I took the train from Monumento to United Nations Avenue to visit the Museo ng Maynila—housed at the former Army and Navy Club—just off Roxas Boulevard. The train was packed, but the trip was short and fast. At least, I had an alternative to the noisy jeepney on traffic-congested Avenida Rizal.

I walked along United Nations Avenue. The tourists—mostly Asians—stared at the artfully displayed snacks from the rolling food kiosks. Instinctively, I looked for Americans. Other than for Fil-Am balikbayans, Manila is not popular among Americans. This is surprising, since the city is replete with American history and influence.

I am familiar with the Army and Navy Club. In the mid-1950s, I oftentimes waited for dusk at the vicinity of the Luneta. To my north was the Manila Hotel, and in an unhindered view to my south, was the Army and Navy Club. Both buildings—fronting parks and boulevards and facing the sea—blended with the sunset of Manila Bay. I marveled at the aesthetic planning of the Luneta. Later on, I learned that this was the work of Chicago architect Daniel H. Burnham. Both the Manila Hotel (1912) and the Army and Navy Club (1911) were designed by Ohio architect Edward Parsons.

I had coffee at the Manila Hotel. The 95-year-old building retains its original design. In spite of centralized air conditioning, its vernacular plan for cross ventilation—large windows and open foyers—is flaunted, bolstering the hotel’s tropical ambience.

I crossed the street to the park across the hotel. From where I stood, I expected to see the Army and Navy Club, but my view was obstructed. There was construction going on.

Skirting the Quirino Grandstand, I walked to the direction of the Army and Navy Club. I felt walking on hallowed ground. Just across from bordering Roxas Boulevard, stands the monument of the martyred Jose Rizal.

Manila is a city of incongruous communities—the plush and the rundown, the sophisticated and the crude. For example, the Luneta is a typical recreational area in a major urban city. It has monuments for national heroes, a rebuilt walled community, a grandstand, a marine museum, five-star hotels, and spacious parks and boulevards. Who would think that the nearby Avenida Rizal, once considered Manila’s premier commercial district, is now a row of neglected establishments?

I had reasons to anticipate an ingeniously renovated Army and Navy Club. First, it is part of the well-kept Luneta. Second, the Manila Hotel, its contemporaneous building, is structurally and artfully preserved. Third, in St. Louis, Missouri, I lived at the century-old Jefferson Arms Hotel, a renovated modern apartment complex.

The Jefferson Arms Hotel was built to accommodate guests for the St. Louis World’s Fair of 1904. In 1905—a year after the fair closed—Daniel H. Burnham drew Manila’s urban plan. Unexpectedly, the fair’s anthropological exhibits provided a gauge on that period’s prevalent American attitude towards the Philippines.

The fair exhibited a Philippine Village. Guests paid 50 cents to view the recruited 1,100 Philippine natives who resided in re-created tribal villages. Up to the present day, the Igorot headhunters, who were part of the Philippine contingent, remain etched in St. Louis’s memory. A locality—Dogtown—is named after them. It is said that Igorots hunted and killed all the dogs in this area for food. After over 100 years, St. Louis still remembers Filipinos as dog eaters.

The anthropological exhibits aimed to educate. Instead, the Philippine Village reinforced prejudices. Perhaps, this reflected a condescending American attitude towards the newly colonized Filipinos? Perhaps, this was why membership and admission to the Army and Navy Club were restricted to American military officers?

At least, unlike many of Manila’s old buildings, the Army and Navy Club is preserved, or so I thought.

It suddenly rained one day while on my way to a flea market. I took cover in a dilapidated building. After a while, I realized it was the Galaxy Theater where I saw the movie “Ten Commandments.” Curious, I inched myself to the lobby. There was a pool of stagnant water. Horrified, I stole myself inside the theater. It was eerie—broken seats on top of one another; debris and shattered glass on the floor; rainwater from broken spouts; oozing pungent mold from piles of old lumber; dangling loose plywood from the ceiling.

A security guard asked me to leave. Regretful, I explained, pointing around me. Never mind your song, who would hear?

Finally, I was at the shady front yard of the Museo ng Maynila. I admired the heightened colors of the sun-framed trees—the balete, talisay, mango, caballero, narra, and acasia.

Walking to the porch, I saw a marker that designates the Army and Navy Club a Pambansang Palatandaang Makasaysayan (Historical Building). Yes, I have great expectations for the Army and Navy Club.

Once inside the building, I noticed the barrenness of the ground floor. Nestled underneath a dome, a classical balcony circles an upper floor. I easily imagined military celebrations. A giant American flag hangs low from the dome. Red, white, and blue satin ribbons, American flags of different sizes, and olive and laurel wreaths decorate the balcony. A military band plays martial music on a dais at the ground floor. American soldiers look down from the balcony, waving miniature flags. Good cheer and pride permeate—“the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air”—indeed!

Snapping back to the moment, I saw a crude electric cord dangling above me. Instinctively, I knew that the ground floor—with its sparse print exhibits of old Manila’s streets and buildings—was the Museo’s main showcase. Whatever happened to the rest of the building?

I was lucky to visit the upper floors. I climbed the stairs passing through the corner of a manually lifted divider. The design on the balustrade’s iron casting looked familiar. Later on, I realized the stairwell at Jefferson Arms had the same design. Even in the early 1900s, Manila was not that far from St. Louis.

Strange, but stepping on the upper floors was like sinking to the nether world. While the ground floor was barren, the upper floors were stark naked. I saw a replay of the dilapidated Galaxy Theater—pools of stagnant water; debris and shattered glass on the floor; oozing pungent mold from piles of old lumber; peeled plaster falling off the walls.

I have one consolation. Unlike the Galaxy Theater, which was headed for demolition, the former Army and Navy Club is struggling for survival as the Museo ng Maynila. There is hope.

I could see the Filipino and American peoples pooling resources in renovating the Army and Navy Club. After all, the Americans have a great stake in this institution that they initially created.

I am buoyed with great expectations.

Historical Marker

Army and Navy Club of Manila, Inc.

Founded 1898, the Army and Navy Club was transferred in 1911 from its site in the premises of the Spanish Army Engineers in Intramuros to its present location. An integral part of Architect Daniel Burnham’s plan for an extended Luneta intended to serve as recreational area for the City of Manila; it was built on the south side, reserved for Clubs, opposite the planned Manila Hotel, on land reclaimed from the sea.

A club primarily for American military officers until World War II, and occupied by the Japanese in 1942–1945, it was liberated by Filipino Guerillas and American troops in February, 1945. Post-war years saw the civilianization and Filipinization of the Club, and the first Filipino President, General E. V. Meim, PC, AFP, was elected in January, 1976.

The first president was Admiral George Dewey. Other notable presidents were General Arthur McArthur, his son General Douglas McArthur, General Leonard Wood, et al.

This marker serves as a symbol of Filipino-American friendship and cooperation.

Tags: Army and Navy Club, Avenida Rizal, Luneta