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The latest from today: Japan travel series
http://qriouslife.com/2009/11/12/cultural-learnings-of-japan-for-make-benefit-this-chinese-borat-pun-intended/
Showing posts with label Ravings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ravings. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
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The latest from today: Japan travel series
http://qriouslife.com/2009/11/12/cultural-learnings-of-japan-for-make-benefit-this-chinese-borat-pun-intended/
Have trouble accessing Blogspot? Just email
The latest from today: Japan travel series
http://qriouslife.com/2009/11/12/cultural-learnings-of-japan-for-make-benefit-this-chinese-borat-pun-intended/
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Doing Japan Like a Star (Part 2)
At the airport at 7.00AM, two hours earlier than my usual check in time for a ten o’clock flight, I collected my passport (stamped with a Japan visitor’s visa) and plane ticket from a Chinese tour guide waving a little blue flag. It was then that I realized just how big of a group this “group tour” was. Ninety-one travelers, four tour guides, plus a number of companions and appendages. I learned that our Air China flight from Beijing to Miyazaki had been specially chartered for the group, which consisted mostly of friends and family of CITS (the largest Chinese travel agency). Unwittingly, I had signed up for the biggest and cheapest (friends and family fares) Chinese tour group to ever visit Kyushu Island. I couldn’t quite decide whether being in a foreign country with a hundred Chinese people who all know each other was a good thing or a bad thing. Oh well, I just hope they’re nice.
The plane ride was unlike any I’d ever taken before. It was sort of like the time I piggy-backed on G’s employment at a cushy hedge fund and rode on a private jet for the employees’ family retreat. Everyone on board was chatting, swapping snacks, sharing cameras, and acting chummy. Except, this time there were a hundred of them. Although I felt like the high school dork sitting with the class nerd (my mom) in our lonesome row with no one coming to socialize with us, it was amiable enough. This seemed to be a generally well-travelled bunch who wouldn’t get into much trouble. But I did hear a few funny remarks, like “I hear Japanese signs are all written in Chinese so we can get around easily once we’re there!”
The flight was short and when we landed we completely inundated the tiny Miyazaki International Airport (which wasn’t that international for I couldn’t find a single staff member who spoke English). Everything was as I’d expected – tidy, efficient, and clean. So clean, in fact, that if someone threatened to beat me up unless I licked the bathroom tiles I would’ve gladly taken the tiles over the fists. Things were even more “Japanese” than I’d envisioned. Official signage was decorated with logos painted in nursery pinks and blues. Important traveler information was illustrated with cute cartoon characters. Even the heavy duty industrial doors were a good two heads shorter than any I’d seen in Asia, much less in the Holland. This is great, aside from the two six-feet-plus athlete honeymooners and the men in our group, I would be the tallest person around for a week in Japan!
After an interminably long wait, during which several immaculately powdered and coiffed airport staffers came to bow apologetically at us in the line, I finally stepped up to the immigration officer’s counter. He greeted me with, “Ni hao”, which made me smile just in time for the security camera. It seems that Japan takes border crossing as seriously as the US and the UK (despite not having to deal with much terrorism) for I was finger printed, snapped, and my passport pages thoroughly checked. At last, I was successfully admitted into Japan and strode eagerly towards the doors.
As I stepped outside the sliding glass doors I was greeted with loud applause and an ocean of fluttering red fabric. There was a camera crew filming my surprise and several photographers contorting their bodies to take my picture from the best angle. What’s going on, was I getting mistaken for Liv Tyler again? (There was an accident once in New York when I left a restaurant where Liv was rumored to be dining).
I blinked a few times and got my mind-eye coordination going again. In front of me stood a row of ten suited up men and women holding up a large red banner with “Welcome to Miyazaki” written in yellow Chinese characters. Each of them held in their free hand a small Chinese flag, which they waved vigorously every time a new passenger came through the doors. A few others, also dressed in business formal attire, stood nearby and clapped loudly, shouting the welcome message in Chinese on cue with the sliding doors. An arm’s length away I could see one of the CITS managers who had been on the plane with me being interviewed in Japanese by the TV crew. This was literally the largest Chinese tour group to visit Kyushu and help its economy with our nouveau riche free spending ways. It was a big deal. And it was going to be on the evening news.
I stood for a short while reveling in my “fame”. Then I walked outside to the parking lot where our tour buses were waiting. Here, the travelers in my group, who had a half hour ago been complaining about how dinky the Japanese airport was, huddled in circles excitedly chatting about the welcoming committee. They were commenting that the Japanese were truly a polite people, so accommodating, and “What a reception!” Wow, seventy years of bad history swept away with the flutter of some miniature Chinese flags! I jest, it really was a nice welcome that made me like Japan before I even stepped foot outside the airport.
As the fully loaded tour buses were pulling away we saw the well-dressed welcoming committee in formation again in the walkway leading to the parking lot. It was as though they had never moved. Here they were transported outside, standing in the exact same order, waving the same props, and showing the same elevated level of enthusiasm as they shouted “Goodbye” to the departing buses. When we got onto the highway, I turned around to get a look at Miyazaki International Airport. Miraculously, the welcoming committee had moved yet again in perfect formation to the middle of the parking lot where they could wave at us even as we drove onto the ramp!
The plane ride was unlike any I’d ever taken before. It was sort of like the time I piggy-backed on G’s employment at a cushy hedge fund and rode on a private jet for the employees’ family retreat. Everyone on board was chatting, swapping snacks, sharing cameras, and acting chummy. Except, this time there were a hundred of them. Although I felt like the high school dork sitting with the class nerd (my mom) in our lonesome row with no one coming to socialize with us, it was amiable enough. This seemed to be a generally well-travelled bunch who wouldn’t get into much trouble. But I did hear a few funny remarks, like “I hear Japanese signs are all written in Chinese so we can get around easily once we’re there!”
The flight was short and when we landed we completely inundated the tiny Miyazaki International Airport (which wasn’t that international for I couldn’t find a single staff member who spoke English). Everything was as I’d expected – tidy, efficient, and clean. So clean, in fact, that if someone threatened to beat me up unless I licked the bathroom tiles I would’ve gladly taken the tiles over the fists. Things were even more “Japanese” than I’d envisioned. Official signage was decorated with logos painted in nursery pinks and blues. Important traveler information was illustrated with cute cartoon characters. Even the heavy duty industrial doors were a good two heads shorter than any I’d seen in Asia, much less in the Holland. This is great, aside from the two six-feet-plus athlete honeymooners and the men in our group, I would be the tallest person around for a week in Japan!
After an interminably long wait, during which several immaculately powdered and coiffed airport staffers came to bow apologetically at us in the line, I finally stepped up to the immigration officer’s counter. He greeted me with, “Ni hao”, which made me smile just in time for the security camera. It seems that Japan takes border crossing as seriously as the US and the UK (despite not having to deal with much terrorism) for I was finger printed, snapped, and my passport pages thoroughly checked. At last, I was successfully admitted into Japan and strode eagerly towards the doors.
As I stepped outside the sliding glass doors I was greeted with loud applause and an ocean of fluttering red fabric. There was a camera crew filming my surprise and several photographers contorting their bodies to take my picture from the best angle. What’s going on, was I getting mistaken for Liv Tyler again? (There was an accident once in New York when I left a restaurant where Liv was rumored to be dining).
I blinked a few times and got my mind-eye coordination going again. In front of me stood a row of ten suited up men and women holding up a large red banner with “Welcome to Miyazaki” written in yellow Chinese characters. Each of them held in their free hand a small Chinese flag, which they waved vigorously every time a new passenger came through the doors. A few others, also dressed in business formal attire, stood nearby and clapped loudly, shouting the welcome message in Chinese on cue with the sliding doors. An arm’s length away I could see one of the CITS managers who had been on the plane with me being interviewed in Japanese by the TV crew. This was literally the largest Chinese tour group to visit Kyushu and help its economy with our nouveau riche free spending ways. It was a big deal. And it was going to be on the evening news.
I stood for a short while reveling in my “fame”. Then I walked outside to the parking lot where our tour buses were waiting. Here, the travelers in my group, who had a half hour ago been complaining about how dinky the Japanese airport was, huddled in circles excitedly chatting about the welcoming committee. They were commenting that the Japanese were truly a polite people, so accommodating, and “What a reception!” Wow, seventy years of bad history swept away with the flutter of some miniature Chinese flags! I jest, it really was a nice welcome that made me like Japan before I even stepped foot outside the airport.
As the fully loaded tour buses were pulling away we saw the well-dressed welcoming committee in formation again in the walkway leading to the parking lot. It was as though they had never moved. Here they were transported outside, standing in the exact same order, waving the same props, and showing the same elevated level of enthusiasm as they shouted “Goodbye” to the departing buses. When we got onto the highway, I turned around to get a look at Miyazaki International Airport. Miraculously, the welcoming committee had moved yet again in perfect formation to the middle of the parking lot where they could wave at us even as we drove onto the ramp!
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Off to Japan (Qualms or No Qualms)
I had waited all these years to go to Japan. China and Japan, we don’t exactly have a history of being bosom buddies that makes mutual visitation easy. They make it hard for us to get tourist visas (unless it’s through one of those travel agency group tours), probably afraid that if visitor requirements weren’t so stringent a billion of us would rush over to work as illegal restaurant dishwashers. And we, well, we Chinese can’t forget WII. Coming from Manchuria, where the Japanese Imperial Army set up Manchukuo and conducted their biological warfare experiments on Chinese inmates they called ”logs”, I can’t seem to shake the weight of all this history when considering a simple holiday in Japan.
Like most young Chinese, I have inconsistent and mixed feelings about Japan. I love its nifty gadgets, I crave its cuisine, and I have a cousin who’s in his teenage J-pop obsession phase. But when I started seeing my half-Japanese boyfriend (now husband) years ago, I found myself telling my family in the back country that he’s “just American.” Not that my grandmother would’ve disowned me for dating half of a descendent of “historical aggressors” (although my grandfather might’ve had he been around), but it was just easier this way. Besides, it was a small white lie made to older folk who think all foreigners look the same. Why bother with explaining his complex genealogy?
This time, I was headed to Japan at last because the timing worked out, the price was right, and even my mother was gunning to go. So, I put aside my muddled cultural-moral qualms and signed myself up for – get this – a group tour. Yup, there’s no good deal without a caveat. In exchange for someone arranging my visa quickly and planning a trip cheaply, I would have to subject myself to following around a chirpy tour guide wearing a fanny pack, waving a bright triangular flag, and herding tourists like cattle.
The tour was a sort of “Japan lite.” We would spend five days on Kyushu Island, home to the gods of Japanese creational legends. In its extreme southwesterly position, parts of Kyushu are closer to China and Korea than to Tokyo. It would be a week spent in nature: visiting one of the world’s most active volcanoes (Mt. Aso), seeing valleys and gorges, and soaking in the famous onsen (hot springs) of Beppu.
I felt a little silly going to Japan for the first time and not seeing Tokyo or Kyoto. I was a bit afraid of what kind of embarrassments my tour group of (potentially all) retirees would get up to in a foreign land. But mostly I was just excited to be casting aside my hesitations and visiting Japan.
Mom was excited too. It would be the first time in a long while that we allowed ourselves the luxury of a “girl’s trip”. The last one we had been on was during my year at grad school. I took her to Las Vegas with plans of seeing Cirque du Soleil and other musical acts. But when we got there, my mother discovered her inner “Chinese tai tai who loves to gamble.” You can imagine how that trip started and ended – in front of a slot machine with a giant cup of quarters that dwindled to zero.
I did some research before we set off, trying to understand the geographical implications spelled out on my tour itinerary. It looked like we would be visiting Fukuoka the Prefecture (what’s a prefecture anyway?) and Fukuoka the city. Similarly, there were the Kumamoto’s (prefecture and city), Miyazaki’s, and Kagoshima’s. Google told me that a prefecture is basically a province and all of these namesake cities are provincial capitals. I also looked up some Japanese phrases, taking care to copy and practice useful ones, like “Toire doko desu ka?” (“Where’s the bathroom?”).
From what I’d heard about Chinese tour groups going overseas, I guessed that there wouldn’t be much free time to independently explore. There’s actually a cheeky rhyme that says all you really do on a big tour is, “Sit on the bus to sleep. Get off the bus to pee. And forget the names of everything you see.” (That’s my poor translation of the original anyways). I jotted down directions for a few places I wanted to visit outside of the itinerary, hoping I’d be able to optimize any free time I get.
As I was busily preparing for the trip, mom was chilling out, not packing until the night before, and helpfully forgetting to bring the big bag of Japanese coins that’s been sitting in an old drawer for the last twenty years. We have different travel personalities, all right! I don’t know which one of us will unnerve the other first during our five days of 24/7 bonding.
Like most young Chinese, I have inconsistent and mixed feelings about Japan. I love its nifty gadgets, I crave its cuisine, and I have a cousin who’s in his teenage J-pop obsession phase. But when I started seeing my half-Japanese boyfriend (now husband) years ago, I found myself telling my family in the back country that he’s “just American.” Not that my grandmother would’ve disowned me for dating half of a descendent of “historical aggressors” (although my grandfather might’ve had he been around), but it was just easier this way. Besides, it was a small white lie made to older folk who think all foreigners look the same. Why bother with explaining his complex genealogy?
This time, I was headed to Japan at last because the timing worked out, the price was right, and even my mother was gunning to go. So, I put aside my muddled cultural-moral qualms and signed myself up for – get this – a group tour. Yup, there’s no good deal without a caveat. In exchange for someone arranging my visa quickly and planning a trip cheaply, I would have to subject myself to following around a chirpy tour guide wearing a fanny pack, waving a bright triangular flag, and herding tourists like cattle.
The tour was a sort of “Japan lite.” We would spend five days on Kyushu Island, home to the gods of Japanese creational legends. In its extreme southwesterly position, parts of Kyushu are closer to China and Korea than to Tokyo. It would be a week spent in nature: visiting one of the world’s most active volcanoes (Mt. Aso), seeing valleys and gorges, and soaking in the famous onsen (hot springs) of Beppu.
I felt a little silly going to Japan for the first time and not seeing Tokyo or Kyoto. I was a bit afraid of what kind of embarrassments my tour group of (potentially all) retirees would get up to in a foreign land. But mostly I was just excited to be casting aside my hesitations and visiting Japan.
Mom was excited too. It would be the first time in a long while that we allowed ourselves the luxury of a “girl’s trip”. The last one we had been on was during my year at grad school. I took her to Las Vegas with plans of seeing Cirque du Soleil and other musical acts. But when we got there, my mother discovered her inner “Chinese tai tai who loves to gamble.” You can imagine how that trip started and ended – in front of a slot machine with a giant cup of quarters that dwindled to zero.
I did some research before we set off, trying to understand the geographical implications spelled out on my tour itinerary. It looked like we would be visiting Fukuoka the Prefecture (what’s a prefecture anyway?) and Fukuoka the city. Similarly, there were the Kumamoto’s (prefecture and city), Miyazaki’s, and Kagoshima’s. Google told me that a prefecture is basically a province and all of these namesake cities are provincial capitals. I also looked up some Japanese phrases, taking care to copy and practice useful ones, like “Toire doko desu ka?” (“Where’s the bathroom?”).
From what I’d heard about Chinese tour groups going overseas, I guessed that there wouldn’t be much free time to independently explore. There’s actually a cheeky rhyme that says all you really do on a big tour is, “Sit on the bus to sleep. Get off the bus to pee. And forget the names of everything you see.” (That’s my poor translation of the original anyways). I jotted down directions for a few places I wanted to visit outside of the itinerary, hoping I’d be able to optimize any free time I get.
As I was busily preparing for the trip, mom was chilling out, not packing until the night before, and helpfully forgetting to bring the big bag of Japanese coins that’s been sitting in an old drawer for the last twenty years. We have different travel personalities, all right! I don’t know which one of us will unnerve the other first during our five days of 24/7 bonding.
Go West: Homeward Bound (Part 7)
Five days in western China had accustomed me to dirt and poverty, so Hohhot looked like an emperor’s opulent abode by comparison. Tall buildings and big screen TV’s lined clean swept streets. Cranes, bulldozers, and “Keep our city green” billboards further testified to Hohhot’s level of development. China’s dairy industry giants (Mengniu and Yili) are based in Inner Mongolia, as well as rich coal mines in Erdos city.
The idea of “Inner” Mongolia trips up foreigners. The capitalized two words indicate a province in China but “Mongolia” alone refers to the country just north of the provincial border. Inner Mongolian is an Autonomous Region, but the long history of co-mingling and alternating reigns between Mongols and Han Chinese makes this China’s least conflict-ridden minority region. Like other ethnic minorities, Mongolians (~10% of the provincial population) are eligible for “affirmative action” policies, like additional points in the national university entrance exams and a two-child policy. Despite relatively harmonious racial relations, we still saw evident biases between the two peoples. Mongolians are naturally resentful of the mass Han migrations that took place from 1949 onwards, and Hans think of Mongolians as a backward, heavy-drinking, un-industrious lot who are lucky to have been included in the Chinese republic.
As we drove away from the city, Joe entertained us with facts and stories. Hours later, we were in an area with open expanses of land. We drove at last through unceremonious gates into a compound ringed off by a rickety fence. The grassland!
I had envisioned a tall, billowy grassland, romantic and bare like African savannahs. But the Xilamuren grassland was covered in a razed brown blanket, dusty like a scene from a country Western movie. Small animal skulls (perhaps the lamb we were promised on the itinerary?) were scattered about the dirt compound ground. Groups of Mongolians, residents or employees of this tourism village, stood idly, scanning us with ambivalent faces. A woman in colorful Mongolian garb welcomed us off the bus with a grassland song, sun in the signature loud, clear, and slightly yodly voice. She offered us each a cup of local liquor, which was strong like vodka, but carried a sweet tinge.
We checked into “luxury yurts,” little more than mound-shaped houses made of cement and covered with tarp painted in traditional motifs. Inside the rooms were standard hotel beds and western style bathrooms. I was disappointed. Along with galloping through knee-high grass on horseback, I had also imagined a night beneath a hide tent sleeping atop luxurious animal skins.
My fellow travelers were eager to get riding, so we quickly negotiated with head honcho Mongolian for two-hour horse rides on the grassland. This turned out to be an unexciting trot on smallish mares fitted with uncomfortable saddles. Those who wanted to ride fast found out that none of our yelling, cajoling, heel digging could persuade the horses to move. But a single shout from the horse minders in Mongolian could make the equine group head left or right, speed up or slow down. These men know their horses and the animals heed their command! Unfortunately for us the minders were uninterested in our demands to ride farther out at greater speed. They wanted to save the animals’ strength for more tourists later.
The most thrilling thing that happened to me on horseback was getting bitten by a horse. I was gingerly trotting, a little nervous, when another horse came up alongside me and took a chomp at my knee cap. I reacted with a mixture of shock (aren’t horses herbivores!) and fear (my open wound will fester into a strange horse disease!). The Mongolian minders didn’t take my squealing seriously, until we got back to the compound and I rolled up my jeans to show a large mouth-shaped indention on my knee. Luckily, there was no blood, but my knee ached and the bruise was turning in to swirls of purple and blue.
I moped in the afternoon, unimpressed with a Mongolian wrestling performance and preoccupied with rubbing my knee. Before dinner, Joe took us into “town” to visit a Buddhist temple. A few times we stopped traffic. Cars would drove by us, come to a halt, and all passengers would roll down their windows to stare at us with benevolent curiosity. Sometimes several cars would line up to gawk at us in unison. We found this amusing but slightly awkward. So we developed a coping strategy. Whenever cars or people gathered around us, we serenaded them with our Chinese love song, “The Moon Represents My Heart.” Most people would then laugh with recognition, applaud, and move on. I cheered up when Joe bought purple iodine solution, just like the kind my mom used when I was little, at the local clinic to disinfect my knee.
On the walk back, the sun set in a glorious reddish golden blaze. We took lots of pictures. By the time we got to “camp”, dinner was already waiting in the large dining yurt. The food was hearty, but unremarkable. The show was something else. A troupe of colorfully dressed performers showcased traditional music and dance, accompanied by a keyboardist playing to a disco beat with the reverb turned up too high. It felt like an eighties yurt karaoke competition. The MC for the night, a young man with a passion for English pop songs, even changed the program impromptu (since we were the only diners that night) and sang some Mariah Carey tunes.
Strobe lights and cheese aside, one performer did take our breath away. He first performed on a string instrument that looks like a bigger version of the Chinese violin, the “er hu.” His song had an extremely fast tempo and showy scale changes, meant to emulate the speed and agility of horses galloping on grassland. As he played his whole body shook with effort. It looked like his arms were getting quite a work out. After the song and a break (to rest his arm, no doubt), he returned to show off an entirely different instrument – his throat. His “throat song” had a low and echoing quality, like the Australian didgeridoo. Looking at him, it was hard to tell where the sound was coming from, for his mouth moved little, but his abdomen rose and fell heavily under his clothing. After our standing ovation, he left the stage panting and heaving.
It was a fun time, the highlight of my day in Hohhot, but the dining yurt rapidly fell cold with the onset of night. We retreated to our yurts, which were somehow colder than the flimsy tents were out on the Tenggur desert, for a night of huddled sleep.
Early the next day we left the grassland, happy that we had seen it, but without much regret at the brevity of our stay. We spent a half day wandering through the Mosque Ancient Street area of Hohhot city, marveling at antique treasures, taking pictures of many strange sights, making friends with market vendors (an affable crowd who gathered around us), and pointing out trilingual “KFC” signs (in English letters, Chinese characters, and Mongolian). By the time we boarded our fifty-minute flight back to Beijing we were thoroughly exhausted from the week of adventure and looked forward to being home. As luck would have it, the plane was delayed on the runway for a good two hours. It was the perfect time to whip out our Chinese love song to entertain everyone in Economy Class!
The idea of “Inner” Mongolia trips up foreigners. The capitalized two words indicate a province in China but “Mongolia” alone refers to the country just north of the provincial border. Inner Mongolian is an Autonomous Region, but the long history of co-mingling and alternating reigns between Mongols and Han Chinese makes this China’s least conflict-ridden minority region. Like other ethnic minorities, Mongolians (~10% of the provincial population) are eligible for “affirmative action” policies, like additional points in the national university entrance exams and a two-child policy. Despite relatively harmonious racial relations, we still saw evident biases between the two peoples. Mongolians are naturally resentful of the mass Han migrations that took place from 1949 onwards, and Hans think of Mongolians as a backward, heavy-drinking, un-industrious lot who are lucky to have been included in the Chinese republic.
As we drove away from the city, Joe entertained us with facts and stories. Hours later, we were in an area with open expanses of land. We drove at last through unceremonious gates into a compound ringed off by a rickety fence. The grassland!
I had envisioned a tall, billowy grassland, romantic and bare like African savannahs. But the Xilamuren grassland was covered in a razed brown blanket, dusty like a scene from a country Western movie. Small animal skulls (perhaps the lamb we were promised on the itinerary?) were scattered about the dirt compound ground. Groups of Mongolians, residents or employees of this tourism village, stood idly, scanning us with ambivalent faces. A woman in colorful Mongolian garb welcomed us off the bus with a grassland song, sun in the signature loud, clear, and slightly yodly voice. She offered us each a cup of local liquor, which was strong like vodka, but carried a sweet tinge.
We checked into “luxury yurts,” little more than mound-shaped houses made of cement and covered with tarp painted in traditional motifs. Inside the rooms were standard hotel beds and western style bathrooms. I was disappointed. Along with galloping through knee-high grass on horseback, I had also imagined a night beneath a hide tent sleeping atop luxurious animal skins.
My fellow travelers were eager to get riding, so we quickly negotiated with head honcho Mongolian for two-hour horse rides on the grassland. This turned out to be an unexciting trot on smallish mares fitted with uncomfortable saddles. Those who wanted to ride fast found out that none of our yelling, cajoling, heel digging could persuade the horses to move. But a single shout from the horse minders in Mongolian could make the equine group head left or right, speed up or slow down. These men know their horses and the animals heed their command! Unfortunately for us the minders were uninterested in our demands to ride farther out at greater speed. They wanted to save the animals’ strength for more tourists later.
The most thrilling thing that happened to me on horseback was getting bitten by a horse. I was gingerly trotting, a little nervous, when another horse came up alongside me and took a chomp at my knee cap. I reacted with a mixture of shock (aren’t horses herbivores!) and fear (my open wound will fester into a strange horse disease!). The Mongolian minders didn’t take my squealing seriously, until we got back to the compound and I rolled up my jeans to show a large mouth-shaped indention on my knee. Luckily, there was no blood, but my knee ached and the bruise was turning in to swirls of purple and blue.
I moped in the afternoon, unimpressed with a Mongolian wrestling performance and preoccupied with rubbing my knee. Before dinner, Joe took us into “town” to visit a Buddhist temple. A few times we stopped traffic. Cars would drove by us, come to a halt, and all passengers would roll down their windows to stare at us with benevolent curiosity. Sometimes several cars would line up to gawk at us in unison. We found this amusing but slightly awkward. So we developed a coping strategy. Whenever cars or people gathered around us, we serenaded them with our Chinese love song, “The Moon Represents My Heart.” Most people would then laugh with recognition, applaud, and move on. I cheered up when Joe bought purple iodine solution, just like the kind my mom used when I was little, at the local clinic to disinfect my knee.
On the walk back, the sun set in a glorious reddish golden blaze. We took lots of pictures. By the time we got to “camp”, dinner was already waiting in the large dining yurt. The food was hearty, but unremarkable. The show was something else. A troupe of colorfully dressed performers showcased traditional music and dance, accompanied by a keyboardist playing to a disco beat with the reverb turned up too high. It felt like an eighties yurt karaoke competition. The MC for the night, a young man with a passion for English pop songs, even changed the program impromptu (since we were the only diners that night) and sang some Mariah Carey tunes.
Strobe lights and cheese aside, one performer did take our breath away. He first performed on a string instrument that looks like a bigger version of the Chinese violin, the “er hu.” His song had an extremely fast tempo and showy scale changes, meant to emulate the speed and agility of horses galloping on grassland. As he played his whole body shook with effort. It looked like his arms were getting quite a work out. After the song and a break (to rest his arm, no doubt), he returned to show off an entirely different instrument – his throat. His “throat song” had a low and echoing quality, like the Australian didgeridoo. Looking at him, it was hard to tell where the sound was coming from, for his mouth moved little, but his abdomen rose and fell heavily under his clothing. After our standing ovation, he left the stage panting and heaving.
It was a fun time, the highlight of my day in Hohhot, but the dining yurt rapidly fell cold with the onset of night. We retreated to our yurts, which were somehow colder than the flimsy tents were out on the Tenggur desert, for a night of huddled sleep.
Early the next day we left the grassland, happy that we had seen it, but without much regret at the brevity of our stay. We spent a half day wandering through the Mosque Ancient Street area of Hohhot city, marveling at antique treasures, taking pictures of many strange sights, making friends with market vendors (an affable crowd who gathered around us), and pointing out trilingual “KFC” signs (in English letters, Chinese characters, and Mongolian). By the time we boarded our fifty-minute flight back to Beijing we were thoroughly exhausted from the week of adventure and looked forward to being home. As luck would have it, the plane was delayed on the runway for a good two hours. It was the perfect time to whip out our Chinese love song to entertain everyone in Economy Class!
Friday, October 30, 2009
Another publication!
A happy day for me today, my food review has also been published in TimeOut Beijing's November issue.
http://www.timeout.com/cn/en/beijing/restaurants/venue/1883/argana-moroccan-cuisine-tapas-grill.html
http://www.timeout.com/cn/en/beijing/restaurants/venue/1883/argana-moroccan-cuisine-tapas-grill.html
I'm published in China Daily today!
It's been ten years since I saw my name in a national newspaper. Never mind that it was just a reader submission, it's still a thrill to see my writing in print!
http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/metro/2009-10/30/content_8873393.htm
http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/metro/2009-10/30/content_8873393.htm
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Go West: Among the Mongols (Part 6)
The last leg of my western China adventure was in Hohhot, Inner Mongolia. The travel agency’s mis-punctuated schedule promised horse riding on the grassland, a night’s accommodation in a traditional yurt, lots of mutton, and some cultural performances. I was excited to head northeast after spending so many days in the west (and not just because my favorite meat appeared on the schedule three times).
My family hails from Manchuria, commonly known as just “Northeast” in Chinese geography. This area bordering Russia is one of the farthest points of China and its extreme temperatures have shaped the local culture and its people. Summers in the Northeast get as hot as 40 Celsius and the winters see the mercury dropping below minus 30. Northeasterners are akin to the Midwesterners of America and the Scandinavians of Europe – a tall hearty people distinctive in their looks and manners from their smaller, refined neighbors who inhabit friendlier climes.
There are three provinces in Manchuria: Heilongjiang (my home), Jilin, and Liaoning. The common saying in China goes that Inner Mongolia is the unofficial fourth province of Manchuria. I saw going to Hohhot as a kind of homecoming where I would be among friendly meat-eating heavy-drinking tall Chinese folk who speak Mandarin with a familiar accent.
Getting to Hohhot was decidedly the least fun part of the entire trip. The green train, as I had rightly predicted, was filthy and crowded. During our sixteen hours on board I tried out the bathrooms in four different carriages before deciding that the one furthest from mine was the most tolerably “clean.” So I would trudge three cars over, bumping into smokers between cars, knocking knees, and jostling food carts each time I had to go. Our bedding also looked like it hadn’t been changed for days and had been slept in by farmers who spent their previous nights rolling in the earth itself. I used my sleeping bag liner. Though conditions were unpleasant we were exhausted from the days in the desert and slept soundly for a long night.
I couldn’t wait to get off the train when we arrived at Hohhot station. After seeing puddles of water and who-knows-what accumulating on the bathroom sinks along the way, I decided to skip my morning grooming ritual. Maybe there will be better places to brush and wash in the city.
We were met outside the train station by Joe, our new guide, who cleverly chose his English first name based on the sound of his Chinese last name (Zhou). He’s not the first person I’ve met who’s done so. I often wonder how these people fare when they go to English speaking countries – do they really go by “Joe Joe” (or “Zhou Zhou”) or do they find more practical monikers?
I took a liking to Joe right away. Tall, outgoing, humorous, and very fluent in English, he was our best guide so far. He cracked me up when he introduced our driver, a Mister Mao, and then reminded us that not since the founding of China in 1949 have a group of people been led by Zhou and Mao. (This is a reference to Chairman Mao and Premier Zhou).
I liked Joe even more after he brought us to breakfast. Oh that wonderful breakfast! A short drive away from the train station is a nondescript building, which, at the early hour of seven, looked like deserted office space. But one flight of stairs led us to a sprawling, sparkling dining room with tables covered in fresh linens and a breakfast buffet that stretched the entire length of the room. I’m not exaggerating when I say we leapt for joy upon seeing that clean and abundant spread. I bounded with ecstasy a few more times after seeing the bathroom. Here was toilet paper. How good it is to be reunited with you after so many days! Soap. Oh, the luxury! Warm water. A hand dryer. And even the ultimate extravagance…paper towels! As much as I was hungry I also felt filthy from the train and spent a good fifteen minutes washing, brushing, grooming, before I deemed myself fit to eat.
The buffet was phenomenal, or perhaps we only thought so after eating out of mess kits and Styrofoam boxes for three days. At the very least, everything was sanitary looking and there was variety. I bravely went for the “yang za tang”, an Inner Mongolian specialty my childhood friends had raved about long ago. Translated, it literally means “random lamb soup” – random lamb ORGAN soup, that is. There were bits of tripe, intestine, probably liver and heart and many more things I can’t name floating in a spicy stew. It was a meat lover’s heaven in a bowl.
After breakfast we lingered at the table for a long while, taking turns to groom in the excellent restaurant bathroom. We couldn’t peel ourselves away from this place! Finally, Joe urged us to get going as we had a few hours of driving to do before reaching the Xilamuren Grassland.
My family hails from Manchuria, commonly known as just “Northeast” in Chinese geography. This area bordering Russia is one of the farthest points of China and its extreme temperatures have shaped the local culture and its people. Summers in the Northeast get as hot as 40 Celsius and the winters see the mercury dropping below minus 30. Northeasterners are akin to the Midwesterners of America and the Scandinavians of Europe – a tall hearty people distinctive in their looks and manners from their smaller, refined neighbors who inhabit friendlier climes.
There are three provinces in Manchuria: Heilongjiang (my home), Jilin, and Liaoning. The common saying in China goes that Inner Mongolia is the unofficial fourth province of Manchuria. I saw going to Hohhot as a kind of homecoming where I would be among friendly meat-eating heavy-drinking tall Chinese folk who speak Mandarin with a familiar accent.
Getting to Hohhot was decidedly the least fun part of the entire trip. The green train, as I had rightly predicted, was filthy and crowded. During our sixteen hours on board I tried out the bathrooms in four different carriages before deciding that the one furthest from mine was the most tolerably “clean.” So I would trudge three cars over, bumping into smokers between cars, knocking knees, and jostling food carts each time I had to go. Our bedding also looked like it hadn’t been changed for days and had been slept in by farmers who spent their previous nights rolling in the earth itself. I used my sleeping bag liner. Though conditions were unpleasant we were exhausted from the days in the desert and slept soundly for a long night.
I couldn’t wait to get off the train when we arrived at Hohhot station. After seeing puddles of water and who-knows-what accumulating on the bathroom sinks along the way, I decided to skip my morning grooming ritual. Maybe there will be better places to brush and wash in the city.
We were met outside the train station by Joe, our new guide, who cleverly chose his English first name based on the sound of his Chinese last name (Zhou). He’s not the first person I’ve met who’s done so. I often wonder how these people fare when they go to English speaking countries – do they really go by “Joe Joe” (or “Zhou Zhou”) or do they find more practical monikers?
I took a liking to Joe right away. Tall, outgoing, humorous, and very fluent in English, he was our best guide so far. He cracked me up when he introduced our driver, a Mister Mao, and then reminded us that not since the founding of China in 1949 have a group of people been led by Zhou and Mao. (This is a reference to Chairman Mao and Premier Zhou).
I liked Joe even more after he brought us to breakfast. Oh that wonderful breakfast! A short drive away from the train station is a nondescript building, which, at the early hour of seven, looked like deserted office space. But one flight of stairs led us to a sprawling, sparkling dining room with tables covered in fresh linens and a breakfast buffet that stretched the entire length of the room. I’m not exaggerating when I say we leapt for joy upon seeing that clean and abundant spread. I bounded with ecstasy a few more times after seeing the bathroom. Here was toilet paper. How good it is to be reunited with you after so many days! Soap. Oh, the luxury! Warm water. A hand dryer. And even the ultimate extravagance…paper towels! As much as I was hungry I also felt filthy from the train and spent a good fifteen minutes washing, brushing, grooming, before I deemed myself fit to eat.
The buffet was phenomenal, or perhaps we only thought so after eating out of mess kits and Styrofoam boxes for three days. At the very least, everything was sanitary looking and there was variety. I bravely went for the “yang za tang”, an Inner Mongolian specialty my childhood friends had raved about long ago. Translated, it literally means “random lamb soup” – random lamb ORGAN soup, that is. There were bits of tripe, intestine, probably liver and heart and many more things I can’t name floating in a spicy stew. It was a meat lover’s heaven in a bowl.
After breakfast we lingered at the table for a long while, taking turns to groom in the excellent restaurant bathroom. We couldn’t peel ourselves away from this place! Finally, Joe urged us to get going as we had a few hours of driving to do before reaching the Xilamuren Grassland.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Go West: The Desert (Part 5)
My first night in the desert was not as devastatingly cold as I expected, even in a flimsy tent and sleeping bag with broken zippers. It wasn’t all that easy either. I woke up once to pull on socks and an extra fleece. Shortly after I huddled close to my tent mate for a long time forcing myself back to sleep before admitting I needed to go outside for a pee break.
By morning, after less than twenty-four hours in the Tengger Desert, we were all complaining of sand in our hair / shoes / bags / food and longing for a toilet that doesn’t blow sand into your underwear. At breakfast, resourceful Uncle Liu boiled water over the campfire for hot drinks. We watched with some jealousy as Spit Man made instant noodles in his tin lunch box and loudly slurp them up. The ramen was staff food; “wai guo ren” customers were fed spongy bread and fruit jam.
After packing up the gear we set off again on camel back. It became clear that we were taking large lateral laps around the desert to pass the three days. We didn’t really mind for even on this circuitous desert exploration the scenery was breathtaking and ever changing.
I was at the head of the pack again, my camel being personally led by Uncle Liu. Despite the language barrier and his rough country manners I could sense how much Uncle Liu enjoyed being with his animals. Through the long walks he would often bend down to pick a sprig of deep green grass to hand feed the camels. When I asked him about it he said with a hearty chuckle, “When they’re busy they don’t get to eat! This grass is particularly tender, it’s their favorite.” The camels were obedient, rarely straying from the march to munch on a bush, and clearly deserved the Favorite Grass treat.
Uncle Liu is a native of Zhongwei and a farmer by birth. He started buying camels years ago (for 4000-5000 RMB each), amassing a team of ten. The animals make him 20,000 RMB a year in revenue, more lucrative than the farm. During a break, Uncle Liu lovingly cradled the head of his favorite camel, the oldest of the pack, in his lap. He laughed when we cooed at his affection and said, “Yes, I like my camel. He makes me good money! We get along very well!”
We spent the entire second day of the trek roaming the desert, stopping once for a lunch and a nap in the sand. Under the umbrellas Uncle Liu pitched (while humming along to “Eh, eh, eh” from Rihanna’s “Umbrella”) it was like being on a dry beach, strange but pleasant. The midday grub was “shao bing” (salted large bread buns) with mystery sausage and packaged pickles. For dessert we had assorted fresh fruit (yes!), including large tomatoes eaten raw (a Chinese favorite).
In the evening we settled in another sheltered valley. Everything went more smoothly this time because we knew the routine: pitch tent, gather wood, eat takeout dinner, and steer clear of asking Juice questions. We had a wonderful time sitting around the campfire drinking beer, playing games. I even taught my companions the quintessential Chinese love song, “The Moon Represents My Heart” (a Teresa Teng tune). This would later come in handy, when we would serenade curious farmers who gather around to stare and entertain an airplane full of travelers who had been delayed. Singing a native tune really endears “wai guo ren” to Chinese and brings a smile to everyone’s face.
We predicted from the clear skies that it would be a cold night, and sure enough it was. My tent mate and I insulated our broken tent by draping heavy wool blankets over the holes. Even so, I woke up at 2am feeling a freezing bracelet around the strip of bare skin between where my socks ended and where my tights began. I piled on extra clothes and tried to while the cold away. Soon, I could hear whisperings of misery coming from other tents. Everyone was waiting for morning to come.
Sunrise on our last day in the desert brought us warmth and high spirits. We survived a brutally cold night and looked forward to a hot shower (arranged with some difficulty through Juice). That afternoon we would board a train for Hohhot, capital of Inner Mongolia. (Outer Mongolia is the nation, whereas Inner Mongolia is a province in China). As our faithful camels carried us closer to the edge of the desert we could see signs of civilization growing bigger and bigger. Smoke stacks, buildings, trees, water, and finally, the highway. We bid goodbye to Uncle Liu and Spit Man.
Reunited with the party van, we started sanitizing ourselves to the best of our ability. Off came the sand-crusted scarves, gloves, and hats. Moist towelettes and scented gels were vigorously rubbed on hands. I tried to comb my hair but found it caked into shape from days of wind and dirt.
Hot showers were waiting for us at an hourly hotel. We paired off in two’s and three’s to share rooms for thirty kuai an hour. This was unabashedly a love motel. The bathroom counters displayed an array of protective and lubricating products alongside standard hotel toiletries. The shower was less than luxurious, a plastic spout annoyingly close to the toilet bowl. The bathroom wall was made entirely of frosted glass, a fact I didn’t discover until I turned around in the shower. There wasn’t time for modesty -- I was only allotted twenty minutes for my shower.
My roommates took turns getting clean and we all repacked our bags in the cramped space between bed and table. No matter how many times we shook things, sand continued to fall out. At the end of the hour we had left a mini desert in the hotel room.
After the showers we all gathered in the lobby, cleaner and better looking versions of ourselves. Our train was leaving mid-afternoon, so we had a few hours for lunch and unsupervised exploration. Before we set off we had our favorite Juice episode. We asked her to purchase a case of bottled water so we could board the train well-supplied. In her habitually impatient tone she barked, “Yes, yes, yes, ok!” I wasn’t sure she was truly “ok” so I translated in Mandarin, “They want a case, 12 bottles.” To which she practically jumped with surprise, “What? A case!?” Clearly, she hadn’t understood all along, perhaps not more than a few words in the three days we’d sent together!
I tried to explore Zhongwei “city” but quickly found that it was little more than a shopping center flanked by small businesses. I stopped in the mall to revel in consumerism. Afterwards I roamed the two blocks between the mall and the hotel. I found mom and pop shops selling Goji berries (also known as wolfberries), a local produce, in oil barrel-sized vats. These small red berries are so expensive that they are usually only served as a sprinkling in Eight Treasures Tea or soup. Here, they were twenty-two kuai per kilo. I had to buy some.
At last we made our way to the Zhongwei train station. It was so small that only one arriving or departing train could be accommodated at a time. We waited in the crowded lounge as people came up to stare. Our guide Juice was now joined by a nicer woman who was the guan xi (“relationship”) in purchasing our train tickets. Because so few people depart from Zhongwei the tickets issued out of this stop are hard to come by. So, our “guan xi” lady had bought us nine tickets issued from three different surrounding train stations. She would accompany us onto the train, armed with a pack of cigarettes to bribe the train conductor, and get off after our tickets had been inspected.
As the much delayed train was finally announced for boarding, we squeezed through the narrow doors along with the rest of the traveling herds. As I walked closer to the platform I saw with some dread that this was a green paint train. Another night on an old clunker, and if the rule applies then this would be even worse than the red paint train to Yinchuan!
By morning, after less than twenty-four hours in the Tengger Desert, we were all complaining of sand in our hair / shoes / bags / food and longing for a toilet that doesn’t blow sand into your underwear. At breakfast, resourceful Uncle Liu boiled water over the campfire for hot drinks. We watched with some jealousy as Spit Man made instant noodles in his tin lunch box and loudly slurp them up. The ramen was staff food; “wai guo ren” customers were fed spongy bread and fruit jam.
After packing up the gear we set off again on camel back. It became clear that we were taking large lateral laps around the desert to pass the three days. We didn’t really mind for even on this circuitous desert exploration the scenery was breathtaking and ever changing.
I was at the head of the pack again, my camel being personally led by Uncle Liu. Despite the language barrier and his rough country manners I could sense how much Uncle Liu enjoyed being with his animals. Through the long walks he would often bend down to pick a sprig of deep green grass to hand feed the camels. When I asked him about it he said with a hearty chuckle, “When they’re busy they don’t get to eat! This grass is particularly tender, it’s their favorite.” The camels were obedient, rarely straying from the march to munch on a bush, and clearly deserved the Favorite Grass treat.
Uncle Liu is a native of Zhongwei and a farmer by birth. He started buying camels years ago (for 4000-5000 RMB each), amassing a team of ten. The animals make him 20,000 RMB a year in revenue, more lucrative than the farm. During a break, Uncle Liu lovingly cradled the head of his favorite camel, the oldest of the pack, in his lap. He laughed when we cooed at his affection and said, “Yes, I like my camel. He makes me good money! We get along very well!”
We spent the entire second day of the trek roaming the desert, stopping once for a lunch and a nap in the sand. Under the umbrellas Uncle Liu pitched (while humming along to “Eh, eh, eh” from Rihanna’s “Umbrella”) it was like being on a dry beach, strange but pleasant. The midday grub was “shao bing” (salted large bread buns) with mystery sausage and packaged pickles. For dessert we had assorted fresh fruit (yes!), including large tomatoes eaten raw (a Chinese favorite).
In the evening we settled in another sheltered valley. Everything went more smoothly this time because we knew the routine: pitch tent, gather wood, eat takeout dinner, and steer clear of asking Juice questions. We had a wonderful time sitting around the campfire drinking beer, playing games. I even taught my companions the quintessential Chinese love song, “The Moon Represents My Heart” (a Teresa Teng tune). This would later come in handy, when we would serenade curious farmers who gather around to stare and entertain an airplane full of travelers who had been delayed. Singing a native tune really endears “wai guo ren” to Chinese and brings a smile to everyone’s face.
We predicted from the clear skies that it would be a cold night, and sure enough it was. My tent mate and I insulated our broken tent by draping heavy wool blankets over the holes. Even so, I woke up at 2am feeling a freezing bracelet around the strip of bare skin between where my socks ended and where my tights began. I piled on extra clothes and tried to while the cold away. Soon, I could hear whisperings of misery coming from other tents. Everyone was waiting for morning to come.
Sunrise on our last day in the desert brought us warmth and high spirits. We survived a brutally cold night and looked forward to a hot shower (arranged with some difficulty through Juice). That afternoon we would board a train for Hohhot, capital of Inner Mongolia. (Outer Mongolia is the nation, whereas Inner Mongolia is a province in China). As our faithful camels carried us closer to the edge of the desert we could see signs of civilization growing bigger and bigger. Smoke stacks, buildings, trees, water, and finally, the highway. We bid goodbye to Uncle Liu and Spit Man.
Reunited with the party van, we started sanitizing ourselves to the best of our ability. Off came the sand-crusted scarves, gloves, and hats. Moist towelettes and scented gels were vigorously rubbed on hands. I tried to comb my hair but found it caked into shape from days of wind and dirt.
Hot showers were waiting for us at an hourly hotel. We paired off in two’s and three’s to share rooms for thirty kuai an hour. This was unabashedly a love motel. The bathroom counters displayed an array of protective and lubricating products alongside standard hotel toiletries. The shower was less than luxurious, a plastic spout annoyingly close to the toilet bowl. The bathroom wall was made entirely of frosted glass, a fact I didn’t discover until I turned around in the shower. There wasn’t time for modesty -- I was only allotted twenty minutes for my shower.
My roommates took turns getting clean and we all repacked our bags in the cramped space between bed and table. No matter how many times we shook things, sand continued to fall out. At the end of the hour we had left a mini desert in the hotel room.
After the showers we all gathered in the lobby, cleaner and better looking versions of ourselves. Our train was leaving mid-afternoon, so we had a few hours for lunch and unsupervised exploration. Before we set off we had our favorite Juice episode. We asked her to purchase a case of bottled water so we could board the train well-supplied. In her habitually impatient tone she barked, “Yes, yes, yes, ok!” I wasn’t sure she was truly “ok” so I translated in Mandarin, “They want a case, 12 bottles.” To which she practically jumped with surprise, “What? A case!?” Clearly, she hadn’t understood all along, perhaps not more than a few words in the three days we’d sent together!
I tried to explore Zhongwei “city” but quickly found that it was little more than a shopping center flanked by small businesses. I stopped in the mall to revel in consumerism. Afterwards I roamed the two blocks between the mall and the hotel. I found mom and pop shops selling Goji berries (also known as wolfberries), a local produce, in oil barrel-sized vats. These small red berries are so expensive that they are usually only served as a sprinkling in Eight Treasures Tea or soup. Here, they were twenty-two kuai per kilo. I had to buy some.
At last we made our way to the Zhongwei train station. It was so small that only one arriving or departing train could be accommodated at a time. We waited in the crowded lounge as people came up to stare. Our guide Juice was now joined by a nicer woman who was the guan xi (“relationship”) in purchasing our train tickets. Because so few people depart from Zhongwei the tickets issued out of this stop are hard to come by. So, our “guan xi” lady had bought us nine tickets issued from three different surrounding train stations. She would accompany us onto the train, armed with a pack of cigarettes to bribe the train conductor, and get off after our tickets had been inspected.
As the much delayed train was finally announced for boarding, we squeezed through the narrow doors along with the rest of the traveling herds. As I walked closer to the platform I saw with some dread that this was a green paint train. Another night on an old clunker, and if the rule applies then this would be even worse than the red paint train to Yinchuan!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Go West: The Desert (Part 4)
I woke up on my second morning in this small town in western China with a full-blown cold. There was no time to sleep off the sore throat, light-headedness, and sniffles. I had to pack my bag for Zhongwei, where three days of desert living awaited.
I thought Yinchuan was small, with its grand total of four English-speaking tour guides, but Zhongwei was truly tiny. We drove for three hours southwest to get to a place where the highway abruptly ends and the desert just as abruptly starts.
But first, let’s meet Juice. We knew we were going to miss Lisa, our amiably un-tour-guidey guide, after leaving Yinchuan. We had no idea how very much we would miss her.
After we checked out of the Yinchuan hotel Lisa took us to our lunch spot and said goodbye. We learned then that Lisa is Hui and couldn’t join us for a last meal because the restaurant was not hallal. (We also learned that Lisa had had a serious consultation with her mother about hallal eating establishments when KFC first came to town. Strangely, KFC was deemed hallal enough). As Lisa departed with her cute cartoonish grin, a darker, shorter, and decidedly more tour-guide looking girl stepped up. In a rather abrasive voice she announced,
“Hai eva-body, my nim is Juice!”
We all blinked and looked at each other blankly before one of us said, “Oh, Ruuuuth! Hi, Ruth.”
It’s beyond me why our guide had chosen for her name two of the hardest English sounds for Chinese people to pronounce, the “r” and the “th.” In any case, Juice chaperoned our ride to the edge of the Tengger Desert and barked some instructions none of us could understand. Then she promptly disappeared, leaving us to gape at our camels.
Imagine the scene, set in the middle of nowhere between highway and desert. Nine of us spanking clean “wai guo ren” stumbling out of a van to gawk at a caravan of camels and guides. We crossed the two-lane road that separated us from them and circled the animals with great curiosity. They were woolly, large, and gentle creatures, with less body odor than I had been told. This bewildered meet-and-greet between man and beast lasted about fifteen minutes. Then we became restless under the hot sun and swirling sand. What next?
We saw Juice a little ways off gesticulating with the two ragged-looking camel guides. I moved closer and could discern some of the words they were loudly exchanging, but it was a bizarrely accented Mandarin like I’ve never heard before. I asked Juice in Putonghua (standard Mandarin), “What do we do now?”
She barked at me with annoyance, “Bring yo bai ge!”
I translated Juice-English into English for my wai guo ren friends and we started to unload our heavy packs from the van. After nine large backpacks and an equal number of small portables (fanny packs, et cetera) were gingerly laid on sand-covered road, Juice continued to ignore us. We stood around some more. And then some more. Until we dared ask again, “What now?”
Juice was in no hurry to provide tour guidance to us. After a while she shouted, “Bai ge beeg. Yo ken smor bai ge!”
This time, none of us understood, not even I. She began to cross her arms and look at us as though we were a herd of dumb beasts. I intervened in Mandarin and understood that she meant to say we have too much luggage. We are being told to leave our “valuables” and things we don’t need at her travel agency, taking only small bags for the trek.
Don’t ask a group of foreigners to part with their hand-picked western comforts when setting off into a Chinese desert. You’ll be met with rage. We all began to grumble and argue with Juice at once. We hadn’t been told in advance what to bring for the desert climate! We can’t part with anything because our bags only held clothes needed to keep warm! We have food allergies 99% of Chinese have never heard of and need our BYO meals! We can’t disassemble a tent in the mornings without our instant coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and barrage of other packaged beverages!
To make matters worse Juice gave no useful information about just how much luggage was too much. Most questions we asked were met with her yelling, “Yes, yes, I know!”
In the end, we reluctantly lightened our loads and watched our spare underwear and pre-packaged foods disappear in a van. But the sadness dissipated as soon as the camel men motioned for us to climb on board. This kicked off a furious scramble to “call dibs” on the best camels. The beasts were quickly christened and we had among us an Elvis (for his comical curly lips) and a Fergie (musically inspired), and a few others. Not knowing what to look for in a camel I waited for the camel man to hoist my bag onto one before mounting.
At last we set off. The desert spread out in front of us like an endless yellow blanket. Its undulating dunes and valleys appeared soft and welcoming from afar, as though it might have the texture of sponge cake. Mounting the camel was a rocky affair (first you’re jerked back as the front legs straighten, then you’re tossed forward as the back hump comes up), the ride itself is pretty steady. The camels walk with a languorous gait, swaying side to side. Occasionally a sheer sand cliff causes one to lose its footing and sink a little, but the thickly padded feet ultimately keep them steady.
Incongruous with this exotic scenery was the factory smoke stacks on the horizon behind us. Our camel guides also chatted on their phones frequently, their Zhongwei dialect disturbing our reveries of being in the Arabian Desert. But we felt toughened by authenticity when a sandstorm briefly blew in the mid-afternoon. If we kept our eyes directed one way, we could pretend we were marching into a boundless desert in a poetically faraway place.
Shortly after the storm we stopped in a low valley sheltered on all sides by sand dunes. The camel men motioned for us to dismount and they began earnestly unpacking the camels’ loads. We gathered from Juice’s impatient glares that we were to start pitching the tents that had been thrown about. The older camel man, whom I named Uncle Liu, approached me and said, “There’s not enough tents to go around. You should share one with Ru Ru.”
I had trouble understanding his thick accent at first, but after a few rounds I realized he was asking me to sleep with Juice (whose Chinese name explains the unfortunate choice of “Ruth”). At this, all of my tiredness, hunger, worsening cold, and discontents with the travel agency’s poor planning came forth. I practically shouted, “I’m not the hired help, I paid good money to come on this trip too! Why should I be assigned to share with her?” I stormed off to complain to my friends about constantly being mistaken for a “translator” by my countrymen. Can’t we take some pride in ourselves and learn to think of each other as equals to foreigners, not service people all the time!?
My travel buddies sympathize and join me in making more complaints, but Juice quickly interrupts to loudly instruct, ”Wood! Wood!” It’s time to gather firewood. This woman is a slave driver! The next two hours we spent combing the sparse sand dunes for twigs. With each load we brought back to the camp site Juice would bark, “Mo! Mo! No in nuff!” to send us back to work.
As the sun began to dim and the sky darkened to a velvety blue we spotted our two camel guides, who had disappeared for a good part of the afternoon, riding toward us carrying large cardboard boxes. At first they appeared as tiny outlines in the distance, gradually getting bigger until they were at camp opening the boxes to pull out…styrofoam takeout containers!
I had suspected that we hadn’t really gone deeper into the desert as we seemed to have been traveling parallel to the highway. Here was proof that we were really close to civilization – they’re feeding us takeout for dinner!
Once food came into the picture everyone was jolly. The campfire was lit. Beers appeared from canvas bags strapped to camel humps. We even felt friendlier towards Juice, Uncle Liu, and Spit Man (so named for his constant throat clearing). Uncle Liu’s gregarious personality came out as he joked around using body language and Juice’s poor translation. He “told” us that American and Canadian customers are the most easygoing while French and Japanese ones are “bu hao” (“no good”) because they’re too darned picky. He also initiated a drinking game with the two men in our group. The night went off beautifully. Even though we weren’t lost in a faraway land we had enough props in a poetic enough setting to pretend.
As the temperature dropped lower we piled on layers of clothing, until finally, the biting darkness sent us to our tents for lack of anything else to do. In the end, I stuck to my guns and refused to share a tent with Juice. She was the person who would’ve given me the least comfort on a desert night spent with a raging cold. Uncle Liu, after realizing that I was a full fledged customer, also sort of apologized and magically whipped out an extra tent. All was well as we snuggled into our sleeping bags in the Tengger Desert.
I thought Yinchuan was small, with its grand total of four English-speaking tour guides, but Zhongwei was truly tiny. We drove for three hours southwest to get to a place where the highway abruptly ends and the desert just as abruptly starts.
But first, let’s meet Juice. We knew we were going to miss Lisa, our amiably un-tour-guidey guide, after leaving Yinchuan. We had no idea how very much we would miss her.
After we checked out of the Yinchuan hotel Lisa took us to our lunch spot and said goodbye. We learned then that Lisa is Hui and couldn’t join us for a last meal because the restaurant was not hallal. (We also learned that Lisa had had a serious consultation with her mother about hallal eating establishments when KFC first came to town. Strangely, KFC was deemed hallal enough). As Lisa departed with her cute cartoonish grin, a darker, shorter, and decidedly more tour-guide looking girl stepped up. In a rather abrasive voice she announced,
“Hai eva-body, my nim is Juice!”
We all blinked and looked at each other blankly before one of us said, “Oh, Ruuuuth! Hi, Ruth.”
It’s beyond me why our guide had chosen for her name two of the hardest English sounds for Chinese people to pronounce, the “r” and the “th.” In any case, Juice chaperoned our ride to the edge of the Tengger Desert and barked some instructions none of us could understand. Then she promptly disappeared, leaving us to gape at our camels.
Imagine the scene, set in the middle of nowhere between highway and desert. Nine of us spanking clean “wai guo ren” stumbling out of a van to gawk at a caravan of camels and guides. We crossed the two-lane road that separated us from them and circled the animals with great curiosity. They were woolly, large, and gentle creatures, with less body odor than I had been told. This bewildered meet-and-greet between man and beast lasted about fifteen minutes. Then we became restless under the hot sun and swirling sand. What next?
We saw Juice a little ways off gesticulating with the two ragged-looking camel guides. I moved closer and could discern some of the words they were loudly exchanging, but it was a bizarrely accented Mandarin like I’ve never heard before. I asked Juice in Putonghua (standard Mandarin), “What do we do now?”
She barked at me with annoyance, “Bring yo bai ge!”
I translated Juice-English into English for my wai guo ren friends and we started to unload our heavy packs from the van. After nine large backpacks and an equal number of small portables (fanny packs, et cetera) were gingerly laid on sand-covered road, Juice continued to ignore us. We stood around some more. And then some more. Until we dared ask again, “What now?”
Juice was in no hurry to provide tour guidance to us. After a while she shouted, “Bai ge beeg. Yo ken smor bai ge!”
This time, none of us understood, not even I. She began to cross her arms and look at us as though we were a herd of dumb beasts. I intervened in Mandarin and understood that she meant to say we have too much luggage. We are being told to leave our “valuables” and things we don’t need at her travel agency, taking only small bags for the trek.
Don’t ask a group of foreigners to part with their hand-picked western comforts when setting off into a Chinese desert. You’ll be met with rage. We all began to grumble and argue with Juice at once. We hadn’t been told in advance what to bring for the desert climate! We can’t part with anything because our bags only held clothes needed to keep warm! We have food allergies 99% of Chinese have never heard of and need our BYO meals! We can’t disassemble a tent in the mornings without our instant coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and barrage of other packaged beverages!
To make matters worse Juice gave no useful information about just how much luggage was too much. Most questions we asked were met with her yelling, “Yes, yes, I know!”
In the end, we reluctantly lightened our loads and watched our spare underwear and pre-packaged foods disappear in a van. But the sadness dissipated as soon as the camel men motioned for us to climb on board. This kicked off a furious scramble to “call dibs” on the best camels. The beasts were quickly christened and we had among us an Elvis (for his comical curly lips) and a Fergie (musically inspired), and a few others. Not knowing what to look for in a camel I waited for the camel man to hoist my bag onto one before mounting.
At last we set off. The desert spread out in front of us like an endless yellow blanket. Its undulating dunes and valleys appeared soft and welcoming from afar, as though it might have the texture of sponge cake. Mounting the camel was a rocky affair (first you’re jerked back as the front legs straighten, then you’re tossed forward as the back hump comes up), the ride itself is pretty steady. The camels walk with a languorous gait, swaying side to side. Occasionally a sheer sand cliff causes one to lose its footing and sink a little, but the thickly padded feet ultimately keep them steady.
Incongruous with this exotic scenery was the factory smoke stacks on the horizon behind us. Our camel guides also chatted on their phones frequently, their Zhongwei dialect disturbing our reveries of being in the Arabian Desert. But we felt toughened by authenticity when a sandstorm briefly blew in the mid-afternoon. If we kept our eyes directed one way, we could pretend we were marching into a boundless desert in a poetically faraway place.
Shortly after the storm we stopped in a low valley sheltered on all sides by sand dunes. The camel men motioned for us to dismount and they began earnestly unpacking the camels’ loads. We gathered from Juice’s impatient glares that we were to start pitching the tents that had been thrown about. The older camel man, whom I named Uncle Liu, approached me and said, “There’s not enough tents to go around. You should share one with Ru Ru.”
I had trouble understanding his thick accent at first, but after a few rounds I realized he was asking me to sleep with Juice (whose Chinese name explains the unfortunate choice of “Ruth”). At this, all of my tiredness, hunger, worsening cold, and discontents with the travel agency’s poor planning came forth. I practically shouted, “I’m not the hired help, I paid good money to come on this trip too! Why should I be assigned to share with her?” I stormed off to complain to my friends about constantly being mistaken for a “translator” by my countrymen. Can’t we take some pride in ourselves and learn to think of each other as equals to foreigners, not service people all the time!?
My travel buddies sympathize and join me in making more complaints, but Juice quickly interrupts to loudly instruct, ”Wood! Wood!” It’s time to gather firewood. This woman is a slave driver! The next two hours we spent combing the sparse sand dunes for twigs. With each load we brought back to the camp site Juice would bark, “Mo! Mo! No in nuff!” to send us back to work.
As the sun began to dim and the sky darkened to a velvety blue we spotted our two camel guides, who had disappeared for a good part of the afternoon, riding toward us carrying large cardboard boxes. At first they appeared as tiny outlines in the distance, gradually getting bigger until they were at camp opening the boxes to pull out…styrofoam takeout containers!
I had suspected that we hadn’t really gone deeper into the desert as we seemed to have been traveling parallel to the highway. Here was proof that we were really close to civilization – they’re feeding us takeout for dinner!
Once food came into the picture everyone was jolly. The campfire was lit. Beers appeared from canvas bags strapped to camel humps. We even felt friendlier towards Juice, Uncle Liu, and Spit Man (so named for his constant throat clearing). Uncle Liu’s gregarious personality came out as he joked around using body language and Juice’s poor translation. He “told” us that American and Canadian customers are the most easygoing while French and Japanese ones are “bu hao” (“no good”) because they’re too darned picky. He also initiated a drinking game with the two men in our group. The night went off beautifully. Even though we weren’t lost in a faraway land we had enough props in a poetic enough setting to pretend.
As the temperature dropped lower we piled on layers of clothing, until finally, the biting darkness sent us to our tents for lack of anything else to do. In the end, I stuck to my guns and refused to share a tent with Juice. She was the person who would’ve given me the least comfort on a desert night spent with a raging cold. Uncle Liu, after realizing that I was a full fledged customer, also sort of apologized and magically whipped out an extra tent. All was well as we snuggled into our sleeping bags in the Tengger Desert.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Go West: Yinchuan (Part 3)
After a night of fitful sleep, punctuated by the frantic footsteps of a few poor passengers who overslept their station announcement, I woke up somewhere in Ningxia province. Ningxia is home to the Hui, a Muslim people who are one of fifty-six officially recognized ethnic groups in China. Although it is an “Autonomous Region” (like Tibet and Xinjiang, other well-known minority populated regions) the population is only one-third Hui and two-thirds Han Chinese. The province is sparsely populated and consists mostly of desert land. This is where we will start our three-day trek on camel back tomorrow.
Waking up in the top bunk of a hard sleeper Chinese train is a delicate affair. The train tickets are cleverly priced according to comfort. The newer, cleaner, and faster trains cost many times more than the lower end ones. On any given train, the most expensive is the “soft sleeper” compartments (individual cabins with four bunks), followed by the hard sleepers (the barrack-style berths we were in), then soft seaters, hard seaters, and even standing-room only carriages. Within the hard sleeper compartment, the bottom bunk, which offers the most headroom and accessibility, is most expensive. The top bunk -- the narrowest and hardest to reach (requiring an agile climb on the ladder) -- is the cheapest.
Forgetting the low height clearance on the top bunk, I tried to get up and my head met the train roof with a thud. Injury Number One sustained (many more to come this week). With my neck bent like the hook part of a hanger, I assessed my outfit and made some minor adjustments for decency. I crawled to the end of the bed that met the ladder and gingerly did a 180-degree turn so I could descend facing the right way. My fingers felt dirty just gripping these communal ladder steps. Who knows what people have stepped on before they put their feet up here? Wait, I know what people stepped on. I’ve seen the condition of the train bathrooms and should stop thinking about it.
Once on the ground I inventoried my supplies. Wow, the journey has hardly started and I’ve made significant dents in my stash of trail mix and fresh fruit. Feeling gross all the time has also impressed upon me the need to ration moist towelettes. I hadn’t seen soap in seventeen hours and was starting to think that the chances of meeting it again on this trip were slim. I decided to forego cleaning and feeding myself this morning. My travel mates seemed to reach the same conclusion and the only thing we ate was vitamin C tablets D passed around.
Before long, the pleasant train announcer voice told us we were arriving in Yinchuan, capital of Ningxia. This was followed by melodious saxophone tunes piped through the PA system. Ah China, you can’t go anywhere without hearing Kenny G!
The nine of us scrambled off the train and bounded out of the station as if leaving the jungle for civilization. We were happy to find Lisa, our guide for the day, smilingly greeting us outside. Lisa is tall and slight, and looks more like a friendly college student on her day off than a professional guide. Her demeanor reminds me of a cartoon character, nervous and jerky, but cute.
Back in Beijing we were told that English-speaking tour guides were hard to find in Yinchuan. There were only four, to be precise, and all four were booked for today. At the last minute, the travel agent located Lisa. Now that we were in Lisa’s charge, I felt keenly that she was indeed a last resort. She was an amiable girl that we all grew to like, but she spends more time busily flipping through her tour guides’ reference book than pointing out the scenery to us. Throughout the day, she was more content to follow than lead and often was the last one on the bus because she was excitedly taking pictures of the sights.
Minor problems aside, we were all too happy to have left the gross red-paint train behind. Sitting on a clean and private tour bus being shuttled places was such a luxury. We were eager to get going on the day’s agenda and voted to skip breakfast in favor of breaking out the sanitary hand gel, moist towelettes, and trail mix on the van instead.
Our first stop was the Xixia Imperial Tombs. These tombs were built by the emperors of the Tangut (“Xixia” in Chinese) Empire who reigned over Northwestern China from 1038 to 1227 before being decimated by the fierce Mongol army of Genghis Khan. After an hour drive out of Yinchuan we arrived at the area where the tombs were accidentally in the 1970’s. Immediately we fell prey to tourist traps. This being a great Western (albeit a Chinese western) adventure, we all ponied up for leather cowboy hats. They were about the most impractically shaped things we could’ve added to our heavy backpacks, but at fifteen kuai each, they were irresistible.
With hats on heads, we started exploring the Xixia Museum, a surprisingly well-equipped facility. I usually avoid museums in China and in other developing countries, finding them poorly managed for lack of budget. But here, I took in the ambient lighting, admired restored vases through protective glass, and read the English placards for mistakes. After most of us were ready to move on Lisa still lingered in front of ancient Buddhist paintings (Buddhism having come through with the Mongols whereas Islam had come earlier with the Silk Road traders).
From the museum we took electric shuttles to the tombs. The setting was majestic; expansive blue skies like you never see in Beijing and extremely flat ground. Seemingly from nowhere, the tombs rose up on the horizon. They were less impressive than we expected, looking like giant termite mounds caked in yellow dust. I had read that the tallest rose ten meters high but the desert climate in Ningxia was so dry that the tombs had a brittle and flaky look, as if a thousand years of history would crumble before my eyes if I reached out to poke them. The highlight from the tomb visit was the watermelon that we each chipped in to buy at a roadside stall afterwards. Following a long walk and some strenuous jumping for funny photos in front of the imperial mounds, the juicy slices cut right in front of us was quite a treat.
Our next stop was Zhenbei China West Film Studio, the Universal Studios of China, minus the fancy rides and logoed T’s. This is a massive tract of barren land on which classic films, like Zhang Yimou’s career-launching “Red Sorghum”, were shot. The iconic sets were preserved as tourist attractions. At the entrance, a large sign hailing “Chinese film marches from here to the world!” invited visitors to whip out their cameras and begin a day of shameless posing and snapping.
For several hours we wandered through the streets of ancient China, pretending to hawk prop produce. We walked into farm houses made of mud and strung all over with lengths of drying chilies, garlic, and corn. We even unwittingly took part in a re-enactment of scenes from the Cultural Revolution. A large group of tourists rented Red Guard and Landlord costumes to put on their own denunciation meeting. When we passed through, our two white male members posed for photos as the scared Capitalists getting the crap beat out of them by valiant guards. We were delirious with delight at being transported back in time and clicked away at our cameras until our most level-headed travel companion, L, quietly chuckled, “This is like Germans staging scenes of the Holocaust.” True enough, beneath the fun there was a sinister undertone that we had all missed. How was it that modern Chinese managed to forget so quickly the traumas of forty years ago?
We left the Film Studio with full digital memory cards and drove towards our last destination for the day. At Shilan Mountain we could see cave paintings from the Xixia period set amidst a scenic backdrop. The park that holds the ancient art is like any other “rugged” Chinese park. Cement or stone paths are carefully paved through the jagged rocks and logs painted to look like tree trunks serve as protective railings. This is our idea of rustic. No, the Chinese don’t really “do” nature. We prefer to set a trail that ladies in three-inch heels can easily tread.
By the time I had looked at “cave” paintings (for the rocky canvases had been removed from caves, if ever there had been caves, and displayed along the paved path) of various animals, the Monkey King, and a Sun God, I was starting to feel dizzy. I had felt a scratching at my throat all day and that seemed to be developing into a real cold. Worried about being sick during the hardy camel trek, I joined my companions for a delicious dinner rich in vegetables (the thing we came to most appreciate about hallal Chinese food) but skipped out on the karaoke session afterwards. By the time my roommate came back to the hotel room I was already heavily dosed with Nyquil and could barely lift a land to wave good night.
Waking up in the top bunk of a hard sleeper Chinese train is a delicate affair. The train tickets are cleverly priced according to comfort. The newer, cleaner, and faster trains cost many times more than the lower end ones. On any given train, the most expensive is the “soft sleeper” compartments (individual cabins with four bunks), followed by the hard sleepers (the barrack-style berths we were in), then soft seaters, hard seaters, and even standing-room only carriages. Within the hard sleeper compartment, the bottom bunk, which offers the most headroom and accessibility, is most expensive. The top bunk -- the narrowest and hardest to reach (requiring an agile climb on the ladder) -- is the cheapest.
Forgetting the low height clearance on the top bunk, I tried to get up and my head met the train roof with a thud. Injury Number One sustained (many more to come this week). With my neck bent like the hook part of a hanger, I assessed my outfit and made some minor adjustments for decency. I crawled to the end of the bed that met the ladder and gingerly did a 180-degree turn so I could descend facing the right way. My fingers felt dirty just gripping these communal ladder steps. Who knows what people have stepped on before they put their feet up here? Wait, I know what people stepped on. I’ve seen the condition of the train bathrooms and should stop thinking about it.
Once on the ground I inventoried my supplies. Wow, the journey has hardly started and I’ve made significant dents in my stash of trail mix and fresh fruit. Feeling gross all the time has also impressed upon me the need to ration moist towelettes. I hadn’t seen soap in seventeen hours and was starting to think that the chances of meeting it again on this trip were slim. I decided to forego cleaning and feeding myself this morning. My travel mates seemed to reach the same conclusion and the only thing we ate was vitamin C tablets D passed around.
Before long, the pleasant train announcer voice told us we were arriving in Yinchuan, capital of Ningxia. This was followed by melodious saxophone tunes piped through the PA system. Ah China, you can’t go anywhere without hearing Kenny G!
The nine of us scrambled off the train and bounded out of the station as if leaving the jungle for civilization. We were happy to find Lisa, our guide for the day, smilingly greeting us outside. Lisa is tall and slight, and looks more like a friendly college student on her day off than a professional guide. Her demeanor reminds me of a cartoon character, nervous and jerky, but cute.
Back in Beijing we were told that English-speaking tour guides were hard to find in Yinchuan. There were only four, to be precise, and all four were booked for today. At the last minute, the travel agent located Lisa. Now that we were in Lisa’s charge, I felt keenly that she was indeed a last resort. She was an amiable girl that we all grew to like, but she spends more time busily flipping through her tour guides’ reference book than pointing out the scenery to us. Throughout the day, she was more content to follow than lead and often was the last one on the bus because she was excitedly taking pictures of the sights.
Minor problems aside, we were all too happy to have left the gross red-paint train behind. Sitting on a clean and private tour bus being shuttled places was such a luxury. We were eager to get going on the day’s agenda and voted to skip breakfast in favor of breaking out the sanitary hand gel, moist towelettes, and trail mix on the van instead.
Our first stop was the Xixia Imperial Tombs. These tombs were built by the emperors of the Tangut (“Xixia” in Chinese) Empire who reigned over Northwestern China from 1038 to 1227 before being decimated by the fierce Mongol army of Genghis Khan. After an hour drive out of Yinchuan we arrived at the area where the tombs were accidentally in the 1970’s. Immediately we fell prey to tourist traps. This being a great Western (albeit a Chinese western) adventure, we all ponied up for leather cowboy hats. They were about the most impractically shaped things we could’ve added to our heavy backpacks, but at fifteen kuai each, they were irresistible.
With hats on heads, we started exploring the Xixia Museum, a surprisingly well-equipped facility. I usually avoid museums in China and in other developing countries, finding them poorly managed for lack of budget. But here, I took in the ambient lighting, admired restored vases through protective glass, and read the English placards for mistakes. After most of us were ready to move on Lisa still lingered in front of ancient Buddhist paintings (Buddhism having come through with the Mongols whereas Islam had come earlier with the Silk Road traders).
From the museum we took electric shuttles to the tombs. The setting was majestic; expansive blue skies like you never see in Beijing and extremely flat ground. Seemingly from nowhere, the tombs rose up on the horizon. They were less impressive than we expected, looking like giant termite mounds caked in yellow dust. I had read that the tallest rose ten meters high but the desert climate in Ningxia was so dry that the tombs had a brittle and flaky look, as if a thousand years of history would crumble before my eyes if I reached out to poke them. The highlight from the tomb visit was the watermelon that we each chipped in to buy at a roadside stall afterwards. Following a long walk and some strenuous jumping for funny photos in front of the imperial mounds, the juicy slices cut right in front of us was quite a treat.
Our next stop was Zhenbei China West Film Studio, the Universal Studios of China, minus the fancy rides and logoed T’s. This is a massive tract of barren land on which classic films, like Zhang Yimou’s career-launching “Red Sorghum”, were shot. The iconic sets were preserved as tourist attractions. At the entrance, a large sign hailing “Chinese film marches from here to the world!” invited visitors to whip out their cameras and begin a day of shameless posing and snapping.
For several hours we wandered through the streets of ancient China, pretending to hawk prop produce. We walked into farm houses made of mud and strung all over with lengths of drying chilies, garlic, and corn. We even unwittingly took part in a re-enactment of scenes from the Cultural Revolution. A large group of tourists rented Red Guard and Landlord costumes to put on their own denunciation meeting. When we passed through, our two white male members posed for photos as the scared Capitalists getting the crap beat out of them by valiant guards. We were delirious with delight at being transported back in time and clicked away at our cameras until our most level-headed travel companion, L, quietly chuckled, “This is like Germans staging scenes of the Holocaust.” True enough, beneath the fun there was a sinister undertone that we had all missed. How was it that modern Chinese managed to forget so quickly the traumas of forty years ago?
We left the Film Studio with full digital memory cards and drove towards our last destination for the day. At Shilan Mountain we could see cave paintings from the Xixia period set amidst a scenic backdrop. The park that holds the ancient art is like any other “rugged” Chinese park. Cement or stone paths are carefully paved through the jagged rocks and logs painted to look like tree trunks serve as protective railings. This is our idea of rustic. No, the Chinese don’t really “do” nature. We prefer to set a trail that ladies in three-inch heels can easily tread.
By the time I had looked at “cave” paintings (for the rocky canvases had been removed from caves, if ever there had been caves, and displayed along the paved path) of various animals, the Monkey King, and a Sun God, I was starting to feel dizzy. I had felt a scratching at my throat all day and that seemed to be developing into a real cold. Worried about being sick during the hardy camel trek, I joined my companions for a delicious dinner rich in vegetables (the thing we came to most appreciate about hallal Chinese food) but skipped out on the karaoke session afterwards. By the time my roommate came back to the hotel room I was already heavily dosed with Nyquil and could barely lift a land to wave good night.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Go West: Black Cabs and Red Trains (Part 2)
My apartment was abuzz on the morning of October 1. Three cousins and an aunt had arrived to spend Golden Week in Beijing. Mom had woken up earlier than usual and was trying to feed everyone in sight. In addition to E, another of my travel buddies for the Go West adventure had come over to brave the commute with us.
Between the three of us going on the trip we managed to cover the sizable living room floor with colossal backpacks and small bags of every variety (fanny packs, foldable totes, day packs, Ziplocs full of toiletries, sleeping bag covers). G stood looking on with amusement at our collective excitement (mingled with a little panic) and declared he was happy to be staying comfortably at home to watch the 60th National Day parade. (In reality, his visa renewal kept him from joining us). As we packed and repacked, pulled and tugged at straps and buckles, broadcasters on TV were providing minute-by-minute coverage of National Day festivities.
When the “black cab” arrived we lifted our loads onto our backs, toppling a little under the unexpected weight, and bid goodbye to the battalion of Zhai-Li relatives. My aunt in particular was bewildered by the sight of two “wai guo ren” (foreigners) and me (half a “wai guo ren”) looking like we’re setting off for the Long March. Her sentiment was echoed by Tian shifu (Master Tian), our driver, who gave Geoff a habitual pat on the back and a thumbs up for his “good physique” (little does he know that crazy “wai guo ren” wear shorts all year round, especially if they hail from Hawaii).
Once in the car, Tian shifu asked me to repeat his instructions to my fellow travelers in English. Since his was an illegal car for hire operation any time we got pulled over by the cops I was to say that he’s a family friend who is kindly giving us a lift.
Given all the parade activities in the heart of the city, Tian shifu decided to route us through the 4th Ring Road, even though Beijing West railway station is between the 3rd and 2nd Rings. We didn’t mind. In fact, we quite enjoyed the scenic drive through streets which were for once free of traffic, looking at splendid flower displays on every street corner, and seeing Beijingers strolling arm in arm, looking joyful instead of stressed.
It was a beautiful day after a night of rain. Above us stretched a blue sky decorated with fluffy white clouds. This was no coincidence. Unthinkable though it may seem, the Chinese government controls its weather. For special occasions like the Olympics Opening Ceremony and National Day, China’s forty thousand or so “rain recruits” fire anti-aircraft guns into pregnant clouds to guarantee favorable conditions the next day.
As we drove, I listened to the live radio broadcast of the festivities with great interest. The play by play broadcast was greatly detailed: “Now President Hu Jintao is boarding his vehicle…The vehicle is starting its course down Chang’an Avenue…He is wearing a black Zhong Shan suit.” The events being relayed were laden with political and historical symbolism. For his big day, Hu had chosen the attire favored by Sun Yat-Sen who is regarded by Chinese around the world (not just mainland Chinese) as the original nationalist, the father to us all. This seemed to be a departure from previous years when top Chinese Communists emphasized their brand of Chinese-ness over other cultural ties. Hu had also chosen elements to remind the populace of Mao, like how he greeted troops along the way. (“Tong zhi men xing ku la!” or “Comrades, you’ve worked hard!”). Too bad I’m no longer in policy school – this would’ve been a great analysis for the political nerds
Before I knew it, we had arrived at the station, well ahead of time. We thanked Tian shifu as he sent us off with a look of bemused perplexity. By now, I was getting used to being thought of as a “crazy wai guo ren” who runs off to the poorest of places for a holiday.
As we joined the sizeable herd trying to squeeze through the station gates, a police officer (one of a large special force put on patrol during this politically sensitive week) pulled me aside. “Are you the translator?” he shouted while pointing at my two foreign friends.
“No, I’m their friend.” Little did I know this would just be the beginning of my being labeled “translator”. I would learn over the course of this week on the road that Chinese people have a hard time understanding me as a bilingual person who has foreign friends. They prefer to put me in the “hired help” box instead.
“Where are they from?” the policeman continued.
“America.”
At this, he was satisfied and let us through. I suppose things would’ve been a lot harder had I said “Turkey” or “Kazahkstan”! We probably got noticed in the first place because my friends, both hapa, had the ambiguous coloring that may lead one to think they’re related to Xinjiang separatists.
Inside the train station, things were as crazy as I expected. There’s a Chinese expression - “people mountain people sea” - and that’s exactly the kind of crowd I came to faced. The building itself was shiny new and outfitted with big screen TV’s (all showing images of the National Day parade) but it felt like a giant farm with all the people swarming around. There was a queue for everything – the platform, KFC, the bathroom. There was even a queue just to get into position to join the bathroom queue.
We found our friends, all six of them “wai guo ren,” conspicuously camped out in a circle on the floor of waiting room eight. Already a secondary circle of curious onlookers had formed around them and our arrival only added to the spectacle. The staring is usually worse at the train station than elsewhere in cities because the railway is where the masses convene. Migrant workers who come to Beijing for construction jobs might spend their entire year cooped up on the site, having no money or time to go anywhere else until their annual homeward pilgrimage on China’s extensive railway network. Here we were presenting migrants with the perfect “tale of the big city” to take back to their villages. A few of the braver onlookers started conversations with our group, trying to understand through simplistic questions what these foreigners were all doing here and where they intended to go with the big backpacks. The more timid ones just hovered around whispering to each other every minutiae observed, “Look, she’s eating a packet of crackers.”
The two-hour wait for our train went by quickly. The nine of us introduced ourselves (this was a mixed group of friends and acquaintances) and got familiar with our soon to be roommates for the next seven days. We compared gear (mostly from Decathlon) and gadgets (between us we had ten cameras, two Flip videocams, and more zoom lens than I could count). Then, in true Chinese fashion, the throng of people around us suddenly started to move towards the boarding gate. It was forty-five minutes before departure time!
We had a small debate among us over this “push and shove” cultural phenomenon. I did my best to explain that people are in a rush to board the train and secure their already assigned seats because many older and poorer Chinese still live with a “food stamp” mentality. If during my life time I had experienced famine and remember being the last person in line when supplies ran out, then I, too, would live the rest of my life with sharp elbows.
With little choice to do otherwise, we went with the flow and boarded the train in a hurry. It was, to my dismay, a “red skin” train. China has gone through many hardware upgrades and the pleasantness of one’s train trip can be easily divined at a glance. The newest lines (like the Beijing-Shanghai bullet train) are luxurious, truly the A380’s of passenger rail. The blue-painted trains are cushy too, with private compartments and train attendants smilingly making your bed nightly. When it comes to red-painted trains things get sketchy. These are left over from the era when China bought Russian cast-off’s. The reds and greens (the bottom of the barrel) serve the poorest destinations and are consequently dirtier.
We were going to spend nineteen hours on red train for the first leg of our journey, from Beijing to Yinchuan in Ningxia province. We boarded the train at 1pm and by the time we woke up the next morning we would’ve made it halfway across China, to as remote and foreign a land as we could get without stepping into Xinjiang or Tibet.
It was going to be a long ride so we worked to settle in as comfortably as possible once we boarded the “hard sleeper” car (an open carriage of sleep berths, kind of like military barracks on wheels). I smiled at our immediate neighbors hoping to ease their nervousness at being in such close quarters with strange foreigners. I fished toiletries and sleepwear out of my backpack and stowed the rest on the luggage rack overhead. I explored the bathroom and discovered it to be in significantly poorer condition than the blue trains I was used to taking to Harbin. Oh well, time to start roughing it!
My travel buddies took the poor amenities in stride and found cheap thrills. They played cards in the dining carriage, examined every push cart that came by with interest (selling snacks, drinks, toilet paper, and bento box dinners), and tried out the classic Chinese train dinner of Master Kung cup noodles. As the sky darkened outside we grew weary and retreated to our respective berths, doing our best to protect our bodies from touching the unclean sheets. (Most of us opted to go to sleep in our dark-colored fleeces and sweatpants). As we pulled up the grimy covers and found our night-time reading the lights suddenly went off. A sweet broadcaster voice cooed to us through the PA system, “Dear passengers, it’s lights out time.”
Between the three of us going on the trip we managed to cover the sizable living room floor with colossal backpacks and small bags of every variety (fanny packs, foldable totes, day packs, Ziplocs full of toiletries, sleeping bag covers). G stood looking on with amusement at our collective excitement (mingled with a little panic) and declared he was happy to be staying comfortably at home to watch the 60th National Day parade. (In reality, his visa renewal kept him from joining us). As we packed and repacked, pulled and tugged at straps and buckles, broadcasters on TV were providing minute-by-minute coverage of National Day festivities.
When the “black cab” arrived we lifted our loads onto our backs, toppling a little under the unexpected weight, and bid goodbye to the battalion of Zhai-Li relatives. My aunt in particular was bewildered by the sight of two “wai guo ren” (foreigners) and me (half a “wai guo ren”) looking like we’re setting off for the Long March. Her sentiment was echoed by Tian shifu (Master Tian), our driver, who gave Geoff a habitual pat on the back and a thumbs up for his “good physique” (little does he know that crazy “wai guo ren” wear shorts all year round, especially if they hail from Hawaii).
Once in the car, Tian shifu asked me to repeat his instructions to my fellow travelers in English. Since his was an illegal car for hire operation any time we got pulled over by the cops I was to say that he’s a family friend who is kindly giving us a lift.
Given all the parade activities in the heart of the city, Tian shifu decided to route us through the 4th Ring Road, even though Beijing West railway station is between the 3rd and 2nd Rings. We didn’t mind. In fact, we quite enjoyed the scenic drive through streets which were for once free of traffic, looking at splendid flower displays on every street corner, and seeing Beijingers strolling arm in arm, looking joyful instead of stressed.
It was a beautiful day after a night of rain. Above us stretched a blue sky decorated with fluffy white clouds. This was no coincidence. Unthinkable though it may seem, the Chinese government controls its weather. For special occasions like the Olympics Opening Ceremony and National Day, China’s forty thousand or so “rain recruits” fire anti-aircraft guns into pregnant clouds to guarantee favorable conditions the next day.
As we drove, I listened to the live radio broadcast of the festivities with great interest. The play by play broadcast was greatly detailed: “Now President Hu Jintao is boarding his vehicle…The vehicle is starting its course down Chang’an Avenue…He is wearing a black Zhong Shan suit.” The events being relayed were laden with political and historical symbolism. For his big day, Hu had chosen the attire favored by Sun Yat-Sen who is regarded by Chinese around the world (not just mainland Chinese) as the original nationalist, the father to us all. This seemed to be a departure from previous years when top Chinese Communists emphasized their brand of Chinese-ness over other cultural ties. Hu had also chosen elements to remind the populace of Mao, like how he greeted troops along the way. (“Tong zhi men xing ku la!” or “Comrades, you’ve worked hard!”). Too bad I’m no longer in policy school – this would’ve been a great analysis for the political nerds
Before I knew it, we had arrived at the station, well ahead of time. We thanked Tian shifu as he sent us off with a look of bemused perplexity. By now, I was getting used to being thought of as a “crazy wai guo ren” who runs off to the poorest of places for a holiday.
As we joined the sizeable herd trying to squeeze through the station gates, a police officer (one of a large special force put on patrol during this politically sensitive week) pulled me aside. “Are you the translator?” he shouted while pointing at my two foreign friends.
“No, I’m their friend.” Little did I know this would just be the beginning of my being labeled “translator”. I would learn over the course of this week on the road that Chinese people have a hard time understanding me as a bilingual person who has foreign friends. They prefer to put me in the “hired help” box instead.
“Where are they from?” the policeman continued.
“America.”
At this, he was satisfied and let us through. I suppose things would’ve been a lot harder had I said “Turkey” or “Kazahkstan”! We probably got noticed in the first place because my friends, both hapa, had the ambiguous coloring that may lead one to think they’re related to Xinjiang separatists.
Inside the train station, things were as crazy as I expected. There’s a Chinese expression - “people mountain people sea” - and that’s exactly the kind of crowd I came to faced. The building itself was shiny new and outfitted with big screen TV’s (all showing images of the National Day parade) but it felt like a giant farm with all the people swarming around. There was a queue for everything – the platform, KFC, the bathroom. There was even a queue just to get into position to join the bathroom queue.
We found our friends, all six of them “wai guo ren,” conspicuously camped out in a circle on the floor of waiting room eight. Already a secondary circle of curious onlookers had formed around them and our arrival only added to the spectacle. The staring is usually worse at the train station than elsewhere in cities because the railway is where the masses convene. Migrant workers who come to Beijing for construction jobs might spend their entire year cooped up on the site, having no money or time to go anywhere else until their annual homeward pilgrimage on China’s extensive railway network. Here we were presenting migrants with the perfect “tale of the big city” to take back to their villages. A few of the braver onlookers started conversations with our group, trying to understand through simplistic questions what these foreigners were all doing here and where they intended to go with the big backpacks. The more timid ones just hovered around whispering to each other every minutiae observed, “Look, she’s eating a packet of crackers.”
The two-hour wait for our train went by quickly. The nine of us introduced ourselves (this was a mixed group of friends and acquaintances) and got familiar with our soon to be roommates for the next seven days. We compared gear (mostly from Decathlon) and gadgets (between us we had ten cameras, two Flip videocams, and more zoom lens than I could count). Then, in true Chinese fashion, the throng of people around us suddenly started to move towards the boarding gate. It was forty-five minutes before departure time!
We had a small debate among us over this “push and shove” cultural phenomenon. I did my best to explain that people are in a rush to board the train and secure their already assigned seats because many older and poorer Chinese still live with a “food stamp” mentality. If during my life time I had experienced famine and remember being the last person in line when supplies ran out, then I, too, would live the rest of my life with sharp elbows.
With little choice to do otherwise, we went with the flow and boarded the train in a hurry. It was, to my dismay, a “red skin” train. China has gone through many hardware upgrades and the pleasantness of one’s train trip can be easily divined at a glance. The newest lines (like the Beijing-Shanghai bullet train) are luxurious, truly the A380’s of passenger rail. The blue-painted trains are cushy too, with private compartments and train attendants smilingly making your bed nightly. When it comes to red-painted trains things get sketchy. These are left over from the era when China bought Russian cast-off’s. The reds and greens (the bottom of the barrel) serve the poorest destinations and are consequently dirtier.
We were going to spend nineteen hours on red train for the first leg of our journey, from Beijing to Yinchuan in Ningxia province. We boarded the train at 1pm and by the time we woke up the next morning we would’ve made it halfway across China, to as remote and foreign a land as we could get without stepping into Xinjiang or Tibet.
It was going to be a long ride so we worked to settle in as comfortably as possible once we boarded the “hard sleeper” car (an open carriage of sleep berths, kind of like military barracks on wheels). I smiled at our immediate neighbors hoping to ease their nervousness at being in such close quarters with strange foreigners. I fished toiletries and sleepwear out of my backpack and stowed the rest on the luggage rack overhead. I explored the bathroom and discovered it to be in significantly poorer condition than the blue trains I was used to taking to Harbin. Oh well, time to start roughing it!
My travel buddies took the poor amenities in stride and found cheap thrills. They played cards in the dining carriage, examined every push cart that came by with interest (selling snacks, drinks, toilet paper, and bento box dinners), and tried out the classic Chinese train dinner of Master Kung cup noodles. As the sky darkened outside we grew weary and retreated to our respective berths, doing our best to protect our bodies from touching the unclean sheets. (Most of us opted to go to sleep in our dark-colored fleeces and sweatpants). As we pulled up the grimy covers and found our night-time reading the lights suddenly went off. A sweet broadcaster voice cooed to us through the PA system, “Dear passengers, it’s lights out time.”
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Go West: The Night Before (Part 1)
Travel tales from western China...
After years of going further and further west from home (Europe, North America) I decided to take a different kind of westward journey: a seven-day adventure on old clunker trains and camel backs, sleeping in hard berths and flimsy tents, going through desert and grassland terrain. Ningxia Autonomous Region and Inner (Chinese) Mongolia, here I come.
I had done some backpacking before around Northern California, mostly in Yosemite National Park. But these had been trips planned by seasoned trekkers who also happened to be dating me and willing to schlep my tent and cooking ware. Never had I undertaken the task of figuring out what supplies I need, carrying it all, and being responsible for my own provisions in the “wild”.
There was little time to prepare for my westward adventure. I left on October 1, started procuring supplies on September 28, and had to also plan for the last minute arrival of E who was crazy enough to fly from New York to join me.
The gear was easy to get after I discovered that wondrous emporium, Decathlon. Branded backpacks, tents, and sleeping bags sold at Chinese factory outlet prices. I loaded up, selecting the cheapest pack I could find that was not so monstrously large as to appear to rise up from my back and swallow me whole.
I was excited about the functional straps and buckles dangling from my new backpack, my very first “hard core looking” piece of rugged luggage. But figuring out what to put into it was a series of blind stabs. The travel agency that arranged the logistics of the trip sent very few details. The limited information I did have was conveyed in patchy English devoid of punctuation. Does “take train in Yinchuan arrive in Zhongwei after breakfast drive two hours to desert” mean that I have to pack my own breakfast or that I will get to eat breakfast in town before climbing onto a camel? Reliable weather reports for the remote locales I would be visiting were also scarce. In many Google searches I came up with a day to night time temperature range of zero to thirty degrees Celsius.
To be safe, I pulled a weeks’ worth of summer clothing (tank tops and sorts) and winter clothing (parka, gloves, long underwear) each. It took many rounds of elimination and repacking before I ran out of time and was simply stuck with taking whatever permutation of flexible weather outfits were in the pack. Although hurried, I was ready to go, provided E’s flight arrived from New York on time, he brought the Trader Joe’s trail mix as I asked, and I didn’t forget to steal two rolls of toilet paper from mom’s bathroom the next morning.
Before I lay down to enjoy my last snuggle in a warm and soft bed for the week I had to work out one last kink. There was a big question mark dangling over whether I could transport myself to the train station the next morning. Starting at midnight Beijing’s thoroughfares would be closed for the government to transport 1.7 million performers to their positions for the National Day parade. This was President Hu Jintao’s time to shine (much like it was Chairman Mao’s moment of glory sixty years ago on the same day when he declared a new Chinese republic atop Tiananmen). No one bothered to tell the little people how they should route their airport or train station commutes on the big day. I confirmed my plan with a “black cab” driver I trusted to be picked up three hours before the train’s scheduled departure and driven via a very circuitous route to Beijing West station. For this special service I would pay double the regular price.
As I tucked myself in the night before the trip started I counted, instead of sheep, all the ways that it could go wrong before it even got started. Good thing I left plenty of extra time in case I would need to walk a good part of the 30 kilometers to the train!
After years of going further and further west from home (Europe, North America) I decided to take a different kind of westward journey: a seven-day adventure on old clunker trains and camel backs, sleeping in hard berths and flimsy tents, going through desert and grassland terrain. Ningxia Autonomous Region and Inner (Chinese) Mongolia, here I come.
I had done some backpacking before around Northern California, mostly in Yosemite National Park. But these had been trips planned by seasoned trekkers who also happened to be dating me and willing to schlep my tent and cooking ware. Never had I undertaken the task of figuring out what supplies I need, carrying it all, and being responsible for my own provisions in the “wild”.
There was little time to prepare for my westward adventure. I left on October 1, started procuring supplies on September 28, and had to also plan for the last minute arrival of E who was crazy enough to fly from New York to join me.
The gear was easy to get after I discovered that wondrous emporium, Decathlon. Branded backpacks, tents, and sleeping bags sold at Chinese factory outlet prices. I loaded up, selecting the cheapest pack I could find that was not so monstrously large as to appear to rise up from my back and swallow me whole.
I was excited about the functional straps and buckles dangling from my new backpack, my very first “hard core looking” piece of rugged luggage. But figuring out what to put into it was a series of blind stabs. The travel agency that arranged the logistics of the trip sent very few details. The limited information I did have was conveyed in patchy English devoid of punctuation. Does “take train in Yinchuan arrive in Zhongwei after breakfast drive two hours to desert” mean that I have to pack my own breakfast or that I will get to eat breakfast in town before climbing onto a camel? Reliable weather reports for the remote locales I would be visiting were also scarce. In many Google searches I came up with a day to night time temperature range of zero to thirty degrees Celsius.
To be safe, I pulled a weeks’ worth of summer clothing (tank tops and sorts) and winter clothing (parka, gloves, long underwear) each. It took many rounds of elimination and repacking before I ran out of time and was simply stuck with taking whatever permutation of flexible weather outfits were in the pack. Although hurried, I was ready to go, provided E’s flight arrived from New York on time, he brought the Trader Joe’s trail mix as I asked, and I didn’t forget to steal two rolls of toilet paper from mom’s bathroom the next morning.
Before I lay down to enjoy my last snuggle in a warm and soft bed for the week I had to work out one last kink. There was a big question mark dangling over whether I could transport myself to the train station the next morning. Starting at midnight Beijing’s thoroughfares would be closed for the government to transport 1.7 million performers to their positions for the National Day parade. This was President Hu Jintao’s time to shine (much like it was Chairman Mao’s moment of glory sixty years ago on the same day when he declared a new Chinese republic atop Tiananmen). No one bothered to tell the little people how they should route their airport or train station commutes on the big day. I confirmed my plan with a “black cab” driver I trusted to be picked up three hours before the train’s scheduled departure and driven via a very circuitous route to Beijing West station. For this special service I would pay double the regular price.
As I tucked myself in the night before the trip started I counted, instead of sheep, all the ways that it could go wrong before it even got started. Good thing I left plenty of extra time in case I would need to walk a good part of the 30 kilometers to the train!
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Saturday Night Fear Factor
Last night, in between imbibing pretty cocktails at Q-bar and thumping to the DJ’s European beats at Punk, I scored a major gastronomical triumph. I managed to persuade some very foreign friends to sample that “frightening but irresistible” stew I mentioned in my previous post.
“Mao Xue Wang” quite literally means “hair, blood, vigorous,” a rather precise description of this spicy, oily concoction of tripe (I think that’s what the “hair” refers to, cilia), blood tofu (just like blood sausage, but square-shaped), intestines, arterial walls (or is it esophagus?), spam, and some harmless vegetables (wood ears, or in last night’s case, thick vermicelli noodles).
The night had started out with very tame food and beverage choices. A large group assembled at Q-bar for a friend’s going away party. After two years in Beijing as a sometimes-frustrated journalist, A was headed to London for a coveted internship with the Financial Times and gathered her friends for one last shebang.
Having been away for a few years I was a complete nightlife newbie. I had no idea what the visually arresting array of new mega-malls, glitzy restaurants, and darkly promising clubs had to offer. I looked up Q-bar on the internet before I set out and was pleased to find it had its own website, but then promptly displeased (yet not at all surprised) to find the web link broken. Google Maps told me it was in the middle of the San Li Tun bar district and I copied down the phone number, which saved me from giving bad directions to our cabby.
Q-bar was a bit of a hidden gem. To get to the rooftop spread we had to enter through the sparse- and stern-looking reception area of a 1980’s state-run hotel, take the lift to the top, then walk past rooms 502 and 503 and go up a flight of stairs. I was surprised to find such a budget and thoroughly Chinese-looking hotel set in the epicenter of Western activity in Beijing. San Li Tun has many retail and entertainment outlets that don’t even have Chinese names. The bar was impressive – large, faintly glowing red from beneath the floorboards, and partitioned into cozy lounging areas.
The weather, either as a result of the day’s rain or as an early harbinger of the cool autumn that’s to come (oh how I’ve waited for it), was perfect for a few drinks en plein-air. I ordered a ginger martini, which sounded promising but was actually exceptionally spicy and low-grade alcohol tasting.
The friends arrived. I had invited T, my new Swedish friend whose buxom blond good looks unfortunately get her confused for a high-class Russian escort sometimes. P was my husband’s friend from Boston, with an accent so thick that I feel like I’m on the set of “Good Will Hunting” if I close my eyes and listen.
After a few rounds of drinks – I later went with safer choices, like chardonnay – and amusedly flipping through P’s pocket phrasebook, a small laminated filofax that allows him to point to the address of any destination in Beijing, I got the late night hunger bug. I started raving to my friends about Mao Xue Wang, half joking that it’d be the perfect grub to warm me up pre-clubbing, but not believing for a second that anyone would join me in partaking of this “blood stew.”
T, bless her heart and palate, was game for it, as long as I promised I’d go dancing afterwards. The rest of our group took some persuading, but soon I was out on the street dialing directory assistance on 114 to find out if two of the posher spicy food restaurant chains had an outlet nearby. Neither one answered and we gave up on the idea, taking to the street to search for anything to fill us up. We stopped at the closest open restaurant, sat down, and voila! There it was - Mao Xue Wang -prominently advertised on menu page one.
With this stroke of luck it seemed we were destined to have a bit of organ soup. The waitress gave me a strange look when, without looking through the menu, I straight up ordered one Mao Xue Wang, a beer, and a few bottles of water.
When the stew was brought out it was in one of those oversized serving bowls and just looked like a big vessel of chilies and oil. I prefaced to my friends that this was not the best-looking Mao Xue Wang I’ve seen, maybe a bit too oily and lacking fresh chilies.
We picked up our chopsticks, or at least T and I did, and I pointed out the various constituents of this murky stew much as a weatherman would indicate oncoming storms on a blue screen. I served each a piece of spam, the least suspicious “meat” in this dish, to my Caucasian friends and husband.
T took a bite and proclaimed it good, then plunged her chopsticks to get at the better stuff. Apparently in Sweden there is a similarly frightening dish – large chunks of fried blood – so she was no novice at eating hemoglobin. P looked at his spam disinterestedly, but after seeing the girls heartily partake he asked me one more time whether it was “really just spam” and proceeded to eat. Meanwhile, T was going in for a sampling of each of the parts, affirming that the arterial walls (or was it esophagus?) were indeed “crunchy.” P got increasingly adventurous as he downed his Yanjing Pure beer and even snipped a small corner off a piece of blood tofu and popped it into his mouth. Only G remained unmoved by the spicy bits I laid on his plate.
I’m happy to report that the stew was generally a hit and it did power us “vigorously” to 4am as we danced to creative mixes at Punk (a small club located in a very high-ceilinged, glass-paneled, airy building). As I teeter tottered across the cobbled pavement on my way home I teased G gently about his refusal to try the blood stew to which I am so partial. He promised he’d try a “very small” piece next time, and we shook pinkies on it.
“Mao Xue Wang” quite literally means “hair, blood, vigorous,” a rather precise description of this spicy, oily concoction of tripe (I think that’s what the “hair” refers to, cilia), blood tofu (just like blood sausage, but square-shaped), intestines, arterial walls (or is it esophagus?), spam, and some harmless vegetables (wood ears, or in last night’s case, thick vermicelli noodles).
The night had started out with very tame food and beverage choices. A large group assembled at Q-bar for a friend’s going away party. After two years in Beijing as a sometimes-frustrated journalist, A was headed to London for a coveted internship with the Financial Times and gathered her friends for one last shebang.
Having been away for a few years I was a complete nightlife newbie. I had no idea what the visually arresting array of new mega-malls, glitzy restaurants, and darkly promising clubs had to offer. I looked up Q-bar on the internet before I set out and was pleased to find it had its own website, but then promptly displeased (yet not at all surprised) to find the web link broken. Google Maps told me it was in the middle of the San Li Tun bar district and I copied down the phone number, which saved me from giving bad directions to our cabby.
Q-bar was a bit of a hidden gem. To get to the rooftop spread we had to enter through the sparse- and stern-looking reception area of a 1980’s state-run hotel, take the lift to the top, then walk past rooms 502 and 503 and go up a flight of stairs. I was surprised to find such a budget and thoroughly Chinese-looking hotel set in the epicenter of Western activity in Beijing. San Li Tun has many retail and entertainment outlets that don’t even have Chinese names. The bar was impressive – large, faintly glowing red from beneath the floorboards, and partitioned into cozy lounging areas.
The weather, either as a result of the day’s rain or as an early harbinger of the cool autumn that’s to come (oh how I’ve waited for it), was perfect for a few drinks en plein-air. I ordered a ginger martini, which sounded promising but was actually exceptionally spicy and low-grade alcohol tasting.
The friends arrived. I had invited T, my new Swedish friend whose buxom blond good looks unfortunately get her confused for a high-class Russian escort sometimes. P was my husband’s friend from Boston, with an accent so thick that I feel like I’m on the set of “Good Will Hunting” if I close my eyes and listen.
After a few rounds of drinks – I later went with safer choices, like chardonnay – and amusedly flipping through P’s pocket phrasebook, a small laminated filofax that allows him to point to the address of any destination in Beijing, I got the late night hunger bug. I started raving to my friends about Mao Xue Wang, half joking that it’d be the perfect grub to warm me up pre-clubbing, but not believing for a second that anyone would join me in partaking of this “blood stew.”
T, bless her heart and palate, was game for it, as long as I promised I’d go dancing afterwards. The rest of our group took some persuading, but soon I was out on the street dialing directory assistance on 114 to find out if two of the posher spicy food restaurant chains had an outlet nearby. Neither one answered and we gave up on the idea, taking to the street to search for anything to fill us up. We stopped at the closest open restaurant, sat down, and voila! There it was - Mao Xue Wang -prominently advertised on menu page one.
With this stroke of luck it seemed we were destined to have a bit of organ soup. The waitress gave me a strange look when, without looking through the menu, I straight up ordered one Mao Xue Wang, a beer, and a few bottles of water.
When the stew was brought out it was in one of those oversized serving bowls and just looked like a big vessel of chilies and oil. I prefaced to my friends that this was not the best-looking Mao Xue Wang I’ve seen, maybe a bit too oily and lacking fresh chilies.
We picked up our chopsticks, or at least T and I did, and I pointed out the various constituents of this murky stew much as a weatherman would indicate oncoming storms on a blue screen. I served each a piece of spam, the least suspicious “meat” in this dish, to my Caucasian friends and husband.
T took a bite and proclaimed it good, then plunged her chopsticks to get at the better stuff. Apparently in Sweden there is a similarly frightening dish – large chunks of fried blood – so she was no novice at eating hemoglobin. P looked at his spam disinterestedly, but after seeing the girls heartily partake he asked me one more time whether it was “really just spam” and proceeded to eat. Meanwhile, T was going in for a sampling of each of the parts, affirming that the arterial walls (or was it esophagus?) were indeed “crunchy.” P got increasingly adventurous as he downed his Yanjing Pure beer and even snipped a small corner off a piece of blood tofu and popped it into his mouth. Only G remained unmoved by the spicy bits I laid on his plate.
I’m happy to report that the stew was generally a hit and it did power us “vigorously” to 4am as we danced to creative mixes at Punk (a small club located in a very high-ceilinged, glass-paneled, airy building). As I teeter tottered across the cobbled pavement on my way home I teased G gently about his refusal to try the blood stew to which I am so partial. He promised he’d try a “very small” piece next time, and we shook pinkies on it.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Old Luxury: Vintage Shopping in Paris
When I think of “vintage” my nose crinkles at the remembrance of musty smells and my arms itch as if I’ve already dug through piles of fraying fabric. I’m a city girl, I like a polished look, and quite simply, I don’t “do” vintage.
But there was something irresistible about vintage in Paris. Here “vintage” doesn’t mean overpriced Salvation Army goods or your grandmother’s discarded house dress. In Paris, vintage is for real collectors and for those who want haute couture at bargain prices.
Many times on random walks through the neighborhoods I came upon little stalls, shops, and even sprawling markets that sell everything old. In this vintage enthusiast’s dream world I’ve seen and petted a real stuffed zebra (for taxidermy fans), I’ve touched lace so old and airy that I feared it would dissolve in a puff of magic dust on my fingertip, and I’ve tried carrying many, MANY crocodile frame handbags in the crook of my arm.
After a few fun but accidental drop-in’s at Parisian “friperies,” I decided to do a proper vintage (window-) shopping excursion. First, I had to do my research. I went to WH Smith, one of the biggest English bookstores in Paris, and shamelessly copied pages of a vintage shopping guidebook into my Moleskin. I then circled each of the stores I wanted to check out in my pocket city map-book. Lastly, I talked G into navigating me around the city to find these stores on bikes (easier than the Metro for some of the locations and far faster than walking).
The tony neighborhoods had plenty of ultra high-end vintage stores that required appointments. I skipped these and concentrated my fieldtrip around the younger, hipper, and cheaper neighborhoods in the Marais and Bastille areas. My favorite shopping experience was at Come On Eileen, which has turned me onto vintage for life.
Come On Eileen sits on a quiet side street off Rue de la Roquette. Outside, a pair of plastic mannequins stands underneath a pink neon sign (very 80’s) spelling out the store name. Once inside, shoppers immediately see just how deceptive the narrow storefront is – this is a three-level emporium stacked floor-to-ceiling with old fashion fare.
On the first floor is an impressive collection of dresses, handbags, eyewear, and shoes. I had to contain my excitement -- genuine crocodile leather handbags from the 1960’s on sale for as little as 50 euros (compare to the thousands you’d have to spend on this season’s styles)! One floor down is a denim haven stocked with jeans of every age and variety. Most of these Levi’s are easily older than I am. Finally, in the lowest basement level, also the biggest showroom in the store, is a wild collection of outer wear (Burberry trench coats), boots, and the requisite wigs and knick knacks.
The abundance of goods is enough to make any fashionista drool, but what most appeals to me about Come On Eileen is how organized it is. The décor is bohemian and goods are carelessly draped on a chair here, a table there, but over all everything is accessible. No rifling through boxes of callously tossed clothing or wrestling with five hangers tangled together. Everything is also impeccably clean – the buyers have obviously taken the time to pick their goods and restore them to useable condition before putting them on the racks.
I chatted with the salesgirls a bit, Fabienne and Silvia, and learn from them that the owner, Daniel, has been a serious collector for decades. The store has been around for ten years, before “friperies” became all the rage in Paris, or New York and London for that matter. Daniel picks his pieces carefully and prices for what he thinks the goods are worth, not more, not less. Having visited the store, I now shared some kind of tenuous connection with a host of celebrities who are regular customers – Lou Doillon, Kylie Minogue, Chloe Sevigny, Tory Burch, to name a few. Wow, seems I randomly found the cream of the “brocante” crop here at Come On Eileen!
Being a total novice at vintage, I wanted to see what a seasoned eye would pick out of the store. I asked Silvia to show me a few of her favorite pieces. She protests a little, in her charming Slovakian accented French, but then obliges. Silva shows me a grey wool Hermes jacket from the 1960’s, trimmed with tan leather and in almost-new condition (500 euros); a Courreges ivory dress from the 1950’s, which also looks hardly worn (1300 euros); and a signature Pucci print dress.
Despite promising to myself in advance that I wouldn’t buy anything, I couldn’t resist taking just a small souvenir away with me. I focused on accessories for their generally smaller price tags. I spent a long time choosing from a few favorites – brown / orange python Mary Janes from Prada 2007 (150 euros); glossy black croc purse (100 euros); brown knee high boots (painfully chic and so very Parisian, 70 euros). With a little help from G, I finally settled on a deep scarlet leather sling-across purse from Cartier. It had a classic pillbox shape and looks new, probably easier to fit into my as yet non-vintage wardrobe back in Singapore. And it was only 30 euros! I’d recommend anyone lucky enough to find themselves in Paris next to swing by this amazing treasure trove.
Before I left I had just one question, what’s with the name? Turns out Daniel doesn’t only know his fashion well, he also is a fan of 80’s pop. He named his store after the British hit song and his daughter, Eileen.
But there was something irresistible about vintage in Paris. Here “vintage” doesn’t mean overpriced Salvation Army goods or your grandmother’s discarded house dress. In Paris, vintage is for real collectors and for those who want haute couture at bargain prices.
Many times on random walks through the neighborhoods I came upon little stalls, shops, and even sprawling markets that sell everything old. In this vintage enthusiast’s dream world I’ve seen and petted a real stuffed zebra (for taxidermy fans), I’ve touched lace so old and airy that I feared it would dissolve in a puff of magic dust on my fingertip, and I’ve tried carrying many, MANY crocodile frame handbags in the crook of my arm.
After a few fun but accidental drop-in’s at Parisian “friperies,” I decided to do a proper vintage (window-) shopping excursion. First, I had to do my research. I went to WH Smith, one of the biggest English bookstores in Paris, and shamelessly copied pages of a vintage shopping guidebook into my Moleskin. I then circled each of the stores I wanted to check out in my pocket city map-book. Lastly, I talked G into navigating me around the city to find these stores on bikes (easier than the Metro for some of the locations and far faster than walking).
The tony neighborhoods had plenty of ultra high-end vintage stores that required appointments. I skipped these and concentrated my fieldtrip around the younger, hipper, and cheaper neighborhoods in the Marais and Bastille areas. My favorite shopping experience was at Come On Eileen, which has turned me onto vintage for life.
Come On Eileen sits on a quiet side street off Rue de la Roquette. Outside, a pair of plastic mannequins stands underneath a pink neon sign (very 80’s) spelling out the store name. Once inside, shoppers immediately see just how deceptive the narrow storefront is – this is a three-level emporium stacked floor-to-ceiling with old fashion fare.
On the first floor is an impressive collection of dresses, handbags, eyewear, and shoes. I had to contain my excitement -- genuine crocodile leather handbags from the 1960’s on sale for as little as 50 euros (compare to the thousands you’d have to spend on this season’s styles)! One floor down is a denim haven stocked with jeans of every age and variety. Most of these Levi’s are easily older than I am. Finally, in the lowest basement level, also the biggest showroom in the store, is a wild collection of outer wear (Burberry trench coats), boots, and the requisite wigs and knick knacks.
The abundance of goods is enough to make any fashionista drool, but what most appeals to me about Come On Eileen is how organized it is. The décor is bohemian and goods are carelessly draped on a chair here, a table there, but over all everything is accessible. No rifling through boxes of callously tossed clothing or wrestling with five hangers tangled together. Everything is also impeccably clean – the buyers have obviously taken the time to pick their goods and restore them to useable condition before putting them on the racks.
I chatted with the salesgirls a bit, Fabienne and Silvia, and learn from them that the owner, Daniel, has been a serious collector for decades. The store has been around for ten years, before “friperies” became all the rage in Paris, or New York and London for that matter. Daniel picks his pieces carefully and prices for what he thinks the goods are worth, not more, not less. Having visited the store, I now shared some kind of tenuous connection with a host of celebrities who are regular customers – Lou Doillon, Kylie Minogue, Chloe Sevigny, Tory Burch, to name a few. Wow, seems I randomly found the cream of the “brocante” crop here at Come On Eileen!
Being a total novice at vintage, I wanted to see what a seasoned eye would pick out of the store. I asked Silvia to show me a few of her favorite pieces. She protests a little, in her charming Slovakian accented French, but then obliges. Silva shows me a grey wool Hermes jacket from the 1960’s, trimmed with tan leather and in almost-new condition (500 euros); a Courreges ivory dress from the 1950’s, which also looks hardly worn (1300 euros); and a signature Pucci print dress.
Despite promising to myself in advance that I wouldn’t buy anything, I couldn’t resist taking just a small souvenir away with me. I focused on accessories for their generally smaller price tags. I spent a long time choosing from a few favorites – brown / orange python Mary Janes from Prada 2007 (150 euros); glossy black croc purse (100 euros); brown knee high boots (painfully chic and so very Parisian, 70 euros). With a little help from G, I finally settled on a deep scarlet leather sling-across purse from Cartier. It had a classic pillbox shape and looks new, probably easier to fit into my as yet non-vintage wardrobe back in Singapore. And it was only 30 euros! I’d recommend anyone lucky enough to find themselves in Paris next to swing by this amazing treasure trove.
Before I left I had just one question, what’s with the name? Turns out Daniel doesn’t only know his fashion well, he also is a fan of 80’s pop. He named his store after the British hit song and his daughter, Eileen.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Things I Love Most About Unemployment
Here I am in Beijing! My feet have been amply massaged, I’m extravagantly fed in mom’s kitchen, and I’ve started committing the daily acts of small subversion that seem to define life in China.
Arriving two days ago I was devastated to find that the omnipotent web censors in China have blocked access to Blogspot and Facebook, the two things I rely on to distribute my quotidian post. I sent a few email to friends and quickly learned that everyone who has chosen to make their life here has at least one favorite proxy server for accessing forbidden Western websites. This is the Chinese way – rules are made, rules are broken, life goes on.
So, my problem is solved, life is perfect again. Life on my unemployment holiday is mostly pretty perfect, but what do I love the most about it? (I say this with all the respect due to people who are involuntarily jobless and in need). Beyond the trifling luxuries of sleeping in and going out on “school nights”, I love my unemployment most for giving me time to learn about myself. Three big lessons from the last three months:
1. I have everything I need, not everything I want. This is a good thing.
In May I forced myself to pack light for the nomadic life, and through the summer I have had to stay light. Before I set out, I repacked my suitcase three times, trying to pick only a few outfits from four full closets. Once I hit the road I became perfectly content with having only fifteen articles of clothing.
I brought mostly basics – black and white tank tops that were in the “hardly ever wear” pile at home, a navy cardigan that saw the light of day only once after I bought it two years ago, a pair of skinny jeans, and a few dresses for special occasions (like my college roommate’s wedding in Florence).
Instead of tedium, I found daily enjoyment in my small trousseau. I took the pains to wash these simple garments by hand, fold them with care each time I packed my bags again, and I really felt clever if I managed to create a new look by adding an accessory.
The point I’m trying to make here isn’t about my creativity with fashion. It’s about the fact that I didn’t miss my Gucci bag or long for my crystal-studded heels or feel compelled to shop, all summer long.
Away from the daily stresses of corporate life and the barrage of consumer products that pave the way from the subway to the office, I found out that I don’t need many material things. My attitude of “I work so hard I deserve to buy these shoes” went flying out the window, along with the trappings of having too many possessions. Never once on holiday did I get annoyed about not finding the right top or losing a rhinestone in my earring.
I understand what Kenny Chesney’s cheesy song is trying to get at now – “no shirt, no shoes, no problems.”
2. If you had to go live on a deserted island, who would you take with you?
I not only found out which of my things I most love, I also found out who the people are that I really love. I mean REALLY love.
Yes, I love my friends dearly, and my cousin’s two-year old son, and maybe I even love an old workmate once a year on her birthday (when I send a card casually signed “Love, Qi”). But who are the indispensable ones that bring me happiness in life?
Far away from my usual company of coworkers, clients, acquaintances, and friends to party with, I gravitated towards just a handful of people. I emailed them whenever and from wherever to report my latest adventure, I called them to let them know I was happy and well, and I had to find a way to meet up with them on my travels even if it was just for an afternoon of fervent chatting.
Not surprisingly, my husband and my mom grew bigger and bigger on the distilled list of “people I really love.” My husband I began to love again in the way that I loved him when we first started dating. With fewer people and events competing for my free time I forgot that I had known him for almost five years and for most of that time had been nagging him to put up the toilet seat. It was special to discover that I enjoyed myself with him as much, if not more, catching the budget bus to Amsterdam as I did lounging poolside at the Four Seasons.
My mother, although I didn’t see her during my travels, was constantly on my mind. Every time I tasted a new dish, came upon a row of charming houses, or encountered some exotic flowers I took a picture and wished that I could email all the other senses to her as well. And so it naturally developed that after months of traveling far away from home, I had to come to Beijing to complete my holiday.
If I had to go away forever I would miss many people, but I wouldn’t leave for the life of me without my husband and my mom.
3. I am good for my mind and good for my body
When I was working I could’ve started the Perezhilton.com and Us Weekly Addicts Anonymous clubs. My precious weekends flew by in a flurry of social events and grand plans to “hunker down and read a good book,” which quickly gave way to the much easier non-activity in front of my favorite celebrity gossip outlet.
When I quit my job a big part of me worried that even with endless free time I would not get around to doing any of the mini projects I set. Would I end up surfing the web all day, filling my head with Hollywood trivia?
Luckily, when free time became abundant I spent more and more of it reading books (classics that I never wanted to pick up on a Saturday off work because they were too “heavy”), writing in my journal, and doing yoga. When leisurely activity didn’t have to fit into a 48-hour time frame I didn’t need the instantly gratifying “Jon & Kate Plus Eight” photo update. With every passing day, I remember more books I’ve been wanting to read, jot down more writing ideas to develop, and dream up more difficult yoga postures to master.
It’s a relief of sorts to find out that, left to my own devices, my mind seeks improvement, as does my body.
These three things may be commonplace to some, but to me they are profound learning’s about myself. Some people have good perspective and they gain it early, and manage to hang onto it even as they tread on the hamster wheel of working life. But me, I needed to take drastic action before I could see the elements essential to my happiness.
Getting out of the job, ridding myself of the apartment, and leaving behind most of the accessories of a “successful” life gave me the physical and metaphorical space to see what makes me happy. This period of unemployment is a blank sheet of paper onto which I can draw anew. If, at the end of this long holiday, nothing grand emerges (no life-changing epiphany, no novels published, no business to start), at least I will be resuming “normal” life with a better understanding of myself. And that, to me, is worth all the while.
Arriving two days ago I was devastated to find that the omnipotent web censors in China have blocked access to Blogspot and Facebook, the two things I rely on to distribute my quotidian post. I sent a few email to friends and quickly learned that everyone who has chosen to make their life here has at least one favorite proxy server for accessing forbidden Western websites. This is the Chinese way – rules are made, rules are broken, life goes on.
So, my problem is solved, life is perfect again. Life on my unemployment holiday is mostly pretty perfect, but what do I love the most about it? (I say this with all the respect due to people who are involuntarily jobless and in need). Beyond the trifling luxuries of sleeping in and going out on “school nights”, I love my unemployment most for giving me time to learn about myself. Three big lessons from the last three months:
1. I have everything I need, not everything I want. This is a good thing.
In May I forced myself to pack light for the nomadic life, and through the summer I have had to stay light. Before I set out, I repacked my suitcase three times, trying to pick only a few outfits from four full closets. Once I hit the road I became perfectly content with having only fifteen articles of clothing.
I brought mostly basics – black and white tank tops that were in the “hardly ever wear” pile at home, a navy cardigan that saw the light of day only once after I bought it two years ago, a pair of skinny jeans, and a few dresses for special occasions (like my college roommate’s wedding in Florence).
Instead of tedium, I found daily enjoyment in my small trousseau. I took the pains to wash these simple garments by hand, fold them with care each time I packed my bags again, and I really felt clever if I managed to create a new look by adding an accessory.
The point I’m trying to make here isn’t about my creativity with fashion. It’s about the fact that I didn’t miss my Gucci bag or long for my crystal-studded heels or feel compelled to shop, all summer long.
Away from the daily stresses of corporate life and the barrage of consumer products that pave the way from the subway to the office, I found out that I don’t need many material things. My attitude of “I work so hard I deserve to buy these shoes” went flying out the window, along with the trappings of having too many possessions. Never once on holiday did I get annoyed about not finding the right top or losing a rhinestone in my earring.
I understand what Kenny Chesney’s cheesy song is trying to get at now – “no shirt, no shoes, no problems.”
2. If you had to go live on a deserted island, who would you take with you?
I not only found out which of my things I most love, I also found out who the people are that I really love. I mean REALLY love.
Yes, I love my friends dearly, and my cousin’s two-year old son, and maybe I even love an old workmate once a year on her birthday (when I send a card casually signed “Love, Qi”). But who are the indispensable ones that bring me happiness in life?
Far away from my usual company of coworkers, clients, acquaintances, and friends to party with, I gravitated towards just a handful of people. I emailed them whenever and from wherever to report my latest adventure, I called them to let them know I was happy and well, and I had to find a way to meet up with them on my travels even if it was just for an afternoon of fervent chatting.
Not surprisingly, my husband and my mom grew bigger and bigger on the distilled list of “people I really love.” My husband I began to love again in the way that I loved him when we first started dating. With fewer people and events competing for my free time I forgot that I had known him for almost five years and for most of that time had been nagging him to put up the toilet seat. It was special to discover that I enjoyed myself with him as much, if not more, catching the budget bus to Amsterdam as I did lounging poolside at the Four Seasons.
My mother, although I didn’t see her during my travels, was constantly on my mind. Every time I tasted a new dish, came upon a row of charming houses, or encountered some exotic flowers I took a picture and wished that I could email all the other senses to her as well. And so it naturally developed that after months of traveling far away from home, I had to come to Beijing to complete my holiday.
If I had to go away forever I would miss many people, but I wouldn’t leave for the life of me without my husband and my mom.
3. I am good for my mind and good for my body
When I was working I could’ve started the Perezhilton.com and Us Weekly Addicts Anonymous clubs. My precious weekends flew by in a flurry of social events and grand plans to “hunker down and read a good book,” which quickly gave way to the much easier non-activity in front of my favorite celebrity gossip outlet.
When I quit my job a big part of me worried that even with endless free time I would not get around to doing any of the mini projects I set. Would I end up surfing the web all day, filling my head with Hollywood trivia?
Luckily, when free time became abundant I spent more and more of it reading books (classics that I never wanted to pick up on a Saturday off work because they were too “heavy”), writing in my journal, and doing yoga. When leisurely activity didn’t have to fit into a 48-hour time frame I didn’t need the instantly gratifying “Jon & Kate Plus Eight” photo update. With every passing day, I remember more books I’ve been wanting to read, jot down more writing ideas to develop, and dream up more difficult yoga postures to master.
It’s a relief of sorts to find out that, left to my own devices, my mind seeks improvement, as does my body.
These three things may be commonplace to some, but to me they are profound learning’s about myself. Some people have good perspective and they gain it early, and manage to hang onto it even as they tread on the hamster wheel of working life. But me, I needed to take drastic action before I could see the elements essential to my happiness.
Getting out of the job, ridding myself of the apartment, and leaving behind most of the accessories of a “successful” life gave me the physical and metaphorical space to see what makes me happy. This period of unemployment is a blank sheet of paper onto which I can draw anew. If, at the end of this long holiday, nothing grand emerges (no life-changing epiphany, no novels published, no business to start), at least I will be resuming “normal” life with a better understanding of myself. And that, to me, is worth all the while.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Eating in France: wine, cheese...and tagine?
This time around, I realized that on all my previous trips to France I had been making a regrettable gastronomical omission. In my determination to eat through all the brasseries and patisseries, to sample and record as many wines, cheeses, meats, and sweets as possible, I had entirely forgotten about the ethnic foods. In fact, France is teeming with North African and Middle Eastern fare. Moroccan, Tunisian, Algerian, kosher, hallal – it’s all here. I rectified my error with a few tasty samples this summer.
Chez Younice, 13 rue d’Avron, Paris 75020
This unassuming family-run Moroccan restaurant in the unglamorous 20th arrondissement is charming in every way. From the moment you walk in and get in line, for there is almost always a wait for a table at this popular neighborhood joint, Younice makes sure you’re well taken care of. He’s the thirty-something owner / waiter / all around busboy who greets you and offers mint tea on the house as an apology for the wait time. His friend and co-waiter, Yassine, stops to chat with regular diners as he darts in and out of the kitchen carrying dishes that leave clouds of spices lingering in the air. Fatouma, mother to Younice, is the unseen doyenne of the kitchen. There’s nothing amiss here – the price is right (11 euros for a piping hot mutton tagine served with heapfuls of couscous), the service warm (somewhat rare in Parisian eateries), and if you stay beyond the regular dining hours you’re likely to have the company of the two waiters. As the restaurant quiets down, Younice and Yassine engage in pleasantries that, if you’re lucky, include offering you free sample-size dishes to further your education in Moroccan cuisine and drawing napkin maps of the best surfing spots in their native country. Oh, and did I mention they’re both dashingly handsome?
http://chezyounice.fr
La Ruche au Miel, 19 rue d'Aligre, Paris 75012
I came upon this ambient and ornate Algerian cafe by accident one Sunday while browsing the flea market, Marche d'Aligres. After looking at all manner of knick knacks at the lowbrow antiques section I needed to find a bathroom and ducked into the nearest cafe, La Ruche au Miel. Bladder emergency resolved, I orderd a drink out of a sense of obligation for having used the facilities. Two euros for a bronzed pot of mint tea and another two euros for baclava served me just fine. As I sipped the aromatic tea and delectable sweet I browsed the large selection coffee table books on Algeria and photographs of the desert that Habib, the friendly owner, had laid out. After we chatted a while Habib tells me that the "waiter" I had asked to point me to the bathroom upon entering was actually a celebrity. Rachid Djaidani, a curly-haired man with a friendly manner (who did not at all mind that I had assumed he was restaurant staff), is a published author with three novels under his belt and a series of mini-documentaries showing on French national TV. Between greeting regular customers and drop-ins who come by to say hello to the author/film-maker, Rachid and Habib show me videoclips from Rachid's latest documentary, which features him riding a motorcycle across Texas to hilarious effect. (Imagine French-accented "howdy" and Texans figuring out whether Rachid is "French or Muslim?"). Definitely worth a visit here for a leisurely afternoon of reading. You're likely to run into Rachid at his usual table out front!
Falafel King, rue des Rosiers, Paris 75004
The hip Marais area is filled with fashion boutiques, art galleries, and beautiful people. Surprisingly, in the midst of all this chicness is a street lined with quality cheap eats - rue des Rosiers. The sounds and sights on this stretch of road seem to me more akin to a lively hawker center in Singapore than the epicenter of cool in the world’s capital city of cool. Young Jewish and Arab men stand outside their respective eateries loudly advertising their goods, mostly falafel, hummus, and the like. After trying a few places on repeated walks down rue des Rosiers, I decided I like Falafel King (near the rue Pavee end of the street) the best. The “hawkers” out front aren’t too aggressive, the Indian chefs give you a pleased and knowing look if you ask for an extra dollop of chili, and the falafel is simply heavenly. Until I tried Falafel King I never knew falafel could be so soft, moist, and flavorful to every bite.
Marseille area
If you find yourself traipsing around Marseille it is imperative that you pop into one of the many Tunisian eateries in town. These are easy to spot – the window displays are usually piled high with honey-glazed desserts and groups of old Tunisian men are likely to be found chatting leisurely inside or outside. In my two days in Marseille I tried three of these eateries, for lunch, dinner, and late night desserts. None of them disappointed and it seemed that the more sparse the décor – to the extent I’d almost call these eateries “canteens” instead of restaurants – the better the food. If you’re following the red walking trail around the old city, the “Panier” walk, check out Chez Erouel at 29 rue Vincent Scotto. My favorites: mutton and vegetable couscous.
Chez Younice, 13 rue d’Avron, Paris 75020
This unassuming family-run Moroccan restaurant in the unglamorous 20th arrondissement is charming in every way. From the moment you walk in and get in line, for there is almost always a wait for a table at this popular neighborhood joint, Younice makes sure you’re well taken care of. He’s the thirty-something owner / waiter / all around busboy who greets you and offers mint tea on the house as an apology for the wait time. His friend and co-waiter, Yassine, stops to chat with regular diners as he darts in and out of the kitchen carrying dishes that leave clouds of spices lingering in the air. Fatouma, mother to Younice, is the unseen doyenne of the kitchen. There’s nothing amiss here – the price is right (11 euros for a piping hot mutton tagine served with heapfuls of couscous), the service warm (somewhat rare in Parisian eateries), and if you stay beyond the regular dining hours you’re likely to have the company of the two waiters. As the restaurant quiets down, Younice and Yassine engage in pleasantries that, if you’re lucky, include offering you free sample-size dishes to further your education in Moroccan cuisine and drawing napkin maps of the best surfing spots in their native country. Oh, and did I mention they’re both dashingly handsome?
http://chezyounice.fr
La Ruche au Miel, 19 rue d'Aligre, Paris 75012
I came upon this ambient and ornate Algerian cafe by accident one Sunday while browsing the flea market, Marche d'Aligres. After looking at all manner of knick knacks at the lowbrow antiques section I needed to find a bathroom and ducked into the nearest cafe, La Ruche au Miel. Bladder emergency resolved, I orderd a drink out of a sense of obligation for having used the facilities. Two euros for a bronzed pot of mint tea and another two euros for baclava served me just fine. As I sipped the aromatic tea and delectable sweet I browsed the large selection coffee table books on Algeria and photographs of the desert that Habib, the friendly owner, had laid out. After we chatted a while Habib tells me that the "waiter" I had asked to point me to the bathroom upon entering was actually a celebrity. Rachid Djaidani, a curly-haired man with a friendly manner (who did not at all mind that I had assumed he was restaurant staff), is a published author with three novels under his belt and a series of mini-documentaries showing on French national TV. Between greeting regular customers and drop-ins who come by to say hello to the author/film-maker, Rachid and Habib show me videoclips from Rachid's latest documentary, which features him riding a motorcycle across Texas to hilarious effect. (Imagine French-accented "howdy" and Texans figuring out whether Rachid is "French or Muslim?"). Definitely worth a visit here for a leisurely afternoon of reading. You're likely to run into Rachid at his usual table out front!
Falafel King, rue des Rosiers, Paris 75004
The hip Marais area is filled with fashion boutiques, art galleries, and beautiful people. Surprisingly, in the midst of all this chicness is a street lined with quality cheap eats - rue des Rosiers. The sounds and sights on this stretch of road seem to me more akin to a lively hawker center in Singapore than the epicenter of cool in the world’s capital city of cool. Young Jewish and Arab men stand outside their respective eateries loudly advertising their goods, mostly falafel, hummus, and the like. After trying a few places on repeated walks down rue des Rosiers, I decided I like Falafel King (near the rue Pavee end of the street) the best. The “hawkers” out front aren’t too aggressive, the Indian chefs give you a pleased and knowing look if you ask for an extra dollop of chili, and the falafel is simply heavenly. Until I tried Falafel King I never knew falafel could be so soft, moist, and flavorful to every bite.
Marseille area
If you find yourself traipsing around Marseille it is imperative that you pop into one of the many Tunisian eateries in town. These are easy to spot – the window displays are usually piled high with honey-glazed desserts and groups of old Tunisian men are likely to be found chatting leisurely inside or outside. In my two days in Marseille I tried three of these eateries, for lunch, dinner, and late night desserts. None of them disappointed and it seemed that the more sparse the décor – to the extent I’d almost call these eateries “canteens” instead of restaurants – the better the food. If you’re following the red walking trail around the old city, the “Panier” walk, check out Chez Erouel at 29 rue Vincent Scotto. My favorites: mutton and vegetable couscous.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Oohlala, how very onomatopoeic!
While scratching my head for an un-lofty name for this humble blog I got side-tracked into making a list of my favorite "words that sound like what they describe" (i.e. onomatopoeia) in French. A little Googling and dictionary-flipping added further to my glee. I hereby reaffirm that French is a delightful language with many many more auditory possibilities than English.
Some of my favorites:
froufrou ("froo froo") - just sounds frilly doesn't it?
chouchou ("shoe shoe") - teacher's pet
miam miam ("myahm myahm") - they're French, they subsist on carbs and fats daily and stay thin, seems appropriate that their word for "yum yum" is somehow the opposite of what we'd expect too
brouhaha ("brew ha ha") - a noisy hubbub
bric-a-brac - my very favorite
scrogneugneu ("scroh new new") - an old grouch, can't you just see the surly grimace?
glou glou ("glue glue") - glug glug
nunuche ("noo noosh") - silly
truc ("trook") - the all purpose word, literally "thingie"
rigolo - means funny, not related to gigolo
boum ("boom") - a party
and some verbs....
chuchoter ("shoe show tay") - to whisper
ronronner ("roo rong nay") - to purr
grignoter ("gree nio tay") - to nibble
and lastly...
patati et patata - so on and so forth
Some of my favorites:
froufrou ("froo froo") - just sounds frilly doesn't it?
chouchou ("shoe shoe") - teacher's pet
miam miam ("myahm myahm") - they're French, they subsist on carbs and fats daily and stay thin, seems appropriate that their word for "yum yum" is somehow the opposite of what we'd expect too
brouhaha ("brew ha ha") - a noisy hubbub
bric-a-brac - my very favorite
scrogneugneu ("scroh new new") - an old grouch, can't you just see the surly grimace?
glou glou ("glue glue") - glug glug
nunuche ("noo noosh") - silly
truc ("trook") - the all purpose word, literally "thingie"
rigolo - means funny, not related to gigolo
boum ("boom") - a party
and some verbs....
chuchoter ("shoe show tay") - to whisper
ronronner ("roo rong nay") - to purr
grignoter ("gree nio tay") - to nibble
and lastly...
patati et patata - so on and so forth
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