I SPY! Boh Visitor's Centre at Sungai Palas, Cameron Highlands

What is it about the highlands which appeal to us? I sense that many Malaysians are averse to our famed hot and humid weather. That's where the highlands come to the rescue. The fresh breeze, the relatively cool climate and plenty of cloud cover make them an oasis of refuge from our hot low lands.

On that morning, the clouds met the green valleys of tea leaves, shrouding the hill tops in mystery. The journey to the Sungai Palas Visitor's Centre is an adventure in itself. Vehicles cram into a narrow winding road and they often have to take turns to make way for on coming traffic. A great obstacle at first, but later, quite alluring. The scenery is like the surprise felt when dominos fall, where each turn on the bend yields another spectacle. If looking through the
clouds was enough of a tease, don't be surprised if they draw themselves open or shut like show curtains amid your photo-snapping frenzy.

Although it can be seen from the road, the Visitor's Centre is not immediately visible unless one is observant. It is quite a treat when you consider that there can't be anything more obvious than a long object cantilevered on the ridge of a hill. At my first glance, I conceded that the design had not only sympathy for her surroundings but seemed to grow from the land, almost inconspicuous from afar.



Preventing private vehicles from going to the very doorstep of the centre is praiseworthy. Evidently, the hilltop has limited space for parking lots. It is a refreshing idea, in a refreshing place, especially when very few 'new' architecture unravels itself from the very passage that leads to it. The path is a pleasant stroll by the hill's edge overlooking a valley of tea leaves. The moist ground, fallen leaves and picturesque surroundings immediately induce a desire to sit down over a cup of tea and relax. Fortunately, the hike up the hill is a mere 10 minutes at most. Thus the cravings are not easily forgotten.













Notably, the Visitor's Centre does not pop up in a 'lo and behold' manner. Instead, one notices a 'light' and long 'cuboid' volume that is perched on a hill. The scarce use of masonry and the predominant black trimmings turn an otherwise solid object into a 'window frame'. And what a sight to behold! One enters through an opening in the middle of its 'long' edge. To the left, numerous ordinary tables and chairs are laid out for the benefit of patrons sipping Boh Tea with the undulating 'green' backdrop. The educational or exhibition spaces, the shop and toilets are easily found on the right hand side.

While not entirely brilliant, the organization of spaces is very transparent and simple. But it also means that there is little 'mystery' to the architecture. Not that this is overtly simplistic, but perhaps there could have been more variety in spatial qualities, beyond the 'open' ambience through and through.

Furthermore, it appears that the simplicity of the design rests profoundly on two almost opposing ideas. The first is the composure of the structure as it is firmly anchored to the ground. The absence of a heavy base appeals to me, not the least because it holds both the feeling of 'flight' and 'firmness' in balance. The second 'idea' is of weightlessness, where the 'lightest' end seems ready to walk on air. Unlike a pool 'spring board' which it resembles, the cantilevered balcony evokes a propensity to move horizontally rather than a leap into the valley.

Nonetheless, it is very apparent that a 'centripetal force' emanates from the 'balcony', from which every other space is assigned its place and subordinated to the whole. Evidently, the crowds gathered on the balcony's edge and raced to get the best seats.

The ballustrade detail consists of mild steel strips,'to the point', making way for a clear scene to be savoured by camera snaps. The judicious use of black for the trimmings here and everywhere easily camouflages an otherwise industrial feeling into the melancholy but evergreen landscape beyond.







The cafe section features shutter panes framed by accentuated vertical mild steel sections. In a way these are reactionary forces to the otherwise horizontal weight of the building. They endow the facade with a different progression, not towards the sky but a horizontal scale that seems to have no end.

As you proceed to the 'rear', this 'scale' continues albeit filled with very tactile wood ornaments (these are off-cuts from trees which grew on site, prior to construction) framed between vertical members rather than shutters. In the foreground, educational posters in perspex panels are suspended between vertical tensioned wires. A series of ramps take you to the AV rooms and more exhibition

spaces at the back, adjacent to the Boh merchandise shop. It didn't escape my notice that the display wall detail for the retail outlet was a copy of Marlon Blackwell's Moore Honeyhouse. While it seemed to fit in alongside variations of shutters and wood cuts, surely this must count as very poor plagiarism.

The toilets are among the most restrained but poignant places in the Visitor's Centre. The 'stark' concrete counter and basin is varnished, giving a glazed cool sensation. It is like a crystallized agglomeration of 'cold' matter, and the cool weather binds it. I love the way materials are left with imprints of immediate human activity, as is the case with my wet fingers leaving marks on the basin. The feeling of disclosure has a powerful effect on what you are doing. We can't deny that 'toilet' activities are ritualistic. The open backdrop seems to reinforce a kind of friendship with nature, united perhaps by the most indispensable element of life, (the toilet too) - water.

Other than mild steel, glass and concrete, plasterboards and bamboo strips are also used. The bamboo 'style' is not without its precedent. While it has been synonymous with much of 'good' Japanese architecture, it was not until Kengo Kuma's Commune in the Great Wall that yellow bamboo has returned as another 21st century item that bridges the gap between the traditional and the modern. In the tropics, it is known to grow very well in cooler temperatures and the typical hill stations are not want of it. Yet I wonder if it was added as a mere addition to ornamentalize the dominant black feel of the place. I can't help but admit I am typically drawn to consistency unless a 'foreign' material is added with such 'touching' gestures.

In my opinion, the use of bamboo does not complement the pseudo-industrial composition of the centre. While I take exception and grant the use of hardwood timber strips for the floor in some areas, their dark tones and strength go a long way in matching the similar properties of steel. In opposition to the dark strength in the material pallete, bamboo feels too brittle, too delicate for a
cladding when juxtaposed with the rest of the centre. It is not a question of masculinity or femininity either, as bamboo is one of the toughest species of 'grass'. The mismatch is further compounded by the coupling of plasterboard ceiling panels, which are not bad in itself. However, the 100mm gap to accommodate the fluorescent light tubes reveal unsightly edges of the plasterboard. From afar, one immediately notices that these gaps are not consistently cut.

This brings up a very timely problem in Malaysian architecture. We have suffered, both designers and users alike with below average finishes and messy construction joinery for years. The dilemma we are faced with resides in the choice of either taking greater paints to ensure truly competent construction workers or perhaps make life easier by designing details which enable defects to be part of the design. The Visitor's Centre, doesn't suffer from malignant construction errors, but often even a few erroneous details can turn something 'classy' into a 'scrap book'.

Alas, though details are worthy of our attention, the Sungai Palas Visitor's Centre still manages to impress. The beauty of the idea, a simple pavillion, like a telescope aimed at the oppsite hill strikes a simple yet profound chord among holiday makers. The crowds with me on that day were testatment to that. The orientation and the gradual unveiling of the valley to which it belongs to serves as a good reminder that architecture is not always pure spectacle, but journey and discovery as well. While the balcony at the edge is naturally, my favourite place, I suspect that more could have been done to make the entire complex a viewing platform without being too large. Here lies the challenge, and I believe the designers, ZLG Sdn Bhd weighed the consequences thoroughly.

How much 'architecture' should there be in such a place where the backdrop is the mise en scene? In many ways, perhaps some of the 'nitty-gritty' can be overlooked when you realize that the building is meant to disappear, to be dissolved among the hills of green we fondly remember as Cameron Highlands.

Rainy Day at Masjid Jamek

The sandals. They squelched as I walked precariously over the narrow kerb. Cars sped beside me, perhaps evading the rain. Drenched in rain, I desired their shelter, their air conditioned comfort. Though the weather invited melancholy ponderings, the awareness of the outside was effaced by their self-indulgent dreams behind steering wheels. Carried by the sway of dreams, these cars raced through puddles, abruptly bathing me with the unloved tears from the sky, fit for drains. Like other gifts, they are funnelled out, hidden and laid waste. From gifts they turn to scraps while for others; they crave for it.

Daggers of water were aimed by heaven's army from the skies while onward and backward the armies of man trudged with blank faces like those who encounter their reflections through drops of water. Amidst these, they were oblivious to miracles dropping from the celestial trove...

What shall we render to thee O miraculous drop?

I leave with a heavy heart,
from the womb of sorrows and delight.

Yet, who summoned thee?
A word, a prayer uttered, or mere chance?

A drop is not yours to ask for,
much less the many tears bequeathed to you.

Then what I ask, what calls thee,
why waste it here and withold it there?

How dare I ask myself?
Mortal, is it meet to make account of a gift?
Waste or scarcity is no heavenly fault,
Save for man who names them such.

What wisdom is there?
Necessity is absent so excess it becomes,
but to my brother in need,
what have you in store?

Amen, amen, not I, not I!
gifts have no aim,
only bow and arrow,
and those who receive, profit.

My gain is no profit,
when gift is in excess,
burden it becomes,
with no remorse from the heavens.

Lo, what belligerency!
why make tumultous argument,
when yours is to divide,
yours to reckon the fate of gifts.

Yours the fate to decide,
yours the praise of the heavens,
yours to make beauty out of tears,
yours to win the graces.

For one drop's fate,
is reckoned as gift,
and falls with no relent,
to grace your company.

I am but dew to the parched land,
the lens of dreams,
the sacrament for the weary,
and blessing to the ears.

So I ask thee then,
if justice is what you seek
what have you done to me?
when I leave aplenty you gather little.

And in your stories,
you behold my might,
yet eschew your wisdom,
not to glorify the fragile, the forgotten.

So who is it?
Who is the stranger who glides through gullies,
slides through your roof valleys,
fills your gutters, overflowing?

Who is it?
Who ushers the cool spirits that dance around you,
that paints your window pane,
and taps on the roof over your head?

Who is it?
Who makes life anew,
and turns skies into curtains,
which fall from your eaves?

Who is it,
who immerses the wind with sweetness,
who brings the message of fragrance,
whose whisper makes all memories resound?

Moss as Render

Rain drops from heaven,
to the delight of parched skins,
and into green fields they grow.

A simple walk to any shaded path in the city or in the small belukar behind our backyard would reveal to us the ubiquitous vegetation under the Malaysian sun, not forgetting the rain. It is often seen that all kinds of weeds and trees sprout up even after a massive land clearance. Amazing, the fury of nature is.

Many Kl-ites whine and whinge when they 'have' to walk, almost comparable to doing their chores at home. They have a point! But when you think of what's wrong in our urban landscapes, one quickly sees the forest for the trees. I mean, it is no doubt that our weather is humid, but where are all the trees that would make walking under the shade a near pleasurable experience?
And yet, the lure of the tropics according to the outside world immediately entails visions, nay, spectacles of greenery.

It's a rather disturbing 'problem' where many find the idea of planting a tree an 'extra' burden. Why do you think our councils are so apt to behead our wayside trees and still perform incompetently where rubbish collection is almost begged for? Face it, trees are a hassle in KL. The usual predicament that plagues our council workers appears in the phrase, "Susahlah...nak potong lagi, lepas tu kena pergi tengah jalan, nak buat cantik cantik lagi...alamak...potong ajelah".

Multiply the effects of this typical excuse and what you get is an ugly city where pedestrians sweat as if they're ready to be satay-ed or they've been microwaved! But all this personal 'whinging' of mine avails to nothing if you can't compare it to a better alternative. So where else is the Malaysian head to turn, if not to our small little clinical island friend of Singapore. Now, I don't think I need to elaborate anymore on this, but to those who wonder, please take a walk on a Singapore street (almost any) and you'll see why having a tree over your head suddenly makes tropical weather bearable if not a pleasure. The most ridiculous point I am trying to make here, is it just takes common sense to solve many problems that aren't worth politicising.

Oh did I mention politics? I am going to say something which Dr. M would really disapprove of. I actually concur with many ignorant Mat Salleh's (to an extent) that we should live in trees as they usually claim we do. Wait, let me rephrase that; I think we should live under trees. A walk in our average jungle would tell you that with the kind of climate in the tropics, we were meant to live under the canopy of trees. It is the how question which will stir us to make architecture rather than disaster. Of course, this will make me so politically incorrect in Malaysia, where everything needs to look 'hebat', in fact the less kampung the better. I will not be surprised if they were to ship in tonnes of sand from Saudi Arabia to make KL the Middle East of South East Asia. Maybe that's what they've been planning all this while. Stupid me, and I actually thought people were unmotivated to make our cities green.

Thus, this is where the whole moss (metaphor and object) 'title' allows me to make my point. From an aesthetic point of view, one could conclude that we live in a land and sky literally teeming with life! By contrast, the architecture of Malaysia (mostly) tries to deny this. There are numerous examples of how our buildings do not weather well, and are intended to stand like stark purist symbols or things in a landscape. Even Villa Savoye did not escape the dressing of nature, so how can our villas?

Moss, like any other vegetation is a beautiful render to our often peeling, painted walls. It is practical in the sense that one never needs to 'clean it'. It is poetic because it is weathering in action (one can never tell how it is going to be) and is also a metaphor for living with(in) the process of nature.

And to think, we spend thousands, millions of ringgit, painting, repainting and deciding to clad buildings in marble and granite tiles. We spend way too much time obliterating trees, or buying air conditioners to solve a 'hot' problem that is directly caused by our 100% paved 'front garden' to accommodate 3 sedans.

To think that residents of temperate climates beg to have our kind of weather (as it should be) -- to think that we can plant trees 1 metre apart and they will still grow, unlike other climates...all we think of as landscapes are lawns and pathetic palms which don't give shade.

The gross injustice done to the advancement of Malaysian architecture can be crystallized in no other practice but Dr. Ken Yeang's. With all these opportunities, dude....where's your moss? where are your trees?....oh...I get it, they're too cheap to plant...I see...it's better to erect and edifice of glass and sails which take thousands if not millions to clean year after year.

"Use your head lah!"

What are trees for? Shade first, ornament second.

A long note to a friend

Here is an excerpt from an email to a friend who is part of a team to re-store Central Markets in Kuala Lumpur:

Your fondness of words is not oblivious to me, so I reckon perhaps a short discussion (in words) might prove more useful to us. Firstly, I think the beauty of any conservation, refurbishment or regeneration project always beholds its indebtedness to history. It should be evident that a place contains a peeling bark of many histories (I hope you appreciate the metaphor) and that by revealing 'them', a more encompassing vision(s) is able to 'touch' the hearts and minds of many users who ply through her body each day. The danger in seeing this through is avoiding both the extremities of trying to present the 'purest version' of a place and on the other end, evoking too much 'memory' as it were in a bid for a false kinds of archaeologism.

Hence, by all means prudence is the most paramount of all criteria in any project which desires to restore a heritage listed building. (Note: restoration doesn't necessarily mean purging the effects of time). It only comes second to practicality in the strictest sense (Evidently, better to have no beam than to have one crashing on a young lady if she so much as touches it). One has to be not only sensitive but decisive, to choose which parts of history are worth bringing out; Which parts of history have been obscured? What kind of variety does justice to an architecture whose history has enriched people of different times and finally what does this or that element mean in the whole scheme of things?

I trust that you are fully aware of the practical problems which entail the 'beloved' architect's design. I hope you are sufficiently prepared for some architects who do not walk through the spaces they are designing. Also, often there is nothing more useful than a third party's opinion and you would be prudent in sticking your head in the ongoing discussions and asking questions that deal with 'real' circumstances which you have been so privileged to hear from the soon-to-be owners.

At many times during our conversation that day, you were somewhat puzzled by some of my judgements concerning the value of some elements from the 'old' market and her annexes. Other than our differences in opinion I also think I was not able to articulate what I meant by the value of 'accidental' history. In Malaysia, our short history and lack of appreciation for the 'old' avails itself in our relative inexperience in conserving and regenerating our old 'architecture'. In the quest for the new, many objects of art were sent to the guillotine without prior consideration but also because it is much harder to work in a context. While I disapprove of it, the angle often taken has my empathy; it is much easier to buy or sew a new dress than to stitch a new fabric onto an old one.

Our European and Japanese counterparts are not world leaders in architecture for want of good reasons. Furthermore, because historical structures are most likely preserved, they have acquired a more 'developed' approach in infusing the new into the old, without the fear of being either too purist or imposing the avant-garde on a grandmother! To put it succinctly, a more beautiful architecture will always result from a head-on collision between the desires of the new and the challenges of the old. This kind of approach does not pretend that solutions are simple and like water, it allows a new liquid to be diffused within her while disclosing the effects that the new 'wine' has on her. If you get my drift, the most practical solutions should not be averse to the challenges and opportunities that history bestows on a structure.

By meeting these problems head on, a newness can be achieved from the very sinews of the old and not merely stuck on by poor attempts of adhesion. As such, the old is made new by avoiding the destructive and humiliating effects which erasure brings. Each place carries her ghosts. These spirits acquire new tastes and can adapt to change. In a way, they constitute what we could call a living tradition, a building which grows instead of being replaced. We are in fact duty bound, by sheer soundness of mind to do justice to history by adding new chapters to a life whose desire is not to die prematurely.

But what does this entail, in concrete terms? It 'could' mean that the apparent insignificance is brought to light by the removal of walls, plastering and invasive methods which aim to make life easier for a user, albeit denying them the wealth of experience that history demands from the design. It could mean that a peculiar sense of arrival from the new to the old is worth the same attention to that of determining the height of a particular lamp. It could be that the sound and smell of wood as one walks over it is of greater value than the dimension of a sink in the new wing. In short, the impediments we are burdened with are in fact precursors to new sensitivities and new visions. We do not live in 'images' but in places which affect us, places which we sometimes struggle to understand both in our minds and through our emotions. We should not be content with adequate spatial planning as these will soon disappear. By disappearing, I mean that the average user is not deeply affected by a geometrically calculated space. What touches a person is what he or she is able to feel; the warmth of wood, the smell of satay, the feeling of return, happiness, sadness, the humidity in the air, the view, etc. And these are not general experiences but specific phenomena.

To me, the stories of childhood or the excitement of a child when he tells an experience is a very inspiring lesson. If you can remember, the best memories are always events of intricate detail, which are tied to places. Despite what we like to believe, we do not remember the mathematical properties of places, but in pondering them our bodies are somewhat stirred by a recurrent dream, the sensation of reacting to real things in a pleasurable or memorable way.

So I put this question to you; Does a building have a soul? And if you can sense she does, not all things which look misshapen and cheap or tacky are really like that. After all, isn't architecture about having new eyes for the otherwise mundane? This is why even a roller door can be elegant, if you know how to turn it into art.

I have not spoken about the practical problems which I saw, simply due to my confidence that you are more than apt to deliberate those decisions on your own. But while those are important to you, try not to overdo nor underestimate the potential that context makes available to every new man in every new age.

Sense then (maybe) form

In waters warm and cold,
I hear the sounds of distant places,
And distant memories embedded in stone,
come to life in ripples of water.

Peter Zumthor's Thermal Baths. There is more to seeing and believing than just 'understanding' architecture as a mind map of an architect. What I find really amazing about Zumthor is his ability to make buildings which 'desire' to be 'felt'. It is not an idea which will touch us, but a sensory experience that strikes a chord in our psyche, knocking perhaps; asking us where these emotions will take us.

But this is nothing new. I suspect even Zumthor thinks there is nothing new in what he is doing. And there is nothing brilliant, nothing poignant about it that makes us awestruck by a compositional idea. In his words, Zumthor has said that it's the composition of real materials that comes first, before the drawing of a plan. Also, one has to imagine the places which these 'forces' are conversing first, to sense their arrival before deliberating about form-making.

Perhaps, this is what impressed me most about this 'kind' of architecture. It departs from the intensity of making architecture into pure form, a spectacle of the stark eidetic form to the diminution of the body as mere vessel of objectivity. It made you feel the walls, the cold, the warmth the soft and the hard. One could smell the dew, the mildew perhaps, the pine wood etc, etc. which were not ends in itself but a 'door' that allowed you to step into another world.

So while these things awake a peculiar response from our bodies, they are not idolatrous structures, but are keys to our imagination. Hence, perhaps there is much to 'think' about the way we design places and the way we feel for them. Often, there is an obsession to make corners, elements and dimensions 'match' mathematically. There must be an encompassing 'idea' that needs to get across! In short, the client and user will know that they are in the centre of the building and will know how to interpret it, because everything will be designed for them to know it. They will get it!

But where can the soul meander beyond that? In a place like Malaysia, the sensory possibilities are immense because of our humid climate. I have always favoured the description of Nusantara as the land below watercoloured skies, because one can sense the art of 'life' breathing everywhere. And yet our architecture falls short, to the point that it repels the artistry of this wet 'belt' of the world; a mythical and real presence of sun, water and land.

(Top 4 pictures are courtesy of Darren Yoon / The rest are from olll gallery )

The First Post

The night is dark,
but not too dark,
save for one light,
the light of my vision.

The night is silent,
but not too empty,
save for one sound,
the sound of my heart.

The night is sad,
but not too melancholy,
save for one joy,
the joy of my solitude.

This place is haunted,
but not too unwelcome,
save for one guest,
the world contained in me.

Often, the architecture which architects dream of are 'clean', devoid of 'foreign' elements and somewhat purged of a past or a future that a place is entitled to. But spaces are meant to be inhabited by us, and along with this human presence comes the stories which make each person a relative, to place and people. Thus, a place is always inhabited by both the things which make us a 'thing' in itself, and the memories and intangibles that make us capable of being 'souls' as well. 'Neat' architecture is not only tedious, it is quite frankly unnecessary.