Wilting laborers, sprouting smugglers: The crisis in the Philippine tobacco industry

Summer's heat could peak at 51 degrees Celsius this afternoon, so Eddie Garabiles, 55, took shelter under the shade of the curing barn he made with coconut leaves, its frame held together by bamboo. He could suffer from heat stroke under the raging midday sun if he insisted on tending to his tobacco farm.

- By DERCO ROSAL

As deadly as the sun's heat can be, Garabiles has no choice but to depend on the weather it's all his one-hectare (ha) farm needs. His crops are nearing harvest, with the lush green leaves of his tobacco plants slowly turning a pale yellowish green.

Like many farmers in their late 50s and early 60s, Garabiles religiously tends to his farm. He rises before the sun, making his way to the lush green fields just a 10-minute walk away. He takes a break at midday, then returns once the heat becomes more bearable.

Growing tobacco requires a keen eye; unlike other crops, tobacco cannot simply be left to the gods after transplanting. It demands constant attention.

Some tobacco farmers in the northern Philippine town of Candon, Ilocos Sur, lose their lives while keeping their tobacco fields alive during cropping seasons.

Most of them have no children to inherit their gloves and boots once their bodies begin to wilt with age. And even for those who do, the land is likely to be sold off the following year.

Garabiles must have been born under a lucky star as he has two sons-among his four children-who also farm tobacco. Finding a successor for his land won't be a worry for him.

Yet his town is still plagued with the belief that growing tobacco is a poor man's work. That is why Candon locals who went to universities funded by their parents' earnings from tobacco choose to wear white collars instead of sun-worn sweaters, sweat-soaked caps, and muddy slippers.

Perhaps it's because tobacco farming is seen as futile labor, offering little of the wealth that Ilocanos aspire to have. Garabiles has been a farmer since he was barely 16. "I've been working here since I was young," Garabiles said. The farm is where he grew into a man, where he married, and where he continues to survive, day by day.