Yangshou

As expected, I come back from vacation and I'm swamped with work. I'm just now getting around to uploading my photos to Flickr [about 1/3 are up as of now]. The basic jist of what we did was take a night bus [fine] to Yangshou for May Holiday, stayed in the town for three nights but prices kept rising because of the massive influx of Chinese tourist, then moved into a village for the last three days. Most of our time was spent relaxing, hiking, and biking around the countryside of the YuLong River valley. I got my groove back with photography :-)


Before I went, I asked a friend who had been whether or not it's "China beautiful or World-class beautiful." My own answer is that nobody who makes a trip out there will be disappointed. It's a stunning and charming land with friendly locals and laid-back visitors.Some memorable points, in no order, as jotted down sitting down in a tea shop before the [worst] night bus [ever] left for Shenzhen:

• Finding our own valley (behind the mountains in the first picture)
  
  
• A strange bird who's ghostly noise was a long, steady single note that rose gradually before breaking into in short birst of chirps. Found higher up in the mountains, I first discovered it...
  
  
• Finding a Taiping Rebellion-era fort built into the side of karst. No maps mentioned it and I only happened to find it while climbing a bit and having...
  
  
• A little girl offering Hera and I unripe pears as she and her friends played on a trail we were hiking up
  
  
• Trying, unsuccessfully, to befriend a peasant's cow.
  
  
• Riding in a (tethered) hot air balloon for ten minutes.
  
  
• "Bamb - oooooo" The other English word, after "hello," that every villager within 100 miles knew. It was lucrative business of sending tourist down the river on bamboo rafts.
  
  
• "Hello, beer?" The business-pitch of a small restaurant owner every time I walked past.
  
  
• Having a local de-mud our bikes the last day. The mud was everywhere and created a significant problem of getting the wheels to, ya know, spin. He cleaned it in a rice patty water-hole with patches of weed and grass he grabbed.
  
  
• Five possible dishes to choose in the village. Five.
  
  
• Noting the almost total absence of people between the ages of 20 to 50 in the villages, mainly skewed towards men. They've all gone to the cities to work in the factories leaving grandparents to do the farming.
  
  
• A foreign kleptomaniac snatching Hera's phone and camera out of her bag
  
  
• Wondering whether caribou have the right-of-way.
  
  
• A cool peasant-dude who wanted to chill and chat by the river with us after I fell into his rice patty
  
  
• Not thinking about work for a week.
  
  
• Meeting a Danish fellow who was towards the end of his
  Denmark-Russia-Kazakhstan-China bicycle journey.

The Count

Photos: 1,308, 3.5 gigabytes
Days: 25
Trains: 25 hours
Buses: 16 hours
Planes: 8 hours, 7 airports
Ferries: 6 hours, 7 boats
Islands: 9
Waterfalls: 3
Backpack: 9 kilos [20 pounds]
Types of Beer: 6
Cockfights: 1
Taxis, Jeepney's, Tricycles, Motorcycles, and Tuk-Tuk's: It would take an hour to count



My trip is over. Pictures and more to follow, but I've been launched straight into the classroom. It feels good to be back in China. It almost feels like home.

Waterfalls

The rocks were the size of apples first. As we got higher they became the size of potatoes. They got bigger and bigger. Twice the rear wheel of the motorcycle lost traction and slipped and Tata and my feet raced down to prevent a fall. But the views were stunning. Behind us was the straight separating Mindanao from Camiguin Island. To the left was the cinder cone of Mt. Mambajao, we were climbing Mt. Timpoong, and a treeless older volcano was to the right. Above us clouds would come and engulf, curl, or slide down the cinder cones. Every now and then the white baby blue blue beaches wrapping small Mantique Island would flash out. We were mountain climbing with a 125cc motor.

I'd get off and walk and let Tata, my driver, go up a steep cliff, we'd drive together for another minute, and separate again until he wouldn't take his bike anymore. And then we walked. My 25 cent hotel map was bad. Real bad. It showed the falls being behind us, but we hadn't even crossed a river. We could hear water streaming below us though. We walked up a path for ten minutes before abandoning it, assuming it was only a path to the top of the mountain. Later I found it began an hour hike going to our cloud-forest falls. He knew another waterfall so we went there.

The road was easier getting there, the hike scarier. At one point the trail drops about 20 feet. The trekker holds on to a metal pipe running away from the cliff while using stones to descend. Boulder hopping across the river was also a bit tricker than I'm used to and at least twice my right foot landed in the water. Two local children acted as our tour guides, taking us through the trail to the falls.

Tomorrow: Cock fighting.

Tuawasan Falls


Tuawasan Falls


The 70m Katibawasan Falls

Bantayan to Camiguin

I left Bantayan after two days. I'll confess it had the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen, but the reefs were all blown up. Dynamite fishing is a national specialty. Reefs grow back, right? So KABOOOOM! They also like cyanide fishing. It temporarily paralyzes the fish so they can catch it alive. It has the minor side affect of killing the coral. Snorkeling is one of my favorite leisurely activities and it was very disheartening to boat out to the "best" spot in the area and find that 80% of the reef life was bleached out and any fish over 2 inches was already on someone's lunch plate. There was also the lack of other tourist our age [with two notable exceptions] and an underlying creepiness to the "Old Man's Paradise" you encounter going into town for meals or drinks. It was also very, very annoying having tricycle drivers pester and follow you every time we left the resort. That they somehow remembered our names and would call out for us when we approached was bad, that they were calling me Hera was worse.

My plan was to go to a nearby small island after Hera went back home. Malapascua was supposed to have great snorkeling but my instincts told me to get out of the area. Things couldn't be too different 30 miles away, though the inaccessibility of the island made it appealing. No ferries, no paved roads, and one diesel generator powering the entire island.

So I gambled, spent a bit more cash than I wanted, and took a very small turboprop to a small island with seven volcanoes perched off the troubled island of Mindanao. Camiguin might be the most beautiful and enchanting place I've ever been.

Most of the Philippines has an odd vibe about it. I can't put my finger on it, but it's neither welcoming nor hostile. You're a walking dollar bill and, excepting Hera's hometown, that sums up my contact with most Filipino's thus far. There's none of the curiosity that accompanies that like in China. Filipino's know Americans a little too well.

Camiguin is much different. In my short five hours here I've been astounded by the general kindness around me. My guesthouse picked me up at the airport, I got picked up and dropped off for free by a private bus and I don't know why, I spent 30 minutes chatting with a young family running a souvenir stand while waiting for a Jeepney [picture at the bottom], I made fast friends with the people on the Jeepney who helped me find the lone ATM in town. People smile here. I haven't seen a lot of smiling since Thailand. Kids waved at me from the side of road as I passed by in the Jeepney. Even motorcyclist were waving at me as they passed by [and no, not a "get out of the way!!" wave]. Even the heavily armed bank guards seemed honored to be able to tell me that my Chinese debit card won't work on this small piece of paradise.

Here are some photos. Most are from a church destroyed by an earthquake 150+ years ago. There's also an underwater graveyard that slid into the ocean at the same time that I plan to snorkel over tomorrow.

Some Photos

Part of a three-tiered waterfall in Pai, northern Thailand.



Calapan, Mindoro Island, Philippines. Hera's hometown.



Chiang Mai, Thailand. Forgot the name of the wat, but it's
somewhere near 700 years old.



The Jeepney. This is who you get around short distances
in Manilla.



Shot through the window-tint of a car. This is one of the
squatter fishing villages outside Calapan



Small church in Calapan


Our resort in Bantayan Island, Cebu, Philippines.

Old Man's Paradise

His looked and acted like an old seaman. Deep wrinkles, permanently tanned skin, and a horrible mouth. He was already smashed when he left the poker table and came and sat with me.

"Wow. I haven't met anyone over here who's even heard of Louise ville, Kentucky."

He was one of about fifteen minute playing some late afternoon poker. All of them lived on Bantayan Island. I assume all of them had local wives too. They were all easily over 50, most had beer guts, and all were exceptionally drunk.

"I'm 65. I've got a 33 year old fiance with and she has a six year old kid I love more than anything. It's an old man's paradise out here..."

He had fixed up there shack in a village on the north end of the island with 90% unemployment and was sending her daughter to private school off his small pension. He was an old charter boat captain and was living off social security.

And there I was, with own Filipino girlfriend next to me, as we spoke. Hera and I both felt like we were being being put into the same category as the other couples. It really forced the question of how I felt about these men and their women. The reality is that we couldn't be more different. Hera comes from an educated upper-middle class family. She was making over twice as much money as I was at her last job. Still, it feels a bit weird.

Being also by far the youngest couple vacationing out here, we've decided to tactfully handle the situation by fitting in as best as possible. Our story is that I'm a 37 year old school teacher from Manila and Hera is my 17 year old just-graduated student. We'll see if anyone bites.

It's ironic... when I got to Shenzhen I made a long-running joke of wanting to find a peasent girl who speaks fluent English who'd be more than happy just to have running water and maybe, just maybe, hot water twice a week. I didn't know there was actually an island out there where men could go to find just that...

Philippines

I'll lay it on the table as it is: I hate Manila. It's a rough, violent, ugly, city with horrible traffic and overpriced hotels. I've never looked at any other city and thought, "man, this place could really use a strong military dictatorship for a year or two." The only other place I've been that has as much edge is Juarez, Mexico. You know, that place where they've found 200 or so mutilated female corpses in the desert over the past decade. Manila was a step, a small step, below Juarez.

I fled Manila to Hera's hometown of Calaban after less than 24 hours in Manila. Three hours of bus rides and 45 minutes of ferry delivered us [and the Canadian ambassador] to this dreamscape of a city. City might not be the right word, but her father tells me there are 2700 tricycles, the modified motorbike taxi's that rule this town with an iron fist of justice. That's enough to break it out of "town" category, but there's hardly a building over two stories and none that tower over the giant coconut tree's.

I can't describe why, but I've never seen anywhere like this. Crystal clear water with huge mountains islands on the horizon. Gasoline sold by the liter in old coke bottles. Everything is colorful. The weather is straight of of Key West. The people stare at me yet I wake up with Led Zeppelin playing in the living room

Everything is modified and improvised here. Hera's father is a high ranking government official and thus gets a car from the city. "It's a 'vehicle', not a car," Hera corrected me. The front grill says Nissan, the steering wheel says Honda, but it looks like a Land Rover. The city government gave him a car of completely indigenous design.

Yesterday we drove to a small fishing village to visit an unnamed island beach not too far away. I don't think I've ever seen poverty so bad as in the fishing village. It was one of those moments where my own relative wealth and fortune stood like an albatross on my neck. Everyone lived in shanty's, the same you'd see in the hills of Rio de Janario or in Lagos. Tin metal and unfinished timber loosely defining roofs, walls, and frames. About fifteen children swarmed our 'vehicle' to stare when we finally came to a stop. A tall girl stared through the window opposite of me even as I rolled it up. I don't think she's ever seen the inside of a car, er 'vehicle', before.

Though obviously most of Calaban isn't like this, it makes me uncomfortable when I see it. In China, I don't stand out too much from those around me except for the occasional transient just in from the countryside. Economically, I feel like I blend in until I invite people to my house. In that village there was no hiding it.

We leave tomorrow for Coron. I'll be offline for a bit.

Thailand

After a three hour catapult bus ride [that should have taken five] through the mountains of Thailand I found my way back in Chiang Mai. With nothing but an email that said, "we'll be at some place called Riverside, or Rivertine, or River Place... something. I'll be there with some friends for drinks and dinner" I set out to say goodbye to Lyndsey. I knew it could be years before I ever see her again.

I went, I looked, and I left the Riverside Bar and Restaurant after not finding her. I decided to walk a mile or so into the night market I had passed earlier. I had just made it to the market when I heard her calling from a zipping Tuk-Tuk, "TREYYY!!" Thailand just works like that. Endless serendipity. Chance encounters really defined almost every aspect of my trip.

I left the next morning for a 14 hour train ride back to Bangkok. Horrible, horrible idea. It was easily as bad as my flight to Beijing from Jacksonville. Always, always take a sleeper train. At least with a plane you feel like you're actually getting somewhere quickly.

And thus I arrived in Bangkok with a few hours to think on what I thought of the country. Thailand is an amazing place. The people are some of the happiest, peaceful people I've ever encountered. It's a ciountry that seems to have pulled off globalization as well as one could hope. In my 24+ hours looking out the windows into the countryside I never really saw any grinding poverty. Everyone seemed to have enough and then a little bit extra. They've kept the country clean. The endless stream of tourist and backpackers are welcome there and, except for some horrible exceptions, they've commodified the best assets of their nation without cheapening it. That's skill.

As for the backpackers themselves, I grew to have a healthy respect for them. It took awhile getting over my territorial anti-laowai feelings I'd developed in China. There whenever I'd see a few white people in a bar or resteraunt I'd want to leave. In Thailand, I'd let the local places be local and have fun in a place built for my own kind. Almost everyone I met respected Thai culture and wanted to learn as much as possible. You'd don't find that too often with foreigners iun China.

China, it seems sometimes we're in the business of getting the Chinese to think a little less Chinese and a little more Western. Almost every Westerner has a little crusade, something they want to change about China. Even I dream of being a musical Johnny Appleseed, spreading better music to the clubs and shops blaring 200bpm techno today. Cody wants them to dress better. Most of us want them to be able to keep a Western schedule. In Chiang Mai, though, the Thai's teach us, giving classes in everything from cooking to meditation. Gifts for the foreigners to make their own home a little happier. Food for thought, ey?

Pai

I think Lonely Planet hit the nail on the head when they said Pai was a backpacker community that just happened to be located in Thailand. I'll lay it out for you as best I can. There's a small creek that forms the north end of town. "End" is a very relative statement because the "town" keeps going, but the concrete stops. After you cross the bamboo bridge it's all huts... bar huts, guest house huts, restaurant huts, and I'm sure there's even a smoothie hut somewhere. Smoothies fuel backpackers the same way that sweet tea fuels everything south of the Mason-Dixon line. I stayed in the more "civilized" part of town with a comfortable and clean small room behind an Italian gentleman's Italian restaurant. I paid a comparatively high $14 for two nights for this quasi-riverfront abode.

Backpackers outnumber or match the Thai population here. That idea rubbed me the wrong way until I realized that that's what this place is about... it's about meeting other travelers and relaxing if anything at all. That's it. Most of Thailand is like that anyway, but Pai especially. It's a reprieve from every other place on the planet where you go there to do something in particular. In Pai your not a tourist because there's nothing to tour. Sure, there's a few trekking companies and the a whitewater rafting outfitter, but they're there by happenstance. People don't come to Pai to do those things, they come just to be, and exercise their be-ingness in the most remote, beautiful, and cheapest place possible.

For the most part, the people I met were fascinating. Everyone was "cool" in the down-to-earth mellowness you'd expect from someone living out of a bag for months on end. And yeah, there are a lot of those. Of everyone I met, I was here the shortest. The most recurring time frame was 1 month in Thailand with 3-6 months being a frequent time frame [total travel], and one year being not all that uncommon.

Who'd I meet over three days and two nights?

- Two Americans my age at a falafel restaurant. One was studying in Thailand and planned never to leave. The other was working on the next generation space telescope that was to replace Hubble. We planned to go hiking to a waterfall the next day, but I never called them [after learning of Carson]. On my way to the waterfall they picked me up on their motorbikes and we spent the rest of the day together.

- Two Israelis my age, both just out of the IDF. Both had been tank commanders in Gaza. We talked politics. A lot. There's a certain peacefulness with people just out of a war zone. They sat down at my table with a hookah and we spent the rest of the night together. Went to Bebops where we listened to blues and chatted up a group of hippy Iranians next to us. yes, there are hippies from Tehran. Yes, I know. Wow.

- Ali, an Iranian from Tehran who shared a nearly identical taste and passion for music. "This Tool band, my favorite band ever! You know them?" I later find out he's also spent time with the Rainbow Family in the woods of Thailand. That was a bit unexpected.

- A retired professional photographer who spent the last few decades in Zimbabwe. We had a long talk of why white people go to different countries and our conflicting views of men who come to Asian countries looking for young wives.

- A British man, a little off but very likable, who led our trek to the waterfall. He lived in India and said he was working on a book on meditation. He built "jungle art" on top of the waterfall. Bamboo pyramids. He wanted us to help hang very small bells on the bamboo poles.

The Transience of All Things

.

Carson, my ten year old niece, passed away last night from her leukemia. I'm holding together well enough. I was expecting it. I'm in a weird position though... I'm on vacation while my family is in mourning. I don't know how to handle it, really. Do I stop what I'm doing and just find a riverbank to mourn as well or keep going and deal later. I don't know.

I tried to find a middle ground and did a five hour hike today to an amazing waterfall. I meant to go alone but as serendipity would have it I ran into the same people I planned yesterday to trek out with . There really is a backpacker community. People take care of each other. I was able to talk about it on the hike. It was relieving. I don't want to be a killjoy and be a damper on the vibe in this wonderful community of transients... but so far everyone been cool and had some thoughtful words to share. It's not about the party up here in northern Thailand. There's a deeper something.

That said, I'm looking forward to a good hug when I meet Hera in Manila on Monday.

Rest in peace, Carson. You were loved.

No Shoes

My way of travel involves my own limited understanding of mankind's role in this universe. It involves a heaping spoon of randomness stirred lightly with mobility. Being in the right places and making decisions as you go. Finding the right guest house and bar is infinitely important in my line of work. It's not just about finding the cheapest or the cleanest, it's about finding the right kind of people. Monday night I knew I needed to camp out at the Rasta bar in front of our guest house. I knew I needed information from those more traveled than I am in this region.

So Lyndsey and I ordered our drinks and drew out a calender and began visualizing all the options in front of us. My gut kept leading me to Pai, a village three hours away on the Burmese border overrun with bohemians. We were both still interested in Laos. There were also a million posters in the open-air lounge of the Banana Guest House showing downhill mountain biking, white water rafting, a million courses on all things Thai, and trekking. Trekking is the main thing here. Locals take you into the woods to see waterfalls, ride elephants, and gawk at the hill tribes - particularly the "long necks" you see in National Geographic.

Serendipity stuck as I walked back to our room to grab the Lonely Planet. A man around my age and looking much more traveled was standing about after asking the inn keeper a question.

"You! Have you been in Thailand long?"

"A month."

My prayers. Answered.

"Have a beer with my friend and I?"

Thus we sat and chatted. They had just come back from a trek and were raving about it. Campfires, bamboo rafts, waterfalls. It sounded great. We decided then and there to do that. Then something even more curious arose. My new friends girlfriend mentioned going to a meditation class on Tuesday. It was 24 hours long, in a temple, run by monks, and was funded through donations.

Something clicked in my head. I've long joked that I ought to be a Buddhist monk when in the depths of indecision about my life. I've also long had that Western fascination with the non-divine religion of Buddhism, the philosophy as lifestyle. And here it was, a glimpse into a monks life at one of these ancient Wat's lying about.

After motorbiking around earlier in the day trying to find a rumored Chinese-speaking community and their mosque somewhere in Chaing Mai, we met back up with Isabelle to go to the temple.

We were piled into a classroom with 20 other foreigners in the local Buddhist university and given a quick run down on the tenants of Buddhist. For those not in the know, basically we have 1) all life is suffering, 2) suffering comes from desires, 3) to end suffering you must be liberated from your desires, 4) the Enlightened One has a path full of meditation to relieve you of the unfulfilled desires wreaking havoc on our souls.

I can perhaps agree with all four Noble Truths. I have issues, however, with the core assumption that we need to be liberated from suffering. Perhaps I still have that old Christian outlook that a little bit of pain can be good for you in the long run. I still believe that emotional pain is how we grow. Not that we should bring it on or shouldn't avoid it, but I'm also hesitant to believe that we need to make a life running from the attachments that bring us pain and suffering. Those attachments have also brought me the greatest joys in life.

Back to the program... and, man, it was a program. We were boarded up in trucks and taken half an hour out into the countryside to a new facility they had build.

We begin by getting to our [big, clean] rooms and change into white monkish linens. One-size fits all garments that are as comfortable as they are freaky. It looks precisely like what you'd think someone would wear right before committing ritual suicide with 20 other "open minded spiritualists" in a jungle compound.

We come together for tea after that. Little did I know that this was to be the last time we were supposed to speak until lunch the next day, so I cracked jokes about when the Kool-Aid was going to be served and doing Karate Kid poses.

After dinner we sit and first learn how to bow in front of the Buddha. Somehow I didn't expect this. I really, really didn't like bowing down in front of a picture of Buddha. We then chant. I have no idea what I'm chanting. We then try our first meditation.

I think meditation, I think sitting cross-legged and spacing out. I'm all about that. When Buddhist monks think meditation they have a few more tricks up their sleave. They like walking meditation. Imagine the slowest choreographed dance ever. Without dancing. You're walking. At a set pace. In a very set way. Very. Very. Slowly. I think we covered one meter in five minutes. Three feet. Five minutes. Over and over again. And then again.

Peace did not come to your humble fair narrator. My ADD-wracked mind wanted to tear my eyeballs out. Everything was annoying me. Even the calm, peaceful whisper-voices of the monks leading the way. "Visualize turning. Turning. Turning. Turning. Lifting. Treading, Stepping, Lifting, Lifting..."

After we left that session I ran up to Lyndsey. In Chinese in told her that we needed to speak. I hate this program. I want to go back to Chiang Mai. She turned around and looked at me. Deep meditation had changed her into someone else other than my travel companion. I went to find the real Lyndsey who wouldn't speak to me. She merely pointed to her name tag that said, "silence." Did I forget to mention the "silence" name tags?

Once everyone else was away she gave me her blessing for me to find my own way back to town. I chickened out at the prospect of walking down unknown Thai roads looking for a willing motorcyclist to pick up a silly foreigner.

Things lightened up when I got back to my room. My roommate was cool. We ignored the silence rule and laughed about the program. Making fun of it quickly made it far less serious. It gave me the courage to face another day. And thus that day came at 5am with the ringing of bells.

The "master" came to us this morning. The other monks were around my age and just out of monk university. This man had been there and done with everything except the things I do everyday. His inner peace was almost too much. He spoke in barely a whisper about peace and happiness and monkey brains.

I kind of liked the term. It was his contrast to a peaceful, meditated brain. The monkey brain wanted to jump around everywhere. The meditated brain was focused. We did yoga, which was a lot more relaxing than I expected, then broke for breakfast. Afterwards, In the mountain fog and soft life of northern Thai morning, I think I actually learned to meditate. They gave us a Buddhist rosary and told us to do the same things we did last night, except in a chair and counting beads slowly instead of trying of thinking about the tip of our nose or abdomen.

I lightened up considerably. I kind of enjoyed the rest of the program. We were able to speak after lunch and everyone in the program was really cool. I ate with an Irish singer who's mixing traditional Thai and Celtic music together for a CD. There were only three Americans in the whole mix. I guess in the end, it was nice not wearing shoes and I kind of want to find a set of prayer beads somewhere.

Chiang Mai

The train to Chiang Mai was an all-night party. It was exactly unlike the Chinese train in that our car was filled with foreigners and the Thai crew were partying with us on the way up. We sat next to an exceedingly cheerful bald Amsterdamian in his late thirties who was to trek through the jungles with his father. His father, a good man with a mustache curled at both ends, gave me a small pouch of quality Dutch tobacco. He had been to the Indonesian jungles eight times and is exactly what you'd expect an 18th century colonial safari sojourner to look like.

We arrived at around ten in the morning and tuk-tuk'ed to the Banana Guest House. It's the first time I've never had to pay up front for a room. Even my lunch was put on a tab. We spent the first part of the morning wandering around looking at Buddhist temples. We struck gold with Wat Chedi Luang, a 700 year old temple half ruined 500 hundred years ago by an earthquake. A sign to side read "Monk Chat," so we spent the next hour with a 21 year old monk talking about infinity, faith, science, and Buddhist rituals. I bought a book from him, exchanged email addresses [he also had a cell phone {to call his mother}], and I intend to keep the conversation alive.

I upped adventure up a notch after that. I rented a motorcycle for roughly $3. I've never ridden a motorcycle before, or even ridden on for that matter. I thought it was a moped. It was not. I spent the next hour struggling to keep on the left side of the road, shift gears, and figure out where the hell I was. Luckily the core of Chiang Mai is walled in making it truly difficult to get meaningfully lost. My legs are still shaking from that little party. I'm not sure if I have the testicular fortitude to continue learning this particular craft. It feels as dangerous as it is. I've never wanted a seat belt more.

Don't know where we're going now. There's a lot of "trekking" near here... to village tribes, to elephant riding through the jungles, to white water rafting, downhill mountain biking, even cross-border visa runs to Myanmar and Laos. My gut is telling me to take the three hour bus ride through the mountains to Pai, a hippie hide-out on the Burmese border.

It's an object of curiosity what exactly all these hippies are doing here. We're not talking young dread-locked experimentalists you'd catch a String Cheese Incident show. We're talking mid to late twenties, sometimes older, guys and gals with dreads and very free flowing clothes. They're dressed more native than the Thai's. Sometimes I feel like I'm back at a Rainbow Gathering.

It's also of curiosity my reaction towards them. In America I have a bit of admiration for the legitimate counter-culturalist. But these guys are in Asia. My new neck of the woods. I place where I try my best everyday to adopt to cultural norms. I'm not so appreciate of white counter-culture here, but that could change if I knew how the Thai's felt about it. I think there's a strong chance that this is, indeed, not China and the Thai's really are as non-judgmental as they appear. This is the land of the "girl-boys", the only thing a Chinese person can tell you about Thailand.



UPDATE: The hippies are kind of real, kind of fake. The wear the light, flowing clothes because two pairs can last you until they fall apart. They're comfortable, dry quickly, and pack tight. You can get around with just a normal backpack if you pack light enough. I don't think it's about trying to make a fashion statement.

The Bangkok Scam

"We drive you everywhere you want. 3 hours, 4 hours, 5.... OK," a Tuk-Tuk driver said as he unfurled a map. He pointed to four or five temples and asked where we wanted to go. "I take you for 60 bat [$1.25], OK?"

It sounded too good to be true so we asked more questions.

"We take you to the Thai Center. You go in, look around, no have to buy anything, we get coupon for free gas."

"We don't have to buy anything? We can just browse for a minute, walk in and walk out?"

"That is fine."

We confirmed with the tourist sitting near us that this wasn't too good be true. So we hopped on and spent three hours looking at three or four temples. One of them, built on top of a hill, gave an amazing view of the Bangkok skyline. In the distance a few skyscrapers clung together. All around us were the Hershey-kiss styled Wak temples reaching into the sky. There are over 300 such temples in Bangkok. From their my first impression was confirmed: Bangkok really isn't that big of a city. At least not by the Chinese standards I'm used to. It was also flush with culture, especially if religion is used as a relative index. My fear that the rest of Asia looks like China is luckily falling apart.

We got dumped off at at the Asia center, really just two stores. The first was full of fluent Indians trying to sell expensive suits. I only last two or three minutes before bolting out.

"No no no! You must spend 10 or 15 minutes inside!" He grabbed me by the arm and led me into a jewelry store. I figured I could spend ten minutes there working off my taxi fair by looking at shiney objects.

Inside there were six workers in kiosks doing nothing. At the far end of the store in a display case was a box of rocks next to another box with the polished counterparts. I spent a good six minutes staring at the box of rocks before Lyndsey had to bolt.

Our driver didn't get his coupon but still took us to another temple.

"We try again. We to TAT now."

TAT worked out much better. It was a travel agency. They had wonderful maps and were more than happy to answer all of our questions about transit options and activities in different towns. We were almost sold on a $25 three day hiking and camping trek through a national park outside Chiang Mai.

The driver got his coupon and dropped us off at the big mall [so I could buy another memory card for my camera {2gb, $17}]. He left us there though because he wanted to catch the Thailand - Singapore soccer game. He only wanted 20 bat for three hours of travel. 50 cents. 50 cents and fifteen minutes, anyway.

Thailand

So Lyndsey and I pulled things off perfectly - three border crossings in one day. Shenzhen to Hong Kong to Macau to Bangkok. The flight was smooth and we wound up sharing a cab and dinner with a Surinamese expat living here. Suriname is north of Brazil and east of Venezuala, for all those who didn't know - including every customs agent.

There's a little backpacker district we're hanging out in now. I've come to stay away from other white people and touristy areas, but this place rocks. Last night I sat in resteraunt of my hotel stipping beer, sharing travel stories with an Aussie, and feeding a small elephant celery. Today we zipped across town in the Tuk-Tuk's, little three wheel hybrid motorcycle-rickshaws.

We decided yesterday to visit northern Thailand instead of Laos. As much as we want to visit Luang Prabang, it takes too long to get there and there's not a lot of infrastucture there. Like, you know, ATM's. So we'll be heading up to northern Thailand tonight on a sleeper train and spend out time around Chaing Mai.

I'll write later. Times out.

On The Road Again...

My schedule looks like this: tomorrow I finish my application to Hong Kong University and Lyndsey arrives from Tianjin. Friday I pack and throw a dinner party and cook food in this apartment for the first time. Saturday morning I go to Hong Kong University for an information session on the program, then Lyndsey and I take the ferry to Macau and fly to Bangkok that night. Sunday morning we take a train to Vientiane, the capital of Laos. Monday morning we take a boat to Luang Prabang. Then we relax and explore. Crazy, yet delightfully awesome if I do say so myself. On the 12th I fly to Manilla and visit Hera's hometown, which she lets me call her home village because I demand that she pretends to be the Peasant Girl© archetype I hoped her to be. I'll then spend nearly two weeks in Palawan, a remote archipelago curving west when the rest of the Philippines wants to curve right. I'll spend most of my time on Coron, the northernmost island.

So this will be my last blog for awhile unless I find internet cafes and means of uploading in the jungles of Laos or island of the Philippines.

Happy Chinese New Year friends, family, and random readers!

Night Run [Macau, pt 1]

I'm a liar. I've been peddling untruths to myself, friends, and lovers for years and it's time to come clean. Unless you're taking a day trip to a national park, traveling is never ever cheap. Ever. I've created the most elaborate Excel spreadsheets to spread my lies in slick emails. I've told countless friends the only cost of Bonnaroo is gas money and the ticket, and since each car is packed with people the travel costs are negligable. And, hey, food doesn't count 'cause you'd be eating at home anyway, right? Right?

This time I was absolutely convinced I could do a weekend run to Macau for under $60. Not just me, mind you, I also offered the trip as "my treat" to an initially reluctant travel companion. I had a website promising me they would ferry me across the Pearl River delta for 80rmb up till 9:30 at night and I had a quasi-reservation for a double room at a guest house for 150rmb. Add buses and meals, and wa la... an über-cheap side trip to that Portuguese bastard child of a forfeited colony opposite Hong Kong on the delta.

The other myth that's become obvious to me over the past few weeks is that I can plan. I can research and improvise just about anything... but plan? No. Not a chance. My "plan" was to look up the characters for "ferry terminal" and scout them out at the bus stop an hour before the last departure. That was it.

First we were running late because I had to conduct my first ever phone interview [I invite you to speculate what that means] so after making Hera wait outside my apartment in the cold for half an hour, we had to get a cab to the ferry terminal. 40RMB. We get there and learn a) my ferry company doesn't really exist, and b) the company that does exist sent their last ferry to Macau an hour earlier, and c) by the time we decided to ferry over to HK and take another to Macau, the last HK-bound ferry was pulling out of dock.

At this point a rational set of characters would have called it a night and tried to set out again in the morning. No such luck that your humble narrator and his guest were rational thinkers. We wanted to go to Macau. That was that, obstacles be damned. We decide to go to Lou Hu to look for a night bus to Zhuhai [Mainland border city of Macau]. For Jacksonville readers, imagine being in at the Gate gas station on A1A in between Ponte Vedra Beach and St. Augustine and deciding you need to catch a Greyhound in downtown Jax to Orlando at that very moment - 9:45 at night.

So we hopped another cab [add 40 RMB] back to Bai Shi Zhou to get on the subway to Lou Hu. When we get there we discover that, alas, all the buses were gone already.... but wait! A dashing young gentleman offers to have someone drive us to Zhuhai for 500 RMB. I turn to walk away. 350 RMB it is. We're now at 430 RMB [$53 USD], for those keeping score at home, and we haven't even left Shenzhen yet.

So at 11am on a Saturday night I get into a strangers van with my Filipino friend for a two hour drive through China's industrial wastelands to a city I've never been to. Though expensive, I know it was a good deal because our driver was angry. Very angry. He drove fast and blared his Sino-Techno out of a small 8" sub in the back of his can [take the most mediocre house music you've heard, strip away all but the barest of melody, run it through a $20 Radioshack keyboard to get that 4-bit MIDI effect in full, increase it to a happy hardcore 250bmp tempo, and wa la! You're a Chinese DJ!].

Guangzhou, the third most populous city in China and shoe factory capital of the world, was the mid-way point at the north corner of the Delta. Our driver pulled off the highway here and into a dark parking lot of what, in America, would look like an abandoned strip mall near MLK Drive. Businesses closed but people hanging out in the shadows outside. Our driver stepped out and was swarmed by six or seven men who looked angry. He disappeared inside the mob.

"Should we be worried, Trey?" Hera asked.

It was a very reasonable question.

"Yes. I think so, maybe a little bit anyway," I giggled back. I was worried a little bit. The situation was weird and becoming a bit too fluid. We had bitten off a little more than we could chew when hired a driver who didn't speak any English to drive us two hours in the middle of the night to a town I was familiar with through Wikipedia. But that's precisely what made the situation so fun [and funny] to me.

Our driver came back, opened the side door, and grabbed Hera's backpack. We correctly assumed we were switching drivers. We left our nightclub-on-wheels and drove off with our curious new driver.

"Ni hao, pengyou [hello friend]"

No response.

"Where are you from?" I asked in Chinese.

No response.

"Do you like Zhuhai?"

No response.

"Friend, do you speak Chinese or only Cantonese?"

No response. Nice.




- - - - too be continued [with pictures] - - - -

Arrgghhh

Shenzhen is the "bastard child" of my company. I was told that when I first got here. The branch has been open for years, but it seems like it just opened yesterday. I like all my supervisors, but I think it's something about the collective whole that's flawed.

Next week every teacher is off for National Day. A few of us were planning to hit up Guilin, the city famous for the gumdrop mountains and beautiful misty lakes. I was gung ho. I've been working 28 classes weekly [part of why my posting has slowed - I'm tired], which is 13 more than the average Chinese teacher does. I've been racking in the overtime covering for the girls who quit. That's, at minimum, 840 students.

On top of just discovering yesterday I'm supposed to do 32 classes this week, I just found out I need to go to Hong Kong on Tuesday. My visa expires on the third and they've waited - as always - until the very last minute to do anything. I wasn't even working my first two weeks in Shenzhen. I pestered them constantly about doing it then so they wouldn't wait to do during National Day week. There's no one person to blame, of curse, it was a collective failure.

This isn't some barometer of my overall feelings of teaching here, but this particular incident really, really makes me angry. I don't mind putting in the hours, I do mind of being deprived my travel plans because of incompetence.



I leave you with a photo from the side of a preschool in the alleyways around my neighborhood. I think it says something about my mindset teaching those little devils tomorrow and now Saturday too.