Opening Borders in Conservation:
Post-colonial Tales from Kathmandu

By Erich Theophile

Bhaktapur Darbar Square, circa 1921 (Courtesy of Dirgha Man Chitrakar and Jharendra S.J.B. Rana)

As a conservation architect and founder of the Kathmandu Valley Preservation Trust (KVPT), I try to get visitors walking through the back lanes and royal squares of the region to understand that they are in a living city and not a protected historical district. `Think of it as surface archaeology,' I tell them. This gets them to focus on the jarring but interesting details and contrasts: a thousand-year-old carved stone in the pavement, a garishly painted concrete building beside a mediaeval temple, urban farmers drying their grain alongside laundry on the crumbling plinths of the neighbourhood pagoda. While illegal mini-skyscrapers dominate nineteenth century roofscapes, devotees line up to worship at temples on the squares below, much as they have done for 2,000 years. Contradictions characterize this Hindu kingdom that anthropologists call a `living culture'. It has been 29 years since the arrival of Western principles of historical preservation, but these methods have proven insufficient to conserve Nepal's extraordinary architectural heritage, particularly as once imagined by scores of international experts. While UNESCO reports criticize the lack of standards in historical preservation, continuing a somewhat colonial and romantic notion of this Shangri La, the following offers an overview of modern conservation in the ancient land as well as the predicaments and opportunities unique to Nepal.

We know very little about how the Nepalese took care of their buildings during the earlier centuries to which we restore them. European accounts in the nineteenth century describe severe dilapidation in critical terms indistinguishable from recent reports. It seems the Nepalese have always preferred rebuilding to repairing. While this will to build anew may be the mother of architecture, it is not always easy to reconcile with historical preservation. Certainly the Kathmandu valley, with its competing royal dynasties and cycles of devastating earthquakes every century, has provided ample opportunity for almost continuous building and rebuilding. The best urban squares and numerous monuments in the cities may follow the lines of a golden period (the fourteenth to the eighteenth century), but structures built as recently as 1934, after the last big earthquake, blend easily with earlier fabric. The arrival of concrete and steel building materials in the 1960s created juxtapositions of old and new which are often uncomfortable to the contemporary eye.

Pancha Deval, part of the Mukheshvara complex (Photography by Stainslaw Klimek)

One can identify other institutional developments of the mid-twentieth century which had implications for the preservation of historical buildings in Nepal. With the legal framework established in the 1950s, lawmakers looked to Indian models which put conservation under the banner of `archaeology' - a distinction which the Raj had introduced to colonial India to manage `dead' monuments. This legislative and bureaucratic platform was explicit about how to preserve archaeological sites, for example, but silent about how to manage living cities whose buildings and monuments must grow with them. In the 1960s, a highly developed network of traditional private land trusts which supported the maintenance of temples and religious structures was centralized as part of modern nation building. This centralized agency, the Guthi Sansthan, never functioned efficiently, leaving thousands of monuments without income or care.

British colonial-based conservation had as its highest god the idea that it is better to repair than to rebuild. All across Asia there exists a fundamental contradiction between preserving a building as a monument (the colonial influence) and allowing it to evolve according to contemporary needs and religious aspirations. The architecture of Hindu and Buddhist societies, on the other hand, is conceived as a religious offering. This `votive' architecture favours rebuilding, as merit is earned in relation to the magnitude of one's gift.

In the West, we have `rules' to sort out similar questions of how to balance conservation and contemporary needs. Here, in the chaotic cities of the developing world, the battle rages on in the streets. Monuments and their historical fabric are generally the losers.

In the late 1970s, Nepal's mediaeval townscapes and temples became a Mecca for international architectural historians, anthropologists and planners. Many came to study the architectural culture of this tiny valley, which only opened up to visitors in 1951. More significantly, most also wanted to help preserve it. Running from the brutalism of city planning at that time, these organic and picturesque towns represented a dream of recapturing humanity.

A state gift on the occasion of the coronation of His Late Majesty King Birendra in 1972 was the first international project, the restoration of a seventeenth century Hindu priest's house in the city of Bhaktapur, a twenty-minute drive from Kathmandu. Its success led to an ambitious German-funded urban redevelopment scheme of the whole city which restored more than 200 buildings between 1974 and 1989. This effort remains the largest ever preservation-focused development scheme in the region. At the same time, UNESCO supported a massive restoration of the historical royal palace in Kathmandu. Charles Pruscha, an international advisor, prepared an ambitious inventory of 5,000 monuments in the Kathmandu valley, recalling nineteenth century visitors' remarks that temples here seemed to outnumber the inhabitants. Nepal signed the World Heritage Convention in 1979, master plans were finalized, and with this the foundations of modern preservation were laid.

The Bhaktapur and Kathmandu projects attempted to build up the capacity of the local Department of Archaeology, although efforts were constrained by the limited manpower and resources of the Nepalese government. A constellation of smaller international initiatives followed in the next decades, undertaken by Austrians, Germans, Japanese and Americans. Most of these projects restored buildings in and around the Patan Darbar Square, one of Asia's most compelling urban spaces and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. In contrast to India, Nepal has been notable for its openness to outside involvement, making it a laboratory of exported conservation philosophies. Only war-torn Cambodia with its magnet of Angkor Wat has tolerated so many different hands on its native monuments.

The continuing loss of important historical structures is sadly acknowledged by UNESCO's threats since 1993 to place the Kathmandu valley on the List of World Heritage in Danger. Town planning has yet to prove successful, while practitioners of historical preservation cannot keep pace with the pressures of development and the sheer number of monuments. In spite of modernization, much of the historical social structure and urban rituals of the valley survives. Most families still live in their ancestral homes, preserving a social topography studied by many an anthropologist. Great religious processions take place independently of tourist consumption, sometimes even stealing teenagers away from MTV, introduced only three years ago. Connections between individuals, neighbourhoods and temples are still palpable. A taste for things new may lead donors to rebuild rather than repair, but underneath is the fundamental social order which created these buildings.

Throughout the pre-industrial culture of Nepal, artisans and craftsmen toil, tied to their trade by caste and having learned their skills from their ancestors. Modern fashions, however, leave them under-patronized, forcing many to turn to tourist handicraft production or other professions. Ironically, Western ideas about authenticity in restoration discourage the replication of lost historical features and further reduce the demand for craftsmen.

For the last decade the differences between local and international/Western approaches to cultural heritage conservation have been much discussed. The Nara Charter of Authenticity (1994), for example, urges preservationists to base planning on indigenous cultural values. While this sensitivity is admirable, discussion remains at a general policy level. The following case studies illustrate some of the many contradictions between international and local preservation practice, warranting a long overdue critical re-evaluation.

Bhaktapur

Bhaktapur is special - the German redevelopment project stabilized much of the historical fabric in this town, which has uniquely strong independent politics and governance. While monuments crumble in other cities, the Bhaktapur municipal government rebuilds virtually everything with the proceeds from a steep admission charged to tourist visitors since 1998. International experts are greatly impressed by local efficiency, so much so that the technical quality of the work is rarely discussed. Away from Bhaktapur's Royal Square, brightly painted metal security grilles are installed, masking the historical details of many neighbourhood shrines - but these are the latest fashion in votive offerings. One must remember that this is the real living culture of this city's inhabitants.

Akash Bhairav

In 1999, the Kathmandu Municipality announced plans to restore a temple of great religious significance, the Akash Bhairav. They are currently stripping off nineteenth and twentieth century layers to rebuild a seventeenth century facade. The irony is that just as the local authorities catch on to the notion of restoration, international practice more often than not recommends against the removal of additions increasingly valued as an integral part of the historical monument.

Mukheshvara Complex

Until now national and international efforts have overlooked the numerous monuments of nineteenth century Nepal in various imported Indian and European styles, favouring the more indigenous style of pagoda and palace associated with the Malla era (1420-1769). The extensive Mughal-influenced temples and pilgrim's house, and some twenty colonial style palaces built by the Rana Maharajas (r. 1846-1951) slip into decrepitude. A new Austrian-funded initiative is notable, therefore, for restoring a circa 1925 European-style palace compound, Kathmandu's Keshar Mahal Garden, as a future tourist destination.

Two houses in Kathmandu

The challenge to conserve historical houses such as the fine nineteenth century examples illustrated here is especially difficult when the historical social topography is intact and gentrification is not an option. Ancestral homes are often divided up to accomodate multiplying generations and practical concerns naturally override aesthetic. Building by-laws are openly flouted, as can be seen in numerous concrete-frame structures throughout the cities. More recently, however, the rise of a new revival style incorporating traditional brick and timber details is evident - ironically, the new fashion mysteriously came about independently of town planning guidelines. In the next decade an appreciation of the dilapidated historical buildings - which these revival structures commonly replace - may even blossom! The KVPT is developing a revolving fund for houses of great historical importance in the rare cases where acquisition is possible.

Chusya Baha, Kathmandu

Devotees have historically added layers to monuments such as the central, diminutive shrines in a Buddhist monastic courtyard at Chusya Baha. An ongoing restoration initiated by the local community, supported by a German grant and with technical assistance from the KVPT, preserves this unusually intact eighteenth century courtyard. Most other examples of this historically significant building type have been destroyed over the last decades by additions and rebuildings. This new combination of community groups working with international experts and subsidies may be a promising formula for trying to save what is left.

Sulima Temple

The Sulima temple, a thirteenth century shrine in a back lane of Patan, preserves its overall form and a wealth of original carvings. It is probably the oldest surviving example of pagoda architecture in the country. Unfortunately, most of its carved timber roof brackets, decorative elements which carry the massive roof overhangs, were stolen in the 1970s. The neighbouring community's plan for a renovation in 1994 proposed replacement of all the extant `time-worn' carvings with new ones. At the same time, Eduard Sekler, a Harvard University professor taking up the cause, recommended against replacement carvings, stating: `What's lost is lost and recreation will result in fakes.'

The subsequent restoration project by the KVPT studied the alternatives at length and eventually chose a middle path. Wherever it survived, historical fabric was carefully documented and conserved, while lost carvings were newly made, even in cases where the historical evidence was limited. This hybrid solution suggests a positive direction for conservation planning, one which retains original building fabric, while engaging the community in the intellectual and artistic challenges of their own history. The local team of architects, engineers, artisans and carvers implemented the design solutions much as they have done for generations.

The path ahead in preservation, although not clear, is certainly not without promise. The Nepalese context offers scholars and practitioners, Eastern and Western, the chance to re-evaluate their own connection to history, something which the institutionalized policies of preservation in the West rarely allow. The townscapes may be deteriorating visually, but there is a cultural robustness that contrasts positively with any historical community in the West. Although trained as a Western architect, I have come to appreciate the contradictions unavoidable in the living cities of Nepal. Many historical districts in the West now seem `dead' to me...and maybe they are.