My wife and our two-year-old son, Nathaniel, had just come out of a children’s party at Jollibee along Quezon Avenue in Quezon City. It was the first week of August 1999. By mid-afternoon, the gray, cloudy sky, cool, heavy wind, and low rumbles of thunder presaged rain.
"It looks like rain. Do you have an umbrella?" asked Weng, my wife’s colleague and the mother of the birthday girl.
"No, it won’t rain," I replied confidently, as if I were the day’s resident weatherman.
"Yes, we have an umbrella," my wife countered smartly.
Instead of heading straight home to Malate, Manila, we proceeded to Uncle Rolly’s house in Quezon City. My uncle, my mother’s youngest brother, had been asking us to visit whenever we had time. Having some rare spare time after the party, my wife and I were eager to see his two lovely kids. It would only take a single jeepney ride from Jollibee to his place in Project 3, and we hoped to reach it before the downpour started—if it rained at all.
We arrived at my uncle’s rented studio apartment just in time for dinner and the arrival of a light drizzle. Nathaniel had a wonderful time playing with my uncle’s precocious children, three-year-old Jap-Jap and two-year-old Paula. By around 7:00 p.m., the drizzle gathered strength, accompanied by wild gusts of wind. The heavy rain grew even more intense, falling without letup for the next hour.
Anxious about having my baby away from the safety of our home so late at night, I knew we had to leave. My uncle was more than willing to accommodate us for the night, but when we insisted on heading home, he asked us to at least wait until the worst of the storm passed. After more than an hour of continuous downpour, the sky finally grew quiet, though a cold, stormy breeze still lingered in the air. We waited another hour to be safe, then stepped out into the night, bidding my uncle and his family goodbye.
At the street corner, we caught a jeepney bound for Quiapo. It was almost 10:00 p.m. While our jeepney was traversing the busy stretch of Kamuning, the rain returned—this time harder and more fearsome than before. It drummed violently against the roof of the vehicle. Within minutes, the roads were submerged in rainwater, and traffic slowed to a crawl. We waited patiently amidst the torrential rain, biting wind, and encroaching darkness.
The driver took shortcuts through minor streets, yet we still found ourselves trapped along with dozens of other vehicles trying to evade the rising floods. Suddenly, we came to a dead stop. The driver turned to us and explained that it was too dangerous to drive any further.
"I’m sorry, but you’ll have to get out and walk," he said, pointing out a sudden, temporary lull in the rain.
My family alighted from the vehicle and walked until we reached a major intersection where passenger jeepneys usually frequented. It wasn't midnight yet, so I thought we would have no trouble catching another ride. After we waited on the corner for a while, a jeepney with only a few passengers pulled up. The driver leaned out and asked where we were heading.
"Quiapo," I said.
He admitted that given the rising floods, he wasn't sure if he could make it all the way there, but promised he would try. We hopped in. A massive section of Quezon Avenue ahead of us was already deeply submerged. The driver maneuvered through a shortcut parallel to the main thoroughfare until we finally reached the Sampaloc district in Manila.
Then, the weather turned nasty in a split second. Torrential rain poured down once more. Our journey degenerated into a long, tortuous wading through flooded streets. Floods were nothing new to this densely packed part of the city. For commuters and drivers alike, living at the mercy of floodwaters during the rainy season meant developing survival skills and a prayerful spirit.
Just like the first driver, this one saw the danger ahead and decided not to push his luck. That meant we were on our own. We would have to step down into the super-filthy floodwaters, carrying my small child in my arms. Wading through urban floods is incredibly dangerous; the water carries a toxic mix of chemicals, bacteria, and microorganisms that cause disease, not to mention the hidden threat of open manholes. But I had no choice.
We joined the remaining passengers as they alighted and waded toward España Boulevard. The rain had lessened to a drizzle, so the three of us huddled under my wife's small umbrella, groping our way toward the nearest roadside shed. Fortunately, the drizzle stopped after about fifteen minutes, allowing us to continue our trek. The water along the side of the street was only ankle-deep, which was a relief. From Dapitan Street, we waded toward the intersection heading to España Boulevard. I could see a few vehicles successfully traversing the street toward Quiapo. I decided it was better to take a chance on a ride than to force my family to spend the night stranded in the middle of a flood.
The cold, dark night stretched dauntingly ahead as we stood stranded at the corner of Blumentritt and España. Standing on that corner, Nathaniel felt heavier and heavier in my arms. A few public vehicles braved the deep waters, but none stopped for us. Tricycle and pedicab drivers, capitalizing on the disaster, offered overpriced rides to stranded commuters, while groups of men pushed stalled vehicles to higher ground for a fee.
Then, a dark blue SUV drove past at a steady speed. It slowed down as it passed us, coming to a halt two or three meters away. The driver seemed to change his mind about moving on, because the vehicle slowly backtracked and stopped right in front of us. The tinted window slid down.
"Where are you going?" asked the driver, a young man of about thirty.
My wife told him we were trying to get to Malate.
"I'm heading in that direction. Why don't you hop in before it starts raining again? That is, if it's okay with you," he offered. His welcoming smile instantly eased my apprehension about accepting a ride from a stranger.
"I happened to see your little boy, and I figured he badly needs to be home at this hour," he continued kindly once we were safely inside the vehicle, adjusting our soaked pants and holding our dripping umbrella.
By then, my child had fallen fast asleep in my lap. The driver kept up a friendly chatter as he navigated the roads. He confessed he was actually in a hurry to fetch his boss from an important meeting near the US Embassy along Roxas Boulevard, noting that his boss might already be worried. Yet, despite his rush, he had still found the time to stop for us in the middle of a flood.
Just like the jeepney drivers, he utilized every shortcut he could find, but unlike them, his vehicle never faltered. As the SUV plowed through the swirling, murky waters, I found myself silently praying to God and all the saints to keep the engine from conking out. The speed was moderate and steady. At one point, muddy water even started creeping into the floorboards of the car, but the driver remained unfazed. He reassured me that he was used to this kind of flooding and had full trust in his vehicle.
We finally reached the end of España Boulevard, where the flooding subsided as we neared the underpass connecting to Quiapo. I knew then that our ordeal was coming to an end. We traveled at a normal speed through Lawton, onto Roxas Boulevard, and finally reached Kalaw Street.
We alighted from the SUV, thanking the man profusely. But our angel simply shrugged off our gratitude and firmly refused to accept any payment. In our haste and relief to finally be home, we forgot to ask for his name. I watched the car speed away into the night, sending a prayer after him—that he would reach his boss safely, and return home securely to his own family when his work was done.
Whoever he was, I remain deeply grateful for his selflessness. He went completely out of his way to help my family in a desperate situation, driven purely by the goodness of his heart. That man performed a truly noble act.
We made it home safely. We were truly blessed on that stormy August night in España to meet a nameless angel on the road. He saved us, and especially my young son, from spending a miserable night stranded on a flooded street.
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