The woman who fell from grace into lahar
THAR SHE GOES Former Inquirer photographer Boy Cabrido escorts Christine Avendaño through the lahar-filled landscape, but she decides to go ahead and slips (middle photo), before falling chest-deep into lahar.
This was one coverage where I ended up in the pages of the Inquirer for something I did not write.
In 1991, I was tasked to write on how the onslaught of Mt. Pinatubo was affecting the lives of people in Central Luzon. It was one assignment where I personally encountered nature at its most unpredictable.
I was with a group of photographers, including then Inquirer colleague Boy Cabrido, somewhere in Pampanga when we found ourselves crossing a muddy river.
At that time, Mt. Pinatubo was still spewing lahar that made its way into river channels.
I had tripped while crossing the rushing waters and Boy helped me get up.
While making our way in the waters, I told the group that it might be better if we went the other way around and, without waiting for their reply, I proceeded to do so.
The group followed but just a few meters later, I stopped. I could not move from my spot!
Standing in the muddy waters, I suddenly felt like I was sinking, and sinking fast—as if the water was quicksand.
I called out to the group for help, and it seemed like forever until Boy responded—with something I did not expect.
“Sorry, Tin,” he said, aiming his camera at me and clicking away.
“Happy birthday, Tin!” Boy added with glee, prompting the other photographers to start clicking away too. Yup, it was my birthday that day.
By then, two men crossing the river had come to my aid, pulling my arms and dragging me to safety. The water had reached my chest, turning my clothes into the color of cement. I looked horrible!
But the group found my predicament hilarious and laughed throughout my ordeal. I have to admit I also found the situation funny, which was why Boy’s photos showed me laughing hard.
The photographers in the group—all guys—tailed me all the way to the market where I bought a shirt, jogging pants and yes, underwear, an expedition that was comical in itself.
A few months after the incident, Inquirer editor in chief Letty Jimenez-Magsanoc told me during a reporters’ meeting that she had a “surprise” for me. She then showed me a picture: me, being pulled up by two men from the chest-high muddy waters. It was the photo that Boy had taken of that incident in Pampanga.
Embarassed, I told her how I had gotten stuck in Pinatubo mud.
But to my surprise, the photo she showed me had a caption: “Come hell or high water” the Inquirer will deliver the news, it said.
It was then that Ms Magsanoc told me the photo will be published in the paper as an ad.
Oh no, I told myself, embarrassed even more.
But maybe no one would notice the ad, I consoled myself.
Months later, while attending a seminar with regional reporters, one of them approached me.
“Aren’t you that reporter who fell in lahar?” the reporter asked, and I could not help but burst out laughing.
I had made it to the Inquirer as news, and might never live my story down.
