Where were you when Dagupan shook?

By July 17, 2022Entre'acte

By Rex Catubig

 

IT was just another Monday. As the sultry afternoon was winding down, clock watchers in offices were fidgety and kept glancing at the wall clock, waiting impatiently for 5 o’clock to strike. The lady employees had begun the ritual of retouching their make-up, nudging off their house slippers under their tables and casually putting on the shoes they came to work with.

In schools, the students were listless in their toasty classrooms, poised to dump their books and notebooks in their shoulder bags and backpacks as they held their sigh in relief: Monday would be over in minutes.

Downtown AB Fernandez teemed with residents and out-of- towners. Some window-shopped leisurely around the stores, while others had sought refuge and were ensconced comfortably in aircon’d Vilmand and other movie houses watching the second feature of a double bill to kill time before heading home.

On Galvan and Zamora streets, carts and baskets of foodstuffs had mushroomed and  homemakers had begun swarming in for fresh seafood or dried fish, and fruits and veggies for dinner or “baon” next day.

Then at 4:26 pm, the ground rumbled and growled! The mise en scéne shattered like a mirror.

Instantaneously, the belfry of the old St John Cathedral nearby crumbled into a torrent of bricks. The glass walls of the 4th floor revolving restaurant of the McAdore hotel smashed into a rain of smithereens.  Buildings downtown shook, tilted and sank waist-deep; the concrete road cracked open and muddy water with putrid and pungent smell gushed forth. Parked vehicles were swallowed by the gaping ground. In Perez Boulevard, the Magsaysay bridge split in half as if struck by a Karate chop.

It lasted for an harrowing 45 seconds. During which it seemed the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had come galloping down, leaving bedlam, chaos and destruction in their wake. The dazed crowd dashed all over like headless chickens, their hearts pounding off their chests, at a loss where to run for shelter. People cried as they hopscotched their way home. “Pikasi mo kami, Katawan!”, the fervent plea resounded amid the havoc.

Then, the deafening din was subdued by a pall of eerie silence as the descending darkness engulfed the devastation. As night fell upon the ruined city, fear, helplessness and uncertainty dangled like Damocles’ sword.

On July 16, 1990, Dagupan was hit by a 7.7 temblor. “90 buildings were damaged, and about 20 collapsed.” “The city suffered 64 casualties, 47 survived and 17 died. Most injuries were sustained during stampedes at a university building and a theater.”

Thirty-two  years ago, Dagupan fell on its knees. Mercifully, it did not collapse and had propped herself up.

But having risen, the struggle today is how to keep standing despite being rocked by harsh flood current of political tide.

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