The rain had been relentless. By late July 2025, Bulacan’s rice fields looked like inland seas, and Manila’s streets were rivers of brown water. In a cramped Quezon City hospital, a doctor adjusted his fogged-up goggles as another patient—this one a teenager with fever and jaundice—was wheeled into an improvised “leptospirosis ward” set up in a basketball gym.
Outside, the government’s flood-control projects—the ones meant to prevent this very scene—stood half-finished, crumbling, or, in some places, completely imaginary. The Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH) had spent ₱545 billion on flood infrastructure since 2022, yet in the heart of typhoon season, Filipinos were clinging to rooftops, wading through sewage, and burying their dead.
What no one expected was how deep the rot ran. In the weeks that followed, a Senate inquiry peeled back the layers of a scandal so brazen it shocked even corruption-weary Filipinos: ghost projects, casino binges, contractor cartels, and a couple who parked a fleet of Rolls-Royces and Maybachs in a climate-controlled garage while entire barangays drowned.
A Billion-Peso Betrayal
DPWH had spent over ₱545 billion on flood-control projects since 2022, but auditors and whistleblowers uncovered that much of that money seemed to vanish into thin air. Around ₱100 billion worth of contracts went to just 15 firms, many of them shell companies with minimal capital and suspiciously identical bid amounts.
Names like Sunwest, Topnotch Catalyst, Hi-Tone, and Triple 8 appeared repeatedly in Senate hearings, but it was the Discaya couple’s empire that captured headlines. Their companies, operating under nine different names, had quietly cornered millions in public contracts. Cezarah “Sarah” and Pacifico “Curlee” Discaya’s wealth was flaunted in plain sight: a fleet of 28 luxury cars—Bentleys, Maybachs, Rolls-Royces, and Mercedes-Benz G-Wagons—parked in their gated compound, some with custom plates and imported interiors worth more than an entire barangay’s floodwall.
On live television, Sarah Discaya defended her fortune with poise. She admitted to owning all 28 cars, claiming they were acquired legally, and, with a practiced smile, insisted she “had nothing to hide.” Behind her, photographs of her garage told a different story: the vehicles gleamed under luxury lighting, some with armored plating. Investigators estimated their value at ₱460 million, an amount starkly out of step with her companies’ declared capital.
Her calm testimony, paired with the staggering figures, made her an unintentional symbol of excess. Protesters began gathering outside DPWH offices, waving placards with slogans like, “We’re drowning, they’re driving Rolls-Royces.”
Bureau of Customs officials eventually seized a dozen of these vehicles, while others were “voluntarily surrendered.” The Philippine Contractors Accreditation Board (PCAB) revoked the couple’s nine contractor licenses, and the Department of Justice placed the couple under an immigration lookout bulletin.
Gambling Away the Flood Budget
If the Discayas represented ostentatious wealth, Bulacan’s district engineers embodied reckless impunity. In August 2025, Senator Panfilo Lacson revealed that two DPWH officials—District Engineer Henry Alcantara and Assistant District Engineer Brice Hernandez—had gambled away over ₱300 million each in casino losses. Using aliases and fake IDs, they frequented VIP rooms while projects in their jurisdiction remained incomplete or non-existent.
The revelations struck a nerve. Casinos were supposed to be off-limits to public servants. But these men walked in as “businessmen,” gambling fortunes that investigators believe may have been siphoned from project funds. It was a damning symbol: while taxpayers’ money was meant to build dikes, drainage systems, and pumping stations, some of it was being tossed onto gaming tables.
Anatomy of a Scam
Behind the headlines lay not a single scheme but a sophisticated system. Contractors “rented” licenses from established companies to qualify for projects they could not handle. Some firms existed only on paper, “winning” bids against sister companies to create an illusion of competition. In Bulacan, entire projects were declared finished without even breaking ground. COA auditors noticed something strange: cloned contract amounts across different regions, suggesting collusion.
Whistleblowers described how contractors and DPWH insiders worked hand-in-hand, with the blessing of local politicians. “It’s a cartel,” one senator remarked during a televised session. “We’re funding ghost walls, ghost drainage, ghost safety.”
Floodwaters and Disease
The cost of corruption wasn’t just financial. In July and August, torrential rains displaced over 300,000 Filipinos, killed dozens, and exposed the fragility of the very flood-control systems taxpayers had funded.
Then came the leptospirosis surge. Between January and mid-July 2025, the Department of Health recorded 3,037 cases, with over a thousand reported in a single month. Quezon City alone saw 178 cases by late July, with 23 deaths—an increase from 18 the previous year. Makeshift hospital wards were set up in gyms, “fast lanes” were established for severe cases, and dialysis units were overrun. Lawmakers openly blamed corruption for worsening public health crises, linking every unbuilt drainage pipe to the bacteria-filled waters now sweeping through communities.
The Hidden Hand of the Bicam
Investigators and senators pointed to a little-known but powerful stage of lawmaking: the bicameral conference committee, or “bicam,” where the House and Senate reconcile their national budget versions.
It was here, according to reports, that the chairman of the House Appropriations Committee, Rep. Zaldy Co (Ako Bicol Partylist), exercised sweeping discretion—arbitrarily inserting flood-control projects into the budget which were farmed out among various districts. What shocked many was that these allocations were done without the knowledge or consent of the actual representatives of the districts concerned.
But it wasn’t just the House. Senators, too, submitted their own requests for flood-control insertions at the bicam, quietly tacking on projects in provinces where political allies stood to benefit.
By the time the reconciled budget was passed, billions had been funnelled into “pet projects,” much of it untethered to actual engineering assessments or local needs. DPWH Engineering District offices were then tasked with implementing them, often under pressure to award contracts to “favored” firms.
The Push for an Independent Commission
By early September, public pressure for accountability and reform had reached fever pitch. Senators Tito Sotto and Kiko Pangilinan filed bills to create an Independent Commission on Infrastructure Integrity, a powerful investigative body modelled after the PCGG. This commission would have subpoena powers, its own forensic accountants, and a mandate to prosecute both public officials and private contractors.
Senator Erwin Tulfo insisted that religious leaders, youth representatives, and academics should be part of the body, arguing that “the people will not trust Congress to investigate itself.”
Civil society groups echoed these sentiments. Over 30 business and civic organizations signed a joint statement decrying “excessive corruption,” demanding jail time for contractors and public officials.
President Marcos promised full support and criminal charges, while the new DPWH secretary scrambled, suspending bidding, demanding courtesy resignations, and conducting forensic audits of thousands of projects.
The Stakes
As the rains continue, every flooded street and every hospital bed filled with leptospirosis patients is a reminder of what is at stake. Communities are drowning not just in water but in the weight of systemic corruption.
The question now is whether the proposed Independent Commission will be more than just a headline. Will it bring justice, or will it become yet another toothless body buried in bureaucracy? Filipinos have seen commissions come and go. Whether this one can break the cycle remains to be seen.
The story of these ghost projects is not just about missing billions. It is about a country where a child paddles to school on a banana tree raft, while the people tasked with protecting him gamble fortunes under fake names in air-conditioned casinos, leaving ordinary Filipinos to pay the price.
The header shows people wading the flood waters in Manila (photo: ABS-CBN, Aug. 3, 2025).
About the author
RAUL F. BORJAL, known as “Rolly” to his family and friends, was born in Naga City, Camarines Sur, and now resides in Parañaque City, Metro Manila. An alumnus of both Ateneo de Naga University and Ateneo de Manila University, he held senior executive roles in several domestic and multinational corporations, culminating in his retirement as Vice President and Corporate Secretary of a Filipino-owned group of companies.
He is married to the former Wenifreda D. Parma, a cum laude graduate of Ateneo de Naga University, and together they have four children. Rolly is also a co-founder and a member of the editorial board of Dateline Ibalon.