How Siquijor made the pivot from having an occult-steeped reputation to become a tourism hotspot
It takes 135 steep steps down potentially slippery stones to get from the Siquijor Circumferential Road to Cambugahay Falls’s three-tiered waterfall and swimming hole. Yet on any given day, an average of 300 visitors make that careful trek; on a peak season weekend, that number easily doubles. “It’s a popular stop because there are three levels for tourists to choose from, plus there’s a rope set up where they can do a Tarzan swing before diving into the water,” Ricky Sacabalingon, a local guide, says. “It’s also near the highway so it’s easier to get to than the other falls on the island.”
Three hundred tourists a day doesn’t sound much, but with Cambugahay Falls open only from 7 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., that means a new visitor every two minutes, who typically stays for about an hour. The queue can get quite long at this stop.
One of the tiers at the popular Cambugahay Falls. Image by Adrian Lim.
Political will resulting in exponential growth
It’s an apt representation of the tourism boom Siquijor has been enjoying the past few years. From hosting 112,658 tourists in 2010, the province’s annual tourist arrival (both day-trippers and those who stay longer) grew nearly eight times more than that to 862,032 in 2018, growing by 48.8 percent from 2017.
Acting Provincial Tourism Officer Engineer Clebern Paglinawan credits this growth to local leadership. “For 25 years, we had a corrupt governor (Orlando Fua, Jr.) who was in position since 1987. During that time, the tourism here was non-existent. But after [incumbent] Governor Zaldy Villa got elected in 2013, within two years, we suddenly had a lot of visitors coming.” Indeed, the tourism office’s records cited receiving 61,217 overnight tourists in 2015, the first time for Siquijor to have more than 50,000 visitors staying on the island.
One of Villa’s first projects was to fix Siquijor’s roads. “That attracted a lot of tourists, who would then go around the island on habal-habal,” says Paglinawan. Habal-habal or motorbikes remain a popular means of transportation. “Many of these visitors were European, and they would share photos on social media: ‘We’re happy here in Siquijor!’ I guess that made other people think, ‘Why not go there too?’”
He also credits Villa’s nose for business. “He’s an entrepreneur, so he knows how to talk to people. It was noticeable how many investors came in after he got elected—plus the fact that more and more people were visiting and talking about Siquijor.”
From “Mystic Island” to “Healing Paradise”
The sight of fireflies flitting through the branches of molave trees at night had 16th-century Spanish conquerors calling Siquijor Isla del Fuego or “Island of Fire,” but what continues to stand out about the island are the locals’ spiritual beliefs and practices: A particular mix of Catholicism—there are three heritage churches found throughout Siquijor—and belief in supernatural forces. It’s well-known for folk healers who would brew herbal potions touted to cure myriad illnesses and bring luck in love and business.
Inside the 130-year-old Lazi Church. Image by Adrian Lim.
An annual Healing Festival, celebrated during Holy Week, demonstrates this seamless combination. Held at the Bandilaan Mountain View Park, the solemn event attracts healers and herbalists from the southern regions of the Philippines who then perform healing rituals and prepare concoctions from tree barks, roots, herbs, insects, and other ingredients they’ve gathered during the seven Fridays of Lent. According to the locals of the nearby Cantabon and San Antonio villages, the festival started in the 1930s and has been passed down through the descendants of Siquijor’s famous healers.
Media representation of these mystic practices were distorted, however, with ‘90s Filipino kids learning about Siquijor through Halloween specials that speak of something more sinister. Magandang Gabi, Bayan, a popular current affairs program from that decade, introduced the phrase “Horror sa Siquijor” (“Horror in Siquijor”) with a segment that detailed malicious practices of the island’s mangkukulams (witches) and otherworldly creatures that inhabit the province. In Manila, tales of a boat full of aswangs (flesh-eating shape-shifters) and tikbalangs (tall hybrid creatures with horse heads) headed from Siquijor to the country capital struck fear among impressionable children.
“We were called ‘Siqui-horror’ in the media,” Paglinawan recalls. “TV shows would tell of ghosts and spirits roaming the island, then they’d show one of our ruined roadside cemeteries as footage. No wonder people were scared to come here.”
Built in the 1800s, the Cang-Isok house in the town of Enrique Villanueva is the oldest surviving house in Siquijor. Image by Adrian Lim.
But when word of Siquijor’s beauty and increasing tourist-friendliness started to grow through social media, local tourism decided to lean into that mysterious image and turn it into a positive branding. The initial tagline “Mystic Island” was introduced, then replaced by “Art of Island Living,” “but Governor Villa still found it lacking. He wanted to present Siquijor as an island of healing so that the traditional culture doesn’t get erased from its identity.” Thus, “Healing Paradise” came about. “People can have a healing session with our faith healers. They can buy healing oils and trinkets to bring back home.”
Another popular spot is the 400-plus-year-old balete tree in Lazi, with spring water flowing from its roots. Despite the lack of conclusive explanation for the water source, locals refused to have the tree cut down out of the belief that a supernatural albeit benevolent being lives inside it. Today, tourists marvel at the tree’s far-reaching canopy of branches and vines while they dip their legs in the water, doctor fish nibbling at the dead skin on their feet. Nearby are stalls selling potions and amulets.
“A Filipino friend back in Chicago told us about Siquijor and how beautiful it is. And yes, she mentioned the voodoo-like practices observed here,” says Daiva, an American tourist going on an island tour of Visayas. “But being here, I realized that’s just the way of life, not a gimmick for locals to make money from.”
A definitive tourism code
In 2018, there were more domestic tourists (77,238) than foreign ones (66,788) staying on the island, but the composition of foreign visitors had changed: From mostly European and American nationals, Chinese tourists made up 44% of Siquijor’s overseas market. Chinese investors have also begun buying or leasing old resorts on the island.
Growth in Siquijor is at a point where a new boutique-style resort would open every year, whether it’s at the popular beachfront town of San Juan or up in the mountains. Construction of the airport is also nearly done at Cang-alwang, targeted to open this year. With further growth to be expected, local tourism is working on a definitive Tourism Code to ensure the sustainability of progress without falling into the environmental, economic, and cultural issues plaguing popular spots like Boracay.
Fixing the national road was one of the first projects of the province’s incumbent governor. Image by Adrian Lim.
A former chairman of environmental preservation in local government, Paglinawan is determined to strengthen Siquijor’s eco-tourism. He’s studying a 10-year master plan developed by US Peace Corps volunteers, initially intended for implementation from 2016 to 2026. “So we still have six years,” he jokes. Aside from maintaining the ordinance banning single-use plastic bags from the island, he intends to involve local communities in the environmental protection projects for both long-standing tourist attractions and newer ones, such as the recently opened Sambulawan Underground River tour. “A model would be how a barangay hall manages the Cantabon Cave spelunking, where collected fees have become a livelihood source for locals.” This is key, as most hospitality businesses on the island are owned by expats.
The code will also include rules and regulations for tourists, such as possibly banning them from wearing bikinis when not on the beach out of respect for the locals’ sense of modesty. “We’re still studying that, though,” Paglinawan clears. He plans to finish the code by the end of February, just in time for when the summer season begins.
“People come here looking to be healed: ‘Who can heal me?’” he says. “They realize they heal themselves by experiencing the island’s beauty.” Their shared experiences of Siquijor’s true riches, in turn, heal the long-misunderstood province’s reputation.
A version of this story was published in February 2020 on the South China Morning Post.