It didn't take much effort getting there. Us having to endure a six-hour bus ride is nothing compared to the bare living conditions on the island. As seen from my outsider's point of view, the scarcity of everything I couldn't live without flashed right in front of my eyes. It was an initial impression that proved to be inaccurate—a mere hour into our stay there. We were greeted by a middle-aged woman whom everyone simply calls "Kapitana," while some, who have strict odes about current politics, prefer to call her "Ex-kapitana." It doesn't matter whether she won or lost in the last barangay elections; what stuck out to us then was her hospitality and eagerness to cut the rope of unfamiliarity between her and the two visitors who came to Alibijaban Island.
The Simple Life at Alibijaban Island | Quezon
A Warm Alibijaban Island Welcome
It was like she was expecting Gretch and me to arrive that morning. Coffee was instantly served and small talk ensued. Like a local tourist officer, she briefed us about the island and explained the simplicity of their life—that has no electricity and fresh water—almost apologetically. She then told us about her three children: the youngest a criminology student based in Manila, the older daughter based in the Mountain Province, and an OFW son currently based in Bahrain.
I imagine her telling the stories of her children to every visitor to the island. It is a tale everybody needs to hear to break down the notion that people raised in far-flung regions of the country are eluded by modernity, and that they will never get the chance to chase their dreams elsewhere.
I saw hints of pride covering her face while she spoke of her children, as if telling us we are no different from them. There's nothing to feel sorry or guilty about. It's the kind of life they chose—wonderful in a lot of ways. Unostentatious, yet they persevere to give the next generation the freedom to seek greener pastures away from the island.
The small community rests in front of the shore facing the mainland of San Andres in Quezon Province. Fences made from coconut wood separate the houses, divided by three rows running parallel to the sea. The small streets are made of flattened white sand, and a little further back, a copra plantation occupies the rest of Alibijaban Island.
The island's industry is fueled by fishing and copra farming. Kapitana says it is becoming more difficult for them to earn since copra prices have been driven down to a paltry 10 pesos per kilo. It was the day before the election. You would expect them to be fed up with the failed promises of candidates, as evidenced by the almost bare state of Alibijaban Island. Yet it was the polar opposite. The excitement of going to the polls the next day—something I wouldn't give a flying f*ck about missing out on—was the talk of the town.
In 20/20 hindsight, they showed me how, even in times of hopelessness, the call for change and the importance of having a voice still rings true in a democratic country like ours. They will never give up that right to vote, even though politicians break campaign promises time and time again.
Candle-Lit Dinner
As we were wandering around Alibijaban Island until sunset, unknown to us at the time, Kapitana was busy waiting for the fishermen to come home so she could order fresh fish to cook for us that night. Even though the island is a fishing community, most nights they would just cook a simple meal of kamote, kangkong, and tuyo for dinner. Not this night, though. Kapitana wanted to make sure to serve her guests a special meal.
It was one of the best dinners I've had in a long time. Under a candle-lit table, we shared plates of crispy fried fish. Since then, every time I dig my hands into a plate of rice with fried fish, I always remember our dinner setting on Alibijaban Island. I can imagine Kapitana staring at us with her worried look, hoping we were enjoying the food she served. She had no idea what a feast it was for me and Gretch.
Mangrove Forest & Community Spirit
The next morning, as the town was busy preparing to vote at the island's lone tiny school, we walked toward the part of the island where the mangrove forest stands. I almost stepped on a live snake; if not for Gretch reacting with a surprised shriek, there's no telling if I would have ended up with a snake bite.
The local community on Alibijaban has endured all sorts of figurative snake bites. A primitive way of living may present an image of a hard life to outsiders like us, but for them, that wasn't the case. They may live a more modest life than we can imagine, but for all of them, all that matters most is for the sense of community to remain intact. Kapitana told us how happy she is to see visitors arriving, but at the same time fears the moment when a wealthy buyer might purchase the entire island and transform it into a commercial beach resort.
They were hearing murmurs of a wealthy political family planning to buy the island. I asked her what they would do if that happened. For the first time, I saw her face show a hint of sadness as she spoke in a low voice: "We have no choice but to fall back inland; we could always farm there." Still full of hope and a fighting spirit, but deep inside we both knew it would be better if nobody shook up their small, simple community.
