See You Again, Cebu

By Joe Larano Jr.

As I lay on the hospital bed at Richmond Hospital, recovering from surgery, I had the quietest time in months. The world outside moved in its own rhythm, but I was caught between pain and stillness. With nothing much to do, I found myself scrolling through my phone, reading news about the aftermath of Typhoon Tino that lashed out its fury in Cebu and nearby provinces. The headline described it as the worst flash flood in Cebu’s history. The death toll had risen to 114, with over a hundred still missing, many from a province that was still healing from the earthquake that struck only weeks earlier.

Reading the news felt heavier than the pain from my fresh wound. I could not help but think of Cesar G., a 35-year-old father of two girls, aged five and two. He worked as a hospitality staff and tourist driver in Cebu. I met him during our 2024 vacation when my wife and I decided to explore more of Cebu beyond the city—its towns, mountains, and coastal roads.

Cesar was cheerful, talkative, and full of stories. He knew every shortcut and every hidden spot worth stopping for. Our long drives turned into conversations about family, faith, and the simple dreams of life. He spoke with pride about Cebu’s beauty, its people, and its soul. Somewhere along the way, our relationship went beyond that of a guide/driver and client. It became a friendship that needed no definition.

I remember clearly one afternoon when we drove for Boljoon town fiesta. We lost our way, missing the lunch invitation from his friend. We ended up eating at a small roadside carinderia. The food was simple consisting of grilled fish, puso rice, and tinolang manok.  It was one of the best meals I ever had. It was the laughter, not the food, that filled the place with warmth.

Another evening, after dropping us at our hotel, Cesar invited us to visit his friend, also a driver. We were welcomed like family. The house was small, its walls unplastered, but the table was full of food, native chicken stew, bananas, and sweet mangoes. What stayed in my memory was not what they served, but how they sincerely served it. That kind of hospitality lingers in your heart, long after you leave.

Liloan, Cebu was among the hardest hit by Typhoon Tino. Floodwaters rose swiftly, submerging homes and sweeping away belongings. Dozens of lives were lost. I read that number, and my heart sank. Cesar and his family lived in that town.

How could such tragedy fall upon a place so full of life? Just weeks ago, they were rebuilding from the earthquake’s damage, and now this. As I scrolled through my feed, video after video showed torrents of water, people clinging to rooftops, rescuers wading through brown waters, and others carrying pets and children to safety.

My stitched wound throbbed as if echoing the ache I felt inside. Physical pain was easier to bear; what crushed me was the helplessness of watching from a distance. I thought of Cesar’s cheerful face, his stories, his laughter. I opened Messenger and found his name still in my contact list. I sent him a message: “How are you, Cesar?” There was no reply. I tried again, again and still nothing.

In the quiet of that hospital room, the weight of everything pressed on me. But even amid the sorrow, I held on to one thing that Cebu and its people have always taught the world—resilience. They fall, but they rise again. They rebuild what was broken. They mourn their losses, but never lose their faith.

I remember vividly our last day in Cebu. Cesar drove us to the airport. As he unloaded our luggage, he smiled and said, “Kuya Joe, see you again.” It was a simple goodbye, one that carried no promises, only hope.

As I recall that moment now, I realize that hope is what keeps us moving, even when the world seems to crumble. It is what keeps Cebuanos standing after every storm. Perhaps Cesar and his family are among those rebuilding their lives, drying what remains, and starting anew.

Cebu will heal again. The people will rise again. Because no typhoon can wash away the warmth and courage of those who call it home. And if I ever see Cesar once more, I know what he will say with that same bright smile, “Kuya Joe, see you again.”