Come one, come all, see where your money went, see the Marcos extravaganza, 20 years in the making with a cash of billions

TEODORA Cruz, 65, sidewalk vendor from Port Area, burst into tears after touring the Malacanang Palace. “Nakita ko ang mga santo. Yun din ang nagparusa sa kanya. Dapat mangyari sa kanya yun.” (I saw the religious statues. They brought down punishment on Imelda. She deserved it.)

Teodora was one of hundreds who was on the dry run tour of the famed Palace on Thursday last week. Aghast and shocked by the opulence and the intimations of the scandalous lifestyle that the Marcoses, especially Imelda led, Teodora says: Nangilabot ako. Tingnan mo ang paghihirap namin, ako, ang mga anak ko, ang pagtitiis namin. Yan lahat, utang sa aming mahihirap na walang sapat na ulam at blgas. Sa ngalan ng Diyos, nakapasok din ako.” (I had goose bumps. Look how poor we are, me, my children. All those things, she owes us who don’t have enough to eat. With God’s help, I finally got in.)

Wim Grundeman, officer of a European development agency exclaims: “They are absolutely sick. I’m a Dutchman. If our queen has about six gowns, that’s about all.”

On grand opening day, Friday, thousands came early by the Palace gates only to find that thousands more came earlier than they did. As first days usually turn out, Friday was pandemonium as uniformed guards, white-clad women volunteers (many of them with Castillan tongues) tried to keep the surging crowd at bay. It was bedlam, it was mayhem, as the impatient crowd outside Gate II tried to push the gate open, refusing to transfer to where they were supposed to pass. For a while it looked like The Storming of the Palace, Part II.

Tempers rose, perspiration flowed like the Pasig, stomachs grumbled. Women fainted, children lost their mothers, journalists cursed for getting trapped in the human traffic. This was just the gate.

Things were smoother at the Palace grounds where people line up in between yellow cordons that would finally bring them to the portals of the Palace.

A few meters from the Palace doors the exclamations die down a bit. An elderly man in circa 1970 double knit pants takes out his pocket comb, tidies his hair and pulls down his shirt in place. Aahh, he says. A woman in rubber slippers wrings her dress dripping with sweat. If only the sun were kinder. Another woman from Quezon sulkingly says, “We campaigned for Cory, we wanted her to win. It was so hard to get in.” Then she chokes and covers her eyes. “Hanggang ngayon hindi pa nahahanap ang mister ko.” (We haven’t yet found my missing husband.) “Na-salvage yata,” (he was probably salvaged), somebody volunteers to explain. The grief-stricken woman would not say any more and she is left to her memories.

A photographer kneels on the ground and shoots feet. “I want high heels beside dirty feet,” he says, but his scenario would not come. He shoots anyway — at Adidas rubber shoes, beach (estero) sandals, loafers. One need not look at faces, the feet have it. They came, literally from all walks and runs of life.

Now they’re almost there. Becky Smith, a very Pinay and friendly matron stands by the Palace doors and points across the lawn. “That’s the guesthouse where our new President holds office.” Becky has been standing there for hours, repeating the same words to every half a dozen Malacanang visitors. How amazingly she keeps her cool, patting almost everyone on their wet shoulders. To the elderly — O, manong, nakarating ka rin (You’ve arrived, finally), to a bunch of giggling students — Naglakwatsa ba kayo (Did you have to cut classes?), to the impatient — Pasensiya na lang ha? (Have patience). No smoking ha? Puede mag-picture taking basta huwaq mataqal. (You may take pictures as long as it does not take long.) She had a cheery word for every bedraggled soul on the line. Bless the likes of her.

An unperturbed female guard stands eagle-eyed and motionless. She’s counting heads. Only 10:30 a.m., a couple of hours since opening time and she has counted 3,000 plus.

Vicky Quirino-Gonzales, former First Lady to her widowed father, President Elpidio Quirino shows everyone to the brown stairway leading to where it all is. The last time she was here to visit was in 1971. There is very little she can recognize in what used to be her former home. Then she begs off from photographers and interviewers. Don’t mention me, please, please. Then she curls up.

Upstairs, well-heeled ushers stand on their designated corners, keeping the traffic flowing. The cordoned aisles where people pass are covered with transparent plastic. If Imelda would only see this now.

The visitors gawk, gaze, stare. There’s a sudden hush there, a snicker and an outburst there. From the entrance of the chandeliered halls, to Imelda’s and Ferdinand’s bedroom, from the toilet to the mini-Rustan’s that contains Imelda’s wardrobe, the reactions are like a litany of curses, shock, awe and anger. There is humor, too.

A man in shabby attire, his face looking like he has a score to settle, suddenly blurts out upon beholding a painting of Marcos as “Malakas” of the Philippine legend: “Baka sisirain ko ang mukha niya! (I might destroy his face.) A companion takes him away saying, “Relax lang, pare.”

An old man in his 70s hobble around unaccompanied, with seemingly nowhere to go. Holding on to an old letter envelope, he wonders aloud, “Saan si Presidente Cory?” (Where is President Cory?) She does not hold office here, he is told. His face drops. “A, wala? Saan, saan siya?” (Not here? Where, where is she?)

Alfredo Fuyonar from Capiz: “Mas maganda pa sa mga palasyo sa Saudi.” (More beautiful than the palaces in Saudi.)

A woman from the Visayas: “Baw, ginoo, lilintian, ang kuwarto ni Imelda. “ (Goddamn, look at Imelda’s room.)

Aling Sion, cook: “Parang baliw siya.” (She’s like a mad woman.)

Sherlito Espinosa, gardener: Parang kaunti lang ang mga damit ni Macoy, kumpara kay Imelda.” (It seems Marcos has fewer clothes compared to Imelda.)

Somebody: “Yung bayad sa pan de sal na treinta pumunta rito. “(Our 30 centavos for bread went here.)

Angel Adocam, janitor: “Masaya ako. Mula pa noong bata ako ngayon lang ako nakapasok. “(I’m so glad. This is my first time to come since I was a kid.)

A scruffy youth after seeing Imelda’s clothes: “Tayo, balik-balik ang suot. Tatatlo ang damit, isang maong, pabalik-balik.” (We wear our clothes over and over. Three clothes, one pair of denims.)

Nita Paliwagan, cook: Nanghina ako nang makita ko.” (I felt faint when I saw everything.)

Aling Coring, laundrywoman: “Parang sa panaginip. Nangutang, ng nangutang, diyan lang pala napunta.” (It’s like a dream. They borrowed money and this is where it went.)

Sister Marion Chipeco, Good Shepherd nun: “I’m speechless.”

A voice in the crowd: “Reynang-reyna talaga, kaya ayaw umalis. Dito napunta ang para sa bayan.” (She was like a queen, that was why she didn’t want to leave. What was for the country, went here.)

Another voice: “Grabeng kapritso. Any iba punit-punit ang damit.” (What caprice, while others have only torn clothes.)

Tony Fajardo, 49, taxi driver who has been victimized by holduppers four times: “Nalunasan na ang paghihirap ko ng kaligayahan nang nakita ko ang loob.” (The difficulty I had in coming here has been compensated when I saw what’s inside.)

Woman: “Nangutang, namorsiento, diyan lang napunta.” (They borrowed money, got kickbacks, and all those went here.)

A very serious fellow: “Sasabihin nating huwag gagayahin ang ganyan. Dapat bumahagi.” (No one should imitate them. There should be sharing.)

Judith Abucay, 5, Mary Ann Lim, 5 (both at the lost-and-found section): “Saan mama ko?” (Where’s my mom?)

A group of squatters from del Pan whose homes where recently demolished: “Too bad we did not see Cory. We would like to ask for help.”

Indeed, it was a dream, a nightmare, a shocker, a scandal. A reality. Never again, should this happen, never again, should anybody live like this, they say. And so Malacanang will never be the same again, and hopefully too, the lives of those who came and saw.