The Taal Volcano eruption was one, among many, of the most notable disasters to happen in the Philippines in recent years. Its impact transformed the environmental features of the island along with the social relations of the communities living within the region. On an ecological level, the eruption helped make the vegetation on the island more fertile. [1] On the other hand, hundreds families and residents within the Taal Volcano Island, or pulo, were forced to turn their backs on the life they’ve known and built—houses, belongings, livestocks, and livelihood. A devastating unimaginable loss for so many.
As the ashes from the eruption settled, the Tagapulo, or island residents, were left with the task of continuing on with their lives permanently cut off from the island, after local authorities declared the area as a ‘no man’s land’. This declaration meant that the area would be permanently closed for those seeking to reside on the island. One island resident recalled the day it happened, realizing the inevitable:
And just like that, we were on our way [off of the island]. We were in the middle [of the lake] when I looked back and saw everything covered in ash. The smoke was black… I said: “It’s gone. It’s gone.” I said, “we can never go back on 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.” Sabi ko “Hindi na namin mababalikan ang pulo.” »
Those who lost everything to the eruption were eventually provided with housing units in a resettlement area located in the ‘mainland’, where the municipal center is located, by the local government. Finally, after years of cramping in temporary shelters, where they’ve lived for years together with hundreds of other families, the Tagapulô were provided with new government housing units that would allow them to begin again.
Yet, despite the promise of a new beginning, it’s been difficult for the new residents of the resettlement area to come to terms with what they’ve lost. After all, what they’ve left behind on the island was their entire life. Four years have passed since the eruption in 2020, yet the memory of living on the island was still fresh on the minds of the women who we first met at the pabahay (resettlement area). Whenever they would share the events that followed after the disaster, they described it vividly and emotionally, sometimes holding back tears, as if it was only yesterday.
For the Tagapulo, whose relationship with the island was severed from their exodus out of their homeland, what it means to build a home and an entirely new life after a disaster does not end after a house is built. Navigating what it means to find life—a direct translation of hanapbuhay (hánap, meaning “find,” and búhay, meaning “life”) or livelihood in Tagalog—after a disaster is just the beginning for one of the most affected communities of the Taal volcano eruption.
Remembering hanapbuhay on the island
When we first arrived at the pabahay, we were greeted with children playing on the streets and women lounging inside their houses, peering out to see who these new faces could be. It was a clear day yet the air felt cool since the resettlement area sits at a higher altitude than the rest of the towns near the municipal center. This location, noticeably located in the outskirts of the municipality, was deliberately chosen by the local government to situate the residents outside of the supposed ‘danger zone’ of an imminent volcanic eruption. However, the community’s distance from danger also pushed them out of the necessary conditions required for them to make a living.
I was introduced to Alice by a barangay official who accompanied me to the pabahay. She was one of the previous residents on the volcano island. When she saw me, she welcomed me to sit opposite her on their porch and then immediately began introducing themselves. Alice, 47 years old, shared that she began working as early as she can remember. She’s done multiple work on the ‘mainland’ as a domestic helper and a bottle collector, pushing her cart along the highway. But it was on the island (pulo), where she was born and raised, that she eventually settled, content with doing farm work and earning money as a horse guide for tourists. She was in the middle of her tourism work the day the volcano erupted. She recalled the day as:
When the volcano erupted, we were on the island entertaining our guests. But when we couldn’t stand the shaking, we went down to the shore… In simple terms, we chose our lives. We left without caring for the things 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. »
Similar to Alice, Elena used to be a horse guide back home on the island. She was born in Camarines Norte, a province further southeast of Batangas. Growing up, Elena was brought to pulo to live with her father who found hanapbuhay, or livelihood, on the island. Years later, she settled on the island with a family of her own and earned income by guiding tourists around famous spots on the island. She began touring guests around the volcano in 1990, along with her husband. Now, at 54 years old, she did not expect that she would be leaving everything behind to start their life from scratch after the eruption. Elena’s family had no choice but to leave the livelihood that supported their family for 30 years.
It was difficult for Elena to leave the life she had on the island. After all, life on the island provided her with an access to abundant natural resources, where she could earn money from multiple streams of income and meet the needs of her family, something she was happy to do (see the map below). She told me that it filled her with great joy to be in her favorite place on the island—the lakeshore—where she could easily see the tourists arriving, the source of her income, while chatting with her friends and neighbors as they lounged under the shade of their nipa huts. Elena recalled that aside from guiding horses, she earned money on the island through other means:
After guiding the tourists, there are times when we sell to tourists masks and hats, among many other things… Whenever the arrival of oncoming guests is imminent or whenever something happens, such as cancellations due to typhoons or the time when we didn’t have tourists for three months because of an earthquake… What we do instead is namúmukot (cast net fishing)... And then we sell our catch to the nearby resort or wet 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. »
In addition to all of these, she plants crops in her backyard garden and takes them whenever she wants. Elena grows a banana tree and plants sitáw (string beans) and other vegetables that they eat for themselves. The abundance of natural resources allows Elena and many former residents of the volcano island to sustain their families by earning a living just outside their homes, surrounded by towering trees, birds, horses, and the lake.
Such memories of the island were remembered with much fondness. Husband and wife, Nanay Barbie, 58 and Tatay Alfie, 63, looked back and recounted how life on the island was easier, more relaxed, especially when contrasted with their current situation on the resettlement area. Jobs in the pabahay are harder to maintain and day-to-day expenses have become too overwhelming. When they could once plant and harvest for themselves, now they must work hard in places far from home to put food on the table.
Nanay Barbie and Tatay Alfie relied on the tourism industry on the island for their income, while also supplementing their needs through fishing and farming. Their house on the island was made of bamboo that stood on stilts and sat along the shore, surrounded by birds and trees (see the map below). Behind their house, a small path uphill led to a taniman or garden, where they planted a variety of vegetables like balinghoy (cassava), mais (corn), and lots of kalabasa (squash). There were also five puno ng niyog (coconut trees) within their lot. In front of their house, nearer the aplaya, or shore, was a small kubo (hut) which they used as a small and simple place to rest and relax.These are only some of the things that they had to leave behind when the Taal volcano erupted.
In order to make a living and put food on the table, they had to transform their lives and follow wherever there is money to be made. Tatay Alfie, skilled on fishing and farming, found it difficult to transition to a construction job that was available to him when they evacuated after the eruption. He thinks of construction work as:
If you ask me to work at a construction [project], a week later and I might end up limp (laughs) from mixing [concrete]. I experienced that when we evacuated before. I didn’t last a month. I couldn’t bear it. But of course, we don’t have other options for livelihood, so we push through it. »
« 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. »
What he’s really after is to work where he’s familiar: on the lake. When we asked him what is it that he thinks his body was craving for, he answered:
The lake. I’m used to being in the lake. That’s where my hanapbuhay (livelihood) is: on the lake. I can manage even the biggest waves. »
« Dagat. Sa dagat ako [inaudible] Doon ako nasalang. Doon ang hanapbuhay ko sa dagat. Kahit malalaking alon, nakakaya ko. »
These stories reveal the significance of the bundok and dagat (mountains and the sea, in this case, the lake) as prominent fixtures in their memory as sources of both economic and social abundance. For the residents of the pulo, what was lost were not just their material belongings, but they lost the capacity to continue doing the work that they grew up doing to put food on the table. The repeated emphasis of residents of the pabahay in their yearning for their life on the island highlight the value and what it means to have a hanapbuhay. The stories here narrate how the pulo was—and still is—their home because of the ways it made living not just bearable, but enjoyable.
Navigating the limits and loss of their hanapbuhay
Ever since the volcano erupted, what it meant to live and make a living took a turn for the island residents who lived along the shores of the Taal Volcano Island. As they find their footing in their newly resettled government-funded housing units, the now displaced residents of the pulo cannot help but look back to their previous life on the island and continually compare their experiences living back there whenever they describe their present living situation with discontent, frustration, and sometimes with tears. Within the enclosure of the borders of the resettlement area, the new residents are faced with the task of navigating new ways to make a living.
If the prospect of hanapbuhay, or livelihood, on the island is abundant, the conditions here on the pabahay could not be more different. Belen, who was born and raised on pulo, made a living there easily. For 16 years, she earned money from panunulay or guiding tourists down a small plank to the shore of the island. She worked mostly with the tourists who opted not to ride the horses. Belen would sell them soft drinks or face masks while waiting along the shore. But now, at 53 years old, making a living for her family in the resettlement area is difficult, especially for someone like her with high blood pressure. In her idle time, she can’t help but remember how easy it was back then for them to live, lamenting how streams of income are scarce in their new-found home. Belen shared her frustration:
It’s beautiful in pulo. There, you have multiple streams of income. If you can offer soft drinks to tourists or masks, you’ll earn money. But here, what can we earn here? Nothing. It’s really better to live 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 of the tagapulo share Belen’s frustration on the sudden scarcity of livelihood available in the pabahay since they’ve been relocated. Here, in the resettlement area, she relies on the meager salary of her husband to provide their food. If on the island, their opportunities for livelihood relied on the resources around them, here on the pabahay, livelihood opportunities are mostly waged and less available to women.
Tatay Alfie isn’t around most of the time in their house anymore. Since most days (if not every day), the men in the community get up early in the morning to go to work. While majority of them, including Tatay Alfie, work in the “feed mix” or nagpapatuka (fish feeding) in the numerous tilapia farms scattered around Taal Lake, many also work in different construction sites and companies across neighboring municipalities.
Elena’s husband and children are employed by these companies, which leaves the tasks of taking care of the housework and caring for her children and grandchildren solely her responsibility. Because of this, she spends most of her time at home. She knows and understand that things are different now on the pabahay. If on pulo, they were free to use the resources around them whenever and however they wanted, that is not the case here in the resettlement area. She realized that:
Things are different now, unlike when we were on the island. You can eat anything that you pick anywhere. It’s different here. The crops might 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. »
With the limited plot of land available to plant crops and limited opportunities for women to earn income, Elena’s grateful for the rare occasion when the harvest of pechay (snow cabbage) from a nearby town is in need of workers. She and several of her neighbors—sometimes her husband—are contacted by nearby pechay farms to harvest and sell them. Elena sells enough packs of pechay to cover their water and electric expenses for a month. For most of the women in the pabahay, working in these pechay farms is one of their primary sources of income.
Most of Elena’s days in the resettlement area (see map below), if not spent in pechay farms, are spent at home, where she take cares of her grandchildren. She admits that there’s not much to do here, aside from strolling in the afternoon to talk to her closest female neighbors, or her kamarites, to talk and gossip. One of the places in the pabahay that provides her respite is by a tree somewhere at the back, near the flowers, where she sits under its shade on a stool and feel the cool breeze of the wind.
For Nanay Barbie, and many of the residents in the pabahay, the most important thing to have in the resettlement area is money. She said, “if you don’t have money to spend, you have nothing.” Not even crops to eat, which was freely available to them on the island. Tatay Alfie, prefers life on the island because of this reason. He explains:
If it were up to me, I like the island better. Especially, when you have nothing to eat. All you have to do is go up the mountains then you’ll have vegetables. There’s trees. 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 land, some residents continue to try and adjust to the circumstances, working whatever available land there is using the skills they learned on the island as an attempt to bring the kind of life they had on the island to where they currently live. However, they soon realize that the conditions on the pulo and the pabahay could not be more different.
Alice, for one, yearns to plant vegetables in a garden once again. The lack of available land for them to cultivate in the resettlement area forced residents like Alice to make do with whatever land is available. Here, in the makeshift porch in her house, Alice surrounds it with wilting plants in noodle cup containers, plastic bottles, and buckets to grow plants in the little land and space available to her. In the constraint of what little land Alice can find, she insists on planting as they once did on the island. Alice told me:
The truth is we really want to plant vegetables. We’re a little bit constrained in space to plant. But we make do by using plastic and these big buckets to grow eggplants and tomatoes despite the sprout not growing in inches at all… »
« Sa 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. »
Conclusion
In recent years, more and more social scientists have been rethinking ‘disasters’ as anything but natural. The argument is that although meteorological and geological processes, such as typhoons, earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcanic eruptions, are all recurring phenomena in our planet, the measure by which they begin to be known as disasters hinges largely on a complex ‘social calculus’. [2] This realization allows us to see how class, politics, and identities fit into the equation of how we all differently experience each passing of a storm.
In the case of those displaced by disasters, who were uprooted from their homeland, and whose livelihood were obliterated, their experience of navigating reconstruction efforts after disasters are emotional and embodied. These are evident in their mournful narration of their lives on the island that they yearn to return to and how their displacement from the island limits and restricts their means of putting food on the table. Alice still vividly remembers the emotions of that day, even after all these years, as she longs for the life she once had on the island:
I remember the emotions even after four years of the volcano eruption. I still remember as if we were still living on the island. It’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 interweaving narration of the kinds of livelihoods on the island that have been lost in their relocation to the resettlement area, the land and the lake, and having access to its resources all figure as important aspects in how these people made a living.
Their narratives reveal how those who once thrived on nature’s abundance now find themselves in a supposedly safer area—away from volcanic threats—yet without the means to sustain themselves through the land. Without arable land, commercial livestock, or local tourism, former volcano island residents grapple with the lingering shadow of their past, struggling to redefine livelihood and survival amid their severed ties to the land.
↬ Bryan Pauchano