Inkblots

The 375.

A couple of entries ago, I tearfully wrote about home. Unfortunately, I write about it again in the same state.

Baguio City. On its official website, you will see Baguio described as a 49-square kilometer city approximately 250 kilometers north of Manila (to you out there who define distance by the time it takes to get from point A to B, Baguio is 6- 8 hours away from Manila if you take the daytime, 2-stopover bus ride). The Summer Capital of the Philippines is landlocked and bound by La Trinidad, Itogon, and Tuba, and is accessible by land through three national roads: Quirino Highway (aka Naguilian Road), Kennon Road, and Marcos Highway. Due to the elevation and the thickly forested mountain ranges, Baguio receives the most amount of rainfall in the country; twice the amount received by Manila.

Forecasted to exceed the 300,000 population mark by 2010, Baguio is famous for four major things: the climate, the tourist attractions, the educational institutions, and the culture.

There it is, an espresso shot of Baguio according to the references. A hand-woven bag of coordinates, statistics, and other impressive numerical values bound by a ribbon-like list of sensory delights that I know I took for granted for all those years.

This year the City of Pines turned a hundred, and on this year, it temporarily measured less than 49 square kilometers of visible land. Still at 250 kilometers north of Manila, travel time took at least half a day. Those stranded in neighboring towns and provinces waited for days to get home. With a huge gap in one of the national roads and landslide-affected sections on the other two, the city became virtually inaccessible.

Isolated, paralyzed, and on the brink of chaos. In one week, a storm thrice wreaked havoc on this saturated dot on the map, this small piece of land that I (and hundreds of thousands) call home.

I want to desperately tell you how heartbroken I was watching Baguio suffer; how angry I was at how impersonal the news about the north aired; how bullied I felt that this random act of nature had to destroy the place I grew up in and am protective of; how crushed I was each time I saw a picture of a lifeless body being unearthed.

Bruised, barely recognizable, and wrapped in body bags. They could have been someone’s family or friend; they could have been mine.

By 2010, Baguio will be home to more than 300,000. For this year, however, let us not forget the 375 lost.