TACLOBAN,
Philippines (AP) — Close your eyes and hold your breath, and you could imagine
you are in a normal sports stadium. You hear a ball bouncing and the children's
cheers echoing under the cavernous dome.
Open
your eyes and you see rain-soaked trash littering almost every inch of the
ground and exhausted refugees sprawled across seats. A sign taped on the wall
next to a small, dank room by the stairwell tells people in rough terms not to
relieve themselves there. It is clear from the stench that many have ignored
this advice.
For
the thousands of people jamming the Tacloban City Astrodome, the great hall
with a solid roof was a heaven-sent refuge when Typhoon Haiyan rammed the
eastern Philippines last week. Evacuated from their homes along the coast in
time, they had a place to hide from the furious winds and gigantic water surge.
But along with shelter, their constant companions now are misery and hunger.
It's
been six days since the typhoon struck but no aid has arrived at the Astrodome.
Not a single relief worker is in sight.
"What
can we do? There's nothing we can do!" said Corazon Cecleno, a volunteer
with the village council who had handed out food stamps to the occupants —
stamps for food that has yet to arrive. "We really want to know why the
distribution of help is so slow."
Just
as New Orleans residents took refuge in the Superdome during Hurricane Katrina,
thousands of Filipinos are squatting here: inside the stadium, in the ruined
shops and restaurants that line it, and under tarpaulins on the grass outside.
Maria
Consuelo Martinez, 38, is nine months pregnant and jammed in an abandoned
restaurant at the dome along with five families. Her naked 2-year-old son,
Mark, sits next to her on a piece of plywood. She has only one outfit for him,
and it is drying after a wash. Her 5-year-old daughter, Maria, stares vacantly.
Sodden laundry hangs from ropes crisscrossing the room. Flies are everywhere
and the tiled floor is slick with filth.
Victims
queue for food and water in the aftermath of super typhoon Haiyan in Tacloban
city, central …
Her
husband wanders around, begging for food. Some friends found sacks of
ocean-soaked rice at a warehouse and gave the family one. They are drying the
grains in the sun on a blue tarp, hoping it will be edible, knowing it will be
salty. They have a bottle of well water to cook and wash with, but it tastes
like the ocean and they aren't convinced it's safe. They drink it anyway.
"We
have no choice," says Moses Rosilio, a neighbor who is squatting in the
restaurant with Martinez.
Her
baby is due by the end of the month. She has no idea where she'll deliver.
"I'm
feeling nervous," she says. "There are no clothes for my baby. ... I
don't know, I don't know. Maybe I'll give birth here."
In
the wreckage of a discotheque next door, facing the street in front of the
stadium, a few men have built a small fire to cook noodles. The pot will need
to feed a dozen people today.
Nearby,
Vicky Arcales, 38, uses a hand-crank charger for her mobile phone. She shakes
her arm in exhaustion; she's been at it for three hours. She knows she won't
get a signal anyway, but charges it nonetheless. Just in case.
Behind
her, a family has crafted a makeshift baby cot out of a pink-and-white-striped
sheet, strung up by cords. It cradles a month-old boy in a shirt, but no
diaper; they have none, and no other clothes. Nor do they have food for his
mother, who is starving.
The
baby stares up at visitors and urinates, the urine seeping through the sheet
onto the floor below. A few feet away, a 1-year-old girl wails, her face
covered in a red rash. There is no medicine for her.
Inside
the dome, Erlinda Rosales lies on a steel barrier propped atop the railing and
stadium seats, next to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. This is their
makeshift bed. They are cooking a little nearby on a small burner borrowed from
a friend.
Rosales,
72, is one of the lucky ones: Her family has finally received the first supply
of relief food. But it was only because her granddaughter has walked every day
to their village council to see if the supplies are there. On Thursday's walk,
the food was finally available. They got 3 kilograms (7 pounds) of rice and
three cans of sardines.
"I
wonder when they will bring food here," she says.
Daniel
Legaspi has less than Rosales, but more than some other people. The 16-year-old
holds up a packet of squeezy cheese, powdered biscuits and cream.
"We
don't have bread, but we have the fillings," he says with a laugh.
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