I was just getting my feet wet in the newspaper business when I was 21. When February 2000 rolled in, I was promoted from a news correspondent to a full-time reporter. That meant I was no longer earning my pay by the column inches. Whether I had a story or not at the end of a working day, I was sure to find some money in my payroll ATM account on the 15th and 30th of every month. It was my first job after college.
I was new in the newspaper business then, and I was eager to get to know as many people as I could. After working as a reliever for most of the reporters at the newspaper, I knew enough people in the different beats to manage to not get scooped by an exclusive when I was subbing for them.
Becoming a full-time reporter also meant I already had my own beat. I was assigned to cover the Manila City Hall, the Education Department and the Commission on Elections in Intramuros, and the Departments of Health, and Social Welfare and Development. By the end of the year, the Department of Public Works and Highways, the Bureau of Customs and Coast Guard were added to my load. The load was heavy because so many reporters were then going abroad seeking greener pastures in newspapers in Saipan and Palau, while some got married, moved to the States, and were busy raising families. I remember my news editor complaining one time that she could no longer call a staff meeting of the social service cell of the newspaper because all the government offices that fell under it were being covered by just one reporter — me.
But I was eager to do all that work. I was still young then. Whenever I went on an interview with the other reporters on the beat, our sources would always remark, “Ang babata naman ninyo. Mga reporters ba talaga kayo?” (You are all so young. Are you really reporters?)
We would meet at the end of the day at the National Press Club to file our stories. We would share typewriters and computers to write our stories, and rush to the fax machine to send them to the office. We mulled over stories in that little office of the NPC, trying to make sense of the details and quotes we got from our sources. If it was a really hectic day, we even shared stories among ourselves, learning how to rewrite a story and give it a totally different angle.
At the end of the day, we would find ourselves eating and drinking at the Press Club restaurant, talking about the day just past over orders of binagoongang lechon, bulalanglang na divorced, sinigang, and iced tea. By 8 p.m., we were already so full, ready to go home, but more reporters would be coming in. By 9 p.m., we were already downing vodka tonics and munching on peanuts. By midnight, we would leave and head for the line of taxis outside the building. The drivers knew all of us by then. They all knew where we lived. If we managed to fall asleep on the drive home, they would know where to take us and just wake us up when we got there. If we didn’t have money then or were too drunk to remember paying, we would settle the bill the next day.
It was the same story day in, day out — until July 16. It seemed another ordinary day. It was almost 4 p.m. when I got to the Press Club, in a hurry to call my day editor with a summary of the day’s story. I remember I was arguing with someone over the typewriter when it happened. The building suddenly shook like it was the end of the world. A plaster column on a filing cabinet that served as a prop for some event in the past toppled over and cracked. We thought the floor was going to open and send us down three stories. Then it stopped.
We were all scared — that was an understatement. Somebody pointed out that the fax machine had stopped during the earthquake; the sheet of paper was hanging out of the machine midway through her story. We were all wondering if half of her story made it through their office fax. We all made a rush towards the telephones in the NPC office, trying to report what had happened.
Just then, another reporter rushed into the room in a panic. She was going up the NPC’s spiral staircase when the quake happened. All the glass windows that surrounded the staircase came crashing down as she ran up, almost grazing her.
Then the second quake happened. We went all quiet again; some of us started praying.
When the tremor ended, most of the phone lines were out. By the time we got through and reached our offices, we had all received new assignments. We were supposed to go out and get as much man-on-the-street feedback on the earthquake as we could. Someone had beaten me to the Phivolcs (Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology) story on the earthquake; it was the banner story the next day.
The July 16, 1990 earthquake proved to be just the prelude to a busy year. Within weeks, I would find myself going to Cabanatuan City with then Education Secretary Isidro Cariño on a go-see of the Philippine Christian College, a six-story building that crashed to the ground; 154 students were crushed in the disaster. I was also sent out to get a comment from Jaime Laya on the death of his wife at the Nevada Hotel collapse in Baguio. It proved to be a disaster with Laya angry at reporters for disturbing his grief. Later on, I would myself be interviewing survivors of the Hyatt Baguio collapse. One man survived under the rubble for 21 days by drinking his own urine.
Where we all wanted to be was in Baguio, which suffered much from the earthquake. We would listen with envy as Defense reporters told of their experience seeing the wreckage.
No, I never had pictures from that time in my life. I was always too concerned about getting the story down to take photos like a tourist. Until now, I still have that habit of keeping my picture out of the story.
The next year, when Mt. Pinatubo erupted on June 11, 2001, I was there. too. Many believed the July 16, 1990 earthquake triggered the volcano’s eruption. I was finally doing a major story that would land my name on the front page for a couple of days.