New Year's Call

At no other time of the year is the city as dangerous as on New Year’s Eve. I remember some decades back that I myself would run around the neighborhood; beer in one hand, a bunch of firecrackers in the other, terrorizing neighbors with my daredevil, pyromaniac stunts. It was only a miracle that I actually survived with all my fingers intact the next day.

But all throughout the city, people would start bonfires using old tires where they would throw all sorts of firecrackers. The streets were impassable as soon as it got dark and people would be drunk and rowdy. Passersby faced the possibility of getting injured either by a blast or getting mugged or both!

The city would literally be lit up like Baghdad during “Desert Storm” and for sure, any aircraft that flew low enough during that time would have taken some ‘flak’ with all the surface-to-air pyrotechnics being deployed.

Fast forward to 30 years after: I am now a first responder and a writer who appreciates the fact that I can still touch-type on a laptop. I have volunteered to pull duty on a New Year’s Eve given that this is the single, bloodiest day of the year.

At the HQ, we had both an ambulance and a pumper on standby. There were three of us each for medical and firefighting chores. There was a lavish feast on the dining table and we let the fireworks rip at the stroke of midnight before we readied ourselves for whatever call comes on the horn.

When the streets were relatively quiet, we saddled up and mounted the ambulance and pumper. We headed off to a call near the HQ—a fire which turned out to be under control before we even touched down. We then proceeded to an earlier call of a fire raging in the Quezon City area.

Once on the ground, we saw that the fire was close to being  put out and simply exchanged pleasantries with other brothers and sisters in arms, filled up the reservoir on the pumper and headed back to base.

Our medical team leader had to break off. Me and buddy Justine hitched a ride back on the pumper. It was obvious that we wouldn’t be responding to any “52” calls.

We tried to gobble up the goodies on the table but there was just too much so we tried to catch some shut eye. At this point, I’ve already been up more than 24 hours since I left Baguio City. I laid down on the HQ floor and caught some ‘Zs’ while the radio was silent.

Not more than an hour since we dozed off, dispatch calls out a “3^rd Alarm” in the Sta. Ana area. Our team lead said that when the call reaches “5^th alarm”, we would get up and deploy. It was less than a half hour when the alarm was raised and we found ourselves jumping on the pumper—2-medics and 2 firefighters this time.

Luckily, this was not my first 10-70 since I became a medic and since we were on a pumper, I already knew what I would be doing once we were on the ground.

Even while we were about 10-minutes out, we could already see the smoke in the pre-dawn skyline. It was around 4AM and we could hear sirens in the distance and behind us. We were going as fast as the old truck could make it. Although my heart was racing, my composure remained calm and I was confident that I would be useful even if there were no medical emergencies at all.

Like all slum areas, access to the fire scene was a challenge in itself—the narrow streets were made even more congested by revelers who set up tables and videoke machines. Onlookers, not satisfied with the sirens just had to see for themselves that we were indeed firefighters and that we had a truck with us!

Drunk men lay carelessly where they fell. Victims were scampering about, bringing whatever belongings they could carry with them; clothes, pets, refrigerators, air-conditioners and bric-a-brac. Almost everyone was either drunk or in a daze. Even those who were running about didn’t seem to have any purpose other than to let off steam.

Finally, we were on-site. We were only a few meters away from ground zero. We could feel the heat and were coughing from the smoke. Among the crew, I was the only non-firefighter so I stood guard, keeping an eye out for looters who might prey on the truck and our stuff. I had a hydrant key for a weapon and I had my game face on.

We were originally close to a hydrant but there was a tanker behind us so we inched forward and let the tanker fill up our pumper while we in turn, supplied water to those at the frontlines. This was known as a “relay” and there was no need for us to be up front where it was more hazardous.

I almost immediately got up top to sit on the hose, steadying it while filling up the pumper’s reservoir. It would be my task for most part. Though it may seem menial, I was contributing to the war effort while on my ass.

From my vantage point, I could see the flames licking the sky and consuming more houses. I could see a transformer on a post sparking and finally blowing up, resulting in the black out of street lamps. Burning embers filled up the pre-dawn sky and were falling all around. I asked for a helmet but later on, the airborne wood splinters were aflame as they fell back to earth so I asked for a “bunker” jacket for added protection.

All throughout, I was alternating my left and right ass cheeks on the hose. Although I was sitting down, I was definitely contributing something. The burning wood, plastic and fabric was beginning to make me cough violently. Rain was starting to fall and the first few traces of sunlight was indicating a new day.

Strangely, I did not feel scared at all. It was a hairy place to be in and I wouldn’t go there at all—fire or not! I might actually be getting the hang of being a first responder. I was calm all throughout and I was standing by for orders should there be any. I felt that somehow I belonged there.

As the sun began to make its presence, the smoke had turned from black to a grey plume. The fire was almost out and we were just about ready to return to base. The hoses were being drained and rolled back into a neat coil. Some nozzle men were already gearing down and gulping large bottles of water.

As we pulled out, everyone we passed expressed their gratitude for what we’ve done. They were not the victims themselves but neighbors who lived close by. It was heartwarming. As volunteers, that was more than enough commensuration and a language anyone understood well.

That, by itself was well worth the effort. Some think we all do this for the adrenaline rush. While that is partially true, I honestly cannot begin to describe how I actually feel when I’m downrange. I live for the thrill, yes, but when a total stranger or strangers let you know how thankful they are that you’re around, this becomes a passion worth the pursuit!