PHIVOLCS announced earlier this week it had downgraded the alert level from 4 (“imminent hazardous eruption”) to 3, to the delight of residents who had been forced to flee their communities in haste after Taal Volcano’s January 12 phreatic eruption.
Many heeded the government advice to stay out of the 7-kilometer danger zone.
They stayed in different evacuation centers within Batangas and Cavite; others, with relatives in nearby provinces.
During their stay in evacuation centers, some brave souls made use of precious window hours to check out their homes, belongings, pets and livestock.
Defying the 14-km danger zone lockdown just to see whatever was left in their possession by the eruption, they harvested tilapia, fed their feathered friends and four-legged animals, mounting rescues for near-starved dogs, cows and horses which had been their indispensable tourist cash cow for those fabled volcano trails before Taal’s tantrum.
Jockey Robert #1
Residents of San Isidro, Talisay, who escaped the January 12 phreatic eruption by boat were the first ones to react to an unmistakable restiveness and erratic behavior from Taal’s magma activity.
They were living on Volcano Island, known as the horse guide community.
Roberto Sentiles resides at the foot of the crater. He is originally from Lemery but was mesmerized by the volcano island’s beauty. Soon enough, he found his love and started a family. He decided to become a horse guide to showcase what attracted him to the volcano island, “makikita niyo ang kagandahan ng bulkan [you’ll see the beauty of the volcano].”
He has been ferrying tourists from San Isidro to the crater lake for the last 20 years. “Ay kaganda [Oh, how lovely!],” he sighed, both with sadness and affection for the loveliness created by such violence of nature.
“I own one horse, and I ride three other horses owned by my boss,” he says in Filipino.
Tourists register at the local tourism office for P100; then pay a horse guide P500 to see the Taal island volcano crater. If the horse guide happens to be the horse owner, he gets P350 and gives P150 to the horse guide association. If he is just a jockey, he gets P100 per trip.
The tour takes 40 minutes uphill and 20 minutes descending. This is their daily grind.
But now, the Sentiles family joins thousands of residents from San Isidro, Talisay, scattered inside the PUP campus in Santo Tomas, Batangas. They are better there because there is food and electricity.
He still can’t believe how one Sunday afternoon took away their life in the blink of the eye.
Last week, the lockdown was lifted by Task Force Taal after Phivolcs lowered the alert level to 3, but told local officials to exercise caution and discretion in sending back their constituents. Many were allowed to go home and clean their houses except those barangays in the permanent danger zone.
In that dark first week, San Isidro residents left behind 1,500 animals and livestock, which several residents tried to rescue on risky, daily excursions until the lockdown for the 14-km danger zone was strictly enforced. Under alert level 4, no one slips away. If spotted, they will be forcibly dragged out from the 14-kilometer radius by soldiers.
‘Baka’ in Malinis. ‘Bala’ in Agoncillo.
Our BusinessMirror team checked the latest news bulletin about road cracks and fissures in Lemery, Batangas.
Colleague Roy Domingo looked it up via Google Maps—61.7 kilometers or an hour and 24 minutes’ drive from PUP Santo Tomas campus, the evacuation center.
Before reaching Lemery, one travels through Lipa, Cuenca, Alitagtag, Santa Teresita and the heritage town of Taal. It was surreal. For the town of Alitagtag and parts of Santa Teresita, it was business as usual. Stores are open as if there was no eruption, except that thick ash and dust collect on one’s windshield.
Taal was a ghost town. DPWH crews were cleaning up the main road to make it passable, but zero visibility occasionally sets in.
Just after Sinisian bridge in Lemery, a dislocated road looks like a square pizza pulled by a hungry mob, with slabs of concrete piled over each other like domino pieces, slowing down vehicles. Traffic enforcers manage the four-lane main road into a one-way only.
Road cracks are everywhere; people show their houses and cracks from a finger thick to as wide as 5 inches.
For Eduardo Delgrano, 65, it is no longer safe to sleep in his house in Sinisian East.
“When it first erupted, there was a slight fissure, but at dawn today, it widened like this,” Delgrano says, using his hands to show how every tremor, which comes frequently, widens the cracks.
“Because the aftershocks are strong, and nonstop, see here, the foundation has given way. So I’m going to Malayag, where the evacuation center is.”
Tessie Martinez and her family visited their house further up in Sinisian East, on the way to Balayan Bay. She was surprised by what she saw. “In the morning, the crack was as fine as a line. But then, with the earthquakes, the cracks multiply and widen.”
Maritel Salazar concedes it is unsafe to stay in their house, which looks like it had been attacked by an amok with wild swings of a bolo left and right. The cracks are big and small, deep and wide.
One resident recalls his grandmother used to tell him that there is a body of water from Pansipit River to Balayan Sea, a strait that allows boats to navigate Balayan Sea (saltwater) to Taal lake (freshwater) and back and forth.
Bulalo.
We chanced on eight men in Barangay Malinis, Lemery, pulling and pushing cows to a truck.
The cows seem stressed, hungry and thirsty. The men were in bayanihan mode, helping each other push the cows to safety.
Antonio Sarmiento, 50, a resident of Bilibinwang, Agoncillo, harvests tilapia at Taal Lake despite the eruption. When we met him he had a mission to rescue six cows. “I started coaxing them to walk starting at 5 am. We’ve been walking for four hours. I asked for help already because I was worried they might die. They have grown weak.”
Thanks to the bayanihan spirit and Filipino resiliency at its best, this beast will hopefully not end up as bulalo, that steaming beef broth that is the Batangueños’ staple food.
But if it does have to be slaughtered, he says with obvious mixed emotions, “Then I’d be relieved that with God’s mercy I can earn something from it.”
The town was the first to enforce the lockdown. But because of the 4-hour window, residents came back for their animals.
Most Agoncillo residents have fled to Lumbangan in Tuy town, 30 kilometers from Lemery.
At the boundary of Lemery and Agoncillo, we saw a checkpoint. We greeted the tropa, a respectful moniker for members of the Armed Forces, the PNP and the Bureau of Fire Protection. They are the best first responders in every calamity.
Long lines of residents press them for permission to get in. They spot early birds who managed to get in from other passages or roads, and one policeman says, “You hard-headed people, where did you pass?”
Then, a resident with three obviously restless cows came from nowhere, saying he needs to rescue eight cattle in all. He is from Coral na Munti, Agoncillo. He has rescued the first four, but the problem is there is one cow on the loose.
In Talisay and Laurel, Batangas, a teary-eyed Kapitana Leah Sangalang, from Buso-Buso area, makes a damage assessment with her barangay councilmen.
She asked everyone who cared to hear to help her constituents. She can’t believe what she saw. “On bended knees we beg kind hearts for help. Our place is so devastated, it’s heartbreaking. We’ll have a hard time recovering. We had barely survived the fishkill in June, and now this. We don’t even know where to begin.”
Bala ng kanyon #2
Antonio Garcia, 63, is a backyard hog raiser. When the January 12 eruption happened they were in Subic Ibaba, monitoring the volcano. “We thought it had vented its steam and that was it. The smoke and steam was a kilometer high. We thought none would follow,” he says in Filipino.
“The nonstop tremors, however, scared us. For two straight days it would shake, pounding like cannons. I don’t know why Phivolcs failed to detect it, it was nonstop.” (Ed’s note: Phivolcs did include the nonstop tremors in its report, and used it as basis for raising the alert level.)
Besides the small tremors, their huts would occasionally be jolted by much bigger shaking, and (raising his hands in animation), would seemingly lift, then bring down their huts, “akala mo e itlog na pinisak. Taas-baba [like eggs being crushed. Up and down].”
He is waiting to be allowed to feed his 12 pigs. Because they are staying with relatives in San Pascual, it is hard for him to stake out and wait for his chance to feed his hogs. “If they can just even once, that would be good for 2-3 days.”
Horse guide turned rescuer.
Hernan Mendoza, 38, was born in San Isidro, Talisay. He, his wife and their three children and his in-laws stayed at the PUP campus evacuation center in Santo Tomas.
We joined his team of residents in rescuing three horses at the foot of the crater. He was also a horse guide.
Every day, they would leave PUP at dawn and mount rescue missions for animals left on Volcano Island.
To date, their group has rescued more than 300 animals, mostly horses, including his three island-bred workhorses.
They are doing it for free, risking their lives to save lives.
At this writing, they had just accompanied PETA in rescuing 10 dogs.
When Phivolcs lowered the alert signal, they were allowed to ferry PETA volunteers in a 5 am-5 pm rescue mission.
Atomic bomb, Scarlet Red.
A woman worker, requesting anonymity, explains why they take calculated risks—“true, the volcano gives no warning but we’ve been taught to always be ready with our backpacks because it’s active. Once the mussels and shrimps start to surface, people must evacuate. That’s what the old folks taught us.”
As the first ray of sunlight streamed in hours after the January 12 eruption, she and her family fled for safety. “The earthquakes were so strong, shaking us up and down, like an atomic bomb, and the earth cracked. But we waited till dawn, and fled that Monday.”
Ronnel Peñaflor, 35, a horse guide, seems lost for words to describe what he experienced. He lost his house in San Isidro. He always joins the rescue missions so that he can visit their house burnt by the eruption.
Raymart Rodriguez, 26, from Buso-Buso, Laurel, is a fisherman.
He earns P500 a day selling tilapia at P50/kilo. And the middlemen sell it for 100/kilo. “With some patience, industry and some luck, we get by. One just needs to draw up the patanga,” he says, referring to a square cage made from chicken wire with a small opening that can trap tilapia, goby (biya) and the freshwater sardines or tawilis, now in danger from overfishing.
Traces of a fishkill and a bloated dog litter the shores of Buso-Buso. The air stinks.
Some adults swim nearby, or repair their bamboo shaft, patanga and other fish traps.
Farmer Banjo Carolino, 50, also from Buso-Buso, says, “I revisit what is left and it’s like a ghost town. All my plants are dead.” His family stays with relatives in Mendez, Cavite, for the meantime. “There are too many people at the evacuation center, I’m afraid the children might get sick.”
He is cleaning his house, then pauses to go to a cabinet to get the red dress of his granddaughter. She is nearly 2 years old, and her name is Scarlet Red.
Image credits: Bernard Testa