Fortress of Riddles

 

by Ino Manalo

Stories are told and retold. They can enmesh a place in a net so fine that it becomes difficult to distinguish between what had transpired and what was conjured. One such fabled place is Lahore Fort in Pakistan.  The pavilions and chambers of this Mughal edifice have been the sites of so many encounters that every column seems to hold up a pediment of memories. Every tile is set in a pavement of recollections. There is even a famous Wall of Pictures with scenes of angels in flight and men clashing with swords, an unending mural of narratives. 

A mural of narratives

One person who knows the stories well is my friend Rustam Khan. He had worked with the Fort’s administration for years. So, when he offered to tour me around the vast complex, I happily agreed. During our wanderings, I bit my tongue when I felt the impulse to tell my sagely guide that, back home, his name was widely associated with a more flamboyant character!

My friend and guide Dr. Rustam Khan

A contemporary painting of Lahore Fort

Rustam began by explaining to me that Lahore Fort wasn’t a fortress in the regular sense of the word. It was a sumptuous residence that - just like Windsor castle – was surrounded by huge walls which encapsulated kings and courtiers. It had been expanded through the centuries resulting in an amalgam of different historical styles.

My first lesson was an introduction to the intricacies of brick. We were beginning with the elements that formed the basis for the structures of the Fort’s various sagas. Rustam pointed out the oldest bricks from the time of the Emperor Akbhar . These were robust, somewhat rotund, but full of the strength of earth. Then there were the bricks from the time of Shahjahan. These were finer and more slender, reflective of a ruler whose preferences were for marble embellished with the floral motifs of Persia. Finally there were those from the kiln put up by the British. These were flat and efficient, no-nonsense tools of Empire.

Bricks from the Akbar period on the left and from the Shahjahan period on the right

Bricks from the British period

Every curve and crack had something to contribute. Rustam directed me to shapes in the midst of the shimmering mosaics of the celebrated Sheesh Mahal or Hall of Mirrors which my dazzled eyes would not have discerned. He even shared with me his pet theory that the real Sheesh Mahal was actually located in another part of the palace.

My guide noted how the suns which formed the medallions of the ceiling panels of a particular pavilion were all different, indicating the symbolism of a variety of faiths. This conveyed a conscious effort to project pluralism and tolerance, hallmarks of cosmopolitan rulers.

I was shown stone loops set into the walls for torches to light the palace at night. I also noticed smaller hooks on the perimeters of windows or doorways. These, it was explained, were for curtains. I recalled what another scholar had told me: Indian buildings like the Fort had two layers. The first was made up of stone and mortar. These formed the permanent structures which were immediately observable. But there was also another layer of colorful draperies and canopies, gossamer, ephemeral, subject to the whims of satraps and seasons.

We walked through a large enclosure of lawns and orderly pathways. Rustam clarified that this was originally a huge campsite, a waiting area for the retinues of emissaries. The pavilion where the king would have sat occupied one side of the enclosure.  He would have revealed himself to his subjects from a balcony.

   Interior of the Sheesh Mahal pavilion

One of the pleasures of being with my special guide was that we were allowed to enter areas which were usually off-limits such as the hall behind the throne.  This overlooked still another large space – the great quadrangle of the Emperor Jahangir. I stood there mesmerized by my imaginings. For a moment I could hear the faint strains of music, but of course it must have come from the amusement park outside.

As we descended into the quadrangle, Rustam kept on harrying me with questions about details, about bricks. From what epoch was this wall? He seemed pleased that I was quite game about answering.

   

Ceiling of Chamber in the quadrangle of Shahjahan

The quadrangle of Shahjahan

We soon found ourselves in another courtyard. Rustam asked me what this space reminded me of and then shrugged his shoulders. I suppose this was because the answer was both obvious and somewhat cliché. For the elegance and purity of this marbled expanse pointed to only one thing: the Taj Mahal, built by the grieving Shahjahan as the tomb of his wife, Mumtaz. I must admit though, that the monumentality of such devotion still made me pause.

Even while we progressed from section to section, I was beginning to feel a little anxious. Would I ever get the sequence of this procession of Mughal monarchs straight in my mind? Fortunately, a little mnemonic device that my Asian Civilizations teacher, Professor Oscar Evangelista, had taught us, came to my rescue: BHAJSA. This meant, “Bread, honey, and jam serve all”.  Magically, the dynastic past fell neatly into place. For “B” or “Bread” stood for Babur, revered founder of the line and first of the Great Mughals. His progeny then filed by effortlessly - and in correct order: Humayun was “honey”, Akbar was “and”, Jahangir, “jam”, Shahjahan, “serve”, and Aurangzeb was “all”.

Much later, Rustam brought me to examine what seemed nothing more than a hole in the ground albeit one that was lined with an elegant paving. Again he became inscrutable as he quizzed me about the significance of this area at the boundary between the king’s courtyard and the harem’s quarters. Still unyielding, he nodded in the direction of an imprint on the wall which betrayed the presence of pipes long lost to corrosion. Finally he relented:  we were in the former baths and the hole was actually a tub, a favorite royal locus for amorous pursuits.  Suddenly, the great Mughals were not just fierce warriors anymore. It was heartening to know that after a grim battle of conquest, they too needed a wash and a softer touch.   

The possible remains of a tub

It was, admittedly, a lot to ponder in one afternoon. But I was unperturbed. It was a great honor to have been guided by someone whose focus on detail arose from what was clearly a deep well of insight and devotion. As we walked back to our vehicle, I saw large crowds entering, cheerfully invading what had once been forbidden ground. Rustam again volunteered that it was a holiday and people came to sit on the grass and play. I wondered: what stories did these people tell each other about this place?

That night, shortly before I retired, something more about my tour made me smile.  I recalled how, before we began our walk, Rustam had stood beneath a ceiling bracket carved in the form of an animal. He then demanded to know why similar brackets over the most important section of the courtyard had abstract shapes corresponding to no known beast or plant.

After a long time, I gingerly ventured a guess. I suggested that this abstraction may have to do with the point that the Fort was the product of a civilization which produced immense temples with ornate gates but with innermost chambers void of decoration. My guide smiled and then allowed me to move on.

I never got around to checking with Rustam what he thought about my response. But I was happy that he bothered to continuously test me as we went about our explorations.  After all, guides must always ask questions. How else would their followers figure out the way?

 

 

 

Fusion in a Mountain Sanctuary

 

Fusion in a Mountain Sanctuary

The town of Kiangan in Ifugao is reached after a long drive through landscapes of forested mountains and rushing streams. I had the sense that we were far from everything else, but in truth we were but a few hours outside the bustling cities of the Cagayan Valley. In Kiangan, one has the feeling of sanctuary tinged with a note of sadness. Just beyond are the fabled Rice Terraces, once glorious but now threatened by neglect and erosion. 

Our charming inn

At the very outskirts of the town was our inn, a compound of comfortable houses ran by Toto Kalugdan and his wife, Teresita Habawel. The two are both obstetricians. Though they had a substantial practice in California, they both felt that it was time to come home.

Home would turn out to be in Ifugao from where Teresita’s family hailed instead of Toto’s native Cavite. The couple purchased a piece of land and began to build a dream residence.  The spot had actually been a coffee plantation and a Japanese military camp in previous avatars. Listening to Toto talk about his plans for a school for the deaf or a clinic for snake bites, one can see how much he has come to love his adopted community.

The Japanese probably chose the site because of its location – the river valley was visible for miles around. When the first house was built, curious visitors began to drop by. A relative asked if the couple could take in seventeen foreigners whose reservations elsewhere were botched. Though hesitant, the Kalugdans agreed to play host.  Not long after, more people would show up, referred by the original batch. The dream house was now doubling as a homestay. Throughout the years, though, one rule remained: only those recommended by friends of the family are allowed to stay.

                                                               The Kalugdans and friends

One day, kayak tour organizers Anton Carag and Argel Gerale came calling, referred by their guide Daniel Pitpitunge. They wanted to know if the couple was willing to accept guests who needed showers and food after braving the rapids on kayaks. Lucky for me, the Kalugdans had said yes to what would prove a productive arrangement. This was how I ended up at the compound, having joined a beginner’s kayaking sortie led by Anton and Argel.

Excellent  guides Daniel Pitpitunge and Herbert Perez

We got to Kiangan in time for the mid-day meal. It would be the benediction at journey’s end. The first thing laid before us was a soup confectioned from cornmeal and squash blossoms – a most satiating porridge. On the trip up, I had seen an old woman carrying a bunch of the yellow flowers -  drops of sunshine gleaming in the cold air. It was nice to know that such wonderful incandescence was now warming my stomach!

Next came kare-kare and a salad of tender ferns enlivened by tomatoes, onions, and a lot of salted eggs. As if the saline kick from the eggs were not enough, there were also small bowls filled with sautéed bagoong laced with coconut cream and chili. As most Filipinos know, all these form the perfect complement for kare-kare’s peanut-kissed stew. I dug in, grateful that all our kayaking had been fortuitously accomplished the day before. My vessel would surely have capsized from the weight of what I was ingesting! I barely took note of what our hosts were explaining: lunch was a kind of transition from the cuisine of the lowlands. Ifugao fare was reserved for that evening.

As scheduled, the whole afternoon was occupied with the celebrated Rice Terraces. We headed for Hapao since the terrace walls there were made of stone instead of the more common packed earth. One has seen these agricultural marvels, on television, in photographs. But there was no preparing for the awe which they engendered. The whole world became ziggurats of emerald, each step paved with silver, mirroring the sky. It is Jacob’s Ladder ascending to Heaven, a celestial vision. Someone observed that the grass roofs of the houses had been replaced by shiny metal sheets that looked so harsh and alien. Yet how does one force people to be content with grass which requires constant replacement?

On the way back, we passed a stall selling watercress, freshly picked from the Terraces. In the Philippines, watercress only grows at higher altitudes and is quite the treat. We bought the whole batch for Teresita.

As we drove home there was one more incident: we witnessed an infant plummet from a kitchen counter onto a pail! Out from our van we burst, an incoherent gaggle of would-be helpful tourists, each carrying what they thought could help. Someone brought a bottle of water, someone else a can of soda. The cold surfaces would reduce the swelling, we explained as we waved our offerings wildly. Eventually the grandmother thanked us for our assistance, graciously addressing the women in our party as “Madame”.  All throughout this episode the patient in question kept very still, having quickly silenced her own cries.  Later on it dawned on us:  the poor child was probably more shocked by the explosion of deranged strangers than by her actual fall!

The silversmith of Banaue, Roger Abul

After a brief stop at a silversmith’s workshop, we were back at the hotel. As promised, Teresita prepared duck the Ifugao way. I had never imagined duck as a fixture of Cordillera meals. It made sense, though, given the liquid realm of the Terraces where ancient hydraulic techniques were practiced.

I found the fowl , accompanied by  the broth it was boiled in, too gamey for my taste. But then Victoria, our Spanish guest, made a brilliant suggestion: in keeping with a tradition in her country, we should all pour into our bowls half a glass of baya, the local spirit made from rice. Dr Toto prided himself for having found the perfect baya maker. He liked to serve the amber liquid ice-cold and sweet. It went perfectly with the duck soup, a fusion of Cordillera and Castille.

The theme of fusion continued to the watercress, just so recently flourishing on mountain slopes. Teresita had lavished on it a vinaigrette made more sensuous by the oil of walnuts, the vigor of garlic, and the pampering of Parmesan flakes. This time it was the Terraces meeting up with Tuscany by way of California. There was also breaded fish with a dark sugary sauce as well as julienned sweet potatoes and  carrots,  all cooked a la tempura. The camp’s original occupants would have approved!

I had to interview Teresita: had she ever studied cooking extensively? It turned out that she mostly experimented with the recipes she read in books. It was very clear- this was a woman who was cooking from the heart, weaving together culinary threads from her kitchen atop a valley with a rushing river.

The next day, Dr Toto showed us around the compound. We saw cozy rooms with carved doors made regal by the skill of local sculptors, a stream-fed pool, a traditional hut. But everything was again eclipsed by the food. We couldn’t wait for breakfast: eggplant omelet, slivers of sun-dried and salted fish on a bed of tomatoes, garlicky kangkong and finally, an aromatic coffee coaxed from beans grown on the surrounding peaks.

Changes are coming to the Cordillera. Some changes are lamentable. Young people no longer want to farm the Terraces, understandably leery of the back-breaking work. But some changes can also be for good. Surely one must be gladdened by the knowledge that somewhere amidst the Terraces, there is a home with two people who have returned from a distant country to explore what it means to unite the tastes of many lands.  

A House of Silk

 

The Jim Thompson House is one of the top attractions of Bangkok. Every year, thousands of visitors come to see this lovely home which has been turned into a small museum. What draws people to the place is probably not just the beauty of the site but also the story that binds everything together. For the House celebrates the legend of the man who built this charming compound.

James Harrison Wilson Thompson was born in Delaware in 1906. He attended Princeton University and the University of Pennsylvania where he finished an architectural degree, going on to practice his craft in New York City. When the Second World War broke out, he volunteered for military service joining the Office of Strategic Services, the forerunner of the Central Intelligence Agency or CIA. He soon found himself in Bangkok.

When the War ended he decided to stay in Thailand getting involved with the tourism industry which he must have instinctively felt would soon flourish. He helped reorganize what is now one of the world’s top hotels – the magnificent Oriental.

Eventually he would take an interest in the production of Thai silk. In the 1940s, the making of Thai silk was a dying craft. Though the material was known for its brilliant hues, these tended to fade after extended use and quality was inconsistent. Undaunted, Thompson proceeded to improve the fabric. He then took samples back to the United States to promote it and create greater demand. Today, silk production is a vibrant industry and the company that Thompson founded is one of the leaders in the field.

In the late 1950s, having lived in Thailand for many years, Thompson decided to build himself a new home. He selected a site that was redolent of the many characteristics of traditional Thai life. For one thing, it was by a klong or canal. Though now bedeviled by floods, Bangkok was a city whose waterways were essential features – the central arteries through which daily transactions flowed. Right across the klong was a village whose weavers Thompson would regularly visit.

Thompson’s dream abode was completed in 1959. It was made up of several houses from different parts of Thailand. Carpenters steeped in time-honored techniques were brought in from Ayutthaya (the former capital) to rebuild the structures. Thompson also planted a lush tropical garden that brought to mind the teeming jungles of the region.

It is this garden that one notices upon entering the compound. During a recent visit, it dawned on me that what may attract tourists to the site is the fact that the verdant garden and the undulating roofs of the buildings probably distill for many a very compelling image of the Asia in their minds. It is an image culled from storybooks and accounts of fantastic realms, activating a primordial feeling of amazement and wonder.

The centerpiece of the tourist’s experience of the place is, of course, the house. One must pay an entrance fee and join a guided group to enter. I was quite impressed by the fact that we were all required to leave our bags and shoes. Somehow, this helped to enhance the feeling that the house was truly a marvel, a venerable edifice that one was privileged to be allowed to see if even for a few stolen moments. 

The interiors are gorgeous. Everywhere I turned , I beheld tableaux that spoke volumes about balance, refinement and the serendipity of detail. This was the East as refashioned by the West. Much of what I saw signaled creativity, freshness, and fusion. I saw, for example, how small and square mahjong gaming tables were placed together to form a dining ensemble. Carved wooden dye blocks became murals. It was the myth-making “orientalism” as described by Edward Said but with the flourish of a diva.

As we went through the house, the guide expertly pointed out important art works. At the time Thompson   started collecting, South East Asian artifacts were not yet on anyone’s list. The man certainly helped put the region on the map as an important destination. As the guides shared various anecdotes about Thompson’s memorable dinners and banquets as well as the procession of celebrities that streamed through the exquisitely appointed halls, it became very clear to me:  this was a man who had perfected the art of the party as marketing strategy. His list of invitees included Hollywood startlets, literary giants and famous heiresses like Doris Duke. After a magical evening at Chez Thompson, the guests would then go forth, spreading the word and helping to weave the allure that would surround Mr Jim’s chosen product – Thai silk.

The house was, in fact, a fabulous showcase for the fabric. Jim Thompson would use Thai silk in different permutations all throughout his home: as upholstery, curtains, table spreads, lamp shades. More correctly, the house was a showcase for the lifestyle which would make everyone take note of what Thompson’s weavers were producing. For the man had it down pat: it is not advertising which sells a product. What truly sells is legend.

Sadly, a tragic twist of events would add to the mystique. Sometime in 1967 while on vacation in Malaysia, Jim Thompson would disappear during a walk in the forest. Rumors would abound as to what had happened to the man. But in the end, Mr Thompson never came home again.

Today, even though the beautiful house on the klong no longer has its owner, it is alive and well and booming, filled with visitors. As I walked around, I saw that a lounge had been added as well as a café that served delicious meals. Sitting at a table near the pond is truly a meditative experience given the grime and bustle of contemporary Bangkok.

My favorite is the gallery which hosts cutting-edge thematic exhibits. I had once seen a show there which explored how Thompson would have felt if he were to suddenly come back to his beloved city.  On my more recent visit, there was a display of innovative designs. Of course, some of the pieces on display were also on sale at the store downstairs which was doing brisk business.

There are certainly a lot of lessons in the Jim Thompson house for those of us who are trying to revive Philippine fabrics like piña. For one, it was abundantly apparent that to sell textiles, the best showcase is a fabulous house. Many thoughts filled my mind as I surveyed the garden: could we do something like this in Boracay to sell the weaving of  Aklan? Could the National Historical Commission of the Philippines turn the various heritage homes in its care into a vibrant entrepreneurial center where history will help provide livelihood for local communities?

Then I smile as I tease myself with another admittedly irreverent question:  if I want the craft product I am advocating to flourish, would I also have to disappear into the forest?

The Pergamon Museum: Art or Commerce?

 

Museum Island, Berlin

A friend from UNESCO once told me that his organization’s famous World Heritage List generally excludes museums. I suppose this may have to do with the fact that museums are very obviously heritage sites. As such, they do not need a UNESCO declaration to be accorded recognition and protection.

One interesting exception is Berlin’s Museum Island which was inscribed in 1999. This is the name that has been given to the northern portion of a small isle in the center of the Spree River in the Mitte district of the German capital. 

There are five venerable institutions in this site: the Altes , opened in 1863, houses the Greco-Roman Collections, the Neues, recently restored to showcase the Egyptian Collection, the National Gallery, completed in 1876, the Bode, constructed in the early 20^th century for the Byzantine Collection, and the Pergamon, holding larger reconstructed archaeological tableaux.  It is this unique concentration which won UNESCO’s nod.

The Berlin Cathedral

Dominating the entire area are the huge greenish domes of the Berlin Cathedral. I could not help thinking as I surveyed this ecclesiastical pile that, for all its magnificence, this immense church was not even the star of the show. It was no match for the drawing power of its neighbors. There was no doubt : people flocked to Museum Island because of  the Museums.

The Entrance to the Pergamon Museum

Of the five, the most visited are the Neues and the Pergamon. The former is the home of the bewitching bust of Queen Nefertiti. The latter is named after its most spectacular display: the great Pergamon Altar.

I had seen so many photos of the Altar that I was quite anxious to examine the real thing. The prospect of viewing an ancient Greek building squeezed into a large hall of another edifice was rather appealing. After wandering around the other museums, I finally entered the one for which I had really come to Berlin. As it turned out, I was quite unprepared for what awaited me.

Model of the Pergamon town acropolis with the Altar at the right

Scale model of the Altar

 

The Pergamon Altar was breathtaking. It is a horseshoe-shaped colonnaded building which may have once sheltered a ceremonial space for making offerings. There was something about the broad marbled expanses that easily evoked the idea of perfection shining from a distant summit. A quick glance at the scale models in the room would reveal that this structure had been part of a hill of temples very much like the Acropolis in Athens.  The Altar was recovered from a site in what is now modern Turkey which was associated with the town of Pergamon, a center for parchment production in the Hellenistic world. An echo of this production can still be seen in the Spanish word for parchment : pergamino.

 

The  Pergamon Altar from the front

 

                                        The gigantomachy frieze on the Pergamon Altar 

All around the base of the Altar is a carved frieze which depicts a battle between the Gods and the Giants. This is what scholars call a “gigantomachy”. The Greeks must have identified with the struggles of the Gods. As citizens of small states fending off the invasions of a gargantuan empire like Persia, they probably saw themselves in the same light.

How this impressive ensemble ended up in Berlin is quite a story. Apparently, in the 19^th century, the Germans probably felt left out as the other European powers scrambled for fragments from the past.  Temples, tombs, and palaces in hapless localities like Egypt and Mesopotamia were being stripped of their contents. These were then carted back home to grace what were, in a sense, sanctuaries of plunder – the great museums. I suppose it was important to show a legitimizing connection with the Ancient World. Collections of classical artifacts were able to confer on their owners the mantle of wisdom and grandeur associated with the Romans and Athenians of yore. If Germany were to be perceived as a rich industrialized nation, it too must have museums of antiquities.

A German team conducted excavations at Pergamon from about 1878 to 1886. Negotiations with the Ottoman government allowed what was dug up to be brought back to Berlin. Some say that this transfer actually saved the Altar since the nearby villagers had been mining the Pergamon precinct for building materials! Turkey would later bring up the idea that Germany return what had been taken but it is doubtful that this request will be approved.

Another building taken from Pergamon

Of course, the idea of displaying entire buildings inside a museum is not unique to the Germans. Other examples abound in the United States. Among the more famous exhibits of the Metropolitan Museum in New York is that of the Temple of Dendur and its gate. These were given by the Egyptian government as a token of gratitude for the assistance granted by the American people (thru the leadership of such luminaries as Jacqueline Kennedy) to save the monuments submerged by the rising waters of the Aswan Dam. The Temple was the backdrop for a party in the movie, Maid in Manhattan, starring Jennifer Lopez.

The Temple of Dendur in the Met Mueum in New York

Unlike the Temple of Dendur, the Altar in Berlin stands atop a vast staircase. The best part is that people are allowed to sit on the steps, dreaming, trying to recapture glorious days under Mediterranean skies, basking in the light of the first mornings of democracy.

 

Gates of Ishtar with zoomorphic figures. Source: Wikimedia Commons

A panel of the Babylon Exhibit

At the time of my visit, a special exhibit was being held at the Pergamon Museum.  It was called Babylon: Truth and Myth.  It aimed to show how certain notions had arisen about this legendary capital and how these overlay the knowledge that had been gleaned from archaeological investigations.  Often, popular perceptions were not borne out by what was actually found on site.

Due to sources like the Bible, the great City on the banks of the Euphrates was seen as place of debauchery, later to be destroyed as a punishment for its sins.  Archaeologists have determined, however, that Babylon was not demolished in one conflagration. It simply faded away as its power waned. Likewise, it is now thought that the real-life model for the great queen, Semiramis, who had helped earn for her presumed hometown the title of the Great Whore of the Ancient World, was probably not a citizen of the place at all.

Whatever is the reality, it is the myth which remains vibrant. I understood better why Babylon continues to captivate when I finally beheld the other great reconstructed jewel of the Pergamon Museum : the Gates of Ishtar.  The tireless German archaeologists had managed to carry back vast quantities of the tiles that had once festooned the walls of Babylon. Reassembled in Berlin, the glazed panoramas of dragons and lions continue to startle and enchant.

  

  

Bag for sale with designs taken from the Ishtar Gate

The gift shop for the Babylon exhibit

As with all my museum forays, my peregrinations - for all their historical and artistic aspirations – would invariably end at the gift shop. I noted that a large, brilliantly hued, temporary display of exhibit-related products was set up, not to be missed, right at the entrance. I was delighted to find that the ferocious creatures from the walls of Babylon could now be brought safely home as bags and notebooks. There were also images of the Altar, spread out on poster scrolls.

I suppose you could call this effective product design and marketing. Yet, the question which arises is this: do museums perpetuate the myth that their many displays - shard, painting, or ancient edifice – are being exhibited for the sake of art when, in fact, the underlying force is really that of commerce? After all, it can be seen how the treasures of poorer nations were packed off to the capitals of Europe to create the perception that the new host countries were world powers that deserved to be leaders of the global economy.

The model of the Pergamon altar from the back