“Your parents and grandparents have worked so hard to send you to life on land, and now you are running away with us on the sea!” How Man taunted me several times during our fortnight-long work trip in Palawan. At least for seven generations, my ancestors had made Causeway Bay (Tung Lo Wan) their home, or more precisely, their floating home. Palawan is a unique and ecologically rich province in the Philippines, known for its stunning natural beauty and cultural diversity. The narrow elongated archipelago separates the South China Sea and the Sulu Sea; its diverse ecosystems range from lush tropical forests to vibrant coral reefs. The waters surrounding Palawan are rich in marine life, featuring coral reefs that support a variety of fish and other marine organisms, as well as coastal and island communities that for centuries thrived by fishing.
Since my first trip here last October, working on and around the island of Palawan has made me very much at home. Here at the estuary of the Maoyan River, CERS has established a site with accommodation and meeting spaces that can comfortably fit two dozen field staff and guest researchers. This winter undertaking in Palawan included a week-long reconnaissance with professors and scientists from the University of Hong Kong to scout for research opportunities from the forest to the sea. After visiting and spending a night with the indigenous Bataks, an Austro-Indonesian tribe of forest gatherers and hunters with only a few hundred remaining, in the karst hills near the source of the Maoyan, we sailed on a multi-day sailing in the Sulu Sea.
The version 3.0 M/V Palawan Explorer was modelled after the traditional bangka with a smart outlook. Matching up to a sizeable local fishing vessel on the island, it had white outriggers on both sides, doubling that of the width of the hull to provide stability and balance to navigate the often turbulent waters. The white canvas canopies provide shelter against the scorching tropical sun. It boasts a very polished appearance as it glided through the estuarine channel from CERS Palawan Centre at the mouth of the Maoyan against the backdrop of lush verdant mangrove and coconut forests and limpid cerulean sky. The boat was made entirely of locally sourced marine wood and bamboo in a ship workshop in the village next to our centre. It was only launched in October 2024 as a replacement and upgrade of the one destroyed by Typhoon Odette in December 2021. A small CERS team led her maiden sail around Honda Bay. This time we wanted to try going further to Green Island Bay or beyond. Joceline, our Country Manager of the Philippines, was wary about the boat, which had yet to be blessed and voyaging this far, despite that she grew up in a coastal village here and knew every island, atoll and reef. Joceline placed a statue of Santo Niño, the god of Filipino seafarers, on the boat. I joked that we should put one that of Tin Hau for the balance of power.
I am very grateful for my parents and grandparents and the extended family for giving me a taste of what it would be like living on the sea. Through boat trips in long weekends and summer holiday, unconventional coaching on swimming and skin-diving, and most of all the stories shared over dinners on how they used to live, work, socialise and make sense of the sea and the environment, I came to know a fraction of what a floating life would mean. I am very intrigued by the ways boat-dwellers or islanders perceive, utilise and interpret the deep blue around them, and how the change in natural resources impacts their lives, and vice versa. These would in turn shape and construct new norms, taboos, social and cultural practices, as well as policies and regulations in modern times.
Following the construction of a breakwater off Kellett Island and East Point (where SOGO Department Store is today) in 1883, which created Hong Kong’s first typhoon shelter in Victoria Harbour, Causeway Bay gradually morphed from a natural bay in the shape of a round bronze gong (cymbal), hence its name in Chinese “Tung Lo Wan”, to the industrial and trade zone of Victoria City. While factories such as sugar refinery and power station, and shipyards and tramways emerged along and off Causeway Road, the indigenous floating community needed to adapt to the fast and disruptive pace of urbanisation. As the closest sea-wise community to the Central District and Admiralty, many of the fisherfolk of Causeway Bay found new job opportunities with merchant ship companies, the British Navy, and the Hong Kong Royal Yacht Club. Education became accessible for children, boys and girls alike, at the church schools in Wanchai and Happy Valley, whereas in the past all kinds of schooling and civil examinations were forbidden to these boat-dwellers who were for centuries institutionally and socially considered as outcasts. They were able to upgrade their floating abodes, re-fitting second-hand pleasure boats to suit the needs and penchants of different households. My grandparents bought an old Chinese cruise boat in the late 1960s and had it remodelled for my father and his five siblings; a decade later, they acquired another new boat — one of the lifeboats from a mega cruise ship that was dismantled in Hong Kong. Grandpa gave it a new top deck, fitted several sturdy stainless-steel poles to erect canvas canopies above the hull and the deck, added a flushing toilet, a pantry with gasoline stoves and a refrigerator, and even a bedroom with bunk beds. The design and appearance of the metamorphosed lifeboat was so peculiar that folks at Causeway Bay nicknamed it “monster”, while my grandparents affectionately called it dao (bowl) as its rather round bow and stern made it look like a soup bowl from afar. My grandparents still kept this funky family boat and moored it in Hebe Haven after they were relocated on land. They would take me on the boat for overnight sailing trips in the warmer months to the pristine beaches and archipelagos around Sai Kung, during which I learnt a variety of skills of living on the sea. These skills became handy when I went on sea expeditions and of course, in Palawan, now.
One of the many jolly conversations at the family dinner table would be how ecologically diverse Causeway Bay and the northern coastline of Hong Kong Island once were. Despite being encroached and shrunken through the years with reclamation and urban developments, before the construction of the Cross Harbour Tunnel, the bay once teemed with fishes and other marine organisms with variegated underwater habitats. Great-aunt no. 8 told me about the funny incident of looking for someone’s false teeth that were dropped into the bottom of the sea; the water was so clear that she could locate the lost item with her bare eyes and saw smelt-whitings circumambulating it. Great-uncle no. 6 could detail how the mist and currents in spring brought cuttlefishes into the bay. Grandma, who is good at angling, knew exactly where to look for different types of fish — seabass at the breakwater, garoupa at a few rock reefs, silver sea bream at sandy bottoms, and mottled spinefoot and spotted butterfish under the boats. My mom would account for the flying fish in Victoria Harbour in the summer months of June and July. Their recollections of marine life from earlier times served not just as entertaining tales during dinner gatherings. By systematically tracing the biodiversity of a place from oral history, we get to know the changes in ecological and environmental qualities over time, for instances, the intensity of such changes, and how these changes impact local lives and hence their culture and traditions. By integrating oral history into ecological research, scientists can achieve a more holistic understanding of the interplay between human experiences and environmental changes, thereby enriching both historical narratives and contemporary ecological assessments.
The sea was choppy as M/V Palawan Explorer made its way from the lee of Fondeado Island northward to Johnson Island. “It’s amihen, the monsoon,” said Jocelyn while the boat navigated across the choppy sea. As we snorkelled around the island and its shimmering sandbar, we found lots of broken pieces of coral of various species. Ossified shells of giant clams, some weighing up to over 100kg, were used as anchors of smaller, slenderer outrigger boats. News reports had it that a few years ago a joint operation of the Palawan Council for Sustainable Development (PCSD) Enforcement team and the Philippine Coast Guard confiscated over 300 giant clams that were to be smuggled out of the island. These shells now laid randomly on the beach. Carlo Abunalis, son of the village chief of Johnson Island and head of the nature protection task force of the island, confirmed our hypothesis of over-fishing, and that bombing and cyanide poisoning were used to catch fish here, as seen from fragmented and dead corals around. He lamented, “Until recently, there had been incidents of illegal fishing using bombs and cyanide. We put warning buoys around the island to mark the protected areas. We welcome visitors to come and swim and snorkel in our beautiful protected areas, but not to catch fish or harm ocean life. Some people are, however, very bad, they would come to fish at night, and even pierce the buoys to eliminate the markings. This is very frustrating. In the past, the harvest around this area was so abundant that we, as kids, would show up at the beach to the fishing vessels with empty plastic bags. They would always give each of us a bagful for free. But now this is no more.”
Carlos continued with a fairytale-like story. “Those were the days where dugongs would swim and forage among the luxuriant seagrass at the back of the island. They were usually very skittish and elusive. But on the night of the full moon, they would come to the beach after midnight to roll on the soft sand under the glistening moonbeam.” Such romanticism was echoed in another story told by local fishermen. A few decades ago, there was a fisherman who owned several small fishing vessels. One day, his crew caught a mermaid in the net. This beautiful semi-human with glistening scaly tail sat in the net and wept. The fisherman felt sorry for the mermaid. He told the crew to let her go and not to talk about this. From then on, wherever this fisherman’s fishing boats went, they always had a bountiful harvest, much more than other fishing boats even in the same waters.
Perhaps there is a moral lesson to these myths or actual encounters. Be they floating settlements, boat dwellers or islanders, they exhibit diverse cultural, economic, and environmental characteristics shaped by their geography, history, and interactions with surrounding regions that are very different from those of their counterparts on land. These vulnerable communities across the globe, whose livelihood depends largely on the mercy of the vast ocean, share the same challenges, or fate, of an eclipsing way of living and cultural heritage. Each island community has its unique identity and issues, necessitating tailored approaches to development, conservation, and cultural preservation.
Ultimately, the stories of boat people and island communities in Causeway Bay and Palawan serve as powerful testaments to the enduring spirit of exploration and enthusiasm for understanding their intricate marine environments. These narratives underscore the urgent need to safeguard these distinctive ways of life, while simultaneously cultivating a deeper appreciation for the ocean that sustains them.
