By Eva C. Visperas

 

THERE are days in local governance that leave you quietly hopeful, and there are days that leave you unsettled. Last week in Pangasinan, we experienced both—and the contrast could not have been sharper.

I was in Calasiao on August 29, standing among local officials, transport leaders, and ordinary residents, when the long-promised traffic light system was officially handed over to the municipality. For years, that major intersection—linking the eastern and western corridors of the province—had been a daily nightmare for commuters. Jeepneys clogged the lanes, tricycles darted through gaps, and motorists braced themselves for what was often a 20-minute crawl through a single stretch of road.

But that day was different. The air buzzed not just with traffic but with relief. After years of planning, the lights finally blinked to life. Mayor Patrick Caramat stood at the center, joined by Vice Mayor Kevin Roy Macanlalay, members of the Sangguniang Bayan, and Governor Ramon Guico III. His words carried a weight far heavier than the ceremony itself: “This is a promise fulfilled.”

It is not often that government promises are remembered, much less delivered. Yet this one was. Funded by the provincial government at a cost of P11 million, the project was first envisioned as early as 2021 under the late Mayor Mamilyn Caramat. On this day, it became reality.

I watched as the mayor explained the plan: traffic lights would operate from 6:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., shifting to blinking yield lights at midnight. The local Public Order and Safety Office, with 70 personnel, had already been trained by the MMDA to ensure the system’s effectiveness. Even transport groups—the jeepney and tricycle associations—were engaged in the process. Everyone in attendance knew this was not a cure-all; traffic enforcers would still be needed, and Vice Mayor Macanlalay admitted a flyover might be the long-term solution. But for the moment, it was progress.

As I stood there, I thought of the countless mornings when this very intersection had tested the patience of every commuter. I thought of the late Mayor Mamilyn, whose vision had planted the seed for this day. And I thought of the power of a government that keeps its word. That morning in Calasiao, the promise was not just about traffic lights—it was about trust honored.

But if August 29 was about a vow kept, September 1 was an entirely different story.

Just days after that feel-good event, the Capitol in Lingayen was gripped by whispers and shock. Provincial Administrator Melicio “Ely” Patague and Provincial Accountant Marlon Operaña abruptly resigned, effective immediately. There were no ceremonies, no speeches, no blinking lights—only silence, disbelief, and the gnawing sense that something had gone terribly wrong.

Patague was no ordinary official. A former vice mayor of Binalonan, he was a long-time political ally of the Guicos, a trusted figure who had stood by their side for years. His closeness to Governor Guico earned him the reputation of being the province’s “little governor,” wielding influence in ways both subtle and direct. He was a constant presence at flag-raising ceremonies, a familiar face in the Capitol’s corridors, a man whose authority seemed immovable.

That is why his sudden departure shook the Capitol. Was it voluntary or forced? After a meeting with the governor on August 30, Patague was clearing out his office the next day. Operaña’s simultaneous resignation only added to the intrigue.

For Capitol staff, the resignation felt like a broken vow. Patague had long been loyal to the governor and a steady presence in the halls of power. Now, with his sudden silence, employees were left wondering what truly happened behind closed doors. As one staffer put it, “What’s only 100% sure is that he has resigned”.

Patague’s silence speaks volumes. For someone so deeply entwined with the Guico administration, his departure is not just a personal decision—it is a political rupture.

In just a span of days, Pangasinan witnessed both ends of governance. In Calasiao, a ribbon was cut, a switch was flipped, and a promise was honored. In Lingayen, papers were signed, boxes were packed, and vows—once thought unshakable—were broken.

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