I had
a friend
tell me
With eyes
of endearment
to my naivete
That she, too, once believed
in love
in travel
Experience
the fruit of her adventures
enlightened her
with life's wrinkles
Romance
the physical performance of love (as I know it)
left her
with social scars
And love
and travel
now loess
To the owner of a heart
sinking
into the everyday
As I quietly panic
at the inevitability
of being too old
For dreams
Monday, February 22, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Yunnan part 二
Two days after the soul recharging at Dianchi Lake, I boarded a bus bound for Yuanyang, home to the rice terraces of Yunnan. Probably a year ago, I was looking through some of my friend's pictures and this unbelievable image of a sunset over rice terraces captured my imagination. Bright oranges and yellows reflected over the glass mirrors of the terraces (you’ll see what I mean below) as my breath disappeared in bewilderment. One of the most beautiful images I’d ever seen on digital film, my eyes would have the chance to the grandeur first-hand upon venturing to Yunnan’s south.
Before the narrated beauty of the rice terraces begins, I must tell you about Chinese buses. Ohh Lord . . . (a big sigh from your writer) . . . If you are a claustrophobic, tall, hater-of-cigarette-smoke type of person, Chinese buses might just force you to gouge out your eyes. And if the sound of people throwing up disturbs you, you might as well make your China trip solely on airplanes. It’s an adventure folks. Tiny seats, neighbors blowing cigarette smoke all around you, passengers barfing out the window and onto the floor of the bus, as well as the ubiquitous sound of the pig-like “HUHHHHH” followed a combination of mucous and saliva hitting the floor are guaranteed on Chinese buses. On this particular journey, my passenger to my left had apparently had a bad spout of karma in recent days and kept his head out the window for the duration of the journey in preparation for his never-ending vomit sessions. I felt bad for the dude, but what could I do?? When we finally got off the bus, I noticed that homeboy had thrown up so much on the ride that his discharge was tattooed ALL over the exterior of the bus, looking like a painting mistake on the Japanese-made 32-seater.
Ok, enough of that. Upon arriving in Yuanyang with my new friends, Jerome (French) and Jennifer (Australian), we boarded another van to head to our destination 25 km away, the Sunny Guesthouse. With the sun beginning to set we made our ascent up the mountain into the heart of the Hani Ethnic Minority territory. Riding up the mountain felt like I was going back in time. Villagers with packs and packs of sticks, shrubs and whatever else they needed strapped to their backs occupied the streets and our ride was halted momentarily while a herd of cows cleared the road.
Stopping at an overlook a few minutes later, I was privy to my first glance of the splendor of the rice terraces. Having no idea that Sunny Guesthouse was in the middle of the terraces, my companions and I were led down a mountain, along a winding road, past homes constructed of sticks of pine, past a pigsty home to two oinkers, to our home for the next few days. Occupying an absolutely serene location, the Sunny Guesthouse opened up to a stunning view of the rice terraces (photos below). Run by the ever-energetic, sweet-as-pie Chinese woman simply referred to as “Ah yi” (Auntie), we were welcomed with open arms and pleas to drop our bags as we entered the courtyard of the Guesthouse.
The place was magical in it’s austere dwellings, the kind of establishment that provided just enough character to be memorable, but lacked the homeliness that causes backpackers to take refuge for weeks at a time. The design was akin to the Beijing hutong, comprised of a central courtyard surrounded by three buildings with the kitchen and eating area taking up a third of the triumvirate the dorms completed. Electricity in the hostel was not guaranteed as the first night of my stay was spent in the kitchen under the glowing umbrella of a lamp powered by a car battery, downing Dali beers and talking semi-intellectually about the US political situation with my foreign English-speaking friends. Insulation in the walls was non-existent, but electric blankets helped to keep the winter's air at bay, and the bathrooms were on the roof, which, depending on the cold, could prove to be a truly shriveling experience. Ah yi and her family were not the only permanent residents of Sunny but a hoard of chickens and ducks occupied the roost providing the world’s best alarm clocks as the sun rose beyond the mountain peaks.
Upon finding my bed in the dorm room and re-connecting with some friends from Kunming, a pack of Hani girls walked uniformly into the courtyard, heading straight for the pile of Japanese-style sandals in the corner near the washing machine. A red drum was pulled from the office of the Guesthouse and small porcelain bowls were distributed among the girls, the oldest of them no more than 12 years old. Not really knowing what was going on, I was told to, “Go, go, go!” by Ah yi, meaning to get out of the main courtyard so the girls would have room. What ensued was a magical performance/rehearsal of Hani traditional dancing by these youngsters, equally mesmerizing for its performance and endearing because of its performers. Dressed in their traditional Hani clothing, the girls executed their handed-down steps with ease and precision, clacking their bowls together to the beat of Ah-yi’s drum. The pride with which they rehearsed was contagious and by the end of the rehearsal all (including the whiteys) were dancing together in a circle, chanting the same phrase in the Hani language over and over.
The next day was spent perusing the local area with a driver, visiting the local villages, viewing the majestic rice terraces from every possible angle and making a trek to the market in Yuanyang. The market provided sights, sounds and tastes new to our senses, all combined with the stares we would receive from the villagers on a seemingly constant basis. Children would often look in our direction and when they noticed we were privy to their glances, the reactions would range from them running away out of fear to some laughing and shouting, “Hello! Hello!” Here in Yuanyang I saw the biggest display of sexual energy of all my time in China. As I was looking at a roadside vendor, I felt a hand grab my arm. Turning to figure out who in the world would grab my arm which such a force, my face met a local Chinese girl about my age with her index finger pointing to her cheek. After a second or two, I finally pieced together that this girl wanted a big American kiss on the cheek and as I busted out laughing in shock and surprise as her friends dragged her away, playfully scolding her brashness. I’d never seen anything like that before in Middle Country.
The afternoon and evening were spent peering into the vastness of the valleys inhabiting the rice terraces. At one point I hiked with my friend Jerome, finding a clearing that made hundreds of kilometers of terraces visible. Both stunned at the beauty before us Jerome said, “Doesn’t this make you believe in God?” I nodded in affirmation. A few seconds later he looked at me and said “Or, at least believe in Mao?”
The evening sunset was accented by Jerome and Alex (more on this awesome chica soon) bargaining with a Hani woman over some postcards. If you don’t know about bargaining in China, its one of the funnest and most dangerous things you can do in the country. Salespersons and customers REALLY get into it, and this Hani woman was no exception. The outing ended in the Hani woman literally yelling at Alex in French (which she doesn’t speak) and Jerome picking his favorite from Alex’s stack of overpriced postcards, nagging the Hani woman in his broken Chinese throughout the bargaining process. The sunset speaks for itself.
Before the narrated beauty of the rice terraces begins, I must tell you about Chinese buses. Ohh Lord . . . (a big sigh from your writer) . . . If you are a claustrophobic, tall, hater-of-cigarette-smoke type of person, Chinese buses might just force you to gouge out your eyes. And if the sound of people throwing up disturbs you, you might as well make your China trip solely on airplanes. It’s an adventure folks. Tiny seats, neighbors blowing cigarette smoke all around you, passengers barfing out the window and onto the floor of the bus, as well as the ubiquitous sound of the pig-like “HUHHHHH” followed a combination of mucous and saliva hitting the floor are guaranteed on Chinese buses. On this particular journey, my passenger to my left had apparently had a bad spout of karma in recent days and kept his head out the window for the duration of the journey in preparation for his never-ending vomit sessions. I felt bad for the dude, but what could I do?? When we finally got off the bus, I noticed that homeboy had thrown up so much on the ride that his discharge was tattooed ALL over the exterior of the bus, looking like a painting mistake on the Japanese-made 32-seater.
Ok, enough of that. Upon arriving in Yuanyang with my new friends, Jerome (French) and Jennifer (Australian), we boarded another van to head to our destination 25 km away, the Sunny Guesthouse. With the sun beginning to set we made our ascent up the mountain into the heart of the Hani Ethnic Minority territory. Riding up the mountain felt like I was going back in time. Villagers with packs and packs of sticks, shrubs and whatever else they needed strapped to their backs occupied the streets and our ride was halted momentarily while a herd of cows cleared the road.
Stopping at an overlook a few minutes later, I was privy to my first glance of the splendor of the rice terraces. Having no idea that Sunny Guesthouse was in the middle of the terraces, my companions and I were led down a mountain, along a winding road, past homes constructed of sticks of pine, past a pigsty home to two oinkers, to our home for the next few days. Occupying an absolutely serene location, the Sunny Guesthouse opened up to a stunning view of the rice terraces (photos below). Run by the ever-energetic, sweet-as-pie Chinese woman simply referred to as “Ah yi” (Auntie), we were welcomed with open arms and pleas to drop our bags as we entered the courtyard of the Guesthouse.
The place was magical in it’s austere dwellings, the kind of establishment that provided just enough character to be memorable, but lacked the homeliness that causes backpackers to take refuge for weeks at a time. The design was akin to the Beijing hutong, comprised of a central courtyard surrounded by three buildings with the kitchen and eating area taking up a third of the triumvirate the dorms completed. Electricity in the hostel was not guaranteed as the first night of my stay was spent in the kitchen under the glowing umbrella of a lamp powered by a car battery, downing Dali beers and talking semi-intellectually about the US political situation with my foreign English-speaking friends. Insulation in the walls was non-existent, but electric blankets helped to keep the winter's air at bay, and the bathrooms were on the roof, which, depending on the cold, could prove to be a truly shriveling experience. Ah yi and her family were not the only permanent residents of Sunny but a hoard of chickens and ducks occupied the roost providing the world’s best alarm clocks as the sun rose beyond the mountain peaks.
Upon finding my bed in the dorm room and re-connecting with some friends from Kunming, a pack of Hani girls walked uniformly into the courtyard, heading straight for the pile of Japanese-style sandals in the corner near the washing machine. A red drum was pulled from the office of the Guesthouse and small porcelain bowls were distributed among the girls, the oldest of them no more than 12 years old. Not really knowing what was going on, I was told to, “Go, go, go!” by Ah yi, meaning to get out of the main courtyard so the girls would have room. What ensued was a magical performance/rehearsal of Hani traditional dancing by these youngsters, equally mesmerizing for its performance and endearing because of its performers. Dressed in their traditional Hani clothing, the girls executed their handed-down steps with ease and precision, clacking their bowls together to the beat of Ah-yi’s drum. The pride with which they rehearsed was contagious and by the end of the rehearsal all (including the whiteys) were dancing together in a circle, chanting the same phrase in the Hani language over and over.
The next day was spent perusing the local area with a driver, visiting the local villages, viewing the majestic rice terraces from every possible angle and making a trek to the market in Yuanyang. The market provided sights, sounds and tastes new to our senses, all combined with the stares we would receive from the villagers on a seemingly constant basis. Children would often look in our direction and when they noticed we were privy to their glances, the reactions would range from them running away out of fear to some laughing and shouting, “Hello! Hello!” Here in Yuanyang I saw the biggest display of sexual energy of all my time in China. As I was looking at a roadside vendor, I felt a hand grab my arm. Turning to figure out who in the world would grab my arm which such a force, my face met a local Chinese girl about my age with her index finger pointing to her cheek. After a second or two, I finally pieced together that this girl wanted a big American kiss on the cheek and as I busted out laughing in shock and surprise as her friends dragged her away, playfully scolding her brashness. I’d never seen anything like that before in Middle Country.
The afternoon and evening were spent peering into the vastness of the valleys inhabiting the rice terraces. At one point I hiked with my friend Jerome, finding a clearing that made hundreds of kilometers of terraces visible. Both stunned at the beauty before us Jerome said, “Doesn’t this make you believe in God?” I nodded in affirmation. A few seconds later he looked at me and said “Or, at least believe in Mao?”
The evening sunset was accented by Jerome and Alex (more on this awesome chica soon) bargaining with a Hani woman over some postcards. If you don’t know about bargaining in China, its one of the funnest and most dangerous things you can do in the country. Salespersons and customers REALLY get into it, and this Hani woman was no exception. The outing ended in the Hani woman literally yelling at Alex in French (which she doesn’t speak) and Jerome picking his favorite from Alex’s stack of overpriced postcards, nagging the Hani woman in his broken Chinese throughout the bargaining process. The sunset speaks for itself.
Yunnan part 一
So, the time has come. As I sit listening to the cars outside of my Beijing hotel room, the hours before my departure back to the US have dwindled down to 18. That’s only 1080 minutes before my feet will be off Asian soil! Even though I didn’t believe him for some time, the words of Mr. Harrison, “All things must pass,” have never rung truer. Sitting on the floor with the computer in my lap, my mind is filled with memories of new friends, outrageous stories, unbelievable displays of hospitality and the strong, organic connections to cultures I called foreign only months ago. A piece of my heart will be left here and maybe, just maybe, I’ll return for it someday.
I haven’t updated this blog since first getting back to China, and my return to the Middle Country deserves its place on the blog! Upon leaving Thailand, I set my sights for Yunnan, the Southern China province characterized by its City of Eternal Spring, the Rice Terraces of Yuanyang and the tourist getaways of Lijiang and Dali. Yunnan was of special interest to me because it is also home to many of China’s ethnic minorities (yes, this is what the Chinese call them).
The journey began in Kunming, home to the special Camellia Flower and its accompanying festival. The capitol of the Yunnan province, Kunming was the jump off point for anywhere you would like to go in Yunnan and I found myself and the travelers around me returning to the City of Eternal Spring more than we would have preferred. Nevertheless, Kunming offered some beautiful sights.
My first day in Kunming took me to the Ethnic Minority Village in the SE part of Kunming. The Village was a “theme park” of ethnic minorities, with over 20 different minorities each having their own village inside the compound where they worked, lived and practiced their own unique cultural heritage. Here is a good time to bring up a shining example of the kindness shown to me by the Chinese.
Jumping on the bus to the Ethnic Minority Village, I had no idea where the stop would be. Cautiously peering out my window for any sign that might indicate my destination I spotted a big blue information advertisement for the Minority Village and quickly descended from the bus. Strolling around the area, I discovered that my feet were a little green and the Minority Village was no where in the vicinity. Pondering my predicament, I found the nearest large hotel, hoping their large establishment required their employees to speak English and posed in my best Chinese the question of where in the world this Village was. A lively older woman came up to me and over-enthusiastically answered my question, in Chinese waaay too far for me to grasp. “Wo bu dong, wo bu dong,” I repeated, hoping she would begin to counsel me in my mother tongue. Like a cat taking her new-killed prey proudly to its owner, the woman led me by the arm out to the street and pointed me in the direction of my destination, all the while still talking to herself in Chinese (since I couldn’t understand a word). Pointing to the sidewalk and moving her arms upward, I took her signals to mean I should continue straight down the paved road. Happy that I was at least heading in the right direction, I bid her farewell and departed to where her hands, unintelligible speech and eager energy instructed.
Not more than half a kilometer down the road I heard the sound of someone yelling, unintelligibly to my ears, in my general direction. With my only companions being the flowers on the sidewalk and the cars to my left, I turned to see what all the fuss was about. Wouldn’t you know it, it was the same woman from the hotel jogging in my direction, flailing her arms in hopes of capturing my attention. When she came closer I saw she'd adopted a pair of yellow evening slippers with chicken faces on the sole and a brightly colored umbrella that you might find in Key West, indicating to me that she was making the stroll along with me. Starting up her excited Chinese again, I was able to decipher that she really doesn’t want me to get lost, and sure enough, the slippered woman led me 3 km down the road to the Ethnic Minority Village with the protective nature of mother bird. Even though it was a straight shot down the road she initially instructed, it was such a kind gesture that I thanked her over and over as she headed 3 km in the other direction, in that combination of a jog and hurried walk that that only Chinese females can do (Hannah calls it the China shuffle). A flattering display of hospitality, this instance was one of many that imprinted a love for Chinese culture into my psyche.
Being a student of culture and helping to put on the Smithsonian Folklife Festival (a 2-week festival with the same “cultural exposition” goal as the Ethnic Minority Village), the Village was a fascinating example of cultural tourism. Its hope was to display the varying cultures found within Yunnan in one location, a goal that made me wonder what role the Chinese government played in putting this exhibition together. As I strolled through the religious altars of the Dai and the clothing stands of the Hani, I couldn’t put my finger just on how I felt about the place. In my most optimistic I appreciated what the Village was trying to do and was excited that these cultures had the stage to share themselves with the larger audience. In my more pessimistic views the Village was nothing more than a human zoo, with the meanderings through the minorities’ living spaces akin to the tapping on a fish tank at the aquarium. But hey, the free wine offered by the Naxi’s wasn’t all that bad . . .
Upon departure I headed south of the Village to Dianchi Lake. Not really sure what I was getting into, I was bowled over at this beautiful creation. To the left of the Lake stood the spread outskirts of Kunming while steep, grey mountains inhabited its right bank. I found myself standing in the middle of Dianchi, observing a beautiful sunset amidst the Chinese tourists and the “you-know-you’re-standing-beside-a-big-body-of-H2O” winds. Venturing out onto an abandoned dock, an even more spectacular sunset awaited me as I chugged a beer and realized how thankful I was to be alive.
I haven’t updated this blog since first getting back to China, and my return to the Middle Country deserves its place on the blog! Upon leaving Thailand, I set my sights for Yunnan, the Southern China province characterized by its City of Eternal Spring, the Rice Terraces of Yuanyang and the tourist getaways of Lijiang and Dali. Yunnan was of special interest to me because it is also home to many of China’s ethnic minorities (yes, this is what the Chinese call them).
The journey began in Kunming, home to the special Camellia Flower and its accompanying festival. The capitol of the Yunnan province, Kunming was the jump off point for anywhere you would like to go in Yunnan and I found myself and the travelers around me returning to the City of Eternal Spring more than we would have preferred. Nevertheless, Kunming offered some beautiful sights.
My first day in Kunming took me to the Ethnic Minority Village in the SE part of Kunming. The Village was a “theme park” of ethnic minorities, with over 20 different minorities each having their own village inside the compound where they worked, lived and practiced their own unique cultural heritage. Here is a good time to bring up a shining example of the kindness shown to me by the Chinese.
Jumping on the bus to the Ethnic Minority Village, I had no idea where the stop would be. Cautiously peering out my window for any sign that might indicate my destination I spotted a big blue information advertisement for the Minority Village and quickly descended from the bus. Strolling around the area, I discovered that my feet were a little green and the Minority Village was no where in the vicinity. Pondering my predicament, I found the nearest large hotel, hoping their large establishment required their employees to speak English and posed in my best Chinese the question of where in the world this Village was. A lively older woman came up to me and over-enthusiastically answered my question, in Chinese waaay too far for me to grasp. “Wo bu dong, wo bu dong,” I repeated, hoping she would begin to counsel me in my mother tongue. Like a cat taking her new-killed prey proudly to its owner, the woman led me by the arm out to the street and pointed me in the direction of my destination, all the while still talking to herself in Chinese (since I couldn’t understand a word). Pointing to the sidewalk and moving her arms upward, I took her signals to mean I should continue straight down the paved road. Happy that I was at least heading in the right direction, I bid her farewell and departed to where her hands, unintelligible speech and eager energy instructed.
Not more than half a kilometer down the road I heard the sound of someone yelling, unintelligibly to my ears, in my general direction. With my only companions being the flowers on the sidewalk and the cars to my left, I turned to see what all the fuss was about. Wouldn’t you know it, it was the same woman from the hotel jogging in my direction, flailing her arms in hopes of capturing my attention. When she came closer I saw she'd adopted a pair of yellow evening slippers with chicken faces on the sole and a brightly colored umbrella that you might find in Key West, indicating to me that she was making the stroll along with me. Starting up her excited Chinese again, I was able to decipher that she really doesn’t want me to get lost, and sure enough, the slippered woman led me 3 km down the road to the Ethnic Minority Village with the protective nature of mother bird. Even though it was a straight shot down the road she initially instructed, it was such a kind gesture that I thanked her over and over as she headed 3 km in the other direction, in that combination of a jog and hurried walk that that only Chinese females can do (Hannah calls it the China shuffle). A flattering display of hospitality, this instance was one of many that imprinted a love for Chinese culture into my psyche.
Being a student of culture and helping to put on the Smithsonian Folklife Festival (a 2-week festival with the same “cultural exposition” goal as the Ethnic Minority Village), the Village was a fascinating example of cultural tourism. Its hope was to display the varying cultures found within Yunnan in one location, a goal that made me wonder what role the Chinese government played in putting this exhibition together. As I strolled through the religious altars of the Dai and the clothing stands of the Hani, I couldn’t put my finger just on how I felt about the place. In my most optimistic I appreciated what the Village was trying to do and was excited that these cultures had the stage to share themselves with the larger audience. In my more pessimistic views the Village was nothing more than a human zoo, with the meanderings through the minorities’ living spaces akin to the tapping on a fish tank at the aquarium. But hey, the free wine offered by the Naxi’s wasn’t all that bad . . .
Upon departure I headed south of the Village to Dianchi Lake. Not really sure what I was getting into, I was bowled over at this beautiful creation. To the left of the Lake stood the spread outskirts of Kunming while steep, grey mountains inhabited its right bank. I found myself standing in the middle of Dianchi, observing a beautiful sunset amidst the Chinese tourists and the “you-know-you’re-standing-beside-a-big-body-of-H2O” winds. Venturing out onto an abandoned dock, an even more spectacular sunset awaited me as I chugged a beer and realized how thankful I was to be alive.
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