Not Quite Venice

 I close my eyes on the ride back, and I hear the water more than the engine that strains against it. I hear the peaceful, constant lapping of waves against a not-so-distant shore, the crashing of white froth against unmovable cliffs.

But this is neither sea nor lake. I open my eyes and this is a town, Obando and Valenzuela in Bulacan. The shores are the driveways of homes built higher than the narrow streets, and the cliffs are the walls of the homes bordering this street-turned-creek.

It is nearing noon-time, high tide, and I'm in an army truck with Rescue 926, Citywatch, and soldiers from the 56th Infantry Battalion, Philippine Army. We'd just finished disaster relief at a barangay in Obando.

A few dozen families were taking refuge in a day care center at their Barangay Hall, and Rescue 926 delivered relief goods while the paramedics of Citywatch treated those with injuries. The doctor who usually joins them was unable to, so the medical mission will be scheduled at a later date.

I'd been on two medical missions before this - one past Las Pinas ten years ago and another in Cebu two summers back with a different group. This time, I helped document interviews with the people we were helping out. Turned out their homes had been in the flooded areas we'd passed on our way there, places where the water could get waist deep for any standing person. I'd noticed that some homes which were built on lower ground had their entire first floors and carports filled with water neck-deep. Some homes had been better planned, and sari-sari store customers could stand on a just-barely-dry step to reach the shop's window.

The area is easily flooded, but the people we helped were jovial and warm, explaining how they often received "biyaya ng Diyos" or blessings from God. We weren't the first people to deliver relief goods there, and we wouldn't be the last.

As we packed to leave around 11am, something surprised us. Water was beginning to splash onto the dry street in front of the Barangay Hall and daycare center, coming from across the street. With every minute it gained another few feet towards us, and by the time we got on the trucks, the street was ankle-deep in water and the tide continued to push on towards their daycare sanctuary. High tide, they said without worry. They were used to it.

As we rode back through deeper floodwaters, rain started. The trucks struggled at the deeper spots and at times I feared the water would reach us inside the trucks, but it stayed -just- below that level. Had we left any later, we would have been stranded. Then I understood why the Mayor had used army trucks for the 'libreng sakay' - it was the only vehicle besides boats and padjaks that could make it through the flooded streets without stalling. 

There are words I could use to describe this experience that could make me seem like a real tourist or valley girl, but... I wasn't around for Ondoy, and outside of watching the carabao statues along the Marikina River occasionally submerged, this was the first time since Katrina and Memphis 2011 that I'd witnessed real flooding and its effects.

Things could have been much worse. Not just for them, but for us too. Some medical missions get mobbed if they don't have good security or crowd control or coordination with local government.  And the area is flood prone.  My friends say the flooding is even worse when they open the dams. The tributaries have been blocked up, and the only place for the water to go are where these towns have planted themselves. The people living here cope with the water by cementing their lots, building higher, using padjak or libreng sakay to get around. They're accustomed to walking through floodwaters, and besides inconveniencing most of them, it doesn't affect their lives. But what'll happen if those dams ever break? If this is what Obando looks like during normal flooding...