By The Sunriser
It’s the most wonderful time of the year—or at least, it should be. But in Iloilo City, some contractors might be singing a different tune: “We’ll bill you next year.”
For the second straight year, the city failed to snag the coveted Seal of Good Local Governance (SGLG) award, thanks to one pesky detail: it couldn’t fully disburse its development fund by the end of the year.
According to the Department of the Interior and Local Government (DILG), Iloilo City managed to release only 42 percent of its development fund in 2023, far from the required 100 percent. And why? Contractor billing delays and incomplete paperwork, of course!
But here’s where it gets fascinating or befuddling. When most contractors are known to be eager to collect payments for completed projects—because, you know, cash flow is crucial for their survival—apparently some in Iloilo prefer to wait. Why bill now when January feels so much less festive?
Could it be that these contractors are simply too busy enjoying the holiday spirit to collect payments? Or perhaps they’ve grown weary of the annual Christmas caroling conundrum—when every “collectible” peso risks being serenaded away by smiling faces armed with tambourines?
Officials explain that contractors sometimes hesitate to bill in December, anticipating that funds might be more fluid in January. A reasonable explanation, but let’s admit: it sounds a little too reasonable.
After all, when was the last time you heard a contractor say, “Nah, I’ll wait. December is overrated for cashing in.” Most are in a hurry to secure payments so they can start new projects, settle debts, or simply keep their operations running smoothly.
It’s almost as if there’s an unspoken Christmas truce in Iloilo City—a quiet understanding between contractors and city officials to avoid financial exchanges during the season of giving (or demanding).
But here’s the kicker: the city government insists the funds were already “obligated,” even though they weren’t technically disbursed. Obligated funds sound nice in theory, but as far as the SGLG is concerned, if the money hasn’t left the city’s coffers, it’s as good as locked in a vault.
This procedural snag cost Iloilo City more than just bragging rights. The SGLG award isn’t just a shiny badge of honor; it unlocks access to millions in incentives for development projects. And with PHP 2.3 million per city at stake, one has to wonder: Was it really worth holding back those payments?
Of course, no one’s accusing anyone of misappropriation here. But the situation begs the question: Why does disbursing development funds seem to hit a bottleneck every year?
Perhaps it’s time to rethink the city’s processes—and maybe, just maybe, have a little less faith in the idea that contractors enjoy waiting for their checks.
Because in governance, as in life, a little common sense goes a long way. And in this case, it might have been the difference between an SGLG award and another year of wondering what could have been.
As the city faces yet another year without the SGLG, one thing’s clear: it’s not just about rules or indicators—it’s about making things work, even when the holidays roll around.
Let’s hope 2024 rings in more than just carols.
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Bus vs. Flyover: A Tale of Tall Obstacles
The modernized bus that dared to brave the Ungka Flyover’s 2.3-meter clearance limit last week has sparked a series of events worthy of its own road drama miniseries.
At the center of the plot is a now-damaged vertical clearance gantry, a fleeing driver, and an indignant Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH-6) that insists it’s not to blame.
The narrative began with the unmistakable sound of metal meeting something far too big. A modern bus, seemingly unfamiliar with the concept of “height restrictions,” collided with the overhead gantry, sending debris crashing onto an unsuspecting SUV below.
The SUV owner, understandably aggrieved, has filed a police report. Meanwhile, the bus driver made a swift exit, leaving behind a wrecked gantry, a damaged SUV, and questions about why he attempted to squeeze a too-tall vehicle into a too-small space.
But fear not, the DPWH-6 was quick to clear its name.
“The height limit is 2.3 meters,” said Director Sanny Boy Oropel, with the kind of certainty that only bureaucracy can muster. “It’s clearly the driver’s fault. Why are we being blamed?”
To be fair, the DPWH did install the gantry with dangling chains to warn drivers of the height restriction. But in the spirit of modern design and advanced engineering, one might wonder: was the signage insufficient, or did it simply underestimate the optimism of bus drivers who see flyovers as challenges, not obstacles?
Oropel promises swift action—not against the gantry or the flyover’s problematic history of vertical displacement, but against the bus driver’s license. “If he reaches out, I will have his license confiscated,” he declared, as though the bus driver’s license is the key to solving Ungka’s many woes.
Of course, the flyover itself hasn’t been without its share of controversies. From sinking piers to cement splatters on passing vehicles, it seems to have become Iloilo’s most accident-prone landmark.
But perhaps the most surprising twist in this saga is the stoic perseverance of the Ungka Flyover, still partially functional despite its challenges. DPWH promises a full reopening by December 25, 2024—a Christmas miracle in the making.
As for the modern bus and its daring driver? They’ve unwittingly reminded us of a universal truth: when infrastructure meets overconfidence, chaos is never far behind.
The lesson here is clear. Adhering to height limits and regulations is crucial—but so is designing infrastructure that can withstand the unpredictable creativity of motorists. Until then, let’s hope the gantry finds itself repaired, the SUV finds justice, and the Ungka Flyover finds peace.
