Did the Queen of Crime Stay at the Pera Palace Hotel?

 

 Opening frames from the movie "Agatha"

One of my favorite movie opening sequences begins with a scene where a silver mug is being engraved with the words, “… my love, my friend.” The engraver pauses, waiting to be told what else the woman beside him wanted to add to the dedication. The camera focuses on her face as she utters, “Agatha”. The name then appears on screen as it is the title of the film. 

The woman is supposed to be Agatha Christie, the world’s most successful crime writer with more than a billion books sold. A few years ago, when I was convalescing, my cousin, Manny, gave me discs containing dramatizations of Christies’ novels featuring her two star sleuths, Hercule Poirot and Jane Marple. I found watching the episodes very comforting. Perhaps the sense that everything - no matter how complicated - would be made right in the end was so reassuring after a serious illness. I have been a fan ever since.

The 1979 movie with the engraved mug scene I just described, presented an imagined account of the 11 days in 1926 when Christie mysteriously disappeared. Perhaps she had felt devastated after learning that her first husband, Archie, (the recipient of the mug) was divorcing her. Since the famous writer had never revealed what happened to her, all kinds of theories abound. Many hotels have also joined the fray, making conflicting claims about the writer holing up in their premises when she went missing. One of the more sensational stories related to Christie’s unaccounted days involves the venerable Pera Palace in Istanbul.

The Pera Palace Hotel

In 1979, when the movie was about to be released, newspapers were abuzz with reports that a clairvoyant had been told by Christie’s spirit (she had died in 1976) of the existence of a box inside which was a diary that recounted the celebrated writer’s disappearance. The key to the box was hidden in Room 411 of an Istanbul hotel. Soon after, the manager of the Pera Palace announced that he had found such a key in a room of his establishment with the exact same number but apparently nothing else.

The Agatha Christie Room. Source: Pera Palace website

Today, it is generally agreed that Christie had been ensconced somewhere in northern England all along, far from Turkey. Yet the quarters in the Pera Palace that had been identified so supernaturally are still preserved in her honor. Like many others, I had assumed that this was where Dame Agatha penned Murder on the Orient Express which begins in the great city on the Bosporus.

Actually, the novel may not even have been written at the Pera. A hotel historian explains that while working on her manuscript, Mrs Christie would very likely have stayed at another Istanbul institution, the Torkatlian. This is, in fact, the hotel where she actually sets the first part of her story. It was from this comfortable base that she went on archaeological expeditions with her second husband, Max Mallowan, in Syria and Iraq. She would later compile her adventures in a memoir with a genteel title – Come Tell Me How You Live.  

Whatever the truth turns out to be, the Agatha Christie Room at the Pera Palace will always be a shrine for devotees of the Queen of Crime. The Room seems to have been arranged to suggest that it was as the novelist had left it. Among the furnishings are an old typewriter and a shelf filled with the honoree’s books.  The color of the curtains and of the bed cover - a deep red - hints of the blood spilled on the pages of Christie’s works.

The sanguine references notwithstanding, the Room’s atmosphere is one of quiet elegance which contrasts with the rest of the building. As befits an institution that housed the aristocratic passengers of the luxurious Orient Express, the Pera Palace appropriately exudes opulence. An old brass escutcheon on the wall of the terrace is a reminder that these two properties were once in the hands of one owner.

    The Lounge

   Brass Escutcheon

Built in the last decade of the nineteenth century with Alexander Vallaury as architect, the Pera was refurbished a few years ago by the Jumeirah Group which also runs the Burj al Arab in Dubai. Judging from old photographs I could see that the present interiors have been done up much more elaborately than in the past.

The lobby

                       Flowers greet you

Entering the lounge when I first arrived at the Pera Palace, I was overwhelmed by its strident pinkness. One encounters this heated color in the marble, the footstools, the cushions, and even in the flower arrangements that exploded on a round table near the door. Then I noticed that the fuchsia exuberance was balanced by the richness of the brass ornaments and the luster of the mother of pearl inlaid cabinets. The rosy tones of the stained glass windows that grew paler with each passing cloud quieted the room further while huge globes drew my attention away to other parts of the world.

   Pastry shop

It was when I caught a glimpse of the pastry shop on my way to my room that I deduced where all this pink belonged: in the trays of macaroons and strawberry tarts glistening inside glass vitrines. I promised myself that I was going to return to sample all that had been so lovingly confectioned.

    Antique elevator

Having torn myself away from all the sweet excess, I was conducted by the hotel officer to an antique elevator that was brimming with the wrought iron curves of a past era. As we ascended, I studied the moving compartment, remembering that the clairvoyant had mentioned riding one of these ancient conveyances in her vision. Soon, however, I would forget about these allusions to the occult as the view from my balcony would prove more fantastic than anything a seer could conjure.

    Sunrise over the Golden Horn

Dawn was just breaking over a luminous band of water that was none other than the Golden Horn. Imagine the endeavors that were launched here, the nautical battles waged, the fortunes gained and lost! Suddenly forlorn cries came from every quarter. It was time for the morning prayer and every mosque joined in the great call for the faithful to turn to the Divine.

The neighborhood in which the hotel stood would prove just as compelling. There were many vibrant bazaars, colorful cafes, and quiet bookstores. The area boasted its own wonderful gallery – the Pera Museum. At the time of my visit it had exhibits on traditional locks from Anatolia as well as a fine show on Turkish court painters.

Scenes from the Pera District

    A painting at the Pera Museum

Beside the Museum was a lovely edifice decorated with a pair of atlantes. This was the Grand Hotel de Londres. I was later to learn that it, too, had its own Agatha Christie Room - this one done in shades of orange. Perhaps our writer has rested her head on many pillows!

   Grand Hotel de Londres

I was already on my way back from exploring the district when I stumbled into a bit of unpleasantness. I had just snapped the front of a bakery when a man who had been seated at a sidewalk table started yelling at me. He approached me all the while shouting and – without warning - gave me a strong shove. A thought flashed briefly in my mind: what if I responded with my best kung fu pose? It didn’t matter that I couldn’t tell karate chop from a pork chop. I just had to look convincing even if it meant channeling a panda. As a friend of mine observed: everyone else thinks that all Asians are masters of the martial arts. Eventually, I decided that the better part of valor was to use every last bit of my adrenalin rush to run towards my hotel.

Safely cocooned in the Pera’s Lounge again, I reviewed my brush with violence. I realized that if the incident had escalated further, I would have taken a serious hit for the sake of journalism!

Later, my mind wandering because of the chamomile tea, I feel to thinking about Dame Agatha. What might she have done had she been there on the sofa with me? Would she have asked me what my assailant had looked like? Would she have asked me if there were reliable witnesses?

Somehow, I imagined that it was more likely that she would have poured me more hot tea. Then, she might have quietly said: “Come, tell me how you live.”

   Safely back in the Lounge

Photo of Agatha Christie room is from the Pera Palace website

Into Egypt

       Painting of Cleopatra by Juan Luna, Prado Museum, Madrid

Non-archival photos and text by Ino Manalo

Like many the world over, I had grown up reading about Egypt and the pyramids. This inspired in me a lifelong passion to see the Land of the Pharaohs. Many movies helped fuel my interest: Cleopatra, The Egyptian, as well as the earlier versions of The Mummy. With regard to the first film on my list, I had thought about what it would be like to arrive for Sunday mass in San Antonio, my childhood parish church, borne on a sphinx-shaped palanquin just like Elizabeth Taylor entering Rome. Surely the look on the faces of the congregation would have been worth all the effort.

When I brought up the idea of vacationing by the Nile, however, most people were not encouraging. Some pointed to reports of terrorist attacks some years back.

The exception was Wendell Rodricks, the Goan designer and a recent dinner guest. He told me that he had just been to Egypt and it was wonderful. Hearing my misgivings, he noted that travelling required spirit. You shouldn’t step outside your door if you are not ready for anything that can happen.

Having plucked up the courage and having ignored all my worries, I finally found myself with my friend, Vince, on a Turkish Airlines flight headed for Cairo. The voyage was pleasant enough – they even gave us battery - powered candles that flickered reassuringly during our tasty meal!

My first impression of Cairo was one of chaos. As Vince and I came to know the city better in the days that followed, this initial sense of disorder would only be affirmed.  I saw vans that left their doors wide open while careening down the street - the better to pick up passengers wherever they wished. When a metal rail erected to prevent jaywalking proved inconvenient, an obliging Cairene thoughtfully cut the bars. Everyone and their mothers insisted on squeezing through the fence gaps, delaying carts and cars as well as porters bearing large sacks. It was while we were inching through this tumult that it came to me: I felt at home. Manila’s intersections were jammed as merrily!

Later, while we negotiated the choked thoroughfares, the Egyptian capital began to reveal a softer side. I saw avenues lined with beautiful Italianate and Art Deco buildings. These vintage gems went practically unheralded in a country that had so much more to offer. I was to learn that aside from districts filled with European-style edifices, Cairo also had neighborhoods resplendent with mosques and churches.

 

After the heat and the dust of the pavements it was a joy to come back to our hotel, the Sofitel El Gezirah, a cylindrical tower located at the tip of an island in the heart of the city. When we first arrived, we had been quite disappointed with our room which was sorely in need of sprucing up. As it turned out, we were transferred to better quarters and all was well. 

The Cairo Sofitel El Gezirah 

Our little aches disappeared whenever we looked out our window. For there, in the glow of each new morning was the Nile. We could see stately villas and tall office buildings lining its banks while glittering bridges spanned its width. The water was a deep blue-green that murmured of lapis lazuli and the scales of snakes. The river’s ends disappeared in the haze but one knew that north were the Mediterranean and the port of Alexandria while south were Nubia then the great Sud - the largest swamp in the world, and, finally, the lakes of East Africa.

Contemplating this liquid corridor, one understands why so many had been obsessed with exploring it and finding its source: the Nile was the lifeline of Egypt and Egypt had come to capture the European imagination.  Edward Said in his landmark tome, Orientalism, gives us an idea why. 

Said explains that there had been many projects to document, measure, and illustrate everything within Egyptian territory from palaces to tombs, wildlife to plants. One such project – carried out under Napoleon - resulted in the publication of the gargantuan, Description de l’Egypte. This was a set of about 23 large books with maps and illustrations produced by a team of French experts.

Description de l’Egypte frontispiece

These books and the information they contained became instruments which aided invasion and colonization. After all, knowing a country’s terrain and resources, knowing the strengths and weaknesses of its people makes conquest easier.

The Description de l’Egypte also helped generate popular notions about Egypt which, in time, degenerated into stereotypes. Pyramids, treasures buried under sand, a languid inscrutable people wandering amidst collapsed temples, all these became the standard images which were evoked when the Land of the Nile was mentioned. The frontispiece of the Description is a good example of such established representations. It shows valuable items strewn across a colorful many-pillared courtyard while obelisks rose in the distance.

Said further explained that these images were so compelling because they helped clarify the identities of the peoples of Europe: Europeans were what the Egyptians were not. For the citizens of countries such as France and England, exploring Egypt was a way to know one’s self better. 

Orientalist painting, Musee d'Orsay. Non-Europeans are portrayed as languid and lazy.

 

Capitalizing on this desire to experience Egypt, the tourism company that Thomas Cook had founded introduced steamer ships in the 19^th century that made holidays on the Nile more comfortable. Hotels were built in cities like Cairo, Luxor, Aswan, and Alexandria. Many of these establishments still survive, part of the legacy of what is romantically dubbed “the Golden Age of Travel”.

The Mena Hotel, Giza

The original entrance in 1900s

The entrance today

One such hotel is the Mena House in Giza. A former hunting lodge of the country’s ruler, it was bought by a rich young English couple who had it remodeled to accommodate visitors to the pyramids. Rooms were added as well as vernacular features like latticed balconies and domes.

Unfortunately, while we were there, the old wing was closed for renovation. We were given a room in the new section. Everything here was spic and span. Contemplating the many framed photographs of veiled women that festooned the walls of the corridors it became clear that Orientalist stereotypes were at play.  Veils were certainly part of clichés that exemplified the mysterious and inscrutable lands beyond the rationale ambit of the West.

That night we were kept awake by a noisy wedding celebration that was held in elaborate tents set up on the hotel grounds.   We could see from what was being projected on giant screens that the party -goers were beautiful and very wealthy.

The dawn brought another brobdingnagian image that came straight from legend: the grand pyramid of Cheops waxing purple in the mist. Everything else faded. How flawless was this edifice, how impossibly straight were its lines against the glimmering curve of sky.

At breakfast, when I turned to stare at the pyramid again, I spied some stragglers from last night’s fete seated at a table. Beyond them, men were putting away the party tents even while Cheop’s monument loomed in the distance. I had a sense that what was before me was Ancient Egypt recast in the 21^st century. As it had always been, the struggle of the masses was once more juxtaposed with the privilege of the elite. No wonder that Egyptian publicity campaigns proudly announce: Welcome to our seventh millennium!

 

We were to find out later that there had been a terrorist attack on a guard post many kilometers away. A number of lives were lost. Yet, for that moment, there in Giza, the tragedies of the world seemed far away. All that the mind could grasp was that one was standing before a structure created to confront eternity.

Cruising Among Stupas

 

                    

 Cruising Among Stupas

    Text and photos by Ino Manalo

One of the mightiest rivers of our region is Myanmar’s Irrawaddy. Given the current vogue to use the original Burmese names rather than the Anglicized versions, it is now referred to as the Ayeyarwady. The added syllables roll easily off the tongue. They seem to serve as reminders of the great length that this river travels – about 2,170 kilometers. The neighboring Mekong runs for more than twice this distance but half of its course is in China.What needs stressing is that it is the Ayeyarwady which can claim to be the longest stream completely within South East Asia.

The Ayeyarwady has always been the lifeline for the lands through which it flows. Its waters sustain countless fields of crops vital for a developing nation. Records show that the river was already the conduit for trade as far back as the sixth century. Much later, it would be central to the economic programs of the British colonizers who built many port facilities on its banks.

At present, cruising on the Ayeyarwady has become big business. Many of the boats used are modest affairs that only do day trips. A handful, however, are quite large and luxurious. I happened on the newest offering in this class – the Strand Cruise - while looking up travel prospects in Myanmar. It was operated by the venerable Strand Hotel where I had enjoyed staying when I had first visited Yangon. It didn’t take long for me to find myself signed up along with some loyal companions and ready to sail! For who could resist an idyll on a stream of legend?

     Woman walking by a wall in Bagan

Not so easy, however, was the process of getting to our vessel which was docked in Northern Myanmar. Negotiating Yangon’s chaotic Domestic Airport would prove quite challenging .Yet, by the next morning, all this tumult was forgotten. We were in the cruise’s meeting place – the garden of the oldest lacquer factory in Bagan and we were enveloped in a mist of fruity teas. There were mellow cheeses and congenial egg sandwiches all creatively spread on wooden carts. 

                               Welcome feast arranged on a traditional farmer's cart

During that welcome breakfast we met Olivier, a Vice President with the corporation that manages the Strand. Then there was Bilou, in charge of shore excursions and a magician to boot! There were also Bartholomew, our chef, and Neville, the cruise director. I would learn that Olivier and Bilou knew the Floirendos who owned Pearl Farm Resort in Davao. Our conversation became decidedly less formal after this revelation: Miss Universe! Margie Moran!

Becoming acquainted with our vessel was an equally pleasant affair. We found her sleek and trim with clean lines. Exploring the cool interiors, I was impressed with the restraint with which the ship (built entirely in Myanmar) had been designed. The spaces were uncluttered and satisfyingly coherent. I was to learn that a Thai firm called P49 had been involved.

                   M.V. Strand

The carved pillars of the dining room which resembled the trunks of palm trees seemed to stand out at first. But then I realized that they referenced the floor lamps and their stems of pale wood. There were shelves carrying fine craft pieces, their intricate embellishments and tangy hues echoed by the carpet of the lounge on the upper deck. This deck also had a swimming pool flanked by divans with legs that stood in the water. There were wide couches, beds really, set under canopies, retractable according to one’s wishes.

                                 The lounge

                    Luncheon setting 

Our cabin was a sanctuary. A leafy pattern had been chosen for the fabrics lending an air of a quiet grove. One of the walls was rounded, its graceful curve resonating with the semi-circle of the sofa and the desk. We had vast windows which let in the shimmering world outside.

                                         The leafy cabin

In contrast, some of the other ships on the Ayeyarwady were very elaborately decorated.  Often, there was an attempt to bring back the supposedly glorious days of river travel in the 20s and 30s. Another approach was to recreate the opulent Burmese palaces of the past. The result could sometimes be gaudy.

The Strand steered clear of all these, giving us rooms that were subtle and fresh. This made sense, for this was a cruise after all. There was a whole river out there with changing panoramas of villages and stupas at every bend. The ship décor shouldn’t be so distracting that it would keep the mind from wandering.

So comforting were our spaces that one was tempted to simply hole up. But Bilou had arranged many excursions for us. We were brought around to view the wonders of Bagan and Mandalay, places whose names were inked with magic. Yet of all the splendid sites we had visited, the ones that resonated with me the most were in the area around Ava, one of the ancient capitals of Burma.

                 The cruise route

   

         Monks at Hsinbyume Temple

We saw a white tower surrounded by crenellated walls that evoke waves lapping against a mythic peak. After almost getting lost in the corridors of a brick monastery, I was reminded of a scene in an Hercule Poirot movie where the characters try to find each other between the huge pillars of Karnak.  

Now, I found myself standing alone in a small dark chamber at the heart of a Burmese temple. At first, I felt anxious, trying not to think of being left behind by the tour group.  Soon, however, the anxiety melted away as I listened to a recording on my phone of my late father playing his violin. It was, after all, his birthday.

Getting off the boat to see all these marvels, we met a young Burmese woman who offered us some trinkets. I shook my head upon which she launched into what must have been a well rehearsed spiel:

“Not now?   Will you think about it? Maybe later? I will look for you. I remember you.”

She followed us throughout our tour on her dilapidated bicycle. I was rather irritated at first by her relentlessness. But then I thought: how else was she to make a living? How else was she to eat?

                                       The crew's famous twins

Our fellow passengers were equally interesting. There was a doctor who had been traveling in Asia for many months after leaving his job in New York. There was a newscaster from Thailand and his wife. We only learned about his celebrity after he was recognized by some students who immediately demanded a photo. There was a British couple celebrating a wedding anniversary.

For all the amiable company, I also savored being alone. Waking very early in the morning, it felt like I had the ship to myself.  Walking out on the deck, I witnessed the sun rising. I saw how it paused briefly to be an orange drop on the fluid shoulder of the water.

     

     Morning on the riverbank

It was then that I knew something was missing. Despite all the efforts of the cruise staff members– and certainly through no fault of theirs – there was still not enough time to understand the river. For this was the Ayeyarwady and she had much to tell. Admittedly, in trips like this there should be no pretense that it was possible to truly interact with one’s surroundings. Air-conditioning, glass windows, the abundance of food, the very ship itself , all these create a capsule which protects and isolates from the heat, the dangers, and yes, the poverty outside.

We can try to break the barriers: a lecture on life on this eternal stream, a visit to a fishing vessel. But in the end it is a matter between the river and one’s self.  We will have to fathom why, for centuries, humans have stood at the water’s edge and - like Jose Rizal on the shores of Laguna de Ba-y - wondered what lay on the other side.

I stood near the prow, mesmerized by the scenery that was unscrolling. And maybe I imagined that the Ayeyarwady had something to say to me:

“I will look for you, I remember you.”

Temples on the cruise

             Shwezigon 

                                         Sulamani

            Ananda

                              

      Maha Aungmye Bonzan Monastery

          Roadside cafe

                        Mid-tour snack

                           Ava countryside scene

      Work continues

Rizal in Dapitan

Rizal in Dapitan

By Ino Manalo

Every year, on December 30th, we commemorate Jose Rizal’s 1896 martyrdom at the hands of the Spanish colonizers. 1896 also effectively marks the 

the end of a four year hiatus which was one of the happier periods of the hero’s tragic life.

Rizal had just returned to the Philippines when, in July of 1892, he was deported to Dapitan, a tiny town on the north coast of Mindanao. He would stay there until August of 1896. One cannot begin to describe the kind of displacement that such an exile actually meant. Remember that Rizal was a global denizen, a man who had traveled to the great capitals of Europe to imbibe the rich intellectual life of the Continent. This was a man that flourished in the midst of vigorous discussions, who articulated the fate of his people in pioneering novels and vibrant essays. This was a man whose name was on everyone’s lips, who was the center of a nation’s attention. To draw a contemporary parallel with Rizal’s fate would mean marooning, say, one of our senators on a deserted island!

Yet the Son of Calamba took everything in stride. When he learned of the deportation order, he remained calm and composed. One writer attributes this tranquility to the fact that the hero had always believed that “wherever I go I shall always be in the hands of God, in Whose hands are the destinies of men.”

It is said that the news of the banishment resounded throughout the land. Though many newspapers supported the move, one, El Globo, was supposed to have expressed indignation that Rizal could be deported merely for having written against the friars.

While his case was being discussed in the capital, Rizal was then very far away, physically and spiritually.   He was probably already beginning to plan what he would do in his new home. Perhaps the idea of getting away from it all was not entirely unattractive to the great hero. It can be noted that he had considered pulling out his family from Laguna and founding a new colony in Borneo. He had even invited his dear friend, Ferdinand Blumentritt, to join him there and to set up a study center for Natural History.

I think that Rizal’s greatness is revealed in the way he dealt with his exile. Instead of languishing and becoming despondent the hero managed to carve out an amazingly productive life. Today, his place of banishment is a better place because it had once been his retreat.

Rizal continued his medical practice seeing poor and rich patients. One foreigner who had come all the way from Hongkong for treatment would bring Josephine Bracken as his companion. She and Rizal fell in love, eventually living together in Dapitan as man and wife.

Rizal set up a school for the local boys many of whom would grow up to occupy important positions in the region. Other projects included the electrification of the town, designs for the retablo of a church in neighboring Dipolog, the creation of a map of Mindanao for the plaza, the gathering of biological specimens as requested by European scientists, and the development of a water system.

This last enterprise would catch the attention of a school girl more than a century later. For the essay writing contest ran by the My Rizal team (led by Lisa Bayot and Maite Gallego) as part of the sesquicentennial celebrations this year, Jonalyn Juarez of Cantabaco Elementary School in Toledo City, Cebu would reveal her dream of becoming an engineer so that she could set up a waterworks for her community. 

Cantabaco School Principal, Macaria Solamillo, My Rizal Essay Winner Jonalyn Juarez, My Rizal's Lisa Tinio Bayot

It is almost painful to read, how, in the 21^st century, the vital liquid that the residents of a city in the Philippines have access to is actually dirty. Yes, it is a tragedy that clean water is still something that the youth can only aspire for. Clearly the contradictions and the social cancers which Rizal had written about are still very much in place.

Society’s problems, however virulent they may be, all seem to recede when one visits Rizal’s former compound in Dapitan which is now being maintained as a shrine by the National Historical Commission of the Philippines (NHCP). As I walked around, I could not help but notice how green my surroundings were, how lush and alive.

Rizal himself had this to say about his sojourn in this spot:

I shall tell you how we live here. I have three houses, one square, another hexagonal, and a third octagonal, all of bamboo, wood and nipa…From my house I hear the murmur of a crystal clear brook which comes from the high rocks. I see the seashore… where I have small boats or baroto as they say here…I have many fruit trees, mangoes, lanzones, guayabanos…I rise early – at five – visit my plants, feed my chickens….

\

I lingered to examine the stream and the cascades at the base of the hill. I entered the reconstructed house but not before removing my shoes. Though only replicas of the original, the floors still represented surfaces hallowed by the steps of the valiant. Inside the large nipa hut, I noted that two women from a Rizalista group have taken up positions on the balcony. They were expert hilots offering Philippine style therapeutic massages to visitors. 

As I looked up at a huge tree that dominates the entire area, I fell to thinking about how this was one living creature which may actually have gazed down on the great man.  I touched its gnarled bark: perhaps Rizal had stopped momentarily here too, more than a century ago.

I gazed at the sea which surrounds the precinct. Finally I was certain: the vista, the mountains in the distance, the broad marine expanse, these all had been part of our hero’s view as well. What thoughts would have played on that magnificent mind as the day drew to a close?

It almost seems strange to read about this historical giant writing about tending fowl and fruit, spending time to fashion Japanese lanterns to decorate his garden to recall his childhood Christmases in Calamba, looking beneath ferns and stones for a tiny frog.

Yet all these too is part of the message of Dapitan. Unlike Luneta, this was not a place which commemorated death and the cutting short of a glorious career. This was a place that celebrated the pulsing rhythms of a life well lived.

Imagine how much Rizal had already accomplished by the time he was deported to Mindanao. He was truly a universal man, in touch with the pulse of the entire planet. Yet it would be his destiny to suddenly be called to this tiny corner of the earth where he would have to tend to the things that grow, blossom, and bear fruit.  Dapitan demonstrates that what made Rizal a hero was not just his game-changing vision, his literary feats, his selfless sacrifice. Equally remarkable is the fact that he had actually served a community, shared in its daily routine and concerns, laughed at its antics and wept with its disappointments.

In Dapitan, Rizal showed us all, that the real citizen of the world is she or he who knows how to reach out and touch the very ground in which we all happen to find ourselves.