Phil's Journeys

Farewell China

2007-06-12T23:37:00.000-07:00

Since I am leaving soon, and the preparations for departure will take up a lot of time in the next few days, this will be the last posting from China. Momentous, I know.
But my plans for the future are even more so: I'm going to get a job.
Aside from this astounding news though, there is not much to say. Living in Kunming has been an entirely different China experience from what I had expected. Kunming is nothing like the more official parts of China, Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Beijing. And for any of you who might be entertaining the idea of a vacation in the near future, I would like to suggest Kunming as a very promising location. Not only is this semi-tropical city the perfect size, but it also is close to many of the lesser known (but by no means inferior) sights of China. Kunming's relative invisibility on the world stage makes it a wonderful place to visit. Less tourism than other hot-spots in China, better weather, more diverse culture and experiences. Not only is Yunnan (the province of which Kunming is capital) home to many of the minorities in China, it also is home to some of the most stunning scenery too. You have the Himalaya in the northwest corner, the tropical forests in the south, three major rivers, geologic features such as the Stone Forest and an entire range of volcanoes, and there are others which I don't have time to name, and still others I have not yet discovered. So a trip to this locality is highly recommended.
And for those of you who may still doubt the modernization of southwest China, Kunming comes complete with running hot and cold water (although the hot water is somewhat fickle), paved roads, western restaurants which aren't half bad, an amazing bus system, and a fair number of wireless internet spots. Don't worry about all the developing nation stuff, China's cities are almost as developed as those in Europe and America.
So if you do find yourself in Kunming, make sure you stop by Wenhua Jie and visit the "foreigner street" which runs as a small alley between there and Yi-er-yi Street. There are several restaurants here worth visiting. First is Heavenly Manna which serves up delicious Sichuan food with lots of spice. Especially tasty is their Rubin which is fried goat cheese. You can find this stuff all over Yunnan, but Heavenly Manna's is especially delicious. Also good on this alley are Free Life (another Chinese/Sichuan style place) and of course Salvadors. Salvadors claims to be Kunming's premier coffee house. I don't know if I would go that far, but it is a nice place to spend some time. Their upstairs is especially comfortable and they have pretty good coffee for being in China. But the best coffee I found in Kunming is around the corner at Yunjoy Coffee which doesn't serve any food at all, but their coffees are definitely good. I particularly enjoyed their Americano. Also notable are French Cafe, Prague Cafe, and Chapter One. It is safe to say that these places would probably be nothing special in the US, but here they are the cream of the crop.
And if you find yourself in Kunming and are bored, I can recommend a trip out to the Stone Forest (Shi-ling) or a weekend trip up to Dali. For more adventurous trips I would suggest going south to Xixuanbanna where you can experience tropical rainforests complete with tigers and elephants (even if it is a little touristy now). Also notable is Tiger Leaping Gorge up in the northwest near Lijiang. I thought Lijiang itself was a tourist pit of hell, but Tiger Leaping Gorge was phenomenal--definitely worth the hike up there. And of course, getting to Tibet is not at all difficult when in Yunnan. There are both flights and trains which head up that way.
If you can't tell, I'm a big supporter of this area. It is far more interesting than Beijing or Shanghai, and there isn't' anywhere near as much pollution. If you are planning a trip to Europe or some other lame location like that, I say you should change all the plans and head down to Kunming. You would not regret it.
But enough of the tourism plugs. I will bid you all farewell from Kunming. There is still more to the story (I might even say that I have been living an illicit double life while here, half of which has not been able to be published on the web because of its illegal nature) but I will conclude it back in the safety of the States.

I Breathe A Sigh of Relief

2007-06-11T01:06:00.000-07:00

Finally, after much intellectual pain, I am finished with yet another semester. Rather than talk aimlessly about how fast time is flying and how it feels like I'm going to be "old as the hills" in a matter of moments (no insults intended to those of you who feel that you are already as old as these geographical features), I have a nice little story about censorship which everyone can appreciate.
Earlier in the semester, our teachers asked (read required) us to write a brief essay in Chinese about some topic. They told us this had to be longer than the weekly reports we wrote, some three or four pages and that it had to be good. Being the innocent, naive little students we are, none of us suspected what evil designs our teachers had in mind. Well, almost none of us. There were these rumors that they (our program) were going to attempt to publish these horrible little things we wrote. Apparently, the status of foreigners in China is so elevated that even the mindless, badly composed drivel of a bunch of students is worth publishing. Now, you my wonderful readers, know me, but you do not necessarily know how bad my Chinese is. It has gotten better, but at the time they wanted us to write these things, it was genuinely atrocious.
Any Chinese person who saw my writing would ether laugh themselves to death or cry themselves to death because it so mangled their language. I speak (and write) Chinese with a lack of skill which invokes deep mental pain in the minds of those who are native speakers. I have even seen some Chinese cower on the ground in the fetal position upon hearing me speak.
So you may imagine, knowing me to be the compassionate person I am, that I never would have desired to cause such wide and deep pain as the publication of anything I wrote in Chinese would have caused. So I set my mind to work. After sleeping on it, I devised a fool proof plan that would ensure no one would even contemplate publishing what I wrote.
Even though China is nowhere near so foolishly obsessed with political correctness as America is, they have their own love of bureaucracy and so cannot avoid at least a little. My plan involved appealing to their sense of decorum and political correctness, in effect hiding behind it. I figured if I wrote something offensive enough they would never, in all their desire to make us foreigners into sideshows, publish my piece.
So one night I sat down to open up the floodgates of political in-correctness. Having read this far, you can make a guess at what I ended up with. The topic I was give was tourism in China. So, I decided to list off the favorite past-times of all the various races and nations on earth in the most indecent manner possible. This involved quite a bit of the imagination. I started with the Taiwanese, I decided to say that not only did the Chinese mainlanders not like them, but the rest of the world didn't like the Taiwanese either. But the real brilliant touch here was why people did not like them: I said that Taiwanese people eat little children (台湾人很喜欢吃小孩子) . But i wasn't convinced that this would be shocking enough to ensure that they couldn't publish it, so I forged bravely on. I said that there weren't many French tourists in China because they don't like to use bathrooms and instead will nonchalantly relieve themselves wherever they feel the need (法国人随地上厕所) but I quickly realized there were two problems with this. First of all, nobody really likes the French anyways so they wouldn't have a problem with publishing such a scandalous review of them. And secondly, the Chinese seem to be quite content with this very informal means of answering nature's call, so I couldn't exactly expect them to raise any guff over such a statement.
The only choice was to keep on striving for the ultimate in offensive statements. I said that China did have a lot of American tourists, but nobody really liked them because they were all fatties (美国人都是胖字). I said that China only allowed Japanese tourists in so that they could catch them all in a great vengeance trap and kill them (中国人要杀死日本人). The Germans became people who liked to drive cars the wrong way on streets and Canadians just came to China to use drugs. I added a few other touches but finally relaxed with the comfort that it would cause a small international incident if my teachers tried to publish this little piece of mine.
I underestimated their cunning.
Low and behold at our farewell dinner, with all the dignitaries of our school present, the program head pulled out some colorful little magazine and said that it was a collection of articles written solely by us students. He began to read some of the articles, and my feet grew cold. I did not want to imagine what it would be like if he got to mine and went foolishly on reading. From what I have seen the Chinese do not appreciate a dry sense of humor and sarcasm in the same way Americans do--I guess they haven't had enough contact with the English. Anyhow, he named off two of my classmates and then came my name. I cringed. He started in talking boastfully about the wide understanding of tourism I demonstrated and the fairness and insight with which I judged the various nations' reasons for coming to China. I did not understand it. How could this be?
After a few minutes however, it all became clear. My teachers had decided that a little poetic license needed to be used in my case. They had rewritten my entire article and the only thing which remotely resembled the one I had written was the name. For a while I was angry about this, but then I realized that I had achieved my aim anyway. I had wanted to stop them from publishing what I wrote because my Chinese would have caused horrible pain to the many native speakers who read it, and this was achieved--just not how I imagined. It is no doubt that my teacher's Chinese was far more eloquent than I ever could have written, but since she attributed it to me, everyone would imagine it was my Chinese--and what is more, no one would have to go to the hospital. There are times when things do actually work out.
And so that is how I ended my semester, in plagiarism imposed upon me by my teachers.

A Brief Anecdote on Sanitation

2007-06-07T01:21:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately this week is finals week and I have been more or less brain dead for the majority of it. But all of that will be over tomorrow or the day after, and I shall once more be free. But until then, I thought perhaps I could relate to you a few short stories about the sanitary situation here in Kunming. There are those of you who would like to believe that China is a filthy, disgusting, dirty place which could learn lessons in cleanliness from Africa. I am here to disprove these false and disturbing beliefs.
First of all, water in China is very clean. Sure it is inadvisable for one to consume tap water, but really is America any different. How many of you regularly drink your own tap water? I know that many of you are too picky to even drink American tap water so how can you criticize the Chinese for not drinking their own tap water?
So when here you drink bottled water. Perhaps you think American bottled water is cleaner than Chinese. Well, at least the Chinese fill their bottles all the way up to the rim. In America have you ever noticed how you never actually get a full water bottle? In China this is not the case. I wondered why this might be, but upon opening my first bottle of Chinese water figured it out by getting soaked. If you fill a water bottle all the way to the top and seal it, the customer struggling to open the bottle will inevitably end up with much of the water on his or her shirt or pants. But aside from this Chinese bottled water and American are very similar...as long as you don't let your Chinese water sit around for more than a day.
I made this mistake.
I purchased a water bottle in the morning (a large one--liter and a half) and drank from it all day. At night I still hadn't finished it, but didn't think much of this and let it go, planning to finish it off in the morning. I woke up, and being in my normal foggy state, wandered about for a bit trying to bring myself into full wakefulness. I finally did and figured it would be good to take a good ole swig of fresh spring water from the Springs of Yulong Mountain (the bottling company promised crisp, fresh, mineral water direct from the mountains). I picked up my bottle but stopped short of drinking from it. For some reason the water was yellow. Upon closer inspection I found out that I was wrong. The water was green. Apparently there was something growing in it too. Have you ever looked into a ditch on the side of the road with its festering green scum? This was exactly what my water bottle looked like. I thought briefly that this was the same water I had consumed copious quantities of the day before, but decided to ignore that fact. Lesson: Do not let your Chinese water sit "mature" it is not like wine.
Perhaps one more story will fill out the picture for those of you who still doubt how clean China is. I was sitting in a coffee shop this morning, looking at the traffic wandering by on the street outside. I should have been paying attention to the traffic inside. In less than five minutes a string of no less than a dozen rats dashed under my feet and across the floor apparently deciding to exit out the back door. I don't know if this was the sign of some coup in the rat world and these were the last few crime bosses making a hasty getaway out the back, but it was definitely proof that the coffee shop didn't have any more rats. Now that they were all gone, I felt much better about the crackers they gave me with my coffee (previously I had always wondered why the crackers looked like someone had nibbled on them).
Hopefully this enlightens all you ignorant curs, don't be casting no more aspersions on the Chinese. They just as clean as us Americans...well, almost as clean.

Last Night: A War of Attrition

2007-06-03T02:17:00.001-07:00

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING NARRATION IS VERY VIOLENT, THOSE WITH WEAKER STOMACHS ARE ADVISED NOT TO READ ON.

The mosquitoes came in low. It was dark, no lights on and I could only hear their high-pitched whine. But last night was different, I played the game of appeasement too long. For the last month I had been terrorized by mosquitoes every night. As soon as the lights were out, they’d come in and feast on me. Too wily to spot, to quick to catch, I was getting eaten alive every night. They buzz around my face taunting me and depriving me of sleep. And when I awoke, it would be to the terror of a day of itching, a day of scratching at these little bits all over my feet, my legs, my chest, my arms and my face.

But like I said, last night was different.

This night, I laid a trap for them. I waited, softly and quietly in the dark, waited for the little devil bugs to come. And then I heard their whine. I remembered once watching a WWII movie which talked about not shooting until you could “See the whites of their eyes.” Now I don’t know if mosquitoes have whites or even if they have eyes. Besides which ignorance, it was dark and as close to Rambo as I may be, I still cannot see in the dark—very well. Instead, I waited until I could feel the flutter of their wings on my face. Mosquitoes wings buzz so fast, they generate a large flow of air. So I laid quietly, not moving as they whined about my face. But their time was not yet. There was no guarantee that I’d kill them if they were still in the air. These mosquitoes were veterans, they knew how to move in the air. I had no chance unless I waited.

So I waited. Pass after pass, they flew over me—I guessed reconnaissance missions to make sure I was asleep. Well, such was my anger I could wait. And waiting paid off. Finally one of the little buggers got brave or stupid and landed on my nose. I felt the feet, the antennae, but not yet…I had to be sure. Waiting and waiting and finally it came, that sharp almost indiscernible prick of the mosquito’s sucker. There was no backing out now. I slapped my face will all the force I had—enough to give me a bloody nose. But the mosquito’s nose was not the only bloody thing about him—I turned that bug into the flattest mosquito the world has ever seen. I actually contacted Guinness Book of World Records to see if it wasn’t a new record—I haven’t heard back yet.

But the battle was on now, they knew I was awake. I leapt out of bed with a primordial yell, flicking on the lights. The small insect bodies scattered up towards the ceiling where they thought they were out of my reach. They hadn’t yet comprehended the awful nature of my trap. As wily as mosquitoes are, they are not as smart as their human prey, something which is decidedly to their disadvantage. They didn’t know I could jump on the bed.

Both hands flailing, I leapt into the air, clapping like a madman father at his son’s football game. The squashed mosquitoes fell, littering the floor like some plague of locusts. Soon there were audible crunches every time I came back down onto the bed. But the war of attrition had begun.

Just as I thought was gaining on the bugs, they brought out reinforcements from the bathroom. Apparently the humid atmosphere in that room was being used as a breeding ground for the evil bugs. But I was not daunted. I intended to exact vengeance for so many sleepless nights and the more bugs which came to the party the better. I abandoned the bed and began chasing the small black insects all around the room. I yelled, I screamed, I slapped the bugs flat on every surface in the room. But there were so many of them. And these were the crack troops, the Navy Seals, the Delta Force, the Massad, and the SAS all rolled into one. They began landing on my back, on my shoulders, all over me. Soon, I was reduced to swatting the bugs on myself, unable to see for the cloud of insects. And in the back of my mind I began to wonder if I wasn’t going to lose this one. I imagined someone coming in to the room the next morning and finding my mosquito bite covered body lifeless upon the floor. And for a moment I almost accepted this fate. But there was still a little something deep down in me which wasn’t going to give up.

And then, in what was nothing less than divine intervention, my hand come down upon a blanket. Whipping this up I began to swing it around about me, catching up all the light mosquitoes in a whirlwind of air. Like a tornado the bugs were pulled into the blanket cyclone. Soon the entire air was clear and they were all wrapped up in the folds of the blanket. With a roar equal to Samson’s scream as he tumbled the temple pillars, I hurled the blanket against the wall and sent all the little vampire bugs to their awful demise.

I don’t know if bugs have an afterlife. But wherever the mosquito afterworld is, it has a whole hell of a lot more residents now. Perhaps I can get some sleep tonight.

Mangoes

2007-05-30T22:44:00.000-07:00

The fruit scene, unlike the night scene in Kunming, is amazing. Perhaps it is because we are sitting here "South of the Clouds" (Sichaun) and close to the tropical jungles of southeastern Asia, perhaps because the farmers in this vicinity beat the pants off American farmers, perhaps for a million other reasons the fruit I have beat stuffing in my face lately is of no ordinary quality.
Right now happens to be mango season, which fruit is the closest I have ever come to paradise in the form of food. I've been trying not to over do it though, you know, wouldn't want to make a pig out of myself or anything like that. I restricted myself to no more than four Mangoes in any one day, unless extenuating circumstances arise.
But you don't want to hear about my issues with mango addiction and the many serious problems which arise from this, the least of which is a tendency to make armed hold ups at all the local fruit stands, instead I know that the informed reader wishes to be taught by an expert how to go about consuming one of these heavenly fruits. No worries, an extensive discourse on this topic is about to slap you in the face.
There are many techniques for eating a mango. This is most likely because the mango has been the favorite fruit of monks throughout all those regions where one finds mangoes. Monks having large quantities of time on their hands devoted much of this to the research and discovery of the perfect mango-eating technique. Unfortunately this is still a work in progress, having not yet reached Nirvana, so we will have to lay before you the most likely candidates. In addition to this I would also like to include my own personal technique which I feel may yet be the truest form of eating mangoes.

1. The Aboriginal Technique. Perhaps the most simple and crude of all the ways to eat a mango, many would also contend that this is the most elegant because of its very simplicity. Essential the person desirous of eating a mango takes hold of said mango with his right hand, his or her thumb being placed towards the stem of the fruit and the other fingers fanned out behind it accordingly as seems most natural. At this point the eater moves the mango in his or her hand close to the mouth and takes a bite. The biggest problem I have found with this technique is that the skin of a mango is not at all delicate, being more like leather, and does not surrender it's delicious insides easily. Besides which the skin of a mango does not taste good at all, very bitter. The proponents of the Aboriginal Technique claim that this bitterness lends itself to the overall experience creating a greater sense of enjoyment when the eater finally comes to the fruit itself. I find this to be total bull.

2 . The Flower Technique. Very popular in restaurants right now, this method is bar far the most aesthetically pleasing, but not easy to consume. In order to eat a mango in this manner it is essential for the eater to spend quite some time in preparation. First the eater takes the mango and cuts it lengthwise above the pit. This leaving the mango more or less in halves, the eater then cuts below the pit in the same manner. Now the eater has two pieces of mango ready to be converted into miniature works of art, and one which is to be sucked on until the pit is left clean. Taking the two pieces then, one makes a series of slices in them creating a checkerboard pattern. Once completed, the eater can push from the bottom of these pieces up, turning them inside out as it were and leaving you with a wonderful culinary creation; the cubical pieces of mango stand out from the skin like so many large spikes on a porcupine. I find this technique to be a great waste of time however which also wastes quite a bit of the mango which could be otherwise consumed.

3. The Pulp Method. Less prestigious than its counterparts, this technique is the cleanest way to eat a mango which I have yet found. One simply applies firm but not over-oppressive pressure to the outside of the mango turning it into a shapeless bag of goop. Once the eater thinks it is liquefied enough on the inside, he or she makes a small slit on the end opposite the stem and drinks the mango out of its skin like water out of a water-bottle. The hardest part of this process is not breaking the skin before it is ready to be consumed.

4. The Phil Approach. As you might have guessed my method is especially good because it involves knives. It is a simple process and not difficult even for those who have never even held a knife. The knife-wielder simply attacks the mango with the same sort of fervor a wild barbarian from the Siberian step would have attacked a fat Roman senator. Chop it to bits, slice it to shreds, consume most of it during the process. Easy, convenient, and clean.

I'm sure there are other ways to eat a mango, but none of them are as good as these laid out before you. So, next time you get your hands on a mango, take the time to peruse these directions and tell me which method you go with.

Chinese Showers

2007-05-30T03:12:00.000-07:00

Although this may surprise some of you, particularly my sisters and other family members who choose to cast aspersions upon the state of my person's sanitation, but I have taken many showers in China. Indeed, I might even lay claim to some sort of expertise in this realm. And since I have been making this study of the nature of showers in China, I felt the need to enlighten the rest of the world on the off chance that someone might decide to take a trip to China. So take the following as an exact and scientific description of the shower facilities in most of China.
First of all, showers are only considered acceptable if in China’s largest cities, elsewhere they are strictly forbidden as anti-communist propaganda and criticism of the government. If you plan on venturing into the smaller and lesser known villages in China do not bring your shower cap.
Secondly these showers as a rule do not allow for shower curtains. The general mode of things is to allow the water to create a miniature lake on the bathroom floor so that the forgetful traveler will soak his socks and spend the rest of the day with miserably cold feet. If you have any sort of aversion to damp feet, forget traveling to China.
Third, when in the actual shower-taking process, it is the policy that hot water takes at least 15 minutes to make an on-scene appearance. This usually involves the highly risky process of “testing the water” (看一看水热不热) where the traveler dashes into the bathroom, barefooted of course, and shoves an arm under the stream of water. The traveler always emits a loud, primeval scream at this point either because the water as recent as half a minute ago was in its glacial form, or because it is boiling. The especially savvy travelers begin to learn how to tell the temperature of the water merely by the mistiness of the bathroom’s atmosphere. This last trick is invaluable.
Fourth, Chinese showers believe in a clear-cut form of temperature control. While Chinese showers do have knobs which offer almost 180 degrees of variance from right to left, usually the only place which results in a change of temperature is somewhere around 80 degrees if 0 is all the way left and 180 all the way right. To either side of this “sweet spot” (最好的地方) is one extreme or the other. The result is that the traveler must constantly and sometimes rapidly jiggle the knob back and forth over the sweet spot so as to moderate the temperature. This exercise results in an interesting rhythmic series of sounds from the traveler which has become known as “Chinese Opera” (京剧).
Finally, China firmly believes in the practice of having no standard direction for hot or cold. One place may require a knob turned to the right for hot water, another to the left. Since the water takes so long to heat up, the traveler often spends many anxious moments waiting. Half of him believes the heated water merely hasn’t made its way from whatever depths it resides in yet, while the other half is convinced that the knob is turned to the cold and so it won’t ever heat up. The worst course of action however for any traveler is to indulge in petty indecisiveness which involves turning the knob one way and then the other at intervals of five minutes. The only result this achieves is cold water.
But I am confident that you, armed with these priceless facts, will find no difficulty in conquering the intricate system for keeping oneself clean which has developed in China.

Umbrellas: A Serious Threat to Humanity

2007-05-28T01:34:00.000-07:00

Kunming, being situated where it happens to be situate on this lovely little globe, is subject to the monsoon climate. This means that the wonderful weather of late winter and spring which gives Kunming its title as the "Spring City" vanishes with the arrival of May. From May on out well into summer, the weather in Kunming turns unpredictable, leaving few days without at least the threat of rain. The sun goes off on quick, unannounced leaves of absence and the residents start walking faster than normal to dodge the big raindrops. I would have said this caused everyone to whip out their umbrellas, but the truth of the matter is, they already have them out. I have known few people so attached to shelter. When it is sunny, they carry their umbrellas to avoid a burn or even a light bit of color in the face; when it is raining they bring them along to avoid the moisture, and for all the times in between, they keep them out just for consistency's sake. Kunming's populace is very attached to its umbrellas, and if any one of youu happens to be an umbrella salesman or manufacturer, I might suggest you move to Yunnan to make your fortune. Of course there might be a small hitch in all your dreams of riches: everyone in Kunming already has an umbrella, sometimes two or three.
But I didn't bring up Kunming's weather so I could talk about how many umbrellas everyone has; my main point was to draw attention to the great threat all these umbrellas pose to my life. See, the Chinese are not generally a tall group of individuals, actually I'd say they are shorter than not (and I'm short myself). And when these short people go walking around in great big crowds with their umbrellas it is no doubt some one will get their eye poked out. The Chinese do not even need Red Ryder beebee guns to de-eye themselves. As you walk along the crowded sidewalks, and every sidewalk is crowded in China, you have to dodge right and left to avoid the sharp little metal points on the edges of the umbrellas. If you have never taken the time to think about it, you will be surprised to learn that umbrellas are expressly designed to pose an ocular threat to the human race. The metal wires which are the umbrella's skeleton also happen to have just enough metal sticking out past the cloth to give your eye a good, sharp gouge. My personal feeling is that umbrellas are not a human invention at all, but a product of malicious green aliens from Mars who have eyes out their butts and so are not threatened by these new weapons. I caution everyone to think twice before purchasing an umbrella and contributing to the dominance of a race of little green Martians with eyes in their butts.
Can you imagine these new weapons in the hands of short people who want to get out of the rain? The way the population wields its umbrellas, swinging them around as if they were little harmless daisies, I am not surprised Kunming no less than five eye hospitals. Perhaps you have seen a certain film entitled Singing in the Rain? I have evidence that points out this is actually a piece of propaganda by the butt-eyed Martians to encourage wanton and careless handling of these dangerous weapons.
To date, I myself have managed to avoid any damage only by constant vigilance and having the reflexes of a cat. I encourage all of you to do away with your umbrellas before the Martians take us all over.

The Moral of the Story

2007-05-25T20:34:00.000-07:00

Perhaps some of you are familiar with the verse, “For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me.” Matthew 25:35-36 as well as the follow up verse, “Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.” –Matthew 25:40?
My adventures in Tibet brought me to a new understanding of this verse, though a painful one. The first and obvious connection is that I often saw the hungry, beggars who wanted food. Tibet, according to statistics a friend gave me, is one of the poorest nations (I guess I should say places) on earth, with an illiteracy rate more than 70%. And when you combine this with Tibet's being a major tourist destination for very rich tourists, it's not surprising that there is an entire culture of begging. In Lhasa they were on the streets, making supplicating gestures at you, because obviously you were white and had money. On the road, at the places we stopped they would come up to the windows of the car if we didn't get out and would point at the food we had sitting on the seats. They'd point to the food and then their mouths, making an eating motion. Besides a few rolls, I didn't give them any of my food. Some person huh? But people asking for food weren't the only ones I encountered. A young man asked me for my coat. Now he had one of his own, but it was old and worn, and he was living on one of those high passes we went through where it was always freezing. Now I'd like to tell you that I gave him my new coat, which was really something I'd only use a few times at Everest and maybe once or twice more back in the States every year. But I did not give him my coat. I wasn't a jerk about it, I made some lame excuse and sort of ducked my head and ran away. So it seems I failed on two counts, first the hungry and then the naked.
As bad is this is sounding for me, perhaps you would like to know if I have some purpose in telling you all this, perhaps you would like to understand how I could be so unchristian? Unfortunately it was easy.
I mean, when a person comes up to you asking for food, how do you know they aren't someone who is just making their living off begging when they could be earning money some other way? How do you know? Often we would arrive at some pass with a tremendous view and there would be all these people begging. But the pass is way out of the way from civilization, and if there were no tourists, these people would never have tried to spend time up there. Do they count as the starving? There wasn't anything particular about these people which made me think they were about to die from lack of food, (besides their voices.) And the guy who asked me for my coat? He wasn't shivering, he didn't look ill or anything. He was a strong young guy, there was nothing about him crying out cloth me! (Nothing except for his voice...).
So armed with these great weapons of reasoning, I never deigned to help these people. I had my dinners, slept in my warm beds, saw my mountain and came home. Out of sight out of mind, problem solved.
I'm not sure what else to say now. So maybe some of you can be of some help; what are we to do beyond actually sucking it up and helping the people who ask for it?

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 14-- 67 Hour Train Ride

2007-05-24T20:05:00.001-07:00

As unfortunate as our traveler's early return from Mount Everest, things actually work out better this way. You might remember there being some problems with the idea of our traveler's triumphant return to Kunming--mainly that he had no clue how this was going to come about. Our traveler was now going to be in Lhasa on the 4th of May which is a Friday. He decides that it would not be a bad idea to simply head out the train station on the 5th and try to catch the Saturday train (which leaves around 10 in the morning).
After the first good meal he has had in more than four days, he confers with his companions who are returning by airplane Sunday morning. It is decided that our traveler will awake as early as possible Saturday morning and make the journey out to the train station. There he will try and get on the train but if this doesn't work he will return and try to meet up with his companions again. To this purpose he asks them to give him a call around nine or ten o'clock that they might know whether or not our traveler will be trying to meet up with them again. Our traveler would have used his phone to call them but it is currently on the fritz and only able to receive calls.
Morning comes, our traveler heads to the train station where he boards with incredible ease. It seems that in a few minutes all of his traveling uncertainties are gone, he has a bunk on the train to Chengdu which will leave in a few hours so everything is just a waiting game now. He waits for a call from his companions. It never comes. Are traveler later learns that his phone is on the fritz to such an extent it cannot receive calls either. So our traveler, as far as those in Lhasa know, simply vanishes from Tibet--next to deportation, a fitting way to leave.
The train ride ahead of him is longer than any he has ever taken. He has never taken a train for more than an hour or two. This train will be going for some three days before he arrives in Kunming. The first leg, 49 hours from Lhasa to Chengdu, is almost pleasurable with wonderfully stunning views and only one surprise. In a conversation with a Dutch man our traveler meets on the train, he is shocked to learn that he will be going through Lanzhou which is a city far in the north of China. For a few ghastly minutes our traveler imagines he has gotten on the wrong train and is headed into far off parts of china which he has never had a plan of visiting. This misconception however is cleared up when he learns that the train will be turning south after Lanzhou down to Chengdu where he can change for a Kunming train. Though you may find it hard to believe this was the only shocking event in the first 49 hours of our traveler's train ride.
The next 24 were entirely different however.
Arriving in Chengdu at 8:30 in the morning, our traveler sprints off the train to purchase a ticket for the 9 o'clock train to Kunming. The lines in the ticket office, our traveler immediately gives up all hope of catching the 9 train. After some twenty or thirty minutes in line, he reaches the counter and asks for the soonest train to Kunming. The woman behind the counter tells him 5 in the afternoon is available. Our traveler feels this to be a little later than desirable and asks for the earliest train again (stressing the earliest). She tells him there is a two o'clock train. Our traveler repeats this process, saying the same thing each time and the woman always working closer to the desired near departure. Eventually they settle on a 10:15 train and our traveler sprints back to the station, since this train is about to depart.
The Kunming to Chengdu train is entirely different from the Lhasa train. The Lhasa train, being a new addition to the Chinese railway system in the last year, was clean, comfortable and populated mainly by classy tourists. The Chengdu train is the antithesis of this. It is old, dirty, and populated by the lower reaches of society. Now our traveler has nothing against those people who are less privileged than others, but this was not quite the issue at hand.
He arrives at his cabin to find a small member of the slit pants crowd crawling all over his bed. If you are unaware of who the slit pants crowd are, I will take the trouble to enlighten you for our traveler's sake. The slit pants crowd are a group of more traditional Chinese who believe that all children up to the age of 5, 6 or even 8 should wander about with a slit in their pants rather than a diaper. While this does have many advantages in the realm of convenience, it is disgusting when one finds a little child rubbing its naked butt all over one's pillow. But these were simply the beginnings of our traveler's woes.
Another notable aspect of the Chengdu train's clientele is that everyone smokes horrible cigarettes. There are no laws against smoking in China and sometimes these patrons of the train can be seen smoking two cigarettes at once, such is their state of addiction and indulgence. When added to the general smell of feet which have not been washed in several years and other nastiness, our traveler was quite happy when his sense of smell committed suicide and gave up the good fight.
But the worst was yet to come. Our traveler had gotten up to visit the dining car (which wasn't bad considering the rest of the train) when upon returning was startled by something he had thought the Chinese not even capable of. The small child, member of the slit pants crowd as already stated, was being held in his mother's arms out over the small walkway between the beds. Here upon urging from the mother in the form of some sort of child-like imitation of a gun firing, the child was being induced to pee. Our traveler does not consider himself a overly sensitive person, nor someone who is terribly bothered by filth and squalor, but small children peeing on the floor only a few feet below where our traveler sleeps is something else.
The shocked expression on our traveler's face must have awoken some sense of decorum in the mother's heart for she smiled awkwardly and after her child had finished ran to grab a mop with which she rubbed the little kid's piss all over the floor to ensure that the coat was even. Around this point, our traveler crawled into his bed, turned to the wall and whispered calming things about how nice America was. In such a state he arrives once more in Kunming, thankful that the train ride is over. And such is the ignominious end of Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 14--The Yeti

2007-05-24T02:15:00.000-07:00

In general our traveler feels that restrictions on where he is allowed to go are not so much legal precedents or compulsory regulations, instead he general finds such laws to be challenges. Such was the case with the taunting "We will Punish you" sign. Who was the Chinese government to tell our traveler where he could and could not go in China?
Looking around, he notices some gravel hills to the east of Base Camp which rise some 200 or 300 feet above the level of the plain. Our travel notices that the several folds of these hills would definitely hide him from the view of base camp and so would, barring any sort of patrols, allow him to keep on going. Decided, he follows the road back towards tourist base camp for a half mile or so, not wanting to draw attention to his move to the eastward. In a hollow with no one around, he cuts off the road and scrambles up and over the gravel hill. Out of sight and in comparative safety he slows down and heads further up the valley. He is on a sort of sunken shelf between the cliff sides of the larger valley and the small ridge created by this row of hills.
He is presented with a stunning view of both the full magnitude of base camp and the awful power of the mountain. Looking down from this new height base camp has a whole new order, remarking its human origin. The tents are geometrically laid out, their bright colors forming neat rows, circles, and other pattern and this order is offset against the earth shifting disorder of the tumbling hills of dirt pushed before the glacier. In the sun Everest shines with an almost cruel brilliance, and our traveler averts his eyes for lack of sunglasses. Turning away from this awesome sight then, he begins to head up into the ravine. It’s mouth is guarded by two steep cliff walls which force the ice choked remnants of the stream up and into a chaotic bristly mass as it passes through. Our traveler clambers down one side of this cliff face, slipping and sliding the last portion until he is on the rocks sticking up and out of the snow over the stream. From here on it is up, through this canyon valley until…
The only sounds are the gushing wind and the rushing of the stream beneath the snow. Choosing ease over safety, our traveler begins walking his way up the snow covered creek, trusting in his vision to spot those portions of the ice which are rotten and unsafe. At points the stream pops out above the ice and froths about over the snow and between rocks until it vanishes again beneath the half-glacier.
For a while the going gets steeper, but is still not too difficult since there are plenty of layers of snow over the ice giving out traveler traction. The ice even begins to form giant steps which our traveler sometimes resorts to all-fours to climb over. As he pushes his way up, the valley opens some—cliff walls giving way to steep rocky hillsides, topped with snow. The weather also begins to change; the sun fading beneath ominously heavy gray clouds. It being almost 1:30 in the afternoon, our traveler sets a 3:30 turn around time for himself, claiming no matter where he is, he begins his return then.
As small bits of snow drop fitfully from the sky, our traveler meets with the first genuine forms of glacier he has yet touched near Everest. One of the giant snow steps he is climbing, made of more ice than normal, sends him sliding backwards, tumbling down the steep slope. After coming to a stop on some rocks in a more level portion of ground, he slowly works back up to this slippery place and finds blue ice where his footprint drew off the thin layer of snow. He decides to stick to the rocky hillsides for a while, whether it be slower or no.
This sort of hiking is steeper as well as more energy consuming since he must jump from rock to rock or do an endless version of a stairstepper. Our traveler begins to notice that he must often stop for water and breathing. His faithful water bottle, having served him all-day, is beginning to show signs that its supply may not actually be inexhaustible. Our traveler decides to ration himself.
It is on one of these rests that, looking up at the high mountain sides all around him, our traveler remembers that there are still snow leopards occasionally seen in the area. Imagining this would be quite a sight, our traveler ponders the ridgeline for longer than normal.

But the subject of wildlife is not only limited to snow leopards. While the thoughts of such mystical beasts as the Sasquatch and Yeti may be entirely ridiculous to you in the comforting safety from the wild which civilization affords you, when alone in a ravine more than 3 miles high with mountains still towering over too high to see above your head, one’s sense of what is ridiculous and what is not becomes impaired. At least such was the case with our traveler. As he continued on, once more on the semi-rotten ice over the stream, he comes upon large footprints. Logic tells him these are the tracks of some snowshoe shod hiker, doing the same thing our traveler is, but logic is not the kingly personage it once was in the oxygen impaired mind of our traveler.

He cannot help but think of the Yeti; afterall the tracks are larger than any human foot should be. Although our traveler can reason out many objections as to how the tracks are of human origin, the overriding feeling within his mind is the illusion-like sense that the tracks are more paw-like than shoe-like. Now, given these already insane thoughts on the part of our traveler, you will no doubt forgive him the added lunacy of following these tracks up the valley.

From this point on, his course is determined by the footprints. He follows them sometimes at a distance when they seem to cross impossibly dangerous sections of ice, he searches almost frantically for them when they vanish into the rocks. But eventually, in a wider more snow-filled section of the valley, they vanish. Spending quite some time, our traveler comes to the conclusion that the tracks could not have made it to any rock surface—they are all too far away, and that they must remain a mystery.

Nearing the turn-around time, our traveler decides he will continue until the next bend in the valley to see what there is to see, and begin the long haul back. His steps are slower now, and he stops to breath almost every 20 yards. Also he begins to feel a headache building up in his skull.

Our traveler notices a tendency of his person from afar as it were, of his focusing entirely now on each step, each single movement up. From rock to rock, across the snow and ice, through the occasional sand banks, he steps slowly up. Finally he comes around this last bend. Before him the valley opens up into a giant bowl, filled with snow. Straight ahead are two ponderous rounded peaks, with lower rolling hills at their base. These hills are tiger-striped with snow as if the sun has been working a wave-like motion in melting them.

All thoughts of Yeti’s and snow leopards are gone form our traveler’s mind; only the consciousness of his now splitting headache and the sense that he should return soon. Perhaps he did not spend adequate time admiring the beauty of this scenery he worked so hard to reach, but his lack of water contributes in such a way to his state of mind that he simply stumbles back down the ravine. He does stop briefly to look out from the ravine at the ridgeline on the opposite side of the massive Rongbuk valley to see how high he is. By the marks on the side of the other ridge, he judges that he has climbed at least 1,000 vertical feet if not a bit more from the valley’s plain. It is my guess that he reached something close to 18,500 feet or higher at this point.

Dizzy now, with a head that aches at every jarring step from rock to rock, our traveler resembles some drunken reveler, weaving carelessly through the rocks. He remembers that he planned to bring back stones from Everest for his friends and family, so he begins to at random stoop over and grab some colorful pebbles to shove in his pockets. Upon his return he does not find these stones to be near as colorful as they seemed at the time.

His chest begins to feel constricted too, a strange tightness in the very center of his chest which feels like someone has bound up his lungs with a heavy rope. It is as if there is a horribly wracking cough coiled up inside of him, but which he cannot cough. His eyes also are in a sad state, seeing as he forgot his sunglasses and has been beneath the high-altitude rays of the sun reflected off the glaringly white snow all day. He wonders if part of his headache is not due to this glare.

But our traveler continues bravely on despite all of this, staggering often misplacing his feet and only avoiding bone-crunching falls by divine intervention. Almost to the cliffs he scaled down to enter the ravine, our traveler spots another human-like form. Instantly the yeti tracks pop back into his mind, and our traveler thinks of flinging all his colorful rocks at this monster to fend it off. However clarity wins out and our traveler realizes the figure is actually a fellow hiker, but only after he has screamed wildly to frighten the not-yeti away.

With a silent wave they pass each other in the icy canyon and our traveler stumbles back into the fake base camp. At the supposed site of residence in this tourist’s base camp, our traveler finds his companions looking dour. They claim they are very uncomfortable and feeling the effects of the altitude. This apparently because they sat on the rocks in the sun all day, like so many cold-blooded reptiles. They announce that they have decided to return all the way to Shigar that night, and be in Lhasa the following evening.

Our traveler, weary from his over-ambitious hiking, concedes to their foolishness and climbs into the car after only a small cup of tea to refresh himself. To say that the return trip was morbid would not be accurate, for in a way our traveler also was finished with the mountain. But it is with a heavy heart that he leaves, watching the massive peak fade slowly into the masses of clouds which once more wrap it up. As he leaves the valley, he catches one last glimpse of Everest and the whole range.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 13: EBC

2007-05-23T04:59:00.000-07:00

Our fearless traveler heads to bed after darkness settles in and clouds blot out all sight of Everest, but only then. They have received accommodations at the Rongbuk Monastery Guesthouse which is not bad at all, as far as buildings above 17,000 ft. go. The rooms have four couch-like beds with two blankets per and are small enough to heat up a little when fully occupied. If you are looking for splendid architecture or beautiful interior decor, you might want to close your eyes. The guesthouse consists of three long concrete bunkers, two of which are rooms for the travelers, while the third is a small restaurant of sorts--very dark, very smoky, very loud, very warm. But the general attitude among the traveler's companions is one which desires sleep. Unfortunately the light (a bulb hanging from the ceiling) has no switch. Apparently when the power to the compound shuts down, the light will go off. Not waiting for an electrical malfunction, our traveler slips off into sleep beneath the yellow glow of his light. Excitement works its simulating effects on our traveler. Normally a later riser, he rises with the sun this morning in the hopes that he might catch a sunrise over the mighty mountain. But looking out the window, he is saddened because he cannot see across the monastery courtyard; fog has socked in the Rongbuk valley. Rolling over, the traveler tosses and turns for quite some time, waiting for both the clearing of the atmosphere and the awakening of his companions who are obviously not effected by the same excitement as our fellow.

Finally, after some immoderate length of time which might even have exceeded half an hour, our traveler’s companions begin to get up. In a flash he is out of bed and putting on his shoes (such was the cold, our traveler was obliged to sleep in all his clothing). The general plan of action for the day is to eat breakfast and move up the road a few kilometers to base camp, where the traveler hopes to find accommodation for the evening.
After a tasteless breakfast, our traveler’s companions decide they are too tired, lazy, weak, unmanly, pathetic, and even lacking in the general spirit of adventure to hike these paltry few kilometers, not more than a mile, to the next camp. They vote to take the land cruiser. Our traveler, his sensibilities severely outraged by this, spurns their land cruiser and declares that he shall walk.
The air is cold with a freezing breeze that seems to cut our traveler’s ear form his head. Unlike some others, he is thankful at this point for his longer than not hair. He decides to follow the river which flows out of the massive Rongbuk glacier further up the valley. His breath while not coming easily, is not as taxed as he thought it would be above 17,000 ft.

Since it had been snowing for most of the night, the going among the rocks and boulders of the creek bed (which are all made slippery by a sheet of snow) is difficult. Also the road which leads to base camp, situated further up on the hillside east of our traveler’s path, at times moves close to the river, pinning our traveler between a cliff face and an icy blue-green creek. Our traveler thinks of crossing the river by hopping from boulder to boulder, but a search for a adequate path across is not found. He decides to continue on the best he can while looking for a better spot to cross.

He eventually finds this in the form of a large chunk of unmelted ice sticking out from the far bank. Our traveler figures he can leap most of the creek and land on the ice. But being the prudent soul he is, he chucks a few sizable rocks onto the ice just to make sure it is solid. Not a creak or crack is heard. in these sorts of maneuvers thinking generally is a hindrance and often a danger, so our traveler throws whatever caution he may have to the wind and hurls himself out towards the ice. He clears the water with more distance than he had hoped for, but this extra distance is converted to force upon his landing and the ice demonstrates a traitorous nature: it cracks. Fast feet and some ignominious crawling move our traveler out of danger as a large portion of the ice breaks free and slips off down the creek.

But the obstacle is passed and onward he moves. He quickly comes in sight of a dingy huddle of outfitter's tents across the creak which is billed as "Base Camp." Crossing back over he realizes in a bit of shock that this is nothing more than a seedy tourist post. The real Everest Base Camp is further up the road. In disgust our traveler shakes the dust from his feet and moves on. This hike lasts a bit longer, ranging over hills and ravines and generally shaping up to be a good deal steeper than the morning’s exercise. Only several minutes into this jaunt, before our traveler has lost sight of the road, he spots his companions resting on a stone in the now-shining sun. They remind him singularly of some form of lizard sunning itself in the warm, high altitude sun. Their excuse is that they are collectively not feeling well and are waiting for one of the many tourist horse carts to ferry them up the hill.
Continuing on, our traveler finally reaches a point on one of the gravel hills near the river bank from which he can see the real beginnings of base camp. This giving him new energy, he trots in the last bit and finds himself standing in Mount Everest Base Camp. The traveler has heard rumors that hiking past this point results in a beefy fine, but as yet having seen no sign, nor been told to stop, he decides to continue on as far as he may go. He passes a large bathroom on his left and a guy sitting on a chair to his right. As our traveler passes, the man in the chair makes a strange whispering noise which reminds our traveler of some horror film he has seen years back. Feeling it to be the best course of action to ignore these noises, our traveler forges on. This time he is brought about by a very foreign “Hello."

Through the broken English our traveler eventually comes to the understanding that he is not allowed to go any further. This is sad.

Our traveler begs in his bad Chinese to be able to go a little ways further “just to have a little look.” The whispering fellow consents to this and our traveler walks a few hundred yards down the road and around a small knoll. This is the closest he ever gets to Everest Base Camp proper. For, the small cluster of tents which he just passed near the whispering man is merely the outskirts of the much larger base camp. Before him extends a large plain, butting up to the chaotic mounds of dirt and gravel being pushed down the valley by the glacier. This plain is covered on three of its corners with large encampments of the various Everest expeditions this year. Their bright yellow and orange tents stand out sharply against the steely brown of the crushed rock plain. The whole scene gives our traveler an oddly majestic feeling, as if all these tiny bits of color somehow amount to the conquering of the mountain before them. And in the sun, the snow covered mass of Everest leaves the tents as oddly insignificant despite their aims. After standing around and gawking for a bit, like most tourists, our traveler turns his back on base camp, and walks back towards the unrestricted area. On his way back in he spots the warning for tourists which states in very broken English that all tourists without “climbing contracts” who venture past this sign are in trouble, literally the sign finishes: “We will punish you $200 US Dollars.” Punish however is begun with an ‘R’ and has the word “fine” scrawled under it. Our traveler has not yet given in to defeat. Not yet fatigued, he decides to try his luck further up on the hillside. As of yet nothing he has done can be considered "hiking," but perhaps the further up he goes, the better the terrain will get.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 12--Everest

2007-05-21T22:00:00.000-07:00

I thought about beginning this with some timeless description of the epic efforts to conquer Mt. Everest, but the whole notion that this mountain has been conquered is like saying man has conquered the moon--Everest and the moon are both unaware of small flags pegged into them, and most likely don't give a crap anyways.
Our traveler arrives at Rongbuk Monastery just around dinner time. The traveler's choices for eating in this locale are not extensive. There is the monastery guesthouse which serves yak milk based dishes, and there is the new government hotel which serves crude oil based dishes. Both cases are not at all what you would consider delicious. Then again, who ever came to Everest for a culinary experience? Weren't our traveler.
But ignorant of both places' specialties, our traveler unfortunately heads towards the new government hotel--a large, multi-tiered concrete travesty which looks more out of place than a Brazilian swimsuit model would. After ordering, the traveler and his companions survey the scene: mostly there are Chinese tourists and perhaps a few Europeans--but all of them are comatose with oxygen tubes sticking out their noses while they sleep. Apparently the elevation does get to some people. Rongbuk Monastery is something above 17,000 ft. high.
As time passes though, the traveler notices that the elevation does not only affect those unprepared tourists, it also seems to affect the staff of the restaurant who move so slowly and are so reluctant to do anything, he wonders if he will get his food before the next month. But the wait for food is made even more agonizing by the sudden appearance of a beam of sun. Shooting down from the northern end of the valley, it plays about the valley slopes. As the hours tick by, the sun slowly creeps its way further up the valley towards the mountain. Our traveler who had been one minute fearing that he would never even get a glimpse of Everest, is ecstatic.

The clouds slowly begin to draw back from Everest. First only a little portion of the left shoulder is visible, but suddenly in a majestically ponderous movement, almost all the clouds withdraw from the mountain, leaving the world’s tallest mountain shining in the sun. Our traveler had worried perhaps that the view of the mountain, if he ever got it, would be anti-climactic—he needn’t have.
Unlike other snow capped mountains our traveler has seen, Everest has all sorts of lesser peaks (which would have been famous if isolated by themselves) as foothills. As our traveler watches the clouds withdraw, each peak seems to be the highest, until he realizes the true nature of Everest and sees its massive pyramid and north ridge towering above even the mightiest peaks before it. Our traveler stood rooted to the spot for more than ten minutes No words in his mind could do it justice. So pictures will...

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 11--Spicing it Up

2007-05-21T01:37:00.001-07:00

I am a little worried that of recent the journey has not been as exciting as you would like. In fact, I worry that it's been boring. If that be the case, weary not, for now is when the story really gets exciting! We're talking more mountain passes with accurate altitudes, more odd Tibetan names, more monasteries which are exactly like the ones already described, more of everything! Actually that is just a joke, from here on out its danger, excitement, yetis, tragedy, death, Rambo, and middle of the night flights from angry government officials--so buckle up.
The first obstacle our traveler must face is that long-dreaded threat to all of his chances to make it to Everest: the government checkpoint. The building is unassuming, not large at all. The guards seem relaxed and the general feeling of the place is relaxed--for everyone who is not an American. Our traveler cannot help but remember not more than a week ago, three American protesters were led into this building in handcuffs.
Above you can see our worried traveler approaching the checkpoint. Unfortunately they do not allow pictures of this building, so you can only just see the edge of it on the left there.
There is quite a crowd in the building, various Chinese tourists all taking care of the pointless necessities of the bureaucracy. After an agonizing wait of several tens of minutes, our traveler's turn has come. He stands before the guards, doing everything possible to resist the shaking and looking as innocent as is possible. Unfortunately it would be that our traveler's conception of what it is to look innocent is a sick smile that generally arouses strong sensations of anger and irritation in all who witness it. He hands the guards his passport and permit. The guards do not even look at the passport, keeping their eyes locked on our traveler's. Without looking, they flip carelessly through our traveler's passport, pausing here in there, to squint meaningfully at our traveler. The guards close the passport, setting it aside for the time being and finally look elsewhere. There are a few brief words in Chinese, from what our traveler could catch, mostly harsh criticisms of our traveler's passport photo. The guards press a button and summon several more guards who all gather around his passport. At this point, some of the other tourists are getting interested, even Samdim the guide has gone around the counter to join in the general brouhaha developing around our traveler's passport.
Finally, the biggest of the guards, who is also wearing the largest hat and obviously has the most important position at the checkpoint, points at the passport and lets out the loudest guffaw ever heard. In an instant the entire room is in tears of laughter and the guards, half choking, manage to put the miraculous stamp on our traveler's permit. He is free to go, with only his pride hurt.
Leaving the checkpoint behind in a cloud of dust, our traveler heads off with hopes that by the end of the day he will have seen Everest. But of course, nothing is ever perfect and hopes will be dashed to pieces every once in a while.
Once more the road continues up. The road seems to be mounting into the sky itself as it curls sharply up towards the Pang-La pass (16,896 ft.). About halfway up the traveler finds that it has resumed snowing, however after a few minutes he realizes that this is no snow but large hail which being blown in the heavy wind is flying sideways. As he looks out over the void behind them, he sees the large clouds of hail floating in the wind. Up and up the car goes, passing other cars coming down, sometimes precariously perching itself on the edge of the cliff to allow these others by. Our traveler’s excitement grows as they near the pass. The final bulge of the hillside blocks out all view of what might be on the other side or what the weather may be like over there.
The thickness of the clouds and the general nastiness of the weather is our traveler's primary concern now. He is already having difficulty seeing back down into the valley from which they have just emerged, how much worse will it be looking up and across towards the great mountains to the south? In an instant they pop over the pass and are in view of the most famous range of the Himalaya. Or at least they would have been in view if it had not been entirely socked in by heavy clouds. As if to taunt our traveler, the land cruiser stops at a sign which has the outline of all the famous mountains he could be seeing if the clouds were not there. Cho-Oyu, Malaku, Everest and Lhotse--all are hidden.
Our traveler, refusing to give up, steps out of the car to stare through the clouds if he can. But of course, every land cruiser which passes through this area acts like a magnet for the impoverished Tibetans who often make their living off travelers. In a few moments there is a small cluster of Tibetans who have emerged from old-looking tents to crowd around the traveler. They are not begging, at least not as openly as our traveler has seen in other places. Instead these people show a freedom with the traveler and his companions not often seen in America or other civilized countries. A young man, who is 19 as later discovered, walks up to our traveler and throws his arm about him in a familiar embrace. The Tibetan speaks better Chinese than our traveler, but it is still quite clear that this is not his native tongue.
After talking for some time about mountains, a conversation which was by no means fraught with intellectual value, since our traveler finds it hard to convey the simplest of thoughts in Chinese, the young Tibetan asks our traveler if he wants to trade coats. For the first time, our traveler notices the Tibetan's clothing; he has a Mountain Hardware coat which, although old, still looks quite warm, a wool hat, and wool pants. Apparently our traveler's coat is better than this Tibetan's, for the young man is quite insistent on this point and keeps suggesting that a trade would be good for both of them. Our traveler awkwardly declines, giving lame reasons in English and makes his way back to the car. Remember this moment, for I will talk more about it later, when the story is finished.
Through the falling hail and bitter wind, they continue on down into the last valley. Going down is always faster than going up and it seems to be only a matter of minutes before they are once more in the valley and rolling their way along towards that final destination. After waggling their way, weaving between high hills and cliffs, they finally turn out of this main valley into a smaller, glacier formed rift which leads almost straight south. In a few minutes our traveler realizes this is the famous Rongbuk Valley, at the top of which is Everest Base Camp.
Eagerly craning his neck, our traveler prays that he might catch even the slightest glimpse of the mountain. No such luck. The clouds remain thick and impenetrable, a wall between our traveler and the mountain. Following along the small creek which flows out of the glacier, they finally come to Rongbuk Monastery. The monastery would be of no note at all if it were not the highest in the world. But this is where our traveler will spend the night and where he will first see Everest if he ever sees it. Looking at it yourself, I do not doubt you will be a little disappointed.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 10--Clouds

2007-05-19T18:59:00.000-07:00

Rising early, our traveler sets off once more towards his eventual destination. The stopping point for this day is Shigar, a tiny pit-stop on the side of the Friendship highway where the turnoff for Everest is.The journey to Shigar is supposedly almost as long as the first day’s drive, some 5 or 6 hours. The drive starts off from Shigatse in a normal sort of way; open brown plains with large hills rising out of the valleys. These plains are populated by yaks or the bastard yaks which are half cow and half yak. Our traveler lest this scenery slip by without too much attention. Soon, almost without noticing it, the traveler climbs up and over the very gentle Tso-La pass (14,850 ft.) which does not offer any particularly exciting views.

Dropping back into another valley full of farmland, small villages, and yaks (there are also of course a few Tibetans) the scenery once more slips by with liquid speed.He next comes to a marker with a giant “5000” written on it. Apparently this sign proclaims the traveler’s distance from Shanghai to be a whopping 5000 kilometers. This somewhat odd, since the poor village around the sign doesn’t seem to be particularly aware of the importance of its location. Indeed, living under the shadow of a ruined dzong and monastery, these people seem to be much more aware of the power this sign has over travelers. Although it is a guess, the traveler figures that a goodly portion of the village’s economy revolves around this mysterious black sign (written in languages they do not understand and referring to impossible places). But the sign does not hold our traveler for long, and he is quickly on the road again.

They next come to the much higher Tropu-La pass (16,335 ft.) which despite its height lacks any particularly beautiful vistas. Our traveler is disappointed to learn that he cannot yet see the mountain he came to see. Dropping down again through brown hills and brown plains, the cars traveling along the long, straight highway leave clouds of dust behind them as they move along—small dots in the large landscape.

In what seems only a matter of minutes, but what must have been much more, the traveler finds the car climbing again, this time to the steepest and highest pass before Shigar, Gyatso-La (17,226 ft.). As they go up, it begins to snow lightly and the scenery takes on a particularly ominous feel. The ground turns black with light brown and gray stones and boulders studding it as far as the eye can see. The land is desolate, nothing is growing and there are very, very few yaks—less people. At the pass itself a small group of darkly tanned Tibetans beg for food from the cars which stop, knocking on the windows and pointing at whatever exposed food there might be in the car. With the falling snow and the chill wind, the traveler wonders how desperate these people are to be waiting for passing cars in this desolate pass. To judge by the rewards of their begging, it is not an un-lucrative job.

Our traveler had hoped that there would be some views of the great mountains in this area, but heavy clouds sock in the pass and the traveler can see nothing of note. They continue on, descending now, but never so much as they have ascended and are in Shigar by 2 in the afternoon. Shigar is a mostly dead town, with one large street and stupendously ugly buildings ringed by lackluster brown hills. In this dismal environment, our traveler finds himself in a serious argument with deeply important consequences. It being only midday, the group wishes to continue on, but the big question is where to. It would be possible to continue on and make it in to Rongbuk Monastery (A Monastery at the base of Everest) before night, or as some of our traveler's companions wish to do, head further towards Nepal along the highway to Tingri. While the views of Cho-Oyu (one of the world's tallest mountains) are beautiful from this city, it is not the same in our traveler's mind as Everest. Not at all the same. After a discussion which lasts some thirty minutes perhaps, in which our traveler sees some of his worst fears begin to materialize (weaker members of the group chickening out), he finally prevails over cowardice and fear and the group heads off for Rongbuk Monastery and Mount Everest.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 9--Shigatse

2007-05-16T22:15:00.000-07:00

Our traveler having seen the sights in Guyantse, such as they were, he decides not to spend much more time in that locale. Besides from the impressive dzong and the magnificent kumbum, there really is nothing else to see in Guyantse; by nothing else I mean Guyantse consists of one road which runs from the monastery to the dzong and has the town clustered around it.
Without much more ado than eating breakfast, our traveler once more boards the vehicle to continue on with his journey. The day’s drive is not long, nor is it remarkable, sticking to the flat plains of the valley all the way into Shigatse. These plains are by far the most fertile plains our traveler has yet seen in Tibet; you might almost call them green.
Shigatse, the second largest town in Tibet, is on the friendship highway proper, not the Southern branch. As far as town’s go, not especially remarkable, but Shigatse does have several claims to fame. First is the Tashilhungpo Monastery, which is the seat of the Panchen Lama, second is Shigatse’s dzong which more remodeled and refurbished than Guyantse’s is practically the same as the Potala, only smaller. The dzong stands on one hill and the monastery rises up another. There are also several markets in Shigatse but these are disappointing and our traveler spends little time there.The Tashilhungpo Monastery, on the other hand, is a wonder befitting this grand land. The monastery is, as our traveler expected, large, covering a goodly portion of the hillside. It’s golden roofed monuments stand out against the dry brown of the hillside and the pale white construction of normal monastic buildings. Our traveler, despite his inherent reluctance to spend money, pays the entrance fee and begins to wander around the monastery.
Walking through the narrow streets of the monastery flanked by the high steep walls, our traveler gets the feeling he is in some medieval fortress. The walls are almost all white-washed like those of the Potala. But there are occasional portions of the monastery which are still tan-colored and in ruins—these are the parts of the monastery which have yet to be refurbished.
As our traveler makes his way through the monastery following signs which tell him to “come this way” he finds himself moving through chamber after chamber, darkly lit and smelling of incense. Each room has its own little sign which informs the visitors “For to take picture in this room, is x kuai” the traveler soon discovers that he can judge the importance of a room by the size of the fee to take pictures there. Our traveler finds himself before a curtained door. He debates for a few moments whether or not he should enter, but eventually decides, it couldn’t hurt and pushes his way through the heavy curtain.
The first thing which meets his eye is a picture of one of the panchen lamas. Not a particularly astounding sight—looking past this picture though, our traveler sees something more intriguing. It looks to be a massive foot. This massive foot is attached as it happens to an equally massive Buddha. In fact it is, as the nearby sign proclaims in very bad English, the world’s largest guilt statue. The Buddha is a towering 87 and a half feet tall, covered from head to toe in a thin coat of pure gold. While this picture does not really do the statue justice, for reference you might imagine that his hand was as large as our traveler's 6'7" traveling companion. The Buddha’s half closed eyes stare down from their lofty height at our traveler, and he thinks this Buddha looks as though he were stoned. When our traveler comes to think of it, most Buddha have a distinctly "under the influence" look—half closed, red-rimmed eyes. Perhaps this was yet another way to attain enlightenment.
Among the other sites of the Tashilhungpo Monastery, are the various tombs of the panchen Lamas, huge golden stacks of metal with intricately carved characters on top. These dominate the buildings which house them, which is saying quite a bit since these rooms have 1000 golden painting of Buddha as their wallpaper. The view from the highest point of the monastery is stunning, with the golden capped roofs framing the sprawling city of Shigatse and being framed in turn by the looming mountains far in the distance. To the left of the monastery rises the dzong of Shigatse, not quite as high and seemingly unimportant compared with the majesty of Tashilhungpo Monastery.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 8--Guyantse

2007-05-16T03:36:00.000-07:00

The story obviously continues, you will no doubt have guessed that our fearless traveler does not perish in an explosion. Indeed, it will come as no surprise to you that the "bomb" of Samdim's somewhat poor English was not some terrorist plot to rid the world of freedom and prosperity. Not at all. Instead this "bomb" was a stellar example of the Chinese method of road construction. The general way of things if you happen to be a Chinese worker building a road through the Himalaya, is that the landscape should change to fit your road and not the other way around. So there we have Wang Peng the Chinese worker, building a road through all these annoying mountains and hills and rivers and lakes. He comes to this incredibly annoying hillside which simply would be right where he had planned on putting a nice flat road. Now it is unthinkable to Wang Peng that he would change his plan to go around this large mound of rock. Instead Wang Peng, a person with a little bit of vindictiveness in his nature, decides that he is going to make that mountain pay for it's inconsiderate location. Wang Peng's Solution? Dynamite.

This was the nature of the bomb our traveler came upon high in the mountains. And as he waited uneasily not yet understanding this, the worker's triggered their bomb. The explosion was strong enough to shake the car and turn the general atmosphere into a dusty, smoky mix impossible to see through. The driver, intrepid explorer that he was, does not require sight to pilot his land cruiser and so before the just has any chance to settle, our traveler finds that they are once more on their way.
In very little time he finds that they are out of the mountains and on the long straight stretch of the road which leads into the town of Guyantse. Guyantse itself is perhaps the third or fourth largest town in all of Tibet and is not big. Situated 13,000 ft. above sea-level, it is not that much higher than Lhasa. However it feels nothing like the capital city. The massive dzong (fortress) rising high above the city, this fort is situated on a rugged hill, more suitably described as a pillar of rock. Like the Potala the Guyantse dzong is white washed with deep red trim. You can see it perched on top of the hill above the city.
The Guyantse dzong, as opposed to the Potala, has not been restored at all and is entirely open to visitors. In the first moments our traveler is there he sees no other living souls. Eventually he does stumble upon someone who extracts the entrance fee from him. Despite this 30 kuai sadness, the dzong is still impressive. After ascending a lengthy staircase which switch-backed up the hill, passing through various gates and guardhouses, the traveler finds himself in the dzong proper. Below him stretches out a view of Guyantse’s old town and the new town slowly building itself up around it. To the west of the dzong, the traveler can see the walled in Pelkor monastery with its squat, but massive kumbum (a round monument called a chorten with 100,000 images of Buddha in it).
After taking some time to survey the surrounding area, our traveler continues up, hoping eventually to reach it’s highest point, more than 500 ft above the town. On his way he sees such sights as the Dungeon, the Chapel of the Righteous King, and the cannon platforms complete with rusted cannon (mostly on the west side of the dzong). Just a ways up the path from the cannon the traveler sees a sign which reads “this way to jump off cliff” Feeling this to be a sign worth investigating our traveler hikes along the way indicated by the sign. In a few moments he comes to a small battlement, literally perched on the cliff. Looking over the edge, the ttraveler can see broken rocks hundreds of feet below. A large memorial reads “Eternal glory to the jumpers of the cliff.” A smaller explanatory note below this says that the dzong was attacked by the British in 1904 and being overrun, many of the Tibetan defenders jumped off the battlements at this point, rather than surrender.
Continuing on up the rickety iron staircases inside the dzong, the traveler after making his way through the many dark and barren layers of the dzong, finds himself on top. A large brass thing (for lack of better word, perhaps a chorten) covered in prayer flags dominates the small 10ft square space. But the traveler is afforded a panorama of the entire valley with its guardian mountain ranges, the small city of Guyantse, the Pelkor monastery, and even a smaller monastery far back in the hills, supposedly only inhabited by 8 monks. Two large birds of prey, perhaps hawks, soar around the top of this tower, close enough for the traveler to see the sun glinting from their eyes. Large, ponderous rain clouds move down from the north along the ridgelines, and the descending sun casts long shadows throughout the city far below.
When looking at the picture of the Pelkor monastery to the right, you will notice a many-tiered building capped with gold. This is that kumbum which was mentioned earlier. Our traveler did get a chance the next morning to explore this interesting little building. Between it's seven levels it has 77 little chapels, each filled with various statues and paintings of Buddha or one of his companions. It is a famous aspect of Buddhism that the Buddhas' hands have various postures which imply certain meanings. Our traveler is largely unaware of these meanings, but there was one gesture which he understood. Imagine his surprise as he steps into yet another one of these chapels, perhaps in the thirty-seventh or so, and finds himself looking at a statue which is flipping him off. He conjectures that this is a more recent addition meant for the many pesky Western tourists, a sort of "here's what we think of you" sort of thing.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 7 --Yamdrok Tso, the Scorpion Lake

2007-05-14T02:23:00.000-07:00

So the first day of traveling out to Everest arrives. Our fearless traveler leaves Lhasa while the sun is still shining, heading south and west on the Southern Friendship Highway towards Guyantse. Our traveler was slightly unsettled by the otherwise "girly" name which this road was unfortunately plagued with. When one is cruising through the highest mountains on the world, over snowy passes and unbelievably isolated landscapes, one does not generally like to imagine that one is on the "Southern Friendship Highway." Something like "Road to Death in the Sky" or "Stairway to Heaven" would have been much more fitting to the present mindset.
But our traveler did not worry about what ever nominal woes the road had, for it quickly became the highway of his dreams. Not twenty minutes out of Lhasa, our traveler finds himself in long valley with stunning mountains snow-capped mountains at the far end. But what really elates our traveler is that he is heading towards these mountains. Valleys are not what our traveler came to Tibet for, though, and soon they are climbing their way out of the valley up into the heights of the Kamba-La pass (15,820 ft.). Working their way up towards the top of the pass, the scenery is not especially majestic. The valley they are leaving behind, looks very much like the Lhasa valley where our traveler has spent the last three days. And the steep hillside which they are climbing is merely more of the same brown dirt hillsides which are so common in Tibet.
Our traveler does remark with pleasure that every passing moment brings him higher than he has ever been on earth. But all these thoughts are banished from his mind in the moment they cross over the pass. The road, which has until then merely been along and up brown mountain sides, suddenly reveals a huge drop into the Yamdrok valley where the brilliant blue Yamdrok lake twists.

The lake is shaped like a huge scorpion, and so clear that it perfectly reflects the surrounding mountains. The Kamba-La pass rises up at the far northern end of what would be one of the scorpion’s pincers, and just past the end of the southern pincer can been seen the corniced peak of Kula Kangri (24,928 ft.) which marks the border with Bhutan. Not only has our traveler been higher than he has ever been before, but he is also looking at the tallest mountain he has ever seen.

As our traveler drops into this magnificent valley, dotted with tiny villages and ancient ruins, they keep close to the shore of the lake, wrapping around it for almost an hour, before they come to the largest village on the lake, Nangartse, where he eats lunch. Nangartse is nothing special to note in his travels, as it half resembles a small, but beginning to develop Chinese town, and the other half a Tibetan city. Although during lunch our traveler is treated to a spectacular form of Tibetan cuisine. Samdim the ingratiating guide brings our traveler a curious string of irregular white-gray cubes. Our traveler has seen various Tibetans selling these things, but always imagined them to be something connected with religion, since they clearly were too ugly for any sane person to purchase. After several minutes in which our traveler awkwardly thanks Samdim for this new gift, the guide clears up what confusion there might have been by saying, "It's cheese. Very good to taste." Well, with this revelation, our traveler suddenly knows all--string cheese! But our traveler is slightly reserved since this cheese has the consistency of concrete as well as the appearance. But our traveler is an adventurous fellow and tries this local product. Much to his surprise, the food actually tastes like concrete (the powder form of course). After eating enough to be sure he didn't just get a bad piece (as well as to entirely remove his appetite) our traveler chucks this horrible travesty to cheese into the nearest garbage can. Cheese in Tibet can be good, but if it comes on a string, run!

As he leaves the Yamdrok valley, he begins to rise again heading towards the Karola pass (16,632 ft.). Just past the pass the glacier covered peak of Nojn Knagtsang (23,730 ft.) causes him to momentarily stop and gape in awe. After finally turning his back on this ice covered wonder, he continues on the road towards Guyantse (his final destination for the day.) The road from here on is under construction so the going is considerably slower, not to mention much rougher. The land cruiser and driver handle all obstacles well tough, fording rivers and climbing cliffs with incredible ease and nonchalance.

But even the driver must suffer some defeats. The coming around a bend, the car pulls to a stop and the driver gets out. There has been no explanation offered for these strange actions, but it seems as though something is not right. There is a small camp of construction workers here, and the driver saunters over to them. He chats with them for what must be ten minutes, at least long enough to rule out the stop as an emergency bathroom break. Finally, getting frustrated, our traveler asks Samdim why they have stopped. Samdim says with complete frankness and almost no emotion, "There is a bomb planted ahead."

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 6 --The Unwanted Guide

2007-05-12T23:23:00.000-07:00

I am tempted to draw out the tension and darkness surrounding how our traveler manages to get to Everest, but I too have a heart. So, here it is: when last we were concerned with this issue our traveler had left his passport with Tenzing the travel agent (if you didn't know his name, it's that). Our traveler returned to Tenzing's office a little before Tenzing arrived and so was made to submit to a traditional form of Chinese torture often referred to as "waiting." Horrible thing this "waiting," makes the victim feel like their heart is being torn out with a pair of red hot tongs. Not at all pleasant. But our traveler, being made of the tough stuff he was, endured.
Tenzing arrives, making a grand entrance--he bursts into the office, a radiant smile on his face. He proudly tells our traveler that he has succeeded. In his hand he has permits to go to Mt. Everest, permits which will pave the road to our traveler's dreams. The actual permits look pretty unassuming. Just little bits of paper with the all important red stamp (a thing which lets you know you have really gotten official in China). Tenzing explains that everything is set, only there is one slight catch: our traveler must take along a guide. It had originally been our traveler's plan to avoid this pesky annoyance--guide's being the sort of people who make you go do things you do not want to do, talk to you when you want no one to talk to you, and point out all those stupid little cliche things which everyone sees when traveling. But, sacrifices must be made. So for the sake of Mount Everest, our traveler reluctantly agrees to drag along this guide person.
You might imagine that a guide being brought along under these circumstances might prove to be the source of many awkward situations. Our traveler resolved to ignore him, shove him in the back seat, and leave him in the hotel at every stop along the way out to Everest. Yes, this may be a heartless attitude, but such a person is our traveler that he finds this whole idea of a "guide" bugging him to no end. Our traveler had images of himself crawling around Everest discovering all the mysterious wonders of this place on his way--now these images were shattered by the picture of some touristy guide popping out from behind rocks to point out that this was the place where such and such a climber fell to his death and that tourists could now order small dolls to toss off the cliff in remembrance of the climber.
Arrangements were made that the traveler should return at 8 in the morning on the following day (Monday) to begin the great journey out to Everest. But before our traveler leaves to go about his business for the night, Tenzing suggest that he meet with his guide. Our traveler agrees to get this bit of unpleasantness over with and so he meets Samdim. Samdim (his name is pronounced like you might pronounce Gandhi's) is a Tibetan who lives in Lhasa, he speaks fair English, but his Chinese is, in his words, 100% and of course he speaks Tibetan. Samdim is a young guy, our traveler eventually learns that he is the same age as this guide.
Over the course of the coming days, our traveler learns that Samdim is not so bad as he thought he would be. Indeed, Samdim seems incredibly happy with the idea of just relaxing on his own at every stop, letting the traveler go around to explore on his own. As a person, Samdim is actually quite interesting. He is infatuated with hip-hop music, although he has problems with some of the artists since in his words, "They use too many bad words." Of course, his favorite artist, a fine strapping young African American fellow by the name of "Nellie," has some of the most profanity laced songs our traveler has ever heard. Samdim finds great pleasure in playing these songs, (mostly concerned with such topics as killing policemen and doing other scandalous things...) and he has a peculiar way of bobbing his head to the beat which makes him look like he has a strange disease. Much of this might have been the rough roads too, though.
Samdim, in his capacity as a guide, was quite good, although in his own words very inexperienced. He would bring the traveler various gifts at every stop along the way: brownies, little trinkets from the local population. Our traveler and his companions, while they knew that these expenses were covered by the original fee, still found themselves being won over to Samdim by them. Above is a picture of our traveler's fearless group of adventurers. The fellow in the bright yellow coat is Samdim, the short Mexican guy on the left is the driver, whose name is completely impossible to render in English. The dirty hippy next to him is our fearless traveler, and the giant in the middle is the original mastermind of the adventure. The two girls on the left are classmates who came along for the ride. In the back, you can just see the Land Cruiser in which our traveler has much faith.
After having chatted aimlessly with Samdim, our traveler left to pack up his things at the hotel and purchase some food stuffs for the journey. Traveling along these roads, stops for lunch are not always guaranteed, so travelers after bring along a large supply of edibles. So it is that our traveler goes to bed that night with completely revolutionized hopes in his trip to Mount Everest. No more does he worry about hitchhiking (lame, I know), no more does he concern himself with bringing down the local government that he might escape through the confusion. He is at peace.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 5--Plot Thickening

2007-05-11T21:09:00.000-07:00

There was one other slight piece of business our traveler had on his mind. There are several ways to travel to and from Tibet, most commonly people take a train in and leave by airplane. Our traveler planned to do the opposite of this and leave by train, the train ride supposedly quite the trip. But it is the way of things in China that one cannot actually purchase a train ticket more than a week or so in advance, so our traveler had gone to Tibet without plans for escaping from that country—blindly hoping that he could purchase a train ticket in Lhasa.

This would prove much harder than he had imagined. Our traveler asked around Lhasa and found that he could only purchase a train ticket in two locations. One was the official tourism office in the western part of town and the other was the train station about 5 miles out of town on the other side of the river. Our traveler made his first attempt in the evening and so found the first location closed and was forced to go across the river.

At the train station he waited through an stupendously slow line until his term came. Confusion ensues. Our traveler, as fearless as he might have been, was also slightly foolish. He was not actually sure of the date on which he wanted to leave, knowing only that it was the next Sunday. When he tried to convey this idea to the woman behind the counter, she somehow misunderstood him, suggesting the 8^thof May as a date of departure. It turns out that the 8^th is a Tuesday. Our traveler did not have a calendar with him and so didn’t know this. He agrees. Lady behind the counter tells him that while she suggested this date, it was actually some form of rouse and that he couldn’t actually purchase a train ticket for this day.

Still laboring under the misunderstanding that the 8^th was Sunday, our traveler is heartbroken. He had counted on being able to leave on Sunday, but if the fates were against him (the fates being the Chinese government) well then he would do what he would do. He asks for the next possible day of departure. Lady behind the Counter suggests the 9^th which would actually be Wednesday, although our traveler imagines it to be Monday. He reluctantly agrees. With a cry of triumph she reveals that she has tricked him yet again, telling him that he can’t actually purchase this ticket for three more days. (China’s lovely can’t purchase ticket more than a week in advance policy).

Feeling that the woman behind the counter is too much of a comedian, our traveler looks at her with loathing, and departs from the line in failure.

This leaves him in no pretty situation. Train tickets in China generally sell out two or three days in advance. If he does end up traveling out to Everest, he will not be back until the day before he would like to leave, possibly the evening before. This would make it incredibly difficult for him to purchase his ticket, and in all probability he would end up being stranded in Tibet.

Fortunately he has a chance conversation with another person and discovers the evil joke the woman behind the counter had been playing on him. He could actually leave Tibet on the 7^th which was Monday, not the 9^th. This wonderful thing cleared up, he returns to the train station, this time a different window and purchases his ticket for the 7^th. Life is much better now, although the original woman behind the counter might step in at any moment to challenge our traveler to mortal combat.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 4--Sightseeing

2007-05-10T21:05:00.000-07:00

Our traveler having nothing but vacationing to do while he waits for the travel agent to work a miracle, he goes to see what Lhasa has to offer. Of the most notable aspects of Lhasa’s culture are its bad food and butcher shops. The food, which one would have thought our traveler would love, consists mostly of yak meat, potatoes, and other yak products, yak being available as a part of everything in Tibet. While this diet has potential, like the Irish, Tibetans have as yet failed to understand the existence of spices. But our traveler questions the need for spices, since the way they store their meat probably ensures a healthy dose of foreign matter. Butcher shops generally set all their meat on top of the counter, sometimes these cuts still have hunks of hair on them to prove that it really did come from a yak, and holler at people to buy it. As our traveler was walking by some of these shops, he could not help but get splattered with various pieces of meat and cartilage as the butcher hacked away.

Moving on from Chopping House Row, our traveler comes to the Jokhang, one of the holiest temples in Tibet. After paying the traditionally exorbitant entrance fee, this traveler finds himself in a packed procession of pilgrims making their way clockwise around the Temple. The murmuring and shuffling combine to make an intense throbbing which almost reminds one of a beehive, if one’s head happened to be stuck deep into the middle of one.

The temple is dark, lit only by the soft daylight which filters through the many layers of the building and the light from candles stuck in some sort of goopy substance. Our traveler, eager to know what this substance might be, takes a closer look. His nostrils are assaulted by a deeply rich smell which is unlike nay other candle he has ever smelled. This is because our fearless traveler has never smelled yak-butter candles before. But, being the quick witted fellow that he is, he notices that the pilgrims, at least the especially devout ones, ladle a healthy spoonful of yak butter from their own personal supplies (which they carry with them in large plastic Mayonnaise jars) into every candle-bowl. While burning yak-butter does not smell as foul as our traveler might have imagined it would, its smell is an interesting one. It does not smell like incense, but rather some sort of overly heavy, overly oily perfume, such as you might imagine a heavy-set Russian woman wearing too much of.

In addition to the unsettling effects of the yak-butter odor, our traveler has to deal with prayer wheels. Prayer wheels are metal wheels on wooden sticks which pilgrim’s spin in their hands. For the most part, these wheels are not large, often about the size of their wielder’s forearm, like the one to the left here. However there are occasionally those super-pilgrims who wish to excel in their devotion and so wield huge prayer wheels much to the chagrin of the nearby populace. These wheels become nothing less than weapons which often leave large dents in the temple walls and decommission otherwise devout Buddhists.

Upon emerging from the musky confines of the Jokhang, the Traveler finds himself caught up again in another clockwise shuffle, but this time around the outside of the temple. This shuffle has a wider berth and so there are fewer causalities from the prayer wheels, but there are also new obstacles, the greatest of which is the “diving pilgrim.” There are a set of pilgrims, who rather than demonstrate their devotion through size of prayer wheel or gifts of yak butter, choose to prostrate themselves at every step as they shuffle around the temple. For this purpose they wear a thick canvas apron over their robes so as not to tear them to shreds, and wooden sandals on their hands. Those diving pilgrims who are not as serious as the rest, dive in long fluid motions which allow them to almost slide along the ground so as to get the most out of every slide, distance that is. But those who have begun to really attain the true devotion disdain this practice as cheating. They gravely prostrate themselves with each step, rising to straight back up to take another step and repeat the process.

Finishing this clockwise circuit (a kora in the vernacular), our traveler heads to the most visible sight of Lhasa—the fortress high on a rocky hill in the center of town. Known as the Potala, this massive structure with a thousand rooms used to be the palace of the Dalai Lama, at least until the Chinese government decided that it would serve better as a tourist attraction. Thankfully the Cultural Revolution never got its destructive little hands on this one. On the outside the Potala is one of the most beautiful buildings our traveler has ever seen. It’s white lines sloping upwards towards a deep red—the shape and color of the building are amazing. Unfortunately the inside is nowhere near as attractive.

The tombs of the various Dali Lama’s housed within the Potala are one of the few attractions and are surely some of the most majestic the traveler has ever seen. Often rising to more than 25 feet, and having 1000s of kilograms of gold, tens of thousands of precious gems, and even some pearls which supposedly came from elephants brains (a fact our traveler later determined to be unreliable), these tombs are some of the most amazing works of luxury our traveler has ever seen. And perhaps that would be the way the traveler would describe the Potala itself to you: one giant, magnificent and splendid tomb.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 3 --Bureaucracy

2007-05-10T03:37:00.000-07:00

Arriving in Lhasa was not as spectacular as our traveler felt it should have been. But I have the feeling such places, already so famous, can never fully live up to the wild expectations visitors have. But Lhasa is a beautiful city all the same. Set in a river valley between large brown ridges which are still snowcapped this early in May, Lhasa makes the traveler realize that he is no longer in China. And whatever you would like to say politically about Tibet, it is no more Chinese than Nepal. As you walk around the streets of Lhasa, Tibet’s most heavily Chinese dominated city, all the street signs are still written in both Chinese and Tibetan. But what really makes you realize you are not in China anymore is the fact that Chinese is no longer the language of choice. Most Tibetans speak better English than they do Chinese, and not very many Tibetans speak English—if you get the picture.

But our traveler does not have the time to remark upon any of the intricacies of the cultural-political situation in Tibet for long, his first priority is to try and arrange some sort of transportation out to Everest. Although he does not plan on leaving for a few days yet, the word on the street is that arranging transportation can sometimes take longer than expected and a little preplanning pays off. Perhaps, though, the term “arranging transportation” should be clarified. Mt. Everest is a long haul from Lhasa and the roads are not all paved. Public transportation is not exactly available. Generally, travelers hire a land cruiser and driver (often with a guide tag-along) to drive to the mountain. The first order of the day then, is to pick one of the travel agencies which litter the streets of Lhasa.

Our traveler’s first attempt is somewhat of a failure. The people in this first travel agency speak a little English and a little Chinese and a lot of Tibetan, so not much of what is desired gets through. For some mysterious reason these first travel agents cannot help our traveler. While this is an ominous start to his as yet completely abstract plans for a visit to Mount Everest, he is an optimist and keeps on going. There are other travel agencies.

Unfortunately the situation is far worse than our traveler ever could have imagined. At the second travel agency, more English is spoken and the true horror of the situation emerges: a week before our traveler arrived in Tibet, certain other Americans had decided it would be a smart move to protest the Chinese involvement in Tibet. These fools chose for their location none other than Mount Everest. Before this, all the traveler had imagined he must do was pay some fees for the appropriate permits and passes and he would be allowed out to base camp. However, a new travel agent now tells our traveler that the Chinese government has shut down most of Tibet and is no longer allowing Americans out to base camp. The travel agent lamely suggests that our traveler go in person to the local police station and ask for a permit; until he has one of these, the travel agent says, nothing can be done.

This was the first horrible development in a serious of even more horrible developments which would eventually drive our traveler close to despair. While Tibet is all well and good, it was our traveler’s opinion that Tibet without Mount Everest was very much like apple pie without apples.

Being evening already and the police station closed, it is in a very sad state that our traveler leaves the travel agent’s office with the lame hope that tomorrow morning he can go to the local police and beg for a permit in person. Still trying to be optimistic, our traveler does not have much hope for this course of action.

Morning comes very slowly, our traveler being too worried about not being able to go to Mount Everest to enjoy what small night life there is in Lhasa. At the police station, a nice enough woman explains to our traveler that they cannot actually give out permits of any sort to a foreigner. If the foreigner would like a permit, the policewoman says, he must go to a travel agent. After twenty minutes or so of explaining that it was a travel agent who sent him here, our traveler leaves to go to yet another travel agency. This time he gets a little farther, the travel agents actually saying that they could arrange the trip, only they would need our traveler’s Tibet permit. This was the little piece of paper which Mr. Chen had originally acquired for our traveler. Unfortunately Mr. Chen was of the opinion that this paper was not at all important and never gave it to our traveler, assuring him that it would never be needed.

At the insistence of this new travel agent, our traveler calls Mr. Chen to see if his permit can somehow be faxed to Lhasa. Mr. Chen chastises our traveler for going to a travel agent in the first place and says he should merely go and talk with the Tibetan drivers—apparently this method does not require a permit. At this point Mr. Chen’s status as glorious travel agent has shrunken no small amount—more and more our traveler remembers him as a slimy little greasy haired bird who should have his yak head fall on him. But persistence is the name of the game when dealing with the Chinese bureaucracy, so our traveler tries again.

I realize all this is quite dry and confusing, so perhaps a clarification is in order: In Kunming, our fearless traveler approaches travel agent A to obtain tickets to Lhasa and permit. In Lhasa, fearless traveler approaches travel agent B to arrange transportation to Mount Everest; Travel Agent B refers traveler to Travel Agent C; Travel Agent C refers traveler to police; police refer traveler to Travel Agent D; Travel Agent D confers with travel Agent A, eventually deciding that Travel Agent E must be brought into the picture. Travel Agent E is our fearless traveler’s last hope.

This time he finds a travel agency where English is spoken in great profusion. The travel agent after hearing what they want to do, ponders our traveler in grave silence for a moment before saying that in his opinion the traveler should give up completely any hopes of going to Mount Everest. Since the American protesters, things have degenerated to such a state that there really is no hope for legally going out to base camp. But our traveler pleads with this man for quite some time and eventually leaves with the agreement that the travel agent will take his passport and student ID (for added veracity) to the police station next morning and see if they will give him a permit.

Leaving this last office in complete dejection, our traveler decides to see the sights of Lhasa while he waits for his verdict from the invisible forces of Chinese bureaucracy. Experiencing for the first time the full force of Chinese stonewalling, our traveler reacts rashly. He has heard that hitchhiking is much safer in Tibet than in America, and that may travelers have had success along these lines. What’s more, hitchhiking requires no permit. It is with a resolved mind that our traveler goes through the sights of Lhasa—if on the morrow this new travel agent fails him, he hitchhikes to Mount Everest.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journery: Part 2--Mr. Chen

2007-05-08T21:12:00.000-07:00

So, where does one begin? The most logical place, as well as most colorful, would be the travel agent. In Kunming, the traveler has several options when it comes to Tibetan travel. I am not actually aware of any of these options save for Mr. Chen. Mr. Chen runs a high-class (single office, highly suspect) travel service. The way it usually works is like this: the traveler comes to see Mr. Chen about obtaining a Tibet permit. This often invisible piece of paper, evidence of the Chinese bureaucracy still at work, is “required” of each and every foreigner who wishes to enter the Tibetan Autonomous Region. Mr. Chen, through whatever shady means at his disposal, shady as the hallway down which his office is located, agrees to acquire one of these for the traveler. His catch is that he also requires the traveler book his flight to Lhasa through him. After a down payment of 500RMB, Mr. Chen works his magic—magic which even goes so far as to drop the traveler off at the airport on the desired morning of departure.

Mr. Chen himself is an interesting fellow. If the traveler first contacts him by phone, he will be greeted by Mr. Chen’s intense, and somewhat metallic voice. If the traveler is foolish enough to question Mr. Chen’s linguistic abilities, he will promptly receive Mr. Chen’s definite, “Of course I speak English!” If the traveler goes on to be foolish enough to believe Mr. Chen and hold a conversation in the English tongue, he will inevitably be met with Mr. Chen’s equally emphatic “I speak English very well!” At this point, the traveler usually realizes that Mr. Chen follows every statement with an exclamation mark and does not understand English.

However, Mr. Chen is still in a way of being able to help our traveler. For while Mr. Chen’s grasp of English may be lacking, his understanding of his business is unparalleled. As far as an advisory would go, I would advise you to avoid using Mr. Chen’s services for this very reason. I have a feeling his understanding of his business is a little bit too good, if you catch me drift. Events work out though, even if the traveler is entirely unable to communicate with the emphatic Mr. Chen, he will leave Mr. Chen’s office with ticket in hand and dreams of a Tibetan adventure.

Mr. Chen at all hours, save those when he is escorting tourists to the airport, can be found in his office. He sits in chair, quietly waiting for new customers, perhaps dozing off occasionally. He may even prop his feet up on his desk, recline his head and begin to snore. This is not to be considered a fault of his for it causes no problems. The hallway which houses his office is long, dark and deserted, and the Yak skull which hangs on the wall behind him does not mind snoring. At least it hasn’t for some time. Mr. Chen reminds you, in his contemplative rest, of a used car salesman, with his wonderfully slicked back black hair, his nervous nature which you can see even while he sleeps. I would have a picture of the famous (infamous?) Mr. Chen, but when we tried to get him to take a picture with us, he threatened in Chinese and broken English to throw us out. Perhaps this touchiness on his part should have tipped us off, it seems he does not like documentation of things. But I would not like to unduly taint your impressions of the man.

This was the source of our traveler’s first ambitions to go to Tibet. As was said, Mr. Chen does not merely arrange the permits and tickets for the traveler, he also offers convenient day of departure door-side pickup. So we find our traveler (myself if you haven’t caught on yet—if you don’t like me referring to myself in the third person like this, try doing it yourself, it is actually really fun), standing in the twilight of early morning on the side of the road near his abode. The traveler is fidgety, fearless adventurer that he is, he still doubts the greatness of Mr. Chen. But doubt not, weary soul, at least not for long. A car pulls up, and out of the driver-side window pokes the glasses sheathed face of Mr. Chen. He says something emphatically, and the traveler assumes this to be an invitation to get in. without further ado, the traveler is whisked away to the comforting sight of the airport.

Under the almost motherly, if a little forceful, auspices of Mr. Chen, the traveler is carried through the check in process, Mr. Chen badgering is way to the front of every line. These trivialities dispensed with, Mr. Chen brings the traveler to the security check. Unfortunately, even the near-god-like Mr. Chen cannot transcend this formality, so like some mother watching her children go off to school, Mr. Chen pensively watches over the traveler as he moves through the security screening. For all the traveler knows, Mr. Chen is still there, watching with nervous eye lest any hitch should disturb this finely tuned process. But a circumstance far more likely is that Mr. Chen has returned to his office and is now peacefully napping, awaiting the arrival of some new traveler bent on Tibetan adventures.

Phil's Fabulous Tibetan Journey: Part 1--Disclaimer

2007-05-07T21:14:00.000-07:00

As promised, I am still alive. I spent the last week and a half in Tibet, land of whatever you would like to call it to make it sound majestic, and have come back with all sorts of stories to regale you with. I had thought about letting all the secrets out of the bag at once, telling you exactly what I saw here and there, what crazy things I did to get past the various barriers the Chinese government sets up to stop people like me from going to Tibet, but have decided to take a more judicious approach which hopefully will also prove to be more dramatic. Please make some allowances for the writing in the following posts. Most of it was done by hand at various points along my trip, and while I only felt the altitude once, it is likely that it impaired my judgment when it comes to what to say and what not to say. But for the sake of veracity, I’m not going to edit this stuff much, instead I’ll let you be offended, annoyed or pleased as you see fit. It is also likely that I’ll see fit to only post up to a certain point every day, that point often being a cliff-hanger of sorts (amazing isn’t it, that my life could actually include things called cliffhangers? Wait a bit though before you get your hopes up).

The one bit of spoiler which I will include here, if only so that this picture may be the first picture on my blog, is that I did actually make it all the way out to Everest Base Camp which was the original goal of this trip.

If you don’t think that’s much of a spoiler, wait until you see all the bloody hassle I had to go through to get there. Recent events (certain American protesters) made this suddenly much harder than it should have been. But that is enough revelation for now. The story is what is wanting.

If the picture to the left is not as clear as it should be, there are two main points which I will detail. The first is the mountain which is in the center there, if you will just look. This happens to be a sort of famous mountain, known mainly for its size and hight, but perhaps you are not familiar with it: Qomolungma is its Tibetan name, although I believe the more popular version is Mt. Everest. The second part of the picture I would like to draw your attention to is myself. Though you may not be able to make it out, there I am, smiling up at the mountain in that goofy manner--can you see me? Just down there on the left corner. Sorry about the darkness, but being in the picture, I could not also be photographer. Hopefully that piques your interest.

Sacred Grass

2007-04-24T04:29:00.000-07:00

The Hindu's have their cows, the French their wine; the British have their stodgy manners, and Americans their money, so why should anyone expect the Chinese not to have their own sacred thing? Perhaps no one does, for as soon as you set foot in this place, you can't help but realize, the grass is sacred. Americans tend to have a practical outlook on grass; they see it as something which looks nice but which can also be enjoyed through walking upon. The Chinese however have elevated their ideas of what it means to be grass to a whole new level. For them grass is merely to be pondered, to cover the ground and be green but never, never be walked upon.
And as far as this goes, I will give them some credit: the grass here (at least in Kunming) is always green--and I mean really, really green. They put Ireland to shame, as horrible as it is to admit it. Put I do not think the Chinese have actually developed an artistic sense of grass, since they still have not comprehended the vast enjoyment which can be gotten from treading upon grass.
On the college campus at which I'm staying, they have very much grass. Entire sections of the campus our covered in the green stuff, however not a soul walks upon it. Indeed it is as if they have dug pits and filled them with lava in the places where there is grass. I have never seen a Chinese student even dare to dash across the grass when it is dark and no one is looking. (That is a contradiction, I realize, but please, we are above such petty criticisms are we not?) I have not seen a Chinese student so much as creep a little toe onto the edge of these grassy spots.
I, of course, being American and having a healthy appreciation of the joys of walking on the grass do not often uphold China's sacred respect of grass. But I do not walk with impunity, I have been screamed at and scolded by Chinese who told me (in different words of course) "don't walk on the grass." When I ask them what else they have the grass for, inevitably the answer is, worship...well perhaps not quite that (China hasn't fallen for Shintoism yet, that I know of), however the common belief is that it is for looks. They believe this even of the grass which grows on the edge of the road and which probably dies every year from all the pollution.
I had my suspicions that they never mow the grass, instead keeping it in check with over-abundant watering, but these have been proven to be wrong. I did indeed see them "mowing" their grass the other day. Buddhist monks with small golden scissors crawled around on the lawn until it was all beautifully manicured to a healthy 2 and a 1/4 inches (or the respective length in the metric system). Effective.
Actually, after seeing this, I felt guilty walking on the grass and have since reformed my impolite ways. I now am a conscientious path-taker who will even commit the un-American action of walking out of my way to stay on the path. I know, this is a great disappointment for all of you, but I cannot forever stem the tide of influence of a nation of a billion and a half people.
My advice to you, if you ever find yourself in this neck of the woods, is to not walk on the grass.
Phil.

Tiger Leaping Gorge Brought to you by Snickers (TM)

2007-04-22T21:41:00.000-07:00

As promised, Tiger Leaping Gorge. First, let me say that I do actually have pictures of this beautiful natural wonder, however I choose not to share any of them with you at this time. Neener, Neener, Neener!
But before you throw up your hands in disgust and vow never to visit me again, hear me out; I do have my reasons and they are good, if not the best. Unfortunately, due to the covert nature of these reasons, I will be unable to reveal them to you, so you will simply have to take this part on faith. Let it suffice that starting this Friday, I will be on the Chinese version of Spring break and I will be going to what amounts to the greatest place on earth. When I return, sometime in the coming week afterwards, I will open up a flood of pictures here such as the internet has never seen (maybe a slight exaggeration). So with patience, good things will come.
And now on to Tiger Leaping Gorge. For those of you who are in the know when it comes to geography, the Yangtze is one of the main rivers of China. It originates in the West of China and then flows due south as if it would escape China and drain through Burma into the Indian Ocean. However, there is a place called the Stone Drum where a massive wall of rock forces the Yangtze back onto itself and up to the north again. There is a saying that were it not for the Stone Drum, the waters of the Yangtze would be lost to China forever. It's believable when you see this formidable wall of rock.
But as the Yangtze flows back north into China again, it passes through a gorge made by two 19,000 ft. mountains, Haba Mountain on the Western side, and Yulong Mountain on the Eastern side. These to mountains ensure that the gorge through which the Yangtze flows is as sheer as possible. The trail we took through this spectacular gorge followed the Western and less steep side of the gorge. Usually we were walking about a thousand feet above the river, which was still visible however, directly below us. The trail makes a triangle of sorts, rising until about halfway and then descending for the rest of the time. Often as we walked we were in the shadow of Yulong mountain. It was amazing to see this mountain rise out of the gorge in dramatic cliffs upon which nothing could grow, nor any snow could hang. The clouds, moving from the east, came over the mountains casting moving shadows along out trail.
I was actually surprised by the lack of development this trail has received. It's never a rough or impassible trail, but it is not your typical Chinese tourist spot with marble stairs ensuring you never get your feet dirty. There are guest houses dotted along the way, but seeing as they are in villages which have probably been living on the edge of the gorge for a long time, it is understandable that they profit a little off the tourism. Besides, the guest houses have fairly good food and wonderful beds. You forget that you are hiking around in the wilderness of Himalayan foothills, what with your warm showers, your heated bed, and your cup of fresh coffee (which really wasn't that good, but I had not partaken of that wonderful beverage for a week, so it seemed better than it should have).
The wildlife in the gorge is apparently diverse, although I was only witness to small forms of this. There were many goats which looked like normal goats but behaved like mountain goats, throwing themselves carelessly over the edges of cliffs and running about like I often do (with what some might call a death wish). There were also many little birds which I think were either Thrushes or some species of sparrow (both wild guesses made in order to convince the ornithologists amongst you that I do not know what I am doing). They made a strange clicking noise and had tails which stuck up awkwardly behind them. Also there were snakes. On our way into the gorge (driving) we say several fellows selling large dead serpents for eating purposes. However as I was hiking, I suddenly came upon a big green snake--maybe four feet or more in length and as thick as my wrist--sunning itself. I'm not an especially brave person, so I did not undertake hand-to-hand combat with the beast, but rather let it slip away off the cliff to some unknown den where it probably digested less fortunate tourists. At the next village I asked one of the old men who looked like he would know if the snakes of the region were dangerous. He assured me that they were most definitely not. But when I described the particular creature I had seen, his face grew solemn and even a little pale and he told me not to "mess with the vile thing" (in Chinese of course).
After this, I was on the look out for more green death snakes.
There are also many locals trying to make a little cash by offering to give you rides on their "very good" horses--usually at the steepest portions of the trail. Usually at the peak of ever large rise you would find a little hut with water bottles, fresh fruit on ice, and of course Snickers. Actually by the time I had finished with my journey through the gorge, I was edgily searching the high cliff walls for Snickers' logo to be engraved or carved into some forest. Apparently the candy bar sponsors this gorge. So if you ever have the chance to hike Tiger Leaping Gorge, be sure to purchase a goodly amount of Snickers so that the gorge may continue to exist in its pristine state.
Phil.

Yi Villager Who Secretly Is World Traveler:

2007-04-21T06:02:00.000-07:00

Rabid dogs have been no match for me, nor have the evil serpents of the Yunnanese Jungles. Yes, I emerge victorious and safe after a week of awful battle with Nature.
If this cryptic sort of commentary is not to your liking, I will modify it for a second to explain more clearly just what I have been doing as of lately. For the last week, I have been, with all of my other classmates and teachers from our program, wandering around in the mountains and countryside north of Lijiang (丽江), the tourist capital of northwest Yunnan.
Lijiang city itself is somewhat of a letdown, being a normal city surrounding the baited trap of "old town." This "old town" consists of refurbished old style Chinese houses which now house stores geared entirely toward selling cheap, imitation, and often completely spurious goods to the thousands of naive tourists who traipse around its narrow streets feeling like they've actually been somewhere different from their modern cities. They would most likely have done better to stay where they were and have a good meal.
But one must not get stuck on the grime which lies on the floor, so we look up, up to the horizon. Lijiang, however weak its here-and-now is, is set in one of the most picturesque plains I have ever seen. It rests at the end of the foothills which lead to the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain range in the north. From most places in the city, the peaks of this range loom over you ominously. Unlike the most of the larger mountains in Washington, these peaks are much more sheer and have more exposed rock. They are also a good deal taller, the highest (Yulong Peak) being some 19,200 ft. Lijiang is not a low-lying city either, being somewhere around 10,000 ft. above sea level.
Luckily it was part of our itinerary to venture out of this dismal city into the beautiful countryside. After spending a day in Lijiang we headed towards the mountains. We hiked up and over one of the main ridges to the mountains and into a valley with a small fading lake. Around the lake were dotted several small groupings of houses, constituting the disperse village of Wenhai. Here we stayed at a lodge recently built by the villagers to attract more tourism. I would say without hesitation that this is one of the most beautiful villages I have ever set eyes upon. The fields and terraces that retreated up the ravines of the surrounding villages were all a vibrant green, and the ridges became so steep as they went up as to reveal sheer cliffs on almost every side. And of course there were the Jade Dragon Snow Mountains, closer than ever, hanging over the valley.
I actually had the opportunity to hike up fairly close to these peaks with one of my classmates and a man who writes for National Geographic named Paddy. On our way up we passed through forests like I have never seen before. There were entire glades of azalea trees whose pink and white flowers not only tinted the ground, but perfumed the entire hillside. From this we climbed through a forest of Rhododendron trees which were as big as large apple trees. This was not something I would necessarily have noted, but Paddy, being the fountain of knowledge he proved to be, told us that Rhododendron's do not generally become large trees. So I relate the discovery to you.
Eventually we emerged on the high altitude meadows that covered the shoulders of the ridge. From there, enduring a tearing wind, we could see a panorama not often witnessed. To the north and west we could see down the various valleys into what was the massive gorge of the Yangtze. To the south and east was the vast Lijiang plain with its city sprawling out of it. To the southwest the ridges dropped rapidly into the Wenhai bowl and to our northeast rose the absolutely massive point of Yulong Mountain.
Various villages could be seen perched on the descending ridges with their green fields and the occasional creeks which carved grooves as they slid down the hillsides. I would guess we were at some 12,000 ft. of elevation, and we were pretty much onto the lowest sides of the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain range. While the peaks did not actually prove to be made of Jade, I did find several bright green marble-like shards of stone on our way down. Paddy claimed they were not Jade or any valuable stone, but I suspected this was a maneuver on his part to con me into throwing away my fortune. I saw him pack his pockets with the stones as I did. (They are definitely worthless, as I have found out by now, but are still really cool looking and count as a good souvenir, being a legitimate part of the Jade Dragon Snow Mountains.)
On our way down, we came to our first encounter with rabid dogs. Three vile looking beasts tried to venture against us as we were crossing an open field, but we drove them off with a hail of rocks (not our green ones). I was feeling fairly manly about this whole episode until we saw the dogs' owner who was hauling a immensely heavy load up the hillside. After exchanging a few words with him, I came to the conclusion that the dogs were neither rabid nor driven off by us, but obedient and protective to this their master. Oh well, at least I imagined to have an adventure for some moments.
I will conclude with yet one more anecdote. Right before Paddy and I started climbing the mountain we passed through a small Yi minority village which consisted of two houses. We stopped on the larger of the two, and after fending off more raging dogs, conversed with the inhabitants for a bit. It turns out that they were one of the richer families in the area and the Grandma still retained almost all of her old customs. She had strange dot tattoos on her hands which in essence a serial number--she had been sold as a slave when she was a young girl and the tattoos were so that her real parents could recognize her if they ever found her again. Strange custom. However her son, who was already in his thirties and married with a son, was an equally interesting person. While we were talking with him, he suddenly decided to mention that he had recently been gallivanting around New York City.

The conversation went something like this (in Chinese of course):
Us: "Are you a farmer?"
Yi Villager Who Secretly Is World Traveler: "Yes, I've got crops on this side of the valley."
Us: "Is farming difficult here?"
Yi Villager Who Secretly Is World Traveler: "Not really. We have plenty of water and the soil is good."
Us: "How long have the terraced fields been on the hillside?"
Yi Villager Who Secretly Is World Traveler:"Not long."
Us (surprised): "Really? That's odd. We thought they were thousands of years old."
Yi Villager Who Secretly Is World Traveler: "Yeah, that's what most Chinese people want foreigners to believe, but last time I was in New York I visited Central Park and some of the landscaping there inspired me..."

Apparently, this Yi man had recently been taken to New York by the Nature Conservancy, which does work in the area. It turns out that no matter how far you venture into the depths of the wilderness and what is seemingly so disconnected from the world, there are all still connections to all that you might think you have left behind.
Tomorrow I shall regale you with tales of my trek through the shadows of Tiger Leaping Gorge. Have a good night or morning or afternoon depending on when this reaches you, and of course, do not take the wonders of communication for granted.
Phil.

Almost a Movie Star

2007-04-12T02:51:00.000-07:00

There are many experiences which creep up behind one who is in a foreign country, and often these experiences like to give you a good strong whack on the back of your head. However, there are also times when you see something shiny on the ground and reach down to pick it up while the experience goes flying off over your head without you ever knowing how close you came.
This has been the method of my experience with becoming a Chinese movie star. I had, before arriving in China, contemplated using that beautiful asset of mine: my luscious hair--not my words. The Chinese, though many of you may find this difficult to believe, have been starved of almost all exposure to my amazing "do". This being the deplorable state of affairs in China, I had imagined that it might be advantageous to grace as many souls as possible with my presence--even if this be on the silver screen. Indeed I became convinced that this was my duty.
Therefore it did not come as a surprise to me, when a young woman in one of the cafes which I frequent came up to me and asked me to star in the next Chinese blockbuster. Of course she was far too coy to phrase the question in such a blunt manner, instead she asked me if I knew any others foreigners who wanted to be in a movie. Being the savvy person I am, I immediately saw through her politeness, for what she really wanted was: to get this amazing 头发 (toufa, which means hair in Chinese) on the screen. I graciously inclined and said I would love to star in her movie.
Apparently this young woman was struck dumb by the power of the hair; it was some time before she responded--she feigned like she was laughing at something in order to cover her exuberance. However she said should would love to have me in the movie. But this is where I began to doubt the veracity of her project, I began to doubt if she was even Chinese. In repyling, she used the Chinese word for extra rather than the word for star which she clearly intended. Language differences are very frustrating.
She gave me her card and asked me to conscript some other foreigners who I assumed she needed to play supporting to me. The young woman (Jasmine by name) apparently was rather more skittish than not, for she seemed offended when I started calling her with ideas for the script--true, I had not yet had a chance to cast my eyes on this document, but I nonetheless know the essentials which every movie must have: large explosions with lettered noises like in the old batman show, swords, a villain who has his face burned off by acid (lava is also acceptable), and of course a healthy dose of ninjas. Particularly special among my suggestions where the idea that she should have a scene of me flying through the sky fighting with large pterodactyls. However, as I have said, Jasmine is a skittish girl. She actually began to express disapproval at my many suggestions (mostly this was when I called her in the wee hours of the night with a particularly brilliant thought like the pterodactyls or fiber-optic cameras in my hair). I suppose this was just jealousy. But after all Jasmine, we cannot all have beautiful, wavy locks of manly hair.
But as they say Hell has a furious lot of women in it (or something like that) so apparently Jasmine feels some kinship with those lost females--she changed her phone number. With that small fizzle in the air of the electronic world, all of China lost what might have been one of its best chances for enlightenment. Confucius was lucky, he had not the 头发 of an American.
Some good though has come out of all this loss: I discovered China's healthy illegal DVD market. This should certainly be listed as one of the great wonders of the world. For something less than a dollar I can buy movies which have not yet come out in the theaters back home, or are just arriving. It was this discover which brought me safely through the last weekend's sickness, although I do not think I shall be watching any movies for a while. Between Jasmine's abandonment of me and the twenty odd films that stood by me through the gastrointestinally troubled nights of this last weekend, I am a trifle soured on the glitz and glamor of the film industry.
In a brief bit of news, I shall be depriving even you, the faithful American public, of my presence for the next week. I go on matter of the gravest import to crawl about among the high mountain passes of the Himalaya. If I am not eaten by rabid dogs, you will all hear from me again for sooner than you wish.
Phil.

Blowing Our Teacher's Mind

2007-04-09T23:07:00.000-07:00

So, many of you have probably seen the famous picture of Tienanmen Square where the guy is standing in the road with his hand out, about to be rolled over by a row of large tanks...Sorry I couldn't get a better version, but I am hiding behind the Great Firewall of China.
General knowledge in the States says that the poor guy was flattened flatter than flat things that are flat, while the tanks kept rolling on, presumably to flatten other people into flat things. All of this of course raises the important question, did these people--tank drivers or now-presumably-flat people, eat pancakes for breakfast? But aside from that lighter note, there is another important question: was anybody actually run over?
It will come as no surprise to you that my Chinese teacher was shocked into stuttering when we (me and my classmates) boldly asserted that the man in the picture had been ruthlessly turned into a pancake. She claimed that he had walked away. Of course, us being the brilliant and informed, unbiased, and pure champions of truth throughout the world, we of course informed her that she didn't know what was going on in her own country and that she was wrong. We said, it was quite clear from the picture that the fellow had not faired well. She eventually came round to see our point of view.
However, there is some sort of catch. See, I had the misfortune a few days before this to be reading in one of our illustrious textbooks for our history class here, and this textbook (published in America, imported by our program) had the same picture in it. Thing was, the caption said something entirely different. The caption said that the man had held the tanks at bay, tempting fate, for several seconds before being rushed off by his friends and hid. No one knows what became of him.
Now you may begin to see what I'm getting at here. It's very well and good for me to say that I know that at Tienanmen there was this massacre and a whole bunch of people where killed, including this one fellow who was run over by a tank. However, it seems just as well that this young woman who teaches us Chinese can also say that the man was not run over. While my classmates and I were jumping around ridiculing her government for its horrible practices, noting her own ignorance on these matters (due of course to a government which censors everything) and finally explaining to her what really happened, it seems we might have been just as much dupes as we pitied her for being. We make a choice, right? We choose to believe a story. I wouldn't ever say that this means there isn't any version of the story that is correct--there is.
Not that we are dupes of any particular government or organization, but simply dupes of ourselves. It's nice and hunky dory to imagine that we have this conception of how things worked in some other country many years ago, but conceptions like these happen to be built on a fairly shaky mesh of rumors. Why is my classmate's firm belief that the guy in the photo was flattened not as naive as my teacher's belief that he wasn't? In her case the obvious answer is, well the Chinese government is telling her the story which makes it look the best; as for my classmates, it seems that they got there story from...from where? From people who were at odds or at least have some interest in making the Chinese government appear less than pristine.
But someone is asking, what does it matter? Who cares whether this one guy was run over or not, the point is that there was a massacre at Tienanmen. Yes, I'm not doubting that. But it seems to me it's more than easy for us to hold up China and say "Ah, this land--they have no rights, or they don't have the same rights, they don't have freedom." The funny thing is, when I've asked people, they all say of course they have freedom. It's almost an insulting question. If you think that isn't so, take a moment to ponder the feelings that have been going through your mind for the past few paragraphs. I've almost been saying that you don't have freedom.

The Tienanmen case is just a sign of the larger issue at hand: almost every time we come to discuss media, governments, economics, or freedoms in class, the lines are drawn. My teacher on one side, fairly loudly defending her country, and my classmates on the other telling her how the government in China is 1984's Big Brother. In fact, almost all the terms my classmates use at some point come from this book or the conspiracy theories around it. They say that China's government doesn't allow free speech (it owns all media outlets), that it censors books, movies, and other things far too heavily, that they have been brutalizing and arresting people who protest. My teacher's answers are always logical arguments that just happen to fit our conception of someone who has been duped by the government. She says if they did that it was for the good of everyone, or if they do this it is for the greater safety of the population. I really don't like these sorts of arguments--but that's because I have this inbred distrust of the government. I'm not going to blame George Orwell, although perhaps I should, but I wish I could go back before that book was published and so how much this distrust of the government was alive in people.
You can see the same sort of confusion over issues when religion enters the picture. It doesn't take long to realize that there are a whole bunch of people out there peddling the line that religion in China is as free as anywhere else in the world. But there are just as many, if not more, going around bewailing the dangerous and threats and curtailments of religious freedom in China. I've talked with citizens here who tell me that there is nothing more free than religion in China, that even those once furtive "house churches" are coming out into the open and not being troubled in the least. But I've talked to people who tell me the exact opposite. That they are in extreme danger, that they have to move every year in order to avoid persecution, and that they often experience mistreatment at the hands of officials. Tell me which one you believe...why? I often find I believe whichever viewpoint I believe because it's the most pleasant one. That makes sense, yeah?
If there is a point here, it's probably this: that everybody wants to think there government is not as bad as everyone else's. And that when you come down to it, we don't have too much to go on either way. The question comes down to who I'm going to believe for my facts, because inevitably I have to believe somebody.

No More Cultural Differences

2007-04-07T20:05:00.000-07:00

Well, my record had been perfect, I had been free from all adverse affects of sickness since my arrival in China, but that is all in the past tense now. Not wanting to have to summon up the horrible details in my own mind, I'll spare all of you these. Just imagine the worst case of flu you've ever had and then magnify it by the China factor (everything is bigger and badder here). It was not a pleasant weekend, despite being Easter. Due to my illness the only service I was able to make it to was Good Friday's. This however was an experience in and of itself.
Even allowing for quite a bit of culture differences, I was somewhat disturbed by this service. For those of you who may be slightly uncertain on the facts, Good Friday is the most solemn service of the whole year, with good reason. However, apparently in China, the service serves the purpose of being a photo-op as well. While the people did actually stop short of shouting, "Hey, get me with the priest!" there were more than enough flashes going off. But, I understand there are cultural differences. Apparently the priests understood too for they did not seem to be irritated or even thrown off their beat by the camera flashes. I have a fair amount of respect for these priests, they put up with quite a bit. Of course, since they are Chinese, you must simply say that they are used to things which I would call "Cultural difference."
However, one does have to wonder, does being cut in line involve cultural differences? Maybe at the bank or a grocery store, but when you are in line to go up to the cross on Good Friday? I have not so much faith in cultural differences. I was sitting fairly far back at mass when that time to head up to the cross came around, I was ready to follow in line like always. However that apparently is not how they do it. First there was an uncertain pause, as the people up front apparently were not sure what to do. Then there was a general rush as everyone in the church mobbed the cross hoping to get in and out before the other Schmoes. Not a pretty sight.
I took it all in stride though, simply saying "cultural differences." But there came a point when I was wedged in line between the old guy who was holding a voluble conversation with the young woman behind me, when all of a sudden a family decided that I had usurped my position in line and was no longer deserving of it. Yes, indeed, I was cut in line going up to the cross on Good Friday. And this was no small cut either, the people who cut had been standing some thirty feet behind me. But really this didn't matter, since almost immediately after a priest got on a loudspeaker and said that everything was taking to long, so everybody should hurry it up a bit. After this the line went into double time. "Cultural differences," while a wonderful term, is only capable of explaining away so much. I do not quite understand how one can explain such actions by cultural differences. It seems to me if you have a clue about the purpose of all this, the rushing to get into line first would not be terribly important.
Communion after this was held along the same general principles: a general scramble to get up to the priest before...before what? It's not like mass suddenly ended as soon as you got communion, not at all. Everyone (mostly everyone) stayed until mass was actually over, so what was the point?
Perhaps I'm being too touchy. Or maybe it is the residue of being sick which is making me a little argumentative. But I don't think I'm as willing to accept "Cultural differences" as an explanation of things which I do not understand anymore.

The New Stars of Food Preparation

2007-04-05T02:31:00.000-07:00

Today I did something which I rarely do even in America, I went to Pizza Hut. Now, you may be wondering why I would abuse you to such an extent, telling you even about my most mundane trips to a fast food restaurant--wonder no more. Some of you may have heard rumors that the major fast food labels have a different sort of appeal over here on the other side of the Pacific. You may have even herd rumors of these normally "lowest of the low" being something entirely different out of the shadow of the Great American Government. This is true, but how true, I had no idea. I too had heard rumors that the American fast food establishments here were more akin to fancy restaurants than your grab and go grease-bomb food.
My first clue that things were slightly amiss was learning the location of these fast food emporiums. In Kunming, they only have a limited number of American fast food spots (KFC, Pizza Hut, MacDonalds, and I've heard but not corroborated rumors of Burger King). Imagine my surprise when I learned that these restaurants, being birds of a feather, had flocked together, but in THE major downtown square. Now you may be thinking "So what, who cares whether KFC is by the regional headquarters of the First Chinese Bank or not?" Well, let me give you the shocking details: this square, being the posh sort of place it is, has no automobile traffic. Yes, if you can imagine it, there are no drive-through's or even parking lots at KFC, Pizza Hut, or even MacDonalds!
Now, if you have recovered from this shocker, I will continue on. But I warn you, it is not going to be easy. There are things even more disturbing than a MacDonald's without a drive-through. As I said, I went to Pizza Hut. We were walking by the side of the building, on our way to the front door, and I couldn't help but notice that the place actually looked like a respectable restaurant. Looks can be deceiving however. For after we got in, I discovered that Pizza Hut in China is not a respectable restaurant--it is a palace! The interior had been done up like it was some sort of fashionable mix between the nicest Starbucks you've ever been in, and cheesily Italian restaurant someplace where there has never been an Italian.
They were even playing some brand of bad jazz music in the background. Have you ever been to a Pizza Hut which played any kind of Jazz at all? It's almost an oxymoron. But I have yet to reveal the biggest shock of all: the food was actually delicious. I understand that I am most likely suffering from some version of home-sickness which predisposes me to American styles of cooking before I even begin to eat, but the food at this Pizza Hut was genuinely good.
I regret to inform you that I in all likelihood will never frequent this fine establishment again, but this is merely due to the unhappy occasion that it's prices are the one thing which did not change for the better in the journey across the ocean. But I will never forget: Pizza Hut's, like all fast food restaurants, restaurants too. Just because they have the unfortunate title of "fast food" doesn't mean they can't dress themselves up every once in a while and go out for a night on the town. Pizza Hut's have feelings too, so next time you pass one of their more seedy little brothers in the States, remember: in a different land, in a different culture, they are the stars of food preparation.
Phil.

Old People Dancing

2007-04-03T04:28:00.000-07:00

Well, heavy weather lightens the mood. Today was officially my first day of rain in Kunming. For those of you in Washington State, this will come as a somewhat envious statement. But to tell you the truth, I couldn't have been more happy to have some rain. Things where getting a little bit dry around here.
And perhaps it is fitting that I take time on the one day when no one is dancing in the local park, to tell you about the people dancing in the local park. My school is not terribly far from a large park. The park, Green Lake Park, is like it sounds, a park with green lakes. Lakes is a term which is used with no little amount of poetic license, but such usages are more than acceptable here in China. By lake the Chinese usually mean some pit, fenced in by large stone walls which contains stagnant, dirty, foul smelling and otherwise obnoxious substances which have been called water (mostly by people who are unaware what water actually is). Green Lake Park is divided into three separate lakes by many wonderful walkways and plazas. At the time of my visit, one of these lakes has been drained, ostensibly because the water was too dirty. This is a very large step for the Chinese authorities: actually recognizing the possibility that water does indeed become dirty...something almost unheard of here. So you might currently call Green Lake Park the Park With Two Green Lakes and one Brown Swamp.
Concerning the one brown swamp: there are several small birds which seem not yet to have realized that this lake is no longer a lake, no longer a suitable habitation for any sort of fowl. These birds are obviously of the younger "Punk" generation which has yet to realize the futility of struggle. Currently they are busily "sticking it to the man" or Gander as is more appropriate in this case. While I do applaud their fervor and gusto, I do not see the wisdom in covering oneself with horrible smelling mud and floundering around like some nasty species of bullfrog when one is a perfectly sound waterfowl capable of flight. At least they were capable of flight at one point, I think the mud has so clogged their feathers, they shall be doomed to their swampy existence forever. And I have a feeling the older members of the aviary community at Green Lake Park take the high road when it comes to these "Punks." The high road being a stolid course of ignoring the little turds and living it up while their intolerable presence has been removed.
But surely you would like to know more about this park than its bird-life. During the day, the park is what you would expect of any park: full of tourists, people trying to sell miscellaneous articles of jewelry, produce and handicraft, and many shady people who look like the type who would stab you and take your wallet. The tourists can be spotted a mile away, as can the vendors while this last group can often be seen stabbing people and taking their wallets. But it is as evening settles upon the Chinese world that the life of Green Lake Park really begins to soar.
If you happen to be making your way through the park around 6 or 7, you will generally be startled by a course, high pitched screeching which reminds you of a horror film which traumatized your youth. You might have expected that this was a group of the shady people who stab and steal, molesting an undeserving individual, however you would be horribly wrong in such a judgment. How dare you assume that China has such problems?the screeching happens to be a very high class form of Chinese opera. Like anything high class, this singing generally strikes the untrained ear as the most annoying thing on earth. But for those who have taken the time (and endured the torture) long enough, it is supposed to be one of the highest forms of pleasure. Personally, I am content to take their word for this. If you can manage to tune out the wailing of these many amateur vocalists, you will be able to navigate further in to the depths of the Park. And then you'll be in for a wonderful treat.
At these waning hours of the day, the older community of Kunming (much like the older aviary community of Green Lake Park) enjoy their freedom from the younger generation--the opera singers serve a double purpose: their voices are so high pitched they actually attain ranges inaudible to the average sexagenarian's ear, but which prove to be very uncomfortable to those with young ears.
The old people in the park gather in their large groups to dance and frolic free from all cares. Mostly these dances remind me of square dancing back in the states, but occasionally you can see waltzers and perhaps even a salsa or two if you keep your eyes pealed. They use very old boom-boxes to blare music which must be even older. And despite their age they keep up a fast pace, which I would probably be incapable of maintaining. I thought a bit about joining them, but not wanting disturb their perfect tempo, I thought better of it. As you may know, I am not a dancer. No twirling and whirling and prancing for me, I like my music and exercise unadulterated and pure.
If I had a camera, I would have taken a picture. But since it is always dark when the dancing starts, taking a picture would have not achieved anything more than replicating darkness. So for those of you who want me to get a camera, please stop your whining. Have a little respect for yourselves.
Phil.

Howard's Questions

2007-04-01T21:50:00.000-07:00

AGAIN ANOTHER LONG POST BUT ALSO WORTH IT
READ ONE BEFORE IF YOU HAVEN'T
Last post, when I was talking about the King of Artificial Pig Insemination, I said there was another experience I had with him which disturbed me quite a bit. This is that.
The day we visited the Miao villages, we returned to Jianshui. The night was made weird enough for me by suddenly finding myself in perfect comfort with more than enough food, a comfortable bed, even air-conditioning, while I still knew that the villagers were in the same situation as I saw them earlier in the day. Made it really hard to eat dinner, but being the courageous person I am, I didn't find it too difficult to polish off a dish or two. Think about that one next time you plan on buying me a birthday present.
However dinner was not all a loss. I ended up sitting at Howard's table (our group had around 16 people so we needed two or three tables). At first Howard was polite and only made small talk, but it didn't talk long (or too many beers) for him to begin a train of thought which is mostly responsible for this writing. I thought there was something a little odd going on when I saw him stop a waitress and ask her for a beer before we were even seated. He began by asking us (the three students sitting near him) what our thoughts were on the day. We all gave him our slightly academic and carefully inert answers.
"It's really sad to see their situation, but I think your school is going to help."
"You are giving them a reason to go out and work in the fields everyday. You are giving them hope."
"While it was a little weird, I think it was all worth it because I am so inspired right now."
These sorts of answers were pretty easy to summon up. But we were not giving Howard's intelligence enough credit (something I have a feeling cocky college students are apt to do to anyone who has the accent or appearance of Howard). He began working the conversation around (with the help of much more beer on his side) to a harder question. More and more there would be an awkward silence after one of his questions, simply because none of us had anything near the answer, and were to ashamed to BS one. He started asking us if we thought what he was doing was right. He worried that instead of helping, he was actually destroying these people's lives, or worse, dooming them to their lives forever.
He knows better than I do, that the situation of those Miao villages, if nothing changes, is not sustainable. They are not going to make it--in a hundred years, there will either be no one alive in that valley, or there will have been some sort of miracle. And this is what Howard was worrying about. He's almost finished this new school which is to be the pride and joy of these people, which is to give them something to live for, and where does that leave them? Is it nothing more than a chain by which he has bound these people to the area forever? For now that this school is there, the government is surely not going to abandon the area and move the people out, instead it's going to be more of the same. They are going to have to stay where they are until the last drop of water has been turned to unusable sludge and the last person has dropped dead from some simple malady.
As Howard began expressing his worries to us, he also began to appear more and more drunk. By this point he had had five or six beers (not much in the States) but the Chinese beer bottle is something which makes us look like Barbie-worshiping little pansies. The Chinese beer bottle is at least three times the size of the normal American beer bottle. Most of you know my thoughts about drunkenness, but that's not the point here. Howard was still lucid enough to express (though slurred and shouting) that he was being torn up inside.
If ever there was a person who I thought was not to be this way, it would have been Howard. After all, he had given up his life in the States, he was selflessly giving away large sums of money, seeing tangible results, and here he was--almost on the verge of explosion--telling us that he wasn't sure if he was one of the worst people in the world.
Not only was he worried that he was binding these villagers to a future which was more like doom, but he was also worrying that he was wrecking more than this. The thing is, while he can build schools, he cannot say what is taught in them. Every school he builds becomes a new point of Han majority Communist indoctrination. So while he may be giving these kids an opportunity to escape a life which is horrific, he's wiping out their culture, history, and in some cases personality. I know this is a weird feeling for an American, since our culture changes by the moment and we don't feel especially sad if any part of it suddenly up and walks away (I can name quite a few parts that at this moment would be making me hysterically happy if they were to up and leave), but in those cultures which have been around for a few thousand years, it means a bit more I think.
Howard is genuinely confused about this subject. He doesn't know whether he is doing something good or something bad. He is not sure whether he will be looked back on by history as one of the great destroyers or builders. I don't know what religion Howard prescribes to (he was raised Mormon but abandoned that quite early at the expense of an ongoing relationship with his family--they cut him off, literally), but it was clear that it wasn't giving him any guidance.
In a dark sort of way, it was humorous to watch some of the students at the table argue with him. All the altruism, all the high-minded certainty of a college education does NOT stand up against experience.
Somebody got wise and thought they could cheer him up (a feeling which in my mind is almost as patronizing as they claimed giving the candy to kids in the villages was) by asking Howard if he thought the villagers' situation was better than it had been 15 years ago. Howard, again with his disarming reality, said he didn't have a clue. He'd only been here for three years and didn't know anything about the situation before that. Next logical question was, of course, has their situation improved in these three years that Howard has been so selflessly helping them. Howard's answer, laced with a fair bit of profanity (which he was using well by this time) was "Not a bit."

I don't think anyone is immune to the sort of questions that plagued Howard. But, and this is where I figured it worth telling you, he at least is still doing something. While he has been torn apart by worries that he may be doing more harm than good, he at least has chosen a path and is following it. If you want to think about this sort of stuff, it is inevitable that you can walk yourself in wonderful little circles that successfully keep you from doing anything useful. The trick is to recognize the questions, but not get caught up in asking them. Even though Howard has seen no improvement in the lifestyle of the people he is trying to help, even though the only proof he has that he has been helping is that there are these new buildings with kids going to school in them, he's still going on. I cannot imagine how tough this must be.
He obviously cares enough about these people to be personally vested in them, and yet for all his efforts (which are not small) he has not been given any results, not been given any pat on the back even in the most simply of manners.
My question is this: when is Howard going to tire? When is he going to be fed up with the seeming uselessness of everything he is doing? And what then?
My only consolation at this moment comes from something my former roommate here said: "God did not call us to save the world, only to live a holy life." Whether we see results which make us feel like we are saving the masses from their horrible fate, or whether we think we are simply throwing our money down a chute which resembles a trash can, doesn't much matter. I'm hoping to meet up with Howard again at some point in the future to talk with him a bit more, perhaps he can shed some light on his own predicament.
Phil.

The King of Artificial Pig Insemination

2007-04-01T04:30:00.000-07:00

THIS IS REALLY LONG, I'M SORRY, BUT IT IS WORTH IT
I'm sorry for those of you who were offended by the title of this post--you'll probably even be more offended by the length, but I'm not terribly worried about sensibilities right now, especially given the topic of what I'm about to say. Believe it or not, a post with such a title, can be considered (at least by foolish people like me) to be incredibly important.
The first side note of this weekend, is that I have now officially been to the tropics, having traveled as far south as latitude 23.37 which is just below the Tropic of Cancer (23.5). I ventured out into the more rural portions (农村--nongcun) of Yunnan accompanied by some very interesting people. Indeed, one of these people was the reason for this trip. Enter the King of Artificial Pig Insemination, Howard (I would include his last name but never learned it). Howard is a large man is his mid fifties, who looks like your stereotypical farmer from Wisconsin. This is because Howard is your stereotypical farmer from Wisconsin, or at least was until a few years ago. It is one of his accomplishments, which he will proudly tell you of, that he is responsible for the births of around 100 million pigs and 12 million calves. I won't go into the nitty-gritty of his business, in order to save your eyes the unpleasant details which I learned from him over dinner, but I feel I should give some background. He makes what he calls a "buffer." This term of course is not what you would call scandalous--it should be. He explained it this way: if you have a sow in Beijing which you really think is a good sow, and I have a boar in Kunming which is really a good boar and you decide that this boar is good enough for your good sow, you say "That boar...That's the boar for me," well then you can't simply fly your sow down to Kunming to have a whole passel of little piglets which would of course be the best, nor can you fly them back. Solution? Howard's "buffer": a solution which guarantees that everything important will make it up to your sow in order to produce the desired results, in this case: a whole passel of really good piglets.
However, there is more to Howard than his "buffer," much more (he's about 6'5" and over 300 pounds). Being from Wisconsin, he speaks with a very heavy Minnesotan accent (goatta be supportive, eh?), but no one should be judged by their accent, no matter how ridiculous it sounds. Howard is also a man I respect more than most. Without the aid of any other philanthropies or even people, he is building schools in the poorer portions of Yunnan's south. This in and of itself, while being amazing, is not something which would necessarily qualify Howard for my respect, however there is more to Howard.
As he told me, he had been working on his artificial pig insemination business for twenty-five years in the states (particularly in Wisconsin) without ever taking a vacation. One day, he apparently decided that this whole no vacation policy had some defects. In short he decided to take a vacation. His expressed his methodology for choosing a destination in this manner (read with half french, half hick, half Minnesotan accent): "Well, I was looking for a place to go and really didn't know since I haven't been out of the States much, but I got an Atlas, you know, and I found this place that started with an "X" and had lots of letters, so I said, that's the place for me." The town Howard found was Xixuanbanna, a tropical resort town in southern Yunnan. Apparently it was a good choice.
He planned a vacation for two weeks, and by the end of the first week, with the aid of his tour guide, had planned to build a school in the countryside. Enter Tony: Tony is a Yunnan native who happened to know some English and was working as a tour guide at the time Howard came to China. Tony, for some reason I do not know, went from being Howard's tour guide to his liaison and partner in building the schools.
For all of this, I respect Howard, but even more I respect him for his understanding of reality. He does what he's doing, and doesn't make any big deal of it (unless he's trying to get someone to help him out). He was genuine about all he did. What there was there was. Perhaps it was his appearance which disarmed me, or his accent, but he came across as not caring in the slightest whether people though him good for doing this, not caring whether people noticed he was doing anything at all. In everything, he came across as simply wanting people to notice the villagers. I don't know how I would act if I were single-handedly helping entire villages of people, but it would probably involve a dose of pride. Not so for Howard.

Having introduced these two people, this brings us back to my weekend trip. They were going to visit one of the schools Howard is helping to build, and invited our program to accompany them. They warned us at the outset that it would not be an outing or any sort of enjoyable experience. While the cities in China may appear to be developed and not have many poor beyond any other city, the countryside of China is in desperation.
After five hours in a bus on the freeway, we spent the night in Jianshui which is a tourist-type city in the south of Yunnan. The next morning we headed out on something akin to the forest service roads back in Washington for another two or three hours, passing through the various levels of Chinese development and poverty. Essentially, we started at 7:30 am in a first world city, and ended up by 10:00 am in the third world.
The villages we visited were of the Miao minority which are also widely found in Vietnam and have a huge population in the United States (they're called the Hmung and live near Michigan). These villagers had, a little before the Communist Revolution, been driven into inhospitable lands by their opposition to the Qing dynasty. By inhospitable, I mean they cannot grow anything worthwhile. The land is almost devoid of water, over-populated by their forced migration, and incredibly remote. Currently the Chinese government is debating whether to simply abandon all efforts to aid these people and let the problem go away (they all die) or to bring them into the cities (difficult because these minorities do not speak any Chinese). Helping the people where they are is not an option, as far as the government sees it. The situation is un-sustainable, and it seems, no matter how much money is thrown at it, it will only get worse.
Currently the Miao people are growing onions, one of the few crops the land will support, but onions are not what you might call a cash crop, and these people barely survive. It is considered doing well if you can make 1200 yuan ($250) a year for a whole family. Out of this they must return some to keep their crops going the next year, and they also have to feed and clothes themselves. Saying their life is hard is a waste of time.
Medical care is non-existent in these villages as they are too remote and anyone with the education of a doctor is smart enough to go no where near these villages. The children go barefoot, all have worms, fungal infections on their skin, various other diseases and their parents are surprised by their survival. I saw one little girl (no more than two or three) who was floundering in her crib--completely covered in flies. I learned through the broken Chinese of her grandmother that this child had had some fever which gave her brain damage, and so they were waiting for her to die. I do not know what else to say, but I can't simply stop.
They have no sanitation, and since the water in the area is severely limited, they drink out of their sewer. I mean this literally. There is only a pond to service three villages (about 2000 people) and since this pond is the lowest place in the area, everything drains there. The insecticides they use in order to compete with produce from wealthier areas, the sewer and runoff--all of this ends up in the water they drink. I am surprised that they can survive at all. The situation sucks.
Because they cannot speak putonghua (Chinese) they are essentially doomed to continue this existence. It is impossible for them to go to the city even to wash dishes or collect trash, since the most basic elements of life in a Chinese city, inevitably involves speaking Chinese. If ever the word doomed came into play, it is in this situation.

And so we have the King of Artificial Pig Insemination. He, on his first vacation in twenty-five years, happened to learn a little of this situation. Most people would have tried to give some money to a charity already in place or petitioned somebody to do something. But there are no charities in place, and petitioning often is just another excuse for returning to a comfortable life without too much guilt. Howard did something which I do not know whether I would have had the courage to do: he decided to help, stopped most things which were going on in his life and actually did help. On that first trip he decided that he would build a school, that same year he returned, started and actually completed a school (mostly with his own funds). He hopes that if the children of these villages can at least learn to speak Chinese they will be able to break their doom.
But now comes the really convicting part, at least for me. Howard is not an especially rich man. He gave around $15,000 to build the first school and supports about 70 students who graduate from it with scholarships so they can attend highschool and college ($125/year per student for this first, $300/year per student in the second case). These numbers shocked me. They are so low, they are very real numbers which any middle class person in America with a fair bit of tightening the belt, could come up with--they are less than one semester of my own tuition. I thought about that one for a very long time.
Howard did not think though that one school was enough, being a smart enough guy to realize that this is no isolated problem in China. So he returned the next year to stay for two months, and a year later moved to Kunming for good. Luckily his business is such that it can be moved from Wisconsin to China without too much difficulty. Everyone has a pig "which is the pig for me." He has built two schools now and has almost completed the third (the one which we were visiting in the Miao villages). Tony has been his go-between to the government at all levels and the villagers themselves, he meets twice a year with every student (as well as their family) who receives a scholarship from Howard, and is generally helpful in a million other ways. I was shocked yet again when I found out that Tony is not paid. He still holds down his tour guide/interpreter job in Kunming. Humbling.

Howard and Tony, building schools because they decided they couldn't fool themselves anymore by giving vague funds to major philanthropies. I can tell you it was one of the weirdest feelings I've ever had, walking into these villages for no more than an afternoon to gawk, giving away candy (Tony suggested we do this). Many of the kids in my program complained in hush whispers about how horribly patronizing this was, or how stupid it was that we came here for a day to gawk and then walked away. But then again, no one stopped them from staying. And frankly, I don't think any one of us had the right to speak, much less question anything Howard and Tony were doing. At least they weren't so paralyzed by political correctness (which in this case is a second name for cowardice) to ignore the problems they saw. While driving into a village on a bright green bus, hopping off and giving candy to the children may be patronizing, I really don't think the children gave a flying rat's hind-end whether it was patronizing. Candy is candy, world-wide.
I won't deny I felt pretty miserable, but since I'm still too much of a coward to stay in the village and help, too much of a coward to do what Howard is doing, I'm not going to complain about any feelings I have. I mean sure, I could say that we shouldn't have gone to these villages, that it was something rude to traipse around their homes, but most of this doesn't mean anything when I think of the little girl I saw in the crib.
I have much more to say, but won't right now. There was another experience with Howard which may have disturbed me more than the villages. Whatever the case, I'm glad I went and I ask everyone of you to remind me of this if you ever hear me complain about anything again.
Phil.

My Baozi Place

2007-03-29T03:14:00.000-07:00

Food, for those of you who are in the dark on this subject, is one of the best things on earth. We have all sorts of lovely things to enjoy while we are on this planet, but I'll wager you'll be missing out on life if you don't eat. But it's not just enough to eat, you have to live food. This doesn't mean gorge yourself at every while, although that may be called for on occasion. What's really important is that you seek out good food and when you find it, you make bloody well sure you've et it.
(If you happen to be one of the foolish one's who doubts the existence of such a verb as "et" please refer yourself to Dictionary.com and pay particular attention to the first definition of "et").
And so, after a while of speaking about such boring subjects as life and buses, I think it is about time I inform the world, and yourselves of course, about the sorts of foods I've been enjoying here. This is a monumental task which would force you all to quit reading long before it is accomplished, so today I shall only touch on one of the most common forms of dietary delight in which I indulge.
This particular food happens to be baozi (包子). If you are uncertain what baozi are, please think of those tasty little dumplings called jiaozi (if you are also uncertain what jiaozi are, think dumplings and don't get caught up in definitions). Baozi are like jiaozi in that they are pieces of dough wrapped around some sort of filling, usually meat. Baozi differ however from jiaozi in that they have a thicker bread shell and are usually bigger. I really enjoy both of these sorts of things (my brother might say this is my heritage coming out, all meat and bread).
But baozi must be good--or cheap--if they are to be eaten with any regularity. Enter my special baozi place. There is a small hole-in-the wall type restaurant, not far from where I am staying, which serves up the best baozi and jiaozi I have ever been privileged to eat. I don't think this place has a name, I refer to it as the baozi place as do many other people who eat there. From the Snickers brand basketball calenders on the wall to the grungy chopsticks they offer you, my baozi place is in keeping with everything you might expect of a local Chinese restaurant. It's got fake bamboo floors which have been so covered in grease, you actually have to look hard to realize they aren't real; it's got the back-room which really is nothing more than part of the main room cordoned off by a sliding glass door where the owner's family and close friends grind out the uncooked baozi and jiaozi. He even has a once-brightly colored New Year's poster with its red and gold figures.
The owner, himself, is as unique as his baozi are delicious. He is seen everyday standing outside the entrance to the place with his propane powered stove-top, steaming away a wonderful stack of the bamboo "pans" in which he cooks his delicacies. These bamboo "pans" look like old fashioned film canisters with one of their tops off. The baozi are placed inside these "pans" which are conveniently made so as to stack, and placed on an oven. I think he puts water in the "pans" below the baozi somewhere, but I'm not sure. So you can see the owner standing over his stove-top enveloped in a huge cloud of steam, slowly rotating in whole pagodas of cooking baozi. They smell delicious, like you'd imagine a picnic basket full of meat and chives to smell.
The man's menu is not large, consisting of no more than five or six items on a good day. My personal favorites are his soup-filled baozi and his chive and pork jiaozi. The soup-filled are amazing: somehow he has contrived to make this little pouches of dough hold a good-sized mouthful of soup and a sort of mini-meatball. When you eat one (you cannot simply take a bite, with these it is an all or nothing affair--either you eat the baozi or it eats you) the soup hits you first--some sort of vegetable base--and then comes the meatball... And of course baozi should only be consumed with a healthy dousing of vinegar to give them some zest. I never realized how much I like vinegar until now, but soaked in it, baozi take on a new, more fulfilling life.
The owner never says much more than a few words, sometimes not even this much--I take him to be what somebody at school once told me was a taciturn man. It wouldn't matter if he weren't so quiet though, for his Chinese is not of the common type; I not actually sure if it is Chinese at all. He gets by though, and I have a feeling he is making more money than most. I have never sat by myself at this place, but am always added to somebody else's table--something which in America seems unthinkable, but apparently doesn't bother people here. My apologies for intruding caused more weird looks than my actually presence in between Grandma Chen and her Grandson. It seems inevitable that this sort of communal table practice results in offers to teach me Chinese if I help them with their English. I have so far avoided this, mainly on the principle that I do not have enough time.
But I have almost forgotten the best part of my baozi place: his prices. The owner charges something around 50 cents for a bamboo "pan" of eight or more baozi. As you might have guessed this makes me a regular customer.
I almost dread going back to Duke and the expensive food there which would be sniffed at disdainfully by the street dogs who run wild in Kunming. So until I work up the courage to return,
Phil.

Street People

2007-03-28T05:53:00.000-07:00

I was tempted to call this something like "Faces of Kunming" or "Personalities of Southern Yunnan" but not only would this have disappointed everyone, it would also have sounded terribly stodgy and academic--something which I already get my fill of everyday. However, the point was not to talk about the naming process, but about what I'm seeing here.
I'm sure there are as many colorful figures back home in the places I walk by everyday, only it seems that I notice them more here. It might also be that interesting characters actually are more plentiful in China--everything else is. Even in the small area which can with a little license be called my stomping grounds there are more people who deserve paragraphs than I can count. Here are a few of the people who've stuck in my mind. In lieu of pictures (I still haven't a camera) I'll have to tell you the best I can. Besides it seems like it would be rude to take a picture of these people outright, but to record my impressions of them here seems less rude for some reason.

Honey Guy. In this alley which I often frequent, there is a very nice old man who sells honey. He might be considered an anomaly in the fact that he still possesses teeth at his age, or in the fact that he still sells honey, but neither of these are the particular reasons for my including him here. What is really special about the Honey Guy, what really knocks you over and tells you "Here is a guy worth noticing" is his English. He is a genuine Kunming-er never fear, but he does have the most interesting approach to English I have yet encountered. His English consists of one word, not-surprisingly: honey, which he pronounces through an ever-present grin. His grin is also of some special note as it is one of those grandaddies of grins which consumes the man's entire face. As you walk along the street, you may be accosted by the Honey Man who will grin as if he has never been happier to see anybody on earth and say to you "Honeeeeeey" (he draws out the last syllable for about five times the length of the word). The more intelligent people understand this to be at once a greeting, an offer, a sale's pitch, and a compliment. I've never seen the Honey Guy wear anything but blue Mao-era slacks and shirt with a Irish-type hat. He always has a large basket strapped to his back with his jars of honey. The honey itself looks delicious, only he sells it by the quart so I have not yet had reason to purchase a quart of honey. Bread here is already sweet enough, as am I.

Stereotypical Old Chinese Man: I often see this fellow sitting on the sidewalk with his erhu. He is a master of the instrument. And on top of this he fits, almost to a tee, the stereotypical image of the Chinese-old-man-who-plays-an-instrument-on-top-of-a-mountain. He's got the long gray hair, the long fumanchu, the peaceful demeanor, and he even sits cross-legged. I'll often walk by and hear his music filling the alley. He is someone who the street musicians in America could learn a little from. He does not appear to be needy at all, and I have my private suspicions that he simply plays music on the street because he enjoys it, although because he is so good, his money bowl is never empty. The erhu music is incredibly smooth and liquid--I wish I could do it justice here, but I'm no musician and not much better at explaining music. If you nod your head at him, he bows back deeply, all-the-while sitting cross-legged and not missing a chord on his instrument. He always has a smile for those who pass, a man who could not epitomize more the word "content." It is surprising to me that he chooses such a crowded alley to play in, especially since with all the traffic it is often impossible to hear his music but faintly. However, it almost seems like a metaphor for the traditions of the old world fighting back against the new craze of modernization. And for those of you who will recognize it, here's a little quote: "His were the old ways." I can say nothing more to render this old gentleman for you.

Blind Singing Lady. I guess I'll keep the theme of musicians for a bit, although we are now traveling to the opposite end of the spectrum. Where the erhu musician embodied everything I've ever imagined a great musician to be, the Blind Singing Lady is what you would imagine the forever aspiring musician to be. I think she is blind, though I am not entirely sure. She sings like a man who has never been fond of singing, but does it out of necessity--she reminds me of some of the more elderly church-goers who sing because they must not because they wish to. I've still not been able to figure out which language she uses as her musical one, but I've been assuming Chinese since we are still in that locale. There is an overpass near the school I'm attending and she can be seen in the evenings, firmly planted on this overpass, bellowing out here tune. She has an expression of almost painful concentration on her face and sings like she had been told it was her official work in this world. I have a feeling she sings the same song forever, but it does not seem to have an end or a beginning. I wouldn't quite call it hollering nor quite bellowing, but somewhere in between. I admire her though, for of all the things which she might have done to try and convince the passers-by to drop a few coins in her pot, singing was the one which I would never have guessed. I'm never moved to pity her, she has far more courage than I, but I think her methods do work--she never has more nor less than a few coins in her pot. She is still savvy enough to remove the bulk of the money that is given her so people will think her more pitiable still. Wisdom and courage combined tend towards prosperity, I think.

There are many more people who I could ramble on about for quite some time, but this is enough for now. Hopefully this wasn't too boring for those of you who are more interested in action, adventure and humor--I'll be working on generating some of those stories in the near future.
Phil.

My Holy War with the Kunming Bus System

2007-03-26T23:50:00.000-07:00

The Kunming bus system is the best bus system I have ever seen. While this is not making an extensive claim since I have not experienced too many mass transportation networks, it's still worth the words it takes to mention. Usually, using the buses I can make it to most anywhere I want within the confines of Kunming. And to tell the truth, it sounds like buses work like this throughout China, only I've been told taking a bus from Kunming to say Beijing is not a healthy activity--more than a week or two on a bus is good for no portion of your body, especially your buttocks. However if you manage to restrict your bus excursions to local places, your hind end shouldn't fall off or morph into any strange shapes.
But back to the city buses. As much as I love these, they aren't always the picture of modernization one would desire. For instance, I have had the privilege of riding the No. 1 bus. Unfortunately I made the foolish guess that the No. 1 bus would be something special because it was No. 1, afterall I'm no longer that young and "First the worst, second the best, third the nerd in the polka-dot dress" no longer applies. So No. 1 should be plenty nice. This was not the case. No. 1 bus apparently had been so named because it was the first bus the city of Kunming acquired (my guess is sometime back in the 18th century). This bus, while heavily used, did not exactly possess the power one might desire. Especially at those moments when we were attempting to go uphill, I felt that the bus's engine was something intended for use on a moped rather than a large bus. However, the bus did not break down, although it did exhale large amounts of black smoke and cough up some apparently unnecessary parts of its motor. So I guess I should not chastise it too harshly.
On the buses in Kunming they have an interesting tradition of exiting only through the back door. This may be the case with buses elsewhere, but again, I wouldn't know. The problem, as I see it though, with this exit-through-the-back system is that if the bus happens to be crowded (and it is a law of China that EVERYTHING is ALWAYS crowded) you will be hard pressed to get off at your stop before the driving decides to keep on going. I have learned though to emulate the locals in their solution to this problem; rudely push your way through the mass of bodies until somebody falls down and starts screaming, and then in the confusion, make a get-away out the front door (forbidden as that may be). This process almost always works, unless of course the driver is particularly savvy and decides to shut the door on you as you make your escape. I almost lost my backpack in this manner, but after a brutal pushing battle with the bus's doors, I emerged the victor. So courageous was this particular exploit, I believe I accrued no small amount of fame among the bus-riding culture. You may refer to me in the future as Phil Vanquisher of the Bus.
But even the Vanquisher of Buses finds there are things in this world which still can humble him. For I have recently been dealt a crushing defeat by the buses of Kunming, perhaps it was revenge, who knows? This most recent event had the elements of the mystical about it though, so I do not feel too bad about myself in my loss. I recently tried to ride a certain No. 5 bus in order to get to a climbing gym in Kunming. The directions on the gym's website said take No. 5 bus to such and such a stop and you will be in front of our doors, or something like that. The No. 5 bus however apparently only exists for very specific portions of reality. If that sounds somewhat metaphysical, it is meant to be. The thing is, the No. 5 bus is not purely real, it exists for about half the time and the rest of the time it tends to teleport, time travel and otherwise behave contrary to the laws of nature.
I discovered all this on my first attempt to ride the No. 5 bus. Generally riding a given bus is as easy as going down to the local bus stop and waiting for a bit. Sometimes this is complicated if the bus does not service that stop, but even then it's nothing more than a hop, skip and a jump to the next bus stop which it does service. Boarding the No. 5 bus takes a good deal more than this. What you must do first is make sure that you are right with your Maker. Next you have to guess at random which bus stop you shall first try. If you attempt to use any sort of logic or reasoning to figure out where the No. 5 bus might be, you will inevitably fail. Finally, you charge off like a crusading knight catch the bus at some point in mid-flight. I say this because it apparently is a part of the No. 5 bus's mystical nature that it does not actually stop at bus stops. Such a thing would be beneath the intensely magical spirit of this bus. Finally, if you are favored by fate that day, you find that the No. 5 bus will speed up and leave you in its tracks. I call this favored by fate, for it never fails that whatever bus is immediately behind the No. 5 bus will take you to exactly where you want to go.
If you don't believe me, if all of this sounds like something I made up to give you the excuse for a good story, be ashamed. Fie upon those who doubt Phil, Vanquisher of the Bus! And just to prove my own virtue, I will let you in to a little secret: I have been privileged enough to actually ride the No. 5 bus once. It took me to the opposite side of the city than that which I intended, but I felt honored simply to have boarded its sacred insides.
Till later then, see how many buses you can vanquish.
Phil.

The Corn Cob Ice Cream Bar

2007-03-25T00:13:00.000-07:00

Since I've been here, there are several things which I have not been able to get my hands on. A good steak, English books, breakfast foods in general, these sorts of things have apparently been declared "evil" by the Chinese government and so are not allowed within the sacred borders of the homeland. However, there are those brave souls who attempt to smuggle such contraband in, as well as the more enterprising people who attempt to badly copy these good old American values with whatever materials they have available to them here.
One of the most blatant examples of this is ice cream. The Chinese conception of ice cream is much more along the lines of what Americans call badly frozen yogurt, or more properly, total crap. However, in this dismal world where ice cream tastes bad, there still are some few points of light. Mostly these points of light consist of really cheaply made ice cream bars which one can buy from street vendors. I have no doubt that these ice cream bars are more chemical than ice cream, and the act of keeping them in a cooler is only a pretense. Such is their manufactured nature, I am convinced these ice cream bars retain their shape and temperature even after they have been consumed. And on the whole, most of these bars are pretty foul--soy seems to be a major ingredient, as well as various forms of other inedible vegetable material. For instance, one hugely popular ice cream bar is what I like to call "the Corn Bar." As you might have guessed the corn bar tastes like soy beans, but what is slightly more surprising is the corn bar's shape. It is indeed shaped like a corn cob. In America, such an ice cream bar would not make it out of the hippie food co-ops where it deserved to die anyways, but here, even children have been fooled into thinking it some form of ice cream. Sheer blasphemy!
But not all ice cream bars are bad. There are those few, those blessed few which bring back to me the wonderful taste of really fake ice cream. My personal favorite is the "Four Circle": a wonderful conception of the ice cream bar which involves no less than four layers of sugar! The Four Circles has an atmosphere, if you will, of chocolate, which is followed by a crust of vaguely coconut flavored ice cream which has been frozen into a state of paralysis. Further below there is the mantel of chocolate which finally encases the yellow custard ice cream core. In addition to all of this, some of these Four Circle bars (if you are lucky) have a chunk of chocolate floating around somewhere near the top. I say only some, for it seems that the machinery which makes the Four Circles tends to be rather spotty on its inclusion of the chocolate land mass.
Also on the list of good ice cream bars are such figures as "The Happy Guy" and "The Cake on a Stick." Both of these are good in their own ways, but cannot compare to Four Circles. But of course the real deciding factor for all of this is the price: one ice cream bar goes four something like 20 cents US. I love this country despite its corn cob ice cream bar.
Eat some real ice cream for me since I am stuck with Happy Guy and Four Circles.
Phil.

Marvelous Wonders of the Chinese People

2007-03-23T05:56:00.000-07:00

Chinese are NOT the same as Americans. No matter what you say, I shall not believe you. First of all, in generally, I am beginning to think that Chinese are more well-balanced than Americans. This may or may not have something to do with all that crazy yin-yang stuff, but personally I think the issue goes much deeper into Chinese culture than that.
Take for instance how they ride bikes. I have seen more contortions of the human body than I ever imagined possible in an effort to fit multiple bodies on one bike. Generally there will be the one guy who is riding the bike (i.e. riding it like you would expect someone to ride a bike), in addition to this adventurous fellow there are usually two or three more people perched on the various pieces of bike which are not yet occupied. Favorite positions include: standing on the mud flap above the back tire, standing on either one of the pedals (this style can only be utilized going down hill), sitting on the handlebars between the first guy's arms, or crouching with one foot on the back end of the seat which is not covered by the first guy's posterior. Now I would be willing to wager most Americans simply incapable of this sort of action. We don't have the balance. When things really interesting though is when you see this sort of behavior on motorcycles and or cars. I am afraid that while I applaud the courage of these individuals, I also make somewhat scandalous judgments about their intelligence.
But the Chinese excellence of balance is only one of the many marvels of this people. In addition, we may also discuss that particularly intriguing aspect of the Chinese working-man's culture. If you spend much time in China at all, you should quickly notice that there are many people doing manual labor who should not be. Of course, if you spend more time in China you will quickly realize that these people actually should be doing manual labor and are only dressing like they shouldn't. Chinese manual labor fashion includes the following: for the male, he often wears a suit, usually of gray or dark blue pinstripe, most likely wool, often with two buttons and never more than three. Some of the more enterprising workers can be seen in double-breasted suits, with the occasional bow tie. For the female, working dress includes pretty much the exact same thing (afterall we must remember, China is a liberated communist county which does not acknowledge the difference between man and woman). I, who am normally a bad dresser in the relaxed environment of Washington, have been put to shame here. My flip-flops and Bellingham Park's and Rec. Department T-shirts do not stand up to the clothing of the most menial of laborers. Humbling indeed.
And finally we have one more wonderful aspect of Chinese culture: lawncare. Since the first day I arrived in Kunming, I have been startled by the greenness of certain patches of grass in the city. For the most part Kunming is a dry city, especially since right now is the waning period of the dry season and it has been quite some time since it rained. However there are still patches of grass, especially at the universities, which are greener than Ireland. I, being the naturally bright thinker I am, assumed they used water. This was somewhat of an understatement.
Traditionally, watering the lawn takes place by hooking a hose up to a sprinkler and letting it rip. China has different views on the subject. It seems that the use of a sprinkler in the mechanical sense is not balanced enough for this culture. Instead they choose to hire middle-aged men, dressed to the nines of course in suits, who squat with a fire house and personally ensure the drowning death of every square foot of greenery. While this method does indeed achieve the desired affect of conveying H2O to the roots of a plant, it goes somewhat beyond.
Considering though the long and venerable history of this nation, I would be the last one to accuse them of inefficiency.
As far as comments go, I am able once again to read my own thoughts since I figured out a way around the Great Firewall of China. So leave them in plenty you faithful few.
Phil.

The State of State Christianity

2007-03-22T01:15:00.000-07:00

Today a more serious topic.
Disclaimer: Most of this information is taken either from my own personal experience so far or from this one conversation I've had with a member of a house church. It is by no means an accurate or complete picture of Christianity in all of China. It concentrates mostly on the province of Yunnan and my friend's personal experiences and the news which has come his way. I do not say this to cast doubt on him, but merely to let you know that it is only a tiny piece of the overall picture. Enough of that now.
I was privileged enough to have a meal with a member of a certain unofficial church here in China. We talked for quite some time both about the official churches here as well as those "house churches" which are so famous in America. Most of what he had to say concerned this province (Yunnan) and so should not be applied to the whole of China. For there most certainly is persecution here.
But my friend's point was this: there is change in the churches here. He said that religion, specifically Christianity, is becoming more and more of an issue for the government, since there is incredible growth. He said that the growth is startling. When I asked him why he thought there was so much growth, something which he said was like "revival" going on in China, he had a very eloquent answer.
In talking about the history of China, he told me that Christianity had been here for many, many years. Indeed there are some who say that it first came as early as the ninth century, but it was definitely established here in the 1500s. If you think about it, that is almost as early as it was brought to America. This alone was something that surprised me very much. However, there was more. He continued that despite the presence of missionaries and Christianity in China for so long, the number of Christians here had never been very large. He talked a little about how many of the Chinese beliefs in Confucianism and other superstitions are rooted deeply in the Chinese culture. But he said, with the arrival of the Communist Revolution all of this changed.
Now, I do not think I have ever heard a Christian speak well on behalf of the Cultural Revolution of China. For the most part I have heard this condemned in no uncertain terms, but my friend had an interesting point.
He continued saying that the Cultural Revolution not only wiped out much of what little Christianity was left in China, but it also cleaned the slate on the Confucian and superstitious side--as much as anything can successfully do this. After the Mao era and when the Opening and Reforms began (改革开放), many Chinese found in their beginnings of freedom that they could pursue wealth and religion again. Unfortunately it seems wealth has been winning out mostly. However, he told me, when you go up to a Chinese person and ask them what they believe, the most common answer is they don't know, or even "Believe? What?" He said there is a complete "emptiness" in many Chinese hearts. Many simply do not have any beliefs at all. And my friend said it is precisely because so many Chinese have nothing to believe in that they are able to receive good news willingly.
And so in a manner which is incredibly strange to us, but perhaps not so much to God, it seems that the Cultural Revolution, with all its Marxist-Leninist talk of religion being the "opiate of the masses" and with all its efforts to completely eradicate such "foolishness," has actually paved the way for the openness of many Chinese hearts today.
Now if you are someone who thinks that much of what I have said here is complete hogwash and the propagandist teachings of a mindless young Christian who is merely stating what he has been told all his life, think about this: I'm not saying the Cultural Revolution was something good and I'm not merely taking the perhaps coincidental order of events and listing them off to you so that you will be fooled into thinking with me. For the churches here are now beginning to experience a real time of relief from persecution, especially in Yunnan. It is not illegal to buy a Bible here, and a Bible which is as faithful a translation as the NIV if not better. There are also many different versions of the Bible, most of which, according to my friend, are true as any translations. Many have been translated directly from the Hebrew and Greek. I myself was able to purchase a Bible from a used book seller on the street. Despite this though, many of the major bookstores do not carry legitimate Bibles, especially the state owned stores. However you can purchase a Bible at most any church for a fair price.
My friend did say though that much of the churches here are lacking the spiritual teaching tools which would be of much help to them, and he said that some of the state churches have pastors who are really as spiritually immature as their congregation. Persecution still does exist in China, even in the lax Yunnan (I've heard as recently as 2006 several Christians were arrested here), but my friend believes there is change coming.
This man with whom I spent some time had a sense of hope which many in America have lost. He was not giving up on the official churches, indeed he said he was lucky to have been given the chance to be a Christian in China. He believes that being a Christian in China is better for your spiritual growth and health than being so in America. And I must say that I find I agree with him. We, who have always been so "privileged" with our freedoms, are suddenly finding that the freedoms have been more of a weight than we expected. Too easily can we fall into Christianity in America, too easily can we find that since so many others are, we might as well go along for the ride. Pretty soon we find that there are a whole bunch of people who are just hanging on the back hoping it ends up somewhere, but all too willing to hop off at a moments notice.

But alas, I'm no teacher. I'll try and keep you updated with all the different things I learn about the churches here--this being one of the things I am most interested in, you might expect to hear quite a bit about it. However my mind often gets in the way of my self and I welcome whatever you guys might be able to add to help me understand the things I say.
Phil.

Four Weeks in China, Still Can't Order Food

2007-03-21T06:27:00.000-07:00

Today was perhaps the lowest yet in my connoisseur-ship of the local food. I had been feeling pretty good about myself since I can now recognize the character for meat. This had, until this point, made my life very much better--considering that every meal was now certain to contain some portion of a dead animal. However, I have also discovered that in China, false advertising is an art form, much like calligraphy and poetry. Indeed these arts have very much in common. For instance at lunch this afternoon, I found that although the menu listed the precious character for meat in the name of the dish I ordered , the actual dish itself only contained a metaphor for meat.
Generally for breakfast here, I do nothing extravagant. Some bread, some meat in bread, some bread in meat, these sorts of things often suffice. While this may be convenient and a blessing--I am not often good at functioning before 8 in the morning--it means that when lunch time comes trotting around with a happy meat-filled smile on its face, I am well disposed to greet him.
Today was no exception. I found myself a restaurant nearby which I had not yet frequented (my philosophy being that I must try at least one new restaurant every day). This place, while slightly on the seedy side, promised to have good food, what you might call "food which puts meat on yer bones." There were many locals of the sort who looked like they had recently come from some form or other of manual labor and were more than willing to murder a dish--and those which had eaten all looked quite content. My hopes were high.
Casting my famished eye over the menu, I hungrily looked for my favorite character. I saw the little bugger in not one or two, but more than eight places! This was somewhat like an archaeologist, who while looking for some tiny fragments of an ancient Indian jar, finds himself a whole potter's factory well preserved. At the risk of incurring a bit of criticism from those of you who think I am too cheap, I will admit to choosing the cheapest of the dishes which had meat in it. This might have been where I went wrong.
Standing next to the counter where the chef prepares your meal, I watched as he served up dish after dish which was practically a butcher's shop of various animal flesh. There was the meat stew with rice noodles, the meat baozi with meat topping, the meat with meat on the side to ensure a maximum of meat. And then there was my dish.
They gave me a large plate, I will not call them stingy when it comes to the flatware account, however the meat, at first glance seemed to have been forgotten. I couldn't be sure of this since the dish consisted of a mountain of rise in the middle, formed like an upside down bowl, and then drowned in a thick red goop. The thick red goop, I surmised must at some point have been a product related to meat. That or the menu lied. I took my dish without complaint, for let the buyer beware you know. Sitting down with it, I began to discover the intricacies of poeticism in Chinese menus.
First of all, by meat they had intended to create the sense or tone, if you will, of a what it feels like to be meat. The red goop is exactly how I picture the feelings of a cow. He wanders around in the world and the best way for him to describe it is, of course, "what a bunch of red goop" or perhaps "My goodness, isn't this world red and goopy?" Unfortunately for my taste buds the red goop lacked what you might call flavor. Except for the occasional, and exceptionally large chunk of ginger (which brought a very undesirable burst of flavor) the red goop pretty much tasted like a cow's life must feel: without event. The rice actually had a little more flavor than the red goop. Although that may only have been some residual effects of a ginger overload. Not at all what I might call a successful culinary expedition.

However things after this promised to look up. For dinner I planned to go to a Guang Dong restaurant which purported to serve a delicious duck. I am a particular lover of duck, mainly because it is meat, but also because it is especially good tasting meat. Yet again however, my ordering skills or the poetical elements of Chinese menus proved to serve me wrongly.
After some confusion in the ordering process which involved me saying the words for duck in various tones and pointing at random to the character for duck on their menu, the nice waitress nodded and hollered something in a harsh voice back to the cook. This something sounded nothing like what I thought the characters should have sounded like. But I put this down to some form of local accent (of which there are plenty in this area).
Upon the arrival of the duck, however, I was forced to rethink my more lenient approach. This seemed yet again to be a devious device of a Chinese menu or some other sort of miscommunication, deliberate or otherwise. I have always felt that when a person orders a dish with the name of a certain animal in it, that dish should mostly contain the flesh-like and edible portions of said animal. In this case however, it seems that they desired to be rid of some of the less desirable portions of the duck. I did not, as you might have thought get the thighs. I did not get the neck or the back with its plentiful bounty of meat. Nor did I even receive the feet (which parts I assure you would have had more meat on them than the portion alloted to me). Rather, the gods of the Chinese menu system, in their artfulness, gave me that portion of the duck which rhymed in taste with meat, but lacked all of its more nourishing properties. I am still uncertain as to the specific portions which I ate, but I have narrowed it down to the fat beneath the belly and all those other noodle-like things which are in that vicinity, or something which was never on the duck in the first place.
This was not a happy experience. But into each life...
Food here still is, in my mind, better than food most other places, even if you have the occasional misadventure.
Phil.

My New Bike

2007-03-19T23:39:00.000-07:00

This is the first legitimate post here, taking the place of annoying emails with which I used to pester all of you. For those of you who actually made it this far, I congratulate you on being dedicated and incredibly flattering. I'll try and bring you a gift from China, if I survive long enough to make it back.
The reason I have my doubts as to my personal safety are not many, in fact there is only one. I recently acquired a bike. For those of you who are acquainted with the more cheap side of my personality you will no doubt be surprised. However, you should not be. My bike was free. I can here your sigh of relief--almost thought I had become one of those people who actually spends money! What a joke.
Instead, I was lucky enough to make the connection with a journalism student here by the name of Ted. (He has a blog which is interesting, although I haven't spent too much time looking at it: http://tedmeinhover.com ). He, unlike me is tall. This is no problem in normal countries, but in China every bike you purchase is mostly designed for people who are less than five feet tall. If you can imagine the six-foot plus tall Ted attempting to ride a child's bike, you may soon understand why he gave it to me for free. I find his bike fits me quite well.
You may at this point begin to understand how my life has become imperiled--traffic in China involves death, death and more accidents. But these are in my imagination merely the least of my worries. Far more important than the native traffic of Kunming, is the native state of my bike. The bike's stature was not the only aspect which prompted Ted to relinquish ownership so freely. The brakes, if indeed two such worn pads of rubber can be called by such a name, only work on the front tire. I did notice that the back tire also possessed brakes, but at some point before giving the bike to me, Ted must have found himself on a steep hill for the back brake handle has been broken off, leaving a sharp stub of metal to be grasped if one desires to utilize the back brakes.
Also, unlike many of the bikes in China, my new bike possesses many gears. There are in total, 21--I counted them. Unfortunately those which can be used are not quite so plentiful. Actually only one works--it's the 11th gear. I am not inclined to blame the gears so much as the gear changing mechanism. I found out in an unpleasant manner that it only goes down. If you wish to shift up in gears, you have to dismount and move the chain with your hands to the desired gear. This generally is not worth the trouble. So after fixing my new bike in the 11th gear, I refrain from shifting.
But enough about my new bike, I'm sure, since you are my dedicated public, you'd love to hear about my adventures on this new bike. Aside from several dozen instances of nearly being run over by vehicles of various sizes, most of my adventures consist of breathing in carbon monoxide. They are not interesting. However, I have learned many new things about the laws of the road in China. First of all, going the wrong way in a lane is acceptable as long as it is the easiest way for you to get from point A to point B. Also as far as right of way goes, those who can take right of way, generally have the right to it.
I do imagine that I cut quite a dashing figure on the streets as I am biking--my hair generally creates a weather system behind me, affecting wind currents and humidity levels--and since the options for clothing myself are not numerous, I generally find that I wear those things which might have been fashionable to bike in some forty-seven years ago. Also, I have established that biking in flip-flops, while possible, is not to be recommended.
I'll will keep you posted as to my first accident, not sparing any of the gory details when it occurs.
Phil.

Old things are New

2007-03-18T01:05:00.000-07:00

I have put all my emails to family and friends which this blog should replace below, so if you were one of the privileged few who actually received my emails, only read the stuff below if you feel an intense need to re-read some the things you have already squandered your time on.
Hopefully though I'll be able to put up some new stuff and not clutter people's inboxes anymore. Phil.

St. Paddy's Day

Yesterday, as you may all be aware was St. Paddy's day here in China. It was not however in America, this I feel is your loss. In honor of the day, I donned my cloverleaf underthings and tried to speak to everyone with an Irish accent. Not only am I very bad at Irish accents, but in Chinese this accent sounds particularly out of place. I don't know if I did it correctly.

I believed the best way to celebrate the day was to go to a Chinese market and then look at some big rocks--I don't think either of these things are particularly Irish, but they are the things which I did, so will have to suffice.
The market was in a small town about 70 miles east of Kunming, dominated by the Sani minority people. I found that these people were incredibly friendly and much nicer than the city dwellers of Kunming. I don't know if this is because the Sani people wore bright colors or if they were genuinely nice. It has always been my rule of thumb in life to like those things which were brightly colored--my ice cream choosing methods, my book and movie choices are often decided by that which is most brightly colored. The Sani people dress very brightly. The woman mostly wear a sort of bright aqua blue head cloth or sometimes the more ornately colored headdress of their people which looks like a nun's wimple if the nun's clothing designer were to be from Las Vegas. Many of the women also wore their traditional clothing: brightly colored pants and shirt with all kinds of sashes and fringes. The men didn't dress near so flashily, but almost all of them wore floppy straw hats like you might expect a middle aged American woman to wear on her gardening day.
A man I had met the a few days earlier told me that the people in this are of Yunnan were "innocent." I think the gist of what he meant got mixed up somewhere between his mandarin and my english, but I found out yesterday. Sani people were incredibly nice, almost always smiling broadly--not in the manner many chinese smile which tends to be a little more a smile of the teeth. The Sani smiled with their eyes (I don't like using such a sappy expression, but like most cliches there is truth to it). They often pointed at us and laughed but I would like to believe this was what people tell me is "laughing with you" rather than "at you."
The best aspect of these people though were their children. China seems to be full of far more children than America, despite the one child policy. This may be because in China their kids are far cooler than kids in America. Here, I often see little children (no more than three or four) playing in the streets with others or by themselves, and it doesn't seem that their parents are anywhere in sight. Either the kids are a commodity people can afford to lose, or one which they are not terribly worried about. Of course, these kids also often have toys which, in my own humble opinion, make anything you might see at Toys R Us look like child's play. The kids here get to play with matches, fire, large knives, and all manner of bugs and or other small rodents. Any self-respecting American parent would not allow his or her child to even learn that such things exist, and so we are a national of little wimps. Chinese children on the other hand...
But still, despite all their incredible play-things, the children here are capable of being caught off their guards. Which brings me back to the Sani children who were especially so. We were walking along a sidewalk when this little guy, maybe three years old, came running out from an alley. He caught one glance of us and it seemed like he was blown backwards--he almost fell over. He made this wooshing sound which I took to be the Chinese equivalent of WOW! He stood there, paralyzed with shock, for several minutes, before finally turning tail and running away. Apparently he had never seen the White Devil before, much less one with such a horrible haircut. I realize by now I have said almost nothing about the market, so I'll try and make it quick so as not to abuse your patience much more nor make this letter worthy of being a two-parter.
The market was your typical Chinese non-tourist market: which means they sold mostly food and some products which were meant for living, not for tourist consumption. I found out that you could buy any one of the numerous cow-heads for something less than $15, and the half dog carcass was going for even less, but I think this was because it was the back half and not the front. The vegetables looked much the same as those which you might find in the states, with the exception of the lotus root and some of the other more exotic type deals (although I assure you, their names are the only exotic part about them). There were parts of the market which sold less common things (at least to my ignorant self) such as pig tails and some other like-looking thing which I will not hazard to name. I almost tried these foodstuffs, but thought better of it. Everybody else seemed to be partaking with gusto though.
Nobody in the market was wearing anything green (blue seemed to be the dominant color) so I thought about laying to with the pinches, but judging from how well they could butcher a cow's carcass I thought it better to leave the status quo than introduce a new custom. The Sani have plenty of customs, I do not believe my pinching will add much to their culture anyhow.
As for the night life: I went to a bar to partake of an Irish coffee or something which would bring a tear to me Irish eye. Most of the late-night places were overrun with foreigners who were making merry and spilling their drinks (at one point I believe the first floor experienced a distinct sensation that it was raining beer, mainly because some people from Denmark decided to see how well the second floor planking could strain their beers. Apparently a holiday centered around alcohol is something which every culture can adopt.
I wish all of you a happy St. Paddy's day, and hope that you do not attempt to strain any sort of drink through the floors of buildings.
Phil.

Indoctrination by Underwear

At last, I believe I have succeeded in striking a blow for capitalism in Red China! This morning I was doing my laundry--a process here which is somewhat less appealing than I had hoped--and hit upon a plan for single handedly breaking communist rule in China. As far as laundry goes, I do it in the bathtub. Before you accuse me of being a tightwad and unwilling to sped a trifling sum on laundry service, please take note of this: first of all, the laundry service which I found here does not do underwear and socks (the main things which need washing), second of all, it costs money. I found I can get detergent at the local store for less than 25 cents while the laundry service costs more than 2 dollars, this savings, when converted to Chinese currency is massive.
So I do my laundry in the bathtub. Afterwards I hang it up out the window. Now it just happens that I live on the third floor of a building on a major street, so I was proudly displaying my hula girl underwear to the entire population of Kunming. If this does not make them convert to Capitalism, perhaps my clover leaf boxers will do the trick, and if (God forbid) even they fail, I can still pull out my ace on them--my male chauvinist pig underwear! I think you all may safely depend on the fall of the Chinese communist regime within a week or two at the most.
In other news, I am beginning to acclimate quite well to life here in China. Today I was even able to attend to a church service downtown. I can say without doubt it was not what I expected. This was the only licensed foreigner church in Kunming. There is an interesting (annoying, bad?) law in China which says that Chinese citizens cannot attend a foreign service, nor have any sort of support from foreign organizations when it comes to religion. Because of this, they had guards stationed at the doors to this service which checked your ID to make sure you were not a citizen.
The service itself was like any other nondenominational service you might go to in the States, but the entire time I found myself unable to get over the idea that Chinese were not allowed in. If in America citizens are intended to be the privileged, in it seems that the foreigners are those who are privileged. Not only are foreigners given far more free reign than citizens, but those foreigners who are unfortunate enough to be mistaken for citizens can some times find themselves in dire straits. I have heard some stories of Chinese Americans here getting beat up.
I'm hoping next week to go to another Chinese service (foreigners are free to attend local services, only they cannot support or help out in any way), but since my language skills still are on the preschool level, I don't expect to understand a whole lot. It's safe to say though, that while there is far more religious freedom than I expected to find in China, there are also ways in which they curtail freedom which I would never have thought of.
Enjoy yourselves and your freedoms,
Phil.

The Faculty Outing

China has kept up its end of the bargain and has been nothing but excitement. Today for instance, we were invited by the faculty to go on their annual outing, which consists of them trucking up to some mountain and testing their might against Nature's. An interesting prospect. Kunming, despite its tropical advertisements is much more like Beijing--very dry and often dusty. They tell me that the rainy season comes in June, so perhaps by then I shall have other weather news to report. But thus far, dry and warm. So when we set out, i was clothed in my traditional shorts and short sleeved shirt. The teachers however were dressed a bit nicer than myself: most of them were wearing dress slacks and some sort of nice shirt, some even had suits. The hike up the mountain proved to be more formidable than I had imagined, but for reasons other than you might suppose. At first we did fine, following a beaten dirt trail up a moderately steep hill. I should perhaps tell you that the faculty consisted of some forty or fifty persons varying in age from late twenties to early seventies. About half way up the mountain, the trail decided that the whole business was a little tiresome and up and quit on us. This led to some confusion, with the few aspiring souls deciding to forge their way on through the underbrush. When I say underbrush, I of course mean incredibly dry and dusty brambles and small trees about head high. The brush had the density of western Washington and the character of eastern Washington.
If you can, picture these respectable teachers in their respectable clothing slowly clawing their way up the hill (it got much steeper at this point), sometimes even hanging from the underbrush lest they fall off the mountain. These variety of brush they have here in Kunming is not broad--most of it consists of branches with thorns, although sometimes this is varied by your traditional version of wild grass. There were also quite a few stunted pine trees with sharp needles. These were incredibly good at blocking your view.
Most of the faculty were turned back by this formidable wall of brush, but a few intrepid souls and myself forged on, beating a path through the wilderness. We did at last reach the top of the mountain, only to realize that everything was socked in by a dense brown haze. I could be poetic and call it fog, I could lie and call it clouds, but being the lover of truth I am: it was smog.
On the way back into the city we made a slight detour to the new campus under construction. In the only finished building of this campus it chanced that they were having a large presentation about the soon to be wonders of the coming construction. After listing to this and smiling at their computer generated images of how beautiful their new campus would be, I began to suspect that the invitation to climb the mountain might have merely been a crude trick to get us students to give them a chance to brag about their school. I smiled and nodded a lot.
At the risk of trying your patience, I think I should also tell you about our history teacher here. He is supposedly quite a famous fellow who has been coming or living in Kunming now for twenty years. They say he was one of the first white people to live here. Unfortunately he is also more senile than not. He is never seen without his jungle exploration hat (the one like Gilligan wears) and even wears it under his bicycle helmet--a sight to behold, let me tell you! The fellow speaks Chinese in a booming voice and by the winces of the locals, with quite an accent. Of course I--who inspire laughter wherever i speak--am no one to speak.
What is interesting though is that this teacher of ours, though you would never suspect it from how he looks, is an avid biker. He took three of my fellow students for a ride up a mountain the first weekend and they (my classmates) came back white of face, exhausted, and one with a broken toe. Apparently, our teacher has a love of danger.
There is much more to say about this guy, but I won't waste more of your time. Enjoy whatever time of day it happens to be where you are,
Phil.

Lantern Festival

As some of you who aspire to more culture than can ever attain may know, this last Sunday was the Lantern Festival here in China, being the last day of the new year. I myself was unaware of this information myself, however my roommate and I became aware of its existence some time on Sunday evening. We both had been succumbing to vicious cases of homework and so were staring at the dorm room wall with glazed over eyes, expecting the night to bring only misery and memorization. We began to suspect something big was up however when the street outside our window blew up.
You may dismiss this as an exaggeration or figure of speech, but when Chinese kids get their hands on the massive quantities of gunpowder they did, mere streets are to be considered common collateral damages. The natives worry about their cities in general, lest they too should be engulfed in the general state of incineration.
Anyhow, after our hearing returned and our windows stopped vibrating, we--my roommate and I--decided that whatever was going on outside was more interesting than what was going on inside. This proved to be true since our conversation took place in what you might call a lull. Acting on an idea from my roommate (who is far more savvy than myself) and using the internet we established that the day was indeed the famous, though little known, Chinese Lantern Festival. For us it was the work of half a moment to abandon all hopes at doing homework and run out into the city to find the supposed lanterns of the Lantern festival.
I say supposed lanterns because after several hours of charging up one alley and down another, into one square and along a canal, we finally established that there were approximately three lanterns in the whole of Kunming, only two of which were actually lit. While this was somewhat of a disappointment, our sadness was assuaged by the spectacle of young Chinese children playing the arson's role. If in America they publish warnings on fireworks and are saddened when a child burns his hand on the fourth of July, i have heard that in Beijing on the new year, more than a hundred and fifty people engulfed themselves accidentally with their perhaps overzealous firework displays. In Kunming, it is mainly the young who partake in this dangerous affair--all those old enough to be called not young, having never liked the fireworks anyways (which explains their lengthy lifespans).
I established at a later date that Kunming is one of the cities which, though it does celebrate the lantern festival, abstains from including anything so cliche as lanterns in their festivities.
Sad, yes...but a learning experience, no?
My roommate and I however, have heard that their is another festival coming soon. Supposedly this "water-splashing festival" is supposed to surpass even the lantern festival in rabid enjoyment of the festivities by all involved. I am planning on purchasing a large super-soaker to partake myself. I teach these pyromaniac little children who rules the world of water-fights!
I unfortunately do not have more exciting experiences and news to relate from China, so will not continue to abuse your time.
Hopefully you are all well and enjoying the sanitary conditions of your bathrooms. Do not take this for granted.
Phil.

Land of the Cheap

If America is the "land of the free," China is certainly the "land of the cheap." I actually found the major market of Kunming yesterday--twice. And in the process i learned i am not the wiz with directions i once fancied myself. The Bird and Flower, as this market is called, is badly named. Before any of you caution me about the dangers of bird flu, i should tell you that there are no flowers and fewer birds in this market. Apparently the is poetic or something.
They did have, however, everything else you could possibly think of. They had dried grubs, dried lizards on a stick, animal furs, they even had the carcasses of these animals which i guess you are supposed to stew or something.
But what was really neat about this market was that i was the only white person within ten miles. I'm sure there were other whities, but the market covered ten or twelve city blocks and all the alley ways in between so the chance for seeing another foreigner was rare. For a moment i almost felt like i didn't stick out like a sore thumb, but unfortunately i turned around and realized that at least several thousand people were staring at me. It's enough to make you think something's wrong with you. I went to church today and when i was walking back from communion, i do not lie when i say that every person in church was looking at me.
But back to the market. I have not had much chance to bargain yet, perhaps because i am too cheap to buy anything, but also because the few things i have purchased have had such a low price, i simply did not have the heart to argue about cents. The market reminded me though of a combination of the home and garden show (there were people demonstrating the quality of mops everywhere) and a thrift store which had been moved into the street and the proprietorship divvied up between a thousand or so vendors. Strangely enough though, for all the many many millions of little booths, most of them sold the same stuff. Everybody had their own selection of lighters, flashlights, and fake jade bracelets--all of which were exactly the same as the booth next door. There were a few odd booths which stuck out as unique, particularly the military gear and the animal horn booths--few vendors could match them.
i am thinking i should take some pictures of the stuff they sell and create a catalog. I know i would have plenty of buyers back in the states.
Hopefully all of you are in the pink,
Phil.

Chinese Recycling

It seems there is always a new discovery for me to make here in China. For instance this last evening, my roommate and i were talking about the cheapness of bottled water in China (liter and a half for 10 cents) and we noticed there was something a little suspicious about the bottles. Normally, bottled water bottles tend to be clear and unscathed so as to make the water appear all the more clean, yet many Chinese bottles look like they have been getting quite a wearing in their travels from bottling plant to store. We began to connect this information with the all-to-common sight of poor people pillaging garbage cans for bottles...
it seems that in China, the water bottles (and probably ever other bottle) is recycled. I do not mean this in the simple American term which implies melting down and reforming, but more like "reused." Of course my roommate and i assume that the bottles are cleaned at some point--or at least rinsed. Apparently they already have nation-wide free recycling in China.
I've also been experiencing a little of the foreigner culture here in Kunming. There is a good sized district in Kunming where the foreigners, often styling themselves as ex-patriots, congregate. Yesterday for instance, i ate dinner at a spanish restaurant and overheard an American speaking Japanese. While i do like a lot of this sort of culture, i can't help but notice it's a leaves an odd taste in the mouth. In their zeal for being multicultural many of the foreigners tend to embrace a kingly lifestyle (something which China makes incredibly easy). Often i see these foreigners demanding immediate service because they can pay for it. I'm not so much criticizing these foreigners, because well, i am one of them, but there seems to be as big a disparity between their supposed outlooks on life and reality as there is between their's and the Chinese's lifestyles.
As far as living like a king goes though, let me tell you, it is easy. I would say i spend about $5 American per day and this usually buys me some bread for breakfast, a nice coffee with some cookies, a solid lunch of Chinese food, and a large dinner with drink. All of these, except perhaps lunch, come from what are considered expensive restaurants and come with waiters who fill your tea up every time they pass. And since i often eat with a group of people, we usually have five or six dishes to choose from.
I will not waste any more of your time today,
Phil.

Despite Communist Government’s Best Efforts…

I have made it to Kunming.

And now that i am here, i am doing my best to stick it back to them by eating all the food i can get my hands on. I think i should be able to put most of the country into a state of famine by later this week.

Despite what i had hoped, i do in fact have classes to attend while i am here, which consist of three straight hours of chinese, followed by another 22 (we are not allowed to speak english at all). Of course we could, as a group of troubled american students, choose to ignore this idea, but the Chinese have outsmarted me this once and enlisted only vile scum who refuse to speak english as my compatriots in the program. And they speak about chinese human rights violations without mentioning this one!

Anyhow, to date the best thing i have to report would be the weather...not really, i actually found the food here to be the best food on earth. For instance they do this coconut milk desert called Grass Milk (having nothing to do with marijuana) which is incredibly rich. I cannot describe how creamy it was, and at the bottom were jello cubes made of herbs of some sort, which gave a wonderful flavor. For breakfast i have also been having baozi which are small dumplings filled with any number of mystery meats. And for lunch today i got a huge bowl of beef noodles with spices for less than 70 cents american.

I think i could go on and on about the food for hours, so i won't. My digs are somewhat less than as amazing as the food. In fact i would describe my room which i share with another guy in the program as a dilapidated version of a poor motel six which was built in the 70s and featured prominently in any number of the drug movies of that era.

other than these boring details, i have little to report. I have met several other foreigners but have yet to make my first genuine Chinese friend. An australian i met has informed me that if i travel to Cambodia i can shoot a rocket launcher at a cow for under 300 dollars, this is opposed to the higher Burmese price although there are rumors that the burmese give you a bigger cow. i doubted the australian's state of sobriety, but have since met other travelers who say the same thing. I do not think, however, that i shall be making a trip to Cambodia in the near future for this purpose.

Having thus exhausted your patience i shall bid you a good day.

Phil.