I LIVED with disaster these past two weeks. Pagasa says it was the confluence of the cold Siberian winds and the warm winds of the eastern Pacific, each one a heavy cistern of moisture, converging over the Northern Mindanao skies, dropping heavy rains across the terrain. In a matter of a few hours, rivers and creeks swelled, flooding city streets of Cagayan de Oro as well as entire villages in the city and in the adjoining provinces. Pagasa calls it a cold front, obviously technical jargon whose meaning gets lost in the midst of mayhem and dire straits.

It was a disaster unlike any in this part of the Philippines. Rivers rampaged in massive flash floods. Houses were literally swept like matchboxes. The mighty Cagayan river, with its ferocious reputation of past torrents, swiftly carried logs, uprooted trees, animals and even humans past the five bridges in the city known for the river that runs through it. I saw two cars swept across a city thoroughfare by the waters from a swollen creek that cuts across the middle of the city’s high-end mall.

More than a week later, it was the turn of the adjoining Iponan river, its waters perpetually chocolate murky after years of gold panning in the city’s hinterlands. Witnesses say they heard the sudden charge of the rapids and the silted waters simply rose before any escape could be contemplated. In minutes, those rendered homeless easily counted by the thousands.

In a disaster, radio is media king in the provinces. For what is the point of tuning in to national media when most of far-away Manila knows not even an iota of what goes on on the other side of the country? Except for running tickers in national news networks, cable television is no help. But in a disaster, every bit of information is a gem. It is a moment of deep bonding between the radio and the local community.

Radio feeds, however, also have to contend with the world of short messaging. As the recitation of damage to life and property reached disastrous proportions, one gets an amusing dose of text message intermissions bordering on the amplified and the exaggerated.

One such had warned of a typhoon in the magnitude of a signal number 3, unknown hereabouts in this typhoon-free part of the Philippines. The next day, a texter warned of tidal waves scheduled to strike, with precision, at two o’clock that afternoon. Of course none came. By dusk, the same message was modified for a supposed landfall later that night.

Following that otherwise lackluster night, the early morning reports spoke of a nearby bridge which had actually cracked days before, as having finally collapsed. Driving through the windswept highway to see for myself, I must have lost count of all the bridges I passed through, but everything I saw was intact.

Students had a heyday passing on text messages reportedly authorized by the city mayor that classes in all levels had been suspended. Classrooms were predictably empty the next day. It was probably helped by a false text message that said a popular mall right next door was now under water.

There is something about our culture that makes us prophets of doom. We enjoy disasters. We actually love them, I suppose. We love to pass on news that is ominous, and embellish it even sadistically, often without any scientific grain, with nary a regard for societal consequences. I do not know if that is a roundabout way of optimism in a time that actually calls for fortitude, not to mention truthfulness. Is this part of our loss of civility?

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The wife with a knife. I found that intriguing when I read the account of the Valley Golf brawl. And I wondered how that detail was missed by most commentaries on the Pangandaman-De la Paz fracas.

Obviously, Bambee de la Paz got to reach the blogosphere first. Perhaps none of those Pangandaman boys are bloggers. A pity, because Bambee’s account was accepted hook, line and sinker. And so the indignation against the Pangandamans, nay it was a crucifixion even, was fast even before the last nail could be hammered.

Was it because the Pangandamans are Maranaos? No, lets put that forthrightly—was it because they are Muslims? We should ask that. Let’s face it: we are still in an age of bigotry. And Muslim bashing is an extremely popular pastime by the many bigoted medievals among us.

I am happy, very happy even, that the truth has exonerated Secretary Nasser Pangandaman and his family. And I know that many of his Christian friends in Cagayan de Oro, where he also plays golf and where he had lived for some time and who know him to be mild-mannered, are happy too.

Valley Golf caddies, marshals and waiters are all one in saying that it was an arrogant, hot-tempered Delfin de la Paz who actually started the fight. That humongous golf umbrella must have hurt. And if Mrs. De la Paz lost no time to come charging with a knife to the clubhouse premises, this must be a vitriolic family, in private and in public. I do not gloat over that. But I share the joy of Nasser Pangandaman when the truth that was hard to come by had finally reached its revelation to set us free from our bigotry.

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Comments to monta@cu-cdo.edu.ph