TWENTY-ONE: POSTCRIPT TO HAIYAN ( a life behind a number)

Tacloban Airport porters (number 21 not in sight)

Daniel Z. Romualdez Airport, City of Tacloban, the 9th of April 2014, exactly five months after Haiyan brought the Visayas and the Philippines unto its knees, I stepped out of an Air Asia flight, my first after that fateful morning of November 8, 2013.

Slowly but clearly, Tacloban is en route to recovery and re-development even if some political animals are fighting to the nines in trying to claim 'ownership' of the on-going rehabilitation efforts that is still not enough for the typhoon victims and international community that played a critical role in easing out the burden and unimaginable misery of the lives severely affected and impacted by Haiyan's wrath.

I cannot contain my emotions. It was hard seeing for the first time the city that has been a huge part of my life. I spent my college years  in Tacloban and lived in nearby Paterno Kings, one of the areas severely hit by Haiyan. I started my career in broadcast at the now 'dead-air' DYDW Radyo-Diwa. Haiyan brought the station to deafening silence, destroying everything that got in the way. We pioneered producing the first ever waray-waray radio dramas that many Waraynons came to love. I spent the good one third of my life in Tacloban. The city where I started making my dreams happen while enjoying the line of barbecue stalls along the downtown strip and frequenting Diorico's bakery every time I have extra money to spare on their breads. It was a part of my life well-spent and well-remembered until now.

The rain was pouring hard, the skies turned black and cried endlessly as if remembering the more than six thousand lives Haiyan claimed in a single blow of super storm and raging waters. An airport crew handed me an umbrella and slowly, I made my way to the ravaged airport. My heart was beating fast that I can hear it making an endless sound of faint booms and thuds.

I immediately saw the line of men in white and blue shirts with numbers on their left chest, the porters, the friends of weary and luggage-heavy travelers. My eyes wandered, looking for a familiar sight, a wave, a face, a smile, a number...twenty-one.

But there was none. There he was not. The burly man with the gentle lines of his years etched on his face. He with the shy smile and dependable helping hand. There wasn't he who always welcome me with the usual 'ilan po ang baggage nyo ma'am?'. There he was not to carry my load until I am safely settled in a vehicle that would bring me to my next destination. 

Sadness swept over me as maddening thoughts entered my mind. Could it be that the life behind number twenty-one was among Haiyan's victims? I said a prayer of gratitude and hope. Gratitude for knowing him and for the time he spent securing my luggage everytime I set foot at the airport. A prayer of hope, wishing to heavens  that I was wrong.

The other porters knew of the bond that I and Manong 21 had. It took another porter to calm my nerves down, but then, the news. 'Ma'am wala na po si 21'. Panicked ran through my blood again. My heart sanked and I nearly choke in tears. 

'Kasama ba sya sa na-yolanda?' I asked.

'Hindi po ma'am'.  

He survived. 

Twenty-one found a better job.  

The view from the plane

The sadness that was Haiyan

 Waiting & hoping

 Displaced lives everywhere.

 Unspoken sadness. Tormented sorrow

 Ray of Hope. Camella roofings restored. Thanks to the generosity of Vista Land's boss and billionaire Manny Villar who donated more than P20M to bring back the 'normalcy' in his ravaged housing communities

With or without politics, Tacloban will rise again

'We fight, get beaten, 

but we rise and fight again'

-Nathanael Greene