Exploring Alternative Urban Models

By Miki Uchiyama

I have no complaints about the common image of a good city—human-scaled, walkable, green, lively, and comfortable for outdoor life. However, I have often felt that these ideals are strongly shaped by Western norms, especially in terms of cultural and climatic assumptions. That’s why I was drawn to a program that focuses on "tropical urbanism"—a theme that promised to offer perspectives from outside the West. I wanted to learn from non-Western urban practices and theories that could challenge and enrich my thinking.

Rethink the Human–Nature Relationship

In my work in Tokyo, I often encounter questions about how to integrate nature into urban design. Chiang Mai, surrounded by mountains and shaped by both Buddhist cultural traditions and ongoing modernization, seemed like a perfect place to observe alternative ways of living with nature—approaches that go beyond one-sided control or exclusion.

Consider Urban Tolerance and the way of coexistence

I believe that a vibrant urban place is a state in which different people, while remaining different, share the same space. Yet I also know how easily small irritations can disrupt that balance. I joined this program hoping to discover strategies for designing environments that foster tolerance—not just socially, but also ecologically.

Initial thoughts on tropical urbanism(s):

In a narrow sense, I thought "tropical" referred simply to a hot and humid climate and the environments it creates. So I assumed that specific architectural forms and ways of living had evolved to suit such conditions. (In fact, Tokyo, which lies in a temperate zone, often experiences hotter periods, and I felt that sudden monsoon rains were more characteristic of Chiang Mai than heat or humidity.)

Also, I vaguely imagined—like in Watsuji Tetsurō’s theory of fūdo —that the tropical climate might influence people’s mindsets. But I didn’t know what specific elements this might involve. (What I discovered is described below.)

Situating Chiang Mai: The City as a Lens

Rain and some animals in Chiengmai reshaped my understanding of tropical urbanism and coexistence.

Everyday Adaptation to Rain

People in Chiang Mai continue riding motorbikes even during unpredictable rainy seasons. When it rains, they quickly put on a light poncho or simply pull up a hood, then continue as usual. Many wear sandals, letting the rain come and go. Instead of gearing up in waterproof armor, they adapt with minimal effort. This reminded me of a story that prepares for floods not by building large levees, but by keeping boats at hand—a flexible, personal approach to resilience.

Coexisting with Other Species

I met a gecko in my Airbnb room and initially felt uncomfortable. But after a few days, I realized I was the guest—the gecko was the long-time resident. The host had already warned in the listing: “There are lots of plants here, so naturally there are also mosquitoes—please come prepared.” When I asked if he minded the mosquitoes, he replied: “They’re part of the ecosystem. I think it’s natural they’re here.” This made me reflect on how I live in Tokyo, in a tightly sealed apartment, where I assume I control the space. But that illusion of control comes at the cost of forgetting other life forms.

These two elements led me to rethink coexistence—not as a matter of control, but of learning to ​​share space with others, including the unpleasant or unexpected.

3. Key Reflections from the Event

A major inspiration was the work of the architecture studio Sher Maker.

Learning from Sher Maker

This Chiang Mai-based studio uses local materials and community collaboration to design buildings. Their studio is not just an office—it’s also a place for experimentation and teaching. They value “material intimacy”: understanding where materials come from, how they behave, and how they shape design. They use local maps of materials, test their own bricks and clay, and share their findings with students, collaborators, and community members.

One of the studio's unique aspects is its hands-on approach. They do not simply draft blueprints and hand them off; they get involved in the actual making. Many of their buildings are constructed by their team. This hands-on process allows them to deeply understand how different materials respond to weather, aging, and use. They design structures that are not only beautiful but also easy to dismantle, adapt, or repair. They believe architecture should empower users rather than impose limitations.

The semi-outdoor space and materials

Their projects reflect a strong ethical stance. They decline commissions from clients whose values do not align with theirs, particularly those that cause environmental harm. They intentionally take on only a limited number of projects each year—between 5 and 8—so that they have time to learn, teach, reflect, and experiment.

Their studio space itself is a manifesto of their philosophy. The structure is composed of an open-air workshop and a small cozy office space. In the semi-outdoor area, the roof was designed to go around an existing tree, preserving it as a central element. The space invites wind, sunlight, and even occasional rain, blurring the boundary between built and natural environments. The cozy indoor space is filled with personal items, giving it the atmosphere of a lived-in home, not a sterile workplace.

The cozy indoor space

Sher Maker’s philosophy embraces “design as improvisation.” They adjust their work based on what's available and what the context demands. They liken their approach to fixing a kayak while paddling—it’s responsive, real-time, and grounded in practice. Their attention to repairability and user empowerment resonates deeply with the notion of tropical urbanism. By designing buildings that can be easily modified or maintained, they trust in local skills and resources, supporting forms of independence that are deeply ecological.

This way of working taught me that tropical urbanism is not just about materials or climate. It’s about humility, flexibility, and care—for people, for place, and for the unknown. It’s about working with what is already there, not erasing it. It’s about making space for the unplanned, the living, and the evolving.

4. Toward a Coexistence Urbanism

The experiences in Chiang Mai—riding through sudden rains, coexisting with mosquitoes and geckos, and learning from Sher Maker’s design philosophy—reshaped my understanding of what urban resilience and coexistence can mean. Rather than trying to control discomfort or eliminate all unpredictability, tropical urbanism seemed to offer a more adaptive, relational approach.

In Tokyo, we often design for maximum control—sealing windows, air-conditioning everything, and sterilizing spaces. But this comes at the cost of cutting ourselves off from the natural rhythms and other life forms that share our cities.

Tropical urbanism, as I came to understand it, is not merely a reaction to climate. It is a way of thinking and making that accepts imperfection and interdependence. It asks us to design not for domination, but for dialogue—with materials, with other species, and with the evolving realities of life.

From Sher Maker, I learned the power of design as improvisation—working with what’s available, rather than imposing perfection from above. Their practice shows that buildings can be flexible, repairable, and welcoming to the unexpected. Their spaces do not exclude wind, rain, or insects—they negotiate with them.

In this spirit, I believe the cities of the future must become more tender, not more rigid. Tenderness or softness does not mean weakness, but a heightened sensitivity to complexity. Urban environments can be both protective and open, structured yet adaptable.

As I return to Tokyo, I carry forward several questions:

Can urban planning be reimagined to include multispecies well-being?

Can discomfort be embraced as a teacher in design, rather than something to be eliminated?

How can architecture and planning create not just spaces, but shared values?

What would it mean to prioritize repairability, emotional resilience, and shared authorship in city-making?

The values I now associate with tropical urbanism—relational tolerance, ethical coexistence, spiritual humility, material intimacy, and improvisational collaboration—are not exclusive to the tropics. They are needed everywhere.

In the end, tropical urbanism is not just about adapting to climate—it's about becoming more human by accepting that we are never alone.

At last, I want to say thank you to all the people in cooperated with my sudden survey on mosquitoes.