Lahore: A Week of Good Food

text and photos by Ino Manalo

Many of my fellow diners have had to patiently listen – often in mid-morsel – while I belabor the fact that I love the taste of a spicy dish but cannot handle how it sets my mouth on fire. During a week

that I spent in the ancient city of Lahore in Pakistan, I had many occasions to explain this point - in between hasty gulps of water.

Painting of a street-side restaurant in Lahore

Lahore, presently the capital of the province of Punjab, was once among the great cities of the Mughal Empire. Together with Kabul, Delhi, and Agra, it was the site of many of the grand edifices erected by the Mughal emperors. As the venue of an imperial court, it is to be expected that Lahore would develop a cuisine which featured elaborate concoctions as demanded by a regal palette. This may well be the case, but during my stay in this fabled metropolis, I only had the chance to savor more modest fare. As my friend, Dr Richard Engelhardt explained, most meals in Pakistan today center on roasted meats and simple but tasty stews.

My first memorable culinary encounter would cap a fascinating tour of the splendid former palace of Lahore. We had been invited to lunch by Dr Saleem ul Haq, a senior official of the archaeology department of Punjab who held office at the palace. Having fully satiated my eyes with the marvels that I had just seen, it was finally the turn of my stomach!

I was not disappointed: lunch turned out to be uncomplicated but delicious. The chicken and mutton stews were rich and fulfilling. As to be expected, every mouthful burned my tongue but there were cucumbers and there was yoghurt to cool things down.

First lunch at the Fort

In countries like India and even Malaysia, meals include both bread and rice.  Dr Saleem’s lunch was no exception. We had round bread still steaming, fresh from the oven. We also had a delightful plate of rice interwoven with vegetables. The woman sitting next to me kindly explained that there were two main types of rice dishes: the biryani and the pulao. What we were having was a pulao which was cooked by layering the grains with the accompanying greens in a pot for steaming. Biryani, on the other hand, involved sautéing diced meat with various spices to form a kind of paste. Then the rice was folded in and blended.

At the end of the meal came a scrumptious dessert: gajar ka halwa. It was warm and gooey, sticky and soft. It was like a golden porridge except that one could not have the entire bowl. When it was revealed that gajar meant carrot and  that this was the principle ingredient which was mixed with milk and nuts, Richard noted that his sons would not have been pleased. They would have been mortified to learn that our dessert was made from one of the nutritious food items which is on all children’s lists of things to avoid!

Cookies during the workshop

Richard also pointed out that while Pakistani fare consisted mostly of basic stews, it was in the dessert department that one could get a hint of the opulence of the Mughal era. In the days that followed, I would grow to be grateful for this fact. Since most dishes were a little too fiery for me, I often had to content myself with wolfing down considerable quantities of bread as well as sweet confections.

I began to look forward to our tea breaks when we could gorge on a galaxy of biscuits. Laid out on oval platters set on a tablecloth the color of turmeric were pyramids of chocolate wafers and cookies topped with almonds. My favorite was a crumbly delight that hinted of pistachios but also of shady courtyards and marble pavilions. I insisted on buying a couple of trays of these biscuits to take back home.

A workshop meal

On one occasion, our hosts, Rustam Khan and Pamela Rogers, graciously prepared for us a welcome treat: pakora! This consisted of vegetables plunged in batter and then fried. For dipping, there were bowls of yoghurt and chutney. I was reminded of tempura which, I had read somewhere, was introduced to the Japanese by the Portugese. Yet, so similar is tempura to pakora that one wonders if it was the Portugese that had done the copying. After all, they had maintained a number of colonies on the Indian Sub-continent.

Our host, Rustam Khan cooking pakora

Gulab jamun

I would later discover that pakora was also on sale at stalls in the streets. When we explored the oldest district of Lahore – the Walled City – we would find that a dizzying panoply of snacks was available everywhere . Along with the pakora were the meat-filled dumplings known as samosas. There was corn on the cob, as well as a kaleidoscope of patties and fried tidbits for nibbling. Most of all there were sweets. One shop had vats of my all-time favorite: gulab jamun. These are like our own pastillas de leche except that a syrup suffused with rose water and cardamom is added. Such luxury! And if the gulab were not enough, another store tantalized with more plates of candies displayed on tier after tier, a stairway of sweetness rising to confectionary heaven.

The stairway to sweet heaven

Our goal in the ancient district was a restaurant that was famed for serving just one dish – the nihari. This is a stew made of mutton and other odds and ends. It is prepared in the wee hours of the morning and left to simmer for hours so that the meat becomes almost jelly-like. The stew is served with piles of bread which, once again, I gratefully devoured since nihari was much too piquant for me.

One night, we trekked out to another famous establishment which was housed in a large mansion that faced the old city. Eccentrically furnished, it was filled with bric-a-brac and paintings as well as winding staircases and mysterious doorways. Reaching the rooftop dining area, I was in for a great surprise. Stretching before us, even as we sat at our tables, was the most amazing view: the Badshahi Masjid, one of the largest historical mosques in the world. I was speechless. How often does one have an illuminated minaret towering over you while you are having dinner? Yes, I am afraid that I have absolutely no recollection what we ate that evening.

Dinner by minaret light

Much more memorable was our final meal in Lahore. We were taken to this restaurant which served what was onomatopoeically referred to simply as “takatak”. This is a reference to the sound that the cooks make as they chop up the meat on a metal container with special knives. What was especially interesting to me though was not the signature “takatak” but a secondary dish that we were also served. It was something called “chicken atchara”. As is the case in the Philippines, “atchara” means pickle. I found that this splendid stew had just the right balance of sweet and sour, spice and tang – truly a combination after my own heart! It seemed that Pakistan cuisine could make concessions to those of us whose tongues are less fortified.

Returning to Manila, I happily sat down to a meal that had been prepared to welcome me. I laughed as I added several dashes of soy sauce: perhaps things were beginning to taste too bland for me after a week dominated by the flame-like flavors of the Sub-Continent. I quickly opened the biscuits that I had brought back. Sadly, they did not taste the way they had in Lahore. Perhaps I missed the yellow table cloth, the color of turmeric. Then again, it could well have been the fact that there was not a single minaret in view.

 

Halong Bay: Cruising in a Painting

text and some photos by Ino Manalo

view of Halong bay from the movie, Indochine

Shots from Indochine

                                                                                          

                                                                                

There is a scene from a famous film where a couple evades the turmoil of their country by taking a boat trip through a fascinating archipelago. For countless hours, the lovers lie ensconced in their vessel as it glides past a fairyland of forest-covered peaks rising from the sea.

The fantastic setting for this unforgettable episode is actually Halong Bay in the northern Vietnamese province of Quang Ninh, an easy two to three hour ride from Hanoi. We arranged our cruise through our hotel in the capital. Since we had the good fortune of staying in an Inter-Continental, I expected that every detail of this marine experience would be carefully organized. It turns out that no one had looked into the matter of rest stops. The establishment where our driver chose to break our journey was not the most pleasant. It had a wooden shed in the backyard which served as the toilet! One would think that surely the folks at the Inter-Continental in Hanoi would be more meticulous about the itineraries of the tour packages which they offered their guests.

The pier where we boarded our boat was not much better. It was crowded, hot, and chaotic. I had no choice but to shrug this off – what else would a busy tropical port be like? Entering our boat, I caught a glimpse of a faint line of irregular forms, hovering on the faraway horizon. They would turn out to be the fabled isles that I had seen in the film.

As we drew closer, I began to see what had attracted so many others before me. I don’t know exactly what it is about this view of countless islands in all shapes and sizes which is so captivating.  In fact, the scenery was truly bewitching. Perhaps it is because the islands stand at different distances so that some are rendered darker or clearer while others are only blurred silhouettes. Chinese artworks come to mind with their varying areas of bold brush strokes and soft washes. Is part of the appeal the sense that one is lost in painting?

In the case of Halong, the experience is heightened by the fact that we were surrounded by a wide, dark sea. Every curve of peak is doubled, mirrored in a magical realm which appears or disappears according to the whims of the light.

The whole area – about 400 square kilometers – has been inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage List. The inscription made special mention of the rich biodiversity with about a 1000 species of fish as well as a range of mammals, reptiles, and birds. The islands make up what is referred to as a karst landscape. Into this category falls the terrain of places like Guilin in Southern China or even our very own Chocolate Hills in Bohol. To be precise, Halong is more correctly described as a drowned karst landscape because of its marine setting. In this way it may be compared with Phang Nga in Thailand or El Nido in Palawan.

There are about 1,600 islands in the Bay most of which are uninhabitable because of the steepness of their slopes. We sailed past these emerald mounds anchored in celadon waters for what seemed like hours. Some of the mounds looked like immense stallions grazing in a field of grass. Others looked like castles with half-ruined turrets overgrown by vines. Still others reminded me of the vista from Camp Lookout in the hills behind Dumaguete. There a friend had observed that the clouds were pretending to be islands.

In Halong, time takes a nap on a chair on the deck. No one really talks. The mind is stilled.

Then the captain stopped the engines, suggesting a swim. Only my niece, Mia, took up his invitation. She dove into the sea  -  a plain of viridian glass. I had not quite noticed  -  so enveloped was I by the quiet -  that the sea had become completely flat. There were no waves. The islands had formed a wall that kept the winds and the rest of the world away. We were in a pond. Now that I look back, I wish that I had just jumped in myself. It would have been bliss. Where else can we come upon a pool in the middle of the ocean?

Our boat was a modest affair. There were no cabins – just a large hall that functioned as a dining room. The meal that was served was not fancy. There was fried fish, green sprouts quickly sautéed in garlic, something that was certainly a lumpia, boiled shrimps. We wiped our plates clean.  The freshness and the proximity of the sea made everything so sweet.

A friend who is a travel expert tells me that one can book more elaborate vessels. I have seen pictures of boats which boast of bedrooms that have canopies, carpets, and mood lighting. Some voyages offer well-trained chefs as well as butlers at one’s beck and call. I suppose this can be charming too. Yet how much more pampering does one need when there is this view? I imagine that the scenery will reveal itself just as languorously if one is sitting in plush quarters as when one is in a more spartan chamber.  

At one point, we stopped to visit a floating fish stall. We alighted onto a large wooden platform adrift on the Bay. There were several pens which were really just square openings that revealed nets set in the warm waters. The pens were brimming with sea-life, squirming and splashing about.  It seemed a pity to think that someone could actually point to any of these denizens of the deep and the poor creature would be caught, thrown into a pot and then readied for a fine meal. For a few moments I toyed with the idea of paying the fishermen to let their wards all go. Surely such an act would earn me a place in heaven.

Later on we docked to see a cave. We had to climb a steep path that led up the slopes to enter into the darkness which was actually not so dark. Colored lights had been installed. The caverns looked like a Las Vegas set. Stalagmites became Christmas trees and stalactites became chandeliers. Perhaps entertainers dressed as mermaids and mermen would appear at any minute. We fled back to our boat only to be greeted by a dolphin in the middle of the mountain path, its steel mouth ready to receive our offerings of trash before we were allowed to pass.

As we pulled out of the harbor I spied a huge sign – it was the emblem of the UNESCO World Heritage List. It saddened me when I thought about how it would have been better if Halong Bay’s inscription on this prestigious list were celebrated not with such a prominent marker but with the pristine quality of the environment. When one is presented with so much natural beauty, why is there a compulsion to add another metal dolphin, another cement bench in the shape of a log?

I suppose one should still be thankful. After all, the islands were not covered with billboards. The dolphin cans kept the trails free from trash and the caverns had their own bizarre charm. What’s a little neon light when one can take refuge in such sublime scenery?

During our return trip, our crew brought out some souvenirs to sell. I was actually interested in the way that our whole journey had been choreographed. Clearly, someone had studied the schedule carefully and worked out what should make up the standard trip. There was the moist towel offered when you entered the boat, then the initial cruise, stops at the fish stall and the cave, and the pause for a dip followed by a simple but delicious lunch. At the end came the time for souvenirs.

 I saw fans and pearls, lace doilies and t-shirts. The products were well-fashioned. I noted a wide selection of art works. A number portrayed the Bay. I had thought to myself: should I complete the circle and return from my cruise in the heart of a painting with an actual painting in hand?

I looked at the seascapes which were swirling by. I smiled at the seller and then put away my wallet.  I decided that I would just have to make do with the Halong Bay shimmering in my memory.

 

The Woman Who Loved China

Text and Selected Photos by Ino Manalo

A student at the Soong Chingl-ing Foundation's Children's Palace in Shanghai

There is a palace for children in Shanghai. It is managed by the Soong Ching-ling Foundation. The foundation - set up in the 1980s - is part of a network of similarly named organizations operating all over China with the common aim of promoting the well-being of children and women.  An active official of the Shanghai chapter is Filipino entrepreneur Carlos Chan. It was he who invited me to watch the daughter of a friend perform in a stage production.

The production was amazing: huge sparkling sets, colorful costumes. No amount was spared for the special effects and the lights. As part of a vigorous exchange program, children’s performing groups were brought in from all over the world. The Loboc Children’s Choir represented the Philippines. 

The Loboc Children's Choir and friends on stage in Shanghai

Mr Chan also arranged for a tour of the Shanghai Children’s Palace. What I saw was truly impressive. The Palace complex includes a skyscraper with many floors of facilities geared towards young people. The Foundation has a program for providing classes to children which complement their regular school work. Modules offered include a wide variety of short courses on the arts.

 Soong Ching-ling Foundation's Children's Palace in Shangha: view of the Marble House and the skyscraper where classes are held

There were classes in painting in both the European and the Chinese traditions. There were classes in dance which emphasized strict precision and rigorous physical exercises. Calligraphy and the making of pictures employing paper cutting techniques were also taught. During our tour, students gamely demonstrated their skills, whipping up exquisite art works very quickly. It was remarkable to see so many young people adept at centuries-old artistic methods even as they also mastered the latest computer technology.

Demonstration of Paper Cutting

A typical classroom

Another building in the Children’s Palace Complex is an old mansion, Marble House. We were told that this gracious structure used to be owned by the Kodoorie Family. The Kadoories originated from the Middle East, settling in China in the 19^th century. The family is currently among the wealthiest in Hongkong with investments in hotels and power generation.  Yet there were also setbacks. At one point during the Second World War, the Japanese took over the Kadoories’s plush Peninsula Hotel as their headquarters.  In the 1950s, the administration of Chairman Mao appropriated the clan’s holdings in China.

The Soong Foundation now uses Marble House’s large ballroom for special presentations. This ballroom was once the venue for elaborate social events.  Something of the space’s past splendor may be seen in the grand party scene in the movie, The Joy Luck Club. As the lovely Feihong Yu dances with her equally gorgeous partner, Russell Wong, one catches glimpses of the luxurious surroundings.

the magnificent Ball Room of the Marble House

 The movie’s banquet scene is set in the very same period when Marble House was at its most elegant. At that time, Shanghai was a haven for all that was sleek, rich, and glamorous. Dominating the social whirl were three siblings whose names would become synonymous with the era: The Soong Sisters.  

The eldest of the sisters was Soong Ai-ling, the wife of well-known banker, H.H. Kung.  Ai-ling and her husband were among the richest people in China. The youngest was Soong Mei-ling. She would become very active in politics as First Lady of the Chinese Republic. She was married to Chiang Kai-sek. It was the middle sister, Soong Ching-ling (after whom the Foundation in Shanghai is named) who would earn the title of “Mother of Modern China”. Her husband was the statesman, Sun Yat-sen. 

Soong Ching-ling

At a time when illiteracy was very high especially among females, these three represented the accomplished global Chinese woman.  Having been educated in the United States, the Soong sisters with their form-fitting cheongsams and flawless English, stood for the best of the East and West. They won over not just their fellow citizens but American audiences as well. They were media creations, invented for the consumption of a world that still wanted to believe that capitalist expansion was the panacea for all the planet’s ills. Even in the furthest reaches of such exotic and despotic realms as China, Western industry and enlightenment would save the hungry masses. The Soong Sisters were the living proof that it was possible to recast ancient Asia in a progressive American mold. 

the three Soong  Sisters visiting the Nationalist troops: Ching-ling, Mei-ling, and Ai-ling

The young Ching-ling reading

 

Madame Sun Yat-sen (Soong Ching-ling) teaching young students to read

The dreamworld could not last forever. The centuries of contradictions and exploitation would take their toll. China was in turmoil. The Nationalists and the Communists were clashing. The Japanese would contribute to the chaos by invading their vast neighbor even as the Second World War devoured any delusions about peace and prosperity.

Soong Ching-ling continued to support the Communists after their victory in Mainland China in 1949. Her siblings would back the Nationalists who had moved to Taiwan.

The middle sister would eventually be named President of the People’s Republic. One manifestation of the Communist Party’s esteem for Soong ching-ling is the fact that her former residence in Shanghai is still maintained as a shrine to her memory.

A plate with Soong Ching-ling's image in a village in Anhui

Soong Ching-ling's statue in Shanghai

 

I had the chance to visit the place. I actually found it quite appropriate that one is asked at the entrance to cover one’s shoes with plastic bags. This way, no dirt is brought in from outside to spoil the pristine carpets. Somehow this requirement enhanced the sense of respect for the building that once housed a woman who devoted herself to her people.

The rooms were of modest proportions. Everything was simple and low-key.  Perhaps the house’s greatest luxury was its splendid lawn.  Stretching for a considerable distance beyond the terrace, the garden reminded me of the tranquil backyards of the wonderful cottages in the old Wilson Compound on Park Avenue in Pasay.  

Watching as a breeze rippled through the leaves of the trees that lined the fence, I found myself thinking: What feverish discussions had taken place in this house? What negotiations were carried out ?

Soong Ching-ling's residence in Shanghai now a shrine

I supposed it is quite elitist to think that these three sisters had influenced the course of Chinese history so much. Such an inflection would practically ignore the work of millions of others who toiled and sacrificed to build the People’s Republic that we know today. Yet, one cannot deny the fact that the Soong Sisters and their relations were certainly key players in the drama that saw the birth of the new China.

The Soong sisters: Mei-ling, Ai-ling and Ching-ling

                                

Interestingly, I read of rumors that the sisters held a reunion each year in Hongkong. Actually, the three probably never met again after the Communist takeover.  Ai-ling died in 1973 and Ching-ling followed several years after. Mei-ling lived out the rest of her years on her 14 hectare estate on Long Island and in her apartment in New York City. She would die at the ripe old age of 105. She did not return to China to attend the state funeral of her older sister.

Likewise, the view that it was Ching-ling who was most selfless is probably a stereotype, lacking in nuance. After all, one cannot judge the motives of each of the women. Who really knows the truth? Mei-ling has been described as being concerned only with her ambitious schemes. The 1997 movie about the famous trio, however, will show that each sibling had her own contribution. In the film’s last scene, after Ching-ling has passed away, Mei-ling Soong is shown on a wheelchair contemplating a childhood book. 

Nevertheless, the public did have their opinions. A much quoted saying about the Soong women goes like this: There were once three sisters. The first one loved money, the second loved power. But the third loved...China.

The Soong sisters: Ai-ling, Ching-ling and Mei-ling

                                

 

In the end, after the media hype, after the sibling rivalry and intrigues, people have a way of knowing who it was whose heart was in the right place.

Perhaps we should ask ourselves: when our own life is over, can the same be said of us?

Soong Ching-ling

The writer thanks Mr Carlos Chan, Mr Carlson Chan and the Soong Ching-ling Foundation for making the Shanghai visit possible.

Anhui: Communities of Meaning

text and photos by Ino Manalo

Watching the movie Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon by Ang Li, I was entranced by a scene where a number of combatants leap across a pond, their feet barely grazing the surface. I vividly recall that the pond was surrounded by ancient houses whose dignified facades were reflected in the water. 

Later, when I saw an exhibition about the domestic architecture of Anhui and learned that the unforgettable movie sequence was shot in a small community in this province, my resolve to visit the place grew.

The opportunity finally came during a trip to Huangzhou with Liwayway/Oishi Corporation. Our hosts very graciously agreed to arrange a side expedition to the ancient hamlets of nearby Anhui. Finally I was going to see my pond. As it turned out , there was much more to discover than just this body of water.

Two of the Anhui villages, Xidi and Hongcun have preserved their traditional structures so beautifully that they were placed on the UNESCO World Heritage List in 2000. Now, being on the list actually has its pluses and minuses. On one hand, it brings glamour and recognition. On the other hand, the many visitors that show up may tax the carrying capacity of a site. Sometimes, there are even protests that tourists are displacing local residents.

I wondered what the situation was like in Xidi and Hongcun. Did the houses still retain their original stewards?  

Walking around the time-polished lanes, I couldn’t help thinking: what was it like to live here in the 19^th and early 20th centuries when these two villages were among the most prosperous in the land? What was it like to go in and out of these homes, visit one’s neighbors, buy a bucket from an itinerant salesman?

Though I was now a tourist examining what was essentially a heritage showcase, there was still so much to discover and discern. Round a corner and one spies a broom propped against a wall, push open a gate and there is a courtyard with a canopy formed by delicate vines from which fruit are impossibly suspended. 

Glancing through a doorway, I saw a violin lesson in progress. What amazed me was that the mother was actually holding up the music piece for her young protégé. I felt like I was sharing in a cherished album, or witnessing the unscrolling of a fragile painting. Little by little, fleeting insights were thrown in my path, perhaps in jest, perhaps as an earnest invitation to explore further.

I began to understand that the way traditional dwellings were designed and even the manner that they were distributed on the terrain could be read as virtual guides or maps. These helped instruct residents on the gentle art of living.  As one writer has pointed out:  the Chinese residence “is structured to shape family organization and to weave the web of social and ethical norms that linked the household to the world beyond. “

Likewise, these jumbles of alleys and walkways that I was negotiating followed patterns that were honored and repeated all across the realm. Hongcun and Xidi were both sited so that they were embraced by water and buttressed by solid mountains. This is a feng shui specification that one will see even at the Forbidden City in Beijing, countless leagues to the north. As above, so below – such it has been and always will be for the Celestial Empire.

The lay-out of Hongcun itself is said to resemble a cow. Forming the head at one end is a hill with its two tall trees representing horns. The four bridges are the legs while the canals that circulate throughout the town are likened to intestines and veins. At the very center is the Moon Pond of Crouching Tiger fame. This is considered the cow’s stomach.

The bovine metaphor, amusing as it may seem at first, can impart many lessons to the inhabitants. First there is the recognition of humans’ relation to the land. It is our environment – lakes, rivers, mountains, forests  - which gives us our context. Feng shui may seem like superstition to some but at its heart is the realization that we must all engage with the harmony of nature.

Then there is the primacy given to our fellow creatures. Farm animals, especially, are accorded their due respect since without them our own lives would be much reduced. Perceiving that one’s hometown is shaped like a cow (as opposed to an airplane in Brasilia!) is a reminder that we must recognize the roles of other species in our biosphere.

That canals are thought of as intestines and veins stresses the importance of water. We cannot live without water in the same way that we will expire without blood or digested food coursing through our bodies. The capillary comparison is, simultaneously, an admonition not to forget that we are all inter-related. A blockage or a breakdown in one part of the network could wreak havoc in another area. One cannot throw garbage into the canal system as this would affect one’s neighbors who may decide to be as cavalier with you.

Every building in these villages arises from and is enveloped by a fabric of symbols. Doors are flanked by a pair of ornaments in the shape of drums and other objects to announce the main occupation of the family. The number of steps corresponds to established codes of meaning. Vestibules in Southern Anhui always contain a table on which is set a clock and a vase as these are considered auspicious.  There are, as well, lattice screens carved with a design of randomly arranged triangles, a motif known as “cracked ice”. These are meant to help one contemplate the difficulties and complexities of life. A variation has flowers interspersed with the triangles. Perhaps these suggest a reprieve from all that hardship. 

A townscape is effectively a three-dimensional record, a palimpsest of a people’s history. Mud stains may reveal how high the waters had raged in a great flood. Blackened areas grimly commemorate a fire or even war. A battered fence may bring back one’s childhood.

Outside the village of Xidi there is a winding path that passes under several exquisite stone arches. These are memorials to the achievements of certain residents. Usually their accomplishments have to do with hurdling the Imperial Examinations paving the way to an illustrious career in the Civil Service. Sometimes, the arches are erected for filial sons and even for devoted widows.   In this way, individual diaries and family records merge with the archives of a community. Village history is  inscribed on rock so that all may see and in seeing, remember.

Though Xidi and Hongcun had been prosperous villages,  with the reduction of rural populations in the 20^th century, the vitality of these traditional communities began to wane. Fortunately the rediscovery of these heritage enclaves has brought new life as engendered by income from the tourist trade.  Many who come have apparently seen the same gracefully choreographed cinematic fight scene as I did. This is evidenced by the great increase in arrivals after the release of Ang Li’s film.

In a way, a formula is taking shape. Centuries ago, once wealthy towns were able to afford elaborate buildings. As the years roll by, a reversal in fortunes ironically ensures that there is no money to tear down these singular structures to set up others according to the tastes of the minute. Matchless edifices are then preserved for the time that they are stumbled upon by the historically inclined. Once these pockets of the past become well-known, hordes of travelers begin to descend. Everyone is hoping for an encounter with origins as couched in the comforts of the internet, fastfood and a spa or two. One notes this tale repeated all over: Anhui, Hoi An, Pingyao, Lijiang, and even our very own Vigan.

The danger is that heritage towns become parodies of themselves all in the name of tourism. As the sociologist John Urry has warned in his tome, The Tourist Gaze, travelers have a way of rendering all that they see as consumer products. Crafts become souvenirs, residents become quaint natives, sacred rituals become spectacles. One way to counter this homogenizing vision is to celebrate the uniqueness of every place as developed by the aspirations of the people who live there.

Certainly, many have complained about the commercialization of Hongcun and Xidi. At the other side of these complaints, however, is the question: if it were not for the travel industry, how else would the villagers survive?

I suppose that the challenge is finding a balance between creating livelihood opportunities and maintaining the integrity of traditional environments. It has to do with understanding that the real attraction of a place is the vibrancy of its own community life.  It has to do with realizing that what makes our dwelling places flourish is the rootedness in the fertile soil of meanings, symbols, and ways of knowing. These have always provided sustenance and consolation in a shifting and shifty world.

Perceiving the nuances in the vast wealth of messages provided by the fascinating albums, guiding maps, patchwork cloaks, and palimpsests that are the villages of Anhui may just be the beginning. But it is a good place to start.

The writer would like to thank Carlos and Carlson Chan of Liwayway/Oishi Corporation for their patience and hospitality.