National Geographic Traveller (UK)
FORGED BY FIRE
In the Bicol Peninsula, in the south east of Luzon island, the region’s volcanic soil supports a cottage handicraft industry that’s benefitting local communities, one handicraft at a time
The people of Bicol are accustomed to danger. For centuries they’ve lived in the shadow of four active volcanoes on this peninsula, which juts out on the southeastern end of Luzon, the Philippines’ largest and most populous island. The tallest volcano, Mayon, is said to be home to Gugurang, the supreme god of Bicolano mythology. It’s this god who’s praised — or blamed — for Bicol’s tempestuous moods: the heat, the monsoons, the typhoons, the eruptions.
Still, the Bicolanos stay. Modern disaster-monitoring methods have made the region far safer. But what’s perhaps more important to residents is the fertile soil, which supports fields of taro (a root crop) and forests of coconut palms and pili trees (grown for their nuts) — as well as a community of local craftspeople, who I’m here to meet.
I get acquainted with this soil at the entrance to the PhilCeramics in Tiwi municipality, situated in the centre of the peninsula, where earth from Mount Malinao — a potentially active volcano — drops though a filtering machine to produce a glistening clay. A studio space and shop, PhilCeramics was established with government funds in 1994 to support the centuries-old pottery industry in Tiwi. Potters create dozens of works a day here, destined for shops in Manila or commissioned as wedding gifts.
Since 2019, they’ve also offered lessons to visitors. Inside, potter Thoy Colina slaps a lump of clay onto his wheel for me to play with, then adjusts his bandana, as if readying himself for the mess to come. He’s right to do so; although I’ve tried pottery before, I’m not prepared for clay of this purity. It slips through my fingers like quicksilver, and soon, my attempted vase looks more like a clam. Thoy steps in to fix it, his fingers barely moving yet commanding the clay with ease — this is second nature to him.
Next it’s on to the abacá-stripping station in the cultural centre on the shores of Sumlang Lake, a man-made body of water an hour’s drive south. A native plant from the banana family, abacá grows all over Bicol, its stalks yielding strong, hemp-like fibres. The Sumlang Lake centre was set up to promote Bicolano abacá weavers and allow visitors to see them at work.
“The first abacá industries were set up to make rope in the early 20th century, during the American occupation,” says guide Liezel Mascariñas, as weaver Alex Nebreja yanks an abacá stalk through an iron clamp to reveal blonde threads. He invites me to do the same, but the stalk refuses to budge. “The Americans realised it’s resistant to saltwater, as well as tough,” Liezel adds, as the fibrous strip suddenly shifts, banging my fingers painfully.
I stop 40 minutes down the road for lunch at Cafe Molave and Souvenirs in Tabaco City, where Ness Araojo runs the
handicrafts side. She employs Bicolanos, mostly former housewives, to make bags from abacá and seagrass, which grows abundantly in Bicol’s flood-prone areas. “It makes me happy,” she tells me with an almost religious fervour. “I start at 7am; I should stop at 5pm, but at 7pm I’m still working. What else am I going to do? Put my feet up?”
Her words sound familiar. As the daughter of a Filipina seamstress myself, I’ve seen how adversity ushers in creativity. I find myself wondering whether the talent of Bicolanos is due to the daily uncertainty of living with volcanoes — the personification of diamonds created under pressure.
Recently, there have been political as well as geophysical rumblings. After lunch, I head back north to the town of Baao, where I meet Bernadette ‘Bidi’ De Los Santos at the entrance to her cafe, shop and workshop, the BidiBidi Cafe. I hear barks coming from a pen in a corner: “That’s Donald Trump, Joe Biden and Kofi Annan,” Bidi says pointing to the dogs, with a laugh that shakes her tiny frame.
Inside is a cacophony of embroidered bags, quilts and shirts, all bearing a similar motif — a woman’s face festooned with flowers. But something else catches my eye: a cardboard cutout of 2022 Philippine presidential candidate (and Bicolana) Leni Robredo. “My place was the Leni Robredo campaign headquarters for this area,” explains Bidi. “We held fundraising events, like dinners and concerts.” The campaign was unsuccessful, ultimately ending in a victory for Ferdinand ‘Bongbong Marcos’, son of former dictator Ferdinand Marcos.
It’s just one example of Bidi’s engagement with her local community, which began in 2017. “I noticed the farmers’ wives didn’t do much,” she says. “From the time they plant the crops until harvest, there’s not much activity that will help their income.” She thought of teaching them the skills she’d learned at school back in the 1970s: hand embroidery, crochet, loom weaving and basket weaving.
More than 100 women now work for Bidi, around 15 in the on-site studio. I peer inside and see stacks of seagrass and recycled denim; in between, women work at pedaloperated Singer sewing machines. One is embroidering jean pockets with the flowery female faces, and Bidi tells me there are 12 designs in total. “They’re in opposition to the 12 disciples, who were all men,” she says, surveying her empire of embroidery. “Those who wrote the Bible must have been macho.” She may have known defeat in the past, but it’s good to see she hasn’t lost her sense of humour.