A feast without a catch: Why fishing is no longer Angono’s economic lifeblood

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Angono’s culture is built on the water, but its fishermen are drowning in debt. With Laguna Lake choked by industrial waste, invasive marine life and corporate encrochment, local fishers are fighting a losing battle to survive. This story takes a look inside the tragic collapse of Rizal's traditional fishing industry.

Reporting by Luisa Arranz, Kristine Concepcion, Neona Dela Cruz, Macie Maniquis, Kyanne Reyes and Renuel Novero

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Every 23rd of November, the whole of Angono, Rizal celebrates the feast of St. Clement, recognized as the town’s patron for its fishermen. Long before sunrise, the faithful gather at the church for Mass, where the burst of firecrackers signals the start of a long-standing tradition. 

Majorettes twirl their batons, paraders rest rowing paddles on their shoulders in tribute to the sea, and drum and lyre bands fill the streets with music. A shoulder-borne carriage, carried by locals through the length of the procession, serves as the saint’s vessel. 

At Lakeside Park, the procession halts where the pagoda—a festive raft made of boats tied together—awaits to bear St. Clement. 

But while these boats still play a central role in the fluvial procession, the fishermen themselves have been displaced by the currents of progress. 

St. Clement, the fourth Pope and Bishop of Rome, was martyred by being cast into the sea with an anchor around his neck—a death that made him the patron of those who live by the water. Yet in Angono, the anchor has taken on a different weight. 

The fisherfolk of Angono, who were meant to share the highlight with the saint and keep the culture’s essence afloat, are now anchored to a dying ecosystem, left to navigate an industry that is slowly dying along with Laguna Lake.

Angono is historically rooted in its fisheries and once considered fishing and aquaculture its principal industry. Remnants of this culture are etched into the town’s famous arts, yet the works that once reflected daily life have become purely symbolic reminders of the past. 

Many fishermen now struggle to cope with the changing times, exacerbated by Laguna Lake’s deteriorating quality. According to the Laguna Lake Development Authority (LLDA), the water remains at a Class C classification for water—technically suitable for fisheries. 

But rapid urbanization has led to a surge in pollution, eroding the lake’s viability as a primary livelihood.

Jonas, 51, has been a fisherman in Brgy. Kalayaan for 40 years and was born to a family of fishers, starting at just 10 years old. 

He remembers a time when the lake was so clear he could see the lakebed.

“Kita mo hanggang ilalim ng lupa kahit hanggang dibdib po ‘yung lalim ng tubig. Malinaw talaga… Wala ‘yung nabubulok na amoy o namamatay na isda. Walang ganon,” he told Philstar.com.

In his early years, aboard a small boat, he would simply paddle to navigate the waters. He would cast his line and wait, eventually hauling in a catch of ayungin (silver perch). As he rowed home, he would douse himself with lake water to cool off—a ritual of connection he would never dare to perform today.

“Makati [na] po ‘yan,” he said of the water when asked if he could still bathe in the lake now.

After returning to shore, Jonas would clean and descale his catch, selling it for pocket money before heading to school. He often arrived reeking of the lake and covered in silver scales, for which he was bullied by his classmates.

“Parang kawawa ako, ganun. Minsan sinasabi nila na, ‘Ano ba ’yan, hindi ka pa yata naligo ah,’” he recalled.

Even at home, the profession was a point of contention. His father, the very inspiration for his craft, discouraged him from following in his footsteps. Looking down on the hardship of the trade, he urged Jonas to prioritize his studies instead. 

Despite this, Jonas returned to the water after high school, his catch eventually becoming the only way to support his family. 

But as the territories around Laguna Lake––including Angono––industrialized, the waters began to turn. The same "progress" that built the town forced Jonas to leave the waters and seek odd jobs just to keep his family afloat.

“Pumapasok po kami sa construction… Para lang may panggastos sa mga anak,” he said.

As Metro Manila and Rizal expanded, the tributaries feeding the lake declined. 

Factories and infrastructure rose to meet a booming population, while informal settlements emerged in urbanized gaps. Without proper waste management, these industries and communities began flushing both human and material waste directly into the tributaries.

From 2015 to 2025, the Angono River—a vital artery for the lake—has consistently reflected this decay. 

Its Biochemical Oxygen Demand (BOD) levels fluctuate wildly, while its Dissolved Oxygen (DO) has failed year after year, signaling a lethal environment for aquatic life, according to data acquired by Philstar.com from the LLDA.

While one tributary does not represent the entire lake, the broader data is equally grim. 

Since 2023, Laguna Lake sampling Station V—the closest to Angono—has failed tests for inorganic phosphate. By 2024, ammonia levels had also exceeded the limit, suggesting a "nutrient overload" that is toxic to fish. 

According to Jonathan Nicolas, a senior environmental specialist at the LLDA, roughly 80 percent of these pollutants stem from domestic waste.

The problems beyond the lake

Near the northern lakeshore of Kalayaan, the air is heavy with the stench of garbage. This is the site of the town’s Residual Containment Area (RCA), a facility managed by the Municipal Environment and Natural Resources Office (MENRO). 

While officials prohibit unauthorized photography of the site, Gilbert Perino, the officer-in-charge, maintains that the facility is not a "dumpsite."

”Ang tawag nila [ay] dumpsite. Pero, ito naman kasi ay hindi permanent," Perino explains, noting that waste is eventually moved to a sanitary landfill. He insists the RCA utilizes land filtration to prevent seepage. 

However, he admits there are no guarantees that the runoff reaching the lake is clean.

The fishermen tell a different story. Nash, a long-time fisher and friend of Jonas, recalls seeing foul, worm-infested waste seeping directly from the area into the water. 

Even their "Plan B"—harvesting kangkong (water spinach) for alternative income—is failing. The water quality has become so poor that the plants grow tough and woody, rendered unfit for sale.

Walking along the Kalayaan shore requires navigating a landscape of discarded sachets, plastic bottles and industrial sacks. The very ground beneath the fishermen’s hut is a portion of the lake filled in by reclamation, Jonas said.

“Umpisa na ‘yun,” Nash says, marking the first reclamation projects as the moment the lake’s health began its terminal decline. 

When the fishermen raised concerns, they were told the land had already been sold to the private sector. The response from the local government was a cold reminder of their standing: “Sino ba naman kami para kumalaban [sa kanila]?”

While Philippine law does not explicitly ban RCAs near the water, the Clean Water Act of 2004 prohibits any facility that causes pollution. Furthermore, the Ecological Solid Waste Management Act (RA 9003) defines RCAs as temporary, yet they often persist indefinitely without a fixed lifespan.

This systemic squeeze is backed by data. A 2024 Commission on Audit report revealed that corporate entities have exceeded the 40% limit for lake occupancy, effectively crowding out independent fishers. 

With the lake shrinking and growing shallower, Jonas and his peers are forced to fish further out into restricted waters—where they are met not with support, but with handcuffs.

While illegal corporate structures dominate the horizon, small fishermen like Jonas and Nash are treated as the criminals.

“Yung mga naghahanapbuhay, hinuhuli. ‘Yung mga kriminal, hindi,” says Jordan, another local fisher.

Empty nets, empty pockets

Jonas has learned that having a bountiful catch is still hard to translate into a livable income, stressing how in summers, the lake would be ripe with algal blooms which often smell like medicine strong enough to mask the fish’s natural smell. 

Idna, a wife of a fisherman, said that during the hot season, fish would fall sick and develop an unusual taste.

“Lasang damo,” she described.

Algal blooms are driven by excessive nutrients, particularly nitrate and phosphorus. These have become one of the most visible signs of the Laguna Lake’s deteriorating water quality, signaling an increase in the lake’s nutrients, the lake’s major problem at present.

According to the LLDA, while nutrients from these blooms could provide food for the fish, too much of it could deplete oxygen and degrade water quality, which can stress and recurrent fish kill.  

Since 2017, the tributary had been consistently failing in ammonia tests, indicating that the water remains heavily polluted.

Many fishermen are having a hard time catching fish. Jonas recalled the time he spent three hours fishing, only to return with 1kg of tilapia, which he sold for only P50, the lowest income he had earned from fishing in his life.  

Nicanor, a fisherman from Brgy. San Vicente, shared a similar struggle. After eight hours of fishing at the lake, he managed to catch only 3kg of tilapia. 

He mentioned that in the past, they could still rely on the “peak season,” and would catch up to 10kg. 

“Wala na ngayon, hindi na uso ang peak season. Nasira na ang panahon ngayon,” he said. 

While short-term data from 2023 to 2025 from the Angono Municipal Agriculture Office showed a slight year-on-year increase in fish commodity production, fishermen in the area, like Nicanor and Jonas, insist that catching fish remains increasingly difficult. 

As the lake changed, the fish too 

The lake hasn’t just changed in quality; it has changed in character. In Brgy. San Vicente, Nicanor remembers a time when the water was a crowded, diverse city of fish. Now, it feels like a ghost town.

“Napakaraming species ng isda rito noong araw,” he says, ticking off the losses. “Ngayon, kakaunti na lang. Tilapia, dalag… ang dalag bihira na. Ayungin, wala na rin halos.“

He traces the disappearance to the sprawl of factories and the growing population that now crowds the lakeshore, pouring untreated waste directly into the basin. 

The clearest indicator of this decay is the tulya (freshwater clams). In Angono, the tulya is the lake's heartbeat: if they are there, the water is breathing.

Perino carries the evidence of this history on his skin. He looks down at a faint scar on his hand—a childhood souvenir from a day spent diving for clams with a friend. Back then, you didn't need a boat or a complex map to find a meal.

“Doon lang, sa dalampasigan lang, lakeshore pa lang, pang-ulam na agad ‘yun eh,” Perino recalls. “Ngayon, wala ka na mahuling ganun.”

 In Brgy. Kalayaan, Jonas has watched the native ecosystem be systematically dismantled by newcomers. The Knifefish was the first to tilt the scales, a predator that treats the local ayungin like a buffet.

“Lumitaw ang knifefish—ang kinakain ng knifefish ay Ayungin eh,” Jonas explains.

As the ayungin vanished, the shrimp followed. Once so thick in the water they were a staple of the local diet, the native shrimp have been pushed to the brink of local extinction. 

“Kahit hipon, napakarami noon nung araw. Ngayon wala na rin,” Jonas says.

But the Knifefish is only half the problem. The Janitor Fish, once a harmless novelty in home aquariums, has become the lake’s most destructive tenant. While the Knifefish eats the harvest, the Janitor Fish destroys the tools.

There was a time when a fisherman could drop his nets and return the next morning to a heavy haul. Today, leaving a net unattended is a gamble most lose.

“Noon, ilalaglag mo lang ‘yung lambat mo diyan [at] babalikan mo po kinabukasan, pwede,” Jonas says. “Ngayon, kapag nilaglag mo diyan at binalikan mo kinabukasan, naku po, wala ka ng babalikan diyan. Puro janitor na.”

The Janitor Fish is commercially worthless and physically destructive as their rough, bony bodies shred through expensive nylon nets. To combat them, fishermen have turned to the tibog—a rhythmic, manual defense.

Using a six-foot wooden pole tipped with curved rubber, the fishermen plunge the stick into the water, rowed like a heavy paddle as the boat moves. 

The thumping vibration serves a dual purpose: it lures the target fish toward the nets while scaring the invasive predators away. It is a loud, exhausting ritual—a man-made heartbeat for a lake that can no longer sustain itself.

The oil crisis, debt traps

“Masakit sa’min ‘yon.”

Nash and Jonas expressed their disbelief at the rising oil prices in the country. They make one to two fishing trips a day, depending on their choice. Two liters of gasoline are used per trip, which used to cost P110—now it accounts for more than P170, a price that is painfully high for them.

On March 24, the Philippines declared a national energy emergency amid surging oil prices brought by the war in the Middle East. Regular Diesel reached about P160 per liter and P170 per liter for premium diesel. While gasoline climbed to around P110 per liter. The nation’s energy department projected these prices to increase as the war rages on. 

“Imbis na ibibili na lang namin ng pagkain, nabawasan pa,” Nash said.

Because of the soaring prices of fuel, almost half of the marginal fisherfolk in several Luzon provinces have stopped going out to sea after the latest massive spike in petroleum prices rendered their operations financially unsustainable, an agricultural group warned.

Speaking at a Senate Committee on Agriculture and Food hearing on April 8, 2026, Samahang Industriya ng Agrikultura (SINAG) Executive Director Jayson Cainglet revealed that the number of grounded fisherfolk in Cavite, Bataan, Zambales and Pangasinan surged following the big-time oil price hike on Tuesday.

"Last week before yung third increase, 30 percent na yung di pumapalaot... This week because of the increase last Tuesday, almost 50 percent," Cainglet told the panel.

He warned that if prices rise again next week, the number of sidelined fishermen will climb even further.

"Kaya sabi natin while we do the math and we plan the interventions, real na yung problema ngayon," Cainglet stressed, urging immediate government action. 

"Ito is right here right now, we don't plan for next week, for May, for June, ngayon na,” he added.

According to SINAG, fuel accounts for 80 percent of a small fisherman's production cost. 

Cainglet noted that pump prices have tripled from P53 per liter before the crisis to P170 per liter today. 

Because they cannot afford enough fuel to venture further offshore, those who still fish are returning with dismal yields.

"Doon sa nakakapalaot pa, ang nakukuha nila is between 5 to 10 kilos na lang because they cannot go far," he said.

Cainglet noted that the absence of small fisherfolk is not yet felt by consumers in public markets because commercial fishing vessels and imported fish are currently plugging the supply gap.

In response to the crisis, the Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources (BFAR) said that it would provide a P3,000 fuel subsidy to qualified fisherfolk who own boats through cash cards or vouchers.

However, the subsidy remains limited, as it only relies on the remaining funds from the 2025 General Appropriations Act. The agency said it will prioritize fisherfolk from fifth-class municipalities.

In Angono, Nash said only 15 fishermen are expected to receive the subsidy, with both him and Jonas among those included.

The Angono Municipal Agriculture Office said the BFAR allocated only 15 subsidies to the town, as the agency needs to stretch its limited subsidies across the whole province of Rizal.

BFAR added that it is coordinating with the Development Bank of the Philippines (DBP) to have a supplemental agreement that would unlock an additional P50 million for fisherfolk nationwide.

Without a guaranteed catch to sustain their families, most are forced into a grueling second life in construction work. 

Jonas remembers a stretch of four months when the nets came up empty every single morning. It was a period of quiet desperation that forced his child to attend school without an allowance.

“Kapag mahina dito sa tubig, sa karte (construction) kami nagtratrabaho,” Nicanor explains. 

For him, the "unreliability" of Laguna Lake has made the cement mixer as familiar as the paddle. It is this exhausting cycle—swinging between the boat and the build site—that barely managed to pull his children through college.

To bridge the income gap, fisherfolk like Jonas, Nash and Nicanor are often forced into the predatory world of “5-6” lending—borrowing small amounts with a crippling 20% interest rate.

“Kung hindi po kami mangutang, hindi po kami makakabili ng mga palakaya (fishing gear) namin,” Jonas says. 

It is a trap: they must borrow to buy the gear, but the gear no longer catches enough to pay back the debt.

Jonas once found himself at the barangay hall over a P5,000 loan that had ballooned to P6,000. 

With no fish in the water and no money in his pocket, he offered the only thing he had left: a promise to pay one peso a day until the debt was settled. 

“Wala na akong mahuli. Walang pagkukunan,” he told the officials.

This cycle of debt has turned the fishermen into a generation of warnings. 

“Wag na kayong gagaya sa’min,” Nash tells his children, urging them to finish their studies so they never have to rely on a dying lake.

Jonas sees the end of the line. When asked about the next generation of Angono fishermen, his answer is hollow: “Pagdating ng araw, wala na siguro.”

In this desperate economy, the only relief comes from disaster. To the rest of Rizal, a typhoon is a calamity; to the fishermen, it is a “jackpot.” 

When natural floods and storms break the commercial fishponds, the bangus are driven into the open water where the independent fishermen wait.

During these times, their boats are filled to the brim, often requiring multiple trips to haul in the windfall of escaped fish, finding abundance when the world around them is breaking apart.

Their solution…

To address the lake and the fishermen’s challenges, the LLDA has made several programs, mainly clean-up drives to restore water quality. 

Meanwhile, the local government of Angono, in collaboration with the BFAR, conducted lake seeding activities through their "Balik Sigla Sa Ilog at Lawa" program.

According to Dr. Joel Tuplano, officer-in-charge of the municipality’s agriculture office, this collaboration has gradually and consistently increased the lake's fish production for the past seven years. 

For Jonas, the distribution of fingerlings is helpful, as it allows the recovery of fish populations and eventually benefits them. 

“Malaking tulong po ‘yun….Kasi ‘yung pinakawalan nilang ‘yon, dumadami po ‘yon. Tapos ‘yung dumami ‘yon ‘yung naglakihan na ‘yon, ‘yun din ang nanganganak na ngayon,” he said.

Despite the lake seeding and clean-up drive efforts, some fishermen still think that they are being neglected, especially by their local government unit (LGUs). 

Jonas said that while the lake seeding was helpful, no LGU provided constant assistance to them. Before, they mentioned that they received palakaya and fish nets from BFAR. However, at present, they have received nothing. 

The LLDA is set to release its master development plan for Laguna de Bay this year, which would provide a comprehensive framework that would serve as the basis of implementation of rules and regulations on the lake.

Fishermen remain hopeful that the LGU will send more fishing materials, enact new projects for fishermen, and proceed with the implementation of various projects aimed to improve the condition of Laguna Lake. 

As St. Clement returns home, fishermen, like Jonas, Nash and Nicanor, anticipate a bountiful catch for the year. Despite the lake’s poor water quality and decline in fish, the town of Angono continues to celebrate its most-awaited feast every November.

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Editor’s note: The names of some fishermen were withheld to protect their identity.

The contributors are second-year students at the UST Journalism Department, who originally wrote this story for their feature writing class.