The fellows check out some United States fishing tackle my cousin Matt sent last year. They were amazed at the odd thing, kept turning it in their hands, talking about how it would swim through the water.
Birthday for Jimmy, (Right) He was 44 years old and we celebrated with Barracuda, huge shellfish, crab and coconut wine.
The crab we later ate for Mano Jimmy's Birthday
Shark the fishermen caught on thursday. It was really young, but tasted very good.
The lazy afternoon while we relaxed and then later would follow Mano Juin's lead and chase out illegal fishermen (read below)
The group of men that I’ve been working with here are like any other group of young and old men in a small rural community of the world, in that they have ingrained habits and are sometimes very opposed to changes in those habits, especially when those suggestions to change are coming from a young, ‘inexperienced’ volunteer from the United States. I liken these fellows to a group of bear hunters in the mountains of Western Virginia where I come from. Bear hunters are notoriously a rough lot, deeply entrenched in family and community cohorts, who stereotypically follow hunting laws loosely. They’re the guys you don’t want to cross when you’re too far from a forest road and they’re out running dogs. If you know what I’m talking about and have a hard time imagining the fellows I’m working with, just think ‘bear hunters’.
Anyways, these guys are fishermen, who have been taking what they want, when they want, where they want for years. They fish in waters that their fathers and grandfathers fished. They know where to get the huge Conke-like ‘Binga’ and they religiously know the deeper channels where one can hopefully net a blue marlin on good nights and small tuna on others. When these guys aren’t fishing, they’re either drinking coconut wine, sleeping one off, or painting epoxy on the hulls of boats that should have been retired years ago. This is what they do, what they know.
That’s why it is such a change of courses for them, for me to be asking men who only know fishing and only really want to fish, to be growing seaweed and learning to save and invest resources. To say the least, they don’t really cherish the change of schedule, and would rather be fishing from 7pm to 7am for fish they know are there, than sitting at a guardhouse overnight ‘protecting’ seaweeds, this strange new crop, for a harvest that might or might not happen, depending on the next typhoon that rolls through. I don’t think I have explained fully the leap of faith the project is for these men, who really don’t have much trust in any livelihood but the one they’ve grown up with.
The seaweed/fishcage site is beside the municipal fish sanctuary, an area off-limits to fishing and collection of shellfish. Mano Juin, one of the fishermen was collecting shellfish in the sanctuary one day as we prepared seaweeds, tying the little shoots to long nylon lines that would float through the water. I talked to him, surrounded by other members of the association who smirked at the idea of actually enforcing the sanctuary laws. In our town, nobody really monitors protected fishing areas, the mayor doesn’t seem to care, and it is really farse to try and uphold the laws, but, I continued with my shpiel about how these are Philippine laws, how they should care, how it’s about their children and their way of life, not mine. They just laughed it off, and I counted it as a loss and walked off in a huff.
Then last week, Mano Juin, along with another member of the organization were blatantly fishing with nets in the sanctuary as we were boating into clean seaweeds for the morning. I turned to the boatman I was with and angrily told him to steer us toward Mano Juin’s boat. We pulled up alongside, and I let out a diatribe about not respecting laws, how it is for everyone’s good that we have laws and regulations for fishing, ‘if they don’t change, who will?’ all that kind of bleeding heart, environmentalism sap. The boatman and I sat waiting while Juin took up his nets, not speaking, eyes averting my stare, I took pictures, threatened to give them to the mayor, (like that would do any good), and waited until he paddled his small boat home, out of the sanctuary, properly shamed for his indiscretion. The other members of the association just laughed about the encounter the next time we were working together, joking about ‘naughty Juin.’
It’s been that way every time we discuss fishing laws or why illegal fishing is wrong. It’s hard to get these guys to see it any other way, but I figure for the next three months, I’ll keep on trying, not really anything to lose.
Yesterday, all of the association members and I got together and had a work day. Together, we used old nets and knives to scrape barnacles off of the guardhouse drums. It was a good time, we ate papaya and chicken while sons of members fished with squid for little puffer fish and other fishes that inhabit the coral reefs below. At one point, as I sat with my back turned to the open water of the ocean, Don Don, president of the organization pointed out to the water and said ‘mga illegalista’ (illegals), shaking his head, and pitying chuckle. Everyone looked at me and asked in waray, “Will we go get them?”
Somewhat defeated at the issue, I just shrugged, “It’s up to you all. I’m not Filipino, why should I care? It’s your fish, your ocean, not mine.”
They all laughed, nodding, and looking out, hissing through their teeth, (Filipino nonverbal for ‘no good’) We continued to sit for a while, and then out of the corner of my eye I saw a small canoe skirting across the water, a man furiously paddling. Now, I have to explain, you don’t usually see Filipinos moving quickly unless there is imminent danger or if they’re playing basketball. Additionally, we had several motorized boats sitting idly by, why someone would be paddling so quickly when they didn’t need to was a quandary.
I then asked, “Who is that?”
“Ahh, Mano Juin will get them.”
I looked back around and he was about a third of the way to the illegal fishermen, around 250 yards away. It was quite an expanse of wavy water to be paddling across, but he didn’t let up, and continued paddling, unrelenting.
I then realized the gravity of what I was seeing. Mano Juin was making amends, showing me, without words, without apology, that now he understood. To a lot of these people, words mean nothing, smiles mean less, but sweat, and work, you can’t fake that. As sinewy Mano Juin paddled across the rolling water by himself, he showed me that he understood.
When the other men saw the gesture Mano Juin was making, they all decided to pile into the motorized boats and follow his lead. Our deputized members put on their Law Enforcement shirts and we went out into the water and chased the fishermen out of the waters, taking pictures as a warning that we had evidence were they to come back.
A couple of years ago, the scene wouldn’t have made much impact on me. Just a bunch of guys in a boat, trying to enforce laws. Now, however, I understand how hard it is for people here to enforce rules, single each other out and reprimand. A communal culture like this one makes it really difficult to be objective and enforce laws for people who are probably cousins, or drinking buddies, or classmates in school. I’m just a foreigner asking a bunch of older fellows to change their ways, their schedules, 40-year rituals. Usually I’m not very emotional, but as we all put-putted across the water in a unified effort to begin enforcing laws for everyone well-being, and Mano Juin continued paddling by himself, I was choked with gratitude.
Anyways, these guys are fishermen, who have been taking what they want, when they want, where they want for years. They fish in waters that their fathers and grandfathers fished. They know where to get the huge Conke-like ‘Binga’ and they religiously know the deeper channels where one can hopefully net a blue marlin on good nights and small tuna on others. When these guys aren’t fishing, they’re either drinking coconut wine, sleeping one off, or painting epoxy on the hulls of boats that should have been retired years ago. This is what they do, what they know.
That’s why it is such a change of courses for them, for me to be asking men who only know fishing and only really want to fish, to be growing seaweed and learning to save and invest resources. To say the least, they don’t really cherish the change of schedule, and would rather be fishing from 7pm to 7am for fish they know are there, than sitting at a guardhouse overnight ‘protecting’ seaweeds, this strange new crop, for a harvest that might or might not happen, depending on the next typhoon that rolls through. I don’t think I have explained fully the leap of faith the project is for these men, who really don’t have much trust in any livelihood but the one they’ve grown up with.
The seaweed/fishcage site is beside the municipal fish sanctuary, an area off-limits to fishing and collection of shellfish. Mano Juin, one of the fishermen was collecting shellfish in the sanctuary one day as we prepared seaweeds, tying the little shoots to long nylon lines that would float through the water. I talked to him, surrounded by other members of the association who smirked at the idea of actually enforcing the sanctuary laws. In our town, nobody really monitors protected fishing areas, the mayor doesn’t seem to care, and it is really farse to try and uphold the laws, but, I continued with my shpiel about how these are Philippine laws, how they should care, how it’s about their children and their way of life, not mine. They just laughed it off, and I counted it as a loss and walked off in a huff.
Then last week, Mano Juin, along with another member of the organization were blatantly fishing with nets in the sanctuary as we were boating into clean seaweeds for the morning. I turned to the boatman I was with and angrily told him to steer us toward Mano Juin’s boat. We pulled up alongside, and I let out a diatribe about not respecting laws, how it is for everyone’s good that we have laws and regulations for fishing, ‘if they don’t change, who will?’ all that kind of bleeding heart, environmentalism sap. The boatman and I sat waiting while Juin took up his nets, not speaking, eyes averting my stare, I took pictures, threatened to give them to the mayor, (like that would do any good), and waited until he paddled his small boat home, out of the sanctuary, properly shamed for his indiscretion. The other members of the association just laughed about the encounter the next time we were working together, joking about ‘naughty Juin.’
It’s been that way every time we discuss fishing laws or why illegal fishing is wrong. It’s hard to get these guys to see it any other way, but I figure for the next three months, I’ll keep on trying, not really anything to lose.
Yesterday, all of the association members and I got together and had a work day. Together, we used old nets and knives to scrape barnacles off of the guardhouse drums. It was a good time, we ate papaya and chicken while sons of members fished with squid for little puffer fish and other fishes that inhabit the coral reefs below. At one point, as I sat with my back turned to the open water of the ocean, Don Don, president of the organization pointed out to the water and said ‘mga illegalista’ (illegals), shaking his head, and pitying chuckle. Everyone looked at me and asked in waray, “Will we go get them?”
Somewhat defeated at the issue, I just shrugged, “It’s up to you all. I’m not Filipino, why should I care? It’s your fish, your ocean, not mine.”
They all laughed, nodding, and looking out, hissing through their teeth, (Filipino nonverbal for ‘no good’) We continued to sit for a while, and then out of the corner of my eye I saw a small canoe skirting across the water, a man furiously paddling. Now, I have to explain, you don’t usually see Filipinos moving quickly unless there is imminent danger or if they’re playing basketball. Additionally, we had several motorized boats sitting idly by, why someone would be paddling so quickly when they didn’t need to was a quandary.
I then asked, “Who is that?”
“Ahh, Mano Juin will get them.”
I looked back around and he was about a third of the way to the illegal fishermen, around 250 yards away. It was quite an expanse of wavy water to be paddling across, but he didn’t let up, and continued paddling, unrelenting.
I then realized the gravity of what I was seeing. Mano Juin was making amends, showing me, without words, without apology, that now he understood. To a lot of these people, words mean nothing, smiles mean less, but sweat, and work, you can’t fake that. As sinewy Mano Juin paddled across the rolling water by himself, he showed me that he understood.
When the other men saw the gesture Mano Juin was making, they all decided to pile into the motorized boats and follow his lead. Our deputized members put on their Law Enforcement shirts and we went out into the water and chased the fishermen out of the waters, taking pictures as a warning that we had evidence were they to come back.
A couple of years ago, the scene wouldn’t have made much impact on me. Just a bunch of guys in a boat, trying to enforce laws. Now, however, I understand how hard it is for people here to enforce rules, single each other out and reprimand. A communal culture like this one makes it really difficult to be objective and enforce laws for people who are probably cousins, or drinking buddies, or classmates in school. I’m just a foreigner asking a bunch of older fellows to change their ways, their schedules, 40-year rituals. Usually I’m not very emotional, but as we all put-putted across the water in a unified effort to begin enforcing laws for everyone well-being, and Mano Juin continued paddling by himself, I was choked with gratitude.
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