Reflections on the Coconut Palace

M.G. Warenycia (October, 2013)

In the Philippines there is a structure known colloquially as the Coconut Palace

(Official/Tagalog name: Tahanang Pilipino, or Filipino Home). It is a vast building,
somewhere between a presidential palace and an exotic luxury hotel, famous or rather,
infamous as a symbol of the corruption and extravagance amid crushing poverty and
underdevelopment that is the classic picture of the Philippines during the Marcos era (a legacy, it
is well to mention, which has been dutifully carried on by successive governments of various
political stripes); a gaudy, bizarre, apparently impractical symbol almost on par with Imeldas
famous shoe collection.

To provide a brief description, the Coconut Palace is 32,292 square feet, resembling a
thatched hut in the vernacular style (or a beachside tourist resort, if you want to look at it that
way) which has expanded and multiplied itself. Constructed entirely of local materials,
particularly a kind of engineered coconut lumber named for Imelda herself hence its name
the building showcases the many uses of the coconut the real tree of life according to Imelda,
and I would agree with her on this as well as the natives artistic and architectural islands of the
numerous regions of the Philippines archipelago (there are guest rooms named after each region
and decorated accordingly). In keeping with the local pride theme, the roof is shaped like a
traditional Filipino salakot hat and the palace itself is shaped like an octagon, which is the shape
a coconut is cut into before being served you know, a green coconut, where the server sticks a
straw in the top for one to drink out of, such as one might buy in Chinatown or in an ethnic
restaurant (pick your tropical cuisine) in this country. Some of its more unique features include a
chandelier with 101 coconut shells holding the lights and a dining table made from 40,000 tiny
pieces of inlaid coconut shells. The palace performed (and now, for the Vice President, again
performs) the dual function of official residence and guest house for foreign celebrities and

dignitaries (it seems that Hollywood celebrities, especially, were among the Marcos most
regular guests, perhaps because they could be less concerned about the possible negative
publicity resulting from indulging in such luxury in a place, the suffering and unrest of whose
people were fodder for international media in the 1980s. A side, in the America of Marcos
contemporary Reagan, people seemed surprisingly blind to how their own yuppie class was
celebrating the virtues of greed while millions languished in crumbling ghettos and toiled for
pathetic wages in factories or demeaning service jobs).

Not being a man to take popular perceptions at face value (I do not subscribe to the
democratic creed that a collectivity of fools is any wiser than a fool in isolation), I wondered why
the Coconut Palace should have been so stigmatized, such that, although unwilling to demolish
the structure, the Philippine government was uneasy about making use of it for official purposes
even as numerous studies had indicated that to do so would actually be more economical than
whatever other buildings there were considering (no doubt more conventional and boring in
style). True, it has recently come into use once again, but one gets the impression that the
government (barring of course the V.P. and his staff) relented only grudgingly.

One might ask the same thing about Imeldas shoes. According to her own precise
recollections (preferable to the vague, widely divergent figures quoted in the press), Imelda
Marcos collection amounted to 1060 pairs of shoes. Her account can be fairly relied upon, as
Marcos has shown not the slightest shame in the intervening decades over the expenditures of
her and her husband on luxuries and vanity projects. Even assuming all of the 1060 pairs were
designer shoes of some sort or another, the total value (not considering what they might have
sold for at auction later, given the historical connection) of the collection would be unlikely to
equal that of a better-class home in Toronto, let alone the ordinary (non-coconut) residence of
any typical world leader. For instance, if one assumed an average of $500 per pair, the total is
roughly half a million a single Rolls Royce automobile. If $1000 a pair, an ordinary home in
downtown Toronto. Is a collection of shoes a wise expenditure of public funds? Hardly. But it

would be absurd to suggest that there is anything objectively worse about Imelda Marcos shoe
collection vis vis the limousine or private jet of another, less-flamboyant politician. The
problem seems more to be in the symbolism of fancy ladies shoes; if one were very cynical, one
might even speculate that the fact they were ladies shoes was especially significant.

As much as even in Marcos own time, Margaret Thatcher was a respected (and hated,
albeit for different reasons) world leader and today we have Hillary Clinton, Angela Merkel and
others, I would not be the first to notice that, although female leaders are now generally
acceptable to the media and public, to assume the mantle of authority, it appears that they must
be divested of attributes which are typically regarded as feminine according to Western
cultural standards; the person may be female, but power is defined as masculine. Indulging in
private jets, champagne, bodyguards, limousines these are in keeping with the standard, de
rigeur even, for a modern head of state. A closet full of pretty shoes women and their
shoes is not.

The Coconut Palace is not acceptable as a legitimate architectural symbol of state power
because it is the Coconut Palace. The White House, 10 Downing Street, Buckingham Palace,
Zhongnanhai

It is an unfortunate reality that for at least the last one hundred and forty years or so
taking the Meiji Reformation in Japan as the initial case modernization has come to be
effectively synonymous with Westernization, no matter what country it is occurring in, no
matter if said modernization movement has been instigated and managed by indigenous leaders
and not foreign colonizers. It suffices to prove the point that countries where the classic model
has been followed are referred to in the historical literature as having undergone modernization
or reform in the case of Japan, for example, historical will speak of Japans Modernization
during the Meiji era, and, though aspects of the cultural clash between East and West may be

touched upon, the overall period and process will be so named. Similarly, we are presented with
the postwar reconstruction, though in both cases it is a fact that the respective modernizations
brought in many controversial Western cultural influences which were the cause of much worry
and even reactionary furor in many segments of the population. The various contesting reform
currents in China in the late Qing and Republican period to an even greater extent (perhaps
because the country was unstable and beaten down in ways that pre-Meiji Japan was not)
considered the wholesale adoption of Western systems and methods to be not just the best way of
modernization but its very essence.

When a country decides that it wishes to achieve goals of strength and prosperity, to
improve the quality of life of its people, etc. by means which reject Westernization and instead
rely on philosophies of local design, it is looked at as an eccentric aberration; the wrong way to
go about things. One may consider the confusion produced in Western political circles and the
press, what exactly are you trying to do? when they were confronted with U Nu in Burma (one
can find a revealing U.S. documentary with extensive interviews from the period on archive.org
or youtube). U Nu saw that his country was poor, weak, unable to hold its own as a newlyindependent post-colonial state in the tense climate of early Cold War Southeast Asia, yet he was
unwilling to adopt either U.S.-style representative democracy and free market capitalism or
Russian-style industrial socialism, preferring a model of his own design, which attempted to
conform with the national character and the Buddhist view of the world. Numerous African
countries in the 1960s and 70s or Michael Manleys Jamaica provide other examples of leaders
who desired to develop their countries without either Westernization or Russification. Needless
to say, most of these leaders faced suspicion and ridicule, were tolerated only as long as they
remained the most useful potential proxy in their respective states, and, inevitably, most
ultimately saw their grand visions crumblethat is, if they were not done away with beforehand.

In this context, the Coconut Palace is symbolic because it represented grand aspirations
for the state in a style that was of a decidedly indigenous character. When the leader of the nation

decides that, for instance, a Kente cloth or a sheikhs robes are equally appropriate to wear in the
corridors of power as would be a Western business suit, said leader is in no small way asserting
the value and dignity of local ways and forms against the hegemony of Western ones. What, after
all, is there, intrinsically speaking, about a shirt, jacket, tie and trousers that makes their wearer
more fit to carry out important functions of business of state than its equivalent in formality from
another culture? Were the nobles, chiefs, emperors and bureaucrats of non-Western nations not
conducting the most serious duties of officialdom for centuries before the suit and tie were ever
invented? In the 1700s and 1800s, the ministers of the Qing empire wore silk robes and tasseled
hats they did not adopt waistcoats and powdered wigs, although no one would say they were
not officials because of that fact. How did the vast state apparatus of Ancient Egypt function
when, as we can observe from the art they have left us, no one ever wore a tie?

As the suit and tie, so concrete, glass, and steel are the architectural attire of authority in
the modern state or rather, that which is recognized as legitimate and modern in this neo-liberal
age. A thatched hut is the ideal authentic habitation for colourful, primitive natives, preserved
in postcard-perfect condition for the gaze of trekking tourists sporting gargantuan backpacks,
awkward grins, and the latest eco-friendly fashions from MEC. A thatched hut in the quaint,
cozy, native style no matter how massive or full of luxuries is not appropriate as a residence
of state for the head of a modern country which aspires to be anything more than fodder for
photo spreads in National Geographic or Cond Nast Traveller.

Imelda Marcos had an interesting and very persuasive argument in defence of the
building. The story behind it betrays a little of her almost innocent, would-be-callous-if-shewerent-so-syrupy-sweet naivet.

As Imelda tells it (one can see the interview on youtube), once, she was touring a rural
district of the country. Dismayed by the contrast between the intoxicating natural scenery and the

ramshackle huts in which the villagers lived, Imelda asked one of the inhabitants: How come
the place in which you live is so beautiful but your houses are so ugly? The villager replied we
are poor; we have only bamboo and coconut here to built with. So, Imelda says, she resolved
that she would build a bamboo mansion and a coconut palace! to show that yes, one could
indeed create buildings of beauty with humble, natural, local materials.

Of course, Marcos attitude ignored the very real poverty of the villagers (and so many of
her people), but the motivations of demonstrating the viability of local building materials to
create truly impressive structures (and not merely to provide shelter), of giving to the Philippines
a beautiful, dignified house of state which could stand as an equal to those of other nations while
preserving a distinctly local character (extremely distinct); these motivations I most heartily
approve of.

The end result was unfortunately tainted by the Marcos negative image, but the goal is
laudable.

Yes, Philippine vernacular style can be dignified and prestigious. Think of the positive
influence such actions could have. If the luxury-loving president considers coconut palms and
bamboo fine material for a house materials that are economical, natural, and locally produced
then many others whose social situation and aspirations would allow them to build houses out of
foreign materials (because of the prestige that is always associated with foreign things in poor,
colonized countries) might instead be convinced that local materials would make just as nice a
house. Thus, the country would save precious foreign exchange. Preserving the vernacular style
not just in architecture but in any number of areas is also good for the nation on a
psychological level, asserting that we/ours is just as good (and more naturally suited to us)
than them/theirs. Our traditions do not have to be left in the past, as museum displays and
ethnographic curiosities.

Other ex-colonial nations; nay, any country whose culture and society have been
threatened by aggressive, hegemonistic projects of modernization which have sought to
invalidate the nation-culture and its instinctive aesthetics in favour of the homogeneous global
(Western) style be it in the guise of Brutalism or glass-and-steel hypermodernism. Now, the
Coconut Palace is not by any means the only example of vernacular architecture aspiring to
equal dignity and purpose with Western styles of official/state buildings. Although it emerged
during the colonial period, the Anglo-Indian style could be seen as an early example of keeping
up with the times in ones own unique fashion. Sri Lanka has some very good examples; parts
of Africa do as well.

Interestingly, China and Japan tended to copy wholesale the motifs of the West (or the
Soviet Union for Chinese from 1949 to the 1990s) for their modern structures, retaining
vernacular elements only for those buildings which had a culturally-explicit purpose: temples,
for instance, or restaurants of a particular local type might be built to display the ethnic style,
but an ordinary apartment block, or mall, or office building will be essentially indistinguishable
from one in any of a dozen developed countries.

For the Caribbean, the region most near and dear to my heart (and for Sint Maarten,
nearest and dearest of all), I must say I am rather optimistic.

Vernacular styles, suited to the local climate and aesthetic character, are not only wellpreserved but continue to be the form of choice for new building developments. A street in Sint
Maarten nowhere resembles a copy of one in Canada or the United States. Indeed, there is a
noticeable change in the style of the houses and shops even from the Dutch to the French sides of

the island, just as there is regionally between Martinique or Guadeloupe and Jamaica, or between
Havana and Suriname.

Perhaps, one might argue, the reason for this is to attract tourists (as if everyone would
naturally choose the Western mode of doing things if they could). No doubt it doesattract
tourists, but that does not apply to private houses or office buildings, whose business has nothing
to do with the tourist industry and which are constructed on the whim of the owner. Or perhaps it
is because the residents and leaders of the islands do not see themselves and their homes as being
nations in the same sense as Canada or England, for instance; that their structures do not need to
live up to the same purpose or formality. However, I find such an explanation without merit. The
national pride which people in the region have for their little specks on the map of a few tens of
thousands of people in the middle of the sea would surprise North Americans, but it is very real.

If I were to speculate, I would say that the acceptance of vernacular architecture in the
Caribbean, despite the status of every country in the region as a former or current colony, has
much to do with the character of the people and society on a most fundamental level. The region
is largely without heavy industry and Western modernism (in every field) is an inherently
industrial ethic; it is antithetical to the natural (what could be a better example of this than the
Torontonian condo, essentially a 40 to 60-story greenhouse, the thin walls and towering, exposed
height ensuring that enormous amounts of energy must be expended to heat it in the winter
while, were the power/air conditioning to fail in the summer, the inhabitants would be roasted
inside?). It is also not an urbanized region in the North American sense. Many islands do not
have a single settlement that would qualify as even a small city in Canada, and, where there are
large conglomerations of people, they are not of the character of the vast asphalt deserts and
canyons of glass and steel, but, more generally, are low-rise sprawls, a mix of European-style
cities and shanty towns. Hence, Caribbean man never became an Industrial or truly urban man,
with the accompanying influences on aesthetics and sense of space and time that go along with

that. Therefore, the architecture of the urban West is both unsuitable and unnecessary. And a
fortunate thing that is.