I COVERED the presidential term sailing through its choppy waters chronicling Philippine President Fidel V. Ramos’ (FVR) wavy patterns of success and glory, laughter and grief, loss and devastation, troubles and genuine delights.
Through the oppressive summers, we fluttered around him, hot and heaving, sticky and dusty marinated in different astringents, alcohol and talcum. The rainy days never dampened our spirits, only our shoes.
As palace reporters, we took one note of changes, some exits (that grieved him) and the few entrances in a broad colorful exposure that prepare you for anything. Each day brought unexpected twists — shouting matches behind the scenes among the biggies, intrigues among the lightweights, plus surprises that unsurprised the Malacanang Press Corps. Given his round-the-clock presidential schedule, daily coverage of the president saw more twists and turns than a rollercoaster.
The place generally filled with cigarette smoke and profanity. It is where one gets schooled in ribald humor yanking you forever from the sterile and safe world of diplomatic finesse and protocol officers trailing the Chief Executive.
In this smoke-filled confusion, sassy presidential reporters spend endless hours playing tricks with words, often coming up with statements that could move you from sublimity to nausea. These specimens of 23-24 made me feel like a fossil after most of them were children of my colleagues. What havoc could happen should they decide to gang up on me?
There was really nothing monumental about lunching at the Palace, but having the president’s undivided attention a whole afternoon was something to revel in.
The newshen would be made up, colored, highlighted, smoothed and glowing, not to be outdone as the men put on intense neckties flirting for attention, and oh, yes, smelling like the future. To make the whole gang truly cross-sectional, the executive staff and the media relations office, were on hand, suffering us, while we choked presidential presence.
A breath away from the murky Pasig river, the incumbent Presidents warmly welcomed all 27 of us on annual gatherings designed to appease Manila’s “privileged” journalists, especially if a collective complaint that a sitting President has become more accessible to the foreign media, but elusive to Malacanang reporters, was aired. We have covered coup attempts, typhoons, earthquakes, royal visits, tsunamis, golf games, cabinet wrongdoings — including their exits and entrances — with peculiar detachment. Then there were the weekly presscons where there is no prepared eloquence. You don’t shout questions at the president. She or he is politely asked, stammered at, flashed, gushed and whispered to. Inevitably someone mumbles and grunts and all one could make out was this reporter chewing the mike and swallowing it whole! I have not been spared the brunt a president, admonishing this novice with: “Is there a question somewhere?” or “In answer to your convoluted question…” The chorus of laughter would want one wish that I would just dust under the rug.
Travelling with the president around the archipelago after coverages were excursions to pillage and plunder. There was absolutely nothing we laid our eyes on we didn’t want to buy or keep as souvenirs. The Press Plane became an instant refugee camp of flora and fauna, fruits, bedcovers, what have you, even the exotic durian.
Then we punctuated our coverages with the usual favorite pastime. We inebriate ourselves silly!
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E-mail Mylah at [email protected].
