The man saved by a tin of fish
Sharon Crowther
After a gruelling four-hour hike through a steep entanglement of jungle, my hiking guide, Baebot, and I finally reached the summit of Mount Hibok Hibok on the island of Camiguin in the Philippines.
A speck in the Bohol Sea, just 64km in circumference, Camiguin is a tiny geological powerhouse consisting of seven volcanic landmasses more volcanoes per square kilometre than any other island on the planet.
Tired, we sat on rocks and chatted over omelette sandwiches and bananas. There were no other hikers on the mountain that day, so the stunning views from the 1,400m peak were ours to enjoy. As we rested, Baebot told me the tale of Sardine Boy, a child who had cheated death nearly seven decades earlier when his hometown of Ilihan was destroyed by a violent volcanic eruption.
From our perch we could see a dark green scar of vegetation cutting down the eastern side of the mountain. Baebot pointed to a spot not too far from the volcanos summit: There, he said, is where Sardine Boys village once stood.
Do you know what happened to the boy? I asked, unsure if the story was fact or folklore.
Yes, he replied matter-of-factly, through a mouthful of bread. He lives at the bottom of the mountain now. We can visit him if you like.
Several hours later, after making our way back to the foot of Hibok Hibok, I stood at the front door of 80-year-old Benito Aclos home, apologising profusely for my muddy shoes. Aclo, a spritely man with a surprisingly boyish manner, warmly welcomed us and motioned for me to sit in an armchair in his cosy front room.
Some would consider living on the slopes of an active volcano to be perilous. What makes Aclos living situation remarkable, however, is that he lives in the shadow of the very volcano that, more than 60 years ago, wiped out his village and family.
Before sunrise on a December morning in 1951, 12-year-old Aclo left his home in Ilihan and headed down the mountain.
He lives in the shadow of the very volcano that, more than 60 years ago, wiped out his village and family.
I was the middle child and was often sent to fetch things, he recalled. That day, I had been sent down the mountain by my mother to buy tinned fish.
As dawn broke, the ground rumbled, and, without warning, the volcano violently spewed molten rock and ash. Ilihan was quickly engulfed in a river of lava that killed everyone including Aclos family in its path.
There was a lot of noise and smoke, Aclo said. I wanted to go back up the mountain. I thought I could save them. Instead, Aclo was evacuated to nearby Davao City, Southern Mindanao.
The eruption is estimated to have killed anywhere between 500 to 3,000 islanders, although nobody is entirely sure of the death toll. Aclo was his villages only survivor.
To this day, he is known as Sardine Boy ‒ the man who owes his life to tinned fish. He is simultaneously a tragic victim and fortuitous survivor.
I asked him how often he thinks about the family he lost.
Every day, he responded, his eyes shining with tears. But especially on All Souls Day when people are visiting their dead. I have no family in the graveyard.
On that front, Aclo is not alone. Volcanoes in the Philippines are some of the most deadly in the world: 13% of recorded eruptions have caused fatalities and many bodies are never recovered. Had I understood earlier that the vegetation stain Baebot pointed out was the final resting place of Aclos family, I might have taken a moment to acknowledge it in some small way.
Where I expected to find a barren scorched wasteland, I instead found a pocket teeming with life.
On our way to Aclos home, Baebot and I had hiked down into the crater where Ilihan had once stood. Where I expected to find a barren scorched wasteland, I instead found a pocket teeming with life. Frogs croaked, birds chirped, bees thrummed and the air was heavy with the smell of the jungle. BBC
