Well, not entirely. Though its foundation still sits in our yard, its bright red roof lies crumpled in our neighbor’s. Which is better than last time when the whole darn thing simply blew away in pieces.
That happened four years ago during the infamous Typhoon Odette. The most recent gazebo disassembly occurred last week during the less destructive but more traumatizing Typhoon Tino. Why was a weaker typhoon more traumatizing? Because we were here for it. Unlike Odette, during which we were far away.
In fact, when the latest typhoon hit, I’d planned on being in Manila for a belated commemoration of the Oct. 7 Israeli massacre. Instead, I canceled the trip to stay in Surigao City for a massacre of a different kind.
Waiting for a typhoon feels surreal. On the one hand, you’re filled with anticipation laced with dread at how bad it could be. Fueled, of course, by dire hourly updates online interspersed with texts from well-meaning friends who lived through the last one. Which, in case you’re wondering, removed the roof and paint from our house, broke all its windows, soaked its ceilings, and blew away most of its contents.
Not to mention our disintegrated gazebo.
“Don’t get too relaxed,” my sister-in-law warned. “Just about the time you let down your guard, the water starts pouring in.”
But then you look out the window at the sun shining on a silky sea and think, “is this really going to happen?” It’s the proverbial calm before the storm, seeming like it will last forever. Nonetheless, we decided to follow our neighbors’ example by making some last-minute preparations. And thank God we did.
First, we locked all the windows, pulled down the steel shutters, closed the gates, and stowed electrical equipment and important papers away from potential leaks. Then we moved downstairs into the sturdiest room of the house and steeled ourselves for a long sleepless night.
There’s something about the deafening roar of wind and water pounding at your door and windows that makes the dream world distant. Or, perhaps more accurately, brings the world of nightmares closer. Naturally, the power went out, making the darkest of nights even eerier. And through it all, I couldn’t help but wonder whether the walls would withstand the horrific attack they were enduring.
Eventually, it all stopped. And in the morning, we inspected our yard, gazing at the godawful mess. Our plants and furniture were strewn asunder. Dirt lay everywhere, mixed with water to make mud. There were puddles inside the house. As well as a few broken pipes, drains and, of course, the gazebo’s ruined roof.
But at a table on the veranda, a dog sat wagging its tail. We call him Whitey, a familiar guest at our house. Where he hid and how he survived, I have no idea. But he was there to tell us that the evil storm had passed.
Not everyone fared so well. At least 224 died and hundreds of thousands fled their homes in central Philippines, officials later reported. Many—mostly in and around Cebu—drowned, while others got hit by falling trees, electrocuted by loose wires, or buried in deadly landslides. More than 380,000 were displaced, many evacuating before Typhoon Tino even made landfall.
We pray for them all; for the safety and wellbeing of those who survived, and that the friends and loved ones of those who didn’t find comfort and healing. Mostly we pray for a country that suffers more than its share of environmental upheavals.
So, what does it all mean, and why do I stay? Perhaps because living on the edge of disaster makes one more fully appreciate the times in between. Maybe to relish the gift that is life. Ah, but the major benefit, I think, is the absence of complacency. Because another potential disaster almost always lies just beyond the horizon.
Even when it’s beautiful.
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David Haldane is an award-winning American journalist and author with homes in Southern California and Northern Mindanao. His latest book, Dark Skies: Tales of Turbulence in Paradise, is available on Amazon. This column appears weekly in The Manila Times.
