海角大神

When she was a young girl in 1960, Esperanza Orejola draped a garland of flowers around the neck of Douglas MacArthur and danced a ballet to the tune of the Blue Danube to welcome him to her hometown, a World War II battlefield.聽

鈥淗e was sentimental,鈥� she recalls of the ex-general's return. 鈥淗e cried.鈥�

Now a mother superior, she hums the tune of that lilting waltz as she hops along in a beat-up bicycle taxi, her brown habit hiked up to reveal purple-flowered Bermuda shorts as she prepares to survey the damage wreaked by Typhoon Yolanda, as it鈥檚 known here.

She is a 4-foot-11 political force. When she was 18, she decided to sell off her share of her family's land and use the money to set up a cooperative that teaches livelihoods and lends to small businesses.聽Her siblings were supportive, urging her to sell off the best plots of property to finance her dream.聽

It was a success, growing from modest beginnings to hundreds of members. After that, her father encouraged her to run for local office. When Ms. Orejola was in her early 20s, he arranged a marriage to an eligible local bachelor. In response, she ran away from home and joined a Roman Catholic convent.

鈥淗e wanted me to know only one man,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 wanted to know many people.鈥� Her father didn鈥檛 speak to her for eight years.

Outgoing and cheerful, Orejola often invokes a prayer 鈥� her favorite 鈥� to Jesus鈥檚 grandmother, subsequently sainted by the Catholic church. 鈥淚 say, 鈥楽aint Anna, please bless me with pleasant surprises.' 鈥�

Typhoon Yolanda was not one of them.聽Orejola cut short a trip to Rome to check on the members of her cooperative here, mostly the children and grandchildren of original members, and to pay calls to her extended family.聽

The Lord taketh away

She arrives at the evacuation center where many of the cooperative families have taken shelter in what was the old parish hall. The adjacent church lies in ruins,聽its roof blown away and its wooden pews scattered and splintered.

The parish members have dragged some of the battered pews to what remains of a concrete car port. They have salvaged, too, a mud-splattered lectern. A weather-beaten statue of Mary sits on an old footstool atop a makeshift altar hastily constructed of packing crates.

鈥淭he Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,鈥� the priest intones, as parishioners turn to greet Orejola. Children take her hand and gently bow as they raise it to their foreheads in a sign of devotion.聽It is a sparse gathering for a morning mass, the empty pews underscoring the community's vast loss.聽

As mass ends, the congregants, many of them members of the collective, crowd around Orejola, who carries a large Winnie the Pooh suitcase filled with matches, medicine, candles, canned goods, bandages, and water.

Aileen Fabi and her family rode out the storm here. As the winds whipped up and the waters rose, her son Martin, 15, found some old foam and gently wrapped a 2-month-old baby in a loose cocoon to protect him from the high-velocity glass and splintered wood.

A child is born

Meanwhile, in the now-decimated church, his mother was delivering a baby. Ms. Fabi is a midwife, trained courtesy of funds raised by the collective, of which she is a member, along with her husband, Aldwin. The collective is where he was when the storm hit.

He was washed from there, more than a kilometer away, all the way back to the evacuation center next to the church.聽鈥淲hen Dad got here, he was naked,鈥� notes Martin, his clothes washed away in the storm. 鈥淥ur returning hero,鈥� says Aileen, surveying her husband fondly.聽

Martin leans to pet a dog,聽limping and battered by the storm, who has joined the community of evacuees here. 鈥淗e found us, because he knows we would love him,鈥� he says. 鈥淗e鈥檚 a survivor, too.鈥�

Since the storm, Martin has spent hours looking up at the stars and developed a credo. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not how long we live,鈥� he explains. 鈥淚t鈥檚 how short a time we regret.鈥�

He also thinks he has settled on a future profession: architect. 鈥淚 think it will be very in demand,鈥� he jokes, looking around at the rubble that stretches for miles all around him.

MacArthur stands tall

When Orejola was a child, the city park was her second home.聽Its centerpiece was a statue of General MacArthur that her father and brother had helped to build. 鈥淭hey built it strong,鈥� she says. His statue was once flanked by those of Filipino officials. Now their statues lie face down in an ankle-deep pool of water.聽

Today, the US general's statue is the only recognizable landmark that remains. Orejola's family home is no more, washed away into the ocean like so much of the town. 聽She points to a mountain range that used to be blocked by groves of palm trees of all varieties, now bare and splintered like toothpicks.

鈥淚 just can鈥檛 believe it,鈥� she says, covering her mouth.

She searches for MacArthur鈥檚 cement footprints, another park attraction 鈥撀燾asting them had been her father's idea 鈥撀燼nd finds them after several minutes, buried under several inches of water.

It is small comfort. She has learned in speaking with members of the collective that 170 or more of their 800 members have died in the storm.

When she was a young girl, Orejola鈥檚 father, a town official, would send children out with pots and spoons to make a racket and warn people of incoming storms.聽鈥淚t鈥檚 a big, big wave! It will drown you! Go, go, go!鈥� she intones, thumping her hand on her thigh.

Storm surge

It is a point of deep dismay here that the warnings about the storm were all broadcast on the radio in English, rather than the Filipino language, and that they referred to a 鈥渟torm surge鈥� rather than, say, a tidal wave.

Even 鈥渢idal wave鈥� is a bit technical for locals, Orejola says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why we said, 鈥楤ig, big wave.鈥� 鈥澛犫�淲ho has ever heard of a 鈥榮torm surge鈥�?鈥� Orejola adds, throwing her arms in the air. 鈥淲hat does that even mean?鈥�

She shakes off the thought, exasperation turning to energetic intensity. She is focused on the future, including Christmas, when she fears that 鈥渋t will be like a ghost town here.鈥�

She has no more family land to sell, but plans to begin rebuilding the collective. She wants to raise funds for its 45th anniversary later this year. She will lobby for donations of cash and equipment, to replace the dozens of sewing machines that were destroyed, among other things.

Beyond that, Orejola has a new project in mind, a home for orphans and, beside it, another home for adults who lost their families in the wake of the storm.

鈥淭he babies need help, but we are all babies after something like this,鈥� she says. Each could help the other rebuild their lives, side by side.

鈥淭his,鈥� she adds, surveying the destruction around her, 鈥渋s where it all begins again.鈥�