India's Most Remarkable Chain of Stores

Living in a desert tent during a symposium in India’s Rajasthan may have its charms. Whatever joys such a life holds begin to dissipate, however, after endless nights of freezing temperatures and sand flying everywhere. Then there are the scorpions. We had all been pointedly warned that, before putting on our shoes, we should always check for these creatures.

One of the bright spots of my sojourn among the dunes was the chance to listen to a presentation by Faith Singh. Faith is a fascinating woman and the tale that she had to tell even more so. This silver-haired entrepreneur had, together with her husband, set out to revitalize the dying craft of hand block printing many years ago in the 1970s. Today, they have transformed the craft into a multi-million industry led by the Singhs' own chain of clothing and houseware stores: Anokhi. The word means “remarkable”, a most apt choice as I would soon learn.

Wonderfully, Faith invited me to stay at her family farm- also named Anokhi - in Jaipur. I readily accepted as it would be on the route of my long drive back to Delhi. On my first morning with the Singhs, I wondered around the verdant grounds and was most amazed to be greeted by the sight of peacocks. Wherever one looked, one’s gaze fell on objects composed to be savored like a Mughal painting. The pleasures of the household table were just as convivial. There were succulent salads, grains, warm breads, and fragrant fresh yoghurt. I could see why this place could be a source of great motivation.

Interestingly, the history of the farm’s namesake company was less serene, full of ups and downs. It all began decades ago, when an idealistic young British woman named Faith Hardy married John Singh, a Rajput, a member of the ruling elite of the state of Rajasthan. Casting around for something to do, the young couple’s attention fell on the traditional printed textiles of the area.

For centuries, local artisans had been producing colorful fabrics that were hand stamped with exquisite designs. The basic elements that go into the craft are actually very simple as an article in the Hindu Businessline explains:

“A few blocks of teak wood,…some dyes and a long piece of cloth are all that one needs. The first step is to carve the design into the block…Then the fabric is stretched on a table…The required amount of dye is poured into a tray with a metal grid with layers of fabric across it…The fabric on the grid acts like an inkpad. The printer presses the block against the inkpad making sure that just the right amount of dye is picked up. The block is then placed carefully on the fabric and struck with the heel of the printer's palm. This process is repeated until the entire piece of cloth is covered. “

Back in the 1970s, the craft was very much in the control of middle men who kept prices low. It was difficult for the actual producers to earn their keep. Moreover, demand was dwindling as the traditional cloths were seen as old-fashioned and undesirable.

The Singhs’ big break came when apparel they had designed using hand-blocked fabrics appeared in the pages of Vogue. After this coup, they were able to make their first sale to a newly opened London company called Monsoon. Indian inspired attire as worn by by celebrities and royalty became the rage.

The benevolent 70s would give way to the materialistic 80s. Fashion came to be all about designer labels. No one wanted to wear anything reminiscent of Third World countries.

The Singhs remained unfazed. They retooled their production to cater to an export demand for household items. Soon business was flourishing again. But this positive state of affairs would not last forever. With the 90s came global economic meltdowns. Exports to Europe and America dropped. Fortunately, the decision had been made by then to explore local markets. The first stores carrying the name Anokhi opened as early as the 1980s in Jaipur, Mumbai, and Delhi. When the tourism industry - along with the rest of the Indian economy -boomed, the company was ready to ride the wave of renewed interest traditional fabric items.

At present, Anokhi has 14 stores all over India which have become musts for visitors. My favorite branch is in Delhi’s N Block Market. The interiors are spare and sleek- all stone and polished woods. Merchandise is arranged in color families. Instead of the clutter that one associates with trinkets bazaars, the atmosphere here is meditative. This is craft as philosophy. Among the purchases which make excellent gifts are little notebooks covered with hand-block cloth. My friends also love the blouses which are cut long and therefore more forgiving when it comes to the hips.

What are the elements of the company’s success?

One can see that business development did not unfold in an orderly manner. There were triumphs, but there were also set-backs. For fashion can be fickle. Popularity carries the seeds of one’s downfall as the public tires of lines that have become ubiquitous. The key is being able to reinvent products and processes as the situation dictates.

To ensure that it is able to give customers what they need, the company works with a nucleus of designers and fashion professionals. The nucleus focuses on marketing and innovation. On the production side, the company provides raw materials like cloth and dyes. The Singhs make it a point to allow the craftspeople that produce their items to work at home. This eliminates expensive commutes.

What I found most interesting though is the fact that Anokhi is deeply rooted in the context from which it arose. Such a grounding is definitely productive. Jaipur is a vibrant city famous for glorious monuments and marvelous traditions. Which is why I was extremely pleased that my hosts arranged for me a personal walking tour of this splendid community. Our route skipped the palaces and other well-known tourist destinations. Instead, we explored the back alleys where the artisans worked.

I was taken to see metalworkers producing water jugs as well as cobblers and painters. I got caught up in the swirl of a procession that had suddenly sprung up around us. But I also entered quiet temples with intricate wall designs and visited an old man who was a follower of Gandhi. At one point we even paused just to take in a wide green lawn in the middle of the densely packed buildings.

Anokhi’s commitment to the beautiful city of its birth is manifested in the company’s involvement with the Jaipur Virasat Foundation where Faith Singh is very active. The Foundation seeks to conserve the delicate interweaving of ancient structures and time-honored life styles which is what gives this corner of the world its unique blend of identities. The flagship activity is the Jaipur International Heritage Festival. As Faith had explained in her presentation, this annual celebration’s biggest draws are the traditional performances which are enhanced by their sumptuous settings – the gorgeous palaces and temples of the fabled Pink City.

It makes complete sense then that a million dollar clothing company would be concerned with local heritage. For, ultimately, Anokhi’s product isn’t just hand-blocked cloth. It is really the magnificence of Jaipur itself. It is the impressions left by rose-colored pavilions but also the nuances of cobblers and painters toiling in their shops. It is the inflections of old men who will tell you what it meant to listen to the voice of Gandhi.

In homage to its community and to the craft that has sustained it, Anokhi opened a museum in Jaipur dedicated to its beloved stamped fabric. I was fortunate to be present during its inauguration. Housed in a centuries old mansion or haveli, are exhibits on the printing process as well as displays of Anokhi products from different decades. Stepping into the cool interiors and glimpsing the huge cloth-covered lanterns hanging in the atrium, I fell to thinking: could we ever duplicate this in the Philippines? Could there ever be a chain of popular clothes stores inspired by, say, Vigan?

When I came out into the courtyard, Faith offered me a cookie. Before biting into it, I spied something that made me laugh. Every one of the tasty treats was decorated with the print of a tiny hand. So, it was really quite simple. We just have to get our hands busy and shops, museums, festivals, yes, anything was within our grasp.

The writer would like to thank Faith Singh and her family as well as the support staff of Anokhi for their assistance.

Is there Mongolian Barbecue in Mongolia?

Text and photos by Ino Manalo

The mention of Mongolia would, for me, evoke images of a thousand horsemen thundering across vast plains . What a disappointment then to arrive in the nation’s capital, Ulan Bator, with its nondescript structures of steel and concrete. Since the Soviets had once been so influential in Mongolia, people observe that Ulan looks like so many of the smaller cities in the USSR.

Walking around at dawn as is my custom, I found myself in the midst of bland apartment blocks. I was getting the impression that everything was so grey, so unremarkable, and then I saw a pack of dogs. There was an air of primordial power about them, an arresting, mesmerizing vitality. Clearly, I shouldn’t judge the vibrancy of Mongolia based on my views of its capital. After all, this was a nation whose forbears had ruled an empire that stretched all the way from Asia to the very gates of Europe itself.

Only by driving out of the metropolis does the country in one’s mind come to life. The plains are astounding indeed: dry, empty, never-ending. It is easy to forget that oceans exist and that the earth’s surface is covered mostly by water. In Mongolia there is only land.

I had to ask our driver to stop so that I could savor the view. Being from an archipelago embraced by seas, it was actually disorienting to survey this boundless terrain. Everywhere one turned was a trackless, empty wilderness. It had snowed the night before and the gleaming white landscape that now stretched before me could not be more alien to my equatorial perceptions.

I suppose it was the emptiness that was so novel, so disconcerting. For Mongolia is a largely uninhabited place. With a population of just 3 million occupying territory ten times larger than ours, there are whole areas where one would not encounter another soul for miles around. For that matter, one would not find trees or houses too, just a huge flatness.

So flat is the land, in fact, that motorists have no qualms about traversing it without the benefit of asphalt. At one point, the highway we were on was blocked due to repair work. Suddenly, I found that our vehicle had simply charged into the open plain. For what seemed like hours we drove, surrounded only by the featureless desert, accompanied by armies of tumbleweeds rolling with the wind. Other cars passed us nonchalantly. People here were obviously used to the idea that the plains were one vast roadway without roads.

Finally we reached our destination: the Orkhon Valley, site of Karakoram, former capital of the Mongol empire. Unfortunately it was very dark when we arrived so I would have to wait till the next day to take in the sights. It was also bitterly cold. That night I had to beg for two heaters just to keep soul and tropical body together.

After breakfast , I was asked by my kind hosts what I would like to eat for lunch. I brightly suggested “Mongolian barbecue”. Back in the Philippines after all, this meant a delicious dish of rice fried with the tastiest morsels of one’s choosing. My hosts were puzzled. They had never heard of such a thing. Yet, amused that such a bizarre concoction could bear their name, they gamely agreed to give it their best shot. I would be served increasingly creative versions of Mongolian barbecue everyday for the rest of my stay.

Climbing a hill, I at last got to see the main objective of our trip: the great temple of Erdene Zuu. It was here that I was to conduct a seminar on UNESCO World Heritage and Education for Sustainable Development for Mongolian teachers. From my elevated vantage point, I gained an understanding of how large was the sacred precinct surrounded by a massive wall. But I also saw the empty spaces indicating how so many of the buildings within the complex had been destroyed. Sadly, during the height of the Soviets’ influence there had been a campaign against organized religion.
Coming closer one cannot help but marvel at the rows of towers that mark the perimeter of Erdene Zuu. How proud they look, gleaming white against the impossibly blue sky. One falls silent pondering the centuries of devotion and drama that this enclosure had witnessed.

The Orkhon Valley had been at the crossroads of the commerce of ideas and goods between many peoples. One can still see in Erdene Zuu, marks of these international exchanges. The temple complex boasts of images and architectural features that reveal linkages with India, Tibet, China, Korea and Japan. There are stones carved with Mongolian, Tibetan and Indian writing.
Surveying the surviving pavilions one gets a sense of the many craftspeople that must have come together to erect this marvelous compound. Carpenters, masons, painters, embroiderers, sculptors – all would have been busy for years. One also gains an insight into just how an ancient monument is really a testimony to the environment that produced it. Acres of earth had to be dug up and transformed into bricks, whole forests had to be felled for the beams and columns. Often it was no longer possible to reconstruct an old building simply because it was so difficult to find trees big enough to fashion pillars as massive as that of the original.

The walls of Erdene Zuu are covered with illustrations of the complex beliefs of the Mongolian people. One image I found quite compelling was a picture of a sky burial, with the entrails and limbs of the deceased hung out for vultures to consume. I was admiring the everyday scenes filled with horses and sheep when I caught sight of something vaguely familiar: a pack of dogs. The painted canines looked so much like their flesh and blood counterparts that I had seen a few days before. So it was: Erdene Zuu and its murals are testaments to the continuity of Mongolian life. Yet in the courtyard one will also see the bases which had once supported the columns of structures that had probably been demolished under the Soviets. Heritage buildings, after all, help us realize that our histories are as much marked by absences as by presences.

The high point of my visit was meeting the Grand Abbot. He allowed me to sit with his monks during their prayers. He told me of his mission to rebuild Erdene Zuu. Though solemn at first he lightened up as we got to converse more. He interrupted our discussions periodically to sip tea from a white bowl which I noted was quite lovely with its subtle decoration.

The Abbot even joined in quite wholeheartedly during our seminar exercises. I was quite nervous when I had to deliver a presentation on Erdene Zuu. Perhaps the audience, led by the temple’s venerable elder, would find what I had to say preposterous. Fortunately, my lecture was enthusiastically received. When it was time for me to go, the Abbot presented me with a gift wrapped in a scarf. I would learn that it was the bowl that I had admired.

During our trip back to the city, I asked about some stupas on a hill in the distance. Sensing my interest the driver once again cavalierly drove our vehicle into the desert. It turned out that the cluster of stupas actually marked the very center of Mongolia.

Standing there, in what was in effect the navel of this land, I surveyed the grand vistas around me. One knew that beyond the horizon lay the many regions that had all been part of the Mongol realm. I fell to thinking about the people that I had spent many days with. I recalled how I had asked them during the workshop to create a large mural of their vision for the future of the Orkhon Valley. I remembered how they had foreseen that someday there may be more factories and more tall buildings. Someday there may even be an airport. Yet what I found most interesting was how everyone agreed that, whatever else happened, Erdene Zuu would be restored.

Changdeokgung: Jewel of a Palace

by Ino Manalo

A remarkable example of the global nature of contemporary culture is the way Filipino audiences have taken to Korean drama series like Jewel in the Palace. Something in these tales of intramural intrigues and courtly passions must have appealed to our local viewers. One wag even suggested that we could actually make our own version and call it “Jowa in the Palace” with “jowa” being gay lingo for “spouse”.

On the part of the Koreans, court intrigues are nothing new. There is no lack of sumptuous settings for such Machiavellian plots. Seoul has the privilege of being home to five grand palaces. Now islands of serenity in the bustle of city life, they had witnessed many tumultuous events. One palace, Gyeongbukgung, was completely destroyed during the Japanese invasion of 1592. It was eventually restored only to be damaged when Japan again occupied Korea in the 20th century. The Japanese built a huge Neo-Classical administrative building on top of the ruins, creating a virile image of their imperial might. This office was such a despised symbol of foreign domination that the Koreans would insist on its destruction upon regaining their independence. In the 1990s, Gyeongbuk Palace (“gung” is the Korean word for palace) would rise once more. Clearly, even huge edifices are vulnerable pawns in the pageant of power.

Among Seoul's many royal residences, perhaps the most beautiful is Changdeokgung. Though having had its share of the ravages of war and fire, it has retained many structures from its past. It is the only palace in Korea to appear on the UNESCO World Heritage List.

Wandering about Changdeokgung, one feels close to the bosom of the earth. For this is a building that embraces its setting. Every pillar stands with the strength of trees, floors stretch out with the vastness of fields. In contrast, the structures of Gyeongbukgung have a linear orientation. State ceremonies are carried out in a regimented orderly procession. Not so with Changdeok Palace where courtyards wrap around mountains, gardens reflect the contours of the land.




A few years ago, I had the honor to be tasked by UNESCO’s Dr Molly Lee with designing modules for training teachers to explain the features of Changdeok Palace within the framework of Education for Sustainable Development or ESD. This meant analyzing the buildings and gardens of the royal compound from the perspectives of Environment, Economics, as well as Society and Culture.

I was of course quite nervous about the assignment, not being a scholar of Korean matters. Fortunately, I was working with local experts such as Dr Sun Kyung Lee as well as the officers of the Korean National Commission for UNESCO.

The Environmental modules were probably the easiest to conceptualize. The UNESCO Heritage List inscription citation makes specific mention of the organic relation between Changdeokgung’s layout and the surrounding terrain. Indeed, the Palace is a wonderful enclave of rare flora and fauna, a micro ecosystem in itself.

Dr Sun Kyung Lee explained to us that the many ancient trees and the various ponds helped cool the area so that the average temperatures in Changdeokgung were lower than the rest of Seoul. More importantly, she demonstrated how the various courtyards of the buildings were thoughtfully positioned so that, throughout the day, each one did not receive the same amount of sunshine as the rest. The dissimilar degrees of exposure to solar energy resulted in different temperature gradients which in turn aided in the formation of natural breezes. In this way, the Palace halls actually had an efficient air-conditioning system which did not require wasteful energy consumption.










The eaves of the buildings were carefully designed so that they kept away glare and rain while allowing the maximum amount of light to enter. I was also impressed with the many sliding doors. Their wooden grids and delicate paper panels reminded me so much of our own capiz windows. What was most interesting though was that, during the warm Seoul summers, these sliding doors could actually be hitched up so that the whole room was completely open on all sides.

For the Economic aspect, one could point to the many tourists that visited Changdeokgung every year. Though there was a great demand to see the place, it was decided to restrict access so as not to strain the ancient structures. Visitors were required to join guided tours and could not wander around at will. Entrance fees are higher than for the other palaces. This insured that tourist numbers would be low while maintaining a sizable income stream – a good model for some of our more fragile heritage sites. The Korean example illustrates that, sometimes, limited high-end tourism may be a better option.

It was perhaps the Socio-cultural dimension that was most challenging to document. As has already been discussed, certain buildings such as palaces reflect the drama of history because they are both the settings and the targets of the great movements in a nation’s life. Global trends may also bring about changes in the fabric of local edifices. In the case of Changdeokgung, one sees that the centuries-old edifices had to adapt to the advent of electricity and other features of Western life.

Occasionally, world-wide narratives would intersect with more site-specific tales. This point is best illustrated by the palace kitchen. At first, one will read into this antiseptic white tiled room a universal story dealing with the eventual acceptance of European culinary conveniences and standards of hygiene. Later on, one learns that this modern-style kitchen was actually built because the Japanese had confined the royal family to a smaller section of the compound. Since the king and his clan could no longer make use of the original outlying cooking facility, it was necessary to construct one that was more centrally located and with more contemporary appointments. What initially seems to be a non-descript room for food preparation is actually replete with reminders of imperialism and subjugation.

Viewing the garden with its strategically arranged ornamental rocks and pedestals for floral arrangements, one is easily lulled into seeing all these as delightful decorative elements. Yet, upon realizing that one is standing in the women’s quarters, it suddenly becomes clear that these artful devices are meant to be entertaining distractions for cloistered consorts. How many queens had sat staring at these same views while yearning for what lay outside their shuttered enclaves?

 All over Changdeok Palace are symbols which are very meaningful for the Korean people. There are images of animals like the phoenix which represents the king. Tiles are decorated with a branching fern-like motif which is an allusion to a sacred plant that confers immortality. There are stone markers in the main plaza which indicate where an official was supposed to stand according to rank. The characters were in Chinese, indicating the pervasive influence that the Celestial Empire traditionally had in the region. It surprised my hosts that I could make out the numerals 1 to 9. The secret source of my knowledge: Mahjong!

One of the teaching modules I devised required participants to create matching T-shirts using designs taken from the palace compound. Many festooned their creations with images of flowers, terraces, trees, architectural details, even clouds!





What is easily the most evocative part of the Changdeokgung is Biwon, the Secret Garden. Here the foliage is at its most lush. Concerns about time recede as one meanders around a courtesan’s dream of ancient pavilions. Many kings built their sanctuaries and reading rooms in the tranquil embrace of this sylvan quarter.



One Biwon retreat mimics a rustic farmer’s home. Evidently, when the royal family members were tired of all the pomp and splendor of their palatial lives, they would escape here and play at being simple folk. Yet, in many ways, this modest residence is more impressive than its gilded counterparts. Unencumbered by rich trappings and elaborate decorations, the pure wooden surfaces and the translucent paper lined windows gleam with a quiet beauty.









Palaces rise and fall with the whims of destiny. But an exquisite edifice like Changdeokgung endures in the hearts of a people not just because its regal halls are filled with the embellishments of pride and power. This jewel in the heart of Seoul continues to enchant generations of visitors because it demonstrates how humans can fashion splendid abodes while respecting the rhythms of nature.

Hoi An: A Place of Pride

Hoi An: A Place of Pride


When I first mentioned that I was going to spend a week in the Vietnamese town of Hoi An my brothers laughed. They asked me, jokingly, if the people there were embarrassed about something. I then realized that in Ilonggo, our mother tongue, “nahoy-an” means to have been shamed.

When I finally made it to this UNESCO World Heritage site, I would soon realize that there was actually much to celebrate. For one thing, I would be breathing the same air as Brendan Fraser. Yes, the Canadian star was in town at that time to make a movie. We learned about this after my friends and I stumbled on an old house that was being dolled up as a set. It was only after a while that I noticed the grim expressions of the Hollywood crew. We had overstayed our welcome and were now just getting in the way. Much later, when I finally got to watch the film, I found out that we had walked into the setting for a brothel scene!

The ancient port of Hoi An was a place where many cultures have come together. For centuries, Iberian, Chinese, Japanese, French, and Dutch ships have called to exchange the goods of the world in a babel of bargaining. The result is a heady mix. Somehow, many buildings here have the feel of an edifice designed with China in mind, but by someone who has had too much sake and café au lait to drink.
Though the heritage area is not exceedingly extensive, Hoi An can boast of having one of the largest concentrations of traditional shophouses in South East Asia. In a country much devastated during the war with the Americans, the survival of these structures is miraculous. It may be almost cliché but there really is something moving about a streetscape that has not yet been invaded by concrete and steel. Time never stops, except in our heads, but sometimes it is good to pretend.

In fact, despite the present prosperity, reminders of past destruction are never far away. When I took a day trip to My Son, a ceremonial center in the nearby hills that had been in use since the 7th century, CE, we were shown the cavernous holes that had been left by the American bombs. Even more tragic was that these holes represented lost stupas and temples, centuries of toil pulverized in seconds. Returning to Hoi An that night I almost wanted to kiss every pillar, every finial, every delicate stucco carving. The point was painfully made: I was standing on an island, alone, among a sea of villages of equal beauty that had been mercilessly leveled to the ground.

Among the most evocative sights preserved in Hoi An is the Japanese covered bridge. In the afternoons, when the heat is making everyone listless, wandering into its cool shade is such a treat. One questions why the bridge was covered – was there an idea that traversing exposed spans made travelers suddenly vulnerable to lightning or even attacks by airborne witches? I have seen crosses painted on bridges in the mountains of the Philippines too. I suppose it is universal, this primordial fear of transitions, of moving from one sphere to the other.

Looking at this structure that the Japanese merchants had created, one has a sense of leviathans rising from the waves. It is said that it was built on the heel of a monster that was then rendered immobile. Presumably, it was not wont to shake ancient bridges off its feet, especially one so pretty. To memorialize this legendary giant, the local residents erected a small temple tucked into the side of the span. Entering this pocket shrine, my eyes settled on a pair of round knobs which held the lintel in place. Decorated with yin yang designs, these thick discs are called mat cua, watchful eyes that protect many buildings in town from evil spirits. Something was stirring in my mind. Then I remembered. I had seen a similar feature in old Bohol houses like the Casa Rocha-Suarez in Sitio Ubos, Tagbilaran.

Just around the corner from the bridge is the start of the narrow boulevard that runs along Hoi An’s river. At dusk, the view from the other side is magical: the houses are lit with a galaxy of lamps. By their quiet golden glow everything is doubled yet ethereal, an ink wash version of windows, walls, doors. It was on this boulevard, beside this shimmering river, that I had my brush with a star of a different kind.

My friend, Beatrice and I had dressed up in our best Vietnamese style clothes whipped up by local tailors in just one day. Wandering around, we unknowingly entered a district that had been sectioned off for filming. Since we were arrayed in traditional costumes the guards mistook us for extras. Looking up, suddenly, I saw Brendan Fraser materialize right before my eyes, resplendent in a white linen suit. If no less than Sir Ian McKellen could describe him as being “easy on the eyes”, who was to argue? Automatically, I whipped out my camera. As soon as my flash went off the guards pounced. My cameo role was over.

A charming outfit made at the drop of a pin is not the only thing on offer in the cobbled streets. There are also shops bursting with all manner of craft items. Best buys would be exquisitely embroidered pieces. I bought a set of napkins that was decorated with fruits.

I was fascinated with the lantern stalls. These tiny establishments were a kaleidoscope of shapes, all glowing. The variety is astounding. One thinks of the plastic balloons of our childhood taking forms that only innocence can inspire. There are diamonds, orbs and pyramids, flowers of the forest and of the bedroom. The lamps were actually made on the spot, fashioned from bamboo strips and then covered with a silken cloth. At night, when all the other stores have closed, seeing a lantern shop at the end of a deserted street helps you understand why C. S. Lewis wrote about places deep in the earth were gems are still alive, warm, and pliable.

There are also galleries for wood carvers, stone sculptors, and painters. Asking about the paintings, I had to admit that it made complete sense that the top-selling subject would be views of Hoi-an. Since there are more than a million visitors a year, even the most quotidian of trades becomes suddenly attractive. Ambulatory vendors are amazed to be accosted by European customers asking to be sold warm loaves holding slivers of the local pates. Tailors, calligraphers, sign makers, bakeries, even pharmacies all do brisk business because their wares are transformed by the tourist gaze into quaint souvenirs for multitudes hungry for the imagined echo of another epoch.

Not all the houses have been converted into shopping havens. Some are pleasant inns or interpretation centers, museums that help explain the lives of the local residents. Still others host lectures and evening performances of time-honored dances and songs. An omnibus fee is charged for many of the sights as well as for the entire heritage district. The funds collected are used for maintenance and conservation.

Hoi- an is famous for its food. Its specialty is cao ha. The soft doughy noodles are prepared using water that must be drawn from a specific well in town. Mixed with vegetables and a rich broth then topped with croutons, each mouthful speaks of a long line of palates refined by history. And of course there is always coffee, conjured right on your table with your personal brewer, a metal filter that is fitted on your cup. Even more innovative are the little stands designed especially for the can of condensed milk which is used as a sweetener. Since ants are so enamored with the sticky stuff, the stand has a hollow all around its rim. Filled with water it becomes a tiny moat to keep away sugar-starved insects.

Sitting in a café that has been adapted from an old house, sipping your warm beverage, with all these little brewing implements set out in front of you is so satisfying. But what is the source of the feeling? Is it the knowledge that the structure you are in has been reborn, given a new lease on life? Is it the smugness that arises because you are now familiar with these miniature coffeemakers unlike the astonished tourists at the other table? Though you are in a different land, you are on smiling terms with some of its ways.

Part of the appeal of the cuisine is the narrative that peppers every serving. One such tale is that of Ms Vy. Back in a time when Hoi An was still off the beaten track, Ms Vy had been among the first to open a restaurant. Now she oversees several establishments, among them the Mermaid Café, the Morning Glory, and the Cargo Bar. Each one serves dishes with a slightly different inflection, all delicious. Today, this enterprising woman has a new venture: a school for Vietnamese cooking.

Having been unable to enroll for a class, I contented myself with visiting the room where sessions were held. It was bright and airy, with high ceilings as well as burnished wooden beams and pillars. One window was the backdrop for a jar of flowers. Another presented a broad view of houses clustered together, absorbed in memories. Each student would get an assigned station equipped with a personal stove. What a wonderful place for learning!

The instructor’s table had all the ingredients arranged in a tantalizing array. Glossy black bowls held garlic and ginger. Bottles in a row contained powders ground from aromatic barks as well as leaves, fruits, and seeds dried under an indulgent tropical sun. Over the table was a huge mirror so that each budding chef would not miss the culinary calisthenics of the master.

Thinking how much Vietnam had suffered, thinking about all those photographs of the senselessness of the American War, remembering the many boatloads of refugees who braved maritime dangers in dilapidated boats to escape the horrors at home, one can only be glad for Ms Vy. She and so many others like her have shown us that it is possible to craft a brave new life even out of destruction.
Surveying the lanes of houses so lovingly conserved or even wandering among the vegetable markets with their fragrant towers of lettuce, coriander and basil, one cannot but give thanks for one more world unextinguished. Remembering how much we too have lost to wars, recalling places like Intramuros, Lipa and Pagsanjan now just shadows of their former selves, one says a prayer of gratitude for everything that still survives, for every town and edifice that continue to lend many more meanings as well as restore pride to our lives

This writer would like to thank Choy Urra of Global Nomad Bespoke Tours for providing information, Tran Trong Kien of Buffalo Tours for trip arrangements, and Cenon Agbayani for use of his photo.

Art and the Deluge in Florence

Art and the Deluge in Florence

by Ino Manalo


In the early morning light, when everything is awash in the beginning of a new day, the Arno looks so peaceful. Yet, just as Filipinos were unprepared for what Typhoon Ondoy unleashed, the residents of Florence could not imagine the devastation that their beloved river would cause. In November of 1966, after incessant rains, the Arno broke its banks and submerged the great city of the Renaissance. Much would be lost in terms of life and livelihood.

The flood is said to have reached levels above 20 feet as indicated by commemorative markers on the walls of buildings. One source narrates how women went crazy with fear, throwing things from windows while imploring for help to save their children. More than a hundred people would die. Whole communities were left isolated for days and vast tracts of farmland were ruined. It is estimated that 6000 shops had to close. From the stores lining the Ponte Vecchio, the flood bore off gold jewelry never to be seen again. Wanda Ferragamo reported that the shoes from their storage rooms were swept kilometers away.

The losses included cultural treasures. Millions of books were damaged along with about 14, 000 works of art. To this day, the crucifix by Giovanni Cimabue, though rescued from the rampaging waters and restored, still bears the marks of the flood. It hangs in the Church of Santa Croce as a testament to the power of the Arno

Even after the waters had receded, Florence’s ordeal was not yet over. The whole city was buried under a thick coat of muck and garbage. Fuel tanks had broken and oil had combined with the sediment to form a horribly corrosive mixture. Important masterpieces were disintegrating in this vile brew. How, many asked, would there be enough people to clean up the mess and restore order?

Fortunately, the world’s response to the call to save the Cradle of the Renaissance was overwhelming. The late Ted Kennedy remembers how, while visiting Rome on the day of the flood, he received a phone call from his famous sister-in-law, Jacqueline. She asked that he go on to Florence to help. Addressing the audience gathered for the anniversary ceremonies to commemorate the inundation forty years later, Senator Kennedy movingly recounted how, in the darkness of a ruined library, he saw that a human chain had been formed. Along this chain were carried, from one careful hand to another, fragile manuscripts to be liberated from the quagmire.

The Great Flood or L’Alluvione as it would come to be known would generate a deluge of concern. Miraculously, countless volunteers came from all over the planet to help the Florentines save lives and property. These heroes, many of whom were young people, would later be called the angeli del fango – the mud angels. Philippine art gallery owner, Silvana Diaz, who was studying in London at the time, remembers forming collection brigades for donations from Britain. In the end, the Italian students came up with a brilliant idea: they would generate assistance for Florence by rewarding donors with a most tantalizing prize - pots of home-cooked food!

The global outpouring of assistance clearly showed that the art of Florence did not just belong to the Florentines. It was the inheritance and responsibility of all humanity. Even before the city and its treasures were inscribed on UNESCO’s World Heritage List in 1982, the rescue efforts of 1966 had already demonstrated that, without a doubt, the whole world cherished Florence as its very own.

On the fortieth anniversary of L’Alluvione, about 2000 mud angels were invited back for a reunion. The whole city celebrated. Important buildings were decked out in bright purple lights, images were projected on walls, exhibitions were held.

Dark Water, a fascinating book by Robert Clark about the events of the flood came out in 2008. The cover carries David Lees’s haunting photograph from Life Magazine. It shows the matchless statue of David standing so alone, so vulnerable in a gallery covered with a layer of mud.

Looking at the picture, one is reminded of a poignant scene from the 2006 movie, Children of Men. The lead character, Theo, needing a critical favor, visits Nigel who is a very influential person in the film’s post-apocalyptic society. As Theo enters Nigel’s quarters, one sees in the background Michelangelo’s David with one lower leg shattered. It had been salvaged from the ruins of war, an indelible image of the chaos into which the world may so easily be plunged.

One shivers to think of what else may have been lost but for the heroism of certain people. In a 1967 article of National Geographic, the story is told of how the curator of Florence’s Museum of Science risked her life edging along a narrow ledge above the angry waters to save the telescopes of Galileo. One wonders, at first, why a person would face death to save an object. But then, realizing that through these lenses were glimpsed the images that would forever change humankind’s vision of itself, one understands the reason for such an act of selflessness and courage.

One of the most important legacies of L’Alluvione would be the many conservation techniques that were perfected to save ruined art works. A seminar that chronicled these conservation gains was part of the program for the Flood’s 40th anniversary. Among the methods discussed in the seminar were ways to remove frescos from crumbling walls, the mass treatment of water-damaged books, and the removal of stains and oils.

The restoration systems were so successful that when visiting the museums of Florence today, one will be unable to discern signs of the destruction of the past. Galileo’s telescopes again occupy a place of honor in the Museum of Science. Meanwhile, just behind the Duomo, in the Museo dell’Opera which has displays about the Cathedral and its many associated art works, a number of pieces on exhibit had actually been snatched back from the jaws of L’Alluvione.

One such piece is Donatello’s statue of Mary Magdalene. Another memorable photo, also from Life Magazine, shows this powerful work being conserved after its lower half had been corroded by the toxic fluids of the flood. Today, in its elegant, climate controlled setting in the dell’Opera, the statue is ready to move the viewer once more.

Donatello’s Magdalene had originally stood in Florence’s Baptistery of San Giovanni. The Baptistery is celebrated for its doors that had been decorated by Lorenzo Ghiberti. So beautiful, they were compared to the very portals of Paradise. The merciless torrents of 1966 wrenched open the doors and knocked off several of Ghiberti’s panels. They would have been lost had they not been kept back by a protective railing.

Wonderfully, the golden panels can now be seen again in all their splendor. They are displayed at the Museo dell’Opera together with the Magdalene and the original Baptism of Christ trio which used to crown the entrance to San Giovanni.

The Museo dell’Opera del Duomo has much more to offer. There is Michelangelo’s other Pieta which includes a figure that is thought to be his self-portrait. There are, as well, models of the Cathedral and the death mask of the man responsible for the Cathedral’s dome, Filippo Brunelleschi The church pieces are lovingly and thoughtfully displayed so that one understands the context in which they were created. There are even tableaux that show how the fragments from a broken altar could be arranged to give a sense of what the destroyed original may have looked like. Overall, the Museo is a splendid example of how a church museum can be set up – something that Philippine ecclesiastical institutions could learn from.

Among the many interesting exhibits, however, it is clearly the treasures that had been moved from the Baptistery after the Flood which form the highlight of a visit to the Museo. Part of their attraction is the memory of how they were almost lost one dark day more than forty years ago.

Fortunately, through the labors of countless unnamed individuals, that dark day is long gone. Where there was mud as well as debris and desolation, there is now air, brightness and hope.

Much of this hope comes from the knowledge that there are, after all, moments when the whole of humanity can still stand together. It is truly inspiring to know that once in a rare while, people from different nations will endure the unimaginable to save one more work of art.

(All photographs from 1966 are not by the writer and appear here as fair use.)