Mang Tero’s housemates

"Sometimes I Feel Them Crawling, Slithering, Across My Body As I Sleep," says Tero Allih, 58, about the hundreds of sea snakes that are his "housemates".

Mang Tero is known in the province of Zamboanga Sibugay as the snake man, who takes care of hundreds of black and white striped sea snakes in a bamboo stilt house located about three kilometers off the coast of Olutanga island that he built for them.

Mang Tero met us at the port of Olutanga after a three-hour journey by sea from Ipil. A fuzzy old man, he looks like an ordinary carageenan grower with sun-baked skin, carrying a white bamboo stick with blue stripes. He just smiled when we were introduced.

"I’m not really the bravest when it comes to snakes," Mang Tero says by way of introduction as we departed Olutanga port for a 30-minute boat ride to his snake house.

"Sea snakes are what I fear most in my life," he continues. "I did not actually invite them to come to my house."

It was about 1982 when Mang Tero had his first encounter with two sea snakes which made their way to his house. As soon as he saw them crawling on the platform, he jumped into the water–and stayed there until they left.

"That same night, I felt there was something tickling my side. I thought it was my child so I spanked him because I was already sleeping and it was bothering me. I got scared when I learned it wasn’t my boy, but at the same time I was furious and I began shouting that if ever I catch anything in my house that night, I will kill it," Mang Tero relates.

Although sometimes timid, the sea snakes that come up to Mang Tero’s house are actually venomous. It is said that a person bitten by a sea snake, if left untreated, would die after eight days and eight nights, hence the local name for the sea snake is "walo-walo".

That initial visit from the snakes led to more encounters, and although these became regular "visits," Mang Tero says he still feared them. Since he couldn’t stop their visits and he was getting used to them already, he decided to build another stilt house adjacent to his home, just for the snakes.

"As I was finishing up the platform of the snake house," Mang Tero says, "two sea snakes crawled right up. I got frightened so again I jumped into the water!"

By this time, the sea was getting rough and the boat was being buffeted about by the waves. Fortunately we were not far from the snake house.

Mang Tero continued with his story. When the snake house was completed, hundreds of the sea creatures were crawling up to it to take shelter for the night, usually starting from around four in the afternoon. They spend the night in their house and at dawn–usually around three or four–the snakes go back to the sea to find food.

"Sometimes I feel them crawling all over me, crawling in between me and my wife Delia. Sometimes I find my child playing with them. I lived with more or less 300 snakes for five years, until 1987 when the house burned down and we had to relocate to the main island," Mang Tero explains.

After the house burned down, Mang Tero did not stop caring for the snakes. He rebuilt the house on the same spot and placed woven coconut fronds on the house’s floor so the snakes can find shelter and places to hide.

He still goes to the snake house thrice a week to check on them and to see if they are well sheltered.

The boat slowed down as we entered shallow waters. The house was on stilts, far from the rest of the other stilt houses owned by other carageenan or seaweed growers. But this one stood apart, isolated, like everyone feared it.

I moved to the bow of the boat to catch the first glimpse of the snakes–and found a whole bunch of them lazing on the floor. Snakes were literally everywhere–some were draped on posts, some were still on the ladder, others tucked snugly inside bamboo poles, while others were curled up in the ceiling. But most of them were piled together on the floor.

I was very reluctant to step in to the house, and as I stood on the boat planning my next move, Mang Tero brushed me aside and said he must go in first, before everyone else. Willingly–gratefully even–I stepped aside to let him pass.

He grabbed the bamboo post, put his right foot over the platform and jumped into the house as the boat swayed with the waves. As soon as he was inside, he began tapping his bamboo stick on the floor and mumbling, as if in some initiation or welcome ritual. He went around checking every inch of the house, and finally looked at us and said, "You can come up now."

We looked at each other, politely offering to let the others go first. Finally, we left the boat; I was the second one who went up the snake house. The snakes seemed very well behaved, but one caught my attention as it slowly moved towards me. Before it got too close, Mang Tero rushed forward, grabbed the snake and threw it in the water.

The photo-op was over in 20 minutes, as the boat captain reminded us about the long trip back to Ipil. We bid goodbye to Mang Tero and his snakes, friends for over 22 years.

According to Joy Lao, provincial tourism officer, the provincial council is working on passing a resolution naming Mang Tero’s snake house a snake sanctuary. They are coordinating with the Department of the Environment and Natural Resources (DENR) even as the local government is intensifying its tourism industry.

Zamboanga Sibugay province is known as the talaba (oyster) capital.The province is rich in natural beauty and coastal attractions, the most unique being a close encounter with Mang Tero’s housemates.