, shared this touching message:
Naibalik yung mga buhay-buhay sa pamamagitan ng mapa. Naisip din po kung ano mga pinaggagawa namin doon [sa pulo], mga pinagkaka-abalahan, at saka yung mga magagandang pangyayari doon sa amin, kumpara sa ngayon.
Our lives were retrieved through the map. We remembered what we used to do [on the island], what we used to busy ourselves with, and what beautiful things we experienced there, compared to now.
Moments like this truly exemplify the heart of research. Before this activity, I never fully grasped how great mapping could contribute to my ethnographic pursuits. Many of us in school, myself included, were mostly trained how to write, interview, and document. Inviting participants to draw and color seemed like an unnecessary step and would only serve to provide visual, supplementary aid toward the ‘main’ research. This experience taught me that this could not be further from reality. As anthropologists, we are taught to place the stories of our interlocutors at the forefront. But more often than not, it is we who ultimately deliver their stories through the filter of our own words. Creating this map alongside the women of the pabahay showed me how it would be like when they took hold of the pen, the opportunity to record their own histories. In a unique instance of honest collaboration, they were able to take us, visitors, on a journey through their collective memory.
The activity was nowhere near ‘perfect.’ At the end of the activity, our makeshift map was filled with erasures, scribbles, scratches, and tears. Multiple times during the session, participants became distracted with other responsibilities causing them to either leave the room or to shift their attention away from the discussion. Even on our end, there were many things we could have done differently to make the session more efficient. One of these observations was that it might have been beneficial to record the session on video as well. This is so that we could replay and review the actions performed while drawing the map, rather than just listening and following along a tape. But ultimately, what mattered most wasn’t that the execution was perfect. What brought color and vibrancy more than our art materials was the sincerity of our participants in sharing their stories – each dot, label, and line embedded with a richness of emotions that gave life to an inanimate piece of paper.
In the end, we finished the activity with a fuller image of Taal Volcano Island. Our initial goal with mapping came with traditional cartographic motivations: to identify places and chart experiences through memory. The conventional pursuit of mapping puts emphasis on the geographic aspect of places, but through this activity, we highlight how places aren’t simply locations. In response to our final question, Tanya and Andrea answered in tandem:
T: “Sana maibalik ang pulo” (I wish the island would return);
A: “Sa ngayon, hanggang tanaw nalang muna. Kasi hindi naman natin alam kung makakabalik pa tayo” (for now, we remain at a distance. We never know when we can truly return.”
They could have meant this literally, how they wish that they could be permitted once more to return and live on their homeland. However, I believe that the ‘pulo’ they hope to be reunited with goes beyond the physical, more than just the area of land we spent more than two hours pouring over. The pulo they long for represents a state and means of living: one that allows them ownership and agency over their space, one that is free from constricting expenses, one where kabuhayan comes from their natural environment, and one they deem as a peaceful home.
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