Timeless TIWI

The opening day of school is always a mixed bag, bringing a blend of joy, anticipation, and anxiety for students. It is a rite of passage that nearly everyone experiences. For beginners, it marks the first taste of independence, a time when children start learning to navigate unfamiliar surroundings and find their place in a larger world. For returning students, opening day is a high-energy reunion, filled with the excitement of catching up with old friends and sharing summer stories.

For some, however, the morning arrives with a measure of apprehension. There is always the anticipation, and sometimes the dread, of finding out who their teachers will be. In every school, certain teachers develop reputations that precede them. Some are known for being strict disciplinarians, while others are beloved for their kindness and patience. Students often arrive on opening day carrying stories heard from older siblings, cousins, or neighbors, wondering whether those stories are true and what the coming school year will bring.

Back in Grade One in the , I remember hauling my own chair to school on opening day. I lived about a hundred meters from the school, and there I was, just seven years old, thin-framed and determined, doing my best to carry a heavy wooden dining chair straight to my classroom.

During the late 1970s, schools in suffered from a chronic shortage of furniture, so students were expected to bring their own seats. My temporary dining chair was meant to hold my place until a local carpenter, commissioned by my father, finished building a custom single-seat desk in our backyard.

I was assigned to the class of Mrs. Salvacion Crucillo, housed in one of the newer RP-US Bayanihan buildings at Tiwi Central School. The room was a chaotic gallery of furniture with absolutely no uniformity. Some chairs were sturdy, some wobbly, some painted, and others bare wood. Every chair seemed to tell its own story. My friend Ambet had what was undoubtedly the biggest chair in the room, which remarkably featured a reclining back. The sight of it always amused us, standing out proudly among the collection of mismatched furniture.

Those elementary school years coincided with the geothermal exploration and development of Tiwi. Massive machinery, construction equipment, and industrial supplies arrived almost daily, shipped in huge wooden crates. Once the equipment was unpacked, many of those sturdy wooden containers were left behind at the project sites.

Seeing the waste, an executive at Philippine Geothermal, Inc. ( ) had a practical idea. Instead of letting the discarded lumber go to waste, he saw an opportunity to recycle the materials into school furniture. He arranged for the crates to be dismantled and transformed into school desks and chairs, which were then donated to Tiwi Central School. The morning those newly made wooden chairs were delivered to the school remains a core memory. What had once been industrial shipping crates had been given a second life to support our education.

The students, teachers, and town leaders were deeply grateful for the donation. One morning, our teachers lined us up and led us to the Municipal Terrace to serenade the executive responsible for the project.

To the tune of the traditional song “Thank You, Ang Babait Ninyo,” we sang:

“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Howard,
Thank you!”

That simple song carried the sincere gratitude of an entire community. For us children, the gift of a proper chair meant comfort in the classroom. For our teachers, it meant one less problem to worry about. For the town, it was a reminder that even the scraps of a great industrial undertaking could be transformed into something meaningful for future generations.

Nearly five decades later, that memory remains as vivid as ever. Whenever the opening day of school comes around, I cannot help but think of those mismatched chairs, the kindness of strangers, and a little boy carrying a wooden chair down a dusty road in Basag, eager to begin another year of learning.

When you hold the highest position, you also carry the highest accountability. Sabi ngani digdi sa Tivi, Tiui, Tiwi, “the buck always stops with the Mayor”.

A reader recently sent me this screenshot asking if the information displayed was correct. Rather than answering directly, I prefer to let the readers decide for themselves. However, I will say this: for anyone from , this is basic knowledge.

This begs the question: why does this individual continue to receive a free pass from officials within the Municipality of Tiwi and the LGU Tiwi - Tourism Office despite consistently spreading misinformation? He is, in fact, an appointed member of Tiwi’s local arts and culture committee. This is far from an isolated incident; the list of fabrications is extensive, and I plan to address them one by one in future posts. Frankly, it is absurd.

As Tiwi celebrates its 250th foundation anniversary, it is unacceptable that a committee member is actively rewriting the town’s history to suit his own narrative and interests. It is neither amusing nor tolerable.

For now, suffice it to say that we should not allow this man to continue misleading people unchecked. And to those within the local government who had a hand in his appointment and welcomed him into your fold: remember that whatever you do or undertake, your primary responsibility is always to protect the integrity of your office and its head. Stop embarrassing the offices you represent and stop putting your principals in a bad light, because these actions inevitably reflect on the town’s leadership. The buck always stops with the mayor.

Mayor Jojo Climaco Office of the Vice Mayor - Tiwi
Tiwi Albay

The Story of Geothermal Salt-Making in

For centuries, salt-making in the depended almost entirely on the sun. Along the coasts of the archipelago, generations of salt workers practiced the traditional art of pag-aasin—allowing seawater to evaporate slowly under the intense tropical heat until salt crystals formed in shallow salt beds. The process was simple yet laborious, and deeply tied to the rhythms of the dry season.

The writer still remembers seeing some of these traditional salt beds in as a child, while accompanying the contingent on a tour of Central ’s electric cooperatives—a memory that, perhaps, deserves a story of its own one day.

In the Region, however, nature was far less forgiving. Located along the typhoon belt, the region frequently endured powerful storms, torrential rains, and seasonal flooding that repeatedly disrupted salt production. Entire harvests could vanish overnight beneath floodwaters or dissolve under sudden unseasonal rains. In Bicol at the time, —ordinary and abundant elsewhere—became a vulnerable and uncertain commodity.

Yet from these challenges emerged one of the most remarkable, and largely forgotten, scientific achievements in Philippine history.

In the early 1970s, the municipality of Tiwi became the site of a groundbreaking experiment that drew international attention: the world’s first successful geothermal salt-making plant to use the earth’s natural heat directly for industrial salt production.

Nestled within the volcanic landscape surrounding Mount , Tiwi possessed what few places in the world had in abundance—powerful geothermal energy rising from beneath the earth’s crust. Long before geothermal electricity became synonymous with Tiwi, scientists and engineers recognized that the underground steam fields could be harnessed for something more immediate and practical: producing salt regardless of weather conditions
The idea was born during a period of crisis.

In 1972, devastating floods swept across Luzon and the Bicol Peninsula, destroying large portions of traditional salt beds throughout the region. The sudden shortage exposed the fragility of the country’s heavy dependence on seasonal solar salt-making. Researchers from the Commission on Volcanology ( ), who had already begun modest geothermal experiments in Tiwi, accelerated their efforts in response to the emergency.

Their concept was revolutionary yet elegantly simple.

Instead of relying on the sun to evaporate seawater over weeks or months, geothermal steam from deep underground reservoirs would provide continuous heat—day and night, rain or shine. Seawater would be pumped inland from the coast to the geothermal field, where the earth’s natural steam would rapidly boil and crystallize it into salt.

By February 1972, engineers at the Tiwi Geothermal Pilot Plant had successfully demonstrated the process. A pipeline from the sea was laid through Barangay to the COMVOL facility in Barangay , where seawater was transformed into two kinds of salt: ordinary coarse rock salt and a finer, softer iodized variety. The achievement quickly gained national attention. Samples were even sent to , impressing President Ferdinand E. with the innovation and its potential.

Recognizing both its scientific and economic significance, the Philippine government organized a technical panel composed of leading agencies—including COMVOL, the National Power Corporation ( ), and the National Science Development Board ( )—to oversee the development of a full-scale geothermal salt-making project.

🧂First part of a continuing series.

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