Butuan: The Waters Live Again

Fittingly for a land that two million years ago was entirely covered by the sea, Butuan in Agusan del Norte, Mindanao has long relied on the surrounding sea, rivers, lakes and streams for its very existence. From the beginning, these waters were inextricably bound to the ebb and flow of the Butuanon’s life–he fished its salty depths, bathed in its freshwaters and frolicked as its ocean waves tumbled into the shallows, consistent as a metronome. The waters also linked communities at the seacoast and along banks of navigable tributaries. Periodically, the Masao and Agusan Rivers would reveal a capricious side, flooding the land as if demanding that inhabitants settle elsewhere along its serpentine routes.

Gazing at the horizon that outlined the Pacific Ocean, the early Butuanons would have contemplated what lay beyond, their imagination aflame with stories from Vietnamese traders about a distant and unthinkably immense kingdom. Nearly a millennium ago, they must have decided: Enough conjecture! With only the stars to steer them, they set off on several balanghai, wooden plank and edge-pegged boats 15 meters in length and three meters wide across the beam. After numerous stopovers to replenish supplies, they reached China on October 3, 1003. It is the first recorded Filipino trade and diplomatic mission to the "Middle Kingdom", a feat made more astounding because China at the time did not even know the Kingdom of Butuan existed. The intrepid voyagers were grateful–the ocean had deigned to grant them safe passage.

Clearly, Butuan has been copiously blessed by the sea, but like a prodigal son has squandered its bounty. Early Butuanons practiced advanced but environmentally sensible fishery techniques such as lure and line trawl fishing, spearing and using movable fence traps across tidal channels. Some scholars believe Butuan came from the word "But-an", which literally means a person who has a sound and discerning disposition. In any case, early Butuanons exercised watertight judgment in taking only as much as the sea was willing to bequeath.

Sadly, the story of Butuan in the last few decades is one that has been told in innumerable other fishing regions in the country–voracious, indiscriminate depletion of marine resources by man. The current situation in Butuan is hardly the figment of an ecologist’s alarmist mind; Butuanons know the sea has withdrawn its blessing and they are hurting, deeply. The meager harvest from once generous waters is reminiscent of another theory on the origin of the word "Butuan": the sour fruit batuan.

Today, the Fisheries Resource Management Project (fmrp) of the Department of Agriculture-Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources (da-bfar) together with the local government unit and a fisherfolk association are using somewhat unconventional methods to woo back the sea’s good graces.

Cabadbaran, a short drive from Butuan City, once abounded with mangroves, corals and seagrasses. The waters teemed with varied species of fish and crustaceans. It was a thriving marine ecosystem. For the most part, the mangroves are now gone, cut down to build houses for a growing population. Corals were removed so it would not entangle fishing nets. Contemporary fishing practices–using dynamite, cyanide and fine mesh nets–are far removed from the more enlightened methods of the past. By the 1980s, the seabed had become barren and both large and small fish species were rarities. In 1986, divers declared the area lifeless.

A year later, a remarkable man named Simforiano "Simfor" Boligor took matters into his own hands. With the assistance of the Provincial Agriculture Office (pao) aquaculturist Lauro Hinaloc, Boligor led his community in installing artificial reefs in the area. Over the years, several organizations–ngos as well as government and grassroots ones–have lent their support to the project, their multi-digit acronyms a severe test of memory, a true alphabet soup. (A far-from-complete sampler: pakisama, bfarmc, carpa, casfsudo, cartalagad and cvo.) But it is Boligor who has staked the most.

The theory is so simple it seems almost naive–deposit man-made objects onto the sea floor and provide the fish an artificial dwelling, free housing if you will. The site in Barangay Calibunan, Cabadbaran was chosen because fisherfolk seldom fished there, thus their fishing gear would not become enmeshed in the experiment. At first, bamboo was used but they soon fragmented, unable to cope with the elements. Next, a shipload of tires from Australia was deployed but a moratorium on their use in artificial reefs until its effects on the marine environment were studied put an end to that idea. Finally, triangle-shaped concrete modules were constructed and installed by Boligor and his few believers with funding from the da-pao.

"Noong bago pa ito, ayaw pa ng mga tao sa programa na ito dahil hindi pa nila maintindihan. Malakas ang resistance dito–muntik nga magkapatayan," recounts Boligor, a soft-spoken, sturdy middle-aged man with more creases on his face than a linen shirt worn all day, the craggy consequence of a lifetime spent on or by the sea.

The opposition from Calibunan’s fishermen was so vehement that Boligor received threats and his family was routinely harassed. His work with the Artificial Reef Project was entirely voluntary–Boligor was not receiving remuneration for his troubles and it would have been perfectly reasonable for him to forsake his idealism for self-preservation.

But Boligor knew of a pending petition from the Barangay Fisheries and Aquatic Resources Management Council (bfarmc) of Calibunan to the Sangguniang Bayan of Cabadbaran to declare the artificial reef site as a fish sanctuary. He understood this was the breakthrough the project desperately needed; recognition as a sanctuary would preserve the gains made by the artificial reef in terms of being a haven and spawning ground for varieties of fish. Says Boligor, "Sabi ko sa kanila, pag marami ng isda sa sanctuary, lalabas din ang mga ito at puwede nang mangisda–basta sa labas ng sanctuary."

In 1997, a decade after the artificial reef was first installed by a motley gang of Calibunan fisherfolk, Municipal Ordinance No. 04-97 made it all official–29 hectares, or 15 percent of Cabadbaran’s municipal waters, was now a fish sanctuary with durable ropes tied to buoys as boundaries. The Barangay Council could now deputize Boligor and his group as fish wardens.

The determined fishermen now had a crude but powerful searchlight to spot illegal fishermen operating in the shadows of the night. The boat chase was usually brief and successful–the apprehended were brought directly to two permanently assigned PNP policemen (no matter how ungodly the hour may be) and, for initial infractions, fined. For the first time in ten years, Boligor had the teeth provided by an official sanction. Illegal fishing in the sanctuary is virtually nil today.

Most amazingly, the fish have returned–tiny, mid-sized and large ones; it is now an honest-to-goodness food chain. Fish catches along the sanctuary’s periphery have increased from an average of three kilos to up to nine kilos per fishing expedition. Says Boligor, "Marami nang isda ang bumabalik dito sa sanctuary. Ngayon, may lapu-lapu at marami pang klase ng isda dito."

Perhaps the most praiseworthy aspect of the Cabadbaran Fish Sanctuary’s success is the synergy achieved by so many disparate groups. The sanctuary is a triumph of cooperation that offers hope to other coastal communities whose marine resources have been depleted by decades of recklessness.

Cabadbaran Municipal Agriculturist Joel Sanchez sums up the result, "The Cabadbaran Fish sanctuary is very unique. It has no natural base. The site was initially barren; its underwater surface was made up of mud and sand. It had neither stones nor a coral reef. Now, the surrounding area teems with fish. Species of fish that have been gone have come back."