Frank: A Personal Retrospection

By Herman Lagon

(This article was published 13 years ago with the author narrating his and his mentor’s ‘death-defying’ experience during the Typhoon Frank tragedy in Iloilo)

It was an experience of life, death, and loads of Toblerone.

That weekend I thought it was just the typical, brownout-causing typhoon. With the backdrop of a biblically deluge-like downpour, I wantonly slept myself away from 11 p.m. of Friday (June 20) until 11 a.m. of Saturday (June 21). I thought to myself, this typhoon will pass, and I need all the rest that I can to recharge for my school chores in the Ateneo de Iloilo next week.

Half conscious, I went down to our house toilet to take a leak. As I stepped on the tiled floorboard which has a foot depression from our main floor, I was greeted by water all over the place. It was light brownish rainwater turning our comfort room into a kiddies’ swimming pool!

But it didn’t surprise me a bit. I said to myself, Jaro is just like this every time heavy rain falls; there is almost a fictional working drainage system at all to start with. More so, our place is near the lowland CPU area. Water peeping some inches away from our floor and a warning siren squealing all over the place is just normal, very ordinary.

When I turned on the battery-powered radio, details of a flashflood are described as if it were the end of the world by screaming reporters. I told myself this is another typical sensationalized broadcasting modus operandi employed by people in the airwaves just to gain the alluring temptation of ratings.

So I tried to go back to my lovely inviting bed and doze out myself anew for an hour. Then, the great shocker: my daughters, Psyche and Parvane, whom I also convinced to sleep and save energy for the next tasking Ateneo week of schoolwork, woke me up and informed me that the water has turned from dirty white to Milo brown, and it is rising very fast. I immediately went out of our mezzanine floor and got stunned by what was taking place. Everything on the main floor and in our small backyard, including my motorcycle, was swimming, engulfed by muddy waters that smelled like it came from the boondocks.

So, a science teacher like I am, I then took data from the radio and approximated the rate of increase in the water level. It was providential perhaps that my cellphone was just charged in school the other night and so I had the luxury of texting my other colleagues, asking about their state in real-time. Most of the replies seemed to be just a replay of what the radio onsite reporters are talking about.

And then, at 11:40 a.m., a text from my principal Ma’am Au came, telling me that the main floor of her house at Brgy. Cuartero, Jaro (just about 600 meters away from our house) is already ravaged by the “mud flood” with “hehehe” after the message. I thought it was just a joke, a coping mechanism by my ever-strong-willed mentor. But based on the radio dispatches, the area was indeed a Frank “hot spot.”

And so I texted my principal back asking her if she’s alone in her house, knowing that her busy, on-call medical doctor daughter is not always in the house. She replied an hour later, saying: “I am alone and I am now on top of my bed with Jake (her Labrador dog).”

And that’s the cue. Although she didn’t tell me to go there and help, the graphic description of my 60-or-so boss standing on top of her bed surrounded by floodwaters is enough to signal danger.

But deciding to go there is not that easy to make, for going there means leaving my family, also under Frank attack. I said to myself, it must not be a pick between one over the other. I must decide by measured deduction.

And so, I devised a plan. I told myself I have to use science to make the right calculated choice. I am, in the first place, a physics teacher to start with. Juxtaposing the records like the path of the scheming typhoon, the descriptive air reports, the rate of increase in flood tide as to the normal ocean tide, the source of the flash flood, wind direction, and the manner of rainfall, I theorized that the most likely maximum flood height will be reached at around 1:30 p.m.

And so, I waited and found out that the rising of the water seemingly stopped at 2 p.m. Only then, that I decided to go and “visit” Ma’am Au. So I changed, left my cellphone in my school bag, and placed P200 bills and my identification card in my side pocket just in case.

Wearing a black “Teatro Atenista” shirt and dark-brownish, baggy shorts, I braved through the stomach-deep, river-like 300-m stretch of Lopez Jaena, Jaro. In just a few steps, I already realized that the slippers that I wore were useless due to the 6-inch-deep mud that I am walking on. So I have to wade through barefoot (good thing I didn’t have any open wounds that time).

I tried the first pass via the CPU fifth gate route, but I retreated back due to the rising, gushing tide. As I braved through the Lopez Jaena stretch, I tried to pass through Fajardo Street from the other end, but it was worse than the previous one. At the intersection of Lopez Jaena and Fajardo, the current of the seemingly flash mud flood reminded me of the great Niagara Falls, only that this time it is scary rather than lovely. Here, I can already hear the raucous splash of the angry water.

My third-way choice was the Santa Isabel Street, just a block away from Fajardo. But it was again “unpassable,” even the six-by-six government trucks were not able to take on the wrath of the maddening current.

Then I tried to take it through the Jaro Elementary school just behind the Jaro Cathedral (which was then turned into an instant refugee camp). But the situation there was worst. People were hauled just to cross the lake-like intersection via a wobbly orange inflated boat attached to an inch-thick rope, with about three rescuers trying to stabilize the whole contraption. I even overheard a bystander jesting in Hiligaynon “the boat may instead kill rather than save others.”

I tried to take the fifth alternative—that is to ask the government dump trucks to ferry me over to Ma’am Au’s place. But when I had a chance to see one, the driver, even if I already told him that my “Lola” is trapped and I need his help (of course, I thought I must exaggerate things a little bit ad hominem to get his precious yes), I was only greeted with a poker face as if the driver had heard the same tale over and over again with no solution to offer. The area needs a pump boat or an Amphibian tank, not a truck, I just consoled myself amid rejection.

After the hopeless help-seeking from the busy rescuers, I was left with no choice but to choose the sixth recourse, the one near the Ted’s Batchoyan in Jaro Plaza, the one they call Libertad Street. The path seemed to be less treacherous. I can also see a handful of bold warm bodies cutting through the chest-deep muddy waters at the end of the two-block street.

Ma’am Au’s place is just about 300 meters from the Jaro Plaza. Although it also means a three-century stretch of mud and water, I joked myself, at least the path is not full of thorns and land mines.

And so started my 16-hour calvary.

The author, Dr. Herman Lagon, is now the Principal of Ateneo de Iloilo-SMCS, the position that was previously served by his mentor from Brgy. Cuartero, Mrs. Aurora de la Cruz. The latter is now retired but the mentoring goes on as both continue to communicate with each other via Messenger. Their death-defying, God-graced Frank experience will forever remind them how fleeting yet providential life is.