The Rain’s Rebellion

By Maria Theresa M. Calde

Welcome to Baguio City, where the sun and the clouds meet. One minute, the sun is out and shining brightly– the next, it is completely covered, and the sky begins to cry. I don’t know if it is a contest between the two, but one thing is certain. Always bring an umbrella and a jacket, and you will see the beauty of the city.

I remember how, whenever the heat would begin to feel unbearable, the rain would take over, the breeze would blow, and my once-attempt to cool myself with a fan would turn into me cozying up in my jacket, trying to shield myself from the cold.

Then came August. The clouds seemed to rebel and refused to leave for weeks. The month of August made me shudder: with worry, fear, and, at first, even excitement. My first thought was, of course, the possibility of a week-long class suspension. In a way, it was a welcome break: time to relax, spend time with my family, deep-clean the house, and find a new show to binge-watch.

The first few days were exciting, cozy and comfortable under the blankets, with a new show playing on the television. We stayed awake a little longer and slept a little later. I can still recall every cup of coffee I drank, every baked good my daughter made, and every movie we watched as we huddled together in the living room. We sat quietly, interrupted only by an occasional “Shush!” whenever the movie became intense and someone happened to speak at exactly the wrong moment. I remember the discussions that followed every movie, the theories, opinions, and commentaries we shared as we stretched, yawned, and slowly prepared for bed. I remember the mornings, too, when I would struggle to wake my children. Eventually, I would give up and eat breakfast on my own, scroll through my phone for a while, and then send activities or meet with my learners online. By then, the children would finally wake up, and the routine would begin again. If you ask me now, those days were still perfect. The rain had brought us closer together.

But the suspension continued. And so did the rain. This time, however, it came with the wind howling, roaring, and pushing everything in its path. The fun began to fade, and I started to realize how serious the situation was becoming.

Erosion seen along the route which my husband took on his way to work. Photo by Rex Calde Jr.

Day and night, the rain and wind persisted. The outside world seemed to be screaming, and even through the walls of my home, I could hear and feel it. The rain began finding its way inside. It appeared as condensation, mold, and water dripping from the ceiling. Buckets were scattered across the floor, placed directly beneath leaks. I constantly wiped the walls, trying to keep the mold from spreading. Then, finally, the power went out. We were left with very little to keep us informed except for messages from the National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Council (NDRRMC), accompanied by the blaring warning sounds from our phones. Yellow. Orange. Then red. That was when the gravity of the situation truly dawned on me. The rain did not stop. The wind grew stronger. The soil became weaker and weaker, eroding beneath the relentless downpour.

This was no longer just rain. It was a disaster. Every blaring warning from our phones confirmed it, and it frightened me even more because my husband was out there while we stayed warm and safe at home. He was working through the heavy rain and winds, passing through areas where landslides could occur, places I wished he did not have to pass through at all. What could I do in a moment like this? I prayed. I prayed for the safety of my family, especially my husband, who was braving the rain and wind. I prayed for my learners. I could never fully know what each of my learners was experiencing, and in moments like this, I wished I did. Were they safe? Were they warm? Were they with their families? I could not know for certain. With the power out, it became even harder to contact them and check on them as best as I could. 

Then came the news of the landslide in Guisad. It dropped like a bomb. I immediately tried to remember whether any of my learners lived there. I prayed that none of them did. 

A landslide struck Guisad, Surong on August 9, 2026, burying 13 people and prompting a search-and-rescue operation. Photo by Bombo Radyo Baguio.

The time I had initially wished would last longer because of the class suspensions had now become dreadfully long. The rain and wind had no plans of stopping. They roared and pushed against everything in their path, and the city grew afraid; its land, its homes, and its people. But the rain did not stop. The monsoon rains brought by the typhoons scattered destruction and death. They frightened me, not only for myself, but for my family, my husband, and my learners. I was reminded of what the monsoon season can do to this city, and of the fear that comes with every typhoon and cyclone that passes through.

But eventually, every storm passes. And when it does, silence takes over. Not a complete silence, but a softer echo of everything, slowly realizing that the worst had passed. The leaves began to sway gently. The birds began to chirp. The remnants of the strong winds and heavy rain were still everywhere, but the rain itself was gone. 

The blaring warnings from the NDRRMC ceased, replaced by the softer ping of my phone. Another message from the NDRRMC came but this time, it was an update telling us that the worst had passed. Relief ran through my body. My heart began to calm, along with the weather. My family was safe. And so was I. The suspensions were finally lifted, and I learned that all my students were safe.

Visibility drops in Irisan, making navigation along the roads difficult.

Soon, we were back in our classroom, wearing thick jackets and rubber boots as the rain continued to come and go sometimes falling heavily, sometimes only as a drizzle. Then, every once in a while, the sun would peek through the clouds. And we would all get excited. It was only a glimpse of the sun, but it felt like something precious that had been taken from us after weeks of heavy rainfall.

At home, the buckets placed beneath the leaks were finally drained for the last time. The mold was cleaned away. The dampness slowly disappeared. I no longer had to worry about every corner and crevice of the house where water might trickle in and flood part of the floor. The rain and wind had finally spared us. 

The parks reopened. The roads began filling with cars again. The sidewalks became crowded with students, residents, and tourists. The city began to breathe again. And the people breathed with it. They basked in the sunlight that peeked through the clouds and welcomed the gentler breeze that followed the rains.

It was good to be outside again. Good to see the city moving. Good to take in the things we might have forgotten after being confined to our homes, surrounded by fear and uncertainty, and perhaps most beautiful of all was seeing people help one another get back on their feet and rebuild what the storm had taken from them.

The sun finally makes its appearance in Baguio City after weeks of heavy rain. Photo by Baguio PIO.

That was when I realized that Baguio City’s beauty is not only found in its landscapes, mountains, parks, and tourist destinations. Its beauty is also found in its people. It is in the residents who make the city what it is. It is in those who help rebuild after every disaster. It is in every helping hand extended when trouble strikes. The city is beautiful not only because of its geography, but because of the people who live in it and care for it.

Baguio City is a wonderful place where the clouds and the sun meet. One minute, the sun is shining; the next, you might find yourself walking through puddles. But like every other city, Baguio has its struggles. The rain may decide to stay longer, as it often does during the wet months from June to November. Then the sun takes its turn from March to May. And in between are the months that bring their own balance of wet and dry, hot and cold. 

So, always bring an umbrella. And always bring a thick jacket. Because in Baguio, you never really know what the sky has planned. But that is also part of its charm. Look beyond the rain. Look beyond the clouds. Look beyond the storms. And you will see the beauty of the city.

Indeed, Baguio City is… the Summer Capital of the Philippines.

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About the Author:

Maria Theresa M. Calde. A teacher at Quezon Hill Elementary School, a mother, and a concerned citizen of Barangay Irisan. She finds meaning in the everyday experiences that connect family, school, and community. Her experiences as an educator and a mother have strengthened her sense of compassion, responsibility, and concern for the well-being of others, especially during difficult times. Through her writing, she hopes to share stories that inspire awareness, resilience, and appreciation for the people and communities that make Baguio City a place to call home.

 

Pressenza Philippines