From shore to shoal: Zambales fishers fight to sustain livelihood
(First of 3 parts)
SUBIC, ZAMBALES—In the bustling market in Barangay Camachile in this coastal town where fresh catch from the West Philippine Sea (WPS) are unloaded, fishers, buyers and brokers negotiate through whispered conversations or “bulungan.”
They gather to secure the best deals, then instinctively head to the scales to finalize transactions.
To the untrained eye, the activities in bulungan that usually start at 9 p.m and end at 8 a.m. the following day might seem like chaos, but the intricate process is, in fact, a fish trading in full swing, with each nod and gesture sealing a deal.
Despite the quiet transactions, the surroundings are full of noise and continue to bustle with other activity.
Just a few meters from the market, rows of fishing boats are docked by the shore while other fishers and their helpers busily sorted out their catch into batches in one of the many consignment areas.
Faustine Ann Israel, 45, one of the consignees, says in a Sept. 7 interview that bulungan has been a long-standing method for selling fish that spanned generations.
Her late grandmother Anita “Aning” Liscano was among the first fish vendors in Barangay Matain. Fisherfolk brought their catch to Liscano and she only paid them after the fish were sold to her customers around their village.
Lasting legacy
As the number of boats grew, so did the catch, and she enlisted the help of friends to sell the fish. But soon after, there was an oversupply in their village, and the fishers and traders expanded their reach, selling in other areas. Until it came to a point when Liscano just took the fish catch brought to her and sold them to traders.
“That’s where the consignee started, but it was still in the old market in our village,” shares Israel in Filipino.
The business was inherited by Israel’s mother, Amelita Arichea, 75. At present, the family’s younger generation—Israel, her sister, Mae Ann Santos, 41, and cousin, Alfie Quintana, 43—have their own trading areas in the new bulungan in Camachile.
The consignees serve as middlemen who earn 5 percent of the total catch of a boat, 1 percent of which goes to the municipality for taxes.
“Fishermen can sell directly to the buyers, but the buyers can’t afford to pay them in cash. So, what we do, we finance it so we will be the one who collect the money from the buyers,” says Israel.
The quality of the fish is scrutinized by expert eyes of seasoned bidders and wholesale sellers like Cathy Sardan, 49, who distributes fish in markets in the capital town of Iba for 25 years now.
“I only took 18 boxes today, before, we got tons. There are a lot of wholesale buyers now, unlike before when there are only a few of us,” recounts Sardan.
However, she adds, there are fewer types of fish arriving at their market “since fishermen can no longer catch fish in Scarborough Shoal.”
Changes
The shoal, also known as “kalburo” or “Panatag” to locals, is a rich fishing ground in the WPS, the country’s 370-kilometer (200 nautical miles) exclusive economic zone in the South China Sea (SCS).
However, since 2012, many fishers who venture there have fallen victims to harassment and intimidation by Chinese Coast Guard (CCG) ships that blocked their entry to the shoal, as part of China’s supposed historic claim over most of the entire SCS.
In July 2016, the claim was junked by the Permanent Court of Arbitration in The Hague in favor of the Philippines. But the administration of then President Rodrigo Duterte had set the decision aside in favor of bilateral talks with Beijing.
Although they are never at sea and do not experience Chinese aggression like the fishers who continue to sail in the WPS, Israel points out that the challenges are also felt in bulungan here and other markets.
Aside from suppliers in the province, Israel has regular customers from other provinces in Central Luzon and Metro Manila who usually get 20 to 30 coolers of assorted fish.
Israel agrees there are fewer kinds of fish and fewer catches now compared to before, while sadly staring at another set of tubs filled with fish in her consignment section.
“There were many different kinds of fish before, many choices. Now, it’s just yellow fin, skipjack tuna, dolphin fish, unlike before, they catch the colorful ones like the reef fish,” Israel observes.
Based on data from the Philippine Statistics Authority in Central Luzon, reef fish catch in regions dependent on the WPS dropped over the past decades.
Leonido Moralde, 64, a fisher and boat owner, laments how the Chinese vessels continue to hamper their livelihood.
“The reef and other fish species are gone because we can only get them inside the shoal. How can you get in there, there are CCG vessels guarding the shoal’s lagoon. Even if we’re still far they will follow us to chase us away,” laments Moralde, who is at bulungan on that night of Sept. 7.
His boat has just returned on Sept. 5 from the weeklong fishing trip in the WPS and they have to sell three tons of fish that his nine crew caught.
Fisherfolk need to travel at least 24 hours to reach their fishing ground in the WPS. For this fishing trip, at least P90,000 was spent for food, gas and other provisions.
“They have to come home because the weather is bad,” notes Moralde.
Still hoping
Moralde can only recall those times, now gone, when they could freely take shelter at the shoal when the weather was bad.
Moralde says he gets a breathing space with the support that fishers like him get from the Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources (BFAR). “It’s good that we saved a lot now because BFAR is helping out.”
His boat received 1,000 liters of gas worth P50,000 and food packs from BFAR in his last expedition. Without it, Moralde needs to spend at least P150,000 for a fishing trip.
The government provides aid to fishers and other communities in the WPS through programs like the Kadiwa ng Bagong Bayaning Mangingisda, which offers assistance and sometimes directly purchase their catch at sea.
The initiatives support the fishers’ livelihood while maintaining the Philippine’s presence in the WPS.
Moralde gets P477,074 during the bulungan for three tons of fish. Most of it goes to the payment for debt and the P19,000 share of each crew member, just enough for the monthly expenses of their families.
“Without the (government) aid, it would have been only P10,000,” Moralde says.
As the night gives way to dawn, Bulungan remains vibrant, fueled by the hope that one day, fisherfolk would reclaim their freedom to fish in Panatag.
For the community, the bounty of the WPS is more than just their livelihood. It’s a way of life, passed down through generations. And the struggle to protect the WPS is linked to their own fate.
“Fishermen just want to be free to fish, free to make a living, free to provide food for their families,” says Israel.
