It originated from someone named Renato who had a "psychic friend" who advised him to "leave Manila sometime between the 2nd and 3rd of April" because "water will destroy the city and will damage the fuel depo (sic) in Manila that will eventually create a sea of fire…it will take about two to three days before the flood recedes…the disaster will happen a few days after April 15. It will be initiated by an earthquake." Etc. Etc.
Now, I’m usually apocalyptic, but I didn’t buy this one. It just seemed corny. And with Filipinos being innately religious, I just knew a disaster as grave as this couldn’t happen to us.
I told the group members to ignore it.
But on the morning of April 14, I started to receive text messages from a few people about a nun who predicted that an earthquake measuring 9.0 on the Richter scale would rock Manila at 5 p.m.
I started to get a bit edgy and cancelled an appointment.
My dear husband had already gone to work, so I texted him my plan to move to a safe haven with lots of food: my parents’ house.
I called my mom to say that while I didn’t believe the rumor, I would be taking the kids to her house around 3 p.m. Just in case.
My mom laughed and said go ahead, but earthquakes cannot be predicted.
By science, no. But psychics can, can’t they?
My yaya and I arrived way before my colleagues (yes, I traveled with a yaya then) and I remember being surprised that the penthouse had been renovated, having stayed there before.
The renovation was weird because now the balconies were enclosed to make the rooms bigger. I thought it was unnecessary. The new interiors, the place, had an eerie feeling. For the first time I felt strange being there.
While waiting for the group, I went to the room upstairs and fell asleep. In the middle of the night I woke up shivering. I sat up and got one of those "psychic messages," which I’ve had the displeasure to receive on a few other occasions.
I would describe it as a glass of knowledge being poured on my head.
The message was: It’s not safe. The building is not safe. It’s gonna fall.
I was filled with terror and I wanted to get out. But I prayed and managed to calm down.
My friends arrived shortly, we had a great weekend, and the message was brushed aside.
A couple of months later, I was in the Daily Globe newsroom with the same people when the building started to shake. It was the great earthquake of July 16, 1990.
I remember hugging Tess, the assistant editor, while the deskman made a countdown and the electricity went dead. After what seemed like an eternity, the earth stopped shaking.
In the evening, news started to pour in through the radio. I remember hearing it then: "Hyatt Baguio, partial collapse."
I remembered the "message" I got in Baguio only two months before, which I had not told anyone. Who would believe me now?
It was only 1:30 p.m. so there was some time to kill before the 5 p.m. deadline.
We passed by Megamall. I was hoping to find a copy of The Shoes of the Fisherman, a 1968 film with Anthony Quinn, about a Russian priest who becomes the Pope. A friend recommended it in time for the conclave commencing April 18, about which I’m very excited.
When we got to Megamall, half the stores were dark, as in closed. Some were in the process of closing, and I thought, what the hell is going on? Do all these people believe in the earthquake?
I scooped up the kids and moved quickly towards the exit. But not before panic-buying at Watson’s. What the hell, I needed nail polish.
We arrived at my mom’s and planted ourselves in the cozy room which is actually a TV room/stockroom of her handbag collection.
We laid on a mattress and the kids went straight to their business of taking a nap. I started to read my book while constantly checking the time. I fell into a deep sleep, so deep I got bangungot, as in I couldn’t wake up.
I could see the room as it was but I couldn’t move. The Internet calls it sleep paralysis. I wiggled my fingers and toes. Nothing. Then I jerked my body and struggled to wake up. Let me tell you, I hate it when that happens.
So the kids woke up, too, and we had a picnic on the floor until 5 p.m. came and nothing happened. At 6 p.m. we headed home.
The following day I saw a friend of mine whose mom withdrew all her jewelry and money from the bank, decked out in full Louis Vuitton because she wanted to go out in style.
In contrast, my friend held on to her Starbucks journal and photos while the two of them cried, held hands and prayed in a church waiting for "the end."
I don’t know what the other people went through, but I’m here thinking, what the hell was that nun thinking? She should’ve kept her mouth shut like I did. If I were her, I would like to be an ostrich now and bury my head in the sand. Like forever.