Philippine Chain Averages 20 a Year : Sturdy Islanders Shrug Off Typhoons

The typhoons that regularly ravage this rugged rocky island left calling cards by the town pier last year: a 300-foot-long gray navy transport ship sits rusting and aground, while a once-graceful white fishing junk is beached and broken on the black sand nearby.

It may be little comfort to the American and Caribbean victims of Hurricane Hugo, but each year, more typhoons--the Pacific term for a hurricane--roar into the tiny Batan Islands, the Philippines northernmost province, than nearly anywhere else in the world.

And no one here seems to mind.

“We’re used to the typhoons,” said 82-year-old Felisa A. Elizondo, mayor of the sea-front town of Ivana. “We’ve learned to adjust.”

With an average of 20 typhoons a year, the northern Philippines are the buckle in the Pacific typhoon belt. Sweeping up from the southeast, about half of the powerful storms affect land. And year after year, most of them slam into northern Luzon, the main Philippine island, and the Batans, which sit 135 miles out in the roiling waters where the Philippine Sea meets the South China Sea.

“I don’t know any other country that gets even half as many tropical cyclones,” said Amado Pineda, chief forecaster for the government weather bureau in Manila and the nation’s top TV weatherman.

But only in the Batan Islands is life so dictated by the tempo of typhoons. Unlike anywhere else in the country, most of the 15,000 residents on three islands live in squat stone huts with three-foot-thick walls built of boulders and lime, or reinforced concrete. Windows and doors are small and narrow, made of thick hardwood. Rope nets keep the thick grass roofs from flying off.

Instead of rice, farmers grow root crops such as yams, sweet potatoes and garlic that can survive the constant winds and 90 inches of rain a year. Pigs and goats are kept in stone pens. And children learn early to read the weather from wind and waves.

“Typhoons are part of our culture,” said Bonifacio Abad, a local engineer. “It’s just like summer coming in March. Typhoons come from July to September, and then again in November.”

The culture means that people on Batan, Sabtang and Itbayat pay little attention to all but the worst storms. Last summer, despite typhoon warnings in Luzon, Batan parents stood in the rain for speeches, then cheered as local schoolchildren ran track events and played basketball in an annual outdoor athletic meet.

“Every grade school team and drum and bugle corps was out marching in the rain,” said Florencio B. Abad, the provincial congressman. “They outlasted the typhoon.”

While the rest of the Philippines classifies storms by international symbols--storm signal 1 is hoisted for winds up to 37.5 m.p.h., storm signal 2 for winds up to 62.5 m.p.h., and storm signal 3 for anything stronger--a typhoon blew out the storm flags here years ago.

Instead, residents use a simpler system.

“We call it a banana typhoon when it destroys the banana trees,” said Genaro Ibay, who runs the one-room weather station in Basco, the provincial capital. “That’s not too strong. We call it a coconut typhoon when it blows the coconut trees over. Now that’s strong.”

Indeed, winds in a November, 1987, coconut typhoon were clocked at 175 m.p.h.--but only because the Basco wind gauge measures no higher. The storm blew down the government’s typhoon-tracking radar tower and destroyed sea walls around the island. Three weeks later, another typhoon had winds of 140 m.p.h.

The first typhoon of 1987 was notable for another reason: It killed the first local resident in years. An 88-year-old woman was crushed when her home collapsed in a landslide.

Elsewhere in the Philippines, typhoons routinely claim dozens of victims. In September, Typhoon Sarah claimed at least 17 lives in Luzon, mostly from floods and landslides, and left more than 6,500 homeless. In July, Typhoon Gordon left 27 people dead, 15 missing, and more than 120,000 homeless. On Friday, Typhoon Angela killed at least 26, and remote areas have still not been heard from.

“Batans is prepared,” said Pineda, the TV weatherman. “They are typhoon-proof.”

With no flags or radio warnings, residents rely on their senses.

“The old folks always know when the typhoon is coming,” said Homer B. Roberto, a 28-year-old officer with the Batans Foundation, a local development group. “They listen to the animals. And they read the trees.”

Also, the Batans are not as bad as their reputation. Residents point out defensively that the islands are usually cited as a reference point in typhoon reports, even when storms are hundreds of miles away, because Basco boasts the nation’s northernmost weather station.

But nervous airline officials cancel Batans-bound flights on a drizzle. That seems just as well since the only runway runs uphill, with the top end 90 feet higher than the bottom, on Mt. Iraya, a dormant volcano. The navy last spring increased its supply runs, which bring rice, oil and sugar from Manila, from two to six times a year. There are no commercial ships.

Still, newspapers arrive only when a plane does. Radios pick up Taiwan, which is closer to the Batans than Luzon. An electrical generator was installed in Basco this spring, but there are no bars or restaurants. There are also no movie theaters, markets, telephones or television. The only entertainment apparently is drinking: Per capita alcohol consumption is the highest in the country.

“We are very isolated,” said Gov. Telesforo Castillejos. “That is our chief problem.”

Castillejos said that unlike the rest of the Philippines, Batans has “zero crime” and no Communist rebels battling the government. And down at the dock, a 28-year-old constabulary officer, his M-16 rifle slung casually over his shoulder, said his biggest challenge is staying dry and staying awake.

“It’s very peaceful here,” he said with a smile. “Except for typhoons.”