Journey to the (Deep) East

Sumatra

2009-08-19T01:15:00.000-07:00

After a few months in the tropics, the cold nights and lack of humidity in mountainous Berastagi initially appeared to be a blessing, until it was time to take a shower - a giant cold bucket of water manually scooped onto your back with a smaller bucket. Making this painful experience worthwhile was a trip to Danau (Lake) Kawar and an overnight stay with a family in the lakeside village. Despite a nonexistence of English speakers, body language helped communicate the cost of my stay, resulting in a place to sleep on the floor for $1.50, one of the best meals I had in Indonesia for 70 cents, and a bonus of free games of badminton with the children of the village.

Lake Kawar lies in the shadow of Sinabung volcano, reached by a trail that climbs from agricultural farmland into dense jungle, where I managed to get stung twice by a giant wasp, and eventually emerging on the top of an active volcano. At the summit, sulfur escapes from every available crevice, mixing with the fog which blanketed the surrounding area..

On the way down, mother nature unleashed a furious rain and thunder storm which poured down relentlessly, turning the path into a muddy river. While splashing through the mud, I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to see a giant T-Rex chasing me through the jungle. After a minivan ride back to Berastagi, soaked to the bone, I was confronted with a dilemma when I discovered that my guesthouse offered hot showers, (which I had not experienced for the previous 3 months), for the sum of 10,000 rupiah ($1). I am fully confident that what followed was the best spent dollar of my life.

Yet another minivan adventure brought me to Danau toba, a massive crater lake which was created by a series of volcanic explosions, the most recent being 74,000 years ago, in a blast that killed all but 10,000 humans on earth and affected the earths temperature for 1,000 years. The lake region is home to the Batak people, the vast majority of whom have been converted to Christianity, resulting in some interesting architecture and a church located about every 100 meters.

While touring the area by motorbike, a visit was paid to the Batak museum which featured the worst cultural performance I have ever witnessed. For 30 painful minutes, a group of "Batak" people shuffled around to a "traditional" drumbeat without an ounce of enthusiasm escaping from their faces. The performance ended in bizarre fashion with a strange puppet summoning members of the audience to donate extra money.

Not surprisingly, as soon as the performance ended, the entire cast rushed into one of the nearby traditional houses where they quickly emerged wearing their street clothes and checking their cell phones.

Accommodation at lake Toba is located on Samosir island,which is the size of Singapore, making it the biggest island inside of a lake in the world. After several days of relaxing by the lake, I felt the need to combat the atrophy in my legs and make a trek across the island. The midpoint of the 2 day trek was another lake - which is a lake (Sidihoni), inside of an island (Samosir), inside of a lake(Toba), inside of an island (Sumatra).

Upon leaving Lake Toba, it was a tortuous 17 hour bus journey south to Bukitinnggi, a ride that featured chain smoking ,monsoon rains and endless potholes. The lasting memory of this journey was the midnight stop at a roadside restaurant, in which my identity as the only non-sumatran in sight became a spectacle for all to see. My order of Nasi goreng (fried rice) was late to arrive, much to the delight of the gap toothed man sitting across from me. After making small talk with our respectively weak English and Bahasa Indonesia, we were able to communicate that I was from California and hungry. When my food finally arrived, my new friend erupted in laughter, shouting "Na-si go-rayng" and pointing at my dish. Back on the bus, he made sure to remind me with hourly updates; "huh huh - nasi goreng, ha." Maybe because it was such an unoriginal choice? Maybe he really enjoyed the combination of the words nasi and goreng? Maybe he was just good old fashioned crazy? I may never know for sure.

After surviving this journey, I was greeted by a worthy reward. One of the highlights of all of Asia was watching the nightly migration of flying foxes (large bats) through Sianok canyon at sunset, to the soundtrack of the call to prayer, emanating from various local mosques. As the day faded, the prayers seemed to call the bats (who are so large they visibly struggle to keep themselves airborne), out of their caves towards the sun, setting over a landscape blanketed with volcanoes.

Into the Wild

2009-08-04T00:29:00.000-07:00

From the most developed, comfortable, and easiest country to travel in Southeast Asia (Malaysia), to...Sumatra. Where potholes outnumber tourists and the only certainties are power outages and rampant littering. In the end, the challenging moments were a small price to pay.
In one of the most dramatic changes of scenery that 1 hour can bring, I flew from kuala lumpur to Banda Aceh, the city on the northwest tip of Sumatra, and the place most devastated by the 2004 tsunami. In Banda Aceh alone over 60,000 people died. Nearly 5 years later they're still putting the pieces back together, and apparently they wont be finished anytime soon.

From Banda Aceh, I escaped to Pulau Weh, an island 2 hours off the coast which was somehow spared by the tsunami. I entered Pulau Weh with the intention of simultaneously overcoming several fears through the act of learning how to scubadive, in one of the best and cheapest places on earth to attempt such a quest. Even after having successfully completed this mission, the thought of breathing underwater is still deeply disturbing.

Over the course of three days, I was led in private instruction by Divemaster Udi, a native of pulau weh and someone who was laid back enough for me to feel comfortable entrusting my underwater life to. Within an hour of the first lesson I was in the ocean in full gear and on the verge of having a panic attack at the thought of being submerged under water with 30 pounds of equipment on my back. Confidence was quickly built, and by the end of the first day I was cruising around at 12 meters depth and exploring the underwater universe and all its glory. The course continued, culminating in the most challenging and nerve racking test - filling my mask with water at 18 meters depth and then successfully clearing the water, which took a few attempts but finally resulted in success and an open water diving certificate. While exploring the underwater world, I encountered a wide variety of sea life including the entire cast of Finding Nemo, the most memorable being a reef turtle that cruised around in my presence for a few minutes.
Other highlights included:

Blue spotted stingray

Eagle Ray

and...
(scorpion fish , star puffer , red firefish,Titan_Triggerfis h , reef octopu s , giant_moray_eel, honeycomb moray eel)

Besides unprecendented access to life in the ocean, the greatest lasting benefit of this endeavor appears to be the lesson of always remembering to breathe, wisdom that would prove invaluable on long distance Sumatran bus rides.

After 24 hours of backbreaking transit via the provincial capital of Medan, I arrived in Bukit Lawang, the main point of entry into Leuser National Park - one of two remaining places on earth to see orang utans (literally 'Jungle people' in Indonesian) in the wild. Following a local guide, who was in constant contact with other guides via text messaging in an effort to locate our furry cousins, we eventually found a mother with 2 children playing in the canopy, seemingly uninterested in their human observers. Because of this indifference, we were able to observe them for about 20 minutes, during which time, their resemblance to humans in appearance and behavior became increasingly clear.
By night, many local guides congregated in the restaurant of my guest house where they sang cover songs of la bamba, los gardenias para ti, and a catchy rendition of jingle bells: "jungle trek, jungle trek, in bukit lawang. See the monkey see the bird see orangatang, hey!" On the final night in Bukit Lawang, there was a wedding taking place, which had been making its presence known all day with high volume dance music emanating throughout the town. I managed to catch the party as it was winding down around midnight, in a strange display that would give me a distorted lasting memory of this place. On a makeshift stage, a trio of local girls who appeared to be auditioning for the role of a cracked out wonder woman (i.e. granny panties worn on the outside of fishnet stalkings), engaged in overtly sexual dancing and hip gyrations as elderly muslim women sat in the audience seemingly oblivious to the heathenous behavior taking place on stage. Definitely one of the most bizarre memories of Sumatra.

The ride back to Medan was Sumatran transport at its finest. A minivan decked out in bright colors and a booming sound system, innocently left the bus station with a few empty seats to spare. It became painfully clear that this freedom wasn't going to last as we cruised dangerously slow through the town looking for passengers to add to the human omelet to be. By mid journey, there were 19 people in the 9 seat van, and I found myself wedged into the midsection of an elderly Muslim woman who looked equally frustrated about the lack of personal space.

After a brief stop in Medan, another minivan was boarded for the mountain town of Berastagi, the beginning of volcanoland.

Malaysia

2009-06-28T23:46:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Malaysia knowing little about the place and to be honest, I viewed my crossing of the land as little more than a means of getting to Indonesia. As a result, every positive moment and nugget of knowledge gained were unexpected bonuses.

My first destination after crossing the Thailand-Malaysia border was Georgetown, a historic city that may best summarize the diversity of this country. Compromising most of the old town are the neighborhoods of Chinatown and little India, a preview of the rest of the country. Along with the native Malay, these groups seem to intermingle freely and many seem to downplay their original heritage in favor of a Malaysian identity. Malaysia has had its share of race riots, but seeing Indian people buying dim sum from a street vendor next door to Chinese people eating Chicken tandori gives at least a temporary impression of racial harmony. Probably because of its status as a cultural melting pot, Georgetown is known as the food capital of Malaysia, and I had the good fortune of touring the city's culinary highlights under the supervision of some locals, stuffing myself with dishes like char keaow tow, laksa, hokkien mee, cendol, and abc (maybe the strangest - shaved ice with sweet syrup, beans, peanuts, assorted fresh fruit, and ice cream).

By the same good fortune, I was led to a small bar in the backstreets of Chinatown, which sold the cheapest beer in the city (alcohol is taxed to death in Muslim Malaysia - resulting in the cheapest beer costing $1.50 per can, and much nostalgia of 18 cent draft beer in Vietnam.)

A pair of minivan rides through endless palm tree plantations delivered me to Taman Negara, or National Park, the oldest rainforest in the world at 130 million years of age. A variety of trails snake through this leech infested playground of flora and fauna ranging wildly in difficulty. One of the easiest trails leads to a canopy walk, which winds its way around the treetops at heights of up to 40 meters, which isn't very comfortable to know when you're walking on planks of wood and rusty ladders that seem haphazardly tied together with rope.The main attraction here was the opportunity to spend the night in a hide, an extremely basic hut in the middle of the jungle where you can sleep and observe wildlife by night. Getting there required climbing up and down various creek beds in the hottest and most humid air my skin has ever come into contact with. To survive this round trip journey, I traveled with 2.5 liters of water, not nearly enough, but just enough to prevent me from becoming a delirious maniac (explanation to follow). The hide was a modest room with 8 bunk beds and a long bench facing a giant window overlooking a jungle meadow, kind of like an electricity-less plasma screen for neanderthals. Although the park is known for having tigers, elephants, tapirs, and giant snakes, the largest creatures I saw where geckos and rats. Most likely, this was due to the loud ranting of a dehydrated Dutchman who was sharing the sleeping quarters. This guy arrived at the hide in a state of despair, after hiking alone all day and recently running out of water. Still, the 6 hour journey was worthwhile for the sounds alone. As twilight faded into pitch black, a chorus of ticking and purring sounds emanated from the jungle, at a volume that could rival rush hour traffic in any major city. In the middle of the night, the sky erupted in thunder storms and rain pounded on the roof of the hide with all of the occupants fearing that it would likely collapse.

In the process of leaving Taman Negara, one of my most memorable Malaysian experiences took place. Having had very little previous exposure to the Muslim world, images of Muslim women in my mind are severely limited, setting the stage for an entertaining and stereotype smashing moment. On the bus, there was a traditionally dressed Muslim woman collecting fares from the passengers. Her initial appearance and demeanor suggested she must be as rigid and old fashion a woman as you could possibly encounter. Shortly after our journey began, she proved otherwise, as her cell phone erupted, filling the bus with "dont your wish your girlfriend was a freak like me," being her ringtone of choice.

A train ride through more palm tree plantations led to Melaka, another historic town filled with colonial buildings from the days of Portuguese and Dutch occupation. Similar to Georgetown, one activity overrode every other - eating as much food as possible. Eating an average of 5 meals per day allows many opportunities to discover hidden treasures, and in Melaka's Chinatown, I found what I can confidently claim to be the best value meal I've ever consumed, and I mean best value MEAL, not best VALUE MEAL. The dish: Baba Rendang minced fish and prawn noodles - which features all of the mentioned ingredients in a bowl of spicy coconut curry sauce - quite possibly the best combination of flavors ever assembled in one bowl, and the price: $1.15.

On the last day in Melaka I managed to consume 2 servings with room for desert (mango cachang) to spare.The next and final stop was the national capital of KL (Kuala Lumpur). To illustrate my ignorance regarding Malaysia prior to entering, there were only 2 symbols I could associate with the country, one being Will Farrell's portrayal of the prime minister in Zoolander, and 2 being the Petronas towers. The twin towers, as they're referred to locally, are a source of pride for most Malaysians, mostly due to their brief run as the tallest buildings in the world from 1998 to 2004. What i didn't know, is that Petronas is a multinational oil corporation, a lesson learned the hard way in my attempt to visit the catwalk connecting the towers on the 41st floor. Before ascending the high speed elevators which travel an average speed of 1 floor per second, visitors are corralled into a mini cinema and subjected to a 3-D movie (glasses included), of propaganda in its purest form. Imagine traveling dangerously close to the surface of the ocean towards a shimmering oil rig before plunging into the sea and down into the bowels of the earth in 3D! Most of the remaining minutes are spent educating visitors about Petronas' shining record of public service, what an asset they are to the community, how Petronas is more concerned with curing blind street children than profits, and of course how the towers are the most impressive feat of engineering the earth has ever seen. To be fair, the view was not bad and a free 3D movie is hard to come by, even if it brainwashes you to love the smell of gasoline.

Southern Thailand

2009-05-27T00:57:00.000-07:00

Southern Thailand may simultaneously be the world capital for jaw dropping beaches and equally unbelievable public inebriation. The scenery is filled with dramatic limestone cliffs, covered in jungle growth, bursting through turquoise water and white sand beaches.
In addition to being an epicenter of sunbathing, snorkeling, scubadiving, and parasailing, it's also the land of "the bucket." The bucket is a phenomenon whose name is self explanatory. It's a bucket, which would normally be used by a small child in building the outer towers of a mammoth sand castle, instead filled with some combination of ice, whisky, vodka, coke and red bull. Consuming an entire bucket can lead to seriously impaired judgment, including engaging in dangerous activities in hopes of being rewarded with another bucket- a vicious cycle. Bucket mania reaches its zenith on Phi Phi island, which is advertised as one of the most beautiful islands on earth, and the area of Thailand hardest hit by the tsunami.
The island is filled with beach side bars, which all have plenty of buckets on hand and feature various forms of entertainment involving the use of fire. Most of these spectacles are limited to professional fire juggling locals, but the most entertaining show involved some eager tourists and a giant flaming rope. Two nonchalant Thai teenagers, with cigarettes dangling from their lips, rotated a 25 foot long rope which was heavily soaked in fuel and set ablaze, while an array of tourists lined up to try their luck in the devils jump rope, with a free shot of tequila awaiting the survivors on the other side. About half of the contestants made it through unscathed, while the other half came in contact with the flaming rope and stubbornly attempted the feat over and over again with similar results.

Taking the risk to the next level was tourist Muay Thai, which was strangely located in the 'Reggae bar.' A giant ring was set up in the middle of the bar, surrounded by a bucket sipping audience. Tourists are lured into the ring with the promise of a free bucket if they survive the fight. Between rounds, bar employees parade around the premises with a sign which comforts potential entrants, "Includes protection such as head gear." Most who decide to throw their hat in the ring appeared to have already consumed 1 bucket too many, often times falling over their own feet rather than from the pummeling by their opponent. When the tourists had tired themselves out, 2 locals entered the ring and engaged in one of the most vicious fight I've ever witnessed, ending with the loser being carried out of the ring on a stretcher. Muay Thai is no joke.

May 1 officially marks the start of the low season for tourism in Thailand, and on this day I entered my final Thai beach destination of Ko Lanta. My arrival came in the pitch black of night which meant a difficult search for accommodation on an island that was mostly deserted. As despair was setting in, a loud 'hello' came streaming out of a dimly lit driveway. A lanky figure of about 6'2" came striding out into the light, proclaiming, "I have room for you, 200 baht ($5.60)." Content with the price and the enthusiasm of the sales pitch, I followed him towards the beach for a tour. In the next few days this man would become a legend in my memory of Thailand. Hutchieboat, whose name alone is worthy of legendary status, proudly showed off his beach bungalow complete with mosquito net, fan, mini fridge, hammock and manual flush toilet - which is flushed by manually dumping buckets of water inside. What more could a man ask for in life? After agreeing on a price of 150 baht per night, Hutchieboat retreated to his own bungalow, but wasted little time in displaying his southern hospitality. 2 minutes after handing over the keys, he returned with fresh towels for the bathroom. 5 minutes later he was back again with an extra chair and cushion for the balcony. Another 5 minutes elapsed and he was back again, this time bearing a superior fan which he insisted on exchanging for the one in my bungalow. The next morning he showed no signs of slowing down, knocking on the door at 9am, insisting that I borrow his motorbike to go buy drinks to stock the mini fridge from the local 7-11. Over the next few days Hutchieboat would tell many stories about his life intertwined with the history of the island. These mostly revolved around his work on a nearby rubber tree farm, and the island's 95% Muslim population, to which he belonged. In addition to the hospitality, I became attached to my humble home, which attracted various visitors during my stay. Depending on the hour of the day, the bungalow was inhabited by a colony of ants, a fist sized spider, a frog, who lived behind the toilet for 3 days, and a stray dog who settled into the corner of the balcony.A few days later, I was back in modern reality in Malaysia, which proved to be a mind opening experience, as I entered with no knowledge of the place or what I might experience there.

The land of a thousand smiles

2009-05-23T21:17:00.000-07:00

My arrival in Bangkok coincided with two theoretically opposed events. Most important to the international news media was the violent clash between the military and a group known as the red shirts, who were demanding the resignation of Thailand's prime minister. This led to blazing infernos, street closures, and an intimidating, heavily armed police presence, which included tanks rolling down the streets. Blocks away, but seemingly on another planet were the festivities of the annual Songkran festival, which commemorates the Buddhist new year. Traditionally, the festival featured the light splashing of floral waters to ring in the new year, but in the current Buddhist year of 2552, this has morphed into an all out, countrywide water war. Tourists and locals alike walk the streets heavily armed with high powered hydro weapons capable of killing small mammals. With the city under siege, it was not uncommon to see groups of supersoaker toting civilians standing side by side with m-16 toting military officers, everyone hoping that the latter wasn't as trigger happy as the former.

The streets were awash with entrepreneurs, cleverly marketing a combination of weaponry and beverages. The most creative would bottle the recently melted ice, which had been cooling the drinks, and sell it to evil minded party goers, myself included, who loved to watch the exacerbated facial expressions of people getting a high powered shot of ice cold water in the spine. Groups of kids congregated curbside around 50 gallon drums of water, which were perpetually refilled with nearby hoses. The majority of the vehicles who entered the area were on-duty moto and tuk tuk drivers attempting to pick up passengers and escort them out of the war zone. These unfortunate souls were the most heavily victimized, receiving violently thrown buckets of water in the face at each passing of a roadside mob of children. Meanwhile, roving bands of teenagers circled the streets in pickup trucks, the beds of which were equipped with their own 50 gallon drums of water, and a team of drive by artists who returned the onslaught of those on the sidewalk.

Adding to the madness was the tradition of smearing baby powder or similar substances on the faces of each passerby as a sign of respect and new years luck. With a population soaked to the bone, this quickly morphs into a citywide paper mache project, as everyone acquires a layer of crusty body armor, which is then washed away by high pressure water blasts and replaced again and again. By midday, the epicenter of the water fighting looks like it was infested with zombies or struck by an atomic bomb, with dusty victims strangely skipping around in the aftermath.

Providing refuge from the madness was an impressive lineup of cultural venues to remind people that the festival was a celebration of Thai culture, not just the opportunity to shoot your neighbor in the face. There was lively Thai theater, and a vivid puppet show reminiscent of being john malcovic, but the highlight was a b-boy performance to the soundtrack of traditional drumming.

Over the days, I found myself continuously under armed against kids the size of my thigh, whose guns were of equal size. The most memorable experience came on the final night, while wandering the many soi (alleyway) of the old town of Bangkok. After being viciously bombarded with water that would have solidified had it been any colder, I was invited to join the party of the perpetrators, a family of Nepalese shop owners. They had set up a sound system worthy of a night club in front of their corner store, blasting Nepalese and Indian dance music while dousing each passerby with a liberal amount of specially formulated ice water. I quickly realized that their store was conveniently located next door to an ice factory which resulted in the continuous addition of newborn-baby-sized blocks of ice into their bucket. There was never a moment when the bucket consisted of more water than ice.

When it was all said and done, Songkran (click link for video coverage), was one of the most memorable festivals I've ever experienced. What better way to build community than to shoot your neighbor in the eye with ice cold water during the hottest month of the year? Peoples expectations of personal space and liability issues would likely prevent this event from taking place in the U.S., which is a shame.

After an overnight train from Bangkok, which was invaded by an army of baby cockroaches, I touched down in Chiang Mai, which is known as the cultural capital of Thailand - due to an insane amount of elaborate Buddhist temples. For one week, I explored the city by motorbike, and driving on the left hand side of the road proved to be a continuous challenge. The celebration of Buddhist new years was still in full effect, and while wandering through Wat Don Suap, I was invited to partake in a continuation of the water splashing ceremony, this time much more traditional than in Bangkok. Following the lead of the young children ahead of me, I was given a tub of floral water and instructed to proceed on my knees. Shuffling along in a line, we made our pilgrimage, passing a line of seated elders, each of whom would take a handful from our bucket and gently pat us on the shoulders. Those who spoke English curiously asked me where I was from and wished me luck in the new year. Those who didn't speak English, whispered to their neighbors, probably inquiring about where I was from. At the end of the line, I felt like I had gone on a hajj, and realized that my youth is fading, as my knees were decimated from a mere 15 minutes of shuffling against the carpet of the temple.

At Wat Umong, I found my way into an area labeled as the monastery zoo, which featured a herd of some kind of deer-cow hybrid looking creature which the monks cared for. Upon entering their living space, I found the monks preparing to feed them with some kind of eggplant- cucumber looking hybrid of vegetable. While cautiously keeping an eye on one of the beasts who the lead monk described as 'crazy,' I joined in tossing the food to the animals and watched them corral them into their mouths with their snake like tongues. The crazy member of the group kept his focus on the strange farang (foreigner) at all times, often flaring his nostrils and stomping his feet - much to the delight of the monks.
From the cultural capital of the nation, a one hour flight south to Phuket quickly delivered me to an entirely different kind of atmosphere...

Goodbye Vietnam

2009-04-25T06:56:00.000-07:00

Throughout Vietnam, there is one man who is revered and respected on a level which surpasses even that of Ronald McDonald. Nowhere else is this more apparent than the National capital of Hanoi, the final resting place of Ho Chi Minh, or Uncle Ho, as he is lovingly referred to by the populous. Uncle Ho's smiling face appears everywhere in Vietnam, on every single bank note of every denomination, on countless propaganda posters, and above the entrance to nearly every school. Not surprisingly, his mausoleum is a mecca for supporters, traveling from far and wide to pay their respects. Following in the communist footsteps of Mao and Lenin, Uncle Ho's 'actual body' is supposedly preserved in a clear glass case, and annually shipped to Russia- the world leader in 'keeping dead people looking alive' technology. Viewing the body is a surreal experience, more for the formal procedures undergone before entering the mausoleum, than actually getting a glimpse of Uncle Ho. A strict dress code is in full effect, part of a long list of strange, liberty infringing rules like no hats, no putting your hands in your pockets, and no improper behavior like smiling or talking. Along the red carpeted path to the body, heavily armed guards stand at every turn, some remaining statuesque, others patrolling the crowd and barking instructions for proper conduct to rule breakers - "hands at your sides!" Rumors abound as to whether or not this is really the body of Uncle Ho or a wax replica. I have my doubts.

Hanoi's famous old quarter is where all of the tourists are concentrated, coming to explore streets named after the goods that were once sold there. For example, fried fish street, metal pipe street, and tombstone alley, which these days are more likely inhabited by bootleg shoes, purses, and stuffed animals. These 2 square miles may be the least walkable urban area on earth and its narrow passages are demonstrative of a nationwide phenomenon - a complete and utter lack of personal space. Buildings are so small and packed to the brim that living rooms, workshops, kitchens and basically anything which can be moved outside, spills out onto the sidewalk during business hours. On the one hand, it's entertaining to walk down the street and essentially get to see through the walls and catch a glimpse of all the day to day activities that would be kept behind closed doors elsewhere. On the other hand, having your leg hairs singed by sparks being spewed onto the street by soldering irons and ducking garbage bags tossed from second story windows can begin to take its toll on your sanity.

Shortly after arriving in Hanoi, my dad and i departed to Vietnam's top tourist attraction, Halong bay, which before the WFC, was receiving 7 million annual visitors. The famed bay is filled with dramatic limestone cliffs jumping out of the bay, and insane amounts of tourist filled vessels navigating around them. At its best, the scenery is breathtaking and fully worthy of all the hype and all the visitors, but the downside is an almost absolute lack of environmental awareness, manifested in an alarming amount of liter. The most disturbing moment came on a kayaking excursion, which was quite enjoyable until i paddled directly past a used baby diaper bobbing aimlessly in the water. In the end, the cruise of the bay was an enjoyable experience, but I hope that enough swift action is taken to prevent it from evaporating into a wasteland of used Huggies.

On the same day we returned to Hanoi from Halong bay, we boarded another sleeper train, heading 10 hours north to the Vietnam-China border. Upon arrival in the town of Sapa, we were bombarded by local village women selling handicrafts, a theme that would be recurring. All of these women speak incredibly good English which they attribute solely to tourist exposure, pretty impressive considering many of them have never been to school for a day in their lives. Shortly after arriving, we embarked upon the top tourist attraction in Sapa, a village stay, in which you trek to a local village and sleep with an adoptive family for the night.

Our guide was a 17 year old girl named Moo, who comes from a village of Black Hmong - named for their black clothing, which Moo has given up for jeans and a t-shirt. On the first day of our tour we headed over several terraced mountains and ended up in a small village where we met our family for the night. During the trek, I wondered if staying in a village would be an outhouse and no electricity kind of experience, but it quickly became apparent that our host family has done quite well for themselves in the village stay business. Their massive two story house featured concrete floors, satellite tv, dvd player, western toilet, pool table, cold beer, and hot water shower - complete with images of naked girls printed on the bathroom tiles. Not exactly roughin it. The highlight of our stay was a delicious home cooked dinner, which was shared at the table of our hosts. The father insisted on alternating spoonfuls of rice with shots of rice wine with me for the duration of the meal, while the rest of the family was transfixed on the tv, watching Chinese soap operas poorly dubbed in Vietnamese.

The low point of the trek came en route to our second village stay. Along the way, we were followed by a pair of seemingly friendly women, but once we reached the midpoint of our journey, their intentions became clear as day. A slew of sales pitches commenced, with a different response for every polite 'no thank you.' These pleas escalated dramatically in desperation from 'this bag is very pretty' to "you buy something and i stop following you,' and culminating in one of the women revealing a bag of weed from her hand woven purse hoping that she must have something i would be interested in buying. After this unfortunate interchange, (i didn't buy anything), we crossed through a massive construction site which was eating away at the mountain, making way for a huge hydroelectric dam. Not only is this an environmental disaster in the making, its also incredibly stupid to destroy one of the top tourist destinations in the country. Finally, in a cruel twist of fate, our neighbors at our second night's homestay turned out to be a huge group of Dutch tourists who spent their evening butchering Beatles classics on their host families blaring karaoke system. Hey Jude will never be the same.

My last destination in Vietnam was the laid back town of Ninh Binh, which is surrounded by rice paddies and limestone mountains. My visit fortuitously coincided with the annual Truong yen festival, which commemorates a pair of 9-10th century Emperors. The festivities were wide ranging, some being more traditional than others. I first wandered past a relatively tame cock fight, which was easier to digest after countless sleepless nights thanks to rogue roosters. To relax after this hard hitting action, i sat down to observe a life size game of Chinese chess, which can already take hours to complete, compounded by the time taken for each player to walk across the board and move his desired piece. This game is played everywhere in China and Vietnam, usually with a group of 10-15 old men huddled around the board advising the opponents on their next moves, as was the case in this life size battle. The most entertaining event of the festival was a traditional wrestling competition, in which participants sported sumo like cloths over their shorts and engaged in a ritualistic dance before doing battle. Through body language, everyone in my vicinity in the audience tried to coax me into the ring to challenge the champion. Tempting as the offer was, im pretty sure getting my collar bone broken by a Vietnamese dude with the physique of a pit bull isn't covered in my insurance policy. So, with my health still intact, I made my exodus from Vietnam to the Land of a Thousand Smiles.

Central Vietnam

2009-04-04T22:14:00.000-07:00

After an overnight bus ride from hell, my dad and i were deposited on the quiet streets of Hoi An at 5am. The city was the largest harbor in Southeast Asia in the 1st Century, and its contemporary claim to fame is its surviving old town, a UNESCO heritage site which features some of the most walkable streets in Vietnam. There's an occasionally enforced ban on motor vehicles (the sign specifically forbids any "non primitive vehicles"), and the streets are lined with well preserved buildings that have been converted into a tourist shopping haven, selling tailor made suits, buddha statues, modern art, and chinese lanterns. The highlight of our 48 hour stay ended up being cruising around the nearby countryside by bike. Under the protection of an overcast sky, we rode through villages surrounded by rice paddies, grazing water buffalo, and handfuls of enthusiastic children screaming hello. One such journey brought us to what appeared to be a scam perpetrated against foreigners. Within sight of the local beach, we were stopped by a pair of locals, who calmly explained that we had to leave our bikes in the 'official' parking area, which cost 12 cents. We reluctantly handed over 4,000 dong and made for the beach. Upon returning and retrieving our bikes, we were treated to an unexpected performance displaying the musical prowess of our bike guardian, which left us feeling like we got our moneys worth. To the background music of a Vietnamese pop song, bike man sang a passionate, improvised ballad, and in the process, insisted on taking my hand and leading me through a dance routine. "I watch your bike, you no worry. I watch your bike, your bike ok with me!" He continued in similar fashion for the duration of the song, and bid us farewell with a dramatic bow.

A four hour bus ride north delivered us to the imperial city of Hue, (pronounced Way), which was the capital of Vietnam as recently as 1945. The city was crushed during the war, and only recently have its many historical landmarks begun to be reconstructed. Based on the following experiences, this ended up being my favorite place in Vietnam. On the night of our arrival, we stumbled upon a gem of free entertainment - a high school dance competition in a park overlooking the Huong River. Hip hop appears to be alive and well in Vietnam, as group after group put together some impressive breakdancing performances, some more creative than others. The standouts were one crew that played air guitar with traditional Vietnamese instruments and another that danced to a Vietnamese remix of the Beverly Hills Cop theme song. The only low point of the night was a mass ensemble of about 25 kids performing a routine to the theme song from high school musical. That aint hip hop.

Again, a major highlight here was exploring the nearby countryside by bicycle, the most entertaining journey being a quest to locate one of two existing Japanese covered bridges in Vietnam. After asking a handful of eagerly helpful locals for directions, we eventually got ourselves in the vicinity of the bridge, and then found it by dumb luck, as a woman vendor flagged us down to come have a beer. We caved in to her sales pitch, only to find that her snack stand was located in the shadows of our desired location. Upon entering the shelter of the bridge, we were met by an intriguing character, an old woman with painted on eye brows, and bare feet exposing freshly painted, bright red toenails. She spoke excellent English which she attributed to her past marriage to an American soldier. After our initial introductions were complete, she proceeded to inform us as to why she was occupying the bridge; to tell the fortunes of those who pass. For shits and giggles, we both presented her with open palms, which resulted in some mind blowing revelations. First for the father: "You very good man, you very good to your family, very handsome, you have good son, love you very much." Then for the son: "You very handsome. Your family love you very much. You very good boy. Good to your father. Very nice boy." Then the most important news, she forecast that our deaths would come at the respectively ripe ages of 88 and 82.

From one interesting character to another. Just beyond the bridge, we reached the village museum, whose sole employee was an unforgettable old woman in her pajamas, who guided us through the most entertaining museum tour on the face of the earth. The museum housed a small collection of traditional Vietnamese farming equipment, which the woman who was well into her 80's, proceeded to passionately demonstrate one at a time. With the energy of a small child, she jumped from one piece of equipment to the next, violently stirring the rice grinder and pedaling the bicycle-like water distributor, adding to the drama with an impressive array of sound effects, such as the chopping of the rice plants, crying babies, and water buffalo splashing through the mud. All the while, she sported a friendly smile, exposing teeth that appeared to be intentionally blackened. After a failed, modest sales pitch for us to buy some water buffalo figurines from the dusty gift shop, she graciously accepted a small donation to the museum and waved goodbye before going back to sleep on the table at the entrance.

Hue also became the place where we would get our most insightful look at the day to day lives of some typical Vietnamese folks. Through the wonders of the Internet, i was able to get in contact with Thuan, a local university student, who agreed to meet us for the prototypical social gathering, drinking coffee. After a night of getting caffienated by the city lake, which he and his friend described as lover's lake (for all of the couples who frequent it), he invited us for lunch in his apartment, which is shared with his younger brother and friend. We arrived at his abode to find that these 3 guys share one 6' x 10' room with one bed and one desk, which immediately made me fell like a spoiled idiot for ever having issues with the amount of personal space afforded by the dorm rooms of California. His roommate prepared us a delicious lunch, which we shared on their bedroom floor, regularly interrupted with a rotating shot glass of rice wine,(their drink of choice because of its combined potency and affordability - 30% alcohol and 42 cents for a .5 liter bottle). After our meal, the landlord, a 92 year old man known as Uncle Le, crashed the party. Uncle Le didn't speak any English but seemed fascinated by the presence of the 2 strange foreign visitors, an ear to ear smile glued to his face for the duration of our stay. Through the students' translation, Uncle Le made several attempts to set me up with one of his many granddaughters. Lunch officially ended with a photo shoot of the students and Uncle Le, who burst into uncontrollable laughter every time we showed him the freshly captured images on the screen of my camera.
The following afternoon, we boarded a hard sleeper train, (named for the 1cm thick mattress we slept on). We quickly crossed through the former demilitarized zone (DMZ), which separated north and south Vietnam in the not so distant past. 15 hours later, we were stumbling out into the madness of morning rush hour traffic in the capital city of Hanoi...

Southern 'Nam

2009-03-29T02:35:00.000-07:00

Arriving in Ho Chi Minh City, aka Saigon, was a dramatic return to the developed world. For the first time since China, my field of vision was cluttered with high rise buildings and neon lights as far as the eye can see, a strange twist of communist fate. Within hours of arrival i realized that i had died and been sent in the opposite direction of hell. Pho for $1, Vietnamese sandwiches for 60 cents, the strongest coffee known to man for 30 cents, and draft beer for 18 cents. Needless to say, i treated HCMC as my personal buffet, and most of my waking hours there were spent stuffing my face.

5 months in China trained me well for what would otherwise be a difficult vietnamese venture, parting the sea of motorbikes and crossing the street. Here, rush hour is a term that applies from 6am to 11pm, as the streets are consistently packed with masses of 2 wheeled vehicles. Getting to the promised land, the other side of the street, requires blind faith and cat like reflexes. Maybe the biggest motivating factor to cross through the madness was witnessing several blind people parting the sea unassisted!
HCMC was also the fated location for me to be reunited with my dad, who would join me on a nearly 1,000 mile journey up the Vietnamese coast, to within reach of the Chinese border.
One of the most bizarre and memorable, yet least recommendable experiences of our trip was an organized tour of the Cu Chi tunnels, a complex underground network of manmade caves which were occupied for a mind blowing 17 years by the local Vietnamese, who were escaping American troops. (On this side of the Pacific, the war is referred to as the American war.) Our guide, who introduced himself as Mr Bean (Binh), was a soldier for the South Vietnamese fighting alongside the Americans. Over the course of the next 5 hours he proved to be an unforgettable character.

During our 2 hour bus ride Mr Bean sped through as much Vietnamese history as possible, with his own life story intertwined. He reminisced about his time living in New York, which is where he likely acquired his colorful vocabulary. "Lonely planet is bullshit book!" he proclaimed. "i tell you the real history of Vietnam!" He then illuminated the group on one thousand years of various occupations of his homeland, first by the Chinese, then the french, then the Americans and later by the Khmer Rouge. During his passionate, rapid fire presentation, many questions arose, one in particular from a German tourist who was having trouble understanding Mr Bean's new york accent. "Why Vietnam was divided into north and the south?" Mr. Bean explained "its complicated, (under)'stand?" and moved right along with his presentation. During our journey, Mr Bean made many a questionable claim, including knowing who killed JFK - obviously he couldn't reveal the details.

We eventually reached our destination of the Cu Chi tunnels which proved to be a strange and disturbing place. The site has been converted into a guerrilla warfare amusement park, featuring replicas of painful booby traps used against the Americans, along with robotic Vietcong, who with the flick of a switch, kick into gear and simulate the creation of handmade weapons and uniforms. Along the way, Mr bean unveiled the mystery as to why westerners are unable to sit in the famous Asian squat: "because you sit on lazy toilet!" To be fair, he also explained why Asian people have small eyes: "When you eat rice with lot of chili, make you shit like this (He squeezes his eyes shut with all his might).

The midpoint of the tour was the infamous shooting range. Here, tourists can live out their wildest, violent fantasies and fire AK 47's and M-16's into the Vietnamese hillside, for $1-$1.25 per bullet, with a minimum investment of one clip, (a fee that can become hefty when dealing with automatic weapons). Not surprisingly, most of the tour members who partook in this event were in my age and gender brackets. Everyone else took shelter in the nearby gift shop, covering their ears, as the sounds of massive explosions blended with the screams of frightened children.

The tour concluded with Mr. bean, beer in hand, leading us into the feature presentation of the tour, the chance to actually travel through the cu chi tunnels. He reassured us that the tunnels had been widened in order to accommodate westerners, otherwise " your fat ass get stuck in the tunnel!" Our entire busload of lemmings descended into the tunnels and attempted to travel a modest 100 meters undergound. After about 10 meters of nearly crawling on hands and knees in the musty dark, stuck behind a traffic jam of oversized tourists, i nearly suffered a debilitating panic attack from the resulting claustrophobia. For a variety of reasons, i was relieved when the tour ended. The take home message: you have to respect the resiliency of the Vietnamese to live in such cramped conditions for 17 years. I would not recommend this tour to anyone, but if you do get a chance to have a conversation with Mr Bean, you should hop on that train. I'll now conlcude this story in the same fashion that Mr Bean ended his tour. "Thank you. Hope you have good time. God bless you. Hallelujah!"

******

From the sweltering heat of HCMC, me and pops escaped to the mountainous town of Dalat,which the french referred to as the vietnamese alps, for its cool climate and green hills. Here, we relished the opportunity to wear long sleeve shirts and sleep with blankets. One of the primary tourist attractions in Dalat is rightfully known as "The crazy house." It's a bizzare museum/ hotel, designded by a woman whose father was a high ranking member of the communist party. Her special family ties are what granted her the authority to build such an extravagant, "crazy," and non communist building, something I never imagined would exist in Vietnam. The architecture is Alice and wonderland meets Antoni Gaudi, with giraffes, giant spiders, and stairs that resemble congo drums. It really is a crazy house.

Most of the other crazy fun to be had in Dalat is on the outskirts of town, reachable by bicycle or motorbike. For some strange reason, Dalat seems to be the tandem bike capital of Vietnam, so much so that finding a normal bike is close to impossible. A common sight in town is a mob of young vietnamese tourists racing each other through the streets on these 4 pedal vehicles of mayhem. After a fruitless hour attemting to procure traditional rental bikes, and even attempting and failing to use a tandem bike, we relunctantly rented a motorbike for the day, which ended up being $3, half the price of a tandem bike.

We managed to safely escape from city limits and reached the Datanla waterfalls, which seems to have developed into a major tourist attraction in the area. Upon entering the site, visitors are presented with a fork in the road; a) a steep trail of steps leading down through the rainforest, or b) a roller coaster that seems to be made primarily of bamboo. Being reluctant to be the guinea pigs of this experiment, we chose a), but after witnissing handfulls of other more adventurous (or lazy) tourists zoom by, we returned to the top and chose b - and lived to tell about it. At the bottom of the path, Datanla falls carves through the rocks and is surrounded by more tourist gimmicks. Vietnamese cowboys and a lonley guy in a bear suit wait idly for trourists to have their pictures taken with them. Luckily, we saw a tourist have his picture taken with his head inside of the bears mouth, so his suffering through the midday heat inside of such a torturous costume did not go unrewarded.

After a few days relaxing in Dalat, we embarked upon an insane 20 hour bus journey North, to the city of Hoi An...

Cambodge

2009-03-05T05:52:00.000-08:00

My two week stint in Cambodia was a continuos battle against my own ignorance and a journey to nearly every point on the spectrum of human emotion. I bounced from my traumatizing, aforementioned entry to Siem Reap, to the splendor of Ankor Wat, time traveling in Battambang, the depressing legacy of the Khmer Rouge in Phnom Pehn, to the tranquility of the beaches in Sihanoukville.

Despite drowning in a hellish inferno for most of its recent history, Cambodia is a surprisingly upbeat place. Everywhere, examples of the incredible spirit of the people are present. Never before have I seen such a fierce determination to survive. Never before have I seen so many people and/or goods loaded onto a single vehicle. A man weaves through traffic on a byciyle while delicatley balancing a washing machine on his back. A motorbike rides by with a female passenger holding her own I.V. above her head. This is Cambodia.

The legacy of continuous war and genocide has birthed overwhelming poverty here, but somehow the Cambodian people manage to be some of the nicest folks ive ever encountered. But because of the poverty, its no surprise that nearly everyone who approaches you in the major tourist areas is trying to sell something. These pitches range from "Sir, you need tuk tuk?, Ms. you want moto ride?, Mr. you wanna buy book?, Madame you need guest house?, my friend smoke - marijuana - opium?," or my personal favorite, the vague "Mr. buy something from me." This can be overwhelming at times, but the more you know about this place, the more tolerant you become of such bombardments.

After recovering from my nightmare of a transition from Laos, I finally felt at ease in Siem Reap, within a few miles of the temples of Ankar. My first ignorance shattering moment arrived in the form of early morning prayer, emanating from the local mosque, which happened to be located almost directly behind my guest house. My ignorance as to any kind of muslim population in cambodia was left demolished by virtue of this scene being replicated in 4 of the 5 places I visited here. My next ignorance shattering moment came in 3 days of touring the temples of Ankar. Previous to this trip, I only knew of the existence of Ankor wat, the famed temple that appears on Cambodias flag, national beer and countless paintings and t-shirts. Turns out that this is just one of many temples - the entire surrounding area is saturated with some of the most elaborate and intricately designed buildings the world has ever seen. Touring these massive ruins felt like an archaeological Disneyland for grown ups, because of the huge amounts of tourists, all being shuttled from temple to temple in tuk tuks (myself included). While wandering these complexes in nearly unbearable heat, I couldnt help but wonder about the man hours required to build them and the god complexes of those who ordered them built. Either way, you cant help but be blown away by the imagination of the human brain.

Since leaving my latest hometown of Huzhou, China, ive felt myself being pulled deeper into an increasingly narrow funnel of a tourist trail, which has deeply disturbed me. Being able to make even the slightest detour from the flock of sheep came to be of the utmost importance in the maintenence of my sanity. This detour came in Battambang, which is Cambodia's 2nd biggest city, but not a major stopping point on the tourist trail. There's still a noticeable tourist population here, but the town isnt dependent on tourist $, so as a result, its easier to feel invisible and avoid all the sales pitches of other locations. Maybe the highlight of my time spent in Cambodia, was 2 days of journeying out into Battambangs surrounding villages by motorbike.

As an introduction to this story, ill let it be known that my first, and only previous attempt to ride a motorbike nearly ended with me plunging into the tepid waters of lake Titicaca on the Peru - Bolivia border, but that's another story. So, on day one of village exploration, im handed the keys to a spiffy little 2 wheeler with a whopping 125cc! (less powert than most lawn mowers). As im strapping on my helmet, the trustworthy and maybe naive local who is lending me his prized possession asks me if i know how to drive it, to which i reply "kind of," . A nervous paranoia overcomes this mans face, and he begins to carefully explain the instructions of changing gears, using the brakes, etc. He takes me onto a backstreet for a test drive, while he sits behind me, an experience that im sure was not confidence building. After making it explicitly clear that I would be financially responsible for any damage caused ("you brake bike you pay"), he approved the rental and the real test began.

Getting out of downtown battambang proved to be an intimidating experience despite the fact that the city feels like a large village. Still, even a village can be intimidating when there are no stop signs or traffic lights, and vehicles travel on whichever side of the road is most convenient. So, after a nerve wrecking 15 minutes of learning how to change gears and use the brakes, while dodging oncoming traffic, i made it onto a straight dirt road which signaled the end of the madness. For the rest of the day I was cruising past random villages, whose populations all seemed to be comprised of 70% primary school children, who all screamed "hello" as i passed - with no sales pitches to follow. Being here was the kind of experience I came searching for on this trip - to feel transported to a simpler place and time. I imagine that life in these villages hasn't changed much in my lifetime - except for the occasional cell phone.

The rock bottom on the spectrum of human emotions came in the capital city of Phnom Penh, touring sites that have seen some terrible days. I did enjoy my stay here, but because of its history, it wasnt the most uplifting place to visit. Most depressing was a visit to S-21, a high school turned not-so-secret prison operated by the Khmer rouge, which systematically tortured and killed over 20,000 people in the late 1970's. Ive never felt such a negative energy in any place ive ever been. On a less severe but still depressing topic, my guest house, again in the shadow of a mosque, was near the shores of Boeng Kak, the largest lake in the city. When asking a guest house employee as to why there was a crane operating on a patch of sand at the south end of the lake, i learned that it's being filled in to make way for high rise buildings. So what you see will not exist one year from now.
My cambodian experience ended on a natural high in the beach town of Sihanoukville, named after the king. Stepping foot into the ocean after a 7 month absence felt like I had just completed a pilgrimage from the frozen tundra of China. For 48 hours, i kicked back under a beach umbrella, to the soundtrack of waves coming in from the gulf of Thailand. Being another tourist town, the soundtrack was interrupted by sales pitches for bbq'd seafood, bracelets, pedicures and massages. The temptation of an hour long massage on the beach proved to be too great to pass up for a mere $6. This ultimately proved to be a wise investment, but there were times of doubt, as i parted ways with my outermost later of skin due to the strong sandy hands of my masseur, who i think was pregnant. The last night in paradise began with some of the freshest seafood ive ever tasted and concluded with a natural light show unlike anything ive ever witnissed. Shortly after de-shelling my last grilled prawn, the sky behind me erupted in a silent flash of light. Over the course of the next hour, lightning illuminated a sky full of ominous and otherwise invisible cloud formations. Like most good things, this cant really be conveyed in pictures or words, but here's a video i managed to catch.

48 Hours later I was in food heaven in the chaos of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam...

Chinese nostalgia and the legend of the iron pit

2009-03-03T01:04:00.000-08:00

Now that i’m one month and two countries removed from china, I’m far enough to possess some perspective on my experience. Mostly, i really seem to be missing the place. I realized immediately that I miss the language; upon entering Laos and being completely incapable of communication, I realized how much I actually learned in China. I dearly miss the food, partly out of thriftiness, but mostly out of deliciousness. Most of all, I miss the utter unpredictability of Chinese life. Along the way, countless previously unimaginable events took place in China, which I will not soon forget.

I beat several Chinese people in ping pong, and I lost to several Chinese people in basketball. I suffered mild electrocution, rode a bike to work in below freezing temperatures, hula-hooped with a group of middle aged women, had a chiropractic manuever stealthfully performed on me while urinating, and got chased by wild dogs... The list could go on. Mark my words- I will return to the middle kingdom.

*******************************

Due to numerous successful run-ins with food of questionable levels of sanitary quality, ive been dubbed the “iron pit,” referring to the ability of my stomach to convert troublesome material into raw energy. Part genetic, part real world experience, the iron pit was forged in the fiery furnace of East Oakland, where the streets are graced by countless taco trucks and some of the greasiest burgers in the Western Hemisphere. From here, my gastronomical quest has spread outward, to the shores of Mexican beaches, back alleys of Barcelona, and all you can eat bbq in the parking lots of Brazilian gas stations.

In Asia, the legend of the pit has only grown in splendor, mostly due to my surviving 4 months of Chinese cafeteria food. There, at least 5 meals per week were spent eating rice and soup out of a communal trough, shared by fellow teachers, and greasy fingered students alike. Following this miraculous success, my post teaching life on the road has further put the pit to the most rigorous of tests, consisting of daily doses of street food, which was like a continual game of Chinese roulette. I recently boasted about my successfully spending 5 months in asia with no stomach ailments, and this confident boast appears to have been my downfall. A few days later, I would fall terribly ill from the unlikliest of causes. While enjoying the paradise of the 4000 islands of Laos, a trojan horse rolled up to the gates of the iron pit, in the form of a banana shake. This seemingly harmless cocktail of bananas, ice, and sugar, would soon prove to be the beginning of the end. Hours later, i felt the onset of something terrible, a rumbling from the depths that resulted in 24 agonizing hours of laying paralyzed in a hammock. Eventually, the strength was summoned to move on to Cambodia, which meant 24 hours of minivans, and buses, all done with a mind splitting headache - not a wise move.

Should you be fortunate enough to have not experienced a bus journey in this region of the world, don’t put it on your to do list. Even in full health, it requires a tremendous amount of blind faith. Shortly after crossing the border, our vehicle engaged in a deadly game of cat and mouse with another bus. The better part of the next half hour involved each vehicle passing the other, only to be overtaken again, a vicious cycle, which only ended when the other bus blew a tire and was left in a heap of smoke on the side of the road. Compounding the pain of this arduous journey was the horribly timed incompetence of my ipod, which meant being subjected to (no offense to any Cambodian pop stars), a looping video of Cambodian karaoke. Never again will I take the ipod for granted. Never. Eventually, I reched my desired destination of Siem Reap, the base town for exploring the famed temples of Ankar, which would make the previous 48 hours seem more than worthwhile…

The Laotian

2009-02-25T00:08:00.000-08:00

Crossing the China-Laos border is an instant departure from the developed world . To mark my arrival, i was extorted out of $1 by the Lao border official, who politely explained that there was an extra fee for crossing the border on Sunday (I've completely lost track of the days, but i later learned that it was Saturday). From this point on, the pavement is regularly interrupted by bumpy patches of dirt, and the bus journey is regularly interrupted by the crossing of cows, chickens, and ducks, (one of which was involved in a nonfatal collision with our bus). Clinging to the highway are scatterings of small villages of thatched roofed huts, who all strangely have satellite TV. The prevalence of four wheeled vehicles on the streets decreases 10 fold compared to China, and the prevalence of children on the streets increases ten fold, (the lack of a one child policy is blatantly obvious). In China, a baby is usually never spotted without at least 3 elderly caretakers, while in Laos, its common for children to roam the streets in packs of 4-5 with no adult supervision. Its also not uncommon to spot groups of ten year-old's wielding machetes, or piled upon one another and zooming by on a motorcycle.

If I were reborn as a nation, I would likely be Laos. This is by far the most laid back place Ive ever been. I only spent 2 weeks in this little land locked nation of 6.5 million, and 40 of these hours were spent in transit, which is painstakingly slow here. So, needless to say, my understanding of the place is incredibly shallow. There were several things that remained consistent in my Lao experience. Every day began at a god awful hour thanks to the widespread existence of roosters, many of whom cluck to the beat of their own drum, with no regard to whether or not the sun is getting ready to rise. Each day was filled with gratuitous use of sahbaidee (hello), and concluded with beer Lao while watching the sun set into Thailand.
My first destination was Luang Prabang , a UNESCO heritage site and a tourist haven. The town is filled with temples, monks, and foreigners, and as a result, previously unimaginable western amenities such as Nutella! While leaving the city, I spotted a construction site, where government workers where drilling into the pavement of a closed off street. The scene may have been the same in any other city in the world, but here the work was being done with a hammer and a chisel - no heavy machinery in sight.

In route to the capital, I made the typical tourist stopover in Vang Vieng, which is world renowned for its drunken tubing. Tourists float downstream in inner tubes, passing a plague of bars blasting high energy music, where the locals persuade you to attempt all of the dangerous creations they've concocted like diving boards, water slides, and rope swings, which all deposit you into the dangerously low waters of the river. I later heard tourists swapping emergency room stories such as loss of teeth and broken bones resulting from these death traps in frivolous lawsuit-less Laos. Luckily i got in the river early and enjoyed what seemed to be a peaceful day, floating soberly down the river, passing water buffalo, with no drunken revelry or accidents along the way. Unfortunately, going to the stupid tourist place means being branded as a stupid tourist one way or another. In my case, the scarlet letter came in the form of a sunburn from hell. Falling asleep on the water in the midday sun, with my pale belly exposed, left the intersection of my stomach and waist looking like a slab of bacon. Besides this tragedy, the town of Vang Vieng quickly drove me away with an inexplicable cultural phenomenon. The town is littered with video bars displaying DVD's of shows such as family guy and the simpsons, in hopes of luring in tourist $'s. Unfortunately the most popular show of choice is Friends, which is played every waking hour of the day, volume blasting at full volume. I HATE FRIENDS!
The development of Laos is best described through my experience in the capital of Vientiane, which is roughly the size of Oakland. There is probably not a single structure over 50 feet tall, and the street lights are so few and far between that they're displayed on the city map. Any non major thoroughfares are non paved, which makes for a bumpy ride on a bicycle. Basically, Vientiane is a sprawling village. In a strange twist of fate, my visit coincided with a Sean Kingston concert, which was advertised wildly all over town. I went to the site of the show, which was in the parking lot of a huge shopping mall, to satisfy my curiosity as to what kind of crowd would turn up for such an event in Laos. Despite the reasonable $2.50 entrance fee, I decided to browse the mall instead, and departed with my musical values still in tact.

My Laotian experience concluded in the far south, in the land of 4,000 islands, which turned out to be my favorite Lao location. Here, accommodation includes mosquito nets, and electricity is only available from 7-10 pm. The days were spent lounging in a hammock, watching river life go by, and exploring the surrounding islands by bicycle. The island's claim to fame is being one of the few places to spot the rare Irrawaddy dolphin. I was able to catch a few fleeting glimpses of our porpoise friends, but the audible experience was the most memorable. After hiring a local teenage captain of a motorized canoe, which was taking on dangerous amounts of water during the journey, I was delivered to the place known as ''dolphin home,'' a stones throw from the Cambodian border. Here, I floated in the water and listened to the dolphins communicating under water, which was a bizarre and fascinating event. The only sound I've ever heard that i could compare it to is John Coltrane. For the duration of my 30 minute listening, the dolphins communicated at a steady pace, with no pause, which left me wondering what kind of schemes they were busy concocting.
All was seemingly well in paradise until a memorable but not so enjoyable transition into Cambodia...

Xin nian kuai le

2009-02-09T03:10:00.000-08:00

My three weeks in the Yunnan province of Southwest China represent the full spectrum of what traveling alone can and will be. It began in a solitary, agitated, and snot infested state, followed by an escalating scale of China highlights. The journey started in the provincial capital of Kunming, known as the city of eternal spring for its supposedly constantly pleasant climate. Due to false advertising or bad luck, I was disappointed to find Kunming blanketed in a thick grey cloud, which gave it the appearance of any other generic concrete Chinese jungle.

In what can only be described as a shitty few days, all of the little things began to take their toll on my sanity. There was the chain smoking, knee tapping, caffeine addicted teenager beside me in the Internet cafe; the cats who were either mating or slowly dying outside of my dorm room; and the old man who was slowly dying from the worst snoring I've ever encountered inside of my dorm room. So, after a frustrating, mucus filled, and otherwise uneventful stay here, i made the 5 hour bus journey West to Dali, which would shortly feel like a world away from Kunming.

Known as one of the backpacker meccas of China, its no surprise that locals constantly greet you on the street with friendly hello's, followed by chants of "smoke the ganja?," usually from innocent looking old women clutching small children in their arms. (This isn't the reason why my fortunes changed for the better). Dali is plagued by swarms of tourists from all over China and beyond, and this results in all of the main corridors being filled with merchandise whose quality and functionality are highly debatable. Luckily, this madness is easily escaped on a bicycle, and riding through the nearby villages and rice fields, combined with improved health, and suddenly meeting handfuls of interesting folks from all over the globe signaled good things to come.

From Dali, I headed as close to Tibet as i will go on this trip, to the city of Lijiang. Another backpacker mecca, Lijiang's old town is a winding maze of cobble stone streets, lined with more useless tourist crap and some entertaining streets sings.

The town itself was nothing too special, but it was the jump off point for the Tiger Leaping Gorge, the highlight of my 5 months in China. With a group of fellow travelers, I embarked on a 3 day trek of the gorge, named after a famed tiger, who according to local legend, was being chased all over China, and eventually came face to face with the surging rapids of the Yangszte river, which slices through the second deepest canyon in the world. With no other alternatives, the tiger took his historic/mythological leap over the river and the rest is history.

From the onset of the trek we were chaperoned by a seemingly friendly man on a donkey, who cautiously followed our group. We debated his presence, wondering if it was included in the 50 yuan park entrance to prevent naive foreigners from wandering off the trail. His intentions quickly came to light, as one of the group members struggled to make it up a steep pass, and donkey man, as we came to immortalize him, came to the rescue and offered up the back of his sturdy, 4 legged companion, charging 140 yuan for his services. Once we reached our destination, the sun was setting over the gorge and we were face to face with the most massive mountain i have ever encountered. It took up my entire field of vision, which can't possibly be communicated through pictures, but here's a sample.
It will go down as one of the most impressive natural sights I've ever witnessed. Darkness soon prevailed, giving way to the best star gazing I've experienced in China, which compared to previous attempts, felt like a thick layer of Chinese smog had been squeegeed from my pupils.

Back in Lijiang, the scene was set for lunar new years. I didn't have high expectations for this event because most Chinese folks told me that people generally just light fireworks and stay at home with their families. This turned out to be a pretty accurate forecast, but new years eve ended up greatly surpassing my expectations. Never have my ears been bombarded with such a continual assault, not even 4th of July in East Oakland. From 11:45pm to 12:30am, there wasn't a single moment of silence or clear sky. Bootleg Chinese fireworks of varying degrees of quality and safety erupted into the night sky, or in the faces of innocent onlookers, in what was the closest experience I've ever had to being in a war zone. This was the first time i really felt completely removed from the western world, despite the fact that the display took place in the foreground of the local KFC. All over China, since there's only one time zone for this whole massive nation, the scene was likely identical, a sky full of bright lights and explosions, while the majority of the rest of the globe was carrying on business as usual. The festivities continued for the next 5 days, marked mostly by a continuous flow of fireworks, usually ignited by small children who could barely tie their shoes - if they were wearing any.

What I thought was my symbolic exodus from China took place before getting my passport stamped, on a one hour flight to Jinghong, located a few hours north of the China-Laos border. The airborne journey replaced what would have been a grueling 20 hour bus ride traversing its way down 6,500 feet of mountain terrain into the tropics. As fate would have it, the carrier for the flight was none other than "Lucky" airlines, which only became known to me at the airport check in. The thought of blasting through the atmosphere at 30,000 feet in a massive steel vessel already makes me search for a higher power to answer my prayers. Combine this with an overcompensating name like "lucky air" and you have a passenger who is ready to join an evangelical church. After a turbulent hour, I touched ground in the tropics and contemplated hugging a palm tree. Before my flight i symbolically deserted my $9 jacket which i had been wearing every day for the previous 5 weeks, evidenced by multiple grease stains resulting from careless noodle soup consumption. Its now perfectly clear that I'm not built to live in a place which suffers through freezing cold winters.

It suddenly appeared that China as I knew it was in the rear view mirror. Bilingual street signs lead the way in Chinese and Burmese, monks roamed the streets, and sandals and shorts were the normal attire. Vendors selling coconut milk and pineapple on a stick produced flashbacks of past trips to the tropics. This all felt like i had left china, at least until i officially crossed the border into Laos, which is another world entirely....

The Dirty South

2009-01-16T02:18:00.000-08:00

China's Guanxi province, population roughly 49 million, is a place i thought only existed in the land of my limitless imagination. All of the exaggerated expectations I had of this nation seemed to appear somewhere in my whirlwind 10 day stay here. Karst limestone peaks burst through the soil, reaching for the sun like mother natures equivalent of the Mayan pyramids. On every block, some form of spicy noodle aroma penetrates your nostrils. People are swimming in the river, meaning it's at least clean enough for your body to not dissolve upon contact. Old fishermen drift slowly downstream on handmade bamboo rafts. Amongst the beauty are shocking and sometimes depressing reminders. In my first destination here, Guilin, I passed a strange spectacle on the way into town, known as the "Bear and Tiger Mountain Village." I would later learn that here you can supposedly witness a group of calf's being introduced into an arena of famished tigers, who predictably tear them to shreds. Elsewhere, dog carcasses hang on meat hooks, while their kin sit idly in inhumanely small cages awaiting a similar fate. Nearby, a mountain of de-fleshed canine skulls, eyeballs still intact, sit staring at every would be customer. Walking the streets means constantly being greeted with a friendly hello, but most of these are followed by a sales pitch of "bamboo, bamboo," for a tour of the Li river on a bamboo raft, or "pretty young girl, sex message for you," no further explanation needed. I eventually caved in to the former offer, and with the help of a local, it ended up being one of the highlights of Guangxi.

On a day trip from Guilin, i went on a day tour of the Devils Backbone Rice Terraces, which are named for obvious reasons. Before continuing, I must make it clear as day that i hate organized tours, but due to time constraints this was the only feasible option. The site itself was amazing, with rice terraces snaking around a mountain of a mountain and disappearing into the foggy horizon. Still, the most memorable event of the day was a trip to a traditional village of the Miao, an ethnic minority in China, with a population of about 10 million. This topic brings me great discomfort because I cant really offer up any kind of practical solution. Amongst a group of other tourists, i was led through these peoples village as they supposedly engaged in their typical day to day affairs. The mirage of daily life was lifted by the end of the tour, as the tourists were treated to a performance of singing and dancing, followed by a mock wedding ceremony, in which 4 lucky foreigners were chosen from the crowd to join their pretend bride. Although slightly amusing at the time, I was nearly sick to my stomach at the thought of treating these peoples home like a living museum. Still, I couldn't help but take a few pictures.
Tourism provides these people with a great deal of their livelihood, but it seems unfortunate that it has to come from such an exotification of their culture. At least the Chinese are making an effort to preserve their diverse ethnic minority communities rather than eradicate them, like some unmentioned countries. It was fascinating to get a glimpse of these people, but I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable watching a couple feed their baby in front of their living room fire pit.

The majority of my time in Guanxi province was spent in the small river town of Yanshuo. Despite a plague of tourist focused businesses, this was my favorite place thus far in China. The surrounding area is full of small villages, temples, rice paddies and unreal rock formations. While browsing a menu in a local restaurant, I encountered a group of Chinese art students who proposed that I join them for dinner, since I was dining alone. According to lonely planet, this is the setup for a sure fire swindling in the immediate future. Despite this and the communication barrier resulting from our respective lack of English and Chinese ability, i joined the party. We feasted on the local specialties of beer fish, and chili snails, while attempting to string together some form of a conversation. This never really got any farther than me telling them my father was born in China, and that the food was delicious, but everyone seemed to be satisfied by the end of the meal. Not only did they not swindle me, they refused to let me pay, and we spent the rest of the night together in a bar, laughing at our inability to communicate.

The highlight of the region was definitely my accepting the offer for "bamboo, bamboo." This is almost entirely due to the fact that I went with a local, the owner of the restaurant where I met the honest art students. So, by the good grace of her presence, I was able to get a discount of about 70%. The cruise began from a famed spot, which is featured prominently on the back of the 20 yuan note.

From here, we rode upstream for about an hour, passing various rock formations known by such majestic names as snail hill and snow lion ridge, which all looked beautiful, but indistinguishable to me.

We were suckered into stopping on a small island, inhabited by an ocean of seafood vending women, but thanks to the local discount, managed to feast on fried shrimp cakes and an entire fried fish on a stick for $1.50. We made a u turn with the sun setting to the west, and a full moon rising in the east. So, the majority of the ride back home looked something like this.
I could easily have stayed another month in this place, but the combination of the weather being colder than I'd like, and the fact I'd already booked an outgoing flight, means I'll just have to come back again. The very next day, I touched down hundreds of miles away in Kunming, the capital of the Yunnan Provence. More to come...

The end of the road.

2008-12-31T01:49:00.000-08:00

How time flies. My job as an English teacher is complete, and in reflection, I've concluded that the Chinese work too hard. Whenever I asked students to recap their weekends, the usual response was homework and sleep, and maybe a computer game in between if they're lucky. When 72 hours of your week is dedicated to formal education, you don't have time for many extracurricular activities.

Despite the workoholic mentality, there are several entertaining aspects about education in China that I'll miss. These are best experienced in a visual format, so what follows are some video highlights of my teaching experience, concluding with a slide show of my students, coworkers, and campus. Ive thoroughly enjoyed myself here, almost to the point of not wanting to leave, but as one of my students commented, "I live like a bird," meaning its about time for me to head south to warmer pastures.

Happy New Year...

Every morning, at 7 O'clock on the dot, all the youngin's engage in their high energy morning exercise:

The high school kids have their own equivalent, being summoned to the athletic field by what I think is the national anthem blaring through the loudspeakers.

Every day, all of my students have periodic breaks between classes to do eye exercises. They perform a routine of self eye massage, to the soothing soundtrack of the numbers 1-8.

With rested eyes, they're ready for musical chairs...

Xue Xiao

Zhu wo sheng ri kuai le.

2008-12-23T01:05:00.000-08:00

The week of my 26th birthday served as a metaphor for all that China is, a roller coaster of emotions, sharply dipping into confusion and disappointment, then soaring to peaks of happiness and amazement. To celebrate the occasion, I went to Shanghai for the third time with two seemingly modest birthday goals in mind:

1) Eat Mexican food
2) Buy new shoes

Both were accomplished, but in typical China fashion the levels of success varied widely. First and foremost, I will address the issue most likely to be of concern to others; is it possible to eat Mexican food in China? Due to all previous attempts to consume Mexican food outside of California and Mexico, I’ve developed an exaggerated skepticism regarding its existence elsewhere. Past attempts to contradict this pessimism have only added high octane fuel to an already raging inferno. Despite vowing to never raise my hopes again in this particular type of venture, I entered Shanghai riding a rising wave of optimism that my dreams of being reunited with the ever elusive taco would come to fruition.

The first destination on this journey, and unfortunately not the last, was the ‘Maya Restaurant.’ As soon as the threshold of the door was crossed, I realized this wasn’t going to be the place where my specific needs were going to be satiated. An elaborate lighting scheme, plush lounge couches, and what looked like the cast from a Michelob Light commercial are all blatant signs that a genuine taco will not be located anywhere on the premises. Still, as the sleet and snow increased in severity, I stubbornly sailed deeper into the storm of desire, ordering the taco combo ($10 for 3 tacos). The price tag, which exceeds many Chinese people’s daily salary, was a dead giveaway as to what kind of “tacos” these were going to be, i.e. delicious, but in an “I sense a hint of rosemary and paprika” kind of way. My intuition served me well, as the tacos were well seasoned, but definitely not Mexican food.

With stubborn determination overriding my better judgment, I refused to extinguish my diminished flame of hope, and the following day a second and final attempt was made to reach El Promised Land. A delivery order was placed to El Mexicano, which according to a review on a Shanghai expatriate website “…is, hands down (and up, and sideways, and perpendicular, don't forget diagonal, also rotating in a clock-wise fashion) the best Mexican resty in the WORLD!!! No, but it's awesome, trust me.” In response to this, and several other reviews from people who appeared to possibly have a relevant opinion, I felt like El Mexicano was the light at the end of my tacoless tunnel.

Something appeared to be afoul the moment the food arrived, based on the two pint sized plastic bags in which it was delivered. We ordered what should have been a bounty of tacos, burritos, and enchiladas, which couldn’t possibly be contained in the modest package that was presented to us. Still, I held onto a final shred of hope that perhaps quality over quantity would be a fair exchange. Words cannot describe the utter disappointment that ensued upon opening the tinfoil containing the tacos and finding this:
This image hasn’t been Photoshopped, nor has somebody eaten the first half of the taco. What you see is the taco exactly as it was presented to me. I could go on indefinitely about the disappointment this caused, but I’m ready to begin removing this tragedy from my memory. Please take a moment to look at this picture and be reminded of it the next time you’re biting into a succulent, salsa splattered, cilantro garnished masterpiece on East 14th or wherever else your nearest taco dealer resides.

A far more successful experience was my replacement of a pair of shoes I’ve worn for the last 2.5 years. Unfortunately, I was in such a hurry to get rid of them that I didn’t take a picture to document their utterly disheveled state, but to illustrate their condition, the soles held animated conversations with one another whenever I walked, flapping uncontrollably with every step. My quest to replace these poor soles led me to a giant bootleg market, which caused great anxiety, based on my previous experiences in these places, which I would describe as the musty armpits of capitalism. I had to be focused in order to get my desired item and get the hell out before having a debilitating panic attack from the onslaught of fake Louis Vutton bags and bug eyed manikins. Luckily, within 15 minutes, fate led me past a colorful display of fake Jordan’s. After being sucked in by a friendly sales pitch, I spotted a pair of New Balance, which appeared to be an adequate mode of transportation for my quickly approaching journey through Southeast Asia. After trying them on, my feet quickly became attached to their new state of comfort, so I eagerly entered the treacherous ring of bootleg market bargaining. Ironically, my opponent, according to her personalized business card, was Ms. Xu (pronounced shoe). So, Ms. Xu busted out her calculator, and through a combination of body language and my slightly improving grasp of mandarin, I was able to decipher the following information, as she violently typed numbers into the calculator.
“These shoes are very good, and they usually cost 680 yuan. Our price is 340 yuan, but because you are my friend, I will give you the special price of 240.”
So without having uttered a word, I got a friendly discount of 440 yuan. In response, I quickly offered to pay 90, which produced a pleasant chuckle from Ms. Xu. After pretending that I’d be content to exit the store in my soulless shoes, she was convinced to lower the price to 150. Meeting her halfway, I agreed that 120 would be a fair price, but not a penny more. She initially refused, but after gratuitous use of “tai gui le” and “pian yi diar ba,” (too expensive, and make it cheaper), she dropped to 130, which she insisted was the lowest price she could possibly offer. I happily handed over the equivalent of $20, bid adieu to Ms. Shoe, and swiftly walked out of bootleg hell with comfortable feet.

Back in Huzhou, the festivities continued, culminating in my most elaborate birthday party since elementary school, organized by a special, unexpected group. Through all my highs and lows as a teacher, there has been one constant cornerstone in the maintenance of my sanity, my seventh grade students. Initially, I was most concerned about teaching these kids because 13 seems to be a universal age of bubbling excitation, when kids think they’re grown, but still engage in fart jokes and snot rockets to no end. So, the shockingly positive experience I’ve had with these kids thus far was already a grand birthday present in and of itself.

On the day of the party, I was summoned to the classroom, where I was greeted by an ocean of smiling children screaming “Happy Birthday” and a nice welcome message.
Once I was seated front and center, the students were individually called upon to approach me bearing gifts. As each of the 44 names was called, a bright face approached, bearing an elaborately wrapped box or an awkward grin. The latter group, who must’ve secretly known about my aversion to materialism, provided some of the most memorable gifts. They timidly explained how they didn't have a tangible present for me, but would like to present me with an English sentence. Various verbal offerings included “you’re such a good teacher, I like you, you’re so cool, and I hope you are happy everyday.” The highlight came from a boy named Snake (pictured above), who explained that since he couldn’t afford to buy me a present, he would like to give me a hug instead. I accepted with open arms, as his peers applauded wildly. By the time student 44 was called upon, I was swamped in shiny boxes and moving messages.

Upon opening these packages, I found among other things, a rabbit puppet, an hourglass, a wallet, a bow and arrow set, a scarf, snowboarding gloves, a basketball, a set of mugs, a Chinese pop CD, and a poster of the 1995 Houston rockets. Also included were a handful of items whose identity and function remain unknown to me, but it’s the thought that counts.
After my newest possessions were laid aside, my students indulged me in an hour of raucous games, singing, and dancing. The highlight was a lively round of musical chairs, which they blatantly let me win, being the kind hearted souls they are. The grand finale came in the form of what looked like the bottom tier of a massive wedding cake. In typical China fashion, the birthday boy was delegated to the role of cake cutter, meaning I faced the daunting task of evenly dividing a 10 pound cake amongst 44 sugar craving 13 year olds. Through the good grace of some divine force, I chopped off a slice for the last student, with just enough left to spare for a midnight snack.

In the end, my 26th birthday will go down as one of my most memorable, and despite el decepcion, it was a smashing success. I don’t want to downplay the gravity of my realization that many moons will pass before I encounter another taco, but just like other let downs I’ve had in China, it doesn’t come close to counteracting the moments of amazement and appreciation for the spirit of the people who call this place home. My departure from Huzhou and the teaching life is now one week away, which will be a bittersweet farewell. Its clear that despite any headaches I may have endured in the process, I really am going to miss my students.

Coming soon: a slide show of pictures from my school.

Adapt(N)ation

2008-12-11T02:29:00.000-08:00

Despite a steady flow of logic deprived moments, I’ve noticed that in just 16 weeks, I’ve quietly become acclimated to life in China. There are plenty of examples to document this strange phenomenon, but what follows is the crème of the crop. As a throwback to an earlier post, I’ve thrown in a second round of random English phrases found on Chinese T-shirts, serving as an additional indicator of my adaptation. During my first few weeks here, I amassed a mountain of paper scraps, on which I had documented the many amusing word combinations I’d encounter on the streets of Huzhou. In recent weeks, my collection has been at a standstill because I’ve become completely immune illogical grammar to.

Comming
to my party?

For the last six weeks, I’ve been commuting to work on a bicycle, joining the morning rush of two wheelers packed together like a school of fish, navigating the currents of Huzhou’s impressive network of bike lanes. My ability to engage in this mayhem and survive to tell the story is exhibit A in the trial of my successful adjustment to China. Coming from a place where people get shot for stepping on each others shoes cultivates a profound entitlement to personal space that is incompatible with life in the middle kingdom, where the populous is generally unarmed. Initially, I was engulfed in the gut reaction of absolute outrage at being seemingly invisible to other motorists, resulting in various chains of expletives spilling forth from my mouth. Seeing how these tirades weren’t going to change anything, it didn’t take long for me to adjust my attitude, and join in the party of swerving dangerously close to everyone in my path. In return, I made a verbal agreement not to take offense to anyone returning the favor, as long as they don’t actually make contact with me. At this point, my only response to being aggressively cut off is to intuitively swerve out of harms way and peacefully continue on my journey. I have yet to get in an accident or altercation, knock on wood, and I’ve even come to enjoy the video game sensation of weaving in and out of oncoming traffic.

A related and equally surprising turn of events, given my country of origin, is my overcoming the primal rage which results from being incessantly honked at like a stripper in high heels and a mini skirt. Use of the horn in China seems to be a subject of great cultural misunderstanding. In the U.S., the horn is either an absolute last resort, or a tool used for initiating confrontation, but in China it’s more like a mechanical, “hello.” Once the driver starts the engine, the horn becomes an extra appendage, continuously used to announce ones presence to the world, as if the automobile were some kind of fantastical machine which makes you invisible. As a result, it’s a common occurrence to be enjoying a stroll thru town, only to hear the rapidly approaching sound of an attention grabbing honking spree, the perpetrator seemingly making every effort to force an unreasonably slow motorist out of the way. Then, in turning around to see what all the commotion is about, you realize that it’s the lone vehicle on the road, completely unobstructed by anyone or anything. That’s when you realize he’s just saying hello to all the people who would otherwise be unaware of his existence. Frivolous as this sounds, the constant honking serves a practical purpose, which can be embraced, once you get over the initial, “What the f*** is your problem?” response that’s been ingrained in you. The logic here is that I much prefer an audible warning, obnoxious as it may be, to narrowly escaping collisions with silent scooters, whose tailwinds ruffle the hairs on my knuckles. Not to give myself too much credit, but I think I’ve been pretty open minded in my acceptance of Chinese road etiquette, and in turn, I’ve had many entertaining and stress free journeys around town.

Sweat the dream

On a recent commute, I encountered exhibit B of my apparent Chinafication. Buzzing past me was an old man on a rickety, electric tricycle, with a flat bed attached for hauling purposes. This seems to be the transportation mode of choice for anyone carrying cardboard collections, uprooted trees, family members, or in this case, meat products. On the edge of the platform, amongst an array of animal parts, was the hindquarter of a pig, distinguishable by its curly tail, bouncing in response to every bump in the road. My first reaction was nothing more than, “Hey, that looks like a pig.” It wasn’t until later, upon further reflection, that I realized, “That’s raw pork wandering around on the back of some old dude’s dusty cart, unrefrigerated in the filthy open air!” Who knows how long he was riding around with that unfortunate pig’s ass dangling form his cart, but I’m pretty sure raw pork isn’t meant to be paraded around in the not so pristine Chinese air for anytime whatsoever. The fact that I didn’t immediately stomp on the kickstand and vomit on the side of the road is one thing, but that I have since eaten “the other white meat,” maybe even that very same day, leads me to believe that I’m on my way to being fully adjusted.

Eastern we r
the camel generation

Exhibit C was found on my trip to Hangzhou, where I was already being pissed on by Mother Nature. There, while enjoying an already mediocre meal, an old man came walking swiftly through the restaurant clutching a little girl in his arms like a 50 pound sack of rice. The duo approached the bathroom sink, which is located not in the bathroom, but in the communal dining area. The man repositioned his cargo until she was symmetrically situated over the sink, at which point she proceeded to relieve herself, roughly 4 feet from the nearest diners. Everyone went about their business, and yours truly, made a casual comment like, “That girl’s taking a piss in the sink,” but carried on with my meal. Like the bouncing pig tail, it wasn’t until later that I reflected on the situation, imagining how it would have unfolded in the American realm of hand sanitizer and bathroom sinks located inside of the bathroom. I can see it now, a hockey mom up in arms and demanding to speak to the manager, and Joe six pack dropping a few atomic F bombs before busting out of the door.

You are
what you eat
(A picture of a hot dog)

My conclusion upon semi adapting to these situations is that the level of comfort enjoyed in many peoples’ day to day lives, especially Americans, is responsible for the de-evolution of the species. I’m not saying that having girls piss in the sink while you eat lunch will promote intellectual stimulation or further critical thinking skills, but people are generally confined within too narrow a comfort zone. Inside of this little air conditioned, pleather box, creativity and resourcefulness are rarely required, and as a result, these traits are disappearing. China will violently break down the walls of your comfort zone and move them somewhere over the horizon from your current vantage point. For this reason, I’m eternally grateful to this place, for should I decide to live in the United States again, I will require so little in terms of material comfort and personal space, I could essentially be content living in a cardboard box on BART.

DIE
YUPPY
SCUM

Side Trippin

2008-11-30T06:37:00.000-08:00

The province in which I reside, Zhejiang, is only China’s 11th most populated, yet it has 11 million more people than California, despite being one fourth its size. Even more disproportionate, is its recorded history, being inhabited for over 7,000 years, with the last 2,500 and change contained within one continuous civilization. Basically, there are people everywhere, and they’ve been around for a minute, for lack of a better word. This becomes increasingly apparent when venturing out of the confines of my present hometown of Huzhou, with its modest population of 2 million, and limited sites of historical significance that have survived the current construction craze. Life here is pretty laid back by Chinese standards, which can lull you into a false notion about the reality of this country. Possibly more shocking than being injected into the human pinball of Shanghai is a quick flip through a China guidebook. Within a 200 mile radius of Huzhou, there are an abundance of mega cities that 99% of the world’s population has never heard of, like Wuxi, population 4.3 million, Yangzhou 4.46 million, , Shaoxing 4.3 million, Ningbo 5.4 million, and Wenzhou 7.4 million. The list could continue for quite a while, since China has more than 100 cities with a population over 1 million.

I’ve recently been escaping from Huzhou on the weekends to explore larger cities of interest that folks outside of China may have actually heard of. My first destination, Hangzhou, is a fellow Zhejiangian city, while Suzhou and Nanjing required crossing a border into the neighboring province of Jiangsu, population a modest 74 million.

The first thing any Chinese person will say when you mention Hangzhou, is “You must go to the West Lake.” The famed lake is located in the center of this town of six plus million people and is one of China’s major tourist attractions. It’s surrounded by pagodas, finely manicured shrubbery, and to my dismay, a handful of Starbucks. Hangzhou was founded 2,200 years ago and visited in the 13th century by Marco Polo, who then called it the finest city in the world. Unfortunately, my introduction to the city was slightly dampened, since it was raining relentlessly during my entire stay. Despite the non-cooperating weather, my English teaching crew and I went for a boat ride on the West Lake, which was relaxing, but didn’t quite live up to the hype that had been heaped upon me leading up to my visit.
My Hangzhou journey took place before Halloween, so an afternoon was spent searching for costume materials. This quest led to a gigantic, cavernous mall featuring five floors of utterly useless crap. Claustrophobia sunk in quickly while navigating through a mass of manikins and bootleg sunglasses, all housed under an 8 foot ceiling that seemed to get increasingly shorter by the minute. I’m not a fan of shopping to begin with, but I promptly came to refer to this place as hell incarnate.

The highlight of the entire weekend was an Indian food buffet, featuring a stage which rotated between a live belly dancer and a projection TV playing classic bollywood music videos. Here, my taste buds were graced by the likes of daal, naan, and chicken massala, which equaled such a mainlined overdose of non-Chinese flavor, it’s a miracle I didn’t eat myself into an eternal coma.

Another noteworthy experience in Hangzhou was my daring first attempt to eat a burrito in China. I had no expectations, although I couldn’t help but hold onto a shred of optimism, and wonder if I would be served a greasy, tinfoil wrapped, bean filled, masterpiece of Mexican origami, at which point I would go straight to KTV and sing “Reunited” by Peaches and Herb. Back in stone cold reality, I was met by shredded chicken and lettuce inside of a tortilla, the only saving grace being a conservative scoop of sour cream on the side.

I would never admit it to a Chinese person, but on this particular visit, the Indian food was more impressive than the West Lake. I imagine Hangzhou would be much more majestic when seen without an umbrella obstructed view, so hopefully I’ll be able to return and formulate a more Marco Polo-esque opinion.

According to a famous Chinese proverb, Suzhou is the equivalent of Heaven on earth. Upon arrival, with its population of 5.7 million, it looks just like any other sprawling city in China, but once you crack through its generic exterior, Suzhou becomes exponentially more heavenly. The old city, bounded on all sides by a moat, is about 5 square miles and features surviving patches of cobblestone streets, traversed by canals and bridges, hence its nickname, Venice of the East.

My first stop in Suzhou was the Humble Administrator’s Garden. I’d give the benefit of the doubt and assume the name is a joke, but the Chinese don’t really use irony, so it just appears to be a bold faced lie. Suzhou is famous for its gardens and this one is the largest and most renowned. It’s a meticulously designed oasis of coy filled ponds, pagodas, and precisely placed plant life, as to not disrupt the feng shui. Doesn’t seem like a place that would be dedicated to any so called humble administrator. As hypocritical as it sounds, this could’ve been one of the most relaxing places I’ve been in China, were it not for swarms of tourists spreading over every available square inch of the place. I’m aware that I’m just another tourist in the crowd, but i couldn't help imagining the garden without the armies of annoying tour groups, in which everyone sports matching hats, aimlessly following a flag waving tour guide like a flock of camera wielding sheep. In theory, this is the absolute low season for tourism, which makes me cringe at the thought of visiting in the high season. I’d personally recommend risking execution and hopping the fence after hours to enjoy the garden in peace and quiet.
Another significant event was a visit to the Pintan Opera Museum, which featured my first live theater experience in China, performed in Suzhouhua, the local regional dialect. If you’ve ever wondered why Chinese television always has Chinese subtitles, it’s because every region speaks a different dialect which is completely incomprehensible to its neighbors. Remarkably, the written language remains the same, so logically the performance had a digital projector displaying the written mandarin translation. Unfortunately, this did me no good, as I've managed to learn about 3 Chinese characters thus far (People, land, and building). Entertaining as it was to temporarily invent my own dialogue, it was difficult to become fully immersed in the drama without having the slightest idea as to what was going on.

Even though my 30 hour stay was too short to form any kind of accurate opinion, Suzhou is the best place I’ve been so far in China. Wandering around a maze of old one story buildings and canals, polluted as they may be, was a welcome relief to the soulless high rises that dominate the landscape elsewhere.

Most recently, I traveled to yet another metropolis, Nanjing, where 5.29 million people battle for personal space on tree lined streets. The city was originally founded 2,500 years ago and features the longest city wall in the world. It’s famous for being the capital of China from 1368 to 1644, and was believed to have been the largest city in the world at the turn of the 14th century. In modern times, it briefly regained capital status in the early 20th century, and is home to one of the worst atrocities committed in the atrocity plagued 20th century.

With a preconceived understanding that despair about the state of the world would follow, my first excursion in Nanjing was to the Massacre Memorial Hall, which chronicles the Rape of Nanjing, perpetrated by invading Japanese troops at the close of 1937. During a devastating 6 weeks, it’s estimated that over 300,000 Chinese were killed and 80,000 raped, in the midst of an all out assault on the capital. Not surprisingly, the exterior of the museum is a dark, lifeless landscape occupied by a few suffering sculptures. The interior provides an in-depth look at the lives of various victims and documents the details of the killing, torture, and rape that decimated the city. The most haunting image was a recently beheaded Chinese man's cranium, placed on a fence post with a cigarette hanging from his mouth for the amusement of Japanese soldiers. Less revolting but equally disturbing were a pair of massive walls identifying the names of the departed.
As expected, I left the museum depressed about the disturbing history of humanity. I believe people are born inherently good, so it’s hard to cope with the reality of masses of people being consistently led into the absolute depths of evil and madness. I don’t think any Japanese soldiers, Nazi’s, or corporate CEO's were born with a biological thirst for blood, but somewhere along the way they were steered violently in the wrong direction. For all that we claim to be, humans are still a bunch of savage beasts killing each other for reasons unknown to most. I guess it takes more than a memorial museum for people to learn from the mistakes of the past.

To end on a lighter note, I do have tremendous hope for the future. Hope on all levels. Hope that a taco truck will be lurking deep in the jungles of Cambodia. Hope that the world isn’t completely fucked beyond repair. Hope not in an individual, but in the collective power of all the rational, free thinking, peace loving people who are destined to reclaim the throne from those who have abused it for so long.

While exploring my neighboring cities, I've begun to realize the extent to which China now plays a mandatory role in the direction of mankind. With a fifth of the world’s population, the fate of humanity is intimately tied to whatever happens here, for better or worse. So far, I’ve only been to 6 Chinese cities, and their combined population is more than California’s. In each place, my understanding of China, and therefore the world, has been shattered and rebuilt. It's a parallel universe where women in knock off designer jeans walk side by side with monks. Kids who can barely walk have cell phone conversations, while construction crews navigate bamboo scaffolding. In each city, the past and present are strangely interacting on a scale that's too ginormous to explain. With all this change happening for so many people, China has some serious issues that need to be addressed. Most importantly will be how the country can keep its economy growing without continuing to rape the environment, and how many opportunities can be created for some 750 million poor rural peasants, who are supposed to be the beneficiaries of communism. About 1 in 9 people on earth is a Chinese peasant, a population with the potential for revolution on a scale the world has never seen, if they recognize how badly they're being screwed and organize accordingly. For the sake of the world, I'm hopeful that China will somehow be able to resolve these issues peacefully.

In one month, I will be switching careers from professional educator to nomadic vagabond. I'm sure that when 2009 hits, my understanding of China will have transformed several times, and once I hit the road, the transformation will continue. That's pretty much what traveling is all about.

"Find your Feeling."

2008-11-19T02:30:00.000-08:00

Given the remarkable regularity of my presence in KTV, an entertaining story was bound to emerge from the neon haze sooner or later. My journey began in a high caliber establishment, complete with artificial gold and marble adornments, and a three person team of KTV employees who cater to your every need, ensuring an abundant flow of liquor and watermelon. Along with a handful of other lao wai’s, I was invited to this elaborate party, hosted by some local Chinese VIP’s. Being a rare commodity in these parts, foreigners often find themselves invited to gatherings full of people they’ve never met, either as a hospitable gesture, or to be paraded around as a status symbol. In this case, it seemed that good old fashioned Chinese hospitality was the only motivating factor.

The host of the function was a local bank president, who was looking distantly at sobriety in his rear view mirror when we arrived. Within an hour, everybody else was headed in the same direction, as the Chinese are not shy about peer pressuring any and everyone into drinking excessive amounts of alcohol at an unreasonable pace. Before the clock strikes ten, Mr. CEO enters a vicious cycle of spilling drinks on the table, laying his head in his wife’s lap, and singing his drunken heart out, in no particular order. As the night finds its way to a close, the crowd gives up on singing and dances to techno instrumentals instead. While feasting on watermelon and duck necks, casually enjoying the show from the comfort of a plush couch, I’m invited onto the makeshift dance floor. The combination of the “When In China, or W.I.C.” philosophy and the open bar, result in the fateful decision to leave the safety of the sofa and hit the Chinese with a sample of life in the Bay Area. To an unlikely soundtrack, with an unusually fast tempo, a brief introduction to hyphy ensues. (The cauldron of emotions inspired by the fact that this word has a wikipedia page could be the topic of a lengthy blog, but back to the story). Soon after this outburst, I’m approached by the youngest member of the party, a high school student named Susan. She insists that I teach her “my moves,” despite my insistence that “moves” are not something I posses in my repertoire. I then proceed to simultaneously instruct her and her father how to do whatever it was that I was doing into some ungodly hour of the night. This all seemed like innocent fun at the time, but I would soon learn that the story was far from over.

The following afternoon, I was awoken on my bamboo mattress by the annoying chirp of my cell phone. In a state of delirium, I flipped it open to find a message from Susan, which read as follows;

“Hi gino- my headmaster (principal) wants me to give a hip hop dance performance at my school. Can you help me? SOS!!”

My initial response is, “Who in their right mind would ask me to do such a thing?” I mentally rewind to the events of the previous evening and realize why such a seemingly random request is being made. My imagination floods my consciousness with nightmarish images of being booed off the stage by an unruly mob of Chinese high school kids. Despite every rational bone in my body attempting to avoid the situation, I agree to participate, not knowing exactly what this will entail.

Following our verbal agreement, a week passes, during which time I assume that she has come to her senses and found someone more qualified for the job, but come Friday she’s eagerly requesting a choreography lesson. Still in disbelief as to how this situation even came about, I agree based on the “W.I.C.” principle, and agree to “help” her. All along, I’m hoping to Buddha that there are no kids at her school who actually know how to dance, otherwise whatever sham of a production I lead her into will be exposed as a fraud.

Our initial practice takes place in her father’s home office, where I struggle to mimic whatever I was doing in the realm of KTV, with its nightclub lighting and free flowing whiskey. Fortunately, I’m informed that my presence will not be requested on stage, and my services are confined to choreography, which it turns out is much more difficult than dancing. The only major progress of day one occurs when I am given free reign to choose the music for the performance. First, I attempt to convince her that she should reenact a routine from the break dancing flick “Breakin and Enterin,” but she specifically says “no popping.” After this dream was shattered, the natural choice was “Tell me when to go.” If you haven’t had the fortune of being exposed to this song or phrase, it’s basically a rhetorical question asking “When should I go (dumb)?,” with the assumed response being immediately. Once the soundtrack is settled, I manage to teach her a few so called moves before her mother makes us dinner, and lesson one is complete.

Another week passes, filled with the same ambivalent feelings as the first, but by Sunday, another meeting is arranged. This time we rendezvous in a place I had previously attempted to avoid at all costs, KFC. So, here I find myself on a Sunday afternoon, surrounded by a group of high school kids in KFC, in China. Luckily practice is destined to be outdoors, so we head to a park overlooking the river that snakes its way though Huzhou. This aquatic thoroughfare is constantly traversed by a barrage of barges, which are either filled to capacity with raw natural materials heading East to Shanghai, or empty and heading West for a refill.

To this backdrop, ‘the crew’ displays their routine, which is in serious need of some polishing. Susan is the only one who knows what she’s doing and puts all the other kids to shame. The remaining misfits look like they’re having trouble just walking in a straight line with their awkward, pubescent coordination. Susan explains, “They don’t know how to find their feeling.” Basically, they’re as stiff as my bamboo mattress and don’t seem intent on breaking out of their current state. An hour passes with “tell me when to go” on repeat, becoming permanently embedded in my psyche, which I’m sure will have some kind of negative impact on my sanity somewhere down the line. By the end of the session they’ve strung together something resembling a routine, but they’re far from being ready to display themselves in front of their peers. Here’s the shui guo (fruit) of their labor at this point.

Unfortunately, this is where the visual evidence of the story terminates. Teaching obligations prevented me from witnessing the final product, but according to Susan, the rest of the group members failed to ever “find their feeling,” which was blatantly obvious to the crowd. Luckily, Susan put on a quality individual performance, which met rave reviews, and the boys didn’t mind being laughed at. They actually requested that the crew stay intact and keep performing, which could one day result in a battle, should another crew spring up from the Huzhou underground and challenge their authority. In the end, despite all the anxiety that was inflicted upon me for being involved in this project, it was satisfying to see Susan succeed in isolation, while attempting to pump some life into the listless limbs of her peers. More than anything this tale is just another indicator of life in China. It is completely unpredictable, which is why you can’t be surprised when you suddenly go from singing love ballads with a bank president to choreographing a hip hop dance routine for a group of high school students. Just another day in tomorrowland.

All Hallows' Eve

2008-11-11T07:25:00.000-08:00

For the glorious occasion of "Wan Sheng Jie," my fellow English teachers and I made a triumphant return to the city of the future, Shanghai. To demonstrate my spirit, I paraded around the provincial capital as a thugged out elephant, which was the end product of a late night trip of costume searching desperation to the local supermarket, where I spotted my trunk to be. Greeting my plastic drainage pipe, inside out Cheerio’s box and diamond studded peanut medallion, were a variety of facial expressions ranging from the gleeful amusement of the taxi driver to the sheer terror of an unsuspecting old woman. Despite the mushrooming population of foreigners, Halloween has yet to fully catch on in China, so our unusual attire caused us to command even more attention than usual. Joined by my cohorts, Dexter the scientist, Gwen Stefani, Gem, rock star dude, Mr. Plumage, and 60’s girl, we set about terrorizing the city, and educating the locals about our strange cultural phenomenon.
In the aftermath of the festivities, my weekend was filled with the gluttony that Shanghai inspires in visitors arriving from places lacking culinary diversity (Huzhou). To cap off my visit and walk off the repercussions of some overindulgence at the bakery, I went to the Shanghai Urban Planning Exhibition Center, which chronicles the rapid accent of a fishing village into a modern, international super city, and optimistically projects its growth into the near future. Besides a fine spread of interesting before and after pictures highlighting the city’s capitalist makeover, the main attraction is a massive scale model of Shanghai, as it is projected to appear in 2020.
I’ve only spent a total of 7 days here, and they’ve all been contained within a pint sized 2 mile radius in the center of this labyrinth. Sprawling in every direction are masses of interchangeable skyscrapers and high rise apartment complexes. The most obvious difference between the present and the proposed future is the massive influx of the color green. Additional exhibits explain many of the strategies that Shanghai will utilize in its attempted greening process, which will be a monumental challenge, as the city continues its constant vertical and horizontal expansion. It’s a good sign that this attempt is being made, but for Shanghai to become more eco-friendly and simultaneously develop as projected seems impossible. Hopefully, for the sake of the world, China can make it happen.

A final noteworthy attraction of the museum is a complex promotional package, aka propaganda, for the 2010 International Expo. The centerpiece is a virtual tour of the city in 2010, when all of the planned facilities will be completed. Patrons huddle in the middle of a 360 degree screen that wraps around the room, blanketing your entire field of vision. The tour simulates flying at dangerously high speeds and low altitudes over the proposed future and is narrated by two overly enthusiastic Chinese children. In addition to the nausea resulting from this combination, just thinking about a future filled with automatically flushing toilets and bluetooth headsets caused the army of egg custard pastries in my stomach to stand at attention. I think I’m finding myself increasingly uncomfortable and ill equipped for life in the digital age.
The take home message of my second visit to Shanghai is that the more I know about the place, the more overwhelming it becomes. Explaining its massive scale is like describing snow to someone who has never been outside of the tropics, but I’ll attempt to do so by drawing a parallel to home. If you're like me, and you sometimes find yourself slightly overwhelmed when navigating through the chaos that can be San Francisco, this may help put things in perspective. Shanghai is roughly 9 times bigger than San Francisco, with TRIPLE the population density. Again, that's 9 times bigger AND 3 times more crowded. At this point, I’m still no closer to comprehending this place, but right now it’s probably one of the most fascinating places to be on earth.

Havings of good times.

2008-11-03T00:39:00.000-08:00

When it’s time to unwind and enjoy yourself in China, you will likely be presented with a fork in the road leading in two seemingly opposing directions. Even if there are no legible signs posted, your intuition will inform you that your duo of choices are singing karaoke or drinking tea. Whether you’re in the middle of a crowded downtown intersection, or wandering through a dark alley, you’ll never be far from a KTV (karaoke), or a chaguan (teahouse). The former will be desperately attempting to grab your attention from 5 blocks away with a neon light show engineered to deliver you into a mind altering seizure. The latter will calmly convince you of its worthiness, subtly pulling you in with soothing plants and tranquil fish tanks. The appeal of both venues, different as they may seem, lies in their distinguishing feature; a private room for you and your friends to entertain each other, usually in embarrassing ways that are better kept behind closed doors. Both are available at any desired level of quality, ranging from a soggy couch surrounded by four blank walls, to an elaborately designed suite that could be the set of an extravagant music video.

I would guess that the mutual success of KTV and the chaguan are owed to the traditional structure of the Chinese family. People generally live with their parents until they get married, so there is great appeal in having a private space to escape to. Maybe people are so infatuated with sipping tea and singing love songs that the opportunity to partake in either exists within any 1 block radius, but I think more likely is that they just want to get away from home for a few hours. I’m pretty sure a private room with an etch-a-sketch and a trampoline would be equally successful if marketed properly. I wouldn’t describe singing or drinking 'cha' as my ideal way of spending a Friday night, but in keeping with my pledge to follow through on the philosophy "When in China…," I’ve ended up in both of these settings on a more than a handful of occasions.

It seems that in the domain of KTV, every Chinese person reveals their secret identity as an aspiring vocalist. If you’re one of the unfortunate souls in China who can’t sing, you’ll likely be ostracized by your peers like a Brazilian who doesn’t know how to dance. On the surface, Chinese people may mislead you into assuming that they are reserved, but put a microphone in their hand and display a bootleg music video on a giant projection screen, and you’ll open up the floodgates to some serious outpouring of heart and soul. Since nobody managed to tell me that the Chinese are petitioning the International Olympic Committee to make karaoke an official event at the 2012 Olympics, (Not really, but they do take it very seriously), I managed to embarrass myself, and my country, by my making a complete mockery of every song I attempted to recreate. After butchering such musical masterpieces as ‘Hey Jude,’ and ‘Gangsta’s paradise,’ I witnessed my Chinese counterparts clear their throats and proceed to belt out a variety of ballads, showcasing their extraordinary vocal range. During a KTV birthday party for my assistant, Penny, my American co-stars and I noticed that the majority of the Chinese contingent seemed to flee the room whenever we were singing. This was justified as their being courteous enough to step outside of the room to smoke cigarettes, but I wonder if it was just to escape the ridiculous exhibition that was taking place inside.
My most notable experience at a chaguan took place with a Chinese coworker and her array of acquaintances, who invited Guen and me to join in a game of ‘Mafia,’ which involves imaginary murder.

So the scene is as follows; Guen and I form the southwest boundary of a circle of people who identify themselves by such English names as “Do, Shrek, Spirit hunter, Pear, House, Dream,” and our coworker “Coco.” All told, there are 14 people awkwardly squeezed into a room intended to accommodate 7. Spread before us on an ill-equipped coffee table, are the usual suspects in the world of Chinese snacks, including the typical watermelon, cantaloupe, and cherry tomato trifecta. Smothering almost every other available square inch of the table are sunflower seeds, cold chicken feet, peanuts, and random stringy substances amongst a variety of herbal infusions. In the audible background, Chinese music videos compete with the steady hum of the air conditioner.
For 3 hours, we participate in the psychological warfare that ‘Mafia’ demands, and I manage to learn and forget many new and interesting phrases like “He is the killer because he blinks too much when he talks.” By the time the fifth game comes to a close, the novelty of the situation begins to fade, and I enter a state of wonder as to how this group in their late twenties is still entertained by a game that I use as a reward for my tenth grade students when they’re on good behavior. Particularly intriguing is the absolute absence of alcohol from this gathering, other than the bottle of beer that I’ve smuggled into the premises. People have random, inexplicable outbursts of laughter that might usually be associated with intoxication, but there is nothing but herbal goodness being consumed at this party. Is it the synergy of foliage in hot water and mock violence that inspires such unadulterated amusement, or is it the universal appreciation for quality time spent with friends?

Ni hao lao shi?

2008-10-23T01:56:00.000-07:00

The halfway point of my teaching gig is fast approaching, which warrants an update on my trials and tribulations as an educator. I’m starting to adapt to life in the jungle, but it’s not necessarily getting easier. Never have I had a job where success is so intimately tied to preparation. The time I invest in assembling lessons directly correlates to whether or not I can create the illusion that I’m actually an experienced professional.

Also included in this equation is the quality, or lack thereof, of the textbooks I’ve been assigned to teach. The books I use for my 7th to 10th grade students are mostly useful, but the travashamockery of an educational device known as “New Concept English,” which I have been relegated to use with my 6 graders, should be cordially invited to a book burning party. It would be a disgrace even if it was written in the 1950’s, but unfortunately it was published as recently as 1997.

Tucked neatly amongst a surplus of Britishism laden lessons, such as “Sorry, sir” and “What make (car) is it?” are assortments of confusing, annoying, and offensive situations. For example, a few lessons feature an unusually busty French exchange student. I buried my shamed face in chalk encrusted hands on several occasions after subjecting my students to the audio tape featuring Sophie, and her equally ridiculous and inaccurate French accent.

“Ha eeh, mah eeh nay um eez Soh fee. Nigh us to meet yew.”

The list of grievances could proceed indefinitely, but several other egregious offenses come to mind. Actual quotes from the text, which are intended to be repeated by the students, include such gems as “Would you care for some whisky?” “How about a cigarette?” or “Let’s go have a drink. There’s a bar next to the station.” The epitome of the book’s message can be wrapped up in the following example. A lesson about opposites featured various images and captions, such as a dirty mechanic and a clean nurse. Corresponding with an image of a “busy hair dresser,” was a woman kicking back with her feat up, while a mountain of dirty dishes sits idly by the sink in the foreground. The caption is “lazy housewife.”

So, as the semester has progressed, I’ve shifted towards abandoning the book completely and creating my own lessons from scratch, which is far more time consuming, but less conscience crushing. The combination of terrible teaching materials and the inexhaustible energy of 12 year olds, who are trapped in the confines of the classroom from 7am to 7pm, make my 6th grade classes by far the most difficult.

Luckily, this age group has an incredibly long attention span when it comes to hangman. I’ve realized, in the thinking outside of the box which goes along with being in another country, hangman is a really strange and violent game to teach small children. Anyways, they love it, and wouldn’t mind if it consumed every available minute of class time. However, there is a growing league of saboteurs who are intent on seeing the helpless man perish, constantly guessing letters such as z, x, and q, followed by a chorus of giggles from fellow saboteurs when an appendage is added to our sacrificial stick man. So, you can imagine their disappointment when they accidentally succeeded in solving the word “crazy.”
Taming these swarms of “Bebe’s Kids” has taken a toll on my mental stability. Most folks find it hard to imagine me directing the energy of a large group of children, and rightfully so. My usual carefree attitude is incompatible with commanding a mass of ten-second attention spans. I’ve been able to step my game up, but it requires such a departure from my ordinary state of being that it completely drains my energy reserves. I’ve adapted my daily routine by including afternoon naps and occasional meditation to repair the resulting psychological dissonance (I guess that Psychology degree is finally paying off).

These kids do have one redeeming factor, which is the unconditional enthusiasm and adoration they express towards their lao shi. This is most often manifested in the incessant screaming of my name whenever they spot me on campus, which may be the easiest “Where’s Waldo?” the world has ever seen. Sometimes, they show hints of being wiser beyond their years, and they manage to reach me on a deeper level. In the lesson about opposites which featured the lazy housewife, I was able to at least teach them the difference between hot and cold, and clean versus dirty. As the lesson was winding down, I put myself in a vulnerable situation by asking several all or nothing questions, such as, “Am I fat or thin, tall or short, and most importantly, am I young or old?” I wasn’t really concerned about the first two, but given my recent realization about being almost a decade removed from high school, I had doubts about the potential responses to the final question. To my surprise, all 168 of the little ones emphatically agreed that I was young, which resulted in me rewarding them with wild praise and temporarily forgiving them for their past transgressions.

For the most part, my experience with the high school students has been much more relaxing. Despite being prone to dozing off in class, before being violently awoken by my fist against their desk, they become actively engaged when I present them with an interesting lesson. Lively discussions have revolved around such topics as how to meet a girlfriend in America, which was essentially a crash course in terrible pick up lines. These kids are all planning to make it to the U.S., so don’t be surprised or offended if a lightweight Chinese boy approaches you and asks if your feet are tired. If you don’t know the line that follows this question, I would suggest remaining in blissful ignorance.
In a completely unexpected turn of events, I had to break up a full blown fist fight in my 10th grade class. During an otherwise innocent game of poker, there was apparently some instigation going on in Chinese, which ended up spiraling out of control. It took exactly 2 seconds of having my back turned for all hell to effectively break loose. Reacting to the horrified looks on the faces of my other 8 students, I did a one-eighty to find the remaining two in the midst of exchanging some passionate haymakers. In hindsight, I ran a significant risk of getting caught in the crossfire, but I immediately entered the ring and managed to shut down the dueling hormone factories. I thought my reaction was swift, but not before plenty of blood had been shed, and a pair of glasses crushed and tossed out the window. I still haven’t figured out if this event was an indication of the increasing Americanization of China, the behavior of the spoiled little emperor generation, or some other outside force I have yet to comprehend.

My brief halftime conclusion is that everyone should experience being a teacher at some point in life. Standing on “the other side” provides a perspective that’s hard to grasp when your just one of many menacing faces behind a desk. It’s a constant challenge that’s about as comfortable as sleeping standing up, but it’s a guaranteed escape from monotony that provokes constant creativity. There have been rare days I’ve cursed my current profession, along with my present nation of residence, but usually by the time the weekend rolls around I look back at the week in a favorable light. Basically, my experience as a teacher is similar to being a Raiders fan for the last few years. I put up with a lot of bullshit, and constant disorganization, but when even the slightest things go well I celebrate like I’ve won the Super Bowl.

Back in the day...

2008-10-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

Since breaking out of the bubble of adolescence and into the collective pool of adulthood, I’ve acquired an increasing hunger for the wisdom of my more youth-impaired acquaintances. My assumptions about people over the age of thirty used to be that their conversations revolve solely around stock prices, arthritis, and nutritional values. Since clearing this mental hurdle I’ve obtained a bounty of valuable information and insight to life, which had previously eluded me. Although there’s times when I miss the feeling of being part of an exclusive mind-state that’s incomprehensible to adults, it’s impossible to turn back now that I know how much they have to offer. I recently had a mind blowing revelation that an entire decade has passed since I was in the identical position as my tenth grade students. My philosophy as a sixteen year old is now so foreign to me that my high school experience may as well have happened here in China. Anyways, I’ll save my viewpoints about my own personal aging process for a later date, but the point here is that as people age, they generally, or hopefully, become wiser and more interesting. This is the model of thinking that recently led me down a historical rabbit hole about a certain tier of the Chinese population.

Like any typical midday Wednesday, I was riding home for lunch on the city bus, staring blankly out of the rickety, blemish infested window. I was snapped out of my teaching induced daze, by a scooter silently blazing through my field of vision. Piloting the vehicle was a trendy looking Chinese kid, engaged in an animated conversation on a cell phone, while maneuvering the handlebars with his free hand. Clutching to his midsection for her dear life was an elderly woman, who I will assume was the kid’s grandmother. For a brief moment, while overtaking the bus, our eyes met, and the look on the woman’s face seemed to echo my exact sentiment of the moment; “China is so confusing.” The look in her gloomy, black eyes conveyed a feeling of being lost in the storm of change that has blanketed China’s recent history. I began to think of the tremendous transformation she's witnessed in her days. As soon as she vanished from my field of vision, my mind departed on a tangent, creating various imaginary biographies of her life leading up to this moment where she made eye contact with a rare lao wai, “foreigner,” on a city bus.

Eventually, I decided her fate as being born in the 1930’s to a large family in a small rural village, while Mao was leading a diminishing group of communist peasants on the long march. Her childhood memories probably consist of various forms of back breaking manual labor interspersed with various wars against outsiders, or between opposing Chinese groups. As a teenager, she witnessed Mao’s rejuvenated group rise to power, proclaiming the Peoples Republic of China. Maybe she met her husband while working in a steel factory, then participated in China's population explosion by birthing a handful of offspring. There’s no doubt she’s endured years of mass starvation, possibly claiming the lives of her own family members. She’s lived through Mao’s death, China’s ensuing economic reforms, the Tiananmen Square massacre, and most recently the 2008 Olympics in Beijing. In her lifetime, she’s seen China go from suffering repeated, embarrassing exploitation at the hands of foreign invaders, to recently surpassing one of those countries, England, as the worlds 4th largest economy. Now she’s riding on an electric scooter, clutching onto a teenager in designer clothes talking on a mobile phone, being observed by a Californian.

Realistically, my language skills won’t allow me to directly obtain the information I would like from this woman's generation, but I cant help but wonder about their interpretation of modern China. I assume they must resent the naiveté that's likely rampant among the younger generations. All of my students were born in the era of China’s meteoric rise on the world stage. Certainly, in those 72 hours of weekly schooling they're indoctrinated with volumes of Chinese history, but if they’re anything like me in high school, they likely fail to grasp their position in the grand scheme of things. The only reality they know first hand is a China where you can buy anything your heart desires, burritos not included, where plasma screens and neon lights cover every available public space, and designer pants flash you the peace sign (see below). They can probably rattle off a list of dynasties and famous battles, but how would they possibly be able to comprehend obtaining food with ration tickets, or any of the other day to day realities of their predecessors?
Some members of the elder echelon of society seem to walk around with a subtle, mischievous smile glued to their face. It’s a look that exudes the advice, “Yeah, life is good now, but don’t get too used to it, or you’ll never be able to survive what I’ve been through.” This portion of the population has an unparalleled perspective of the world after living through the majority of 20th century China. Their world is a vastly different place than it was when they were children, or even compared to when they were 50. It's beyond my own comprehension as to how they're able to adjust to a society that bombards them with bizarre new images and icons, such as the aforementioned peace pants, that inspire feelings of intense confusion that I can only describe as WTF?! Who knows if that old woman on the scooter was even born in China, or what the exact sentiments are of the elderly, but one thing is certain, reality is in constant fluctuation in modern China. It's a frightening prospect, but my students could see more transformation in their lifetimes than was witnessed by their grandparents. Where that will leave China is unknown, but hopefully some wisdom and peace signs will be exchanged in the process.

Hi, Haibo.

2008-10-05T06:02:00.000-07:00

After a torrential first four weeks of teaching in China, I was rewarded with an 8 day vacation to commemorate Chinese National Day, the annual celebration of the founding of The Peoples Republic of China on October 1, 1949. To demonstrate my nationalism, I escaped on a two hour bus ride to one of China’s, and therefore the world’s, most rapidly developing cities, Shanghai.

After briefly passing through several random rural enclaves, mountains of concrete began to sprout from the horizon as we approached one of the various satellite neighborhoods that are leeching onto Shanghai for dear life. Supposedly, each month the city expands with an addition the size of Houston, Texas! Before I could ask if we had reached our destination, we were floating through an ocean of air conditioning units, satellite dishes, and BMW’s.

Eerily reminiscent of my entry into Sao Paolo, Brazil, my entire field of vision was blanketed by concrete monstrosities and an army of cranes racing to increase the scope of this modern metropolis. I gazed wide-eyed out of the window like a country bumpkin completing a pilgrimage to the big city for the very first time. For more than thirty minutes we cruised along the elevated expressway past countless, identical apartment buildings, piercing the roof of a surprisingly clear sky. As the bus lurched to a halt, the passengers poured out onto the street, disappearing into the overwhelming anonymity that only a city of 20 million people can provide.

Navigating through the chaos, it didn’t take long for me to sharply revise my perception of China, which had been almost entirely based on life in quiet, little Huzhou. Quickly catching my attention was the existence of multiple foreigners on every block. Doing as the Chinese do, I found myself staring curiously at each one that crossed my path. There are somewhere in the neighborhood of 100,000 foreigners living in Shanghai, and with this large population of foreign appetites comes a vast increase in the diversity of dining venues. Opportunities for culinary indulgence pulled me in every possible direction. My 5 days can mostly be summed up by my meals, which included a Brazilian steakhouse buffet, spaghetti Bolognese, a bacon mushroom burger, iced lattes, and Johnny Walker. Consuming almost anything my heart desired, strolling by Pizza Hut and Prada boutiques on tree lined streets, and hearing an array of non-Chinese languages, all nurtured the strange feeling that I was no longer in China. I could have easily been in any big city in the U.S. or Europe, which was an unusually disappointing feeling. All this points to a peculiar conundrum; Shanghai appears to be China’s least Chinese city, yet it seems to be the embodiment of everything that's currently taking place in this vast land.
Shanghai is developing at a staggering pace with increasing foreign influence, and the results are equally upsetting and amazing. I wonder how it’s possible for such blind expansion to continue without ruthless repercussions down the road, while simultaneously being in awe of the monumental organization and creativity required for such a place to even exist. While wandering the labyrinth of streets and expressways, you can’t help but catch the contagious feeling that you’re undoubtedly located in the center of the known universe.

Through most of China’s history, it has regarded itself as the center of the earth, most evident in its name, Zhongguo, or literally, the middle kingdom. To observe a single serving of this epic history, I paid a visit to the Shanghai museum, which is widely regarded as the best in China, featuring four floors of national artifacts spanning 5 millennia. My visit fell on the first of October, National Day, and as a result, entrance to the museum was free. The price for free admission was waiting in a line that came snaking out of the building and maneuvering myself around the masses once I made it inside. Most impressive was an exhibit of ancient, intricately adorned bronze sculptures. Admiring the exhibited works and contemplating their history provoked many a deep thought, but equally intriguing was observing the ways in which the museum patrons interacted with the exhibit. There's something strangely ironic about flocks of Chinese tourists taking pictures of a 5,000 year old bronze wine vessel with state-of-the-art cell phone cameras.

In retrospect, my time in Shanghai was an eye opening and perplexing introduction to one of the world’s greatest cities. It’s a place in constant motion and transformation where everything is for sale. It’s a poor peasant selling oranges to a Scandinavian tourist, while sharply dressed men abrasively chant, “Rolex, Rolex, Rolex,” in the ear of each male passerby. It’s where western appetites are satiated at unreasonably inflated prices and curious minds are further confused upon departure. Basically, it’s a city, and a country impossibly attempting to meld 5,000 years of continuous civilization and a communist façade with modern capitalistic globalization. Despite the difficulty of this endeavor, along with its center-of-the galaxy aura, Shanghai seems like an incredibly optimistic place.

This feeling is currently being conveyed by Haibo, an apparently friendly, sky blue, cartoon spokesman for the Shanghai 2010 International Expo, aka the world’s fair. Within a 50 mile radius of downtown Shanghai, you’re never likely to be more than 100 yards from some kind of Haibo manifestation, his ever waving hand greeting you at every turn, in preparation for an event that doesn’t begin for another 20 months. The expo is expected to generate over 50 million visitors during its five months of existence, which is impossible to comprehend, based on my experiences in the already overcrowded subway stations, continuously brimming at capacity. I don't doubt that Shanghai will be well prepared for their exhibition to the world in 2010, I just hope by that time I'm able to better comprehend this crazy place.

KFC vs. McDonald's vs The Future

2008-09-29T02:38:00.000-07:00

China is currently in the midst of a mushrooming epidemic. KFC has been on the offensive, resulting in a grand total of over 1,000 chains across the land, and a new location emerging every other day. Is this attributable to the perceived Southern hospitality of Colonel Sanders? Is it the universal fascination with the state of Kentucky? Or, is it simply the inevitable result of a nation in love with bones? In case you chose, a or b, allow me to illuminate the situation. To eat a boneless piece of meat in China, is to tailgate a Raiders’ game with caviar and wine coolers, while wearing a Broncos jersey. People will question your integrity, and may even interpret your behavior as an attack on their way of life.

The Chinese logic is that the bone possesses a magnetic pull on all the flavor particles contained in a given piece of meat, and therefore, the concept of a chicken breast is nothing more than a bland abomination. It’s no wonder chicken feet are such a popular dining item, as they contain more bones per square inch than any other part of the body. So, it could be argued that KFC’s Chinese success is due entirely to its wide assortment of bone riddled ji rou (chicken).

Despite the fact that KFC is the fast food of choice, the holy grail of American influence lies below the golden arches in the heart of downtown Huzhou. The lone “Mai Don Lao” seems to be the centerpiece of the city, the capitalist bull’s-eye, located in the exact geographic center of the map. It features two fluorescently lit floors, open 24 hours a day, vigilantly watched over by none other than Ronald himself, whose life-size plastic incarnation occupies a permanent seat on the bench at the entrance. In Ronald’s immediate vicinity, opportunities abound for purchasing whatever random item seems appropriate at the given moment. Peddlers of baby turtles battle for position with puppy pushers, who pack their furry merchandise in cages as tightly as a box of cigarettes. In typical downtown fashion, a great wall of scooters surrounds the perimeter.
As if this setting wasn’t confusing enough already, I was further perplexed by stumbling upon a disgusting display of consumerism, that I will admit was equally entertaining. Like the aftermath of a gruesome car accident, I couldn’t bear to watch, but I couldn’t look away either.

A Mai Don Lao employee, decked out in heels and a mini skirt, cordless microphone in hand, was leading a dozen of Huzhou’s most adorable and impressionable knee-high residents through an aerobic workout. Twenty four bright, eager eyes were glued in an upward gaze, awaiting instruction in an improvisational song and dance routine. Parents, and innocent bystanders like myself observed the proceedings, generously applauding the performers. As the class winded down, the instructor led the lemmings, who had obviously worked up a value meal sized appetite, directly past Ronald’s grinning likeness, into the fluorescent Promised Land. There, they were bombarded by larger than life images of Big Mac’s, which will forever be engrained in their psyche as the happy place where you get to dance and eat hamburgers.

China has opened up the floodgates of western influence, and marketing departments everywhere are salivating at the ocean of opportunity that is business in modern China. Unfortunately, the euthanasia may be ripe for the picking for the sole fact that they’re the 2nd generation of the one child policy.

In my attempts to make small talk with people, I often mistakenly ask if they have any brothers or sisters. The answer to this question is always no for anyone born after China's one child policy was implemented in 1979. This generation has been dubbed 'the little emperors' because they are a mass of supposedly spoiled single children. Many of the people I’ve talked to confirm these allegations, with their personal opinions, but not necessarily their behavior. Those little emperors are now having children of their own, which you could call the little Napoleons. A recent amendment to the policy allows couples to have two children, provided they are both single children. Citing mostly economic reasons, many who have been granted this opportunity are passing it up, keeping the one child family alive for at least one more generation. There will now be only one grandchild for every 4 grandparents. Translation; children who will likely be spoiled beyond Mao’s wildest nightmares, and the guaranteed future propagation of KFC and Mai Don Lao.

Don't believe the hype.

2008-09-22T04:11:00.000-07:00

Before departing for China, I had an array of concerns and assumptions about my experience to be. Will I be able to breathe? Do babies come out of the womb clutching a pack of cigarettes? Will I be able to walk down the street without being repeatedly spat upon? Are the Chinese familiar with the concept of waiting in line?

Ive now been in China for just over a month, during which time, Ive had a crash course in Chinese culture and customs, providing me with some initial reactions to my preconceived curiosities. What follows is a variety of experiences and observations that have shaped the foundation of my opinion about those questions.

Also, to cleanse your literary palette, Ive interspersed these little Chinese nuggets with some of the entertaining English phrases that keep popping up on clothing everywhere.

*****

Blue skies have been few and far between in my experience thus far, and by few, I literally mean 2 days. This reality led to me being particularly amused by one of my high school student’s response to the question, “What are your favorite activities?” Among other things, she enjoys “looking at the clear blue sky”. The hue of the heavens navigates strictly on a gray scale, which paints a not so pretty picture when combined with the overwhelming humidity.

The air quality compounds my feeling of being on another planet, like I’m in some kind of black and white amphibious, industrial wonderland where the atmosphere is composed of a milky, grey, gelatinous soup, which you can literally feel yourself moving through. Still, somehow the air isn’t as bad as I had actually anticipated, and for a city of its size in China, Huzhou does have relatively clean air. Things could always be worse; for example, my fate could have led me to be located in Beijing. Supposedly, one day of walking and breathing in the capital is equivalent to smoking 70 cigarettes, which leads me to my next topic.

HAVE
A NIKE
DAY!

Fortunately, Chinese babies do not smoke cigarettes, and neither do most young people. There is actually an age requirement to buy them, which is strictly enforced, or maybe Chinese D.A.R.E. has been on a successful crusade to prevent teenage smoking. Lighting up is still much more prevalent here than in the States, but my over exaggerated expectations haven't even been met halfway. The most noteworthy characteristic of smoking in China are the places where it takes place, which is in every imaginable location. This attitude extends far beyond restaurants and bars, and into the uncharted territory of teachers offices, hospitals, and beyond.
I was contemplating joining a gym for the sole purpose of having a place to run where I could breathe freely and deeply without feeling like I'm inside of a coal mine. This pipe dream quickly evaporated when I found out that Chinese men, from time to time, have been known to enjoy a smoke, in the process of running on the treadmill! I guess life is all about balance. For those Chinese folks over the legal age of 18, there are several key attributes which may be utilized to identify smoking potentiality; if you are a male, over 30, or a construction worker. If you, like most construction workers in China, are a male over 30, you will likely have a cigarette permanently dangling from your lower lip like an extra appendage.

IT'S MY SELF
CAMERA
LOVE

The reality of smoking in China is similar to my interpretation of spitting. Its prevalence has been ludicrously less than I imagined, but its location of occurrence has been it's distinguishing feature. I came in with an irrational fear that I would awaken everyday to the sound of phlegm being cultivated in the throat like an urban rooster’s crow. In reality, my natural alarm clock has been the stampeding of small children, racing towards their congee breakfast (rice porridge). Just as with smoking, I wonder if my arrival came on the heels of a massive countrywide campaign to cut down on the excessive oral removal of the previous day's cigarette remnants.

Among a host of other spitting experiences, the prototype thus far occurred at the Huzhou Police Station, which is where I went to get my residence permit, in case you were wondering. Immediately after turning down the hallway from the main lobby, a senior looking officer emerged from a side room. Before his black boots crossed the threshold of the doorway, a deep, primal sound which I will attempt to transcribe as, HHHUUGGKKT!, emanated from his core, followed by the the transportation of the contents of his mouth onto the tiles of the hallway floor. He casually marched right by me, and in a rare China moment, didn't even do a double take as I walked by.

SUCH A
CRAZY
IDEA!

I have realized an overall pattern, seeping into every aspect of life in China, which relates to a perceived lack of courtesy or patience to the untrained eye. This perception is a simple case of cultural misunderstanding. Chinese people are not intentionally rude or impatient, they just have an unspoken agreement as to how to pursue their desired object or physical space. This rule applies to entering a busy intersection as a driver or a pedestrian. It applies to getting on the bus, boarding a crowded elevator, or checking out of the grocery store.

The universal law of the land is this; whoever can make their way into an unoccupied space first, is entitled to be there. There’s no such concept as cutting someone off because if somebody has enough of a window to squeeze in front of you, then it was there for the taking. In other words, there is no courtesy barrier of personal space. Your personal space extends to the culmination of your hair follicles, then disappears at the border with international waters, where the laws of your home nation no longer apply. Keeping this rule in mind can prevent many feelings of animosity and puzzled amazement and allow you to actually get on to the bus, rather than being passed up by every Chinese person operating under the unspoken agreement.

THE
PARTY'S
OVER!

Buddha transcends space and time.

2008-09-16T07:29:00.000-07:00

After a mild night of ganbei and pijiu, I woke up at 7am to join Ring, one of my colleagues in the English department at the high school, for what I assumed would be an ordinary visit to her Buddhist temple. We were chauffeured by her father, and after he accidentally put the car in reverse, causing it to violently lurch forward, Ring explained that he is a "new driver." At this point the non-functional seat belt in the backseat quickly escalated on the scale of significance. Ring’s mother and aunt joined the driver's ed session, and we escaped from the city along a dirt road, which winded up into the mountains through fields of green tea and bamboo trees. Our destination was the elaborately decorated facade of a temple, set amongst bamboo saturated mountains and the cleanest air I have thus far inhaled in China. Ring escorted me on a tour of the interior of the temple, which was a barren concrete wasteland, mostly void of decoration. I would shortly find out why this was the case.

Back outside, I joined in the burning of candles and incense, which Ring convinced me to participate in my saying, “When you are in Rome.” While doing my best to do as the Chinese Buddhists do, a demolition squad began smothering the ground around me with fireworks. I wasted no time in relocating to the safe haven of the nearest shelter, just before the commencement of a 20 minute barrage of thunderous explosions, each one giving off the deafening boom of an M-80. Ring explained that they were welcoming the Buddha, which turned out to be much more literal than I assumed. Through the smoke and over the carnage of the perished fireworks, hordes of people made their way down the mountain, towards a trio of open bed trucks, which contained all of the interior decorations for the temple, including 5 gargantuan Buddha statues. What followed was probably one of the craziest moments I have ever witnessed.

To my surprise, a combination of monks, ordinary men, women and children squeezed up against the truck to have the statues transferred onto their outstretched arms. Caving in to my temptation not to let this moment go undocumented, I captured a quick photo of the operation before filing into the Buddha transportation assembly line. The weight of the statue being transferred onto the backs of a crew of moderately sized humans was met with a chorus of grunts and moans and laughter from the observers. Up the muddy hill we marched, with a grandma to my left and a monk in slippers to my right, and a portable cheering section screaming a combination of directions and encouragements along the way. After navigating around several trees and 3 flights of stairs, we delicately delivered the 800 pound statue of His Holiness to what is hopefully His final resting place inside of the temple.

Once all 5 of the Buddha’s were in place, the congregation paid their respects in a lengthy prayer. What followed was a moment that will likely be recurring throughout my trip. My brain navigated through a whirlwind of emotions, trying to comprehend exactly what was taking place. It was another China moment, one in which I wasn’t sure if I’d traveled;

a) back in time,
b) into the future, or
c) to some alternate universe where past and present have collided with fascinating results.

So, here I am in a bamboo forest, in a mist shrouded Buddhist temple, with a trance inducing soundtrack of slow drums and chanting monks who could have easily stepped out of the 12th century. In this same moment, spread before me are a legion of urban Chinese, kneeling on yellow pleather prayer pads, before 3 giant cellophane wrapped Buddhas, while decked out in the latest knock off Versace, and Dolce & Gabbana. Suddenly, the soothing soundtrack is interrupted by an obnoxious Chinese pop song, delivered via the ring tone of a woman bowing before Buddha with a Loius Vutton bag draped around her shoulder, who removes herself from the ceremony to take the phone call. Where and when in the hell am I?

Shortly after, I’m treated to one of the best meals I’ve had in china, a spread of faux meat dishes over rice. Gathered around me are Ring’s family and several others who all insist on shoveling food into my bowl at a slightly faster pace than I’m able to transfer it into my mouth. Just before my bowl begins to overflow, I insist “Wo bao le,” or, “I’m full,” which I try to reserve for the last possible moment. To avoid any unintentional disrespect, I’ve decided to avoid declining any invitations in China unless they’re completely unreasonable. This strategy has put me on the brink of disaster, as I nearly reached the stage of gluttony that results in returning all of the food I was offered, but it’s also the philosophy that led to me going through with the blind massage, and waking up at 7am on a Saturday morning to experience the moving of the Buddha.

"Be careful."

2008-09-15T22:14:00.000-07:00

You will be naked and alone in an unfamiliar room where you will be massaged by a blind Chinese man, whose level of visual imparity is questionable. This was one of the various impressions I was given about the famed “Blind Massage.” After arriving in China, I immediately began to investigate where to go for a cheap massage. In case there’s any confusion about a westerner looking for a cheap massage in Asia, I mean the kind that’s needed to repair your body after 30 hours of traveling.
Shortly after beginning my quest, I was informed of the blind massage, preformed by a blind person, whose visual disability supposedly translates into heightened massaging ability. With my current Mandarin deficiency, I have enough trouble ordering meals, so the prospects were slim for finding out exactly what a blind massage would entail. Instead, I had to rely on the well intentioned, but incredibly confusing and conflicting accounts from Chinese English speakers of various skill levels. For example, one of these accounts was described in the opening sentence of this story. So, on the scheduled day of this event, I was ambivalent, to say the least.
We headed out in a party of 3, consisting of El Pro, (aka LP), Guen, (a fellow American English teacher), and Penny, our assistant/ translator/ mandarin instructor. The Americans agreed to wait down the block, while Penny inquired about the actual cost of the massage, versus the foreigner cost we would likely be quoted otherwise. Before parting at the corner, Penny left us with the encouraging last words; “He can see something, so be careful.” This was comprehended as; "He may not be fully blind, so don’t take off your shirt in front of him."
So, we reluctantly enter the premises, where several seemingly visually impaired Chinese people are milling around, and quickly led into a side room with 3 bamboo massage tables. Shortly after, 2 blind Chinese men enter the room, followed by a blind Chinese woman who feels her way towards my table and locates me by palming my scalp. She commences her massage, which initially consists of her rocking my body back and forth across the bamboo mattress. At this point, I begin to wonder if I’ve just become the latest victim of a con that gets pulled on every naive foreigner who comes to China. Eventually, she finds her groove and starts to relax my muscles and my paranoia. The next 40 minutes are the most relaxing I’ve had in China, and she even throws in a few chiropractic maneuvers along the way. When it was all said and done, it wasn't the best massage I’ve ever had, probably not even in the top 50. Still, its something I’m unlikely to forget anytime soon, and a bargain at 35 quai , or about $5.

"You are so very busy."

2008-09-07T03:45:00.000-07:00

Now, for the life of a lao shi (teacher). First, let me elaborate on my living conditions. I'm living in what is basically a deluxe dorm room, in the same building as some of my actual students at the Huzhou New Century Foreign Language Primary School. For some background, Chinese people, and Chinese students in particular, work HARD. They go to school from 7am to 7pm, and those whose parents are wealthy enough and/or too busy to take care of them, send them to private schools, such as New Century, where the kids sleep on campus Sunday night through Friday evening.
My "apartment," features a microwave and a mini-fridge for a kitchen, which means that my meals have mostly been in the school cafeteria, which is free, but also free of any variety. The weekly menu is mostly made up of different variations of pork and rice, such as pork nuggets with pig sauce over rice, or rice with pork bits over bacon. Meanwhile, above the service counter, illusory images of fresh fruits and vegetables taunt the diners. Thankfully, one benefit of globalization is that I was able to find peanut butter in the local supermarket, which has helped me coat my stomach for the swine-ification of my diet. My bathroom consists of a squat toilet and a pipe emerging from the wall (the shower), both being contained within a 3' x 3' cell. On the bright side, every time I take a shower, I'm simultaneously cleaning the toilet!
By Chinese standards, my living situation is glamorous for a teacher. The Chinese teachers on campus actually share the same room that I have between two people, only with no computer, T.V., or air conditioning. My initial response to the location of my living quarters was the general awkwardness of living down the hall from my 12 year old pupils. This uneasiness has since come into fruition in the form of door bell ditch, which has conditioned me to never answer the door when I'm not expecting company. The biggest downfall so far is the random stampedes of kids who come barreling down the stairs in various waves between 6-9pm , when they're finally done with their days work. Headphones are able to drown out the noise of these herd migrations, but unable to keep the building from shaking.
I have absolutely no teaching experience, and as previously mentioned, very little formal training. So, you can imagine my response when I found out I would be teaching 225 students per week, in 7 different classes, ranging from grades 6-10. "Bu yao!" My favorite new phrase, which means "I don't want to," and sounds exactly how it looks.
Turns out, the students are mostly ideal language sponges. It's just unfortunate that their energy isn't constantly harnessed for productive learning. At the risk of losing some American masculinity points, I'll go ahead and say that Chinese kids, (before they reach the universal, grunting, indifference to the world age of high school), are adorable. They can then be further broken down into three sub-categories; the shy ones who avoid eye contact and cover their mouths when they speak, the out-going ones who raise their little T-Rex limbs as high as possible in any question answering opportunity, and then the ones who have some kind of energy imbalance and have continual outbursts of screaming and flailing limbs. The most difficult day of my week is Wednesday, when I have to catch the 7am bus to get to the high school, teach 2 classes of tenth grade, followed by one 9th grade class, then take the bus back to the primary school campus where I get to wind down in the afternoon with back to back classes of 42 6th graders, who for lack of a better word, are crazy. Hopefully, teaching 16 year-old's how to ask for directions to the bank, on the same day that I teach 11 year old's how to say "nice to meet you," won't turn me into a schizophrenic. In looking at what you could say is the tin lining of the situation, there's no shortage of enthusiasm in the younger students. A big hit in all of my classes was showing the students pictures of my family and friends, which caused so much commotion that they literally ripped one of the photos while fighting over who could look at it first. (Sorry Mom, it was a picture of you). It's nice that there's never a shortage of volunteers to read out loud in front of the class, but the trade off is that their enthusiasm knows no bounds. They're equally enthusiastic about rolling around on the ground and chest bumping each other whenever its time to stand up for a game of telephone. Contrast this with the tenth graders who would be perfectly content to sleep through every waking minute of the day, and you have a recipe for very difficult lesson planning. Every day when I leave the high school, my colleague, previously mentioned in the ganbei showdown, looks at me with a look of utter despair and says "Oh, you are so very busy," to which I can only nod my head, and say, "Yes, I am."
This is by far the most challenging job I've ever undertaken, and combined with trying to learn functional Mandarin I will be "so very busy" for the remainder of 2008.

Gone bay, bye Joe.

2008-09-03T02:23:00.000-07:00

My stay in Dalian ended dramatically, thanks to "ganbei" and baijiu. "Ganbei" is Chinese for "cheers", only it's a much more serious proposition than a toast. When someone salutes you with a full glass and a "ganbei!" you're politely expected to consume the contents of your glass, or risk offending the inviting party. Baijiu is a 120 proof wonder potion that probably has many useful applications other than human consumption. Combine a few ganbeis and biejius and a bastard child of intoxication will soon be birthed. Fortunately, I managed to limit myself mostly to ganbei and pijiu (beer) collisions. Still, it was enough to make for a not so pleasant 800 mile flight South to Huzhou, my home for the next 4 months. Greeting me at my arrival dinner were 4 ganbei trigger happy women, representing my various schools to be. Luckily, this was a putaojiu (wine) party rather than a biejiu party, so I did my best not to offend anyone by participating in every requested ganbei. By the end of the night, I was initiating the ganbeis, to show my respect, and I ended up in a showdown with the lead teacher of the group. She protested that her glass was too full, at which point I offered that she only drink half. After we drank our respective half and full glasses, I overheard one woman whispering to another, "He is true gentleman."
As a disclaimer, I have only experienced a sliver of life in China, so anything I say is not a blanket statement. That being said, nearly every one of my personal daily interactions has been an unorganized, bureaucratic maze of confusion. Chalk some of it up to the language barrier, but I'm starting to get the impression that people are just acclimated to constant chaos. I already have enough examples of head-scratching moments to write volumes, but I'll illustrate my point with one shining specimen. When we arrived in Huzhou, one of my fellow teachers arrived at his assigned apartment and was greeted by an angry Chinese woman who was still living there, while preparing to move all of her worldly possessions down four narrow flights of stairs. The following night we had a gathering at his apartment, which was interrupted by the same angry woman, who burst into his bedroom to grab her bras that were drying in the window, while yelling a continuous chain of what is safe to assume was profanity. We found ourselves congregated in his kitchen, along with the angry woman, the landlady, and the next door neighbor. Since, none of us speak any Putonghua (Mandarin), all we were able to take away from the encounter, through body language, was that the next door neighbor wanted us to give free English lessons to her son, and the furious former tenant would be sharing the apartment with us for the night. The latter did take place, but without any drama, as the landlady seemed to have calmed her down. It seems that there's never any organized plan, and things are expected to haphazardly unfold, somehow for the better. So far, they eventually have, but probably more so than any other place I've been, China requires a sense of humor of epic proportions. To be perfectly clear, these frustrations are more observations of an outsider than complaints. Most of the people I've met have been incredibly helpful, and besides, a few misunderstandings don't even come close to counteracting the thrill of paying 45 cents for a pair of sandals. Not to mention, $5 for a 1 hour full-body massage, to be explained at a later date.
To briefly describe my new home, Huzhou is located in the Northern Zhejiang province, where there are guesstimated to be a total of 30 foreigners, including Mr. Lucky Promise. This means double takes galore, as people take a second or third look, or in most cases just one long continuous stare, at the rare sight of a non-Chinese person cruising down the block. (People are not surprised when I tell them I'm half Chinese, usually pointing to their eyes as the give away. Still, they can't seem to comprehend how I'm unable to speak any Putonghua, as if mastery of the language is built into my DNA, waiting to emerge once I step foot in the homeland.) Anyways, as uncomfortable as the non-stop gawking might sound, people are usually friendly, some bursting into laughter, and others offering up whatever English words they know, usually "hello," or if you're lucky, "I love you." The city has a population of about 1 million, which is small by Chinese standards. It's roughly the physical size of Oakland, but with the feel of a safe small town. One exception to this feeling is the fact that the streets are littered with what I've come to refer to as 'silent assassins', or electric scooters, silently zipping through every available square centimeter of pavement in the city, sidewalks included. Ive already been clipped by the side view mirror of one of these little vehicles of mayhem, and I live in constant fear of having my toes run over with no audible forewarning.
One of the most entertaining aspects of life in China is attempting to make sense of the most random possible combination's of English words and phrases that seem to appear on just about every article of clothing. For example, "Run if you see my gun," "bad boy girls," or my personal favorite, "Too young to be born." I assume the inverse must be true, and clothing in the U.S. with Chinese characters features equally ridiculous combination's of words that just cant be translated correctly. More importantly, I wonder about all those non-Chinese speaking people who get tattoos of Chinese characters, while not being entirely certain of the exact meaning. And you thought that you were showing the world you're a Pisces.

"Janky", for lack of a better word.

2008-09-01T01:22:00.000-07:00

Taking off from SFO was like being launched out of a canon, and looking back at the insulated bubble known as "The Bay," in which I had previously resided for the last 2 years. Arriving in China was like being back-handed by Yao Ming, and not knowing whether to be deeply offended or appreciative. My initiation to the motherland occurred in Incheon International Airport in Seoul, South Korea, where I spent 20 hours sleeping on benches and trying to learn 2 months worth of Mandarin. At the ungodly hour of 6:00 AM, I awoke to what sounded like a communist marching band blaring through the loud speakers, followed by the entirely female staff of Asiana Airlines engaging in a collective bow, signaling the opening of the check-in counter. Two hours later, I took my first step onto Chinese soil in the city of Dalian, which is larger than Chicago.
I was whisked away to the office of my teaching company by Ed, the only American employee in the administrative branch of my program. Navigating the streets of downtown Dalian in a jet-lagged stupor is where I received my metaphorical back-hand. The smells and sounds of the street race into your orifices in a competition to see which sense will provoke your legs to move faster towards your destination.
Day two began with what is sure to be the first of many "China Moments," as I was sent to a Chinese hospital to get a health clearance to participate in the teaching program. To ease my worries about going through with the ordeal, Ed explained that Chinese hospitals are "janky, for lack of a better word." Supposedly, I was being sent to the least jankiest hospital in town. Once I arrived at this quality establishment, I underwent a battery of tests, the most notable being my first ever ultrasound. Despite the profound confusion this caused, it's nice to know for sure that I'm not carrying a child.
The same day, I was taken to the local police station to receive a residence permit, as well as the inspiration for the name of this blog's website. To complete my application, the police needed my non-existing Chinese name, so by default, I was given the closest sounding, most prosperous name they could think of, or Ji Nuo, which translates as "Lucky Promise." Please, feel free to make any jokes that this inspires in your imagination.
The majority of my first week was spent training with other equally inexperienced teachers in preparation for a teaching job of monumental proportions, which will be explained later. The take home message from these sessions, which were led by a Canadian named Rick, was along the lines of; "There may be up to fifty kids in each class, and they may consist of students at every possible level on the spectrum of language skills, but relax, and have fun with them!" Week one also contained several seemingly inconsequential, but unbelievably satisfying moments like successfully ordering food in a restaurant that didn't have pictures of the food, and participating in a pick-up game of basketball with 12 year old Chinese kids. Small victories must be celebrated.
Obviously, China is a crowded place, but there is absolutely no way to comprehend the magnitude of this statement until you've been in a Chinese elevator. The typical experience consists of three steps. First, waiting until the mass of people ahead of you gets on an empty elevator, and positioning yourself for the next one that's available. (People's eyes usually gloss over in a fierce, determined stare during this stage.) Then, fighting your way into any available crevice when the doors open, and managing not to get violently slapped by the all-too-qwickly-closing elevator doors. And finally, stopping on literally every single floor between you and your desired destination, as more people attempt to join the party. Adventures arise out of trivial acts, like crossing the street, which is viewed by both Chinese motorists and pedestrians as a real life version of Frogger. So far, China is everything I imagined it might be, unlike anything I have ever experienced, which is exactly what I was looking for. Stay tuned for the life of an Engrish teacher.