Looking through some old journals, I found some jottings on a typhoon.
It was October 11, 1989. Our three daughters were in college or grad school in the United States. Eugene and I were living in Manila in an apartment on Roxas Boulevard, walking distance from Asian Development Bank where he worked.
I must have been standing on our balcony, looking out at the storm and its effects and writing my impressions in a journal.
Here’s my journal entry:
High winds, not too much rain so far. Electricity out. The roar of the building’s generator. The insistent swish of wind in the trees, gusting to a low, rolling bellow. Leaves lifting from the ground, rushing past our sixteenth floor window.
A metal reflecting surface taped to a clothes rack on a balcony across from us comes loose and twangs and rustles in the wind. Shook foil. Palm trees bending, off-balance, their leaves pushed to one side, showing their coconuts.
Leaning antennas, long, draping TV cables, clay pots broken and scattered. Corrugated metal roofs ripped off in jagged, irregular pieces.
Broken tree branches, their white, virginal wood open to the elements. Branches, coconuts, leaves strewn around the old lady’s garden. Lots of work for her gardener tomorrow.
Sign boards and canopies blown down. A man leaving a jeep covers his head with his jacket. Four men walk the service road looking for things to salvage. They find an antenna and cart it off.
Our curtains alternately billow in and get sucked out.
Later: The typhoon has passed. Out to the South China Sea, I suppose.
I didn’t write anything about the aftermath. This one must not have hit Manila, or at least our part of town, hard.