Sitangkai, Tawi-Tawi: Life in the “Venice of the South” Isn’t What You Might Imagine

Most travelers conjure images of grand stone bridges and gondoliers in striped shirts at the mention of a “Venice on water.” But here, nearly 1,600 kilometers from Manila, Sitangkai wears its nickname—the “Venice of the South”—in an entirely different light. By the time we arrive, we’ve already traced some of Bongao’s softer contours—the subtle charm of Bongao town and the green slopes of Bud Bongao. Sitangkai, though, is something else. It sharpens the view and asks for a different kind of attention.

In this southernmost town of the Philippines, perched at the edge of Tawi-Tawi province, narrow canals wind past stilt houses and bustling floating markets. Footbridges knit one neighbor to another, and boats replace cars and tricycles. Yet, beneath the charm of walkways and sun-drenched seascapes lies a community grappling with fragile infrastructure, poverty, and an uncertain future.

Sitangkai is home to more than 37,000 people, most of them Sama-Bajau, a seafaring people whose lives and histories are inseparable from the water. With scarce arable land, livelihoods revolve around fishing and seaweed farming. The town spreads across a sprawl of islets ringed by mangroves and coral shallows, bound together by stilts, footbridges, and the crisscross of narrow boat routes.

Yet water, the town’s lifeline, is also where problems concentrate. Without proper sanitation, many toilets empty directly into the sea. Garbage—plastic bags, bottles, and refuse—floats openly in the main channels. Healthcare infrastructure is almost non-existent. Like much of Tawi-Tawi, Sitangkai endures a high poverty rate, compounding its vulnerabilities as tides, waste, and livelihoods intermingle uneasily.

A boat glides through Sitangkai’s waters lined with wooden stilt houses.

A boatman rows through the channels that link Sitangkai’s neighborhoods.

Late afternoon light bathes Sitangkai’s main canal.

When we arrive in Sitangkai one humid afternoon, our guide Agih Eppih Mohammad greets us at the dock. After a morning tour of Bongao, we have crossed the choppy sea by fast craft. But at low tide, the boat cannot approach the village, forcing us to transfer to a smaller boat that weaves its way through the main channel, to a dock in the main part of the town. Agih then leads us through the lengthy walkway to our lodging for the night—a modest transient house tucked behind the municipal hall, beside a gymnasium where boys dribble basketballs and shoot baskets.

After we’ve had a chance to rest, Agih guides us through the floating market of Sitangkai. Fishermen in wooden boats showcase the day’s catch—gleaming, silver-scaled fish still wet from the sea—while buyers haggle from narrow docks. As the sun starts to lower, the day transforms into warm golden tones. We walk leisurely along Sitangkai Boulevard, a raised concrete pathway that weaves through houses elevated on stilts. The Sulu Sea sparkles in the distance, touched by the waning light.

A serene stillness settles over the surroundings, as though the whole village has agreed to let the silence speak. Conversations drift around us in hushed tones, blending with the gentle lapping of water against the stilts and the occasional splash of oars. The golden hour bathes not just the sea and sky, but seems to seep into the spirit of the place. In this moment, Sitangkai feels less like a remote frontier and more like a calm space where the world slows just enough to let you appreciate the moment.

Vendors sell their fresh catch in Sitangkai’s bustling floating market.

Sitangkai’s municipal hall is the central hub for the island town’s governance.

Sitangkai Boulevard offers a scenic walk above water.

But that image doesn’t last. On our boat ride back through the main channel, we glide past floating garbage—a stark contrast to the postcard image of canal cities. Plastic debris drifts past like unwelcome souvenirs of modern consumption, reminding us that beauty and burden often share the same waters here.

On another day, after returning from our tour to Panguan Island, the tides run low again. We have to wade nearly a kilometer through knee-deep shallows to reach the village. With every careful step, I glimpse starfish, sea urchins, and brown jellyfish (which I’m told are not venomous, but still pack a powerful sting) beneath me—and can’t shake the thought of untreated waste leaching into the very waters we tread.

Sitangkai forces one to reflect on the fine line the town walks—between tradition and modernity, subsistence and sustainability. Like its boats that have no outriggers, life here relies on balance. How long can a community thrive when the very waters it depends on strain under the weight of human waste and modern debris? Can ingenuity, resilience, and cultural memory continue to carry Sitangkai across the tides of change?

It’s tempting to romanticize places like this. To photograph stilt houses silhouetted against twilight and glide through canals without confronting what lies beneath the surface. But to visit Sitangkai is to see both—the beauty and the burden, the hope and the hardship. You witness lives lived on the margins, far from the conveniences most of us take for granted. Children dart barefoot across wooden planks. Seaweed farmers tend their lines all day. Fishermen cast nets as they have for generations. Their lives are attuned to the rhythms of the tides, as finely calibrated as any compass. But you also see the fragility—the lean-to houses weathered by salt and storms, the weariness etched into faces that have known both resilience and scarcity.

Two boys navigate their boat past distant stilt houses, a common sight in Sitangkai.

A seaweed farmer tends to his harvest—one of Sitangkai’s main livelihoods.

At low tide, visitors wade through knee-deep shallows to reach Sitangkai’s main village.

Traveling here strips away the illusions of curated itineraries and manicured landmarks. It forces you to sit with discomfort and humility, to acknowledge lives whose stories don’t fit neatly into travel brochures. And yet, in that rawness, there’s a rare kind of beauty, one that stays with you longer than postcard-perfect scenes ever could. Sitangkai doesn’t just ask you to admire it; it asks you to reflect on your own world, to reconsider what you deem as “essential,” and to recognize the strength woven into these far edges of the map. It is a place that lingers not just in memory, but in the way it reconfigures your understanding of a place, the people in it, and the privilege of meeting them.

Still, the journey doesn’t end here. Beyond these canals and footbridges lies another far reach—Panguan Island, even closer to the edge of the Philippines. There, the feelings Sitangkai raises ripple outward, deepening in ways I am not expecting.

Sitangkai Travel Basics

Timing

The ideal time to visit Sitangkai is during the dry season, from February to May, when seas are calmer and boat trips are less likely to be disrupted by bad weather.
Avoid the southwest monsoon months (June to September), when rough seas and heavy rains can make travel difficult or even unsafe.
Tides also play a big role here—high tide makes boat access smoother, while low tide often means transferring to smaller boats or even wading long distances to shore. When planning, ask locals or guides about the tide schedule to time your arrival and departure more comfortably.

Access

Sitangkai lies at the southwestern edge of Tawi-Tawi province. Most travelers begin by flying to Bongao via regular flights from Zamboanga City. From Bongao, head to the port, where passenger boats bound for Sitangkai depart, typically early morning.
- A fast craft costs PHP 1,000 one way and takes about 1 hour.
- A regular ship costs PHP 500 one way and takes about 5 to 6 hours.
Note that departures are often dependent on tides and weather, so flexibility is key. If arriving at low tide, small boats are often used to transfer passengers to the docks. But note that sometimes, you may be required to wade through shallow water (up to knee-deep) to reach the village from the boat landing area.
Hiring a local guide is highly recommended for navigating both the waterways and local customs.

Accommodation

Travelers in Sitangkai typically stay in modest transient houses or local homestays, often arranged through contacts at the municipal hall or with assistance from a guide. Don’t expect air conditioning or hot showers; basic rooms and communal bathrooms are the norm.

Food

Small eateries and carinderias abound in Sitangkai’s main area, serving no-frills dishes like nasi goreng and Magi Kari with egg. Prices typically range between PHP 100 to 150 for a meal, and under PHP 50 for snacks.
Don’t miss satti, a popular local breakfast dish of grilled skewered meat served with spicy, soupy sauce. A serving costs around PHP 50.

Responsible Travel

Minimize plastic waste. Bring a reusable water bottle and avoid single-use plastics, which often end up in Sitangkai’s already burdened waterways.
Respect local customs. Sitangkai is a predominantly Muslim community. Dress modestly (covered shoulders and knees), especially when walking around town and visiting markets.
Be mindful of photographs. Always ask permission before photographing people, especially in intimate settings like markets or private homes.
Tread lightly. If wading through shallows, watch your step to avoid harming sea creatures like starfish, sea urchins, and coral patches.

For guided tours and practical arrangements in Tawi-Tawi, contact Layag Tawi-Tawi Tours. They can assist with itineraries, transport, accommodations, and local guides to help you explore Sitangkai and other areas in the province with ease.

The Tourist Gaze