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  Haiyan: One Year Later
by Guest Contributor*
November 2014


On November 8, 2013, the Philippines was hit with one of the strongest typhoons ever recorded, causing unprecedented destruction and casualties. Through many outright donations and the Haiyan Relief Benefit Concert; our community came together to help those in need.

Here is one man’s personal account of the tragedy, one year later:

"I have long wanted to write about my family’s Haiyan (Yolanda in the Philippines) experience, but I am an incurable procrastinator. Now, however, I find the first anniversary of the super-typhoon as an impetus I can no longer elude. Before time further dims the remembrances, I now narrate to everyone my account about what transpired during those momentous events, when the wrath of Nature smashed structures, destroyed dreams and snuffed out lives. But in chronicling the tragedy that struck I also tell of the kindness, compassion, generosity and that oft used term “resilience” of humanity. Human solidarity was globally demonstrated in the aftermath of Haiyan, and this is what I prefer to emphasize, more than our frailties.

First, let me provide the context of this narrative.. We started being AFS volunteers in 2009 when we first hosted Felix Schrimpf, a German boy from Hamburg. In 2010 we hosted Emma Nicolas, a very beautiful mademoiselle from France. The irrepressible, full of mischief, very hilarious Turkish Kaan Büyükköprü entered our lives in 2011. Another German, this time a sprite, pretty 15 year-old girl from Frankfurt, Nina Baptist lived with us in 2012. (These were our “regular” hosted children. We also accommodated for short periods a Mexican boy, Miguel Alfaro; a Spanish-Basque señorita, Iratxe Diaz Soto, Swiss-Ecuadoran, Ilen Vargas and German Marie Mangold. Yes, we welcome everyone at our humble house.) Having had 4 Europeans already, my wife and I decided to “try” a Japanese boy in 2013. Kentaro Yoshii, the young man who comes from a country of earthquakes and tsunamis was with my family when Haiyan roared down from the furious heavens and the killer waves slammed our shores.

When the super-typhoon struck Tacloban City in the morning of November 8, 2013 I was in Makati, attending a conference. Makati is in Metro Manila, Luzon, far north from Tacloban, Leyte. (A cursory look at the map of the Philippines will give you an idea about the locations of these places.) Anyhow, I called my wife, Leni at about 6:30AM on the 8th to check on everyone. In the background, I could hear the howl of the wind. Leni was already yelling to be heard over the scary noise that the wind was causing. Even from afar, I felt frightened. Suddenly, the line was interrupted. I tried calling a friend, Eric Espada. We were not able to have a conversation but I received a text message from him: “Everything is lost. What we should think about now are the lives that have to be saved.” On that ominous note, Tacloban and the islands of Samar and Leyte were cut-off from the rest of the archipelago and the world.

In Manila and other parts of the country and indeed all over the world, people watched in dread as footages of the devastation started to be shown on TV and social media. Having been accustomed to typhoons, I took the news of a “super-typhoon” nonchalantly, not realizing the force of 300+ kms/hour winds. That is why, when I saw the first images of the material destruction and lives lost, I was dumbfounded, wondering in silent panic what happened to my family and friends and the people I knew. Right after the typhoon passed by Leyte and continued on her rampage, friends and family members were already messaging me from all over the world. Everyone was desperate for information. I understand now that the definition of crisis is the breakdown of all communications. When television footage began to be shown in the evening of the 8th, I was both relieved and dejected. But at least we had bits and pieces of information even if they were heartbreaking.

(I received messages from around the world. Richard Reyes, Felix Schrimpf, Emma Nicolas and her parents Jean and Beatrice, Kaan, Hannah Pacho, Daphny and her sister Lala, my sister-in-law Melba, Froilan chua, Pinoy Gomez, Raquel Elacion, among others - their messages are still in my inbox, clarifying, reassuring, seeking answers.)

One of the most poignant scenes I saw was that of a father, wet and unkempt, carrying his dead son, his face an image of pure agony. Aerial footage of the streets where I played as a child showed pictures of complete ruin – roofs blown off, houses demolished, streets filled with mounds of debris and corpses strewn about. In those hours of uncertainty, there was only one thing I was sure about: I had to go home.

The following day, the 9th, many Taclobanons and Leyteños in Manila were already in frenzy. We all wanted to go home and help. But the Tacloban airport, we were told, was not operational yet. We therefore had to go by land. In those chaotic moments, someone volunteered to lend her car as long as I was the one who drove. It was a brand new Montero with GPS that was lent to the group, by someone – a young woman named Gernela Gernale. Such was an example of the kindness I received from strangers during those trying times. After buying provisions, off we went – a caravan of three cars, full of worried people - from Manila to Tacloban by land on that windy November evening. I bought water only. Again, one can refer to a map to have an inkling of the route we took and the precarious journey we had.

It was while I was driving in the middle of the night when I started to receive international phone calls. The first came from Mexico, from the sister of Miguel Alfaro, tearfully inquiring if her brother was okay. The other was from the bestfriend of Anna Holms, a German AFSer hosted by my friends Mark and Aubrey Campos. And then I received another phone call came from Japan; this time from the father of my hosted son Kentaro Yoshii. I was worried about Leah Villaflor, Host Coordinator of AFS Tacloban and our “recruit” to the AFS. Her house stood not even a kilometer from the sea. I was also thinking of French Noemi Phils whose host family’s house was in San Jose, where thousands died. Everyone was frantic about the situation in Tacloban, which by that time had become famous for the most unfortunate reason. In retrospect, it was providential that I was far from my place when the typhoon hit. I was the only reassuring contact of the Tacloban AFSers’ families abroad at that time. I lied to everyone, telling them all the AFSers were “ok”.

When we arrived at the Matnog, Sorsogon pier where our motley group of distressed individuals had to take a boat ride to Northern Samar, the queue of busses and trucks on their way to Leyte was almost three kilometres long. It was with sheer luck and good timing that we were all able to board the ship. But we had to leave the Montero behind, to be driven back to Manila by the owner’s friend. While we were still in Luzon and on our way to Samar Island via the San Bernardino Strait, we still had cell phone signals. It was when we reached Samar that we lost touch with everyone in Manila and Tacloban. There was no electricity, no available lines of communications. From then on, we would be out of reach. From three cars, we now only had two, which means we all had to squeeze into a much limited space. But in the darkness, we went. Fast, oblivious to the dangers to our own lives. All we wanted to do was reach our loved ones and find out what happened to them, expecting the worst but really hoping – for the religious among us, praying - for the best. We made a short stop at Calbayog, one of the towns along the way, where we recharged our phone, refueled and ate. We were hosted by a relative of one of our companions, whom I discovered is my neighbour in Tacloban. Afterwards, we went on to our respective destinations.

Finally, at about midnight on November 11, 2013, we reached the San Juanico Bridge. Connecting the islands of Samar and Leyte, the two-kilometer bridge is, during normal times, beautifully illuminated at night, its lights creating an S-shaped figure seemingly slithering on the sparkling water. But no such sight met us that night. Instead, we were confronted by an eerie darkness. Seen from Samar, Tacloban, which is usually brilliantly lit, was a dark void. In the silence, we could hear the sounds of anguish. We saw the face of the apocalypse. We drove on quietly, mournfully. We knew death was everywhere. We could smell the stench.

One companion, Froilan Chua and I alighted from the car and walked in the darkness into a subdivision called Peerless Village. Froilan’s siblings and his cousins were at his house there, he said. The car we were riding went back to Samar, its driver hurrying to his hometown. We lost the other car in the convoy and did not hear from its passengers again for more than two weeks. Froilan’s subdivision is located beside a normally placid bay, which, just a day before had turned brutal, drowning thousands. We were met by Froilan’s brother, a candle in hand, near the gate and we groped back into the house in the flickering light. Safely inside the house at last, Froilan’s brother and sisters and cousins who were there told us the horror they went through during the typhoon – how their house’s roof was blown away; how neighbours were swept by the storm surge; how they saw a decapitated head of a child stuck to a fence nearby; how they participated in the looting that followed. On the table were two huge jars of mayonnaise, part ot their loot. Up to that time, they were still missing a cousin who presumably drowned, which was later confirmed. And this was just two days after Haiyan.

At the first light of dawn and after catching some sleep while sitting – the floor was wet and we had no beds – I set out for my own house 12 kilometres away. It was only at this time when I finally saw the extent of the devastation. All around me, I saw no trees and electric posts standing. Cars were scarce. Fuel was unavailable. All the gasoline stations in the path of the typhoon must have been damaged, I thought. I stood there in shock, incongruously lugging a two gallon jug of water, the most precious item I could bring to my family. Out of nowhere it seemed, a flatbed truck appeared and its driver kindly offered me a ride. I hurriedly jumped onto the truck, with my water. Riding with me were people in whose eyes I saw despair. They have just gone through hell and literally, high water. Normally loquacious in a group, there, in that situation, I was speechless. Along the way, I saw cadavers of people and animals, upturned vehicles, ruined houses, concrete bodegas turned to rubbles, GI sheets wrapped and KNOTTED around branches of trees. It was like a warzone. People milled around with blank stares. They walked about without direction. Some had wounds. All were muddied and dirty.

When, I reached the nearest point to my house that the truck could approach, I hopped off, thanked the driver and sincerely wished everyone luck. The road to my house was flooded. Usually, wading through knee deep water is not difficult. But the water was dark and dense and I had with me the two-gallon jug of water, which was getting heavier and heavier as I pushed along. I was also being careful not to wound myself on a hidden sharp or pointed object. Near the entrance of my subdivision, there was a parked armoured personnel carrier and policemen in camouflage uniforms toting automatic rifles. We were under siege. Tacloban had turned lawless. Fortunately, our place can be easily secured, its approaches now guarded by armed police and vigilantes.

Our house is located in a dead-end street. It is a two-storey structure. As I waded forward, I saw a man, Mano Paul, our neighbour washing clothes at our veranda on the second floor facing the street. He yelled out my name when he saw me. Alongside our wall, someone had erected a pole and hoisted a German flag – the one given to us by Nina Baptist. It fluttered in the wind, a beacon to the rescue helicopters above. It turned out that while the typhoon was at its most ferocious, six families took refuge in our house, as their own houses were swamped. When I saw my wife, my children, Kentaro and my neighbours alive and well, laughing, I was filled with relief. In our neighbourhood, no one died, except an entire family - my wife's relatives - who checked-in a hotel beside the sea. We also had a visitor from Luzon, Arrvine Cruz who refers to himself as the “AFSer from Bulacan.” We were lucky and I feel luckiest because my house sustained only minor damages while my hapless neighbours’ roofs and those of thousands of families’ were ripped apart, drenching everything they owned. In the next two days, we shared food, took turns cleaning the mess and comforted each other. Before the typhoon, we barely talked to our neighbours. Now, we were one big family.

That afternoon of the 11th, Leni and I borrowed a bicycle. We planned to “bike around” to “see the damage.” Insulated from the rest of the world, my wife was clueless about what happened beyond her line of sight. On our way, we saw our neighbour, Mano Deo Delusa, mayor of Dagami, Leyte preparing to go somewhere. He had an armalite rifle. His companion had a pistol. He saw us approach and asked where we were going. I told him about our plan to bike around. He gave us this “Are you nuts??” look and told us to ride with him in his pick-up truck so he could show us around. We welcomed his invitation and waded through the flood to where his car was parked and rode with him, putting our borrowed bike at the back of the truck. In the streets we passed through, cadavers were still scattered, the people already inured to the odor of rotting flesh. We saw people brushing their teeth and bathing beside putrid corpses. At the Magsaysay Boulevard, a 4 kilometer stretch of road by the bay, the pine trees have been uprooted and blown several meters away from where they once stood. Concrete posts were likewise pulled-off from their foundations. We saw firemen and policemen and volunteer rescue workers piling dead bodies and tagging them.

We passed by the red-light district where our neighbour-mayor owns a club. The ago-go dancers there pleaded that they already wanted to get out of there. The situation was starting to scare them and these were very jaded individuals. All of them looked like they haven’t changed clothes in the past four days. Anyhow, after having seen the real situation in Tacloban, Leni told me we should go and see how Marky and Anne Abesamis and their family were doing. Anne is Leah Villaflor’s cousin and the Abesamis family was host to Tarkan Pamuk, a German boy. We got off from Deo’s car and alternately biked and walked to the house. When we reached it, we found that Leah was there together with her family. So was Miguel the Mexican boy and Noemi the French girl. We wondered where the family of Rey Sabong was. Rey was the host father of Miguel. The only AFSer we had not heard from at that time was Anna, from Germany but I was already confident that the five Tacloban AFSers and all our volunteers were safe. Each one has a story of survival to tell.

Fortunately, the Abesamis house is located in an area where there was a weak cell phone signal compared to our place, which had none. We found a spot where we could send and receive messages. It was at that spot, by the window in one of the bedrooms that I received Nur Maba’s text that he was coming to “rescue” us. Reading his messages, I knew he had no idea what he was facing. But all of us could not explain the situation to him by text. Sending messages was hard and we were all conserving battery power because there was nowhere to charge our phones. There was an electric blackout in the entire city. So we just kept our fingers crossed that Nur and whoever would come with him would find their way to us. We went back home before darkness set in.

By this time, foreign aid agencies and militaries have started to arrive. Ironically, while the rest of the world knew what happened to Tacloban and the surrounding places, we did not even know what was happening in the next street corner. Our level of awareness was limited only to that which we saw and heard. Above, we could now regularly see the fascinating US Marine Ospreys flying sortie after sortie. They would fly above our house and we waved the German flag at them and also the Japanese and French and the Turkish flags which we kept as souvenirs from our hosted children. It didn’t occur to us to unfurl an American flag which might have gotten us attention. From the porch of our room, I could see the C-130 Hercules planes from the militaries of different countries approach our airport, which, though smashed was now already serviceable. The unceasing peculiar drone of the C-130s’ engines carried through the air, reaching our house, 6 kilometers from the airport. It was probably because there were no more buildings and trees that blocked and muffled the sound. Even the trees atop the hills bordering our city were now brown and bald. The trees that remained standing were without leaves. I saw birds flying in confused formation, not knowing where they would nest for the night. One crow, black as the evening, had the temerity, or maybe the desperation to find a perch in our backyard. My children and household help fed it occasionally for a few weeks until it finally flew away, returning to her untamed nature.

When the night came, Leni and I decided that we should leave Tacloban. It was already too dangerous for the children. With the flood waters not yet receding, the threat of disease loomed over the entire neighbourhood. Indeed, with all the dead bodies still unclaimed and littering the streets, there was a likelihood of an epidemic occurring in the whole of Tacloban. So we packed our bags and prepared to get out of there. But the problem was we did not have a vehicle. Our car was destroyed by the flood and a piece of GI sheet was blown to it, breaking the right front window into smithereens. According to Arrvine, the wind was so strong the car’s horn honked three times because of the air-pressure alone. So, without a car, we had to rethink our bug-out plan.

The following day (November 12), it rained, worsening the flood situation. We were also running out of food by that time. We were already drinking boiled rain-water. Our cooking gas supply was being depleted fast and there was no way to replenish it. And we could not cook using firewood because everything was wet. We took turns cooking at different houses in the neighbourhood to ration our cooking gas supply. My neighbours living in bungalows had to cook our food while standing in the flood. In the evening at about half past nine, while we were relaxing and drinking beer – yes, beer was available - we heard the sloshing of water, a sign that someone was approaching, wading through the flood. We were startled when a voice called out my name. It was our neighbour, Biboy, whose house is at the entrance of our dead-end street. He said people were looking for us. To our amazement, it was Nur Maba and Tin-tin Buranday from AFS Head Office!

After recovering from my initial shock, I invited them to come up. We were all squeezed together upstairs because the first floor was flooded. I asked how in God’s, or in Nurs case Allah’s name were they able to locate us? Consider these. We had no contact and it was their first time ever to come to Tacloban. There was no electricity so it was very dark. Candles were scarce because there were no stores open. Some of the roads were still impassable. Moreover, it was very dangerous. Rumours about rapes and killings and robberies abound. The previous night, we actually heard the staccato of gunfire. That Nur and Tin were able to find us like they had a homing device and unscathed at that was nothing short of a miracle.

So how were they able to locate us? Here’s their story insofar as I recall. First, they flew to Cebu where they brought supplies consisting of bags of rice, canned goods and noodles. And, now heavily laden, they crossed over to Ormoc City. Ormoc is 2.5 hours away from Cebu via the fast catamaran, Supercat. (Again, a map would be useful in this part of the story.) The city was also destroyed by the super-typhoon. It was not as devastated as Tacloban but ruined nonetheless and thus also without electricity and cell phone signal. So when Nur and Tin arrived there, it was already getting dark and they could not reach us or the Manila office. They knew no one there and they had nowhere to stay and no van or bus was available. So they hired a motorcycle. Imagine that they had with them a very heavy bag of what were supposed to be relief goods for the AFSers in Tacloban. In hindsight the scene was actually very comedic but at that time, it was not funny.

109 kilometers separate Ormoc and Tacloban. Straddling a motorcycle in that distance, in the dark, along a highway obstructed by fallen trees and debris while cradling a heavy bag will be very arduous, to say the least. Worse, the motorcycle ran out of fuel, so the driver claimed and had to return to Ormoc, leaving behind Nur and Tin in the middle of nowhere. While they were resting, and thinking of their next step, they saw a car at a nearby gasoline station, which was surprisingly still open. Tin-tin audaciously approached the driver and asked for a lift. The driver turned out to be Biboy, our neighbour. Biboy graciously allowed the two to ride with him, inquiring where they were going and what brought them there. Nur said they were going to Tacloban to see a Japanese boy. Biboy replied that he knew a Japanese living in a house of a neighbour. Biboy also told Nur and Tin-tin that he was from V&G, the same subdivision where I and the Abesamis as well as the Sabong families live.

To make a long story short, an amazing collusion of events led Nur and Tin-tin to us. This is probably one of the most fascinating AFS stories, ever. Given the circumstances, what are the possibilities that you will be left behind in a place where you know no one and meet a complete stranger who is a neighbour of the person you are looking for? And yet, the improbable happened. We divested the two of the relief goods they brought. Our food stocks would now last us three more days; enough time to scrounge and perhaps purchase from the few stores that were now starting to reopen, albeit offering items at very exorbitant prices. In the meantime, we rethought our plans to leave. Tin-tin and Nur told us that AFS Manila already coordinated with a certain General Deveraturda who “guaranteed” us a ride on a C-130 plane to Manila.

Thus informed, we confidently decided to leave the following day. We made ourselves comfortable and slept. All of us needed rest. Our entire family of three children and two adults, Kentaro and Arrvine as well as Nur and Tin-tin plus 5 neighbours, one of whom is suffering from cancer, left the following day, November 14. Some of our neighbours remained to guard the premises. Our very dependable household help, Dansoy (known to all my hosted children) stayed behind too. We trudged carefully through the flood. Being wounded in that condition would be an unpleasant thought. My children, all boys, aged 14, 9 and 7, were uncomplaining. Kentaro acted like a big brother to the younger kids. Nobody whined and I am very proud of them for that. When we reached the area of the subdivision that was not flooded, I was already tired. I was balancing on top of my head a huge bag full of clothes. I was also carrying my heavy backpack. It was a very sunny and hot day. The stress of the past few days, the lack of sleep and the heavy load plus the concern for my family were starting to eat at me physically.

We tried hailing pedicabs (pedal powered tricycles), offering one thousand pesos for a ride to the airport for each pedicab. In normal times, the fare for a pedicab is only five pesos per passenger. That is how desperate we were. But the pedicab drivers refused! They said the road to the airport was still littered with decomposing bodies. They also said they were scared of “ghosts”. Yes, ghosts in the middle of a very hot day. At one point, Tin-tin approached policemen who had a patrol car and an armoured personnel carrier. Alas, the policemen did not have enough fuel to ferry passengers. Running out of options, we walked.

The airport is roughly 6 kilometers from V&G and the road to it was, at that time, piled with debris and decomposing cadavers. My wife is a runner and has a very high threshold of pain and level of endurance. She has never been squeamish. I had no doubts that she could cope physically and mentally with what we were going through. She has always been my family’s strength. I was more worried about our children. I did not want their young minds to be marred by the sight of death and devastation. They have always been lovers of the sea. What would they think now of going to the beach? With these thoughts, I trudged along. My youngest child, Job, still a tot, holding on to his mother. Fortunately, a neighbour passed by driving his motorcycle. He said he could drive Leni and Job and the huge bag I was lugging to the airport. But he could no longer come back for the rest of us because he had no more fuel.

Jed, the eldest and Kentaro walked fast. Jan, my second child tried to keep up with the pace. He is the competitive one. Tin-tin was like an aunt checking on us from time to time. We all silently walked through the ruined district of San Jose, wondering who the dead bodies that lay along the road were. Nur and I walked far behind. Nur, because he was busy taking pictures. I was simply tired. Since all the trees have fallen, nothing provided any shade and the heat of the sun was scorching. Earthmoving vehicles and military trucks honked their way past us. Nur and I managed to clamber aboard a Philippine Air Force 6x6 truck. I was so exhausted I would have allowed myself to be dragged so I could have a respite from walking. As we rolled by and approached the vicinity of the airport, I saw more dead bodies, now in cadaver bags lined up alongside the road. People staggered on. They no longer minded the sight. In that part of the city alone, more than 3000 perished. Nature is still the worst mass killer.

When we reached the airport, it was utter bedlam. Hundreds of people desperate to get out of the city were almost at the tarmac’s periphery. Some were weeping openly, begging the soldiers guarding the area to be allowed on a C-130 flight. I sympathized with them but we had problems of our own. At that point, my primary concern was my family and my companions. The rest of the poor people huddled there were competitors to that slot on a C-130. Leni and Job, who went ahead aboard the motorcycle were already inside the “waiting area” a fenced part of the airport underneath the control tower. Within it was also a makeshift clinic manned by foreign medical aid workers and Philippine Department of Health doctors. By sheer strength of character and grit, and mentioning that magic name General Deveraturda (bless him) Tin-tin was able to persuade the armed guard to let our group in. We settled in a corner of a small building inside the fenced area, drinking as much water as possible.

In our haste, we forgot to bring enough water which made us parched walking under the heat of the sun. We saw Anderson Cooper of CNN and a comely lady newscaster from Hongkong who wore boots. Under the circumstances, she was very sexy; a pleasant sight in an unpleasant setting. There were Japanese reporters who interviewed Kentaro. He was interviewed several more times which made him a “star” in Japan. Ken’s sister, who was spending her exchange student days in Australia “envied” him because she never turned out to be a star like him. Speaking of Australia, the Aussies were among the first to bring help to the Haiyan struck areas. I saw a burly Australian general together with a US Marine colonel talking.

In the duration of our stay at the airport, we witnessed the mighty US military at its best. Only the Americans have the wherewithal to fly to far flung locations that needed immediate help. Ospreys, C-130s and Seahawk helicopters were hovering, landing and taking off constantly, bringing in supplies, rescue workers and sometimes transporting medical patients. One thing I observed was that their engines were never turned off. The Americans have lots of fuel to burn. The US Marines directed airport tarmac traffic, wielding those glowing wand-like devices to guide the pilots and the operators of the lifting machines that transported the bundles of aid materials from the planes to the stocking areas beside the airport. These happened all throughout the day while we waited for our C-130 flight. The children watched in awe.

Every time a C-130 would land, we would rush to the queuing area, hopeful that the plane would be our ride. We were disappointed several times. The Philippines only has three C-130 planes and they were being utilized to the maximum. The pilots were fatigued and everyone was already edgy. Even Gen. Deveraturda no longer fazed the colonel pilot of the Air Force who shouted to us that we should wait. A major even suggested that we should all just buy commercial tickets so we could get out of there. Yes, at the cost of a foot and an arm. So we waited. Outside of the fence, the people – some of whom have been waiting there for the past two days – were suffering. They had no food, no water and no roof over their heads. When it rained, they got drenched. When it was sunny they had no shade. Fortunately, a soldier took it upon himself to offer food and water to the people. There was enough. All the food aid came through and were stacked right there at the airport. What was needed was a distribution system.

When evening came, the older children, including Kentaro laid down on a fallen chicken-wire fence, which served well as a makeshift bed. I carried Job to a baggage cart, the one used to transport the bags to and from the airport terminal. It is made of metal and its surface is cold. Job and I laid down on it, a piece of cloth serving as a rug. I embraced my son to provide him with some warmth. The airport is right beside the sea so I could hear the lash of the waves on the breakwater, a stone’s throw away. Remarkably, my son and I fell asleep in that uncomfortable position. I woke up after feeling someone poking at me. It was a military man, a sentry. I thought he wanted us out of there. Instead he surprised me when he handed me a sweater with a hood. I have kept it. It is coloured purple with green lining, an atrocious colour combination, but I value it. It is a memento of those unforgettable times when a tough military man demonstrated his gentle side. My son and I snuggled closer to each other and went back to sleep.

We were awakened by the deafening roar of a plane that just landed. It was another USAF C-130 plane disgorging more stuff. I was hoping we could ride this one but we were told it was going back to Okinawa, Japan. A Malaysian C-130 plane also landed. After being emptied of the aid material it brought, it flew back to Malaysia. All of us who were hoping to have a ride looked at it sadly as its lights blinked and disappeared in the starlit night. We were no longer able to sleep after that. The planes have started landing and taking off again.

And finally the PAF C-130 plane arrived, and we were filled with hope and excitement. We were told that the next flight was going to Cebu, not Manila, our original destination. We decided to take it anyway. So we joined the line. Ten lines at twenty people each line. Separate lines for the sickly, the men, the women and the children. The behemoth was going to take in 200 passengers. It would be thrilling, we all thought. We trooped to the plane but were instructed to leave our bags at the aircraft’s mouth. We entered, all the while being instructed to move closer to each other so we could all be accommodated. It was very hot and suffocating. I looked up at the exposed parts of the plane. It was like being in the belly of a beast with metal intestines. After ensuring that we were all inside, airmen stacked our bags on the retracting platform at the aft of the plane. Suddenly, cool air-conditioned air came out of vents above us and the platform where our bags were started rising. Our bags slid inside. Amidst the din of the engine, an airman shouted at us to “sit down” because we were about to take off. He must have been joking because there was no more space to move, squeezed as we all were against each other.

The plane rolled into position, accelerating to take off speed, the turbo-prop engines exerting its massive power. That was the first time I rode a plane standing up and hope it was the last. Still, I have to say it was quite exhilarating. For one companion who was also celebrating her birthday, it was her first plane ride. Certainly, that would be a birthday she will never forget. She started to hyperventilate. An airman tried to reassure her that a PAF C-130 has never crashed to which I said please, don’t use that term, drawing laughter from the now jolly crowd inside that jam-packed military plane. I looked at Kentaro and the children. They seemed to be having the time of their lives. Even Nur and Tin-tin appeared to be enjoying everything, even if they looked really exhausted. After all, who among the people in Japan and even the Philippines can claim to have been a passenger of a C-130 plane? This was one shared experience that will bind us forever and be a source of embellished stories for years to come."

*Written by a fraternity brother of a Filipino Association member.