A hard rain fell Sunday afternoon on the village of
Kilikilihan in San Miguel, Catanduanes.
It was a heavy rain on a windless day, the kind that gave an unsettled feeling. You could see and feel the mud steaming up after a hot morning.
In this land which God seemed to have forgotten, even nature has gone awry. This small village at the banks of the Bato river sustained the highest number of casualties at the height of typhoon Loleng. Thirty-six people, mostly children, died here in one landslide that buried a house; 34 bodies were recovered, the other two were left inside to rot.
Kilikilihan was a village born to suffering. In World War II, Japanese soldiers would gather suspected guerillas at the banks of the Bato river and torture them by beating them in the armpits [kili-kili]. Thus the name Kilikilihan.
Over the years, the community grew prosperous, and villagers started cutting down trees to grow abaca, Catanduanes’ number one product. Soon, the hills around Kilikilihan were covered by abaca and coconut trees. Life was simple and sweet – “paradise”, as one villager described it.But the hills would turn against them.
Kilikilihan is bounded by steep hills on one side, and the Bato river on the other. On the day typhoon Loleng came, the river swelled, and the hills tumbled down.
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“Ewan ho kung paano na ito,” said Cenon Dayawon. “Puro ubod ng niyog na lang ang kakainin namin.”Food would have to be brought in by helicopter, or carried on someone’s back from the poblacion.
“Pasensya ka na sa handa namin,” says Jason Quirino as his mother prepares a meager lunch for us. The meal consisted of canned sardines we were able to buy from a store.It was especially difficult for the women, the children, the elderly, and the injured. The strong could walk the 15 kilometers to the poblacion to get relief goods. The injured could barely walk.
Renato Tionela lost a toe when a wooden timber fell on his foot during the landslides. His foot is now swollen and infected. Jose Paune’s leg had swollen like a basketball after being hit by debris during the storm. By now it was clear that the next chopper should have these as passengers, and not me. After leaving instructions with barangay officials on how to talk to the pilot, I started down the long road to San Miguel.
“Mahirap talaga ngayon, walang madaanan,” said Bernie, a pastor of the Iglesia ni Cristo I met along the road. In Barangay Mabato, where Bernie is based, we came across a couple digging through the remains of their house.
“Ka Erning, nagsamba na ba kayo?” The couple, sweating, dirty, and knee deep in mud, was taken by surprise. “Samba tayo ng alas tres.”
A smile of remembrance cracked through the thin layer of mud that covered their faces. It was a Sunday.
The storm has passed, and life must go on.
They say the sun is at its hottest just after the fury of a typhoon. Some say it’s really psychological; people who were shivering in the rain just a day before suddenly have to adjust to the humid heat.
When I finally did decide to leg it back to Virac, the sun was already up and the steam was rising from the ground. I had someone point me in the right direction for Virac. I didn’t want to walk for fifteen kilometers, and then be told that Virac was the OTHER WAY up the road. Properly briefed on directions, I put on a floppy hat, dug out my sunglasses, shouldered Grungy, and started my long lonely hike. Along the road, I came across other fellow travelers, including Pastor Bennie, whom I mentioned in the story earlier. After a few hours walking down the rough rocky road, I could feel the sun roasting through the crown of my hat. Occasionally, I would come across a bamboo tube channeling water from a spring, and dip my hat in the cold water or simply put my head under the bamboo for a refreshing semi-shower.
I remember, on the last leg of my hike, bumping into a bunch of people riding a pickup truck. We were just a few kilometers from the capital, and the roads were already open. On their invitation, I hopped gratefully on board the pickup bed and rode the rest of the way to Virac.
I was still able to find a telegraph station that was still working, and filed my story before searching for a hotel of some sort in which to spend the night. The one I did find, like much of Virac, did not have any electricity. So a candle had to suffice in the hot lonely and dark room.
I stayed a few more days in Virac before deciding that I could come home to Manila. The seas were still too rough, and there were no commercial flights to Manila. Thankfully, I found Captain Henry Bulos’ C-130 sitting on the Virac runway with a plane-full of relief supplies and a long line of refugees begging to ride out of Virac. I buttonholed Bulos, who was amused to find a reporter in the middle of nowhere. First thing he asked was if I had a camera. Next thing he asked was if I liked sunsets.
I answered yes to both, and got a ride home. Although I forgot to tell him earlier that I didn’t have any more film.
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