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A Taclobanon’s week

I have immersed myself in Tacloban since we came home last Saturday. And here’s my daily routine since the super typhoon Haiyan/Yolanda sashayed into our lives.

SUNDAY

We wake up early, and try to cook and eat in the darkness. Since there is still no electricity and most of the malls have been slaughtered by the hands of man and nature, there are no more places to spend the “Family Day”. We spend it at home, as we make constant repairs to make our home at least look normal. Then we go to church, have dinner and hope to go home before dark. The streets are still unlit, making the usual driving a hassle as we try to avoid bumps on the road. When we reach home, we instantly feel sleepy, as there are no other ways to occupy ourselves. We fall asleep before eight.

MONDAY – FRIDAY

Since I have school, I wake up earlier than normal, and try to cook by flashlight. Once everyone is finished, I take a bath in very cold waters, since the weather has been very gloomy. Then the war for a jeepney begins. Since the storm, Tacloban has lost 50% of it’s public utility vehicles, making the daily commute close to impossible since a lot of us struggle for a ride. Once I do get on a jeep, there is that twenty minute ride, where we pass by Anibong, the village where five boats still stand over houses. When I reach school, after paying twenty pesos(from the normal 15) for my ride, there is the scene of destruction. And with the rain pouring hard, classes are postponed.

So when I don’t have classes, I go to the downtown area. And everywhere, I mean everywhere, you’d see the destruction. Broken windows, roofless buildings, pulverised cement and overturned vehicles. It is really a heartbreaking state, especially for someone used to seeing Tacloban in it’s full life. Now, it looks half dead. There are businesses open, yes, but some are overpriced, and there are a lot of scarce things. There are some streets that have been energised, but not all.

When you try to buy pork, fish or veggies in Tacloban, they’re not only expensive, but you also have to cook them that very day. Since there are no refrigerators (since there isn’t any electricity), you have to cook the food to preserve them.

For those sending packages, you have to wait at least 3 days before claiming them at the post office.

Hot food is a rare commodity, which explains why you have to fight for your favorite kind of bread.

Everything has a LINE. And not just any line, a very long line. To eat at a restaurant, there’s a line. To withdraw from a bank/ATM, there’s a line. To get your package, there’s a line. For relief goods, there’s a line. To get into a hospital, there’s a line. It just shows how abnormal everything is.

When I go home, which is before 4pm, I try to catch a jeep again. And when I do, it’s another ride through Anibong, to the places that were severed by the storm. And when I get home, I try to cook in the dark again, hoping that I wouldn’t cook the food rare or burnt.

SATURDAY

Since it’s the weekend, we all try to do our little own thing. For me, it’s trying to find a power source (since everything needs electricity these days) so I could write on my device. That means going to downtown again.

All this in one week, not to mention the non stop rains and the flooded roads.

The Taclobanons proved themselves to be survivors of this world record storm. If things are hard two months after the storm, what about the first few weeks? They had so little, and had to battle for the survival of their family members and themselves.

The world seems to slowly forget about the city that was once in full bloom, uprooted in three hours. I hope you don’t.

To read more about the Haiyan/Yolanda experience, click here: http://dimperfectprincess.blogspot.com/search/label/haiyan

Two sides of the coin

There are two sides to every coin.

When President Aquino stated that our Mayor was unprepared for Haiyan, that was his side of the story. He pointed fingers like a 5 year old child, his middle finger pointing to our beloved mayor. People rallied behind our childish president, and insulted our mayor too.

Let’s flip the coin.

If you’ve been reading my blog for a long time, then you’d know that my first interview as a writer was with the Mayor himself. To say I was in awe by his presence and his train of thought would be an understatement. He was a man with dreams of making Tacloban the best. He took what his predecessor left him and turned it into gold. Tacloban became a model of a great city, a place that boomed with such greatness than it was before. National malls and investors came in, with people moving to Tacloban in hope of a better future. When I was talking to him, he was a man with a purpose, a man with drive. Tacloban became a Highly Urbanized City under his reign.

He was on his final term when Haiyan struck. And it couldn’t have been more of a bad timing.

A week before Haiyan, the officers of Tacloban already began to make plans on how to cope with the storm. They planned out evacuation centers, relief goods and consulted with the mayor about preparedness. On the night before, people were evacuating to the places they were assigned to, complete with the needs of the people such as food and water. Everything was set.

Then all hell broke lose.

After the storm, rumors of the Mayor going around Tacloban in his motorcycle surfaced. His house was practically washed out, his family all in danger. He was a survivor of the storm, and I think a lot of people forgot about that fact.

He then went to his office, only to be faced with other officers and policemen who were still dazed after the storm. Some of them were missing, some were struggling to put a roof over their heads. When he was denied again and again by our president, he was frustrated. When the interior secretary, who is the right hand man of the president, told him to step down and let the national government take over, he said no. He didn’t see the need to step down because as far as he was concerned, the President of the Philippines was also the President of Tacloban. The national government could take over Tacloban without him resigning as Mayor.

And so it began.

The people of Tacloban struggled to eat, as the food from relief went to the provinces where the national government took over. It seemed that the President was leaving Tacloban to fend for itself, all because our Mayor was his political enemy. It was a struggle for Mayor Alfred, as he tried to lift Tacloban on his shoulders. He was either outside his office as he did what he could to save his citizens, or he was fighting demons in the form of out President and his right hand man. It was a feat that no leader had to go through, but he didn’t back out.

Today, there was a hearing to talk about the response to Haiyan. His statements were heartbreaking. Here are some of them: (Mar Roxas is the interior or DILG secretary)

And the reactions of those who were on the President’s side were insensitive. Just like the president. They reacted as if they were there during the storm. Just like the president.

If you can’t understand some of the comments, they’re criticizing the mayor as incompetent. As if they could do better.

So now, the two sides of the coin has been shown to the public and no the public is left to their own opinions. As for me, I stay by our Mayor’s side. I was in Tacloban 8 days after the storm. I can justify to what our Mayor has poured out, as my family and I did not receive any help from the national government the whole time that we were there. If the President really wanted to help, then it would have been felt by our family who struggled everyday to find food for us.

Which side of the coin are you part of?

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To those who want to read about the Mayor’s typhoon experience: http://www.abs-cbnnews.com/focus/12/09/13/ghost-tacloban-weeps-recalls-typhoon-horror

“Normal”

My mother went to Tacloban last weekend to check on how things are, since the media has shown us that Tacloban is getting back to “normal”. Our Interior Secretary, Mar Roxas, even said that “The worst is over.” I was hoping for some good news from my mom, like how we could go home earlier as planned.

How wrong I was.

According to her, Tacloban was far from okay. The pictures and videos that were shown on the TV were all chosen spots in the city. The stench of the dead still remained, as some of the dead were buried under debris or were still not taken by authorities. There were still news of robbery and murder, by desprate people who are in need of shelter and food. The offices are not yet functional, since there were no computers to use. The people walked like zombies, their eyes sunken and their direction had no goal. Trash were mixed with the bodies, and a lot of towns were still not passable. There are still boats on the shoreline that trampled houses and the schools have become homes for those who lost theirs.

So where was the millions of money donated by the international aid?

Probably deep in the pockets of those who were meant to give them to the public. Most of the Taclobanons, including my dad who have stayed their for over a week to guard our house, have not received any goods. None. Nada. We don’t have available house materials, which meant that the people’s houses could not be rebuilt. It was still chaos in Tacloban, and we are no where near to normal.

When it was night, it was dead silent. You could hear a pebble being thrown from two houses away. Since there was a curfew, no one roamed the streets. Yet you’d hear someone screaming in the distance. You’d hear gunshots. It was terribly terrifying, yet people of Tacloban endured it.

And now that the international media has left our grounds, we are all being fooled by our local media, some controlled by the government. There is no truth, all bias.

The whole world needs to know that Tacloban is far from being normal. That what are fed to the others are lies. Other survivors are either dying from hunger, or have been killed. My mother and father are witnesses to the lies of the media and the government. I hope you share this, to show that we are still struggling. We cannot stand when we’re being crippled by the media.

Tacloban will rise, but only if we are properly helped.

*all pictures taken by my mom when she was there

My beloved, my Tacloban

Tacloban.

How I miss waking up in the morning and seeing the light of the sun fill up our room. When I look out the window, I would see the sun peaking on the east, resting on tip of the island near the city. How I miss trying to catch a jeepney, usually full of passengers, cursing the way time seemed to go faster when I was late for school. I miss squeezing in with the other passengers, with mothers carrying their children, teens with their eyes stuck to their dog-eared notes, kids sticking their head out the window though they’ve been scolded over and over again, and all their convetsations easily understood.

I miss looking at the neighborhoods that the jeep would pass by, how I memorized when to make the sign of the cross with every church, how I knew every turn and how the passengers would bump into each other when the driver would hit the breaks harshly.

I miss riding the motorcycle to school, how I memorized every street, was in awe with every new establishment, and felt giddy whenevrer I saw a cute guy walking on the street. I miss the conversations some drivers would open, mostly about what has been happening in the city. I miss seeing the stores open, the clanging of their steel doors resounding through the street. I miss running towards my room, with friends teasing me for being late again as I rushed.

I miss going to downtown to have lunch, the streets filled with students and employees in familiar tailored uniforms. I miss waiting in line at the restaurant, as the women in front of me gossiped about their coworkers. I miss going “store hopping”, as I easily go in and out department stores and thrift shops, making a mental wishlist of what to save for next. I miss going to Sto. Niño Church for a mass, or even just to light a candle worth one peso. I miss struggling to get into a motorcycle back to school, as most drivers were having their lunch too.

I miss going home in the afternoon, the city slowly lulling itself to sleep as the fight for jeepneys start again. I miss standing at the jeepney stop, saying “hi” to former classmates and friends that I would see. I miss falling asleep in the jeep, resting on my arm as the driver waited for passengers to fill his vehicle. I miss seeing the city lights as we passed them by, and feeling excited whenever I got a peak at the big construction cranes that was labeled with a big time mall’s logo. I miss seeing the sea near the market, the way it twinkled with the night light.

I miss the noise of the market as employees still in uniform try to strike deals with the vendors for a cheaper price with their products. I miss those preachers, armed with either a megaphone or a microphone, who would read verses from the bible to those who wanted to listen as they stood on a make shift platform on the old waiting shed. I miss the foul stench of rotten vegetables as the local trash collectors rounded it all up onto one container.

I miss passing by the neighborhoods once again, with parents going inside their houses from a hard day’s work. I miss the traffic that big trucks would start, as they turn towards their respective parking lots I miss the barking of our dog whenever he would see me open our gate. I miss the way I would scream “I’m hoooome!” and get a kiss from my youngest sister as I entered our house.

I miss going to sleep around twelve in the morning, my eyes drooping from either studying or writing another story.

I miss my dear Tacloban, the city I’ve lived in for most of my life. And as it struggles to stand, amidst corrupt and opportunist politicians and its citizens fleeing to other places, I know that it will rise again. It will rise again not because people want to, but because it needs to.

Tacloban is not just a place. It is not just a city. It is almost human, caring for its citizens for years. Tacloban helped raised people with values, with a positive outlook in life, and people with ambitions that are strong enough to move mountains. And now that Tacloban is hurting, it is about time its children began to pay back.

Taclobanons, we shall rise again. Let’s not just return Tacloban as it once was, but let us make it even better. Tacloban, you will rise again!

Meeting Haiyan: The first hand experience

It’s been more than a week since the super typhoon, but I remember it like it just happened.

When I woke up at around 5 am, it was dark, since our electricity was already cut a few hours ago. Since our bedroom had glass doors, I could clearly see the trees bending and about to break, the clouds in a dangerous grey. I knew that Haiyan was bearing its teeth, smiling evilly. I knew that it has landed in Guiuan, the eastern side of Samar which was a three hour drive from Tacloban. I had three hours to get my family ready, as it was estimated to hit our city at eight that morning. The house began to creek and the wind began to whistle. We joked around, saying that the wind knew how to whistle and my sister could not. Little did we know, that the wind would soon whistle harder.

Since my mom couldn’t get home from Manila because of a work training, it was just me, my three siblings, my grandmother and my aunt at home. I started my day like it was normal, deciding to cook chicken for breakfast. Our kitchen was located at our grandmother’s house, a door away from our own house. The wind outside began to pick up, the rain accompanying the storm. My siblings went to my grandmother’s room, which was located on the first floor. Since I could not check on the house myself, I asked my brother to go to our living room to make sure things are fine.

That was the last normal thing that happened.

The roof of our garage began to strip itself, hurling towards my grandmother’s garden. Their dog was barking furiously, but we were afraid to go out because of the wind. The water from the outside poured through the roof, the drip drops becoming a slow stream of water. When I finished cooking, I checked on my brother who still did not return. Our main door, which was a huge and made of wood, was threatening to burst open because of the wind. He blocked the door with two of our strongest chairs, whose width covered most of the door.

I went back to my grandmother’s house to check on them, my feet were met by rainwater on the floor. One of the wood that framed the window suddenly flew towards the floor, and water came rushing in. Just when I thought it could not get worse, one of the wooden panels of our roof fell. With the two holes providing the water a way to get in the house, I led my grandmother and aunt towards our house. I went towards our room to fetch my phone, but the room was already wet. The culprit? Our door was already open, the glass sliding door before it was already in pieces. The roof was shaking, our ceiling fan looking like it was hanging by a thread. I frantically called my brother and my sister, and we tried to push our bed towards the door. But it only made matters worse, making the other door open with force. We decided to take the important things towards my brothers room, like our files, gadgets and such. The heavy drawers felt like lightweight, as the adrenalin started to kick in. Outside you could see the outline of the EYE of the storm, hovering and as threatening as it could be.

My grandmother’s house was already full of water, which could be seen from our window. My grandmother began to cry hysterically, mumbling and praying. My sister began to cry too, feeling hopeless and praying that our house wouldn’t be destroyed. I tried my best to calm them down, suggesting that we go downstairs for breakfast. When my eyes landed on my brother, his arms were clutching the wooden chair, the door still fighting the wind. He told us to hurriedly eat, his voice shaking as he used his strength on the chair. We all hurriedly lit our candles, prayed then began to eat.

But when I heard my sister shriek, I noticed the water in our living room. Water was rushing from our main door and from the door leading towards our grandmother’s house, and another rush of adrenalin began to surge in my veins. I told them to pack everything; the canned goods, the biscuit and even the newly cooked chicken, and run upstairs. My brother was still struggling with the door as we packed everything in our plastic container. The water was already at our knees when we rushed towards the stairs. By the time I reached my brother, which was just seconds, the huge window which was as tall as our main door exploded, the water surging towards us. My brother let go of the door as he helped my grandmother who almost fell because of the impact of water.

They all went upstairs, and I was left behind as I remembered the lamp and the matches. But by the time I stepped onto our living room the water was already at my chest level. The match, which was in my mouth as I carried the lamp , fell onto the water as I screamed for my brother. All our furniture began to flow towards me, the heavy chairs and desks blocking my way. In that second I thought that it was the end, I thought that I would die.

When my brother peeked from the stairs, I began to swam frantically towards him, giving him my things. Our dog swam beside me, reaching the stairs before I did. I don’t know how I did it, but I stretched my leg and climbed the tenth stair and ran towards the second floor. The wind coming from our room blew as hard as it could as I went towards the girl’s room. It was spacey, and the farthest room in the house. It was also the only room that had minimal water on the floor since water only came from the roof, which was just luckily small drips.

When we got there we were all shaken, and began to pray the rosary. It seemed to calm us, though the wind sounded like a huge car revving up, like vrooooooom. The roaring of the wind began to shake our house like an earthquake, deafening our hearing as our ears seemed to pop like we were inside a pressured airplane. We began to cover the documents with our blankets, insuring that they would be dry. That was when I checked the time: it was only nine in the morning, four hours since I woke up. We tried to eat, but food seemed to lose its taste. When my brother and I checked our window that faced our stairs, the flood reached the third step from the top of the stairs. And outside (we looked through a broken window that faced the west side of the house) the water was taller outside than inside. My brother and I feared that the water would enter the second floor, so we planned to climb our double deck bed in case. We went back to the room to soothe our crying grandmother and sisters.

But do you know the best part? We were soon laughing, joking as if there wasn’t a storm outside. There were moments when we would be quiet, and the wind would take it as a cue to roar again. For two more hours we stayed in that room, praying more, quivering from the storm. And when we got the strength to go downstairs, my heart dropped to my stomach with what I saw.

Our two gates were broken, and the one stuck to cement fell towards the house. Our two big windows were broken, the door still intact but and had a lot of scratches. All of my mother’s big vases were broken, leaving only the little ones. The floor was covered in mud and uncooked riceAll of our pictures were either smudged or covered with mud. . The furniture were all scattered, none of them in their previous places. Shattered glass were everywhere. And when we got to take a look outside, it was worse. Every house was either see through, had no roof, or washed out. The small stores were flooded, and roads were covered with trees.

The storm was gone, but our problems merely started.

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Phew. I tried my best not to cry as I wrote that post. It was simply nerve racking. I will post some pictures of our house on the next blog post. Above you can see a new portion of my blog labeled “The Haiyan Experience” I will post the eight days that I stayed in Tacloban after the storm, before we moved here in Cebu. Please follow my blog if you’d like to read more.

On a lighter note, I was published on the “Thick Jam” website, my story is the first you’d see on the site. If you want to read that story, which was submitted a week before the storm, here’s the site: www.thickjam.com

Ms. Tippity Toe

Tiptoe, tiptoe, turn, glide, head up, hands in third position, and smile.

Do you know how it feels to unleash everything you feel into one song? To move the way your heart beats, and to keep dancing even when the music is over? I know exactly how that feels. Ever since I was five when I first saw ballerinas twirl on a magical box called the television, I was in love. I was more into dancing when I saw mom’s old ballerina pics, and I knew it was fate. And so my dancing adventures began.

During my first recital at 6 years old

When I was six I tried my hand in Hawaiian dancing for the summer, and I pretty much rocked it. I felt my first rush as being on stage, dancing to my little heart’s delight. When I was seven I tried ballet, but I got lazy and didn’t even finish summer school. And I let the years roll, thinking I was too old to learn again. It wasn’t until I was thirteen that I tried again, both ballet and in jazz this time. It was a lot of fun, being able to meet wonderful people and learn how to dance as well. I got to learn how to split by the end of the summer, and I was hooked!

My ballet recital when I was thirteen

During that same year, I joined the school’s dance club, the Artiste. A spark in me ignited my love for contemporary dance. You didn’t have to have a perfect form, as long as you expressed yourself. And I was addicted to it. I continued dancing for the group till I was fifteen.

The Artiste

I graduated, and got into college. That summer, my sister was enrolled in a summer dance class. And after seeing her dance recital, I wanted another chance in dancing. So the next summer, I did. I was almost the eldest in the class since I was sixteen. I didn’t care though. I still made friends worth keeping and dance steps worth remembering.

Alice in Wonderland, June 2012

At school, I was assigned to do doxologies. For those who doesn’t know, a doxology is a dance during prayer. I was in seventh heaven. I could express without worrying about choreography. I could dance freely without anyone questioning me. And the best part was, I was serving Him.

During one of my doxologies in Robinsons Tacloban

And so my love for dancing never really died, and this summer I enrolled again in dancing. Although I still had the chills whenever I was on stage, I still danced as if it was my last. And I know when I grow up I’d mercilessly enrol my first child, whether he/she may be a boy or a girl, into dancing. Hopefully turning them into the ballerinas who danced on TV. 🙂

Every child is a star, June 2013

In the end, I do believe that there’s a dance for someone out there. That even those dubbed as someone who can’t dance can dance to the beat of their own drum. The best part about dancing is expressing yourself. That when you step on that stage, all your life problems becomes a little dot. It won’t matter if you’re chubby, short, or your legs aren’t too long, it’s just you and the stage and that beat in your heart. Everyone who has the heart and passion can dance, because when a person is really willing anything is possible. 🙂

A writer’s first: Interview

Last June 14, my mom dropped a bombshell. I was going to interview Tacloban’s beloved mayor, Alfred Romualdez. As she instructed me about what I should do, my hand was literally shaking. I just couldn’t believe it. For those who don’t know, I am currently a Junior Writer for Espejo Magazine, a lifestyle magazine here in region eight. I started just before the school ended, checking off something in my bucket list that said “Work for a magazine.” I was ecstatic to say the least, knowing I could be a part of something new.

And even though I have been writing for almost 5 years, this has been my first interview ever. And lucky me, I scored an interview with Tacloban’s Mayor! As you could imagine I was all jittery and nervous as I read the set of questions that my mom prepared for me. I imagined how’d I’d act, and surprisingly, I wasn’t nervous anymore as the Espejo team reached his home.

When I entered his house, I imagined a huge staircase and porcelain walls like in the movies, but I was surprised to see just a humble house, filled with everything they need. When the Mayor graced us with his presence, he certainly wasn’t intimidating as I imagined. He was hospitable and got right to the point. When Sir Michael (one of Espejo’s prestiged editors) and I sat down with the mayor, all my fear ceased and confidence was my new bestfriend. I pipped in whenever necessary, and the interview went well. I surprised to know so much about Tacloban in the span of two hours than I ever did my whole life.

You could tell by the way he spoke that he was passionate about what he did, and he was truly wise. He was down to earth, and he really didn’t leave anything out. he believes in transparency, that the people should be aware about the things happening to their beloved city. He wants Tacloban to grow into a more productive city, because he believes it has so much potential. He was just a mediator for all of the good things to happen to Tacloban.

After the interview, we ate with the mayor who told us jokes and more stories. I am proud to say that at seventeen years old, I got to talk with a visionary who loved Tacloban more than anyone else could. I loved my first interview, and if you want to know what the “Man at Helm” told us, you have to grab the latest issue of Espejo Magazine! 🙂