Little Grass Hut? Think Again Well, it ain’t pretty, but it gets the job done. I was surprised when first arriving on island at how ugly some of the architecture was or, more accurately, how ugly most of it was. It was a real surprise, given the general loveliness of the island itself. I have since found out that all architectural decisions are made in light of the weather -- specifically, the tropical heat and the typhoons that move through on a regular basis. Everything, and I mean everything, is made of concrete so that it doesn’t blow away, and the design concept seems to be inspired by military pillboxes. The Navy has done a nice job of designing snappy uniforms, but I must say that on Guam, their buildings are nothing to write home about, and all architecture seems to take its cue from them. To those of you who have visions of beautiful teakwood houses with groves of bamboo out front and tropical breezes wafting through the open-air windows, carrying the delicious scent of plumeria through one’s kitchen -- well, dream on. Most houses are boxy, squat, and flat-roofed; there are no basements or pitched roofs at interesting angles. Roofs are in fact entirely made of concrete, as a tin or wooden roof would be peeled off the house like the top of a sardine can if there were even a mild typhoon. This adds considerably to the cost of the house and means that sloping roofs, the kind you see everywhere stateside, with cute little gables and such, are mostly non-existent. A few “’historic” buildings have Spanish-style gently sloping roofs with those ubiquitous, rusty-orange terra-cotta tiles. They are very attractive, and, I suspect, very expensive. (Incidentally, “historic” means anything before World War II on Guam, as almost all of the island was flattened by the fierce fighting that went on. Buildings that date to the 1940s, and there are hardly any left, get historic designation. Whatever the Japanese and the Americans didn’t turn into rubble, the frequent typhoons have.) Wooden houses are mostly non-existent, as it is virtually impossible to get them insured. One professor did build a wooden house, his tropical lifelong dream, and had to go all the way to Lloyd’s of London for an insurance policy, something like a million dollars. I understand that he enjoyed it for six months, when a typhoon came through and redesigned it into toothpicks. He has since come to his senses. I was also taken aback when arriving on island at how run-down everything looked. Now, of course, I know better -- paint is always peeling on buildings, not because people don’t paint, but because the tropical sun just does a number on buildings. I’d never thought about that, but this is the reason that the capitals of banana republics always look so well-worn. The sun here is brutal on outdoor surfaces, and the mold grows quickly. Once you get used to it, it’s sort if fun; it’s like living in a Department of State documentary right out of the 1940s titled Our Southern Neighbors and Why We Should Overthrow Their Governments Without Making It Look As If We Did. One of the few advantages I can see concerning concrete buildings is that termites don’t eat them. Boy, we have our problems, don’t we? Typhoons, earthquakes, and lately, lots of sticky dirt all over my car every morning which I’m told is the volcanic ash from a volcano in the northern Marianas Islands, termites . . . the list just goes on and on. Commercial buildings don’t fare a lot better. They too are squat, bulky, concrete, and generally set away from the street to accommodate cars and parking. It’s a pity that the island rebuilt with the advent of car culture, because everything on island is oriented to them, though I think that many of them are influenced by Asian commercial spaces. Many of them are two or three stories, with outdoor staircases going up to the upper floors, and more commercial businesses on these floors, all with balconies that run the length of the building so that each business has access to the outdoors. This seems to be the model that I’ve seen in Asian cities, and it works well, though you have to look carefully at the building and not assume that the business you’re trying to get to is on the ground floor. Commercial buildings often are named, which is helpful. Stateside, something might be located in “you know, the strip mall,” or, worse, a strip mall with a name: “Maplebrook Meadows” or whatever attractive natural feature was bulldozed to build the strip mall in the first place. Here, it’s pretty straightforward: Ada’s Building, Sunny Building, Cho’s Market Building, Julale Center. As a walker, I find the emphasis on the car abhorrent, but then I find walking in the tropical sun at high noon sweaty almost beyond human comprehension. People take to the streets at 6:00 am or at 7:00 pm, but not much in between. The hotel architecture is OK, though there’s not a lot you can do with a building that’s designed to have lots of rooms, as many of them facing the ocean as humanly possible. There is one great commercial building on island -- the First Hawaiian Bank Building, which sits right on the cliff line in Maite. (Villages run all together on Guam, so this area is known affectionately as Mongmong-Toto-Maite.) It has sea green terra-cotta roof tiles and a vaguely Hawaiian or Japanese look to it. My university building is quite nice too, with all the classrooms open to the air and covered with a roof with translucent skylights resembling the prow of a Pacific Islander ship (a photograph may help clarify this, so I’ll take one) and palm trees planted in the resultant atrium. I keep thinking, this is what buildings could look like, but don’t. Generally, architecture on island is uninspired and uninspiring. But buildings do not get swept out to sea, which is something. And it’s interesting to hear people talk about their little concrete pillboxes, often with great fondness. Houses tend to be small and not particularly well appointed in terms of fixtures, or perhaps I’m not hanging around rich people enough to know how nice houses actually can be. But people often talk very happily about their little houses, serene in the knowledge that keeping up with the Joneses (or, rather, the San Miguels) won’t take much doing. It’s been a goal in my life to own a little, simple, tight, snug, 1930s bungalow. Perhaps I will amend this down the road and warm up to Guam architecture. Perhaps the expected influx of money on island will inspire some better stuff than what I see now. Maybe the University of Guam will start a School of Architecture and develop something indigenous and local that also stands up to fierce weather. Maybe bungalows will be adapted as part of the west Pacific vernacular. (They are actually from India, a fact I think most people are not aware of. From Bangalore, I believe, which tells you how they got their name.) Until, then, though -- home, sweet military bunker.
