Countdown to Yolanda: Getting Out

(Continuation from Countdown to Yolanda: The Mission)

Housing Mountainside was not as forlorn-looking as its sister subdivision, making me realize that much of the destruction in the area was caused more by the storm surge than by the winds and rain of Yolanda. Yes, there were the typical houses with roofs askew or no roofs at all, but that was probably the worst of it already. 

Frances' home was among the more sturdy houses in the area. At most, the roof probably needed a bit of hammering back to its wooden foundation, but otherwise the house was intact.

Three generations of Perez women finally reunited after
Yolanda. (From personal photo archive, taken by Iggy
Gonzales)

I did not even have to holler when we got to the gate. In the front yard was my daughter, Ingrid, hunched over a basin full of dirty laundry. I called Ingrid's attention. She slowly turned, looking confused as if she was not expecting anyone to know her there. I had to call her twice to make her know that it was really me. Only then did she run toward the gate in recognition.

Tears streamed down our cheeks as we hugged each other. It felt so good to hold my daughter again, knowing how I almost lost her to Yolanda.

Soon enough, my mom heard the ruckus outside and approached us for a very wet (from the tears) group hug.

When the surge of emotions ebbed, everyone settled inside Frances' home to make plans on how to get my family to the airport. The first challenge was how to bring my 82-year old mom to the airport with no transportation in sight. Iggy and I were ready to carry her all the way to the airport but she refused, saying that she could just walk with us. We wouldn't allow it, considering how far we were from the airport (a little more than 10 kilometers, according to Google Maps). Besides, she would only slow down the entire group if she walked.

We also had to think of a way to bring Ingrid's wet and dirty laundry with us on our trip back to Manila.

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Frances' male relatives managed to get some gasoline from a looted gas station nearby to power up their motorcycles. They were just listening at first to our discussion but eventually, they volunteered to help. Thus, with what little gasoline they had left in their motorcycles, they used for transporting my family and their meager belongings to the airport.

Much as Iggy and I also wanted to hitch, there just wasn't enough gasoline anymore for Frances' relatives to make a second round trip. Thus, hugs and expressions of thanks were passed in Frances' household, and by noontime, our small party pushed on toward the airport.


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If Iggy and I were lucky enough to have been able to hitch from the airport to Housing, it wasn't the case on our way back. The main causes of concern were news circulating about prison inmates escaping from the Provincial Jail, as well as communist commandos from the barrios going to the town propers and pillaging for supplies and relief. Anarchy was still very much prevalent as of that time, and there was just no way of confirming these reports. This was the reason why pedicabs and motorcycles stopped going around for passengers, and why people with vehicles just stopped giving free rides to strangers. We tried hailing a military truck. It did stop, but only for its soldiers inside to apologize to us that they cannot let us ride with them, and to confirm that the reports about Communist fighters coming out of the barrios were true. They were afraid that if they took in hitchhikers, these civilians might be caught in an ambush.

We did manage to get a short motorcycle ride from an area along the Diversion Road, back to the Rotonda near the Coca Cola Bottling Plant, thanks to a policeman who, we learned during the ride, lost all his family members to the storm surge. To keep his mind off his grief, he just kept going back and forth from the San Juanico Bridge to the airport via the Diversion Road to help hitchhikers like us. Bless this man whose name I no longer remember.

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It was during that walk from Coca Cola to the airport where Iggy and I saw the worst of Yolanda's damage. Almost nothing was left standing here. And if before, one could not see the beach from the road, now there was nothing to block one's view of the ocean.

An area in San Jose District. When you see it... (From personal

photo archive)

Then there were the decomposing bodies by the roadside,

Corpses were just lying there, covered (albeit unsuccessfully) in blankets, tarps, coconut fronds, or just about anything to conceal them from view. You'd find them after every few meters or so. 

And the stench -- God, the stench. I could only describe it as a combination of sweaty body odor and a dead rat. It clung to my clothes. It was invasive. Covering one's nose just won't cut it anymore so I just breathed through my mouth as we passed the corpses by. More than one year since that experience, I am still haunted by that awful smell of decomposing flesh.

I've never seen that many dead people in my whole life. I am very sure that at one point or another, I have come across these people in the grocery, in the street, in public transport, in church -- I mean, it's hard not to bump into the same people everyday in such a small city like Tacloban. 

And now, they're nameless corpses by the road.

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When the airport was already within view, Iggy and I encountered a couple also walking toward the airport with no luggage, no nothing. Just themselves.

They asked us if there already were free flights to Manila.

I said that the only free flights were via C-130. I then asked them if they had somewhere to go when they manage to get to Manila.

They had none.

I explained to them that they may just be jumping from the flame into the fire if they had nowhere to go upon reaching Manila. Life may be hard as of that moment in Tacloban, but soon enough, relief will be coming in soon. 

Then we went on our way.

When I looked back at the couple, they were no longer in sight.

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I thought our problems were going to be over as soon as we got to the airport. We'll present our earlier-purchased plane tickets, get our boarding passes, and ride in our late afternoon flight to Cebu in no time at all.

I was wrong.

The ground attendants of PAL Express announced that Tacloban had no way to confirm the manifestos of passengers for previously-reserved flights since communications between their Manila and Cebu offices were down, and thus they decided to cancel all of these flights.

That included our flight.

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Hell hath no fury than a woman whose flight to Cebu has been unceremoniously cancelled. I was raving mad. WE BOUGHT THOSE TICKETS WITH THE ASSURANCE FROM THE CEBU AND MANILA OFFICES THAT WHATEVER HAPPENS, MY FAMILY AND I WILL FLY OUT AT THE SOONEST POSSIBLE TIME! And so I ranted and raved to the tired and stressed-out ground personnel, even threatened to file a complaint against them with the local aviation board if they insisted on keeping us in Tacloban for another three days despite our having paid for plane reservations already.

After several hours of discussions among themselves as to what to do with me, they struck a compromise: they will allow us to fly, but only on the next day since planes leaving for that day were already filled to the hilt.

Oh well, at least it was better than getting stuck in Tacloban for three more days.

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I started my business in the PAL area around 2 PM and braved the crush of an anxious crowd begging for tickets out of Tacloban, During that time, I saw huge and exotic-looking aircraft arriving one by one, bringing with them caucasian military forces and tons of relief goods. Also managed to catch a glimpse of CNN's Anderson Cooper milling around the tarmac and observing us. By the time I finally got hold of the valuable boarding passes for our entire party, it was already around 6 PM and the poor ground staff was reading names using a flashlight.

Iggy kept going back and forth between me and my family, ever the eager one to help out or relay information. (Bless this teenager!) By the time I returned to where my family situated themselves in the airport, they already knew that we were going to be spending the rest of the evening on that little space outside what used to be the departure area. They managed to sit on what looked like an overturned steel file cabinet which eventually turned into a multi-purpose lean-to/bed that night. Since food was scarce, water even scarcer, and we were in almost-total darkness, I told my family to rest early and call it a night.

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Yes, that's my family and Iggy on GMA's evening news. This

photo was taken by a high school batchmate who was tuned in

that night and was posted on our high school Facebook page.

The only trouble about that location my family chose for spending the night at the airport was that two TV cameras of GMA News were aimed at it.

We were already settled for the long night ahead when we were overwhelmed by a flood of lights.The cameras started rolling, capturing us in varying degrees of disheveled states. Oh well, no other choice but to pretend that the camera isn't on us.

Suffice to say that our unkempt selves made it on the nightly news broadcasts of GMA News TV as of November 13, and on the morning news of November 14, 2013. Haha.

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It was a very long night, and only Iggy who managed to fall asleep. The rest of us ended up looking up to the heavens and appreciating the cloudless Tacloban skies, illuminated by the blanket of stars that dotted it. 

That was our very last glimpse of a starry, starry night, our last glimpse of Tacloban City in darkness.

It will probably be a long time before we ever return to see that heavenly spectacle again.

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Our morning flight was supposed to be scheduled for 10 AM. However, when the PAL ground staff announced the boarding of its first aircraft for the day (scheduled at 7 AM), I told my family to fall in line. Iggy and my family looked at me like I was crazy but I just hissed at them to keep quiet and fall in line.

Several minutes later, we were in the cabin of the PAL Fokker plane.

When one of the stewardesses took to the microphone, she welcomed us all to their Tacloban-Cebu flight. Upon saying, "Thank you and enjoy your flight," the plane started to roll toward the runway.

And everyone in the cabin broke into applause.

I looked at the window for the last time to see what became of Tacloban. I just kept staring until we were already several feet in the air.

With that, I shed my last tears for the city that fostered my family while I was toiling in Manila. I also prayed that with Divine Providence, the city would rise again.

Then my body finally shut down from the fatigue.

(To be continued)

Countdown to Yolanda: The Mission

(Continuation from Countdown to Yolanda: Knowing)

One tote bag -- that was all I brought with me to this rescue mission to get my family out of the ruins of Tacloban City.

I remember having only one change of clothes. Didn't even bother to bring clothes for an overnight stay.

Even my footwear was not flashy. Whatever slippers I had on in my Sta. Mesa, Manila residence was the same pair I used all throughout this endeavor. 

I had to make sure that I would blend with the background -- as if I was a typhoon survivor myself.

----------

Gonz, his son, Iggy, and I met in the airport early the next day (November 12). Gonz was obviously not feeling well, and asked for my apology that he couldn't come along. Instead, Iggy was to come with me in his place. 

And the kid was armed to the teeth with this massive knapsack and accompanying water canteen.

Okaaaayyy...I now have a teenager with this giant of a bag coming with me on this trip. I could only imagine what will go through the minds of potential thieves when they see Iggy's bag -- "Jackpot!"

I asked Iggy if he was already briefed by his dad on what he was to see when we got to Tacloban. The kid vigorously nodded with enthusiasm. "This is going to be one big adventure!" he declared.

Adventure, huh, I thought to myself. Let's see how enthusiastic you will still be when you start seeing dead people. And when thieves run away with your knapsack.

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It was disconcerting that commercial flights to Tacloban were opened only that day but were already filled with passengers. There were also no flights going straight to Tacloban; the best route was via Cebu, and the schedules were difficult to fix given our limited time. Thus, we settled for two Business Class tickets to Cebu (Yup, those were the only ones available that time; thank God for money trickling in from concerned high school batchmates). Then we had to stay overnight in Cebu before riding the plane to Tacloban. We also got tickets for our return trip (still via Cebu), complete with tickets for my mom and daughter. The return trip also entailed for us to stay overnight in Cebu so my family can rest first after the harrowing events of days before.

A little later that day, Iggy and I were already on the plane to Cebu.

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Iggy and I stocked up on supplies for the Tacloban trip in SM Cebu, and since it was Iggy's first time to get to Cebu as a grownup, I gave in to his request for us to have a short tour of the city. We got ourselves billeted into a nice inn near the airport, then early the next day we were on the plane to Tacloban City -- or what was left of it.

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In what was left of the Daniel Z. Romualdez Airport (From 

personal photo archive)

The plane hasn't alighted yet but from the air, I could clearly see the damage brought about by ST Yolanda's fury on the Tacloban coastline. When airplane wheels made contact with the ground, the damage was even more telling. Fronds on coconut trees were frozen pointing toward one direction. Vegetation was flattened as if a giant sat on it.

Then the Daniel Z. Romualdez Airport came into sight.

I left this airport a week ago looking quite portly. I returned after more than a week and the building was transformed into a gnarled mess of sheets, metal, and concrete slabs.

And the waterworks began.

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It was bad enough that the airport looked like some unseen hand pounded on it relentlessly. 

The people milling around it looked just as devastated. They had that blank, dark look in their eyes, and they did not seem as if they actually were going in one direction at all.

If there was a sight to describe the word, "chaos," then that scene at the airport was it.

The only ones at the airport with an apparent purpose in their gestures were the foreign media stationed there. I approached one of them hunched over some communication equipment in the hope that he could point me toward the station of the local Reuters crew who, according to their Philippine bureau chief who was a friend of mine, had a vehicle. When he stood up to reply, I saw the embroidered patch on his vest. It said, BBC. The hulking man answered in beautiful-sounding British English that he wasn't sure where the local crew went as most of the media with vehicles were busy scouring the countryside for news. Heck, I was no longer listening to his answer -- I was too awestruck listening to his British accent.

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Signs of the times on the long road to Housing. (From 

personal photo archive)

Seeing that looking for the Reuters team was futile, Iggy and I decided to just start our trek to the Housing area on foot. However, by some stroke of luck, our trip to Housing was made easier after we managed to hitch a ride on a Tamaraw vehicle owned by a Baptist church in the Fatima Village area. The driver wanted to drive us straight to Housing, but he had an extended family of survivors from hard-hit San Jose to transport elsewhere. Thus, we got down in the Rotonda area near the Coca Cola Bottling Plant in Sagkahan which was roughly half of the whole journey to our destination.

A woman with two kids were with us on that ride, and they were also going the same way we were going. I thought to myself that if we kept this woman and her kids with us long enough, there may just be a chance that the driver of a passing vehicle/motorcycle/pedicab may take pity on all of us and give us a ride. After around a kilometer or two of walking and hailing vehicles, we got successful and managed to get a ride on a motorcycle-cab all the way to Housing -- for the steep price of P500. We went down and let the woman and her kids go on for the rest of the motorcab ride, and I braced myself for the worst.

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The tall house with orange and white paint in the background

was where my family took refuge at the height of the storm. 

Note the lack of eaves under its roof. That was where everyone

in that house climbed to avoid the rising floodwater. (From 

personal photo archive)

Before going to where my family evacuated in nearby Housing Mountainside, I told Iggy to come with me first to see what was left of our rented bungalow in Housing Seaside.

It just tore my heart to see familiar surroundings ripped apart just like that.

I walked through our street, tears running down my cheeks unabated, as I saw houses torn from their foundations, cars piled on top of the other, fallen trees obstructing the road, and other scenes of destruction. The stench of death was not as bad here as when our Tamaraw vehicle passed by the San Jose area earlier, so I was hoping that there were not as many deaths that occurred in the neighborhood.

When I got to the vicinity of our house, I immediately saw our neighbors who shared their house with my family during the time Yolanda struck. I ran to them, hugged them, and gave them a teary greeting and expression of thanks for saving my family from the storm surge. As usual, they were forever the gracious neighbors who told me not to thank them but to thank the One Up There instead.

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Mano Ely, one of our wonderful neighbors, offered to bring Iggy and me around the subdivision before accompanying us to where my family was situated in the other subdivision. He related to us how the waters reached up to the second floor of their house, and how they were forced to destroy the ceiling so that they could avoid the fast-rising floodwater. He also named other neighbors whose lives were snuffed out by Yolanda. Residents of the white house on the other corner of our very own block were trapped inside and eventually drowned when the waters engulfed their home. The wife of another neighbor was just too weak to climb to the roof and eventually submitted herself to the raging waters. Another family in our neighborhood who, like my family, consisted of three generations of females (grandmother, mom, and a two-year old daughter), also succumbed to the flood. All of them lived in bungalows just like our residence. If my family did not heed my instruction to evacuate to Mano Ely's relatives' place with a second floor, Lord knows what kind of fate could have befallen them.

What remained of the bungalow my family lived in for many 

years. (From personal photo archive)

Of course, I had to see what was left of our place, hoping against hope that I may just be able to salvage some belongings before Iggy and I continued to my family's location.

The gate, notwithstanding how flimsy, was still standing, although bent.

But the house...I could hardly believe that my family used to live there.

There was just so much debris in the yard.

The electric post situated in front of the house was now on top of it.

A coconut tree decided to join the fray and also landed right smack on the house.

Much as I wanted to attempt going in, Mano Ely advised me against it because the weight on top was very unstable and could cave in at any moment. Plus, there was also the  risk of snakes finding refuge inside the house.

I could only stand there and say goodbye to a lifetime's worth of possessions and memories gone to waste after only three to five hours' battering by Yolanda.

After saying a little prayer for those among our neighbors who fell victim to the scourge of Yolanda, Iggy, Mano Ely, and I set on for the short trip to the next subdivision to reunite with my family.

(To be continued)

Countdown to Yolanda: Knowing

(Continuation from Countdown to Yolanda: Not Knowing)

It was a Friday when Yolanda hit the province of Leyte. As early as Thursday, I haven't been sleeping right.

By Sunday morning, I was still glued to my tablet, hoping for any news surrounding my family's whereabouts. Suddenly, my mobile phone rang.

"Hello? Hello?" said an anxious voice on the other line.

"Yes, hello?" I answered.

"Hi Ma'am Dinky ini (Is this Ma'am Dinky)?"

"Yes," I said. Since this caller used the waray term "ini" and referred to me as "Ma'am," I deduced that this was one of my former UP Tacloban students. My heart started beating fast. This time, I replied to her in Waray: "Hin-o ini (Who's this)?"

I haven't even finished my sentence when the young voice on the other end whooped in elation.

"Ma'am," she said excitedly. "Ma'am, ayaw na kabaraka ha imo pamilya! Hi Frances ini, aadto yana tim pamilya ha amon balay. Safe hira! (Ma'am, you no longer need to worry about your family. This is Frances, your family is now at our home. They're safe!)"

With the words, "Safe hira," my knees gave in and, in the quiet of my room, I cried like a banshee on amphetamines.

Then I had the soundest sleep I ever had in ages.

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According to my former student, Frances, she only managed to get in touch with me after two days when she found out earlier that day that a satellite telecommunications station was set up about a kilometer away from their area in Housing Mountainside (sister subdivision of Housing Seaside). The poor kid braved the long and treacherous walk to the station, sometimes going over scattered debris and scattered corpses just to make important calls and to recharge her dead mobile phone.

By late afternoon of the same day, Frances made another trip to the satellite station, this time with my daughter, Ingrid.

As soon as I heard my daughter on the line, I just broke down again. I was so anxious to find out from her how they survived the storm, how she and her grandma ended up at Frances' place, what their current situation was, etc.

To all this, Ingrid answered in a listless tone: "Mama, the house is no more. We weren't able to save anything. We're with Ate Frances, but they are also planning on leaving for Samar. Lola (Grandma) has no more medicines. When will you get us?"

Holy crap, I said to myself. My daughter has just turned into a zombie from the trauma of surviving Yolanda.

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After the jubilation of finally hearing from my daughter and finding out that she and her Lola were fine, I immediately worked on finding a way to get them out of Tacloban.

I had several challenges to consider for this endeavor:

- My mother is already 82 years old and is too weak to travel by foot -- and travelling by foot is the only means to go to the airport since most transportation in Tacloban City was destroyed by the storm surge. Add to that, the debris that is rendering several roads unpassable.

- Funds were running low already, especially since I just came from a vacation to the area a week before Yolanda.

- Even if I did have the funds, the city was still mired in anarchy. Reports of rampant looting and thievery were all over the news. Even those arriving from the airport to bring needed relief goods to their respective families were said to not have been spared from thieves among the desperate survivors. I was afraid that I might only end up a victim myself if I made that trek to Tacloban for my family.

I tried looking for someone who could get my family on my behalf, someone already on the ground who can assist my family in getting to the airport so they could hop into one of the C-130 planes shuttling people and goods to Manila for free.

There was none.

And I still was short on funds.

Then, a miracle came in the form of my high school batch's alumni president.

A doable but risky rescue mission was finally hatched.

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Gonz (short for Ronald GONZales), has always been a doer. In fact, if not for him and his effective leadership, our recent alumni homecoming wouldn't be a rousing success.

His can-do capability once again came to the fore when I was desperate to get my family to Manila.

He got in touch with me with the sole intention of coming to my aid on behalf of the batch. We tried options that did not involve us having to go to Tacloban for my family. 

When we exhausted all venues, he came up with a last resort -- he and his son will go to Tacloban to search for my family and get them to Manila.

I was dumbstruck. Here were total strangers to the vast expanse of Tacloban which was now made even worse by the devastation and the anarchy, who were suggesting that they go there themselves to fetch my family.

Dammit, if they were not afraid to fight their way to Tacloban for my own family, then I had no reason not to join them.

As soon as the plan was hatched, we wasted no time in making the necessary preparations.

Yes, we were flying to Tacloban City the next day.

Just like that.

(To be continued)

Photo credit: Google Images

Countdown to Yolanda: Not Knowing

(Continuation from Countdown to Yolanda: Day Zero)

It was not a good feeling to walk around with a ton of heaviness in one's heart, especially when the reason for the heaviness is the hunger for information -- any information -- on the whereabouts and status of one's family.

For that moment, I could suddenly relate to the pain and anguish of families of kidnap victims and missing children.

Messages of concern started pouring in my Facebook wall, all wishing that I find my family soon. At the same time, more footage and news from Leyte were also coming in, one even more depressing than the first.

By this time, I had a better idea of the extent of Yolanda's fury.

CNN and other international news agencies were correct in saying that Yolanda was so far, the strongest typhoon to ever hit land in the whole of written history. It hit Guiuan, Eastern Samar and Tacloban City with the force of several atomic bombs going off at the same time.

The winds and rain of Yolanda were unprecedented but somehow, expected.

 However, Yolanda had a more deadly surprise that caught everyone flat-footed.

This was the very first time that I have come across the phenomenon called a storm surge.

Unfortunately, so did the people of the Visayas region.

And thus, news about certain barangays being "washed out" became the news of the day as of November 9.

I found out about a second cousin whose seaside home was literally eaten up by the storm surge -- with my second cousin in it.

The parents and youngest brother of an old flame of mine, also from Tanauan, also died in the storm surge. Apparently, they got trapped in their rooms when the stream located behind their house overflowed and the waters rose rapidly. Their house was a bungalow. It also disappeared in the storm surge. Had he not been able to leave for the States just a few months back, he could've become one of their family's casualties.

A nephew of mine left home the day before the storm hit. As of that time, he went missing.

And until afternoon, I still didn't have any idea what happened in Housing Seaside, especially to my family.

I entered my mom's and daughter's names in this Google document of missing persons. Also asked for help from a high school batchmate of mine who was immediately flown to Tacloban City for emergency disaster work. None of them yielded positive results

My high school batchmate added that Housing Seaside was thoroughly washed out and he didn't want to raise my hopes about finding my family.

And then, I found this posted photo of the corner going to Housing Seaside.

Blimey, the area looked like a scene from this popular zombie series -- only without the zombies.

If this was how  the corner looked, what more for the actual subdivision?

This was when I started to contemplate on a future of being a neurotic and crazy cat lady.

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I was not the only one going bonkers from worry over relatives in Leyte. I was also in touch with former students of mine from UP Tacloban who, just like me, are already working/living outside Leyte. The shared frustration somehow brought all of us together to console each other and to provide shoulders to cry on.

Believe me when I say that there were a lot of wet shoulders that time when all of us Manila-based UP alumni met for the first time on the afternoon of November 9.

The kids took one step further and decided to create a group with its own Facebook page, initially, with the intent to share any and all information on developments in Region 8. Later on, it turned into a bustling socio-civic entity made up of alumni, students, and former faculty of UP Tacloban. And thus, Bulig Isko was born. "Bulig" is the Waray term for help, while Isko is short for "Iskolar ng Bayan (scholars of the state)," a moniker for students from the University of the Philippines.

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That afternoon, the kids set up a mini communications center in one of those coffee places in the Mall of Asia (MOA) area. Even if we were staying there for an extended period of time, none of the crew dared to shoo us away as they seemed to understand why we were there. I wanted to help the kids with the organizing stuff, but my mind just wasn't there -- it was far away, back in the muddied roads and destroyed houses of Housing Seaside. Every now and then, a kid would jump and cry in jubilation after finding out that his/her family is alive. However, with every kid finding his/her family, I only got more depressed.

After around three hours of waiting for nothing, I decided to leave the kids to their plans and go home. 

As I lay in bed that night, I imagined living the rest of my life without a family to return to. No one to work my butt off for, no one for me to get angry with from leaving stuff strewn all over the house, no one to buy medicines for...

At least, I had my cats.

But that wasn't too reassuring.

Then I closed my eyes and said a prayer, asking for good news the next day.

(To be continued)

Photo credits: First photo is from Google Images; second photo is from the Bulig Isko Facebook page.