The swerving waves in the half-morning light were a thousand pods of dolphins, they were the dunes of a deep blue desert, they were gathering thunderstorms. But they were not, they were only waves. No dolphins have been spotted yet, just mirages. Crest after gray crest, until something materialized in the distance. A wave that jumped. Someone shouted "There it is!" and the dolphin chase began. Giving in to our fervent wishes, the dolphins emerged, coasting, dipping, spinning away in a light show of their cetaceous abilities. Something childlike was released in everyone on the boat, and we clapped gleefully.
However, like all natural resources that have given abundantly yet were mismanaged, the strait is now under threat by severe exploitation. It is the most overfished water in the archipelago. Older fishermen recall a time when the seas were serene, the fish were heartily jumping into fishing nets, and the mangroves, the nursery grounds of marine life, stood lush and thick. Things changed drastically from the ‘60s onwards – fishpond technology was introduced, and there was also a time when the government sponsored the conversion of mangroves to fishponds. Additionally, commercial mangrove cutters were quickly depleting the forest for firewood and uling (charcoal). Because of the decline in catch, our fishermen have resorted to illegally poaching outside Philippine waters.
The Tañon Strait Initiative, started in 2003 and project managed by the good Dr. Ari, is an effort to bring together the different sectors – NGOs, academic, government and community organizations all along the coast of 41 towns and cities, to collaborate concertedly in taking care of their respective waters by enforcing regulations, and changing the people’s attitudes through awareness campaigns. The focus, however, is on the strait’s southern portion of Bais, its most significant bay. Having the most extensive mangrove areas, it is considered a "source." Explains Jose Palma, WWF Field Operations vice president, "We must plug the hole where it’s most strategic. We must save the source."
If Bais once boasted of having 1,180 hectares of dense mangrove, that number has been pared down to a scant 300. "It is impossible to rehabilitate everything, but at the very least, we must maintain what we have," Jose says. Their goal for this year is 27 hectares, and the work is divided among the LGUs (local government units), WWF, and the Peace Corps. "Partnership is key. Our focus is on Bais, but by setting an efficient example, everyone – from Bais and beyond the strait – will benefit."
Returning to the swampy entrance where little fish first find their way beneath the protective and nutritive mother mangroves, the volunteers get ready to plant their seedlings, adding a small but not insignificant area to the reserve. It was simple enough: Unwrap the plastic that held the soil, and plunk the plant down securely into its watery hole. The seedlings have been specially pre-grown till it had roots before being handed to us to plant, to ensure a high mortality rate. The conditions out here, they say, can be harsh.
The natural method of mangrove reproduction is simpler, more violent. Mature trees drop their seeds, shaped like spears, into the muddy ground below. Ideally, it would stab the floor and take root. But not everyone makes it, and so we give a little interventionary help. Joan Binondo, another WWF representative, tells us that 10,000 seedlings can be planted per hectare, but left to their own devices, the mangroves may take too much time. There are regular tree-planting excursions organized by the WWF, and they recruit local student volunteers, as well as parolees and those on probation, for their community service points. Now that’s twice the rehabilitation at half the cost.
It is only lunchtime, and I bid goodbye and a tall growth to my little plant. Lunch is held at the Sandbar, which is not really a place but just three very rustic standalone huts stuck impossibly in the middle of the ocean. The nearest islands are still a boat ride off. During low tide, a wide strip of sand as white as Boracay rises up and greets the afternoon. During high tide, you can kick off your Dumaguete sandals and wade waist-deep in water for a clear eternity, sky, sand and sea blending in a gradient of blue and white mirrors. Our buffet of suckling pig and grilled squid is shuttled to us in a bangka. A surreality check, and I already mourn for the future loss of this place.
To join Worldwide Fund for Nature and participate in their eco-trips, visit www.wwf.org.ph
E-mail the author at audreycarpio@yahoo.com.