Perhaps, there were already ominous signs leading towards that fateful afternoon of July 16, 1990.

A bomb threat a week before forced the Freshman Night (of Class 1990), believed to be the rite of passage of all incoming freshmen to the UP Baguio community, to be postponed on this day. A brief but heavy downpour of rain and hale right before noon hammered down the city despite the absence of rain clouds.

At around four in the afternoon, I was doing my “post-table tennis practice ritual.” I was standing near the Inang Laya statue, puffing my Marlboro Reds and watching the women’s volleyball team wrap up their scrimmage at the court down below. Suddenly, I heard a loud rumble from the ground. A force of great magnitude followed almost knocking me off my feet. As I struggled to keep myself standing, I saw fellow students rushing out from the 20s. As I turned around, I saw the brick wall in front of the Sec’s Office falling apart. The resonating sound from deep under muted the screams of the students. That was when I realized I was in the midst of a powerful earthquake.

Instinctively, I ran towards the Oblation as most of us did for the safety of its unencumbered open field. When the violent shaking subsided, I found myself near the flagpole holding on to someone. Another violent quake ensued making us once again disoriented and helpless. I remember someone shouting and warning us to veer away from the flagpole – it was wildly swaying almost 180 degrees from side to side.

When the earthquake was over, I wondered what might have happened with my table tennis racquet. I went looking for it at the Spear Hall, but when I arrived, the place was eerily deserted, wet and my racquet was nowhere to be found. Suddenly I came to my senses, something bad may have happened to the table tennis team. I felt guilty looking for my racquet first. I headed towards the archery range calling out their names. I saw the riprap beside the Spear Hall eroded by a seemingly large amount of water. I grew more concerned. I was relieved when I heard someone’s voice calling out to me from the archery range. And then I saw the members of the Table Tennis Team (Grace Santos, Carmela Claur, and George Ventura – Gino Orticio was in his history class with Prof. Violeta Adorable) emerge from the far corner near the Tourism Office, mud all over them, dazed but apparently unhurt. Someone handed to me my racquet and started telling me why they looked liked victims of a mudslide.

It turned out that the water tank above the Spear Hall came down on its roof, creating a wide gash and spilling all the water it contained to the hall. They thought Baguio City was being submerged by a tsunami caused by the earthquake. Someone shouted, “Tidal wave!” Everybody rushed towards the door and eventually was washed away down the archery range. After hearing their story, I was laughing.

That tidal wave story may have been a blessing in disguise, a comic distraction to us all because when we have composed ourselves, the devastation brought by the twin temblors upon the city, the emotional distress slowly growing upon us and the long hard work ahead for the UP Baguio community started sinking into our consciousness.

Shortly after dusk, the fog started to descend and engulf the surroundings of the campus. The silence was deafening in the next couple of hours and the atmosphere was surreal. Sirens of ambulances wailing incessantly as victims were transported to nearby hospitals punctuated this shortly. Most of us sought the shelter of the shaded walk and huddled close to friends. In a manner of speaking, death was all around us.

In the evening, we started to relax and shared jokes over a bottle of Ginebra. I remember Hans Christian Tesch joking about giant earthworms moving beneath the earth causing the earthquake in return.

We decided to camp at UP Baguio in the first couple of days. We were constantly moving from one place to another because of the five-minute intervals of the aftershocks. We practically covered the whole campus (I was with Denden Alicias, Dominique Garen, Jefran Barraquio, and Anthony Denina. Denden was eight months pregnant then with her daughter – Quake): near the auditorium, parking lot, freedom park, the Philippine Rabbit Bus parked in front of the entrance, and the shaded walk. On July 19, 1990, I have already counted more than 200 aftershocks, the strongest happening in the early hours, and finally bringing down the Hilltop Hotel to the ground.

Agony was the operative word in the first three days after the earthquake. Baguio City was isolated from the rest of the country. All telephone lines were down. To make matters worst, there was no electricity and very little source of potable water, and food.

We never had earthquake preparedness and post-earthquake debriefing training but there were students that needed to be emotionally strengthened and fed, especially the Class of 1990.

Prof. Vicky Rico (her maiden name) led the efforts to care and feed the students. Domel Evangelista and I, members of the UP Diliman Mountaineering Club led by Boy Siojo (the brother of Mio Siojo), the UP Vanguard Fraternity and Officers of the UP Baguio Corps, and so many others I could no longer remember, helped her to source for water and food, boost morale, and ensure the safety of the campus. The water came from the drums in the toilets and from the rains.

Rice, coffee, noodles, and eggs were bought from a storeowner in Kayang who had the habit of opening and closing his gates in a middle of a transaction every time an aftershock ensued. Nevertheless, we could not complain because we were more fearful of the debris falling on us rather than the annoyance of having to fall in line so many times.

Added security was provided by the members of the Vanguard Fraternity and the Officers of the UP Baguio Corps as they performed 24-hour round the clock watch to secure the campus and ensure the safety of those encamped.

In the latter part of the week, when the chaos, confusion and the fear among us started dissipating, Gino Orticio and I volunteered for the Presidential Management Staff under the Regional Disaster Command. Gino was in charge with the computers while I operated the telephone lines of The Mansion House.

The relief goods were all centralized at the ballroom of the Mansion House. I was on the other hand stationed at the right side of the ballroom as you enter. There were waterproof industrial grade flashlights and generators from Japan and thick blankets, noodles and Mah-Lings from China. There was a time when I was already hungry but could not eat because the meeting of the barangay captains and the officials of RDCC (Regional Disaster Center Command) was ongoing. Volunteers were to eat only after the officials. In the meeting, they were deliberating on the effective distribution because the intended recipients were not getting the donated goods. Finally, they have arrived at a resolution, had their dinner and I was able to eat, too. However, they were unable to implement their resolutions as the industrial grade waterproof flashlights and generators started disappearing one-by-one and the thick blankets and the cans of Mah-Ling’s from China were magically turned into Iloko blankets and cans of sardines. All in less than forty-eight hours.

After a week, we learned that airlifts to Manila were already available at the Loakan Airport. I decided to avail of the free service. It took a few days more before we could eventually board a MAC-130 flight bound for Clark Air Base. Vic Jaleco, now the husband of the former Pen Banares (an UP Baguio Alumna and now connected with Globe-Baguio City branch), graciously offered us his house as we wait for the next available flight.

Loakan Airport, like the rest of Baguio City, was a sorry sight of devastation. People were blatantly ignoring common courtesy for the next airlift out of the city. Death could almost be tasted as the smell of formalin wafted in the air. Cadavers in body bags were left lying on the tarmac because there were not enough coffins for them. Sadness and guilt overcame me realizing I was about to abandon a place I felt so loved and welcomed in such a forlorn state.

Nevertheless, in October, three months after the tragedy, I found myself in Marcos Highway. Marcos Highway still had numerous landslides that made it almost impassable and perilous to negotiate. I was oblivious. I was inside Anthony Denina’s Chevy Impala – the one we affectionately call the “Bat Mobile.” Anthony was on the wheel while Jefran Barraquio, Joan Virata, and I were earnestly helping him to navigate his way.

We were on our way back to Baguio City.