Ranting Around The World

Part 21 - Mysore, India (Nov)

2007-03-01T05:04:00.001-08:00

November 1 - December 6, 2006
Pictures: http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/2430789

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Prateek, the cranky astrologer, asks me when I'll be leaving Rishikesh.

"I'm leaving Saturday. I'm going to Delhi and then Mysore to study yoga."

"You're not going to Mysore."

"What do you mean I'm not going to Mysore? I'm going to Mysore!"

"If you get to Mysore you email me."

Well this makes me feel nice and secure. Should I not get on an airplane? He has freaked me out yet again.

Limor and Yaron remind me that he said Mysore and I'm flying to Bangalore so the flight should be fine. "Maybe you shouldn't take a public bus?

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BANGALORE

I arrive safely in Bangalore and spend a day there being very careful when crossing the street.

As I stroll down bustling MG Road on sidewalks far too narrow for the mass of mid-day pedestrians, the hi-tech feel of this Silicon Valley of India seeps out through cracks in the veneer of traditional India. Only here do book vendors sell illegal copies of "The Google Story". Only here are bookshelves filled with How-To guides for C++, Perl, and Java more than Paulo Cohelo novels. Western businessmen, who are both short-term visitors as well as residents, all sport laptops and wear long-sleeve dress shirts and leather shoes in the gentle heat of a south India winter. A smartly-dressed Chinese-American woman in slacks and cornflower blue button down confers with a smartly-dressed Indian woman in an expensive sari over lattes at the bright and clean Cafe Coffee Day, PDAs at hand.

A young, melancholy girl sits in tattered sari on the sidewalk selling posters that read, "Smile A Lot. It's Free!"

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Near Du Parc Trinity circle I hunt for Apple Inc.

My $450 iPod's hard drive has crashed after 20 months. I've been without my music for 2 months now and I am miffed: such an expensive toy and it can't even last 2 years. Even if they can fix it, my music is tucked away in a closet at my mother's house.

Calling from my cell phone on the street, the company's helpful receptionist guides me to the front door. The outside of this building looks as if it's condemned. The darkened windows are dirty with year-old dust and the ground floor is a wall-less area looking as if it's in the midst of demolition: cement debris litter the cement floor and cement stairs lead up to nowhere.

Exiting the elevator on the 5th floor, however, you enter a modern, crisp, air-conditioned world where "Apple Computer" is expertly etched in the glass doors.

I patiently sit in the reception area waiting for my Apple expert to save me from music purgatory.

"How much would it cost to fix?" I ask.

"It's not under warranty."

"Yes, I know. That's not the question. The question is 'How much would it cost to fix?'"

Unfortunately, there's no saving the hard drive. They offer to do a "battery trade-in" for $75. This leaves me with a working, but empty, iPod. One issue at a time. I hand over my 3500 rupees. When he gives me the receipt I ask him his name but for some reason he doesn't want to tell me.

"You can just call the number there and talk to anybody."

"But you know me. What's your name?"

"There's only 2 of us that deal with this."

"Please. Just tell me your name. I want to know the name of the person I'm handing money to. Please. What's your name?"

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In the afternoon I head to the bus station after walking away from many a rickshaw driver who refuse to use the meter.

I haven't made it to Mysore yet, so I opt for the expensive ($4), air/con bus - the kind that isn't packed above capacity and probably has regular maintenance on its brakes.

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MYSORE

Okay, that's it. I made it. Prateek was wrong. The world is born anew with hope and possibility.

Downtown Mysore is as I remember it: dirty, crowded, old. However, the history stands out proud against street vendors who harass and begging women who follow you and jab you in the arm. The city hall, the clock tower, Mysore Palace all give this smallish city a feel of longevity and importance.

I'm staying at the same guesthouse as five years ago - the one Limor had seen and said, "Oh, you have a sink." It's dark but adequately clean and the people are nice.

I spend a few days here, not really doing much of anything. One evening I walk into a restaurant at 7pm. There are 50 men inside and not one woman. I turn around and leave. The males of downtown Mysore are bothersome. One puny little man saw me coming from the opposite direction and curves in so that he brushes my shoulder in passing. It's harmless, for sure, but entirely creepy. I see him turn his head slightly to see my reaction.

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YOGA YOGA YOGA

I've come back to India to study yoga. Since the beginning of my trip, this has been the plan: find a nice place to live and do yoga for a few months before coming home.

In Rishikesh I had been asking people to explain the difference between all the types of yoga: hatha, Shivinanda, Iyengar, Ashtanga. Besides Bikram (the same 26 postures in a sauna), I had only done what I consider regular ol' yoga.

This is as I understand it at the moment:

Hatha - Classic yoga postures. What most people think of when they think of yoga. Holding the postures, short rests in between.

Shivananda - Classic postures but lots of time resting to feel the effects on the body. They say that in a 2 hour class you can lay in savasana (corpse pose) for 45 minutes. Named after Swami Shivananda.

Iyengar - Postures that use props to aide in staying in the position and/or help create more of a stretch. Very exact. Some even say militaristic.

Ashtanga - A set series of classic postures done without stopping. Most postures are held for 5 breaths. A lot of heat is worked up. You sweat. This is the style that Madonna does, or so I've been told. I've also been told that Ashtanga people have lots of ego, walking around with their well-toned arms and feeling very pleased with themselves.

Bikram - The same 26 postures done in a heated room. There is no Bikram yoga in India. Isn't that funny. Bikram's main headquarters is in Los Angeles. This is the guy who is suing people who use his style/series without his permission or paying royalties. He is trying to copy write his series.

A synopsis: All yoga, or more accurately, all asanas (postures) is Hatha yoga. Different people take postures and do different things with them (in a sauna, never resting, lots of resting, using props) and slap their name on it and make it a different style.

I decide that I want to learn Ashtanga. I want to sweat. I want strong arms. I want a big ego.

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FINDING MY GURU

So here I am in the suburbs of Mysore, the Ashtanga capital of the world and home to the Ashtanga guru himself, Pattahbi Jois. (Upon arriving I thought that his name was pronounced like the French " joie de vive". But it's like the American name, "Joyce". The Astanga-heads think this faux pas to be quite amusing.)

However, I'm not going to Pattahbi Jois. This guy charges around $550 for the first month and $400 for every month after that and gives one class a day. They do self-practice - something I have never heard of before - meaning they go through the series at their own pace and the teacher provides corrections when needed. Furthermore, there are 50+ people in a class and it's possible that the teacher will never say or do anything to help you improve your practice.

Ashtanga-heads come back every year to study at "The Shala" and feed off the energy of the other students as well as the Master. My cynical side thinks that they pay all this cash so that they can say that they were here, that they studied with Pattahbi himself. More ego.

I find another teacher in the area that does 2 classes a day as well as an hour of meditation, chanting and pranayama.

I meet Jaya Kumar at his house and yoga shala (school) in the cute and affluent neighborhood of Vijay Nagar, Stage 1. His yoga studio is on the first floor of his home and it's clean and spacious, with lime green hospital walls and an OM that lights up when plugged in, similar to the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale sign I had during university.

He shows me around his house and offers me chai and tells me of his time in Russia as I look at a photograph of him with his students. "I had over 1000 students. I was very well respected."

Of course, we know that power and respect are of the utmost importance for many people, but it's strange to hear someone say it aloud. It doesn't sound like my new yogi has completely let go of the ego.

J. Kumar asks me about my health and specific problems. His accent is hard to understand, but he says I'll get used to it. (I won't.) He seems nice and knowledgeable. I am looking forward to having a relationship with my yoga teacher, someone who takes an interest in my progress, someone who will push me.

He then drives me a couple blocks away to look at a room for rent. It's a new, bright room with built-in closets, a large bathroom and a western toilet. I notice that there is no shower and no hot water heater.

The owners give me the Indian hand twist and assure me that, "Yes, yes. We put in. No problem." Can you see where this one is heading?

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So, here we go. I tell J. Kumar that I will stay for one or two months. I don't know yet. We'll see how things go. For 3.5 hours a day, I am paying $530 a month. This is like a year's gym membership at home. But he's certified with the USA Yoga Alliance and maybe this is the start of a lifetime of yoga education.

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On Sunday, J. Kumar asks me to come to his house before 11am and he'll bring me to my new home. When I arrive he tells me that the room isn't ready. There's no bed. There's no hot water. And all I'm thinking is "why didn't you find this out before I packed up all my things and came out here." But I don't say anything. India (head-tilt). Now it seems I'm coming down with a fever and I need to lay down. I wish I were in my own hotel room. Instead, I'm napping in his daughters bed, a narrow cot, with a hard mattress and pillow. They don't think to ask if I would like a blanket.

I spend two days in bed at J. Kumar's house waiting for my fever to subside and for a bed to be installed in my new home.

In the meantime, I meet Anita, a Canadian born Indian, who has come to study with J. Kumar for 3.5 months.

I'm full of questions: Where do you eat? Where are the restaurants? How's the asana class? How's the theory class? What do you do with the rest of your day?

With resignation she tells me that J. Kumar does NOT teach Ashtanga Vinyasa.

(ASHTANGA VINYASA? What's Ashtanga Vinyasa? I was asking about all the types of yoga and no one mentioned Ashtanga Vinyasa.)

"But J. Kumar's website says he teaches Classical Ashtanga!"

"Well, from J. Kumar's traditional perspectice, Classical Ashtanga means that he teaches the 8 limbs of yoga. Ashtanga literally means 8 limbs. The asana class is hatha. Ashtanga Vinyasa is what Pattahbi Jois teaches."

Well fuck! I came all the way down here to learn Ashtanga, which turns out to be the shortened western label and should more accurately be called Ashtanga Vinyasa, and now I've unknowingly signed up with a teacher that does hatha. I'm learning so much already.

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GOKULAM UNDERGROUND

Gokulam is the most bizarre place I've been in all of India. In fact, it's not quite India at all. It's not a travel destination. The only reason people come here is for yoga. There are no guest houses. Visitors rent rooms or apartments long term - a month usually being the minimum. There is no information about this area in my guide book. A map does not exist. It's clean and calm with huge trees forming natural canopies over peaceful, well-paved roads.

Many of the businesses that cater to the wealthy, western, yoga population are clandestine efforts. Unless given specific directions involving landmarks - never street names - by someone who's been there, or personally taken there, you will never find these places.

FOOD AND STUFF

After my first yoga class, I am taken to breakfast at Tina's. It's a light green house with no sign, no address. The only way you can tell that there may be customers inside is the line of parked scooters.

Tina, like many other entrepreneurs of Mysore, runs an illegal yet thriving business out of her home. She and husband, Sangeev, have transformed their carport into a breakfast cafe, with low tables and mats, prayer flags, wall decorations and a small library where folks can trade in books, one for one.

Tina makes her own bread, peanut butter and jam. She is the reason that I am not loosing weight, even though I do yoga twice a day. But I will forgive her because she is one of the most down-to-earth, warm-hearted, no-bullshit people I've ever met. And I don't toss about compliments hither-thither. Tina deserves every kind word she receives.

She miraculously remembers the names of everyone after the initial introduction. She claims it's because she has nothing else to do. But Tina is a humble person. She runs her business, raises her kids and provides cooking classes 3 times a week for all those Pattahbi Jois students who are looking for something to do after their once a day 5:30am class.

Other extra-yoga activities include sitar and tabla lessons, massage courses, Thai or Ayurvedic massage, and Bollywood dancing.

The Shakti House is another breakfast treasure, hidden behind a brown wall. The lush backyard creates shade for 4 large tables. The foreign females who run the place also have a shop in the garage where they sell overpriced yoga mats and clothes. They aren't about to tell you that if you walk down the street and take a right, you can find the exact same yoga mat for half the price.

Okay, I'll say something nice about them. They serve tasty scrambled eggs and banana-cinnamon pancakes, and serve real coffee in a french press.

Rishi's Cafe has 4 computers and the owner, Rajini, serves an authentic Indian lunch and dinner for 60 rupees. You dine in the family's dining room at a table that seats 4. I feel like I've intruded on their lives, sitting in this dark room and listening to the family watch TV. I've been encouraging Rajini to convert their small balcony into a seating area with low tables and mats. It could easily fit 8 people and it would be a much nicer place to spend some time. She is apprehensive about making any changes and yet she wonders why she's not getting more business. However, many people enjoy this peep into the family home and Rajini is a good cook. You can watch TV with them or chase Rishi, Rajini's 4 year-old, around the house.

Rajini spent some time in the hospital because of kidney stones. Her long-time customers visited her in the hospital and brought the regular get-well-soon fare. As I was buying flowers for her, I wondered if bringing flowers to a sick person was an Indian custom. I still don't know. She smiled when she saw the flowers so I assumed I hadn't cursed her or her offspring.

Rajini's mother, who helps run the business, tells me that her husband died many years ago of "stomach problems" which is how she describes Rajini's current medical problem. I'm sure she doesn't have the English words for the specific ailment, but I also I imagine she's scared out of her mind. You can see the worry on her face.

Rajini makes a full recovery and continues to complain about why she's not getting more business.

Across the street from Rishi's is The Coconut Corner. Yoga people congregate here after a hard workout to reinfuse themselves with electrolytes. (All directions are given in relation to The Coconut Corner.)

Anu's Cafe actually has a sign. They serve a buffet style lunch and dinner for a set 80 rupees. Anu makes the healthiest food in town, but as it's buffet, I usually leave there feeling like a big chapati. They also make a scruptious banana/chocolate/peanut butter smoothie and have an Internet Cafe with large monitors and headphone capability as well as wi-fi access for laptop users.

Ganesh, Anu's husband, provides various tourist services: scooter rentals, realator, taxi to airport. He's like the concierge of Gokolum, arranging tickets for a sold-out show. He charges a lot for his services, but as most of the westerners have never been to other parts of India, they don't know the difference.

Shiva is the other concierge. He wears the orange longyi of a baba, has a long beard and a sweet smile. Better to get him on a good day. This one is moody. Shiva rents out scooters (50 rupee a day), can point you in the direction of open rooms and apartments and is a good sourse for random issues.

"Hey Shiva. Where can I get a foam mattress to make my bed softer?"

"Take a right at the end of this street and then turn left at the coconut corner and it's on the right. It's a furniture store."

See that? No street names. No address. No business name.

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DO YOU PRACTICE WITH GURU JI?

I'm feeling rather pleased that on my first day of yoga class, I've been introduced to both Tina's and Anu's. I am the new girl, asking everyone about their "practice", their teachers, their likes and dislikes about their shalas. These are THE yoga questions, similar to the travel questions: "Where have you been?" "How long have you been out?" "Where are you going?" And soon enough I will tire of talking about "practice" just as I have long been weary of listening to someone's 6 month itinerary, my own included. But for now, I'm not sure if I'm going to stay with J. Kumar and I need input.

At Anu's I meet an Ashtanga teacher from Los Angeles. I am explaining my misunderstanding to her. "I didn't know there was a different between Ashtanga and Ashtanga Vinyasa."

She looks at me and in classic valley-girl, gag-me-with-a-spoon, I-drive-an-SUV-but-have-never-been-off-road, I-voted-for-Shwarzenegger, yoga-is-my-life, stick-up-my-ass, LA stereotypical inflection says, "Uh! NO! AshtTANga's AshTANga!"

If I had had a few more days in town, a little more knowledge about the history of yoga, I would have been able to tell her with confidence that Ashtanga is defined in the Yoga Sutras as: yama (moral restraints), niyama (personal observances), asana (postures), pranayama (conscious breathing), pratyahara (withdrawl of senses), dharana (concentration), dhyana (effortless meditation), samadhi (enlightenment). There is no mention of a specifc style created by this guy named Pattahbi Jois. There isn't a mention of hatha. There isn't even a mention of one specific posture. It says that one should do asana as part of the path to enlightenment so that sitting meditation is more comfortable. Yes, it is true that in the west Ashtanga Vinyasa, or Mysore Style, has become known simply as Ashtanga, but it's the same type of adulteration as thinking that Yoga is only a form of physical exersice. Once you know, it's not the same thing at all.

While I came to Mysore for both a well-rounded yogic education and to learn Ashtanga Vinyasa, my inquiries soon reveal that this is not entirely possible. Ashtanga Vinyasa teachers are not teaching pranayama and meditation as part of their program. There are other places in town where you can find these things, at an additional cost, but it's not a package deal.

In the end, I decide that maybe I am exactly where I'm supposed to be. Maybe I'm not supposed to study Ashtanga Vinyasa just yet. I tell J. Kumar that I will stay for the full 4 months. The suburbs of Mysore are charming. This is definitely a good place to hang out.

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MY PRACTICE

When I was at the Shaolin Kung Fu school everyone walked around talking about their "training". Well, with yoga it's "practice". I must have known this before but it never really stuck out as a thing. Every conversation here involves one of the following lines: "How's your practice coming?" "My practice was so great this morning." "What time do you practice?"

So, I have started my new practice with J. Kumar.

6:00 to 7:15am - asana class
4:30 to 5:45pm - theory, meditation, pranayama, chanting
5:45 to 7:00pm - asana class

Yes, yes. I am getting up at 5:30am and paying for the privledge.

Class begins with some chanting. This is code for "praying". I rarely pray as part of my own religion and now I need to do it in Sanskrit. However, many of the prayers have nice enough meanings: "stimulate the dull mind..." and "...enjoy the bliss... and "may out learning be brilliant" and "may all be happy..." Nothing wrong there. I have a small problem with being delivered into immortality, but I've just finished reading "A Short History of Nearly Everything" so I'm focusing instead on my atomic particles being delivered into immortality.

We then do 10 minutes of pranayama. This is conscious breathing and may include doing forced exhalations (Kapalabahti) for a few rounds of a minute each and Nadi Suddi, where we must breathe in through one nostril and out through the other. My allergies make Nadi Suddi an impossibility. So I sit there feelings sorry for myself what with my miserable, clogged, snotty lot in life, while all these normal people can reap the benefits of clear nasal passages.

Here's a little quote about pranayama that I thought was funny...um, I mean interesting.

"This body becomes lean, strong and healthy. Too much fat is reduced. There is lustre in the face. Eyes sparkle like diamonds. The practitioner becomes very handsome. Voice becomes sweet and melodious. The inner Anahata sounds are distinctly heard. The student is free from all sorts of diseases. He gets established in Brahmacharya. Semen gets firm and steady. The Jatharagni (gastric fire) is augmented."
- Excerpt from the book Kundalini Yoga by Sri Swami Sivananda.

And indeed, my semen is feeling quite firm.

And an interesting factoid: If you wake up and your left nostril is clogged, you'll feel alert. If the right nostril is clogged you're groggy.

Now it's time for asana practice. The room remains dark. The sun has lit up the eastern horizon but that subtle light won't reach us for another 1/2 hour. It's a standard yoga class: sun salutation, a variety of postures. We go slowly and I find that though class certainly isn't easy, I'm having a hard time building up enough heat to warm my muscles. At the end of class I immediately put my fleece back on.

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LADY'S HOLIDAY

In some yoga circles (mainly Ashtanga and in India), women should not practice on their first 3 days of menstruation. This is news to me. I am familiar with the "no inversions" rule, but 3 whole days of no yoga when I'm paying a flat monthly fee? Ain't no "ladies discount", that's for sure. I had no idea I was so delicate.

As it happens, on my 3rd day of practice I must tell J. Kumar that I have started my period. His whole face scrunches up in...what is that? Disgust? A damn crying shame? "I'm so sorry you're a woman!?"

I hold my hands up to the sky, look up and say "Gift from God. What to do!" (I'm not sure I believe in God but it seemed easier to say than, "The miracle of evolution and the human body.") He must have assumed it was bound to happen at some point. What a strange little man.

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THEORY CLASS

For the next few days I have only theory class to attend.

In an effort to spread out his teacher training course to 4 months, J. Kumar includes theory, chanting, pranayama and meditation into one hour. That's about 5 to 10 minutes of meditation: not even long enough for me to get tired of thinking about the mis-casting of Hayden Christensen or if yoga will help me do the scorpion kick like Trinity.

J. Kumar likes to tell us allegorical stories like a rabbi: something about an overworked farmer who prays for a servant but then is annoyed because the servant tends to the fields so quickly and won't leave the farmer alone. The farmer then makes the servant climb the beetle nut tree all day - up and down, up and down. The farmer gains command over the servant instead of the servant having command over him. So, I am the farmer. The field is the body. God is intelligence. The beetle nut tree is pranayama and the servant is the mind. Yeah, I don't get it either.

However, I do like the kerosene lamp metaphor: We are all kerosene lamps and the impurities of life have coated us in soot, keeping the true light from shining through. Yoga removes the soot.

One more...

Citta Vrtti (activity of the consciousness / mind fluctuations) is a film reel that plays in front of us, keeping us from seeing and experiencing the purity of the light that enables to film to be seen in the first place.

The senses distort understanding like the light from the moon is a distortion of the light of the sun.

This is some deep shit.

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IMPORTANT NOTICE

It's November 10th, 2006 and I have just finished Dostoevsky's, The Idiot. This may not seems like news, but I have been carrying this book around for 8 months. Since buying this book in Bangkok last March, I have read 15 other books, always needing to take a break in lieu of something more "readable". Anyone who says that they love brooding Russian novels is completely insane.

However, the last line of the book is awesome and particularly germane for my circumstances. I'm going to save it for the last entry of the trip.

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MY CLASSMATES

There are a handful of other foreigners in class as well as locals from the neighborhood. It is wonderfully authentic doing yoga with the Indian housewives of Vijay Najar, though I try not to think about what they pay per class. While the foreigners are in the most stylish of yoga outfits, they are doing their downward dog in saris.

The most surprising thing is the realization that some of these lovely, wealthy, clean-looking women don't shower very often. The woman next to me smells especially ripe. Even though they have big houses with showers, bathtubs and hot water on demand, regular bathing isn't part of their daily habit. Perhaps this comes from cultural norms when they were growing up. Perhaps they don't have time. Perhaps body odor isn't seen as something to be embarrassed about. I don't know.

Now I'm not saying that all Indian people smell badly. They certainly don't. I just assumed that this would be more common with poorer people - those with less access to water.

But it's difficult to let go of the old ways. Women with washing machines still wash clothes by hand. Those with bathtubs and showers will opt for a bucket shower. My yoga teacher's wife mops the floor on her hands and knees with a rag. This is how she's always done it and it would never occur to her to buy a mop so that she doesn't have to bend over.

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YOGA NIDRA

This morning we're doing guided meditation. I know that my mind is as agitated as ever because all I can think about during this hour is how much I hate this. J. Kumar talks the entire time. "Feel the prana in your toes. Feel the prana in your ankles. Feel the prana in your shins. Feel the prana. Feel the prana. Feel the prana." If he would just shut up for 1 minute I could feel the fucking prana. I'd like to squeeze the prana right out of his squeeky little throat.

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MY NEIGHBORHOOD

Unlike Gokulam, Vijay Nagar has very few westerners. I am a novelty. It is an affluent area as you can see by the newly completed house below. There is construction everywhere. Four houses on my street alone are being built.
I exchange some pleasantries with Anju, the owner of a new idli and dosa place. She encourages me to try to rava idli. Yeah, sure. Why not. Anju and I are the same age but her children are 17 and 14. I tell her she looks great, but she doesn't agree.

"I'm old so I'm fat," she replies.

"But no wrinkles. I have lots of wrinkles."

It's so funny how women bond.

Mohan is the owner of the "Departmental Store". He and his assistants, Raju and Madu, are completely intrigued with me and what I buy.

"I'd like some Fruit Loops please."

"But that's for children."

"Who are you? My mother? I can go buy Fruit Loops down the road if you prefer?

(Oh, right. I'm smoking again. Since mid-October. Had a little crisis in Rishikesh and I'm a total loser. But trying to stop. Fruit Loops help.)

They don't understand why I live alone, or rather, how my father has allowed me to live alone. The "Departmental Store" is like most other small shops in India, where the store is behind the counter and you must tell them what you want. This is easy when you know what you want, but I'm having these boys show me every brand of washing detergent. If you don't specifiy, the shop keeper will just pick out whatever brand they want, and it won't be the cheapest. I'm looking forward to coming back here for feminine products.

At the kiosk around the corner from my place the owner asks the regular questions.

"Yes, I'm studying with J. Kumar."

"I know Kumar."

"Well don't tell him that I'm buying cigarettes. Okay?"

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THE YOGA SUTRAS

In theory class we're chanting part of the Yoga Sutras. (The Yoga Sutras is an important text in the history of yoga. The 196 lines define the 8 limbs of yoga.) So, we're spending, oh, 20 minutes of our 1 hour theory class to chant the sutras. With J. Kumar's accent, not understanding a thing about how to pronounce transliterated Sanskrit, and trying to read words that go on forever, my agitated mind is acting up. I'm getting stubborn and insubordinate. Not good. But really, it'sliketeachingsomeoneEnglishwithasentencelikethis. I'm not getting the point here.

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THE NEIGHBORHOOD KIDS

All the neighborhood kids call me Auntie.

One especially gregarious 8 year old girl named Krittika has taken a special interest in me. I make her repeat my name 20 times so she'll remember it and stop calling me Auntie.

"Auntie, I mean, Jennifer. Where were you?"

"I was at yoga class."

"What time do you go?"

"6am and 3:30pm."

"If you are late, will the teacher scold you?"

"No."

"So why do you go so early?"

"Because I want to learn. I pay to learn so I go on time."

"I'm thinking about joining yoga class too."

She's very bossy with lots of attitude. My kind of girl.

In the late afternoon all the neighborhood boys gather in the dirt lot across from my house and play a little pickup Cricket. As dusk encroaches upon the game, mothers' voices are heard around the neighborhood beaconing the boys back home for supper. It's a comforting scene.

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WHY I LOVE BIKRAM

I love Bikram because it was the one place in San Francisco, besides my car, where I was warm. I love Bikram because it's hard and because I see an improvement in 3 classes. I love Bikram because it makes my back feel better - all that heat and stretching.

For these reasons, I do not like J. Kumar's class. We just move too slowly for me to maintain any good heat so my muscles can't get deep into postures and stretches.

Furthermore, J. Kumar goes haphazardly through various series that he's created and I'm not getting a sense of any type of flow. He loves back bending asanas, which historically irritate my lower back so for a quarter of the class I'm not participating. Every class he asks me if I'm okay and every class I tell him that these postures hurt me. He doesn't listen.

But most importantly, J. Kumar doesn't teach asana. He simply goes through postures and you follow along. He doesn't verbalize what I should be concentrating on: keep this leg tight, hold in the abdomen, remember to breathe. He doesn't correct me. He doesn't encourage. He doesn't push. His class is like any other yoga class I've ever taken, except I wasn't paying $500 for those yoga classes. Here, I'm expecting more. Much more. I know it's India and they do things differently, but if he's going to charge a western price, he needs to provide, to some extent, a western service.

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EGO EGO EGO

Another favorite thing J. Kumar likes to do in theory class is complain about Pattabhi Jois: how much money he charges, how he doesn't teach any other aspect of yoga, how he doesn't have Indian students.

Sounds to me like he's jealous. And if letting go of the ego is such a huge part of yoga, then J. Kumar isn't setting a good example

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LEAVING J. KUMAR

Everyday we practice our mantras, reading off sheets that are riddled with typos and mistakes. Everyday J. Kumar asks if there are mistakes on the page and everyday I must hold my tongue. "Yes, there are still mistakes on the page. Just like yesterday."

Forget about chanting the sutras, 5 minutes of meditation, cold yoga, 20 minutes of backbends everyday, J. Kumar shouting instructions across the room to someone (He can't remember anyone's name). What ends up driving me away is J. Kumar's disorganization. If this man can't take the time to correct a prayer sheet, he doesn't deserve my money. I've thought a lot about this decision. It wasn't easy. A part of me thinks that I'm giving up on something that was difficult - taking the easy way out. Another part tells me that if I'm not happy, I should just move on. In the end, it comes down the fact that I cannot, in good conscious, give this man $2000.

-----------------------------

WHERE I'M SUPPOSED TO BE

I think I was where I was supposed to be. I met wonderful women in my class and living in this neighborhood was an experience I'm sure I would never have as a backpacker.

And now the time has come.

Ashtanga awaits....

------------------------------

FUN HISTORICAL FACTS (from "A Short History of Nearly Everything", Bill Bryson)

But before we continue the search for my guru, did you know...

- William Herschel, a German born musician, discovered Uranus. He wanted to name it George, after the British Monarch. (1781)

- Charles Mason (astronomer and surveyor) and Jeremiah Dixon (surveyor) were sent to America (Yes, they're Brits) to resolve a boundary dispute between Lord Baltimore and William Penn. After surveying 244 miles, the Mason-Dixon Line was created 100 years before the Civil War.

- Halley's Comet was named 15 years after Edmond Halley's death.

- Issac Newton was the first person to be knighted for scientific excellence. He was somewhat of a nutcase. He was interested in alchemy. He learned Hebrew to better scan texts for floor plans of the lost Temple of King Solomon.

- The scientific term "cell" was coined by Robert Hooke because of it's resemblence to a monk's cell.

- Joseph Banks was a British Botanist that sailed with Captain James Cook on the famous 3 year "Endeavor" voyage, at which time Australia was claimed for the Crown. What's so fun about this? Well, Joseph Banks was also the name of Tom Hanks' character in the totally under-appreciated movie "Joe Versus the Volcano". Coincidence? I think not!

Tom Hanks won't leave me alone.

Part 20 - Northern India

2006-11-01T01:18:00.000-08:00

September 17 - November 1, 2006
Pictures: http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/2224172

ROLD GOLD

Oh, this is so cheating. Don't tell the other backpackers. They might revoke my membership.

1) I didn't go overland - backpacker betrayal numero uno.

2) A personal driver picked me up from the airport. I didn't have to haggle with taxi touts. I didn't have to take a long, crowded, nauseating bus ride to the center of town, only then to haggle with taxi touts.

3) I am staying in a real home, with sofas, a toilet that flushes (I had to ask if I could throw toilet paper down the drain), a shower that maintains a constant water temperature for longer than 30 seconds, an Internet connection that doesn't require you to pay by the minute and - the literal cherry on top - a refrigerator stocked with items from the US Embassy market: pretzels, tortilla chips, salsa, California raisins, cereal, graham crackers. You may find my exuberance regarding edibles rather boring but I'm willing to put money on the fact that few of you have gone without Mexican food for a year. It can make you lupe.

------------------------------

In trying to find the kitchen light switch, I've unknowingly rung for the cook. A lovely woman comes into the kitchen while I'm talking to myself trying to do a self-portrait (Still Jen with Appliances) and says "Somebody ring my bell?" It's Sunday and this is her day off. I feel so unrefined. I don't know the difference between a servant bell and a light switch. And now I've got that song in my head.

Monday morning I arise to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. I sheepishly ask Sonu if I can have some. "Ma'am. The coffee is for you."

Opps. There I go again. Hehe.

------------------------

It's 2 days before Zeba, wife of pal JJ and the consummate host, can get me out of the house.

"Do I really have to go out there?'

"Don't you have some shopping to do?"

"Yeah, I guess."

But really, who cares if the underwear I've been wearing for a year is falling apart from frequent washings. I've got a TV remote in my hand and a stack of DVDs in my lap.

Five feet out the front door and Raju, the Nepalese driver, has the car door held open for me.

"Can I sit in the front seat?"

"Yes. Of course, ma'am."

"Can I drive?" Kidding.

Raju clearly has dreams of improving his life situation. He asks me questions about living and working in the US, even about how to get a visa. I feel as if there's this assumption that because I'm American I know how an immigrant would move there, how much it would cost him to live and where he could find a good job. I try to answer his questions, but what do I know? I don't even have a job. And while he's an honest, intelligent, hard-working man, I would think that it takes a bit of luck and the right connections to make it in any new country.

Raju takes me to Basant Lok, a shopping center in this affluent neighborhood. This translates into an outdoor shopping area with only 3 or 4 cows strolling about. To get into the Sony store you must step over dung piles. To enter the Adidas shop, you must maneuver around cracked concrete steps. Fancy schmancy.

Have I been away too long? When did cross-trainers get so distressingly ugly? Red and gray space shoes with reflector strips? Is that a trend that started in the US or has Nike saved this fashion statement for ultra-hip Indians? And if Chinese labor is so cheap how can it be possible that a pair of disco-tennies be US$100. China's right next door!

The salesman at the Adidas store assures me that the only pair I find remotely wearable - navy and powder blue - is, indeed, the shoe for me. "Ma'am. This is the shoe for you." As it's between these and the shimmery pink and sparkly gray, I have to admit that he's right. Though I remind him that he doesn't know one thing about what is for me. I see him as the equivalent to the American encyclopedia salesmen - much too optimistic and friendly for my "leave-me-alone-while-I-shop" sensibilities.

I use a credit card for the first time in 10 months.

Now I can go jogging in the morning. (Like that's going to happen. What a spectacle I'd be. This large-bosomed woman bouncing down the village road in synthetic, quick-drying fabrics while sari-clad locals walk 10 miles to their work site where they will be hauling tray-fulls of dirt from one pile to another for 12 hours a day.)

---------------------------------

Zeba is prolific with apologies for not doing more to make my stay more comfortable. She obviously cannot grasp where I've come from.

"Zeba, your bathroom is inside. I'm in heaven."

-----------------------------------------------

After I have washed every article of clothing I own in an actual washing machine that uses hot water and isn't filled with a hose from the bathtub, I hesitantly ready myself for my return to the world of budget traveling.

Zeba questions my desire to get the cheapest train ticket to my next destination, when it's only US$10 for a first class seat.

"Yeah, but I could go for $5."

"But it's only $10."

"Yeah, but I could go for $5."

"But it's only $10."

My last time in India, I never even thought about first class. I easily cave in. Let's see how the other 10% live.

----------------

This site has nice pictures of the different classes on an Indian train.

http://www.seat61.com

Click on the "India" link in the left hand column and scroll down the page.

--------------

A FIRST CLASS SEAT

Like a girl the day after Senior prom, I am ruined forever. How will I ever go second class again. Forget about the comfortable, slightly-reclining seats. I don't even like the air-conditioning. The meal and bottled water is a nice touch but something I could forgo. The clincher is that people leave me alone. I'm just a regular ol' person taking the train. Nothing to stare at for 5 hours here. This is a different side of India: the side with money, explicitly visible by cell phones, laptops, shoes that aren't plastic - the growing middle class.

---------------------------

RISHIKESH

My pack is absurdly heavy. I've just shipped a box of winter clothes and other extras home, so the weight of electronic accessories, books and an array of facial products is a curiosity and remains a burden, especially in the afternoon heat.

I trod down Lakshman Jhula Road, through the Tapovan neighborhood. I forgot how long this road is and, once again, my pride in refusing to be overcharged has me on foot instead of in a rickshaw. I just saved a dollar!

I am standing at the top of the stairs which is the entrance to the popular backpacker and freak hangout, The German Bakery. I'm smiling and willing her to look up at me. We both start laughing as our eyes meet and as we hug for the first time in 2 years, the past 2 months of heartache and alone-ness comes on strong. I'm just going to stand in the middle of this crowded cafe and cry on the shoulder of my friend.

We talk like girls do.

"Isn't it great that you have love inside you? That you can feel it?"

She has a point.

During the next few days Limor cooks for me. She peels my oranges. (Anyone who peels oranges for me has a place in heart forever.) She lets me not talk. She understands my melancholy.

------------------------------------------

THE DISTRACTION OF LIFE

For a bit of a laugh I like to sit in The German Bakery, pretending to read my book while listening to others' conversations.

A 22 year-old who, by the volume of his voice I'm guessing is American, is expounding the meaning of life to an attentive Brit. I'm not sure I'd let this kid explain the meaning of chewing gum to me, let alone how to find eternal peace.

Others compare yoga teachers, Ashrams, the energy of merely sitting in the presence of a certain guru. They say things like:

"I'm really sensitive in my thrid eye."

or

"I'm working to release my crown chakra."

or

"Papaya really fires up my pitta dosha and I get angry easily.

And I chuckle at all of it. That is, until I start espousing my own knowledge on yoga teachers, ayurvedic doctors and astrologers.

THE CRANKY ASTROLOGER

All the Israelis are going to Prateek the Astrologer. "Oh, he's good," they say. I decide to go for lack of anything better to do in my day. You tend to have time for these things when traveling.

"What do you have planned for today," Limor may ask.

"Go to yoga. Get some breakfast and read for a few hours. Hit the Internet cafe. Maybe take a walk along the Ganga. Lunch. Perhaps a nap. 5pm yoga. I'll meet you after that for dinner at the place with HBO."

Let's see if I can squeeze Prateek into my hectic schedule.

Prateek sits cross-legged on the floor in front of his laptop. He has a doctorate in Yoga and Vedic Astrology, an advanced degree I didn't even know existed. Despite his thorough knowledge of yoga, which must be practical as well, his belly protrudes like any middle-aged, beer drinking, American football fan.

I provide my date and place of birth and Prateek enters it into the computer program. His only demand is that I not ask when I'm going to die. "What? You can see that? Geez. I don't what to know that!" I'm already freaked out.

WHO I AM AND WHO I'M NOT

First off, I'm not a Cancer. I'm Gemini. Vedic astrology uses a different chart. Right off, I'm not at all the person I thought. I'm very attached to my astrological sign. I have notebooks and t-shirts with little crabs. Thank goodness I never got tattooed on my ass.

My sun, moon and ascending (Mercury) are all in Gemini. Thus, I think a lot and am led by my emotions. Let me rephrase...I think about my emotions a lot. I'm not spending hours pondering supernovas or discussing Nietzsche. I'm thinking about me! Though this should hardly be news. The world is full of people thinking about themselves.

--------------------

Mind you, I'm writing furiously as Prateek spouts off these statements about the essence of me and I am not getting it all. He gets irritated when I ask him to repeat himself, thus "the cranky astrologer", but I calmly assert that I don't understand his accent and he's talking very fast and I'm paying for this and I want to understand.

"Well, sometimes I don't understand the American accent."

"And if you asked me to repeat myself, I would happily do so all the while talking
c l e a r l y a n d s l o w l y."

---------------------------------

On we go...

- Mars is in the 6th house so I have bitterness.
- Venus is in the 12th house so I travel a lot.
- Moon is in the 1st house so I am my own mother and I change places many times.
- My stomach, shoulder blade area and ears are not good.

"What?"

Hehehe.

MY PAST

He tells me that I have a great love of music. Whow! 1988 was a time of much music. This is when I started junior college in Aptos and was taking mostly music classes. Whow again.

I also have a strong connection to music in past lives. I was possibly a composer in an old country like Egypt.

-----------------------

"In 1992 communication was strong." This is when I was in Israel, so I'm not sure if communication was strong or the need for it was strong.

--------------------------

"2001 was also a changing time." I don't know. Not so much change: lost my job, was evicted from my apartment and left the States.

-------------------------

"I see many marriages with your parents. Maybe your mother twice and your father twice."

Oh, this will be fun.

"Well, not exactly. My mother once. My father 6 times."

It's the usual reaction: wide eyes and some interjection. I usually qualify the statement. "Yeah, but most of them were in my formative years. He's been pretty stable since I left home for university." Okay, maybe that's not a qualification; more like an explanation for my own neuroses.

Prateek makes note of his underestimation. Apparently, this one little fact has made my chart more interesting than most. Prateek and his assistant talk about it after I leave. I should have Prateek do Dad's chart.

-----------------------------------

ADVICE

"Younger men from other countries are good for you. Older men from your country are bad for you." Yep, this guy is good.

"You shouldn't live in America." Well, this throws a wrench in the works. If I move home I'll never meet a younger, non-American man. Otherwise I'm starting over somewhere new, again.

"You love to write."

Whow, again!

"You should write something for women: articles, movies, help of some sort.

"Your mercury is strong. You should have your own business."

"Be careful of people in uniform."

"When you are 42, DRIVE CAREFULLY." Everyone please make a note on your computer calendars to remind me of this in 2011. And the party will be at my house.

"Don't wear red." This is curious as that Chakra woman in Thailand a year before told me I need more red. My new age sciences are clashing.

"Don't drive a red, gray or silver car."

"Never marry a Muslim." No shit, huh?

"Don't take hormone weakening medication."

--------------------

MY FUTURE

I won't have stability until August 14, 2007. This is the best time for work. My bank account does not agree.

"Your last relationship was with a good man." Prateek touches his heart when he says "good man" and my eyes well up. I'm such a wuss.

"A short relationship is coming that will act as a bridge for a bigger relationship." How short is short? A night? A week? Anything more than this is hard to imagine happening until I'm actually in one place for longer than 7 days.

Unfortunately, a good relationship won't come until I'm 38 or 39. This does not leave me much time. I have asked one hard question: "Will I have children?" He says that if I'm not pregnant by the end of November 2009, I'll never have children. I have an expiration date. So that leaves me perhaps a year to meet a younger, non-American, get married and conceive.

----------------------------

Well, I'm glad I did that. I am now freaked about driving, finding a job when I get home, going home at all, and meeting an immigrant who likes older women.

-----------------------

PANCHA WHATA?

Limor is in the midst of a treatment called Pancha Karma. "It is the Ayurvedic art of detoxification, purification, and rejuvenation, and is a powerful way to address the root cause of disease and has been used for thousands of years as a method for staying healthy, young, and vital."

There are traditionally 5 (pancha) actions (karma) utilized in re-establishing harmony in the body, though gentler methods have mostly replace the more archaic.

1) Vamana is a special medicated vomiting procedure to remove toxins (mucus, phlegm) from the sinuses, lungs and mainly the stomach.

2) Virechana is a process of purgation used to flush toxins from the small intestine.

3) Basti is a medicated enema to remove toxins from the colon and to tone and rejuvenate the colon.

4) Nasya is a group of herbal therapies applied through the nose.

5) Shirodhara is when warm oil flows onto the forehead. It improves the immune system and relieves stress in the muscles.

*Blood letting, rarely used today, removes the excess toxins in the blood.

During the Pancha Karma period, the patient eats simple, warm, easily digestible foods consisting mainly of kitchari (rice and dahl), flour free soups, light fruit and ghee (clarified butter). Normally ghee is taken at bedtime but Dr. Arora says I already have enough fat in my system and can skip the ghee.

Daily oil massage and periodic steam baths also aide in releasing toxins.

OKAY! SOUNDS LIKE FUN! SIGN ME UP!

-----------------------------

Day 1

Dr. Arora listens to my pulse. My pitta is low. My kapha is high.

"How can this be? I love pita."

Pitta (i as in sit), kapha and vatha are the 3 doshas, or energies, within the body.

Vatha is a combination of air and space.
Pitta is mostly fire with some water.
Kapha is mostly water with some earth.

"Overall well-being and striving for longevity depends on keeping your doshas balanced. Any imbalance among the tridoshas causes a state of unhealthiness or disease. Factors that can bring about balance of the tridoshas are diet, exercise, good digestion, and elimination of toxins. "

The importance of strong digestion is, in my opinion, overlooked in western discourse about health. We're obsessed with carbs and protein and fat and calories, but we rarely talk about how efficient our body is at taking in nutrients and expelling the rest.

Dr. Arora continues...

"Your eyes and tongue are good. Your skin is bad. Have you ever been depressed?"

HA!

--------------------

MY FIRST MASSAGE

Devi is 18 years old and a tiny little thing who, I soon guess, takes showers once a week.. She lives with her family across the river in Ram Jhula and isn't allowed to go out at night by herself.
She tells me to undress.

"Everything?"

She gives the Indian head tilt which can mean anything: yes, no, maybe. I'm thinking she means "yes".

So I undress as this child watches. She then tells me I'm big. Sigh. Another women, Lahkshmi, comes in and they proceed to give me the most amazing 4 handed massage. They are in perfect sync, moving their hands up and down the body with, not only the same speed, but the same pressure.

Included in the ayurvedic massage is quite a bit of attention to the stomach and breasts - areas of vast importance wholly overlooked in the west.

At one point, I swear one of them touches my labia.

----------------------------

Day 4 - Purging

Today I drank a pitcher of water with honey and rock salt - a concoction that smells like rotten eggs. I then stuck my finger down my throat and threw it all up as Lahkshmi performed a very gentle Heimlich manoeuvre.

--------------------------

Day 6

My first Shirodhara. I hate this. Oil flows from a copper pot hanging from a wooden plank over the massage table onto my forehead for over 1/2 an hour . And I can't move. Otherwise oil goes up the nose. I'm stuck in this one position. My back hurts. My neck hurts. My muscles are not relaxed.

Becoming balanced is not comfortable.

--------------------------

Day 8

More toilet talk. Tonight it's medication-induced diarrhea. I take the herbal powder with water and sleep fitfully waiting for the first strike. That's all the information I'm sharing.

----------------------

Day 11

I'm not sure I can talk about this anymore. I've gotten embarrassed all of a sudden. Humm?

I'm going to talk about something else for a while.

---------------------

JEWS

There are so many Israelis in Rishikesh that everyone assumes everyone else is Israeli.

All the young Sabras congregate at the Freedom Cafe. It's a chill spot, with mats and pillows on the ground and a beautiful view of the Ganga. After taking a hit of the chillum (that would be a hash pipe), they hold it to their foreheads as a thanks to Lord Shiva.

"What is this? Dude, you aren't Hindi. You first heard of Shiva 3 weeks ago. You should be thanking your parents for supporting you while you saved money enabling you to spend your days in India stoned off your ass. Just smoke your drugs, quit bogarting the chillum and pass it here!"

--------------------------

AN INDIAN WEDDING

Lahkshmi, my massuese and enima giver, has invited Limor and me to the wedding of her husband's brother's daughter. At least we think that's the relationship. It seems as though everyone in Tapovan is related: aunt or uncle or sibling or cousin. However, if cousins grow up in the same house they will forever refer to each other as brother or sister. This can get confusing for the foreigner when trying to figure out who is the parent of whom.

We are at the bride's home and the women invite us in as the bride get's ready. The family home consists of 2 rooms: bedroom/kitchen and bedroom/living room. The men are lounging on plastic chairs outside where a groomed garden and patio - twice the area of the house - advertise a celebration in progress: flags, streamers, a cloth canopy

Auntie applies kohl (Indian eye liner) to the bride and her younger sister. Auntie, a huge woman, is the make-up artist for all.

Indian women take make-up and accessories seriously. I try to think of other cultures where it is the historical norm for women to do themselves up so elaborately; where little in that tradition has changed over the centuries.

The bride it sitting in a plastic chair in a corner of the bedroom/kitchen...waiting. Her red and gold sari is elaborate (though I imagine another class of Indian might characterize it as cheap and gaudy), as is the bindi design on her forehead and the jewelry that hangs from any body part that protrudes: nose, ears, wrists, fingers, ankles, toes.

The phone keeps ringing and the bride is having some lengthy converstations accepting good wishes or passing on phone numbers. She is visibly fidgity. It's a big night for this 20 year old. I haven't been able to ask anyone about the wedding night for young virgin Indians. I imagine it's similar to any other 20 year old virgin. But this is a love marriage so it won't be nearly as awkward as if it were arranged.

----------------------

At Laskshmi's house down the cement path that connects the houses of the neighborhood with each other and the main road, more women gather in bedrooms and fix each other up. Limor and I are included. A beautiful 18 year old "cousin" does our hair and expertly applies kohl to our upper and lower lids. As usual, I feel ridiculous in heavy make-up, like I've been playing in my mother's bathroom.

--------------------------

Two hours later we're down in the town square where the party tent from the recent Bengali festival still remains. The family is taking advantage of the free decor.

A buffet is set up and curries are dished out for the bride's family. The salad bar is self serve and consists of cut tomatoes, cucumer and onions spread across a table coverd in plastic: no containers, no serving utensils. Party-goers literally grab handfuls and use the fresh veges to cool the spice of everything else.

It's another hour and everyone is looking rather bored. The groom is still with his family doing their own celebration before the two families come together. But it's 11pm and I'm tired. There is no alcohol or live music to keep me entertained. I'm going to bed.

On the walk back up the hill, we see that the groom is finally on his way. His entourage is led by a brass band and the musicians stop so that Limor and I can get good photos. Sentries carry poles strung with christmas lights on each side of the narrow road. The groom, himself, is riding shotgun in an economy car. He's wearing a funny little hat that looks like the top of a western wedding cake. I haven't seen any real wedding cake.

The whole spectacle is like Mardi Gras, minus the co-eds showing their tits for beads. I wonder what I'd get if I showed mine!

------------

AN INDIAN HOLIDAY

Diwali is India's "festival of lights" and is celebrated by Hindus, Jains and Sihks, though for slightly different reasons. However, we can say, in general, that it is the triumph of good over evil and commemorates the new yeasr - it is seen as more of a national holiday.

The major attractions of Diwali are sweets and fire. During the 5 festive days, businesses and homes are generous with trays of kajre burfi, sancha peda and other tasties I can't pronounce or identify.

On the big night, families and friends gather on rooftops and light 'em up. No going to the neighborhhod high school football field. This is do-it-yourself fun with fireworks (pataka).

Limor, Yaron and I make the rounds. First stop is Yaron's guesthouse. Yaron reports with pride and wonder that our hosts have spent nearly US$100 on rockets, snakes, sparklers, fountains, and Roman candles. This is probably the equivalent of someone spending $5000 on Burning Man, though not nearly as creative or drug-laden.

The men of the family light the fusses while the women stand back at a safe distance - safe being as far as one can get when standing on a roof of a house.

The day after Diwali, newpapers dutifully report the many occurances of firework-related injuries. Limor and I become statistics. My clothes and hair are singed from a Roman candle 25 feet away. Limor burns her hand on a sparkler.

On the walk back to our house where we've been invited for more treats, rockets fly overhead and bomb blasts bounce back and forth off the hills on either side of the Ganga.

"I feel like I'm in Gaza."

Yaron answers her with our new favorite and all-inclusive word, "Pataka pataka."

She responds in kind, "Pataka."

We stay alert to falling sparks from the homes we pass.

"Watch out! Pataka! Pataka!"

After filling up again with our landlords, Satpal, Bubli and family, we are welcomed into the home of more relatives of Lahkshmi where we must, regretfully, turn down more food. Inside the old folks watch the Star Movie channel. Outside, the kids light up small sparklers. Limor keeps her distance, as does a little one who hides in the folds of her mother's flowing sari. Looks like she's the smart one.

That night as I snuggle in bed visions of katushas and firebombs danced in my head.

Pataka. Pataka. Pataka.

---------------------------

FINISHING PANCHA KARMA

Let's just say that Pancha Karma does not do wonders for my digestion. The massages are great but the rest is somewhat anti-climactic. And because I am supposed to rest after my morning "therapies" I haven't been going to yoga all that much. I'm feeling lethargic and bored.

It's time I start thinking about leaving Rishikesh. Stuck in a rut? Split town! If only normal life where that easy.

I go to pay Dr. Aurora the remainder of my $200 fee. I ask him if he has dietary advice for me.

"Don't have sugar."

"That's it? That's the big insight? I pay you $200 and you tell me not to eat sugar?!

This guy has got a good scam going. Devi and Lahkshmi, whom he pays next to nothing, do all the work and he sits at his desk all day doing Soduko.

(Insert Indian head tilt) "What to do?"

The upshot here is that a similar treatment in the states can charge $2,675 for a 10 day program.

So it's a $200 experience. I've spent more money on stupider things.

---------------------------------------

BACK TO CASA DE JJ

A 5 hour bus ride back to Delhi turns into 9 hours.

A helpful passenger helps me figure out where to get off the bus so that Raju, JJ and Zeba's driver, can pick me up near their house.

When I step off the bus in front of the Hyatt Hotel in southern Delhi, Raju is waiting with outstretched arms: for my bags, not me.

-----------------

THE GREAT BRITISH BEER FESTIVAL

So it's a big night tonight. JJ and Zeba are taking me to a garden party at the British High Commission.

"Um, my nicest clothes are jeans and a clean t-shirt."

"No worries. It's in the garden and they're serving beer and BBQ."

"How much?"

"2000 rupees."

"2000 RUPEES!!! THAT'S LIKE...$40! OH MY G-D!"

"Jen, it's not that much. And it's all you can eat and drink. And there will be dancing."

"Not that much! Not that much! That's food for 8 days. It's accomodations for 2 weeks. $40 for a night out? And I haven't had alcohol or meat in well over a month. Two beers and a kebab and I'll be wrecked."

But how often do you get to go party with diplomats.

I dress up by using a scarf as a belt, applying make-up and pilfering some of Zeba's perfume. And we musn't forget the shoes: teva flip flops. They're black.

The garden at the High Commission is beautifully decorated with candles and white cloth covering tables and chairs. The microbrews are plentiful as are the dead animals.

I spend most of the evening talking with Zeba's co-workers. These US Embassy employees ask me travel tips on Nepal and Tibet: visas, treks, transportation. Seems as though they've spent their lives going to school and learning 9 different languages but they've never actually been anywhere. Funny.

The DJ sucks! Kylie Manogue, The Village People, Abba, Wham UK. I don't know much about specific DJs but didn't the Brits give us Paul Oakenfold, Moby, John Digweed and DJ Food, to name a few of of the more mainstream spinners. But instead they hire someone to play The Spice Girls. Wow.

At the end of the evening, we get some nice Latin tunes and JJ is twirling Zeba like a guy who knows how to twirl his lady. They move like people who know each other: that comfort you see with long-time married couples at weddings.

---------------------

We all sleep late the next morning and then spend a couple hours in the backyard drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Sunday morning at home.

---------------------

Zeba's father and brother are arriving Monday evening. I've lost my spot at Casa de JJ.

---------------------

I must now go be amongst touts and theives in Pahar Ganj, the traveler area of Delhi. Limor, Yaron and I have a final dinner together at United Coffee House in Connaught Place. The name is misleading as this restaurant dons clean table clothes, cushioned booths and chairs and comparatively high prices.

When Yaron comes back from a trip to the bathroom he assures us that this place isn't so nice. The bathroom always tells you everything you need to know about an eating establishment.

It's late that night when I say my final farewells to Yaron and Limor. Despite numerous arguments and reconciliations with Limor, we hug like sisters. Actually, the numerous arguments and reconciliations is what makes us more like sisters than friends.

I'm heading south in search of a warm place to do yoga and she's trying to find a school to study Ayurvedic medicine. We have to follow our own dreams. We don't know if we'll see each other again in India. It maybe years before I'll have to pleasure of having her tell me what to do. (She doesn't like my sarcasm and wouldn't appreciate that last line, but I'm betting she doesn't take the time read these stories.)

----------------------

READY TO RUMBLE

I've pre-paid the travel agent for my taxi to the airport. It's 6:30am and I'm going south to Bangalore, the Silicon Valley of India, on my way to Mysore.

My travel agent is asleep on the bench in the closet they call an office.

"Hey! Hey! Where's my taxi?"

He groggily walks out the door and returns with another guy.

"Follow him."

I follow guy #2 down the street where a cluster of Ambassador taxis await. Well, I could have done this myself.

#2 tells me to wait while he gets the money to pay the taxi. Already this sounds suspicious. He knowingly comes to a taxi without money? After a few minutes the trunk opens and he's loading the luggage of another couple.

"Whow! Wait a minute. How much did you guys pay?" I ask the nice, quiet couple.

"180 rupees."

I glare at #2.

"Okay, so you give me half my money back and you give half their money back and we go together."

"I don't have any money."

Let me just preface the next sentence by saying that Delhi pisses me off. Too much stimulation for me. Too much.

"Don't lie to me you little fuck."

Indians hate it when you use bad language. He puts his finger in my face and tells me not to talk to him like that. But there's no way I'm backing down. I am so ready to kick this guy's ass. I squint my eyes and clinch my jaw and get right up in his face.

"You lie to me! You steal from me! I talk to you how I want!"

I don't remember how the scene ends. We don't brawl. Punches are not pulled. I think I become aware of the nice, quiet couple and realize that I've totally freaked them out. There's nothing worse then having to deal with other foreigners having a fit. It's like watching someone yell at a bank teller for some bank policy they have no control over. We think that guy is impatient and rude and oblivious to the system in which he lives. Today, I am that guy.

But I change gears. These people probably have a plane to catch. As do I. Which is exactly why #2 knows he can get away with what he's doing.

"Guys. I'm sorry. You can totally come in the taxi with me. It's fine. I just don't want him to think that what he's doing is okay."

It's a cordial ride to the airport. I try to be friendly but I certainly won't be on their Christmas card list.

---------------------------

And off we go with the prosaically named airline, "Go Air". It was the cheapest ticket I could get and I'm hoping the mechanics take more time with their job than the marketing folks.

Part 19 - Kathmandu, Nepal

2006-09-16T23:50:00.000-07:00

Sept. 9 - 16, 2006

TRAVEL SCHMAVEL

"Any last words?" A Chinese-German guy has his video camera in my face. I begin to berate him about not acknowledging the possibility of death until the ride is over. Very bad luck while en route. But now that I think about, I am on a Nepalese bus on a narrow, muddy road, on the edge of a chasm that affords, if you're on the left side of the bus, wondrous views of the wild Bhote Kosi river. And in regular Nepali fashion there are twice as many people on this bus as there should be.

Okay, maybe I do have something to say. "I'd like to thank my parents for all their support. Dad, you've been really great during my travels. Mom, if you ever get around to reading this, you've been great too. And if you happen to find an envelope with the words "Destroy immediately in case of my death," please heed my warming. Do not open the envelope. I'm serious. You'll regret it."

It's an eight hour bus ride with no bathroom breaks, but we make it to Kathmandu alive. Note to self - next time you go from Tibet to Nepal, take the private car from the border. Five hours into the bus ride and that $10 jeep ride is looking like a pretty sweet deal.

--------------------------------------------------

I am now officially on vacation from travel. Besides a couple dreary days waiting in line for an Indian visa, I will not do anything. I will not sight see. I will not take pictures. I will not look at a map. I will not smile at local children.

This is my first single room in...well, I can't remember. It's been that long. I shower in MY bathroom and shave...everywhere, and stand naked in the middle of MY room to apply body lotion...everywhere.

At the convenience store I prostrate myself before the aisles and racks of product packages I can read! I can read what I'm buying. I don't need a picture. I don't need to act out the scene of taking a shower and washing my hair only then to get them to understand that I want conditioner, not shampoo. Banana Boat, Frosted Flakes, St. Ives, peanut cookies, antihistamines, ibuprofen. I'm actually tearing up looking at soap.

To the newly arrived traveler, my "vacation from vacation" meals might seem like a travel travesty. I care not. After this week, it may be another 6 months before I'll have access to a tasty burger with fries; a chicken salad; fresh vegetables; animal flesh.

And the bookstores...

I put down Dostoevsky yet again, this time for Zadie Smith.

English magazines don't cost US$10. Let's see what's happening in the world. Ugh! The 5th anniversary of 9/11. The rest of the world thinks that Americans have sucked this one dry. Apparently, we are an overly-dramatic, hyper-sentimental, single-minded group of media whores more concerned with a good headline than genuine news who think this tragedy is the worst the earth has ever seen. Hmm? Doesn't sound too far off the mark. Not that I would want to diminish the pain of what thousands of families endured. Look at me, having to justify generalities so as not to offend. Please don't sue me.

------------------------------

A SMELL OF WHAT'S TO COME - INDIA

It's Monday morning and I've staked my place in line outside the Indian Embassy an hour before the gates open. I'm number 42. It's a tense little scene as everyone knows that there is no way all these people will be able to submit their request for a visa in 3 hours. The people at the back of the line will have to come back tomorrow. Regardless, when the doors open, we all file in, entering our names in the guest book, going through the metal detector and forming another line in an area far too small for the 80 people in attendance. The line curves around and out the roof-covered patio.

About 45 minutes before noon, at which point I have more than a dozen people in front of me, I notice that a woman who was a good 15 people behind me is now at the front of the line. Because this is India, people do not form one single-file line. There is a cluster of people around the help window all elbowing their way in. However, since these are mostly westerners, we should know better.

Another man who has been sitting in a chair for the last 2 hours instead of standing is now in this cluster. He's pierced in various places and his ensemble is India-Hippie uncoordinated. He has a Buddha t-shirt on and an Anarchy tattoo on his THROAT - two philosophies that couldn't be more disparate. It reminds me of the scene in Full Metal Jacket where Gny. Sgt. Hartman is questioning the protagonist, Pvt. Joker, on his peace sign button and the words "Kill Kill Kill" on his helmet. Pvt. Joker responds dryly, "Something about the duality of man, sir!"

But I see nothing remotely Buddhist in this guys behavior. No duality. Maybe he'll switch back to Buddhism later when it better suits his needs. I don't care what he calls himself. I call him a dick!

But I'm calm. Karma will get these line cutters and then they'll be sorry.

---------------------

We're all back on Thursday. This time I come 2 hours before the gates open - 7am. I'm number 7. I read and talk to some Israeli girls. Nearing 9am the line-cutting lady is back and she proceeds to the front of the line where she feigns friendship and interest in the Israeli girls. We've all been talking about her inappropriate and inconsiderate behavior and these girls and I are now looking at each other knowingly. I say in Hebrew, "3 minutes and I say something to her", though it probably was more like, "3 minutes and I to say something to she."

Line-cutting lady is hovering around and I just can't take. I can't stay silent.

"Um, excuse me miss. I don't want to be rude but all these people in line have been waiting here for hours and it's really not fair that you come now and go to the front of the line."

I am calm and gentle.

"Well, I'll be fast," she replies, as if this is a justifiable reason.

"Yes, I'm fast. You're fast. We're all fast. Regardless, what you're doing is inconsiderate."

"I have an important phone call at noon."

"Then why didn't you come here at 7 am like the rest of us?"

"Fine. Fine."

She gets in line directly behind ME. No one else feels the need to speak up. They're happy letting this woman break the social contract by which we are all abiding.

When the gates finally open and she follows me in, I continue with my questions.

"Please help me to understand why you think you are more important than all these other people? What makes you so special?"

She's getting mad.

"You're right. I'm wrong. Okay?"

"Well, I'm not right enough for you to correct your behavior. You're still here. I wish I could have such a sense of entitlement."

She has nothing further to say to me. She's perturbed, but I feel a lot better.

What does linger in my mind is all the other people that saw what she was doing but weren't inclined to say anything. Are they pacifists? So chill that they don't care? Too scared to speak up? How can they sleep at night? Who are the phlegmatic people of the world who would rather be mistreated and taken advantage of then to politely speak their mind? Quite honestly, very few people that I know and certainly no one in my family. They must all be Canadian.

-----------------------

Turns out, the French nut case is anything but fast. She's one of those people that everyone else in line dreads. She has special circumstances. She wants the rules to be different for her. She has questions and complaints. She takes 10 times longer in line than the average visa applicant. She cannot see herself.

Frenchy and Anarchist are the worst kind of traveler, nay people. Their behavior could be likened to terrorists, warlords, sweat shop owners, Enron executives, cab drivers, real estate agents: to the detriment of others, I will further my own goals. They use India as a place to hide, where an itinerant lifestyle is less likely to attract the prolonged attention and admonishment that living in one place ultimately would. I damn them both. My spiritual path is to not despise such pathetic freaks, but I'm like one foot down that road. And thank goodness. Otherwise, I'd have to accept and understand these losers. I certainly wouldn't be able to call them losers. That's not very spiritual, now is it?

-------------------------------

It's early afternoon and I'm sitting in an outdoor cafe in the heart of Kathmandu's tourist center, Thamel. There's no one else in the restaurant. I don't know if it's due to the awkward time of day to be eating or because it's low season. But it's a rather large patio and I'm sitting in the middle of it with my journal open in my lap while staring off into space.

The manager snaps me out of my daze and starts talking. He just starts yapping. I don't even understand what he's going on about; the weather, something to drink, not so busy today. I return his look with squinty eyes and he knows I'm confused. He smiles.

"Madam. You are thinking too much...and you should stop."

Wow. I've been caught. Yes, I am indeed thinking too much. I've just ended a 3 hour online chat with...anyway...and, yes, I should indeed stop.

And if I went crying before, I certainly am now. Abhinuv's gentile and genuine concern has touched me in a way that can only happen with complete strangers and when I'm already vulnerable which, in reality, is hardly ever. Just when you think you're all alone out there, sitting in the middle of an empty restaurant in a country where not one person knows you, along comes someone kind and reassuring reminding you that you are not so alone and everything will be fine.

Later that day I run into a man that I met 4.5 months ago in China. He's been riding his bike around the world for 4 years, so while I've been all over China, Mongolia, back through China, Tibet and now Nepal, he rode from Yunnan Province to Tibet (they're next to each other), was arrested for not having permits, bussed to Sichuan Province and tried it again, this time camping outside populated areas and riding through towns known for their police traps before dawn. So, there's one person in this country who knows me (if only a bit) besides, of course, Abhinuv, who can see my very soul.

------------------------------

OVERLAND SCHMOVERLAND

I'm taking another airplane. After one year of travel it seems that I am getting lazy. Additionally, five years back I took the bus south out of Nepal and into India. That's twenty hours over 2 days that I am not prepared to do again. Another route I would consider but there's another important factor to take into consideration: if I fly into Delhi, my friend's driver will pick me up at the airport and take me to their house. Yep, I'm feeling pretty superior to all those backpackers who don't have friends with houses in Delhi supplied by the US Embassy.

So, it's off to my second airport of the trip. Only this time they won't let me bring water onto the flight, or lip balm or face cream. What the hell is going on in the world?! I get really dried out on fights. I need my internal and external moisturizers. Otherwise I'll get all chappy.

What to do? It's for my own good. And I realize this far better than a good majority of the passengers who are becoming audibly irked by the numerous baggage searches.

"Yes, it's a real guitar in there. No, nothing is inside the body. Go ahead. Take a look."

Now that I think about it, man, could one guitar string potentially do a lot of damage to a throat.

-------------------------

Flying south west out of Kathmandu, the valley's green hills fold into each other. Seconds later, the snow-capped peaks of western Nepal are visible above the clouds. Earth is so cool.

Part 18 - Tibet

2006-09-09T03:42:00.000-07:00

Aug. 20 - Sept. 9, 2006
Pictures: http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/1810536

----------------------

I'm waiting to get on an airplane talking to a nice middle-aged American couple.

"I was there 15 years ago and it was so much better."

She's going on and on like all older travelers do: when this place was real... before it became popular...before email and cell phones.

My brother used to do the same thing with music, when he still listened to new music. "I was into Phish before anyone was into Phish. They suck now."

I cut the lovely women off. "Nothing is like is used to be."

The profoundness of my own comment shuts us both up. I gotta write that down. Oh, that's good.

----------------------------

My most recent travel lull is over. I'm in Lhasa, Tibet at 3650 meters / 11,975 feet - the highest capital city in the world. Woooooo-hooooooo!

---------------------------

My initial impressions of Lhasa swung from veneration to dread and back again.

There is the Potala - the former residence of the Dali Lama. It's white and maroon stand brilliant against the clean Himalayan sky. Wow. How did I get so lucky? I decide not to go inside. Once again, the government has taken what should be a spiritual, moving experience and turned it into a money maker - one from which local Tibetans don't benefit. The day before you want to enter the Potala, you must get in line at 6 or 7 am. At around 9am, you are giving a number. At 11am, that number is used to stand in another line to obtain tickets for the next day. The 100 yuan ($12 US) permits you to walk in a crowded and chaotic line (most of your fellow travelers are Chinese) through a hallowed out reminder of the slaughter of innocent monks and Tibetan civilians, the 14th Dalai Lama forced into exile, and the continued genocide of the Tibetan culture. No thanks. I will stand in front and let the sanctity of this icon to Buddhism do from the outside what I know can no longer be done from within.

Across the street from the Potala, the Chinese have constructed an ugly cement public square with a soulless, sharp Communist sculpture. Continuing eastward on Beijing Lu (Road) is like walking through any Chinese town: clothing and shoe shops, China Mobile and Telecom outlets, noodle joints and the familiar red and green sidewalk tiles. And for some reason, I didn't expect Lhasa to have stop lights, or brand new Mercedes' rolling around. Most of the ATMs don't work, and that makes me feel better.

The old city retains some character and charm, despite it being tourist driven. Narrow alleys lay between whitewashed or grey brick buildings, all with the Tibetan style window with the frame narrowing at the top. Outdoor gear shops, boutiques, souvenir stalls and restaurants line the two main streets.

And the food here is GOOD! Momos (One of the best food names ever, along with bamba and banufie - big points if you know what those last two are.), naan, chicken tikka, chai. I'm getting closer to India. Ummmmm!

At the center of the center is Jokhang Monastery: small only in size. Throughout the day, Tibetans do the ritualistic "kora": circling clockwise a sacred site. Pilgrims slowly walk the circumference while repeating mantras and spinning a hand held prayer wheel or fingering mala beads. Other devout Buddhists will prostrate themselves in front of the monastery or do the kora while prostrating. The latter being much more time consuming. Koras can be done around anything considered sacred, such as Mt. Kailash. That particular kora takes at least 3 days.

Like the rest of what China considers China, accommodation options in Lhasa are like the rest of Lhasa - lacking a middle class. You can get a room for $4 (dorm with stinky bathroom down the hall and shower across the courtyard) or $24 (a double room with attached stinky bathroom). Of course there are nice places. They are booked up by rich senior citizens who think that they can come to Tibet for two weeks, acclimatize sufficiently in 2 days and then go on a little stroll at 5000 meters.

The needy German woman (remember her?) and her travel mate, Wolfgang, have been kind enough to save me a bed in their 3-person room. Turns out location isn't everything. The staff at this fine establishment clean the toilets once a day, before anyone actually wakes up and uses them. The construction workers across the street start their day at 6am and end well after midnight. Taxi drivers speed down this side street compulsively honking their horns no matter the hour or amount of traffic. And a group of hip Japanese have made the outdoor hallway their hangout spot. They eat fast food from Dicos (a popular Chinese chain) at midnight while someone's 2 year old runs screaming up and down the corridor. All this is fine because I can't sleep. Altitude. I hide under my blankets with headlamp and book while Eva snores and mumbles.

---------------------

Tibet is probably the worst country to be a solo traveler. Public buses are scarce, though there always seems to be the hardcore traveler who figures out when they leave and how to get them to stop for a foreigner. Hitchhiking is also possible, but difficult. More on that later.

The norm is for a group of 4 or 5 people to rent an SUV. If you come to Tibet with 4 or 5 people - no problem. If you come to Tibet alone, you spend your 5 days acclimatizing in Lhasa going from guesthouse to guesthouse, posting notices for the trek or trip you want to do all the while checking other postings to see if any match your criteria. All day long, walking up and down the street, checking email, going back to see if there are new postings, checking email again, meeting with possible trekking mates, checking email again, meeting other possible trekking mates. What a pain in the ass!

(A tangent: During one of many Internet sessions there is this horrible Asian-electronica playing. But the music is familiar. What is that? Oh, it's that Jewish dance "Mayim Mayim Mayim". And there's not even an Israeli in the place for me to laugh with.)

I happened to meet a Dutch girl who was interested in going to Mt. Kailash. Sounds good to me. And we begin our search for 2 or 3 others. This is a big trip - 15 days and close to $1000 what with auto rental, guest houses, food, and proper clothing. That's $1000 per person: chicken scratch for all y'all that don't venture out of AmARica. Compared to other treks or tours in Asia, this is high end touring.

After a couple days, we meet a group of 4 who want to do the Kailash trip in 2 cars of 3 each. More money but much more comfortable. But the search has taken too long. Geri has a deadline. She has a job waiting for her at home. Some other members of the 4 person group also have planes to catch. If one thing goes wrong - we have to wait a day because someone is sick, the car breaks down - one thing, people miss their flights and trains. That could mean that we would have to turn back early, and thus, my trip that I've spent $1000 would be kaput.

Both Geri and I decide we don't want to take the chance. We have smartly doubled up on bulletin board notices and now have 2 others interested in the popular 6 day Ganden Monastery to Samye Monastery trek. It covers 80 kilometers and reaches a peak of 5200 meters / 17, 060 feet. At a total cost of 9000 yuan ($1,125 US), we're each paying $280.

At the last minute an Israeli couple joins us, knocking the price down to $180 - a much more manageable price, but I still can't fathom what could cost so much. Some rice, some bread, some water. We're not even taking an SUV.

The organizing agent doesn't like my questioning him about this.

"You ask other people. They do trek. They know. "

"But I'm asking you. I'm giving my money to you."

I decide to let it go. I don't need another crying tour agent on my conscience. This time I will be agreeable. In any case, I was out-voted by this group long ago. Or was that yesterday?

We're paying our balance the day before departure and our trekking guide has come to meet us. "Vinni" is wearing a black leather jacket, black slacks, black dress shoes with pointed toes and shades. This guy is Tibetan slick. He pounds his chest and announces, "I am joking guy. I like joke. We have good time. We laugh." Oh shit! None of us are laughing.

-----------------------------

At 10am on Friday morning we are picked up by a private mini-bus for the 3 hour drive to our starting point - Ganden Monastery. Our own bus! Not bad.

It is with open mouths that we watch our guide and cook - yes, we have a cook - load the bus: our packs, tents, sleeping bags, sleeping mats, sacks of vegetables and grains, cases of water, pots and pans, 15 dozen eggs (we're trekking with eggs?), a portable 2 burner stove and two propane tanks.

How are we carrying all this you wonder? Along with our guide and cook, this package includes 7 transport yaks and 3 yak men. I'm beginning to think that this is going to be $190 well spent.

"Hey everyone. Let's take a group photo." I am upbeat and positive. And let me tell you, it ain't easy.

As if planned, all 5 fellow trekkers simultaneously groan.

Wow. This is going to be a fun group. I sink into my seat at the front of the bus, and plug into the iPod. What a buzz kill.

While I listen to Spoon, let's get familiar with the players:

Geri: Dutch. 31 years old. Works at the Van Gogh Museum. Nice girl with an edge that she keeps somewhat hidden. But she laughs at my vulgarity and cynicism, so I know there's some fire in there. She is not, in the least, playful or silly. Maybe she would be with guys. But I have a hard time having fun with her. She can neither frame a photograph nor get it in focus and gets annoyed that I make her do several shots. We have, however, organized this group, we trek at almost the same speed and we're both recent non-smokers. We get along fine.

Marja: Dutch (not traveling with Geri). 56 years old. Lesbian (the butch kind). Physical Therapist. She's a friendly woman who's English skills are no where near those of Geri's. Conversation can be slow. She licks her lower lip constantly like a cow. It begins to gross me out and I have to turn away. Marja is the oldest of the group and the most fit. She ends up leaving us all in the dust on the uphills. Wow.

Gregory: German. Around 40. Gregory gets sick our second day and, led by a local, follows the valley back out to the main road. Just as well. He was nice, but humorless.

Nadav and Anat: Israeli. 32 and 27 respectively. They both teach in universities and are working towards PhDs - Nadav in some branch of psychology and Anat in film studies. They're an interesting couple but still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship. They cannot keep their hands off each other. Holding hands while hiking. Stopping to kiss every 5 minutes. It's disgusting, not to mention rather inconsiderate to the rest of us who are getting a constant reminder of recent lost loves. Each night Geri sets up her tent as far away from them as possible.

There we have it. A bunch of nice, friendly people with no inclination towards buffoonery and little in common except this 17,000 foot challenge we will face together.

(I have no idea why I can't bring myself to say anything nastier about these people. I was so emotional on the Mongolian tour. I had strong feelings, one way or another, for each person. Now, I can barely muster one biting or sassy remark. I already feel bad about that cow-lip-licking jibe, no matter how true it may be.

I attribute this the composition of the tour itself. In Mongolia, we had to do everything ourselves: cook, clean, pack, sit in a car all day. Now, all we have to do is walk. There's no discussion about what and when we'll eat. They feed us. There are no decisions to be made, except where to take a dump. And there's no car to be load. While I claim expertise in car packing, I know not one thing about yak packing. I leave that to the pros - our Yak Men: Larry, Moe and Curly.

The lesson here? Group decision making is a bitch. Leadership is a vital component of effective troop moral, progression and mission success. Problems always arise when 2 entities claim superior knowledge and, thus, vie for power. This is why all of my sister's bosses have found her "difficult". This is why all teenagers should be shipped off to boarding school.

Therefore, I do not question the Yak Man in how best to tie flammables to a mammal. And cranky Irishmen should not question me on how to best pack a vehicle. (Can you get a Masters in Closet Organizing?)

--------------------------

And so the adventure begins. Welcome to...

BROKE YAK MOUNTAIN

Day 1 - Acclimatizing at Ganden Monastery.

Starting Altitude: 3650 meters
Peak: 4500 meters
Sleeping Altitude: 4300 meters

We zigzag up a dirt road for nearly an hour to reach the monastery. "Vinni" tells us that the Chinese want to pave this section so that tour buses can more easily make the climb. "They will only hire Chinese workers. They don't want to pay Tibetan people." This is the first of many understandably bitter comments "Vinni" will make concerning the evil Chinese regime. Such criticism will never be heard in Lhasa. I guess it's safe to speak your mind out here, in the absence of police (plane-clothed or otherwise) and the ever-growing majority of Han Chinese neighbors.

Ganden Monastery charges a 45 yuan ($5.60 US) entrance fee. We're all waiting at the gate for Anat and Nadav. They've stopped for a quick grope. The monk cashier hands them their tickets and they ask, "Discount possible?" I guess I would have been disappointed if an Israeli missed one opportunity to save some shekalim.

"Can't you guys ever just pay the price?"

"What? What price? We ask because we get."

This is true.

We cruise the grounds. There isn't much happening. Where is everyone? One monk in trainers stands in the shade of the meditation hall while talking on his cell phone.

We do a acclimatization kora around the monastery. Even a slight incline dictates a pause for breath. But things are going well so far. I don't feel as if my head will explode anytime in the near future.

We've set up our tents about 500 feet below the monastery. You should always sleep lower then you climb. When we return from our walk, Cookie (Yes, I am calling the cook "Cookie".) has...cookies for us. It's like coming home from school and being greeted by your mom with a plateful of Nutter Butters and a glass of 2% milk. That is, of course, unless you're parents were divorced when you were six and you're mom worked all the time and your father was with his "other family" and you were met at your front door by...well, no one, but you could hear your babysitter in the living room making out with her boyfriend, which is a truly comforting sound.

Um. Ok...

While enjoying our cookies and Nescafe, "Vinni" tells us a little story. (I do not claim any responsibility for the accuracy of this account. While it is wholy plausable, there are some logistical loopholes that I thought better not to bring up at the time. "Vinni" is a proud man and who am I to question his hardships.)

When Vinni (I'm going to stop using quotation marks now. Do we all understand that this is not his real name?) was 20 years old he walked to Dharamsala in northern India with 30 others. For those of you who don't know, Dharamsala is where the Dalai Lama now resides. He stayed and studied with the Dalai Lama for 3 years. When he came back to Tibet the Chinese government accused him of "knowing about politics" and he was incarcerated for 2 months. He must still check in with the authorities each month - a type of probation.

My one question would have been, "Why did you come back?"

While Vinni's story may or may not be true, this one certainly is:
"China tries to gag climbers who saw Tibet killings"
http://news.independent.co.uk/world/asia/article1834347.ece

--------------------------------

On a happier note, here's the dinner menu for night #1: homemade french fries, dahl, rice, green beans with garlic, meat (I didn't ask) and cabbage. Delicious!

------------------------------------------

Day 2 - A Little 6 Hour Warm Up

Starting Altitude: 4300 meters
Sleeping Altitude: 4550 meters

As we leave camp for our first real day of trekking Cookie hands out little bagged lunches. Naan, hard boiled eggs, corn on the cob and a banana. I love this man.

We have begun to pass by local farmers/herdsman out on the mountain for the summer. They construct tents from canvas similar to a ger but not nearly as stable or waterproof (Not that a ger is water proof. It's not!) and hang out here for a few months while the animals graze. Down below, other members of the family collect and store feed for the winter months. Vinni says that when he was a boy this is what his family did. His job was to collect dung, which he found to be great fun. "Hey kids, instead of going to Disneyland, we're going to stack yak shit."

Vinni tells us not to speak Chinese to locals. I guess he's talking to me because no one else in the group knows any Chinese.

Today I'm trying to improve my skills in describing landscape. Let's see how I do.

Geri says that this area looks like Scottland. So now I know what Scottland looks like: coarse grass covering rocky hills and mountian tops covered in early morning mist.

That sucked. Another one...

The mountains meet the valleys abruptly, like gigantic dinosaur feet stepping out of the sky.

Eh. Maybe a little bit better. One more...

From here you can see the earth. And I'm talking "the earth": the folds and cracks, the fissures and bumps, the water sculpted rocks and paths. Every single time it is a wonder.

I like that one.

----------------------------

It rained for the last hour or so of hiking today. I will be very unhappy if I'm trekking in rain for the next 4 days. I will die of exposure. I'll have to get my toes amputated. Can I turn back now?

--------------------------

Day 3 - THE BIG DAY

Starting Altitude: 4550 meters
Peak - Shuga La Pass: 5200 meters
Sleeping Altitude: 4700 meters
10k in 8 hours

"My tent leaks!" I am not happy this morning. I'm cold, it's way too early and I'm still a non-smoker.

Vinni is a problem solver. "You can sleep in my tent tonight." Huh? What? Is my trekking guide hitting on me? In front of everyone? I bet he's never tried this before. Not that I'm flattered. It's pretty much me or the Dutch lesbian. But he isn't unattractive. I'm sure he's banking on the "cute Tibetan trekking guide" novelty factor. I'm equally as sure that it's worked for him in the past. Then again, I'm not quite sure he knows my name.

I ignore him and eat my muesli with yak milk.

---------------

The trek today will be told from the point of view of my hiking boots...

I am the only birthday present she has any memory of her brother ever giving her. Usually he would steal the birthday cash from the grandparents and go see Star Wars again. So, I'm special. Since I was aquired 5 years ago, I, like my owner, have aged considerabley. We've been to a lot of places. Climbed a lot of hills. Spent many an hour exposed to the elements: wind and rain, sun and salt. These things take their toll.

I know I'm almost finished but if I can make it 3 more weeks I might be given a proper burial or, better yet, be bronzed.

It's only Day 3 of a 6 day trek. It poured last night and the leaky tent dripped straight into the right one of me. I am sopping.

There is no trail here. The wide meadow curves upward on both sides toward the grey, craggy mountain peaks. Master and I weave through rocks and boulders, mud and lumpy grass mounds which hide the web of passages water takes from the mountain tops.

Stepping over one such small rock my lazy-ass owner has scraped the tip of my right toe for the 3,742nd time. Why can't this girl pick up her feet! The entire front half of my sole has become detached. Ms. "I've traveled all over Asia by myself" has broken a cardinal rule of travel: always carry duct tape!

Flipity flop we go for another 2.5 hours up and 3 hours down. She's particularly careful not to snag me on anything on the downhill. Killed because of a lack of adhesive. Not the way I imagine she wants to go.

The horny Israelis end up saving me and my governess from 3 more days of misery. Along with K.Y. they're carrying Superglue. I am whole again, and unlike my owner, good as new.
-------------------

The hiking boots are warming by the double burner stove. The rest of us sit outside taking advantage of some sunlight and almost too exhausted to make a cup of Nescafe. A grueling eight hour day. Maybe I'll be able to sleep tonight. Sometimes I wonder why I do these things. High altitude sleeping is not fun. Actually, it's not sleep. So Nadav's vomiting doesn't disturb me at all. He's not doing well at all. But there's no where to go but forward. With a schadenfreude-esk grin and chuckle, the Dutch lesbian makes a misandrist little comment about how the men have become ill and all the women are doing fine. I don't feel so bad now about the cow-lip-licking wisecrack.

--------------------

After dinner Vinni comes into my tent to give me a massage. Yes, I know what this means, but I could really use a massage. This is an all-too-common conundrum: do I give this man permission to touch me when all I really want is the freakin' massage? Two minutes into the shoulder rub he tries the ol' reach around. This is the conversation that follows:

"Stop."
"Why"
"Because"
"Why"
"Because"
"But I love you."
"Get out."

I figured his sexual maturity was that of a 16 year-old. Thus, the "cute Tibetan trekking guide" novelty is far overrided by the fear of having some maladroit slobber all over me

--------------------------------

Day 4 - EAR POPPING DESCENT

Starting Altitude: 4700 meters
Peak - Chitu La Pass: 5040 meters
Sleeping Altitude: 3800 meters
6.75 hours trek time

Uhg. I have to describe nature again.

Today was a miraculous day. We go through 4 types of landscapes and drop over 3000 feet. The summit is above the tree line. Boulders, over the past few thousand years, have been freed from the fortified mountain top. They lay strewn down the slopes in various states of size and shape and fill indentations in solid land. Water continues to slyly run under rock and loose earth like rain down a windshield. Variegated pastels have stained the rubble like a child who sees no reason to color rocks in earth tones and along with the moss and light green grass we could just as easiy be inside that child's aquarium.

On the other side of the apex blue-green waters of an alpine lake take us by surprise.

As the mountain sides turn bright green we follow the stream on the far side of the lake down the canyon, hopping back and forth over the winding current to stay on the path.

Soon, the stream becomes a river and we see signs of human habitation. The bridges are most often two narrow tree trunks and Vinni steadies the precarious crossings (but I'm still not gonna make out with him). We've hit trees and bushes and discuss the difference between trees and bushes. It's all downhill and we're making good time. The wonders of oxygen.

------------------------------

Arriving at our campsite we are shocked to find litter sattered everywhere: instant noodle packages, spice packets, yogurt cups, chopstick wrappers, plastic bottles, tin cans, plastic bags, cardboard boxes. The culprets have written their "gang" name on a piece of cloth which they've tied to a stake in the ground, like they landed on the moon. It's a childish and disrespectful "We were here." Vinni is pissed. One week prior, this place was clean. (Later he throws his cigarette butt on the ground.)

We do our best to clean it all up but then the yak men light it ablaze. I'm not sure if this is better. How inscrutable that anyone would make the long journey out here only to destroy the reason they came in the first place. This was Chinese people and possibly some Tibetans. There is no way that a westerner would do this. The thought of leaving one scape of plastic out here... We have our big corporations to do all the polluting for us. Regardless, it's a sad sight and it makes me dread what the new Beijing to Lhasa train will do to Tibet in the next 10 years.

---------------------------

Day 5 - Back to Man Made Toilet Holes

Starting Altitude: 3800 meters
Sleeping Altitude: 3500 meters
2.5 hours trek time

Vinni saves me and the Dutch lesbian from being attacked by savage Tibetan dogs. (But I'm still not going to make out with him.)

Besides that, it's a casual walk to the point where we must bid our trusty yak men adieu. It is a sad moment saying goodbye to my favorite transport animal which I have aptly named Propane Yak. Propane Yak has supplied us with warmth by which to thaw our chilled tootsies and heat for scrumptous food and hot beverages. And I thought a lighter would be useful. I am never again trekkiing without a yak and a cook.

A transport tractor carries bodies and gear through the inhabited, flat, farm lands towards Samye Monastery. This could turn out to be more dangerous than hypothermia. Teetering on the edge of what is in essence an adult version Radio Flyer, I grip Cookie's jacket.

Up ahead we can see weather in action. The sky is divided into 2 crisp halves: on the right it is fairytake blue and on the left, gray and darkening. The moisture-filled clouds strentch down to the ground like taffy. Unfortunately, I can't let go of Cookie's collar long enough to take a picture. Mental moment. Click-click.

That night at Samye Monastery, Vinni treats us all to some celebratory beer. (No, he's not trying to get me drunk.) We sit in the kitchen tent and talk of love. I'm serious. Vinni, it turns out, is quite the philosopher.

"I want love like a clean lake. When you look down you can see the stones underneath. I don't want love like a curry!

Wow! I don't want love like a curry either. 'Nough said.

My other favorite Vinni quote: "No sampa? No meat? No live!"

Sampa is barley powder that is mixed with yak butter tea. Way back in Yunnan Province, China, I said it smelled like Cheerios.

---------------------------

Day 6 - Yak to Civilization

Most of this day is spent getting to Lhasa: public bus, boat, private bus. Cookie talks the entire way back. He is non-stop. He's using his arms and laughing while Vinni and the bus driver nod at appropriately timed intervals. I haven't given him credit before, but Cookie is a fucking riot. What a goofball. He likes to make fart sounds. I usually don't think this is the least bit funny coming from a grown man, but for some reason it works for him.

-------------------------

I think I've done exceptionally well on this little adventure. Besides some minor disagreements with Vinni about where to cross a stream, I was amicable and pleasant. None of these people hate me. I must be growing. And despite my early apprehensions, the trek was surprisingly well-organized. The staff was outstanding and Vinni was, indeed, #1 trekking guide.

--------------------------

5 DAYS LATER....

TODAY I SAW MOUNT EVEREST

Nothing else about this day seems important. Not the 5 hour drive on the dirt road to Rongphu Monastery. Not the 2.5 hour walk at 16,000+ feet to Base Camp. Not even the gorgeous scenery along the way or the beautiful smiles of the local children as we passed by. Certainly not anything about my altitude sickness trying to sleep at 17,060 feet later that night: the shortness of breath, headache, heart pounding in my throat, nausea, waiting for the night to end so I could get down the mountain.

Today I saw Mount Everest - with my own eyes. Not in a magazine or a movie. I felt the freezer blast of wind shoot down the valley, numbing my face and tearing up my eyes. I saw the clouds capture and release the summit. I saw the snow being blown from the ridges of the range.

Today I saw Mount Everest. It was a good day.

The next morning, the sky is clear and the breeze is calm. The mountain goddess is shining like a giant window washer has taken a squeegy to a 2 dimensional sky. I climb the small hill at the end of Base Camp Boulevard and sit on a large stone that makes up part of the ever-growing rock stupa. I can't believe I'm here. Shy, quiet, fat little Jenny is sitting before the highest mountain in the world. TAKE THAT!!!

-------------------------------------------

HITCHHIKING AT 13,000 FEET

I've got 5 days to get out of Tibet and I'm stranded in the tiny outpost of Shagar, aka New Tingri. After a night at Everest Base Camp (EBC) with two others who have taken our rented SUV back to Lhasa, the Dutch Lesbian and I have been dropped at this bustling crossroads. Tenzing, our Lhasa travel agent has assured us that finding a ride form Shagar to the Nepal border is easy peasy.

--------------------

They said there would be a car to take us to the border at 8am. "Great. We'll have breakfast at 7." At 7:20, the staff is still asleep on the couches in the restaurant that double for beds. This is where they live. I turn on the lights, bang some drawers. Soon enough, they wake to a man shouting down the hall for them. It takes a man to get them to move.

At 8am I ask, "Where's the car?" Sweet but useless staff girl points me down the street. "Where?" She understands my toneless Chinese and points again. "What is this?" I say mimicking her movements. "I don't understand this. You show me." I pull her outside and can see from her face that she is not happy having to do actual work. She doesn't make it much farther than the sidewalk. "There. You wait. Big car come." So when they said "Car tomorrow at 8", they meant that this is the time we should sit our asses on the curb and stick out our thumbs, though in Asia it's an outstretched arm, palm down with fingers straight and a slight waving motion, like you're ineffectively fanning a short person.

So this is what we do, the Dutch lesbian and I. We try to wave down every car that passes. We harass the drivers stopping for petrol at the station across the street. No one is spared out scrutiny.

And though this road is the main artery between Lhasa, EBC and the Nepal border, there are surprisingly few cars, and those that pass are all going to EBC for the night. We are beginning to doubt the word of smiley Tenzing.

We talk to a German man who is going to Base Camp and then Nepal. He's already carrying one hitchhiker. But he seems strangely impatient. "My driver wants to go." We could exchange cell phone numbers but I just don't like him. My driver wants to go? Who's in charge here? If he really wanted to help us, he would tell his driver to wait. I am baffled by people who let the hired help dictate their behavior. (That statement sounds worse than it is. When I'm an employee, I do what the boss tells me to do. This is how the system works.)

We meet an American woman with a Chinese/Tibetan speaking guide. She works for a touring company from, of all places - my old neighborhood, The Presidio, San Francisco. She takes recon trips twice a year and is astounded that anyone would come out here alone, with no plan of getting to the next place. I'm equally amazed that someone working for a company employing the word "expedition" has no sense of adventure. I tell her, " This is the adventure. This is the journey. Today will undoubtedly be a much more interesting story than yesterday, when I saw the highest peak in the world. Everyone around here does that!"

A group of Chinese tourists, who, thank the good lord above, speak English, graciously offer to get us the 60 kilometers to the next town - Old Tingri is situated between EBC and Nepal, making it a much better location for finding spare seats in cars going to the border.

Not wanting to break the law, the Chinese group requests to see our travel permits.

Uh-oh.

"Our travel permit is in the car headed back to Lhasa. I don't think we need one."

They are not convinced.

I call Tenzing. (No matter what anyone says about destroying the purity of travel, when you're stuck in the middle of nowhere and can't get a ride, a cell phone is a blessing.) I'm shouting above the rumbling motor of a Tibetan tractor. 'How are we supposed to get a ride without travel permits?" He'll call back. Yeah, right!

We see a car full of guys from our guesthouse in Lhasa. They too are dropping off a Nepal-bound passenger: a French guy who doesn't use deodorant. While the Dutch lesbian guards our bags, I go back to our hotel with them. The staff, of course, is surprised to see me. "No car?" "No. No car." They now promise a public bus to the border at 8pm. After 5 hours of short person fanning, we are too exhausted not to believe.

There were, however, a couple transport offers. One local said he would take us to Old Tingri for 500 yuan ($62). Another man would do it for 300 yuan. However, I refuse to be taken advantage of! I would rather sit here for days and overstay my visa than give in to their extortion. What disgraceful opportunists!

It's important to specify that when I say "we", I mostly mean "I". The Dutch lesbian doesn't speak any Chinese. It is I that asks drivers where they're going. It is I that gets prices and haggles with the local swindlers. It is I that gets inaccurate information from the hotel staff.

She is getting on my nerves with her questions and complaints.

"What did they say?"
"Did you ask them this?"
"Why didn't they tell us that?"

Jeez, woman. I'm not Google. My Chinese is limited to food, time and tickets, and I'm not about to explain to you in simplified English why Asian people are the way they are.

And she's getting a little irritable for this ordeal to be fun. This is a perspective experience. With a good attitude, it's an adventure. With a bad attitude, it's spending the entire day standing in the sun in a characterless town erected solely to support itinerants: stores, restaurants, guesthouses and the Nature Preservation Management office where you pay individual and automobile park entrance fees.

I, too, at moments, am letting the frustration get to me, but we're in a safe place and I know something will eventually change. It always does.

We wait for the evening bus at the hotel. I try to sleep on a couch in the empty restaurant, but when I lay down the sweet but useless staff turns up the distorted music. When I sit up again, they turn it down. While the speakers buzz, they play handheld video games. They are stupid, stupid girls.

They are, however, adept at pouring beer. Each day around 4 or 5 pm a group of men (local truckers and mechanics) come in and order, say, 4 warm Budweisers. They don't order it warm. All drinks are room temperature. Meat is refrigerated. Coca Cola is not. Oh, the injustice. The girls pour the beer into small glasses, wait for each man to take a sip, and refill. Sometimes they'll put the glass in a man's hand. The men chase the beer with green or red tea and try repeatedly to get a spark from lighters that don't work at high altitudes. It is an archaic custom, but perfectly suited to this Tibetan version of the old west.

Yaksmoke

It's a showdown in the one yak town of Shagar. Two men on mini-tractors stare each other down from opposite ends of the half-paved road. A snowball rolls past and a sharp, cool blast of Himalayan wind tousles the colored fabric plaited into their long braids. They start tut-tut-tutting towards each other. Not so unexpectedly, one tractor stalls. The rivals both attempt to fix the already jury-rigged appliance while 50 spectators look on in absolute enthrallment. A yak stampede pulverizes them all. The end.

After 4 hours in the hotel restaurant I feel the need to get back out on the street. We meet an English speaking Chinese girl who works for the tourism department. She thinks there should be public buses to EBC. Maybe they'll build a cable car straight to the summit. She tells us that maybe the bus will come at 8...or 9...or 10...or 1.

The same man that offered us a ride for 500 yuan earlier in the day has dropped his price to 200. Looks like a local needs to get to Old Tingri and we're the suckers paying for it.

Tenzing, meanwhile, is back in Lhasa arranging for us to be picked up in Old Tingri by a 4x4 going to the border the day after tomorrow. A distance that can be covered in 6 hours will take us 3 days.

After 11.5 hours, we are on the road: the smelly Frenchman, the Dutch lesbian and I.

The vivid and rich light of dusk sets the mountains and meadows of the Himalayas aglow.

This is the adventure. This is the journey.

----------------------------------

OLD TINGRI

Old Tingri is a charming town in the middle of a valley of farming plots. On a clear day, Everest and Cho Oyu are easily visile. The Dutch Lesbian and I share a room that looks like a padded cell for Holly Hobbie. Yes, the two-holed toilet closet is across the courtyard and a Chinese woman can't wait 30 seconds for me to pee before she comes in and...well...you know. But I have my first shower in 5 days. Grandma mans the showers, burning wood to heat water.

Government workers are passing out China flags for the Tibetans to fasten to their homes. An offical convoy is driving through and this is a show of respect, though you can see that the local girls trying to climb onto their roofs think otherwise. How utterly wrong it is to see Buddhist prayer flags and Chinese national flags flapping side by side.

I climb a small hill out in the middle of the fields. It is 360 degrees of unrelenting, majestic perfection. Everest and Cho Oyu are hidden today but I feel their refridgerated exhalation. The residents of Old Tingri are tending to their plots while their animals graze on the green and golden crops. The sound of thunder rumbles across the valley and cow bells ring like wind chimes. A woman is singing.

In an article I'm reading, "The road to Herat", by Elizabeth Rubin, she is told that in the Afgan culture a fox crossing your path is a sign that your jouney will be a sucess. And, whow! Looky there. A fox. A real fox. The first one I've seen in almost a year of travel and not one day after a read that it's good luck. Coincedence? I think not. Divine destiny more like it. A similar superstition is that if a hare is seen, your travels will fail. No hares yet, and I'm not looking. For this one I'll employ free will.

Of course the vista also reminds me of this time in Israel when the sun's rays where filtering through clouds and casting magnificent ethereal slides. I playfully said, "Hey, it's G-d." One very pompous wanna-be-academic replied, "That is so Christian!" So, I'm trying not to think anything like that today. Now I'm more apt to say, "Hey, it's goddess mother of the universe!" Or, "Hey, it's millions of years of shifting tectonic plates and water errosion!"

---------------------------------------------

LEAVING TIBET

Tenzing has been redemmed. The Dutch Lesbian and I are picked up on schedule, though one of the male passengers has to sit on top of the luggage in the rear of the truck.

We drop over 2000 meters in 6 hours. Nearing the Nepal border, huge rain forest cliffs are obscured by mist and waterfalls wet the already trecherous winding road. Local pedestrians carry umbrellas.

Zhangmu is, perhaps the oddest of border towns yet. Like Laurel Canyon or somewhere in the Oakland hills, the cement road twists down the steep mountain side. The view upwards is of windows; looking down you are treated to the granduer of rooftops and trash heeps. However, what makes this place so particularly unlivable is that the road is constantly clogged with large delivery trucks spitting fumes into the homes and businesses that line the street. There is nowhere for people to walk, nowhere for children to play. I'll give it a Border Town Rating of 6.

After a night in a moldy hotel room with the Dutch Lesbian and the two German boys that were our truck mates, we continue down the road on foot to the immigration office. This is it. It's been a total of 4 months in "China". This is my last chance to speak Chinese. "How much single room?" The immigration official is not amused.

And I'm out. Zai Jian.

-----------------------------------

Let's Be Political. Support a Free Tibet. Support an Independant Taiwan. Support Blog Viewing in China.

(Here are some links for extra reading. Curiously, I know of no sites that raise money for the plight of the Taiwanese.)

The Government of Tibet in Exile
http://www.tibet.com/

International Campaign for Tibet
http://www.savetibet.org/index.php

Tibet Online
http://www.tibet.org/

The Gere Foundation
http://gerefoundation.org/

Part 17 - Henan and Sichuan Provinces, China

2006-08-12T01:20:00.000-07:00

July 25 - August 19, 2006
Pictures: http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/1718385

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HENAN PROVINCE

I'm sitting in the backseat of a taxi in the nondescript town of Dengfeng in the nondescript Chinese province of Henan and I'm crying.

The driver, like most men, has no idea what to do with a weeping woman. He tries to pacify me with apologizes and tells me that he will now take me to the place I had originally requested.

His discretionary detour is the catalyst of my tears but not the cause. I am crying because I have no more energy to try and communicate my needs with anyone else in a language I can barely speak.

If I were fluent, I could easily say, "Listen, Dude! I've got this Uma - Kung Fu fantasy thing going on here and I really don't think my sifu, my Pai Mei, is living in this crumbling, moldy armpit you call a building!"

But all I am capable of saying is "Me want go Shaolin Temple." I have said this numerous times today and, so far, it's not working.

----------------------

When I arrived in the capital city of Zhengzhou this morning I was fully prepared to shop around for a suitable school: one giving me a decent price and enhancing the Uma-Kicking-Ass image I've got stuck in my media-conditioned head.

Aside from this, I had no plan. Usually when I arrive in a new place, I know where I want to go: an area of town, a certain guesthouse. Today, I've got nothing.

It was hard enough getting out of Beijing, what with that train station goodbye thing omnipresent in my head, ATM card troubles, picture uploading woes, and obligatory goodbye dinners. Once on my southbound train, I realized that I was alone for the first time in 42 days. It's just me again. And it sucks! But no. This is the next chapter of the Jen adventure. Get excited. This is my life.

Outside the train station in Zhengzhou I got on a bus that I was told was going to Shaolin Si. I could go there. Get a room at the hotel. Check out the scene. There's a plan. While waiting for the bus to fill up, the bus driver shows me the brochure for another school and then calls them. What a nice bus driver. Okay. I could stop there.

So now the bus driver gets out of the drivers seat, picks up my bag and motions for me to follow. Um. Don't you have to drive that bus? When we get to the taxi stand I back step.

Do I get into a taxi with 2 men? Where are they going to take me? I have no map. The phone numbers in my guidebook are all outdated.

(I have rarely, if ever, been scared for my safety. Worried about my stuff? Yes. Pickpockets? Absolutely! Do I think these men will hurt me? No. The taxi driver is the taxi driver and the "fake bus driver" is playing the commission game.)

"Fake bus driver" pays for the taxi and the bus to Dengfeng. We are let off at the beginning of town in front of a monstrous complex. Walking across the cement courtyard the size of, oh, 3 football fields (that's American football for all you non-Yanks), the heads of at least 1000 boys in matching athletic outfits turn and watch me.

Talking to one of the school administrators, I quickly realize that there is no way I can stay here. I don't see any girls. I don't see any foreigners. The only person who speaks English, and that's stretching it, is the one who will take my money. I expect that this will be the case in every school - except Tagou.

The Shaolin Temple Kung Fu Institute at Tagou is one of the few schools that remain near the Shaolin Monastery. The Monastery is in the midst of the arduous process of removing all locals and schools from the temple grounds as well as enforcing copyright laws that would prohibit schools from using the Shaolin name. Shaolin is big business.

Tagou is also the school best equipped to take foreign students.

It's not that there aren't any foreigners at other schools. There are. But they seem to be groups of experienced kung fu enthusiasts. Not middle-aged, overweight, solo-traveling girls without one iota of kung fu experience.

If I wanted to go live in a dorm with 5000 adolescent boys (no wisecracks, please), I could go to any of the 70+ schools that make the Dengfeng area the kung fu capital of the world.

-------------------

The price I had just been quoted continues to drop as I walk out. "Fake bus driver" is following me, trying to get me to pay him back for the transport out here. Such is the gamble with the commission game. I start walking down the long road, towards what I hope is downtown.

---------------------

Out of exhaustion and confusion, I agree to let a taxi drive me to Shaolin Si. And here we are, sitting in front of the driver's friend's kung fu school. He's working his own commission angle. This is the 3rd time this morning I've succumbed to tears. I have no more words.

And still, the journey is far from over. Rocket scientist cab driver takes me to New Tagou. Why? I don't know. Because it's closer? But who knew there were Old Tagou and New Tagou. The guidebook doesn't mention it. Other travelers haven't mentioned it. This is a pretty important piece of information here folks.

In the parking lot of New Tagou a kind man with a cell phone informs the driver of his mistake, calls Old Tagou and tells them of my momentary arrival and explains the situation to me by writing it down in perfect schoolbook English. He can write English but he can't speak it.

-------------------------------

Someone who speaks English, thank the good lord in heaven, greets me at the gate.

"What kind of room would you like?" they warmly inquire.

"How much is the dorm? $2.50? Ok, that's great."

The dorm is on the fifth floor. There are 5 beds to a room but, curiously, no other occupants.

"Where's the bathroom?"

"Third floor."

"Where's the shower?"

"There is none."

"Um. How am I supposed to stay in this room for a day, let alone a month, if there is no shower?"

"You should take double room."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?"

This is the part when the embarrassed Chinese girl will cover her mouth and giggle. Translation: "I am incapable of thinking 5 feet in front of me."

In the office I'm inquiring about life here and they look at me like it's the first time anyone has ever asked such ridiculous questions as "Where do I eat?" and "Where does training take place?" I've been in China for over 2 months - not to mention Taiwan for 3 years. Why am I so surprised?

I choose to rest for a while in my bathroomless, showerless room and think things over. Crying bout #4. It's a record day for tears. Here are some of my thoughts:

- What am I doing here?
- There's no way I can stay here for 1 month.
- This place is depressing, cold and unfriendly.
- It's 2am in California. Couldn't call even if I wanted to.
- Maybe I should leave tomorrow.
- How stupid to come all this way just to leave.
- Give it some time. Give it a chance.
- For G-d sake, spend the $7.50 and move to a double room!

-----------------------------------

Things have turned around quite nicely in the past 24 hours. I find a great Internet Cafe in town. Nothing like a fast connection and a front side USB port to put you in a good mood. Two groups of travelers have shown up so I will take my first lesson with them. I buy totally cute kung fu shoes for 20 yuan ($2.50 US). I have a shower.
-----------------------------------

My Training

Training - that's what the long-termers call it, though I feel rather silly applying it to myself.

Daily Schedule:

5:30 - 6:30 am: running
7 - 8 am: breakfast
9 - 11:30 am: training
11:30 - 1 pm: lunch
3 - 5:30 pm: training
6:30 - 7:30 pm: dinner

At 5am, a loud, distorted recorded alarm sounds over public speakers. This is the wake up call for the entire school. Local students are in the courtyard by 5:30am for the first of four training sessions of the day.

Not surprisingly, I opt out of group running up to the Shaolin Monastery. I do solo, iPod-propelling walks. The cute yet thin soled and archless kung fu sneakers make running out of the question. Sciatica doesn't exist for these 18 year-olds, who have been training since age 5.

At 9am foreign students congregate in the training room: a huge, barren, moldy, concrete space that Rocky wouldn't piss in, though it smells like everyone else does.

Warm-ups consist of jogging around the cement-floored room, muscle-pulling bouncy stretches and disk-dislodging high kicks. Our coaches, hard-bodied teenagers, have obviously never taken a yoga class nor have the slightest knowledge about sports injuries.

New students start out with Wu Bu Quan - the 5 stance form. The stances alternate between standing and squatting positions. It's a series of moves which, when done correctly, is beautiful. However, new students are rarely capable of going from a one-legged squat position to a standing position in a continuous, flowing manner.

The entire 5 hours of training of the first day is spent on Wu Bu Quan. As is the second day, and the third. The long-termers, who acknowledge my existence around day 4, say the pain will go away after the first week.

But it's a good pain. I start to feel the muscles in my legs. I'm kicking. I'm punching. I'm sweating. The Mongolian dumplings that have been lodged in my intestines for the past 3 weeks are making their way out.

After a week, I can do 20 sit-ups...real sit-ups...in a row. And I do a cartwheel for the first time in 20 years, hurting totally different muscles than I thought I would hurt.

Regardless of my hardening thighs, my plan of staying for a month dissolves. In the middle of the second week, I am bored senseless. I can't improve my Wu Bu Quan without greatly increasing my muscle mass. And I can't improve my muscle mass by continually repeating Wu Bu Quan. It's a kung fu catch 22. While training is well suited for the long-termers and fun for the one-day samplers, there is no structure for anyone in between. There is no method for gradual improvement - no taking into consideration individual needs and skills. Sore knees and shooting pain down my legs replace muscle cramps. I'm too old for this shit.

I end training on Day 11, lighter, stronger and high on muscle relaxants.

My Coaches

My coaches are 18 year-old Ji Tzong and 17 year-old Jon Ka. When I first met Ji Tzong, I thought, "Wow! He's cute!" And that is a first for China. After some days of improper stretching, I have Ji Tzong do some yoga with me. In dekasana (airplane posture), I help Ji Tzong correct his posture and flush a bright red as I touch his lower back, rotating his hips to align with the ground. This boy's ass is so rock hard you could sharpen knives on it. I am well on my way to becoming a dirty old woman.

Ji Tzong's English is next to nothing. I increase my Chinese vocabulary with a couple key phrases:

One more time - tzi li yi bien
I have pain - wo yo tong

Jon Ka's English is better. He tells me that when he came to this school 6 years ago he was like me. What does that mean? Fat? Soft? In agony? He rubs my cramped thighs, which feels slightly inappropriate. I'm not sure he's ever touched a girl that isn't a family member.

Another part-time teacher doesn't like to work much at all. He does, however, entertain, by letting me hit him in his stomach or running up walls and doing flips - just like that scene in The Matrix!

While these boys mean well, they are not actual teachers. They are students and this is their summer job. They have no plan for me. And, if anything, I need a plan.

My Roommates

I am paying for one of the beds in the aforementioned double room. The International Training Services staff tells me that because of the large Russian group here on a 3 week meditation retreat, there are no free rooms, so when other students come, I will have to share. I've been living in dorms for the past 3 months. Sharing a room with only 1 other stranger is a luxury.

#1: A quiet and sweet Aussie girl who stays one night.

#2: Another bed is brought in to accommodate two Irish girls. Furniture is moved. Walking space is forsaken. But nice people.

#3: A Chinese family has moved into my hotel room. (Those damn Russians.) The 2 beds are rented to mother and grandmother. But when you rent two beds to Chinese people, you will never get two people. The 10 year-old daughter shares grandma's bed, and the 4 year-old son (the kung fu student they have come to visit) crashes with mommy.

One evening I enter the room to find grandma stark naked in the bathroom (the door is wide open) splashing water everywhere: the floor, the mirror, my toiletry bag, my towels. Older son is having a beer while mother slurps down instant noodles. Younger son is watching Japanese cartoons dubbed into Mandarin and daughter is watching me - watching me read, watching me brush my teeth. I should take it as a complement that I'm more exciting than anime.

I march into the office and announce, "There are children in my room! There's a family in my room!"

The office girls cover their mouths and giggle.

Younger son wakes up in the middle of the night crying. His mother turns on all the lights and takes him to the bathroom. She does not even attempt to remain quiet. I am a non-entity. In the morning I clean piss off the toilet seat.

I feel guilty for not having a better attitude in what could be a genuinely Chinese experience. But, really, I've seen enough. If I have to watch another old lady take a shit...Not to mention, I'm in training. This is serious business.

#4: A 20-something hipster is up to visit her brother. Her brother comes in everyday to use the bathroom and, again, leaves the countertop, floor and my possessions sodden. What is it with Chinese people and their inability to keep water in the sink? As brother leaves the bathroom, I stop him at the door, hand him a towel and motion for him to clean up his mess.

Hipster chick has ruined her hair with numerous perms. Anything to look a little different from the other billion people. Her frizzled, damaged hair is now all over the room. She likes throwing fruit pits NEXT to the garbage can. She watches bad Chinese TV (is there any other) loudly.

I am pretending not to speak a word of Chinese. If she's not selling me a ticket or taking my dinner order, there's not much we can talk about. But eventually I give in and we try to have a conversation. "Where are you from" type stuff. She is a very sweet girl and wants to be my friend. Oh goody!

#5: I love this woman. Her child does not share her bed. She doesn't watch TV. She reads the paper and goes to sleep early. We smile at each other cordially.

#6: This woman has her 13 year-old son in bed with her. I can't even change my clothes. I sleep in a bra. She falls asleep every night with the TV on. I wait until I hear her snoring and click it off.

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The Students

It is the norm that students come sleep in the school hotel with their family members because of the squalid living conditions these children inure for most of the year.

Dorms are damp and dirty and sleep 20 to a room. There is space for bunk beds and wooden shelves where baskets of toiletries are stored. The boys wash their clothes (rotating between 2 sets), teeth and faces in the courtyard with water collected in large plastic bowls from the common well. Bathrooms are across the courtyard. There are showers somewhere, but students must pay for the privilege.

I ask someone, "Why would a child choose to spend money on a shower instead of candy?"

"They have house mothers who make them take showers."

"What if they use all the money on their electronic money cards before taking a shower?"

"There is a limit to how much they can spend on their cards at the kiosks and cafeterias."

I amuse myself with thoughts of a western parent putting their child in a place like this: the stink, the rot, the lack of attention to safety. Regardless, these happy and well-behaved kids are determined and focused in their training. And similar to an American parent sending their child to private school, a promise of a better life comes with graduating from kung fu school. At best, a select few will find their way onto the big screen. Most will work as policemen and bodyguards. Others will become kung fu teachers themselves. They will not, however, work in kiosks, rice fields or noodle shops.

Student Coaches don't have it much easier. They share small, plumbingless, cement rooms. They throw buckets of used water out the door into the brick courtyard that, as part of their chores, the kids must shovel away. Because of uneven bricklaying, this shoveling of water must also be done after it rains.

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This is the one place in all of China where we stare at them as much as they stare at us. Foreigner free time and rest days are spent watching these little machines do what we dream of doing.

The Chinese students don't have the luxury of a workout room. They train in the brick courtyards of the school and the dirt fields that surround it. Thousands of students stand in army formation where drills are repeated for hours. In rows, similar to how American school children set up for a relay race, they take turns kicking a straight leg above their heads and slapping the tops of the foot with their palms, emitting a loud smack I have yet to produce. They do 360s on one crouched leg with the other horizontally extented. On matresses carried on shoulders out to the fields, they spot each other doing flips and aerials (hand free cartwheels). It is ballet, gymnastics, track and field, flamenco and break-dancing.

Respect for their coaches in ingrained in the training. They end each training session with the "wu hu se hai" hand gesture - fisted right hand with left palm flat against the right knuckles.

I am in complete awe. Despite all the problems and disillusionment of training and living here, it is a rare and fortuitous opportunity to witness and participate in this wholly disparate lifestyle, rather than taking pictures of it.

Mealtime

While there is a restaurant for visitors, students eat for a fraction of the cost at one of the many kitchens that circle the courtyard. It's like boot camp and an orphanage wrapped up in my high school colors - little black and red soldiers shoving their way to the front of the crowd (I was going to use the word "line" but that word connotes order, a system, urbanity, not to mention an actual line.) to get what crumbs are available. The little ones squeeze through bodies and under legs to slap their electronic money card on the sensor and order something that tastes exactly the same as everything else. I feel like a complete idiot fighting with small children over food, but you gotta get yours. After a few days of degradement, I realize that going at the beginning or end of mealtime saves time and self-respect. My favorite meal is steamed rice, spicy green beans and a chicken leg cooked in a wok of oil. All this for around $.40.

There is no place for these children to eat. (The only place to sit is on their beds.) No cafeteria. No tables in common areas. They squat in hallways, the courtyard, and the steps of the buildings and slurp, chomp, chomp, slurp their way through 3 pounds of carbs.

After dinner it is not unusual to see a 4th grader buying cigarettes from the hotel shop. The shop owner grabs the requested pack, slides it across the counter, deducts the 5 yuan from the money card and counts his profits.

Long Term Foreigners

This is a cliquey group - one that I have no desire to break into. Really! Do I need to hang out with a bunch of young men who are REALLY INTO KUNG FU! But every now and then we exchange a few words while sitting on the hotel steps, eating some noodles with our MSG. They range in age from 12 to 26.

There are the 2 American Chinese kids who have come for the summer. They have brought their PlayStation.

There's the long (not tall) 19 year-old German who doesn't wash his clothes often enough.

There's the 20 year-old Brit. I know absolutely nothing about him.

There's a 26 year-old French guy who, along with the 25 year-old Brit, are the best foreign students. They do sit-ups together by intertwining their legs and on the "up" passing back and forth a 20lb. bench press weight. Josh, the Brit, grunts, "This is the best exercise ever!"

There's a Danish computer programmer here for a couple months. I think he's gay. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Or perhaps I am unfamiliar with the Danish neon-sporty look.

Enter a 4-person British group on package holiday, ages 15, 19, 25 and 29.

The 15 year-old, a British Chinese, has been sent her by his parents because he's fat and lazy. I shit you not. They informed him of his summer trip 2 days before departure.

The 19 year-old is a wanna-be-gangsta and does not say one word to me in the 2 weeks I am around him.

The British Indian is 25. He never talks and he is the stinkiest person I've ever breathed. I gather that he doesn't shower, use deoterant or wash his clothes.

Now for the girl. A 29 year-old girl has purchased a kung fu package tour with strangers. Her best friend is now a 15 year-old chubby Chinese kid, who is by far, the coolest of the group. And she seems to be enjoying her time. What with her sparkly pink Nikes and 24/7 make-up, I gather she simply prefers male attention no matter the deliver system.

These are the people that beset me. I read a lot.

Short Term Foreigners

The short-term students come for a day or two of training. These are the travelers and, therefore, friendly. At night they sit on the hotel steps drinking beer and smoking. Long termers rarely talk to them. Hummff!

The Town

Today while sitting on the bus waiting to go to town, the bus attendant was calling out "Dengfeng, Dengfeng". All I hear is "dumb fuck, dumb fuck."

These days, anytime I say anything in Chinese, "these people" just smile and laugh. The internet cafe, the convenience store. Everywhere except the train station ticket window. I say something and they laugh. "Oh, isn't it so funny. The white person trying to communicate with us because we don't know a word of English. Ha ha ha."

Extra Reading About Shaolin

The history of the Shaolin Monastery dates back to 540 A.D. However, the origins of Shaolin Kung Fu continue to be fraught with myth. Here are some interesting reads about the Indian Buddhist who allegedly started Shaolin Kung Fu, the repeated destruction of the temple, the movies that have made Shaolin a worldwide, household name, and the blatant commercialization that shrouds the Shaolin name and monastery in controversy.

http://www.shaolin.com/shaolin_history.aspx

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bodhidharma#Bodhidharma_and_martial_arts.3F

http://www.wesleyan.edu/aaai/2005_summer_papers/aweber.htt

http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/english/doc/2004-11/22/content_393567.htm

http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/english/doc/2004-09/28/content_378376.htm

ZHENGZHOU

I'm here for 2 nights waiting for my 24 hour train ride to Chengdu, Sichuan Province.

City of peasants. The only white faces these people have ever seen are in movies, where the voices have been poorly dubbed over into Mandarin and where all the background sounds - traffic, other people dining, music at the club, explosions - have been omitted. It's just one squeaky sounding girl and one dorky sounding man.

I'm sitting at the town square. A woman walks over, sits next to me and starts speaking in Chinese about how I'm writing with my left hand. I start talking in English mocking her assumption that I'm fluent in Chinese. "Yes, there are people in the world that are left-handed. We live in 'free societies'." It's the only fun I get to have when I'm being stared at all day.

And the stare isn't even a smile. It's just this blank look, like staring at the ceiling when you're at the dentist. The women look you up and down. Could they possibly be judging MY shoes? The men usually get they're friend's attention and then they both check out my tits.

I'm pretty sure that there hasn't been a place in all of China where I've had more people start looking over my shoulder to see what I was doing: writing email, editing photos online, looking at pictures on my camera, writing in my notebook. Yes, I know they have different standards of privacy (none), but why would they think it's okay to start reading someone's email. Okay again. They can't read my email. They don't speak English. But to walk across the room at sit down in the chair next to me and peer at the computer screen. It's making me crazy.

I've just walked into the bathroom at the Internet Cafe. I woman of maybe 50 is naked and washing herself in front of the sink. Am I missing something here? Does she live at the Internet Cafe? Is there a hotel down one of these hallways? This is one of those times where I wish my Chinses was better. Make me understand! Make me understand!

A man is standing in front of the a/c unit to my right. He's staring at me. Still staring. Still staring. It is unnerving.

I'm really trying to find something I like about this town. It's hard.

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NO STOPPING IN SHAANXI PROVINCE

It's dinner time on the train. I peer from my top bunk down the corridor. Every flip-down seat is occupied and every occupant is slurping and lip-smaking their way through a cardboard bowl of instant noodles. At 1.5 yuan per bowl ($.20) it's more ecconomical and, unfortunately, far tastier than train food, which usually goes for 10 yuan a box.

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I have just passed through Xian, sight of the Terracotta Warriors. I am rebelling against the tacit tourist contract. I will not pay another outrageous entrance fee in an overpriced town only to be annoyed by loud, local tour groups.

I have been talking to many travelers about this decision. For those who have been, half say I've made the right decision. The scoop: the entrance fee is modest at around 60 yuan ($7.50), but if you want to get to the lower level and see the army up close, it's another 100 yuan - the Chinese version of the bait and switch. The entire visit takes, say, 10 minutes.

The other half vehemently adhere to the tourist contract and have reported me to the tourist police. If they catch me, I will be forced to visit Xian by private taxi instead of local bus, wearing an "I Climbed The Great Wall" t-shirt, hire a guide who's English is indecipherable, and pay the entrance fee, the lower level fee, the camera fee and the video camera fee while rivers of Chinese tour groups block my view.

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CHENGDU, SICHUAN PROVINCE

I am strangely happy today. I am in a town with a Starbucks (Shin Ba Ke) and all that accompanies it: more western influence means a better standard of living means a higher degree of sophistication means less goggley eyes and no unwarrented pestering.

Starbucks is the yuppy equivalent to McDonalds. No matter the country, you know exactly what you will get. To redeem myself, I don't go to Starbucks in the states. In Asia, it is a slice of home.

I am staying at the ultra-hip Mix Hostel: free movies, English speaking staff, real lattes.

So what is up with all the weridoes? The prize goes to Eva, a German hippy.

We start talking about Tibet and places to stay. She is telling me about her trip to California and the old Japanese concentration camp in the Mojave Desert. "What a terrible place this was." And all I'm thinking is, a German is telling me about the horrible American concentration camp. I tell her I'm Jewish, a card I never play with Germans, who are lovely people and great travelers. But it shuts her up. "I hardly think that the Japanese Camps in America were the worst things going on in WWII."

She has given me her email address because she wants to go temple viewing with me in Lhasa. I haven't told her how I feel about temples. I tell her that her email address (schlong....) is slang for "penis" in English.

Later when she emails me from Lhasa, she signs her name Rajah. I reply with the normal question. "Who's Rajah?"

Her answer: "Rajah is my very private nickname I gave to myselft when I was about 12 to 14 years old."

Then why the fuck are you telling me? I'm getting the sense that this woman is a tad bit needy.

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Getting A Massage

At home when you go for a massage, it is an event. For at least $60, you are placed in a private room (incense optional). Whale sounds or Enya is softly playing on the sound system. It is a slow, relaxing experience that is supposed to leave you slow and relaxed, at which point they provide you with a nice cup of herbal tea.

With a Chinese massage you get a communal room, cartoons on the TV, screaming children, crying babies, abusive mothers, smoking fathers, farting and spitting. The massage is fast and frantic and it leaves you edgy and eager to get out of there. All this for $2. Life is a trade-off.

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I have done next to nothing in Chengdu. It's a busy 4 days, what with a moring visit to the Panda Center and a great meal at Peter's Tex-Mex Grill. Travel lull. I am so ready to leave China. Next stop. Tibet - which is NOT China.

Part 16.5 - Mongolia to Beijing - Phase 2

2006-07-25T02:48:00.000-07:00

June 25 - July 19, 2006
Pictures: http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/1692524

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FIRES FAIRY TALES AND FLOODS
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"Come 'er. I'll give you a foot massage."

Huh? Hasn't he seen Pulp Fiction? Doesn't he know that there is no such thing as a platonic foot massage? Not between a man and woman. Unless it's your dad or crazy uncle. That should have been my first clue.

When the 4 of us got to Tsetserleg and Elin and I walked into the first double room, I looked back and they both had panicky looks on their faces.

"What?" I said. "Isn't this the pairing we were all thinking of?"

They didn't say anything and went to the other double room. I'm amazingly unobservant when I'm not paying attention.

When we were at the store, he says "I'm going to buy you a fork."

"Aaaaw. I'm going to buy YOU this...." picking up the nearest item... "colander." I thought we were having fun. It's all being wasted on me.

When Elin and Isabel left go to shower, we take a walk to the store for, what else, vodka, juice and chocolate. I think he's getting tired of hinting.

"I think we should have shared a room Jen."

"We who?" I reply.

"You and me."

"You and me who?"

"Jen! You and me! You and me! I should have said something today when you and Elin went into that first room."

"Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh." Yep. That's my response. I am smoooooth!

It will take me a few days and some distinctively non-goofy attention to get used to the idea of Scott as something besides an innocent, computer geek.

But in the meantime...

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FIRE FIRE FIRE!

Cut the power! Turn off the lights! Get out of the shower!

I cross the room in one Superman-like bound and hit the light switch. The flames, sparks and smoke that were spewing from the electrical wiring box thingy have stopped and I think I've saved everyone in the building. Yea for me!

While the owner has his guys (members of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, no doubt) addressing the problem, he explains to us that we cannot have the hot water on high. Furthermore, we must turn off the water while we lather up.

This is a bathroom that was described in The Book as "GLORIOUS". I can only assume that the author had been using the 3-foot deep outhouse at the sand dunes for many months before arriving at this "GLORIOUS" cleaning facility. The size of a large refrigerator, the bath water is either ice cold or scorching hot and it drips out pipe-dirtied water in torture-ish quantities.

We are slightly worried about staying in this should-be condemned fire-hazard, but even so, it is the best deal in town: better than the Russian dungeon, better than the hotel that has printed and in plane view one price for locals and one price for foreigners, better than the place around the corner that won't give us a room because one of the employees is taking a nap in it at the moment.

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Back to Fire #1

What's Fire # 1 you ask? That's right! Scott's burning passion for me!

Elin and I are planning on taking a bus back to Ulaanbaatar in the morning. Scott is staying in Tsetserleg. After all that subtle flirting, outright propositioning and downright begging, he's going let me get on that bus. He's not going to say anything! Well, I'm certainly not going to say anything. He's the man. He should be THE MAN. If he wants me to stay, he'll ask. (How stupid am I?)

After our nightly routine of Hearts and Screwdrivers, Elin wonders out loud, "Should I take a shower? I won't have time in the morning and tomorrow will be long." To the more suspicious, mine and Scott's profuse agreement with Elin's almost rhetorical question would be obvious. "Oh, yeah. You should definitely take a shower!"

We are both now sufficiently sauced to be loquaciously honest. But I can't write about this conversation. I'm a private person and it's rather amazing I'm even telling y'all this much. Point being, with a little female coercion, Scott steps up. He's even more THE MAN when he asks Elin (after her shower) if she minds going back to UB without me.

My $9 bus ticket remains unused.

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FAIRY TALES

We take a taxi 20 miles outside of Tsetserleg, to the ger compound of Guij and family. (We could never get his name correctly. I think I'm pretty close here.) Guij is the only brother of the 4 whom the Fairfield owners, Jill and Mark, trust enough to let take foreigners out on horses. The other 3 brothers are drunk...all the time.

This is my 2nd day out here and Scott's 3rd.

My 1st horseback riding experience in 15 years was a couple days prior. Scott and I had amused ourselves by reciting every western cliché and movie quote embedded in our thoroughly-cultivated American psyches.

"This here town ain't big enough for the both of us."

"We don't need no stinking badges."

"There's a shoot-um-up down at the OK Corral."

"I've heard that you're a low-down Yankee liar."

"Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?"

"Kid, the next time I say, 'Let's go someplace like Bolivia,' let's go someplace like Bolivia."

I sing Happy Trails. Scott does Bonanza.

I'm trying to get Elin and her Swedish accent to say "Howdy Pardner" but she refuses. She doesn't get this game, not in the least. I'm sure if she were receiving the Nobel Prize or assembling Ikea furniture while listening to Abba, she would have an endless supply of hackneyed Ingmar Bergman quotes.

We're here again today because of yesterday. Somewhere in this valley lays Scott's money belt. Something to remember - backpack zippers and trotting do not mix. (I know. Another missing money belt story. This one, however, has a happy ending. Otherwise, what would it be doing in the "Fairy Tale" chapter.)

Once again, Scott has the "good horse". My horse wants nothing more than to go home and stand in the corral. While I work on my horse whipping technique, Scott runs off into the meadow in search of a little book with stickers in it that lets you enter other countries.

Before I can act out my horse problems to drunk brother #2, Scott is back, smiling.

Well I reckon he done and found it.

We have a couple hours now before Guij is ready to take us back to Tsetserleg. Scott takes my horse by the reigns. I have absolutely no control. You can imagine how much I love this. We wander away from the open meadow, towards the shade of trees and the sound of the stream. Here we sit and listen to the hum of water. Across the stream, a lone white stallion neighs and looks up at us. The birds are singing. There's a faint breeze. G-d! Can someone please film this! I'm sitting in the middle of a frickin' Disney movie. Any minute now all the forest animals will show their long, Bambi, glow-in-the-dark eyes and we'll skip and dance and the birds will encircle Scott and me in vines of flowers.

Time for a song. (This is the music video part of the movie.)

Flowers on the hillside blowing crazy
Crickets talking back and forth in a rhyme
The blue river running slow and lazy
I could stay with you forever and never realize the time

And it gets better...

Our next day out, I have "good horse". Guij takes us to the steep hills that are beyond the stream. Here, the wild flowers are 2 and 3 feet high. Guij easily reaches down and picks a couple stems. He hands them to Scott and then points to me. Scott obediently presents me with this gift. But forget about Scott.

Guij has been an outstanding guide: checking our saddles, showing us how to whip with authority, always glancing back to make sure we're still upright. But this display of romanticism reveals such a genuine kindness, void of the envy or schadenfreude you too often experience in the west and that you might expect from someone in Guij's position.

Guij's face is messed up. He was in a car accident several years back and there aren't many plastic surgeons in central Mongolia. He has been left with severe scars. And yet, he's playing cupid. It's such a touching gesture that I want to cry.

But there's no crying. There's no crying in horse herding.

As we come up on the grazing group, Scott and I realize that we're out here to drive the herd back to the compound. Yeeeehaaaaaaaw!

We're no longer in single file. Side by side we push the herd forward with the Mongol equivalent to "giddy-up". It's a breathy "chew" cutting short that American diphthong-y-ness.

The herd is spread up and down the lightly treed slopes.

"I'm gonna get them doggies over thar." (I'm not sure what a doggy is.)

I yank right on the reigns, give a kick and yell "giddy-up"...I mean "chew". "Good horse" takes long strides up the hill, moving in behind the strays. She needs little prompting. She is a professional. "Chew, chew" and the unsaddled horses git along. Look at me. I'm a cowboy. And you can be my cowgirl, duh duh duh duh.

And another song...

Wild horses couldn't drag me away.
Wild wild horses couldn't drag me away.

That's all I know of that one.

We work the herd through the trees and brush, down the slopes of the 3-foot high wild flowers. We're crossing back over the stream, which at this point in the bend comes up to the horses' bellies. I am in the middle of a pack of 30 horses wading across the water, feeling the pull of the current on "good horse." Yee-fucking-haw!

And I am aware of it all: the sun, the breeze, the smells. If my smile were any bigger, I'd swallow my ears. I travel for weeks, months, for one day like this. For one simple day like this I endure roads that are not roads, lying drivers, opportunistic locals, humorless travel mates, bad toilets, and a diet lacking anything raw (which greatly reduces the need for toilets, bad or otherwise).

Today is a great day. Today I'm herding horses in Mongolia!

Back at the ger compound the "Three Brothers Drunk" watch as we try to move the herd into the corral. To their credit, they give us ample time to round 'em up. Of course, one would assume that intoxicated Mongol horsemen kicking it in the mild afternoon sun aren't in much of a hurry to do anything. But eventually "good horse" is confiscated and the horses are penned in no time.

We trot almost the entire way back to Tsetserleg. I'm wearing 2 bras for the occasion, neither of which are making the slightest difference.

"Can we walk please," I yell up to the boys.

Scott is now teaching Guij the English word for 'tits" accompanied by typical adolescent male hand gestures. Guij keeps looking back at me and smiling. Great! They keep trotting.

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A FLOOD OF PANIC

Leaving Tsetserleg is like getting out of a pool on a hot summer day. You don't want to do it but your fingers are prune-y and you have to pee. At some point, it just has to happen.

We are frantically trying to arrange accommodations in Ulaanbaatar. The annual Naadam Festival is coming up and the place is booked.

At the telecommunications office we're calling any place for which we can find a number. Not a simple task.

1) Wait in line
2) Give the number to the operator.
3) She dials the number and if she gets someone on the line she will say a number (in Mongolian) that corresponds to a phone booth on the other side of the room.
4) Run to that booth.
5) Speak your piece.
6) Stand in a different line.
7) Pay the cashier.

In our case, repeat steps 1 through 5 at least 7 times.

We finally find space in a dorm room (won't that be romantic) for 2 nights but we must leave before Naadam starts.

Of course, immediately after this ordeal we meet another group of travelers who are also heading back to UB the next day and they invite us to join them at a secret guesthouse they've discovered. It's brand new. It only has 7 beds. The owner is a sweetheart. They make you breakfast and provide coffee and tea.

The bus ride back to UB is 10 hours and not nearly as bad as I expect. Most of the time the bus moves parallel to the paved road, preferring dirt, curves and ruts to coarse gravel and potholes. We make faces at the kid sitting on the platform next to the driver who we assume is the grandfather. He's making faces back. His grandfather encourages him to throw the trash out the window. Two points for the kid. Zero points for the environment.

Happy and content and Happy Travel Guest House I begin sorting out my stuff. This would be a good time to charge the electronics. I look through my pack. Uh oh. I look through Scott's pack. Uh oh. I look through my pack again. Uh oh. I think back to the bus ride. Uh oh.

"Scott!"

"I'm in the bathroom."

I sit on the floor in a daze with my books, journals, camera, money belt in a pile in front of me. I am waiting while Scott finishes up his "project".

Finally. "What's up?"

I look up pathetically. "I think I dropped my iPod on the bus." Whimper whimper.

"Did you look..."

"Yes, I looked everywhere."

I can't even cry. Scott tries to comfort me with stories of all the money he's wasted and lost because of carelessness. I feel stupid. Much more stupid then when my money belt was stolen. The iPod not only represents a nice chunk of change, it is a month of evenings converting my CDs into digital format, the endless hit or miss of p2p MP3 downloading, and hundreds of hours organizing 8000 songs into genres and playlists. It is company when I'm alone, comfort when I'm sad, entertainment on bus rides, earplugs when the person next to me on the train is snoring. I need music. The thought of being without for the next 10 months is petrifying.

"This would be a really good time for a cigarette."

"Yes, Jen, but you're not a smoker."

"Oh yeah. Right."

I'm on Day 9 of being a non-smoker. It took this time. So far. Not really much to stress about in Tsetserleg and with the group gone, nightly cocktail hour has stopped. Every night Scott tells me what a great job I'm doing. And I certainly don't want to disappoint.

I have to do something. I can't just sit here not smoking and take it. Maybe someone honest found it and, I don't know, turned it in.

The Irish blokes say "Give it up. A Mongol will never give back."

Helena, the guesthouse owner, and her husband drive us back to the bus station. She talks to the ticket seller and manages to get the phone number of the bus driver. (How many drivers came from Tsetserleg today? Two. Father and son.)

We are driving through the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar in the rain. There are no street lights or signs and we must stop every 50 yards to ask the whereabouts of a landmark we've been given. "Go past the kindergarten, left at the big trash heap."

It's been at least an hour and a half when we stop on a wide dirt alley in front of a huge puddle that spans the width of the street. On the other side of "Lake Ulaanbaatar", illuminated in the headlights of our car stands a large, round man wearing boxer shorts and a button down shirt tied up around his mid-section like a bikini top. He has no neck and my earlier nickname for him is more appropriate than ever. Jabba the Hut has my iPod.

On the drive over Scott had said, "How much is it worth to you?"

"A lot."

"How much?"

"$50?"

"What about $100?"

"Yeah."

"Offer him $100."

"That's a lot. That's a lot for Mongolia."

"So much that they might give it back."

In Jabba's yard is the bus. On the floor of the bus is the muffler that fell off somewhere between here and Tsetserleg. If they put that muffler on the floor of the bus, they must have seen directly under my seat. But, of course, the iPod isn't there. Of course. Helena informs Jabba of my "finder's reward" and HE asks HER for her cell phone number, just in case.

The drive back to the center of town is "pumpy". Helena's husband is a crap driver, inconsistent, swerving in and out of traffic. I'm going to loose it. I tell them to stop the car. "Stop the car. Stop. STOP! STOP!" I haven't thrown up from carsickness since I was 10. The street is crowded and I'm holding it down, walking slowing, taking deep breaths. Scott is staying 15 feet back. He either doesn't want to watch or he's giving me some privacy.

I get it under control but still dirty Scott's shirt with tears and snot. Stress. He takes me home and makes me soup. Granted, it's instant soup in those cardboard bowls, but chicken isn't one of the 5 animals of Mongolia. It's 11pm.

-----------------------------

"I know last night sucked for you Jen, but it was fun for me."

"It was?"

"Yeah. It was an adventure. Tracking down the bus driver. Driving all over UB in the rain. How many people experience what we experienced last night? And I got to be the strong one. I liked being able to do that for you."

I grin that grin I've been grinning for the past 10 days. The shy, transparent one that gives it all away.

----------------------------------

I'm at the Internet cafe thinking about how to replace my iPod and browsing new models on apple.com. This won't be so hard. All I have to do is have someone at home buy me a new one. Have one of my friends go to my mom's house, hook up my computer, upload all my music and FedEx it to me somewhere in Asia. That should only cost me, oh, $600 or $700. Not so much money for someone with no job, no career prospects, no home, no car, and dwindling funds.

Helena then appears in the doorway with her cell phone in her hand.

"They found it."

Well holy shit!!!

We drive back to Jabba's house and I present him with a crisp US $100 bill. I think back to that American guy in Yunnan Province. "Benji is on the hundo." Damn straight! Jabba hands me my iPod. The ear buds are wrapped around the outside of the case (I never leave it like that) and the battery is dead. Maybe they decided to give it back when they realized that they had no way of charging it.

----------------

A FLOOD of FORTUNE

Life now gets weird. With the recovery of the iPod, our planets are aligning.

The first act of divine intervention: If we had stayed at the UB Guest House there is no way the women whom I made cry would spend half her day driving me around town in search of an over-priced radio.

2) Helena goes to buy us train tickets to the border but finds out that the border is closed for 3 days for Naadam. Only the international UB to Beijing train goes through. Every place is booked, including Happy Travel, but Helena offers us a room in her family's apartment. The family is in the countryside for the summer. We go from not having even a bed in a dorm to having an entire apartment.

3) Helena gets a cancellation as we're driving over to her family's apartment. We can stay put.

4) Helena's aunt calls the guesthouse and asks if anyone would like tickets to the Naadam opening ceremony. Scott and I are the only people there. "Sure. We'll take the tickets." People plan months in advance to come to Naadam and tickets to the best part have landed in our laps.

We are set up for the festivities.

-------------------------------

A FLOOD of POEPLE - NAADAM

Naadam is the annual festival featuring the 3 main sports of Mongolia: horse racing, archery and wrestling. This year is the 800th anniversary of the founding of the Mongolian empire by Genghis Khan. It's supposed to be a grand sight. Think Universal Studios Wild West show.

We're late arriving to the stadium but it's still 20 minutes before show time. We are standing outside a locked gate. Police and ticket takers guard the entrance. The crowd is growing and feelings of a dangerous mob swell in my gut. People are shouting and pushing, ignoring police tape and movable railings.

They have over-sold tickets. Looks like our $30 lucky tickets aren't so lucky. This is all fine and dandy for us. We didn't even want to come to this thing. But some people have traveled half-way around the world for this.

Eventually the westerners are squeezed through the gates. You can piss off the tourists with money. The stands are packed and we have no choice but to remain on the field where we have great views of big hats and horse's asses. As our expectations are low, this is still a good time.

At the free concert in Suhkbaatar Square that night, the crowd ignores the band. Like San Franciscans at a Reggae concert, it's an apathetic crowd. Maybe there's a mosh pit up at the front of which we're unaware.

The Irish blokes arrange a ride to the horse races the next day. We're late. We miss it. This is what happens when I'm not the event organizer.

------------------------

LOS BANDIDOS

The tag line to Los Bandidos is "The only Mexican and Indian restaurant in Mongolia." I'm pretty sure they'd be safe in saying "the world."

This is our first dinner back in Ulaanbaatar. It has been local food, the grocery store and the Fairfield Cafe for almost 4 weeks. (Now, the Fairfield Cafe serves a lovely latte, but the food is only as good when compared to the choices. It is the only place to get brown bread and salad.)

So, why not. We're in the big city. Let's dress up and go for a night on the town.

And really, how often can you order a margarita, a banana lassi, masala chai, nachos, samosas, and chicken tikka in one sitting.

It's fun. The food is good.

-----------------------------------

MONGOLIAN BBQ

Mongolian BBQ DOES NOT exist in Mongol culture. This is a completely western or Chinese creation. I'm not sure which. Mongols eat meat and various milk products. That's about it. Gers are not equipped with salad bars where you can choose your favorite veggies and spices to be grilled up with free-range chicken.

However, in Ullaanbaatar there is one Mongolian BBQ restaurant. The natives do not eat here. The clientele is mostly large tour groups. And the decor is strikingly similar to TGI Friday's. Flare abounds.

Scott and I feel sufficiently superior in our total avoidance of this type of restaurant to be able to justify our last dinner in Mongolia participating in something so cliché and banal.

It's fun. The food is good.

----------------------

THE BIRTHDAY EXPRESS

July 13: We're on an overnight train headed towards the border. We'll be crossing over on my birthday. I've had worse.

This is Scott's first overnight train...EVER! It's so cute watching his ebullience with the compartment, the sleeping berths, the bathrooms where you can see straight down to the tracks, the old style feeling of the red-carpeted hallway.

We're sharing our compartment with an older Chinese couple. The woman is vivacious. I make conversation as best I can, referring to the phrase book to supplement my minimal vocabulary. And just like that, Scott is no longer the communicator. Now, all information must pass through me!

She tells me I'm cute (k'ai).

She says something about Scott but I don't know that word. Strong? Handsome? I'm looking in the phrase book for these words but they don't match what she's said. Oh well.

Two hours later the woman, who has been reading the phrase book non-stop, finds the word she used to describe Scott. She hands me to book pointing to the word in question. It's in the "Romance" section and the word shwai is translated as "hot."

"Dude! The 60-year old Chinese lady thinks you're hot! You want me to give you two some time alone? Maybe y'all can sneak into the bathroom or something." (hehehe.)

-------------

MY BIRTHDAY STARTS NOW

I have 35 more minutes of being 36 years old. I'm almost in my "late" 30s. Oy! Seems like an appropriate time to be struck with abdominal cramps. Too many birthday cocktails perhaps.

When I come back from the bathroom a half hour later, I open the sliding door to a candle lit compartment. Scott has stuck birthday candles to a package of cookies. He and the Chinese couple sing to me, in English and Chinese.

I'm having a birthday in Mongolia!

--------------------

In the morning, we wait for the border to open in a line of taxi jeeps. As soon as we cross over, the road will turn to new, even asphalt. This is depressing. Scott and I talk about our next trip to Mongolia.

"I'm hiring a car for a month, a translator, an ornithologist, a botanist, a geologist and a cook."

My needs are simpler.

"I want to drive myself."

Immigration puts my exit stamp on the wrong page.

I look back through the dirty plastic window of the jeep as we cross over into China thinking, "I know this place. I know Mongolia. How cool is that!"

Mongolia is one of those places that seem so far away until you get there.

--------------------------

BACK IN CHINA

The moment we're through Chinese immigration, I hear the thundering snort of a man hacking up his lungs and a family of 8 has stopped to stare. The parents point to us like we're monkeys at the zoo and the grandparents are nudging the children to get closer and touch.

I am not bothered because I am not alone. Scott and I smile at the children and laugh at the adults.

Welcome to China.

--------------------

And now the moment has come. I get to show off. (Meaning, I get to use all 50 words of Chinese that I know.)

All the bus touts surround our 5 Israeli taxi mates and us. I ask each tout when their bus leaves and how much it costs. For the Israelis I ask where the train station is and teach them how to say it.

I then buy our bus tickets for later that day, do a currency exchange and negotiate a hotel room for the afternoon.

All in Chinese. Who would have ever thunk it?

Scott is watching the bags.

----------------------------

It's an overnight sleeper bus to Beijing. Again, it's Scott's first. It's not so bad, is it?

When a noisy child boards the bus, we give each other a look. This kid is going to be annoying.

Turns out this child has a ridiculously small bladder and needs to piss every hour or so. Instead of having the bus stop, the father takes the child to the rear steps, the ones directly next to my pillow, and sticks the kid's pecker in a bottle. I'm laying down watching a riveting Chow Yun Fat Hong Kong movie called The God of Gamblers Returns, or Du shen xu ji.

In this thought provoker, Chow's character is a wealthy ex-gambler. His rival hunts him down and murders his pregnant wife. Before taking her last breath she makes him promise not o gamble for one year nor reveal his identity as the God of Gamblers. He goes into hiding once again but just before the year is up, he's once again facing his rival. He must stall until the exact day when he's allowed to avenge the memory of his wife and unborn son.

So, the airplane TV monitor is at my toes. When I sit up to avoid having some poorly-behaved 4 year-old piss a foot from my face, no one behind me can see the screen and g-d forbid this miss one scene of this Oscar-bound masterpiece.

Scott is smiling at my frustration.

"Come here."

"What!"

I'm pissy. The little kid is certainly pissy. We're all pissy. Except Scott. He rarely gets pissy. When he's hungry, he stops talking. That's his extreme.

He leans me over to him so everyone can see the TV and I'm as far away as possible from "boy with small bladder" and kisses me. Yes, yes. How cute. What boy taking a leak? What bunch of Chinese people trying to watch TV? What pissy mood?

---------------------------

BEIJING REVISITED

I'm back in Beijing, but this time I'm not alone. Scott and I are a pair and it's strange to have some of the same experiences but from a completely different perspective. We go out at night. We go to nice dinners. We stroll through shopping areas (I would never do this by myself.) I don't notice the staring faces. I am not frustrated by everything. Every possible nusiance is diverted by focusing on him.

Additionally, an Aussie friend, whom I met in Burma, and her boyfriend, has just moved here. Scott and I are staying near their apartment. We do couply things together: dinner, meeting up with other ex-pat couples at the ex-pat bar. We even bail on an outing to the Hutong (narrow alley neighborhoods with classic Chinese courtyard houses) in favor of pedicures. This is Scott's idea. Not mine.

The second time around, Tianemen Square is romantic. It's Sunday night and everyone in Beijing is out enjoying the evening breeze.

Scott, a non-bargainer, watches in amazement as I haggle with a guy selling the hillarious Mao watch. The tout says a price and I offer him less than a 6th of that. If you don't haggle, they won't respect you and they'll think you're stupid.

The tout says no, and repeats his price.

"No thank you." And we walk away.

He follows us. He wants to play. All I have to do now is pretend like I have no interest in his product. In reality, this is the only thing in all of China I have wanted to buy.

Our banter lasts at least 20 minutes. I don't budge. I know how much others have paid for this.

He finally agrees. He's dealing with a pro. I learned from Israelis. I buy 10 watches and Scott buys 6. Whom of you out there will be the lucky recipients of the Mao watch.

When looking back on the reign of Mao, "they" say that he was 70% good and 30% bad. I believe the inverse to be true. In keeping with my theory we should expect the Mao watch to work 30% of the time.

--------------------------

There are a few other things I happily repeat because of Scott.

- I go to back to the Acrobatics show. The first one was better.

- I go out to another Beijing duck meal. The first one was better and much cheaper.

- I go back to The Wall. This time we take the public bus to the most popular section: Badaling. Again, the sky is gray and hazy and the pictures are crap. But it is The Wall. Even with babbling picture peddlers, it's still awesome. I give the merchants a motherly "Shhhh. "I want to look. It's beautiful."

The bus ride home from Badaling is "pumpy". I'm going to kill the driver, or throw up on him. At the subway station we wait for my stomach to settle and play a round of "Shoe Patrol" - rating local footwear in regard to style, coordination with outfit and the oh-so-popular nylon sock option. This is a game you can only play in China.

-----------------------

DEPARTURES

After 33 days in Mongolia and 5 days in China, the time has come to split. I'm going Southwest and he's going Northeast.

Scott's train is not listed on the "Platform" announcement board. I've taken trains all over this country and this has never happened to me. At the information desk I ask "We go where?" and show them the ticket. They point us to Waiting Room 2. But at Waiting Room 2, the door attendant is telling us to go upstairs. When we go upstairs, they tell us to go downstairs. This goes on for some time.

These people are going to ruin my romantic train station goodbye. How many of these do you think you get in a lifetime? (This is actually my second. I travel a lot.)

The train is leaving in 5 minutes as we approach the gate. I can go no further. (The days of waving goodbye from the platform are long over. Security really fucks with romance.) Scott drops his packs on the floor and I throw my arms around his neck and we make out, knowing that every Chinese eye is on us. They are deep kisses and tight squeezes, holding on hard for one more drop of each other.

And then he says it.

"It's so strange to love someone for 6 weeks and then have to say good-bye."

"Oh, don't say THAT."

It's interesting that my first reaction to a boy telling me he loves me is to tell him not to tell me. But I realize I'm ruining the moment here and quickly recover.

"Really?" (That's much better.)

"Yeah, really."

"Me too."

"I know."

One last kiss...

...and then he's gone.

As soon as I turn to walk way, I feel the tears swell up heavy in my eyes. I am crying walking through a Chinese waiting hall. I am crying walking through the train station square. I am crying on the Beijing subway. And not once do I look at anyone else. I know they are all looking at me.

When I get home, Cherie and Gregg are waiting outside with outstretched arms. Friends.

"He told me he loved me for the first time and then got on a train for Russia never to see me again."

"Aaaaaaawww."

"No aaawww! He should've kept it to himself."

"Do you really think so?"

"I don't know."

All I want is to maintain the intensity of one of the most romantic moments of my life but I can't stop my cynical, logical and correct brain.

He chose the easiest, most non-committal time to say the HUGEST of things. Why didn't he say it this morning, last night, at any time in the last several weeks that we've been together 24/7. Because now, there are no ramifications. No definitions. No time. No tomorrows. He was creating a moment. One of those great travel love affair moments. A highlight in the movie of our time together. A postcard.

I am trying to look at it like I know he does, but all I can think is...what a chicken-shit.

The metal gate slams hard behind us and it's echo bounces around the new-found emptiness in my chest.

-------------------------

So, that's the end of that.

Actually, it's not really the end. These things rarely stop cold turkey. From here on out it's giggles and tears in Internet cafes, which fades...full stop.

Funny how people are so willing to share their joy and reluctant to do the same with their sorrow. Or maybe that's just me.

---------------------------

One more song...

I like the smile on your finger tips
I like the way you move you hips
I like the cool way you look at me
Everything about you is bringing me misery.

Part 16 - Mongolia (Me and Ewan)

2006-06-29T00:01:00.000-07:00

My travel lull is over. I'M IN MONGOLIA. MONGOLIA!!! I am on a train going through the desert in MONGOLIA!!! Whooooo-hoooooo!

------------------------------

My original thought in coming to Mongolia was "Hey, I'll be in Beijing. I'll just pop on over to Ulan Batar for a couple days and then come back. Then I can say I've been to Mongolia. How cool would that be!" I didn't read anything about Mongolia. I had no idea what I could do there. I was just going.

Then someone gave me that book written by Ewan McGregor about riding motorcycles around the world, Mongolia included. I am completely aware that I only wanted to read it because it was written by Ewan McGregor. It's the way he sings. He gives me goose-bumps. (I was made aware of the TV show long after I became aware of the book. They didn't show it on Asian TV.) So I read the Ewan book and while I knew I wouldn't have GPS or a support crew following close behind, I thought I'd take a chance.

Tim Cahill's travel piece, The Yogurt Riders, also got me excited. But I don't know what Tim Cahill looks like, let alone how he sings.

-------------------------

Because I don't plan anything in advance, there's no way I can get the direct Trans-Siberian train from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar (Pronounced UlaanBAAter - emphasis on BAA. We've all been saying it wrong.) before the first half of my 4 month China visa runs out. I purchase a package from my guest house, where they handle all the tickets and transportation over the border. It's an overnight sleeper to the border at Erlian. At 6am, the two other foreigners and I are picked up by some guy waiting at the bus station with our names. He takes us to a hotel where we get to sleep for a couple hours until the border opens.

At 8pm we are piled into a van with 3 very large Mongolians. In fact, that's my first thought. Wow. Mongolians are huge. Not like Asians at all. (I might be able to buy clothes here.) The 2 benches in the back of the van are not screwed down. The Mongolians have filled the van with cheap Chinese merchandise and the benches have been placed on top of the plastic sacks. My head is hitting the roof and every time the driver brakes I go face-first into a large woman's lap.

Chinese immigration is easy. The building is large and clean. Some local guy cuts in front of me, Zen and Gina. "Hey." I get his attention, point out the three of us and then point to him and the back of the line. He guffaws and ignores me. Then I give the guards standing not 3 feet away a "Hey" and go through the same hand gestures. "What?" Nothing registers in their smoke-filled brains and I want to smack their vacant stares back to the Qing dynasty. In 5 minutes I will be out of China and I am happy.

You know you're in Mongolia when asphalt gives way to dirt.

Zamyn Uud is a town that seems to consist of the train station, the shops around the train station and the road to and from the train station.

Zen, Gina and I are now sitting in an empty van in the parking lot while our driver leaves us to get tickets for the afternoon train. While he's gone, two men get in the van. Zen says that all these guys know each other. They must be friends. But when the driver returns, he immediately gives them the boot. I guess they're not friends.

He gives us our tickets, points to the departure time (6 hours later) and drives off.

It is around this time that I learn that Mongolians do not speak Chinese. They're not too fond of their neighbors to the south. I can't communicate...AT ALL. I don't know one word in Mongolian. I've got no guide book, no phrase book. All of sudden, I feel vulnerable.

The two strange men that have been kicked out of the van and who smell of alcohol, follow us to the waiting room, the luggage storage, the restaurant. After several pleas to leave us alone, Zen takes a chair and slams in on the ground. Sometimes you need to be aggressive to let people know you're serious. But the men stay put. I see a police officer in the waiting area and call him over. I point to the men and he ushers them away. He knows what's going on. These guys are claiming that they carried our bags for us and that we owe them money. I wonder how often this scam works for them.

Another Overnight Train

This is my first Mongolian train. Actually, it's a Russian train. So, this is my first Russian train. Honestly, I'm not expecting too much. Mongolia is like India, right? Wrong. For $12, I am in a 4-person, private compartment. There are sheets, blankets and pillows and the benches are nicely cushioned. Everything tells me that I'm not in China anymore right down to the compartment speaker volume control. These Chinese would never think that you might want quiet.

Zen, Gina and I are joined by a local man who doesn't speak any English. However, after 1/2 hour of watching the two of them play cards, he has picked up all the rules. We all play Shithead - not the most complicated of card games - and watch the desert sand turn golden as the sun melts on the horizon. I'm on a train, going through the desert in Mongolia!

I sleep with the sheets up above my head, as the desert sand creeps in through window and door seams. Every surface is dust-coated and the train attendants sweep hourly.

In the morning, a Mongolian with excellent English comes to chat with us. He is a guide and takes tourists (mostly Americans) on wild sheep hunting expeditions.

"You mean I can come to Mongolia and kill animals for fun?"

"Oh yes, sure."

Of course, Mongolians kill animals for food, for survival. Charlton Heston they are not. There are 5 animals of Mongolia: camels, cattle, goats, horses, and sheep. The ratio of horses to people is approximately 14:1. The Mongolian horseback riding fantasy is taking form.

-----------------------------

The UB Guest House has been recommended by at least two people. For the solo traveler, this is the best place to meet up with others looking to hire a car and tour around the country.

Proper roads connect Ulaanbaatar with 3 other main population centers. On these routes there is public transportation, though it is limited. Perhaps one 10 hour bus ride a day. And large parts of these proper roads wouldn't be considered proper in the least.

Despite a lack of formal public transportation, all vehicles can be considered possible traveling options. Hitching, for a price, is common and safe, though not necessarily economical for the foreigner. When one car a day passes through, you are at the mercy of the driver, who will be able to fund his vodka habit for a year with what he will charge you for a 5 hour drive.

Most travelers hire bulky, gray 4x4 Russian jeeps or vans. In groups of 2 (older and rich) to 6 (on a budget), popular destinations are the Gobi Desert, Kharkorin (the former capital), Tsetserleg, Tsaagan Nuur (White Lake), and Khovsgal Lake. The more adventurous and/or wealthy head to the far west.

-----------------------

I walk into the UB Guest House at 9am and am met with a "Hi, do you want to go on a tour of the Gobi? I'm trying to get a group together."

Okay, that was easy.

After a couple group meetings, 6 solo travelers have agreed on a 10 day itinerary. We will go south to the Gobi Desert, then north west through Kharkorin, Tsetserleg and on to Tsaagan Nuur at which time we will send our van back to Ulaanbaatar (UB) with 1 or 2 people from the group. The rest of us will make our way to where ever we want to go next, which at this time is undecided. How we will get to wherever that is, is also undetermined. Ain't traveling exciting!

-------------------

The next couple days are spent readying outselved for a few weeks away from civilization.

Walking around Ulaanbaatar I am struck foremost by the fact that these poeple don't seem to pay much attention to me. Maybe they give a quick look, but they certainly don't turn as I walk past. They don't look me up and down. They barely acknowledge my existance. I am a regular person walking down the street. How wonderful. I love them.

With the help of the Peace Corps worker, I find a pharmacy and show them the note that has been written for me requesting allergy medicine and nose drops. Horray for the Peace Corps. After I leave the pharmacy, a man who was watching my purchase catches up to me on the street and shows me a vile of liquid. I can only assume that this is allergy medicine of some sort but I'm not about to buy a vile of an unknown substance on the streets of a foreign country. (Show me a vile of whatever in SF and I'll take it.) I wave him off and keep walking. That was weird.

During our tour, we will be staying in gers (Pronounced gair. Yurt is the Russian word.) set up especially for tourists and owned by local families. I don't actually know this yet. I think that we'll be sleeping in family gers. Lunch and dinner will be provided but we have been warned that these meals are simple, lacking things like fruit, vegetables, meat, taste. Additionally, we will need to prepare our own lunch on the road, most often in the middle of nowhere.

Yes, I make a shopping list, which is divided up between the 6 of us.

lemons / honey / candles / lighters / tp / cooking oil / propane / tea / drinking water / peanut butter / nutella / fruit / dish soap / sponges / spices / plastic bags / canned food / pasta / sauce / dried fruit / bread / meat / snacks / vodka / bubbles / playing cards

We are essentially preparing for car camping.

The last thing on my list is a guitar. I didn't really think I could make it another year without one. And now I'll be in the same car for a couple weeks and won't it be nice to be able to play for local families - just like Ewan.

The black market is on the south east side of town. It has been advised not to bring anything: not a wallet, purse, backpack. Pickpocketing is rampant. I ask vendor after vendor where I can find a guitar. ("gee tar" - with hands in air guitar position). I am pointed in the same direction and finally come to a booth selling electronic appliances. But she's got two guitars hanging in front of the extension cords. My choices: blue or white. This certainly cuts down shopping time.

Mongolians aren't big on haggling, but I get her down from 20,000 togrog to 18,000. That's a big $18 US. I name my fifth guitar Blue Steel. (Big points if you get the reference.)

------------------------

The morning of our departure, we are packing gear and provisions into the back of our Russian beast. The guest house owner, Bobby (female) gives us a couple itineraries for the group. And here we go. I just can't keep my mouth shut.

"Bobby, can we each have an itinerary?"

"No, we only give two."

"Why?"

"Because it's policy."

"But you're the boss. Change the policy. I mean, how hard can it be to print out a few more copies. I think this is something we would all like for our memories."

"We give two itineraries. We can't just give it to you because you want it."

"Of course you can. You can do anything you want. You're the boss. If this is about saving money on paper I'll pay for it."

"You can go to the store and copy it yourself."

"Listen, I only say something because another group said that they all wanted a copy. If this is something that everyone wants, maybe you should think about providing this small service. Just for future reference."

"Why are you like this? No one else in your group wants this."

"Yes, they do. It's just that I say what I think and they don't."

Bobby is now tearing up. Apparently, she's not feeling too confident in defending her "policies".

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Two itineraries are fine. We'll copy them ourselves."

Yes, Ross, I made another girl cry. Two girls in 15 years. That's not too bad. I think I've made more than 2 boys cry in that time. At least I hope!

----------------------------

3 Sheeps to the Wind Tour

The Players

Jen - American. 36. Organized, structured, bossy, direct, predisposed to getting car sick and trying to stop smoking. A recipe for disaster.

Elin - Swede. 22. Easy-going party girl. Doesn't feel the need to get involved when there are "too many cooks in the kitchen." Uses a lot of British slang like "Fuck all". Also a recent non-smoker but gladly smokes with me when I decide after 3 days that maybe this isn't the best time to stop.

Isabel - Swiss. 22. English isn't quite good enough for me to figure her out, nor for me to want to bother. She's outdoorsy. She likes staying up late every night watching the stars for hours with guys she has no intention of hooking up with.

Gail - Canadian. 57. Hippy who has built her own ger in her backyard so she could have her own space away from her husband, from whom she is now divorced. Holds her own with the younger crowd. One of those touchy-feely types who must qualify every statement with superfluous information. She gets interrupted a lot because people get tired of waiting for her to finish.

Scott - American. 28. Social. Funny. Everybody's friend. The glue of the group. Wants to make everyone happy. A definite Libra.

Ken - Irish. 31. The only Irishman I've ever met who doesn't know how to take the piss. He's an accountant. Need I say more. Because he has no sense of humor, he can only see in me a controlling, overbearing bitch. Maybe so. Maybe so. We keep our distance.

Baatar - Mongol. 23? Can't remember. Our driver. His English consists of "stop", "eat" and "vodka". Or so we think. It's quite possible that Baatar is fluent, but chooses to keep a low profile.

Of course, I don't know all these things on day 1. But, what with making the guest house owner cry, everyone already knows that I'm the difficult one. I am now 3 hours since waking without a cigarette. Don't I know how to win people over!

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And we are off. Baatar drives west on the road out of Ulaanbaatar until, at some indistinguishable point, he turns off the road and heads south, following the tracks of the previous vehicle. Most of Mongolia is navigated in this fashion.

The first of many times I feel like throwing up I ask Baatar to "stop". He pulls off the dirt path, like he's expecting another car to come along and rear-end us.

While we're all stretching and taking in the first of many varying desert scenes, Scott sprints by the van and looking back yells, "I'm running in Mongolia!"

I go over a small hill to use the facilities. "Hey Scott! I'm peeing in Mongolia!"

We quickly learn that no one wants to take the time to boil water for noodles in the middle of the hot desert. (Those noodles are never eaten.) The food that Elin and I bought is eaten first: gourmet breads, tomatoes, canned mushrooms, cheese, chocolate.

A couple hours after lunch Baatar stops the car and points to the hills. "What? Are we supposed to go there?" He points at his watch. Forty-five minutes. Okay. We're supposed to go there. The granite rock formations of Baga Gazaryn Chuluu glide up out of the dusty desert floor. We all climb to various perches and take in the unexpected and surreal beauty of the Gobi.

Though we have the choice to sleep in a guest house, some people in the group would prefer to camp. Tents are pitched 50 yards from the guest house. It's like camping in your parent's backyard. But I'm not saying nothing. Look at me keeping my mouth shut. Yep, that's right. Ten hour since waking without a cigarette.

After dinner everyone goes on a walk while I pack up the van. Uh, how did this happen? I'm sure I brought it upon myself. I have to know where everything is. Everything has to go where I say it belongs. It's a curse. The curse of the super-organized.

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I pack up the entire van on the second morning. It is a thing of beauty, like a jigsaw where every piece has fit together perfectly. Food and cooking supplies are easily accessible. Sleeping mats and bags fills gaps and create cushions to minimize movement and clanking sounds. Truely, this is a work of art, to be appreciated, to be revelled. Unfortuantely, I think I'm the only connoisseur of efficient packing. Go figure.

There is a cardboard box that doesn't seem to belong to anyone. Further inspection reveals that the box is full of candy, choco-pies and vodka. Baatar gives me a stern "no, no". Humm? Interesting combination.

During lunch a car drives by. Yes, another car. Of course we give a wave. Of course, they stop to pay their respects. Bottles of vodka are opened. Cigarettes are passed around (though not to me). Your average exchange in the middle of the desert. Scott then busts out Russian with them. Mongolians don't always like to admit they can speak Russian, but the older ones usually know, at least, a bit.

Both our van and their jeep drive side by side in the desert for some time. It's like a race you see in the movies, with the desert dust being kicked up by the wind and the back tires. It is perfect. I cannot believe I'm here. I'm driving through the desert in Mongolia!

Today's sightseeing stop is a completely different landscape than yesterday's. Atop a plateau, water and wind have produced huge sand castles of the cliff face. The purples, reds, oranges and yellows stripe and dot the cliffs and desert floor, like G-d has tried to tye-dye the earth.

Tonight we sleep in our first ger. One for the boys and one for the girls. Small beds line the perimeter of the ger and a table and stools mark the middle. The wall (outer barracade might be a better description) is covered with cheap material, like drapes with gaudy flowers.

Outside, there is nothing but desert in every direction. We are all wind-blown and dusty. I prepare a basin of water for the girls to dip our towels in and wipe off the dust. Elin and Gail dip one end of their towels in the basin, wash off, and then dry themselves with the other end. I come back from the outhouse just in time to see Isabel finish wiping herself off and then rinsing her entire dirty towel in the basin water I have yet to use.

"Did you just put your...." I can't even finish the sentence. I'm speechless and annoyed. Two days without a cigarette.

Elin sees what's going on, though Isabel remains oblivious. "Yes, she did."

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It's a short ride to the only town in the desert, Dalanzadgad. The name sounds like at least 2 of the 12 tribes of Israel.

Here, we can restock and have a shower.

At the local market, both Scott and Isabel question my purchase of 6 cans of peas and carrots. (All food costs are shared.)

"Why do we need so much?"

"There are 6 people and we've got like 9 more days. They will be eaten."

"Yeah, but I don't like them."

"Well, I don't like choco-pies or dark chocolate, but I don't say anything when you buy that crap." (I didn't really say "crap".)

The group decision making is a difficult thing. We must all agree on every move that is made. What we eat. When we eat. What to buy. How much money is spent. What is a necessity. What is a luxury that we should do without. This is and will remain the biggest obstacle of spending 2 weeks trapped in a car with 6 strangers. So, let me buy my frickin' peas and carrots and you buy your disgusting dark chocolate and we'll all be happy. Two and a half days without a cigarette. Thank you very much.

The town of Dalanzadgad is the trailer park of the desert. Plots of land are seperated with wooden fences. In fact, from the dirt roads, the only thing you can see are fences and the tops of the gers inside. There is something strange about having a ger fenced in. Aren't these nomadic dwellings? Turns out, they are not. Even in Ulaanbaatar, people have gers on property that is never left. The gers never move. Thus, a ger is like a trailer. It can be moved, but often, it is put in one spot and stays there until a flood or hurricane picks a new location for it.

That night Scott rallies the group for an excursion into town to the Mustang Bar. How often do you get to go drinking at a bar in the middle of the Gobi Desert? But a bar. Hummm? How will I have a drink without a cigarette. Given my mood the past few days, I decide that maybe this isn't the best time for me to stop smoking. I'll take one for the team. Yes, I am a selfless girl.

We order a couple bottles of vodka (total charge = $3) and some juice. After a few rounds, the locals at the next table join us on the dance floor. I have assumed responsibility of the the computer playlist and now the entire bar (all 8 of us) is up and shakin' it. It's the best of American MTV pop: Britney, Justin, Jennifer, Pink, Michael. Isabel tries to get to the computer, but I assure her that it's all taken care of. Don't touch my playlist! No one can dance to fucking Rammstein.

When our local friends have finished off our booze and fags we huddle together and walk down the unlit desert streets. Dogs are barking from behind the wooden fences for which I am now thankful. No one pets a Mongol dog.

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Baatar is not happy that we're all still sleeping. We try to tell him what we did the night before but it's no use. Past tense is a difficult thing to act out, especially when you have a cheap vodka and cigarette hangover.

Because we've all overslept, we have perhaps an hour to view the ice gorge of Yolyn Am. I didn't even know we were coming here today. If I had my own itinerary....

Yolyn Am is way cool. Go look at the pictures. I'm too hungover to write about it.

Back at the car, Ken yells at me for telling him that the box he's trying to put something in is full. "I can figure it out Jen!" Fine, fine, fine. I'll just pout quietly. And when he's looking for the honey for his damn afternoon tea, I'll let him look in every bag and every box, even though I know exactly where it is. He can figure it out. I'm a very mature 36.

The desert floor is, again, different than what I expected. Here it is compact and rocky. This desert doesn't have a whole lot of sand. Purple and brown craggy mountains frame the northern and southern edges of the horizons.

We arrive at the sand dunes of Khongoryn Els (Singing Sands) late in the afternoon, though the sun remains high. Sunset is around 9:30pm with dusk lasting for hours. The sand dunes are the main attraction of southern Mongolia. Looking south, they take up one's entire field of vision, going on for approximately 100 km. I guess this is where all that desert sand ends up.

Our ger faces south, as all gers do. There are no beds. We spread mats on the floor, one next to another. The first person that returns from the WC needs no prompting.

"This one is bad. Lazy lazy outhouse builders."

We all groan. Day 1 we were outside. No rating. Day 2 outhouse got a high rating. It was a new, deep hole. There was no stink and and you couldn't see the refuse on the bottom as there was no refuse on the bottom. Dalanzadgad was okay. But it is in a town. That's never as good as being competely outside. Now it's Day 4 and whoever dug that hole got distracted or bored. He stopped before he began. The hole is maybe 3 feet deep. There it all is. As soon as the sun sets, I can just go outside.

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Day 5 is a rest day. No nausea today, except when I have to use the WC.

Elin, Gail and I do morning desert yoga. It reminds me of that 80s aerobics show where they're on the beach and the three instructors take turns leading low, medium or high impact. The things that stick in my head.

Breakfast is stale bread, again. Usually we disguise breakfast in honey or nutella, but today I don't have to eat with everyone. I can skip breakfast and wait for an early lunch of, that's right, peas and carrots. I'm eating peas and carrots in Mongolia!

We spend most of the day lounging in the ger, the only place where there's shade.

The rest of the group goes on a camel ride in the afternoon. Since I wasn't conferred with and since I'm still pouting, I don't go. I'd prefer to go to the sand dunes closer to sunset anyway. Better light.

It takes about an hour to walk to the dunes. I trudge over sand mounds, go shoeless across a river, weave between more sand mounds, hop over marshy grass knolls before reaching the base of the dunes. The diversity of the terrain in this one hour walk astounds me: sand, hard weeds, mud, grass, flowers, streams.

Once on top of the dunes I giggle. The cool sand squishes between my toes. I am alone for the first time in days and it's quiet. The sun sets behind one thin cloud and everything is changing colors: the sand, the sky, the distant mountains to the north and south. The shadows reach farther eastward and when I am a good 10 feet tall I make my way back to camp.

It's nearly 11pm when I arrive and the group has saved me some dinner. Gail, Scott and Isabel have collected camel dung for a camp fire. I guess I'll stop pouting now. Who's got a cigarette?

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I am watching Ken pack the car and I am dying. Look at those huge gaps of unused space! How can he not know to put the biggest rucksacks on the bottom. He hasn't left any space for the food. If Baatar hits the breaks everything placed haphazardly on top will fly into the back seat, but not before smacking me in the head. Ahhhh! I have to turn away. "Well Judge, he didn't pack the car trunk correctly, so I had to hit him over the head with the frying pan for which he couldn't find space."

It's a long drive out of the desert and I'm in the very back. Not happy. Want to throw up. Crying. Waaaahhhh.

But pee breaks are amazing. The land is now pebble covered and we drive in between chocolate brown hills.

Approaching Arvaikheer we hit our first paved road in a week. All of a sudden the car stops rattling. My boobs stop bouncing. My stomach stops churning. It's something that none of us expect but the second it happens we all stop what we're doing. "What just happened? Ah! Road happened!"

We're in a city, and I use the term loosely.

I meet a strange group of kids outside the government Internet cafe. I think they have developmental problems because one of them keeps fondling herself.

We also discover that there's a bar on the second floor of the public shower. After our dumpling dinner, Scott, Elin and I take a walk back down the street to check out the night life of central Mongolia. The bar is beautifully decorated, with wood paneling and heavy tables. Elin and I have officially given up giving up smoking. We order a couple beers and instead of exact change, the waitress gives me gum. That seems fair.

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We are now officially out of the desert. The landscape has turned light green and yellow. In the grassy meadows are herds of goat, horse and camel. This is the first time I've seen camels that aren't there to assume the tourists. These are real camel herds, trotting across the land, crossing the roads, as real herds so often will do.

The stop at a local family ger camp, farm, area (What would you call it when there are no property markers?) at first seems impromptu. But as the family children line up for pictures, we know that they've been through this routine before. This is an extended family: one set of parents, grown siblings, their spouses and all the kids.

After we watch the horses being milked we are brought inside for some authentic mare's cheese and airak (fermented mare's milk). We all stare at each for a while. Scott and Gail think to break out the phrase books. Scott tries to sell off Elin and Isabel to the single uncle. Ten camels. Everyone laughs.

At some point I need to use the facilities but there are no hills, nothing to go behind. I need my privacy. This is when I am introduced to the greatest invention of all time.

THE PEE COAT!

All Mongolian ger-holds have large, long coats. You put on the coat and go squat anywhere and the coat provides you some privacy. If you don't have a genuine Mongol pee coat, a jacket tied around the waist will suffice.

(Please note that the pee coat is actually an old dell, part of traditional Mongol dress.)

So, Elin and I are outside the ger taking pictures of each other squating in the pee coat and the local women think this is the funniest thing they've ever seen. I've never made a Mongol laugh before. They are cracking up.

"Stop. Stop." they say as they hold their guts. "You're gonna make us pee."

"No problem. Take the pee coat."

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About 20 minutes down the road from the pee coat family, Baatar stops the car at a small stream. That's odd. Nobody asked for a pee break. We all just used the pee coat. He goes down to the stream, dunks his head in the water and lays in the grass.

"Uh, guys. I think Baatar is drunk."

"Well he did have 3 huge bowls of airak."

"Oh great. Our paid driver is drunk off his ass."

"At least he realized it and stopped to sobber up."

"Let's eat."

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We make it to Kharkorin without incident. Nothing like a little processed meat to soak up the alcohol.

Kharkorin was the ancient capital of Mongolia during the reign of Genghis Khan, though some sources say that the city wasn't erected until after his death. But from here, the Mongol empire spread from Beijing to the Caspian Sea.

We visit the Buddhist Monastery Erdene Zuu, which was reopended in 1990. Seems like armies and occupiers like destroying peaceful places of worship. The things men do.

That night we stay up drinking vodka with another tour group we call "the boys". We haven't talked to anyone else in a week.

It is a melancholy sunset; feelings of longing, fortuity and saddness mingle and shmooze. They are the mixer in my cocktail. They are the drag on my cigarette. An old Mongol is riding his horse across the meadow, sitting high in his wooden saddle. Don't take a picture. Just watch.

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Today the landscape changes again to dark green trees covering equally as green grass. Purple and yellow wildflowers sprinkle the meadows. It is a child's crayola picture: blue sky, white cotton ball clouds, trees adorning perfectly convex hills.

There is a hot springs 2 hours from today's destination. Baatar parks high on a hill overlooking the hot springs resort. It looks closed. There are no people in sight. Ken finds some staff and arranges a price. Look! I'm saying nice things about Ken.

Men and women are seperated, in both changing rooms and outside pools. All us ladies are putting on our swimsuits when the female staffer motions "No suits." Huh? But the pools are outside and the fences are low. I ignore her and get in the pool appropriately covered. The other girls follow suit. (Get it? Follow suit?) She doesn't know what to do. I'm telling her bathing suits are okay. No problem. She's saying "no suit, no suit" and then a man peaks around the corner from the boys side. Ah ha!!! Suits stay on.

When we arrive in Tsetserleg, it's a hard rain that's falling. Our gers are in someone's backyard. "The boys" are also here. And while their ger leaks, at least it has a stove. We spend the evening stoking the fire, playing cards and drinking vodka cocktails. I haven't consumed this much vodka since high school. Gail gives me one of those hippy massages. The kind where energy is used instead of one's hands. She's petting me like a cat.

The outhouse here is frightening. There is no door. There are two large slits that are the toilet openings. It's a WC for two. The squat spaces are seperated by thick pieces of wood. But are they thick enough? Has weather and time effected their quality? I stay close to the opening where the door should be and step carefully. Rating of 2.

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We're saying goodbye to the ger owner and everyone is standing outside the van. No one will get in the car. They're all standing there to see who will get in the back seat. We've been randomly switching seats, but it's these types of things that never work out fairly. It's someone's turn for the backseat but they are not making a move. I know it's not me. I've got the front seat today.

"Come on guys. Get in. Elin. You're in the back."

With this, everyone has regained control of their limbs.

The ger owner points at me, says "boss" and giggles.

Now, it's not that I'm really the boss or want to be the boss. What I am is impatient. People need a kick in the pants. Groups need leadership. I don't care who assumes that role as long as it's assumed. People who think that a collection of individuals don't need guidance are the same people who don't mind sitting around for hours waiting for someone else to speak up.

On our way out of town, we stock up on water and other essentials as we don't know what will be available at Tsaagan Nurr (White Lake). Baatar has a worried look on his face as he sees us piling the trunk and spare seat with German pretzels and bottled water. He's trying to tell us something. What? What is this? Your brother? Your brother is sitting in the front seat? Your brother is coming with us? You are our hired driver and you're bringing your brother and his saddle on your job? And what's more, you're putting him in the front seat so that 4 of us can squeeze into 3 bucket seats for a 7 hour drive? Okay. Got it.

The nice people in the group are fine with this. Elin and I are not. The nice and skinny-assed people sit with Baatar's brother in the middle 3 seats. I'm in the front. Elin is in the back.

We are now heading for Tsaagan Nuur. It is here that some of us hope to fulfill our Mongolian horseback riding fantasy.

Alas, Tsaagan Nuur is not what we had hoped for. Yes, it's beautiful, but it is also barren. The hills to the east of the lake (where we are staying) are brown and treeless. The hills far across the lake are forest-covered. How long would it take to get over there? Could we get over there? There are a few sets of tourist gers along the south-east border of the lake but this isn't a place where locals live. It exists only for tourists. Swarms of bugs flitter around each ger, around each breathing body. No one is thinking about staying here long.

But Baatar sure looks happy. What's gotten into him. He's all perky and smiling. Most unlike his usual stoic self. Elin asks why he's cleaning the car.

"Tomorrow UB."

Uh oh.

"No. Tomorrow here."

Baatar is ready to up and leave. He hasn't looked at his itinerary. I guess Bobby didn't give him one. Policy and all. With the help of a translator from another group we tell Baatar that he's staying here 2 days and then taking Isabel and Gail back to UB with him. We show him our itinerary.

Baatar is smiling no more. He thought this was his last day of work. He thought he could fuck off tomorrow. Hired help!

It's raining again. Elin and Isabel have gone off to "the boys" ger. Ken and Gail are sleeping. Scott is writing in his journal about vodka. I'm reading Dosteovsky's, The Idiot, which I've been trying to get through for months. I keep stopping to read other books that I can actually enjoy and finish.

The ger is leaking in the middle, where the cloth flap has been pulled over the stove-pipe opening. The leaking spreads to my bed. With great difficulty, Scott and I move my heavy wooden bed to a dry part of the ger. When Elin comes back we find that the ger is leaking over her bed as well. She and I lift the bed to moved it and the frame falls to pieces. She and I are laughing. Scott is recording the episode in his journal. Ken rolls over and mumbles something about it being too hot and to stop putting wood in the stove. Gail doesn't move. Where's Isabel?

Elin has little choice but to go sleep in "the boys" ger. I'm still laughing watching her move slowly through the rain and dark with the use of her torch, powered by batteries that wouldn't even turn on a digital camera, and her blanket slung over one shoulder. Oh. Here's Isabel. Scott tells us a bedtime story about 3 bears who are real estate developers in Florida. I read a page of Dostoevsky aloud. Scott and Isabel are bored and confused. We all fall asleep to the sound of water dripping from ger canvas to tin pot.

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In the morning, Elin, Isabel, Scott and I decide that we have the best chance of fulfilling our Mongolian horseback riding fantasy back in Tsetserleg or finding a ride to another location. There are very few tourists coming through White Lake. It is not the bustling hub we thought it would be. Tsetserleg is a hub. In fact, Tsetserleg is just like Chicago. Additionally, we had met the Brit owners of the western cafe in Tsetserleg who arrange horseback riding with a local family for $6 a day.

And since Baatar is going back to UB, it shouldn't be a big deal to drive back through Tsetserleg and drop us off.

Now it gets interesting.

With the help of that interpreter who's second language is German, not English, we tell Baatar that we all want to go back to Tsetserleg the next day and then he can continue onto UB.

He says no.

Huh? Isn't his job to drive us where we want to go? Is he not the paid driver?

It's a long and confusing exchange. At one point, Scott takes the itinerary that is being held up as the word of G-d, crumbles it into a tight ball, and throws it angrily away. Sometimes you must show aggression. You go Scott! So very unlike his usual goofy self. I sit back, happy not to the "boss" for this one.

Baatar, the ger owner and the translator are all saying that the road is bad, gone. Baatar is not going that way. But we know this to be bullshit. It hasn't rained in a day and these cars are made for going through water.

We are stunned that Baatar won't fulfill this simple request for us and instead is going to leave us in this place, where the ger owner says it will be 5 days before he can get us a car out. Right! That's 5 days of revenue for him.

There goes Baatar's tip.

While Elin, Isabel, Ken and Gail go on the pre-planned horseback ride, Scott and I decide to hunt down some information about the road to Tsetserleg. We leave the group as they saddle up. We turn our backs on Baatar. Scott is visibly hurt. "Baatar is dead to me."

We walk down the road going from ger to ger. Within an hour we've talked to two tour groups who have come from Tsetserleg and confirm that the road is, indeed, passable. We have also found two possible rides to Tsetserleg for the next day. What is more remarkable is that Scott has used Russian, French and Mongoian to obtain most of this information.

"How do you know French?"

"High school."

"You remember your high school French?"

"Yep."

"Freak."

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We have arranged a ride with some very nice local people who have a sleak, black 4 wheel drive van. Gana and Gana have agreed to take us the 7 hours to Tsetserleg for a mere $110. Yes, we have paid Baatar for the two days it takes to drive back to UB and we're still paying $110 to go the same way.

The Ganas are 2 hours late in picking us up. We drive 5 minutes and then they stop the car and all go into what we think is a restaurant.

"Have they just gone in for breakfast and left us in the car?"

This does not look good.

In Tariat, the town that marks the beginning of the lake and park area, the Ganas put us in another van (one that is not nearly as nice) with 2 more people who are paying $20 a piece. These people are now making $150 to drive us 7 hours. We are furious. I'm ready to sit on the side of the road. I won't do it. I won't go. I'll sit here all night. But the 2 others (Howie and Kathy - a lovely American couple) are arguing the other side. "It's only $5. Let's just go." Howie isn't feeling well. Their fate is now dependent upon us. What can you do? We pay. I feel violated. We vow not to mention it ever again.

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Finally in Tsetserleg, we get rooms at the hotel next door to the Fairfield Cafe and the only espresso machine in all of the Arhangai province. We haven't had real beds in weeks. Visions of soft pillows and warm lattes fill my thought bubbles.

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At over 12 pages, this should be enough to keep you busy for a while. Stay tuned for more adventures in Tsetserleg and beyond including fire, flood, and fairy tales.

(Is this one too long and boring. I really want some editorial feedback. Don't be shy. Mom, Dad - Do you even read this?)

Part 15 - Huang Shan to Beijing, China

2006-06-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/1698767

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May 25 - June 11, 2006
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GETTING THERE

The first leg of my two day train journey is 20 hours: midnight to 8pm. I have a lower berth, meaning I can sit up in bed. This is not the case with the middle and upper berths. The aisle does have some fold-down chairs, and I stretch and smoke in the areas between cars.

I arrive in Yingtan (Jiangxi Province) to a downpour. It's a transit junction and so small that there's barely a mention of it in The Book. I let a tout take me to a hotel because she has an umbrella, she says we can walk from here, and she is a she. Not surprisingly, it's a seedy place with peeling paint, moldy walls and a toilet that necessitates thick-soled shoes.

They hand me the Chinese check-in form and are confused when I tell them "I can't read Chinese. I don't understand." Well ain't this a wrench in the works. I don't think they've ever filled out this form for a foreigner. More likely, I don't think this hotel is authorized to take foreigners and they don't know how to accurately lie.

I pick up my bags and go two doors down to an identical seedy hotel where they have figured out how to lie to the government.

The owner comes to warn me about not keeping my things near the window as the screen is ripped, all the while staring at my after-shower, bra-less chest. I cross my arms indignantly and give him an acrimonious eye. Men! Yuck!

It's still raining the next morning when I taxi to the bus station. The streets are flooded. People are pushing bicycles and scooters through knee-high pools where the roads dip. I am relieved to see that the roads outside the city are fine. The way they drive in perfect conditions is already hazard enough.

Three hours later in Jingdezhen, I switch back to a train. In the ticket line, a man in military dress helps me buy my ticket to Tunxi (Anhui Provnice) and waits with me in the lounge. He then carries my pack onto the train, puts it in the overhead and when we reach our destination, he carries it outside and finds me a share taxi to Tangkou. He asks if I have a friend here. (This is all going on in Chinese). No one here really understands that someone, let alone a woman, will or can travel on their own. "No friend. I am one person. I go Huang Shan. I go Shanghai. I go Beijing. It's okay. Thank you."

I HATE HUANG SHAN

Huang Shan is one of the most famous mountains in China, consisting of 72 peaks, the highest reaching 1800 meters. Rich tourists stay at expensive hotels near the summit and rise early morning to get the best views of the mountain tops poking out of the quilty clouds.

I take a cheap hotel room in Tangkou (the gateway town to Huang Shan) because it has a western toilet, en suite!

The fact that it's Saturday has escaped me. When you travel, everyday is Saturday. But Saturday at a famous Chinese tourist attraction is not a good thing. The parking lot is full of buses. The Chinese people get off the bus and race each other to the bathroom. I am not kidding. These woman are running to get ahead of all the other woman on their bus. It's like the bell for recess has just sounded and they want to be first on the swings.

At the ticket booth am I floored, shocked, outraged at the entrance price. My guide book is a bit old, yes, but a 100% increase seems exorbitant. TWO HUNDRED YUAN. That's $25. What does this place think it is? Disneyland? There are no rides here. There are no chocolate covered bananas. No one is dressed up in funny costumes. Well...that's debatable.

I have come all this way. What am I going to do? Turn around? I am not in a good mood.

I start up the cement steps of the eastern route. I try to keep up my pace so that the Chinese crowd behind me doesn't catch up. Soon enough I run up against the Chinese group in front of me and the 3 hour ascent becomes a steady, unceasing line of people.

At one point an American-Chinese girl is crying and yelling at her boyfriend in English. "Some people aren't meant to do this type of thing you fatty." She's crying about climbing stairs and calling HIM fat. The guy looks at me knowing that I'm the only person within earshot that has understood the petulant little bitch. What a fun day for them both.

The summit is windy. The sky is an unhealthy white, diminishing what would otherwise be a striking, dramatic panorama. What a fun day for me!

The western route is another 4 hours down. Restaurants and souviner shops are on paved terraces that are junctions to other mountain paths. However, my goal now is to get out. On stretches where the stairs are wider than four buttocks, I hop by high-heels, push past people with canes, excuse my way through friends walking 3 abreast. The narrow passages are traffic jams. Analogous to their driving habits, individuals will walk in the oncoming traffic's lane because, well, they are simply more important that the rest of us. They refuse to see the problems it causes for everyone left in their selfish wake.

By the time I reach the bottom my legs are mush, jello, instant noodles. I am exhausted and pissed off. Today sucked. Huang Shan sucks. Mountain stairways suck. Chinese tour groups suck.

Pave it. Rail it. Charge an entrance fee.

I hate Huang Shan!

I HATE NANJING

"The Rape of Nanking" by Iris Chang, is a must read. It is a poignant and harrowing telling of the Japanese invasion of China and the brutal massacre of nearly 400,000 Chinese in a matter of months. (The author, a Bay Area resident, killed herself in late 2004.)

This is the reason I want to come to Nanjing. I am expecting some big emotional journey into China's past; a glimpse into what many call the Asian Holocaust. What I get instead is a closed museum.

Whether or not I know the exact day of the week is besides the point. I know that museums are often closed on Mondays, but The Book says the Massacre Museum is open every day.

Why don't I stay one more day? I don't know. The foreign student dormatory is expensive. My tolerance for being stared at is waning. I am in need of a big city where I can get lost, where there will be other foreigners drinking beer at some cool hostel . Besides the Sun Yatsen Memorial, this town isn't anything special. It's big and dirty without much character. They sky is hazy white. You're average Chinese city. I need to move on.

But while I'm here...

CCTV 9 is the one English TV station in all of China and it's usually only available in larger cities. I spend the two evenings in my expensive room, watching "isn't China great" news and various talk shows.

Some of my favorite shows are:

Culture Express: Hosted by Ji Xiaojun, a suave guy with a deep voice. His hands alternate between neatly folded in front of him or straight out in front as if he's directing aircraft. Check him out at:
http://www.cctv.com/program/cultureexpress/20040715/101795.shtml. This show focuses on aspects of national entertainment, the arts and history: the history of jade, calligraphy, an all-girl band playing modern music on ancient instruments.

Getaway: A travel show hosted by a beefy African-American man who speaks great Chinese. They never show a map or spell the name of the place they're talking about. I usually spend the 1/2 hour looking through my guide book trying to figure out where they're talking about.

Up Close: Hosted by Eyee Hsu, a Chinese-American and Berkeley grad. http://www.cctv.com/program/UpClose/20050321/100283.shtml . This is a talk show with guests like American architect, Benjamin Wood, who designed the new Xin Tian Di entertainment and dining area in Shanghai. The show trys to get the audience involved by asking questions and having them write their answers on individual whiteboards. (On another show, at least one audience member thought that you could contract AIDS through kissing.)

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Waiting for my train to Shanghai, I sit in front of the train station. It's a huge public square, as are most areas in front of Chinese train stations. People come and sit next to me and look over my shoulder at what I'm reading. It's not like they can understand it. They just want to take a look at what the white person is doing. Sometimes, they'll stand 3 feet in front of me and stare. A father is trying to get his toddler to come stand next to me so he can take a picture. Not that he's asking me if this is alright.

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SHANGHAI - NOT BAD

I have now been travling for 8 months (not including my 2 month stint at home) and I have never, not once, made a reservation. I arrive at a youth hostel that has been recommended by a fellow traveler and am dumbfounded when they tell me they are full. "What do you mean FULL? What is this FULL?"

In a small town, this isn't a problem. You walk down the street to the next place. But in a city, this can present somewhat of a larger problem. I'm not about to wander the streets of Shanghai at 5pm with my full pack hoping to come across a youth hostel.

What to do? What to do? (My guide book, by the way, has very few budget options and has proven unreliable in the accomodation sphere. 　My feelings of resentment towards this outdated paperweight have, in fact, been increasing steadily for some time.)

But wait! I hear there's this thing called The Internet and it has all sorts of usefull information. We'll give that a go.

Five minutes in a taxi and I am checking into the Hiker Youth Hostel, where I've made a reservation by phone not 10 minutes prior.

I'm in culture shock. I haven't been around this many foreigners for weeks. I don't even know what to say to these strange creatures. I slink into the corner of the TV room and watch Friends for 5 hours. (Someone has just purchased a pirated version of the entire series on DVD.) Go Team Aniston!

It takes me another day or so before I feel comfortable enough with the natives to make contact. They seem harmless enough, but you never know what lurks beneath the veneer of beer, pool and small-talk. I approach with caution.

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It's good to know the the US has once again staffed their international embassies with knowledgeable, competent people. I pay a visit my country on the 8th floor of a department store. Where else would US Citizen Services be in China?

"I'm going to Mongolia. Do I need a visa ahead of time or is it visa on arrival? I ask.

"You need to get a visa from the Mongolian Consulate."

"Are you sure? Because I read online that this was no longer necessary. I just wanted to double check with you."

The helpful staff person returns 5 minutes laters with a print out from the Internet.

"You're right. Americans no longer need visas for Mongolia."

"Well. I'm glad I came down here to help you do your job."

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Shanghai, on the whole, is an okay place. Public transportation is fairly extensive. It's a good city for walking and maintains a certain charm and character that is...well...un-Chinese.

Here, I am a true tourist and my favorite attraction is the ultra-cheesy Bund Tourist Tunnel. This tube connects The Bund (The riverside walkway where you view all the modern buildings on the opposite side.) on the west side of Huangpu River with the Pudong Area to the east. The mode of transportation isn't a regular train car. Disneyland's People Mover comes to mind but it's been so long since I've been to Disneyland, I don't know if this is an accurate parallel. It's a plastic and glass box on tracks. As you inch through the tube, a recorded voice will say something like "Rain and Thunder" and then the walls will be lit with blue and white neon lights with accompanying sound effects. In the next section, seperated by a drape, the voice will say "Flying Lights" and you will be treated to what some lighting expert thinks is the visual and aural equivalent. Another section of the tunnel has inflated cartoon-like characters. I have yet to figure out the connection with the light show. This $5 round trip takes perhaps 45 seconds each way. Definitely worth it.

While I resent paying high prices to look at ruins, temples, and paved mountain paths, I love doling it out to go to the top of very very high things: The Eiffel Tower, The World Trade Center (Am I allowed to bring that up anymore?), many a church spire in Europe, Taipei 101.

The Oriental Pearl TV Tower is that funky looking structure with the orbs. At 468 meters high (1,536 feet), it is the world's third tallest TV and radio tower. Toronto and Moscow are #1 and #2. I pay my 100 yuan ($12.50) and take the ear-popping, high-speed elevators to the top. Of course, this is Asia. Not only is the horizon masked in brown haze, buildings across the street are out of focus.

I take the tourist tunnel back to The Bund. The sun has set and the city lights that characterize the Shanghai skyline are ablaze . I'm in Shanghai. Not bad at all.

SUZHOU

Suzhou is about an hour and a half north of Shanghai and is labeled "The Venice" (Italy, not California) of China. With canals and traditional Chinese gardens, it is said to be a worthwhile visit.

I am with a girl I met at my youth hostel. She's flying from place to place in China, hitting all the big spots in a matter of weeks. She doesn't speak a word of Chinese. "Ask them what time the train returns. Ask them if we can buy a round trip now. Ask them if we can stand up on the train. Ask them how often the buses run." How would she ever manage to do this on her own? I am trying to get us tickets to Suzhou and back so that she can catch her 5pm overnight bus to Beijing, but it's Saturday and tickets are hard to come by. We can take a bus there and getting a return train ticket later shouldn't be a problem. So we are told. Even so, we have about 2 hours to see everything.

Venice? I don't think so. The canals are confined by dirty, white, cement walls. The water is brown and uninviting. And besides the few streets that remain designated for tourism, the remainder of the city is modern and nondescript.

All Chinese gardens look exactly the same: cobbled walkways, ponds, small wooden bridges, well-groomed tress and shrubs, gazebos. It is truly lovely and if it weren't Saturday in China, it could be a place of great tranquility. Nevertheless, I am not paying 70 yuan to see a garden that looks exactly like the garden I just paid 70 yuan to see.

I wait outside the second garden, sip a Sprite, sit on a fake Chinese rock and watch the tour groups take their tour group photographs in front of the garden entrance.

Of course, Dory gets lost in the garden and we miss our train back to Shanghai. (I never think it's a good idea to venture far off on a big travel day, but I keep my mouth shut. This is her deal.) She's crying in the ticket line while I try to convey the importance of us getting to Shanghai right away. I fail miserably. But a generous, and more importantly, English speaking young man comes to our rescue. He explains our situation to the ticket taker. No go. He walks us to the bus station and explains our situation to this ticket taker. The earliest we can get on a bus is 3:45 which would, most likely, put us in Shanghai about 15 minutes after Dory's bus leaves for Beijing. Dory is still crying. "Let's just take the bus. If you're late, you're late. You buy a ticket for the next day. It's only money. This is not the worst thing that could happen."

Dory gets lucky. The bus ride is fast and she makes it 5 minutes before the bus leaves. She tells me the hostel she's staying at in Beijing, knowing that I'm heading that way in the next day or so. Now I know which hostel to avoid.

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TOILETS

I say that if a country has good roads, it should have good toilets. Sadly, this is not the case in China. Roads help make money. Toilets don't.

Normal places like guest houses and restaurants usually have squat toilets. Places that cater to westerners will have western toilets. We've been through this before. What I haven't mentioned are public toilets, roadside toilets and even some toilets in hotels that cater only to Chinese.

The Trough Toilet - A trough runs parrallel to the wall. Waist-high walls act as stall seperators. There are no doors. You crouch across the trough with one side on your body next to the back wall. Would should happen with the trough toilet is that water flows from one end of the room to the other, taking away the refuse. There is no individual flushing mechanism. What actually happens is that crap sits there because someone is too cheap to have the water running. Even when water is running, most often there isn't enough force to move anything. What to do when you're in a situation like this? Hold your breath and don't look down!

Public Squat Toilets - On my drive from Shanghai to Beijing I walk into the "bathroom" and find 4 woman squating side by side. No stall seperators. No doors. One woman is changing her sanitary napkin. She leaves the old one on the floor. This is no place to be shy. Nor is it a place to loose your balance.

Even if a squat toilet is clean, it will still stink. All squat toilets stink. Western toilets don't. I have no idea why. While some people say that squat toilets are more sanitary because you don't have any part of your body touching it, I say, "Yes, but no one ever misses when using a western toilet."

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BEIJING

Ever since entering China, a popular topic of traveler conversation has been the various changes going on in Beijing due to the upcoming Olympics. Beijing locals refer to this as, "Er Ling Ling Ba." That's "Two, Zero, Zero, Eight."

It is now illegal to spit in Beijing. I haven't seen this enforced, but there is less spitting here than in rural places. People rarely spit on the floor of overnight buses going to or coming from Beijing.

It is now illegal to smoke in hospitals. It took the eyes of the world to focus on Beijing for these people to realize that maybe cancer causing behavior should be avoided in places where people are trying to heal.

Wearing your pajamas in public is being discouraged.

A coal burning plant near Beijing has recently been shut down as one part of an on-going effort to decrease the air pollution.

By making these reforms, the government is admitting that the habits of the Chinese people are unacceptable and sub-standard compared to the western world.

Other intesesting facts:

Dust storms have been common this spring. These storms coat the city and make it hard to breath. Beijing is blaming Mongolia. Isn't that cute. Blaming a country for wind.

For the two week duration of the Olympics, local residents will not be allowed to drive. It will all be taxis and buses, at least in Central Beijing. Imagine anyone telling an LA resident that they can't drive for 2 weeks.

I will watch with great curiosity to see how Beijing handles the influx of people and pressure. My guess is that they'll try to keep visitors as far away from locals as possible. But do these people want to see the real Beijing? It's doubtful. You want real? Go to a local internet cafe where the guy on your right is smoking , hacking up some flem, playing video games while the guy on your left is smoking, loudly slurping down some instant noodles and looking at porn. This is China.

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Have I talked about my compass before? I would say that a compass is one of the best travel tools one could possibly have. It is best utilized, not in the mountains as you might think, but in the city. In Nanjing, a hotel tout tried to take me to a hotel she said was south of the train station (according to my map). But when we left the train station, she starts walking north. Thanks to the compass, I know this isn't the way I want to go, and I leave her behind.

In Beijing, I find myself on the map and walk west, in the direction of the main street and the center of town. Never take a taxi that's waiting inside the station. They refuse to use the meter and will try to take advantage of your inexperience in a new city. My taxi ride to Leo Hostel was less than half the price quoted inside the bus station.

Leo Hostel is another happening spot. (Dory is at the Red Lantern, all the way across town.) Here, they organize tours to various sections of The Wall, Chinese Opera and Acrobatic Shows, tickets to Mongolia, and provide free movies and cheap beer.

The Great Wall of China

I immediately sign up for a tour to the "Secret Wall". Only available at Leo Hostel, a group of 10 is taken 2 1/2 hours outside the city to an area where The Wall is in it's original state. Vegetation grows wildly on the foot path and stones are loose, missing or piled haphazardly. There are no safety railings and often the side walls are completely missing.

It's a 30 minute walk up a hillside before you reach the ruins. In our group is a rather large girl (and it's not me!) who is having difficulty getting up the hill. She needs to stop every 10 feet and wait several minutes to catch her breath. She has only brought one small bottle of water for a 3 hour hike. I have 3 liters. I am surprised that she doesn't know that hiking The Wall is a strenuous activity and that no one at the guest house mentioned that to her. I'm the only person that waits with her. I don't know why I do this. You can leave her alone.

It's been well over an hour when we reach the top and the rest of the group is waiting. No one is happy about this situation. But the walking is easier now. A little up. A little down. And everyone wants to stop to take pictures.

The whole thing takes maybe 4 hours with frequent stops. Far too many for my taste. The sky matches the color of the stones, which match the color of my outfit. Everything blends together. The pictures are crap. But it's a nice day out. There isn't one souviner vendor in sight. Nor are there any buses or megaphones or high heels.

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The Milk Fiasco

I have been craving milk for weeks now. I don't usually drink milk at all. Maybe a little cream cheese or some cream in my coffee. But if I'm craving it my body must be telling me something. This is not the first time I've tried to buy milk but it's never worked out. Here's why...

(In case you might have forgotten, bold and italics means Chinese is being spoken.)

"I want milk. I don't want apple milk. I don't want watermelon milk. I don't want fruit juice milk. I want MILK. Do you have?"

"Yes, I have."

I buy it, crack the bottle, take one taste and start yelling at the woman.

"This is not milk! It has fruit juice. It has sugar. You are a stupid egg."

I leave the open bottle and walk off in a huff.

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The Travel Lull

I have hit a travel lull. This is my term. If you hear anyone else use it, know that it came from me. A travel lull is an affliction affecting long term travelers where it is impossible to keep up a high level of energy and excitement about everything and everyplace. In normal life, some may call this a rutt. However, you can easily put an end to a travel lull by going to a place that is different (in feel or culture rather than geography) than the places you've been or by drastically changing the types of activities in which you've been partaking. I have been in China for almost 2 months, it is stinking hot in Beijing, it takes forever to get anywhere in this city and I don't feel like doing anything.

I sleep late, have coffee and read, check email, have breakfast, read, maybe watch a chick flick (which is only possible to do early in the day when all the boys are out), take a nap. Oh, and I'm drinking with 20-somethings and watching the World Cup with a bunch of Brits who care about the game. Kill me now.

Understandably, I feel a strong sense of obligation to see all the major sights. It's a tacit tourist contract that must be fulfilled. Failing to do so would deem me an incomplete person, creating a cultural blackhole in my otherwise voluminous itinerary.

Tiananmen Square - It take me 1/2 hour to figure out how to cross the street. As the American architect, Benjamin Wood, said, "Beijing is ruled by cars." The enormity of this cement field is powerful. As a westerner, I can't get that image out of my head. You know the one. I wonder about the Chinese's love of Mao. He remains a hero. (Another great book on China is "Wild Swans" by Jung Chang. As far as I know this book has not been translated into Chinese. And while many westerners know if it, most Chinese have never heard of it. I did see it in a English book store in Beijing. Ms. Chang is not well liked in China.)

Chinese Acrobats - This is cool. Certain parts are what I imagine Chinese gay porn would look like. (Go look at the pictures.)

Summer Palace - It's an hour and a half bus ride out here. Beautiful but...pave it, rail it, charge an entrance fee. Half the buildings are under construction in preparation for 2008.

If fact, most of Beijing is under construction. (Make that most of China.) Look in any direction in Beijing and you will, without fail, see at least 5 cranes assiduously poking at the firmament.

Forbidden City - It's nearly 3pm when I force myself to leave the hostel. Walking towards the entrance a local woman says "hello". I give her a curt "No!" "I just want to practice English," she tells me. "Yeah. Right." I don't even slow my pace. For all I know, it's her job to distract me while her friend takes a razor blade to my back pocket. More likely, she wants to sell me something.

Also called The Palace Museum, the Forbidden City is the largest and best-preserved collection of ancient buildings in China, probably because this is where Mao lived curing the Cultural Revolution. And yes, it's big. This seems to be the primary feature of China's attractions. It's concrete (the secondary feature). Unfortunately, I don't find the architecture that interesting or different from any other old Chinese building. There are no trees. No green whatsoever. Again, half the buildings are under contruction. Pave it, rail it, charge an entrance fee.

Mind you, my profuse negativity comes from the fact that I am in the middle of a travel lull. Not much you can do short of leave town.

What a grand idea. Not only will I leave town. I'll leave the country..........

Part 14 - Guizhou and Guangxi Provinces, China

2006-05-24T00:01:00.000-07:00

http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/1698883

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May 10 - 24, 2006
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KAILI

"Come to Kaili," Andy says. "This is real China." Here, there are no tourists, nothing remotely western. Everyone slows their pace to stare. It's gray and drizzly. The buildings are ugly. The streets are dark. The tiles used to pave the sidewalks are loose and spit up water when you step on them, covering your ankles in black, grimy soot. Oh yeah! Come to Kaili!

I find my way to the only hotel in town that officially accepts foreigners. (It used to be that there were no budget options for foreigners. Cheap dorms are saved for locals and foreigners paid western prices. This is no longer the case. In most towns, there is no distinction, but in non-tourist towns like Kaili the budget option for the foreigner is no where as nice - and I use the word loosely - as the budget option for the local.) This hotel is damp and dank. The uni-sex toilet room has three doorless stalls. The shower room is the same. Not a lot of thought went into this plan. There are 5 beds in the room but I am the only guest. Yes, it is a little scary. But the two female attendants at the end of the hall make it less so.

Andy knows when I'm coming in, so I sit in the lobby and wait. When he arrives, we hug like we've know each other for years. After spending 1 week together on the road, we are now old friends. Someone who knows me: a rarity on the rugged road of travel.

Andy shows me around town. "Where's the Starbucks?" Yeah, funny. In places like this, Chinese people will pull some stools out on the sidewalk and sit there for the evening. This is their "let's meet for coffee and chat."

The most interesting part of Kaili is the market street, which is in full force on Sundays. Today we can enjoy a nice leisurely pace (a difficult thing for Andy) and impromptu stops to look at K-mart type wares, haircuts being preformed in closets, even someone in the dentist chair. Here, the old brick and wood 2-story buildings, while dilapidated and dirty, are preferable to 20-story tiled, block towers.

I buy some french fries which have been ruined by too much oil and chili sauce.

--------------

"Hey, there's another foreigner. Should we say hi?"

"Naw. He's probably your roommate. You'll see him later." (I met Avi later that evening in my room.)

----------------

Andy is staying at a local hotel.

"How did you find this place?" I ask.

"Uh, it just looked like a hotel so I walked in."

I move in as well my second day in town. For the same price, I've now got my own room and a TV. The bathroom is still down the hall. And I'm still locking the door even though there are two squat toilets.

All the girls that work at this hotel smile at Andy each time he comes in. They barely see me at all.

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Andy knows some local people and has agreed to help them with their English school for a month. A white face does a lot to promote an English language school. I meet Kai and his live-in girlfriend, Ming Mei one evening at their home. Kai's son and parents also live in 2-bedroom apartment. His son doesn't speak a word of English.

His apartment, like many Chinese homes, is completely utilitarian. Because the common room doubles for a classroom, there are desks and a whiteboard. There is NOT one family picture in view, nothing adorns the walls, not a plant, not a flower. Stacks of books and clothes are everywhere.

They invite me to stay for dinner while Andy goes to another location to teach a class. Great. How lovely. Ming Mei goes out for ingredients and never comes back. I wait for an hour and a half. I'm getting hungry. All this time Kai's sitting in front of the computer, looking at his stocks and chain smoking. (I'm still a non-smoker at this point.)

You cannot realize how hard it is to get out of a situation like this? Independence is unheard of. No one is allowed to be an individual. How will I ever tell this man that I'm just going to leave and find something to eat. Looks like I don't have to. He gets hungry as well and brings out some leftovers from the kitchen. Nothing looks like something I want to put in my mouth. I eat my rice, take a few bites of whatever that stuff is and tell him I'm full. Couldn't eat another bite. No siree.

On the way back to my hotel, I buy strawberries and yangmei. I don't know the English word for this berry. We don't have them in the US. It a mix between a cherry and a blackberry, the pit being the cherry part and the color and taste being the blackberry part. I eat strawberries and yangmei until I get the runs.

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MIAO MINORITY WEDDING PARTY

Ming Mei's cousin is getting married. She has been asked to video tape the bride's family dinner which occurs the night before the actual wedding. And what a nice tradition this is; A night with your own family before you move out of the only home you've ever known and become a part of his family where you must take on the role of the loving and subservient daughter-in-law. This is going to be the most fun she'll have for the rest of her life.

Andy, Ming Mei, 2 of Andy's English students and I take a 2 hour bus ride north to small town of Huang Ping.

The 2 English students, John and Jackie, have the worst English I've ever heard from people who think they can speak English at all. They are barely intelligable and it is torture trying to piece together their mutilated pronunciation. But they are very sweet, which I say mainly so that I don't come off as a complete bitch. And yet, they've got nothing better to do than spend their weekend in some run-down little town going to the wedding dinner of someone they've never met. Humm? (Ok, that non-bitchy thing didn't really work out here.) More interestingly, 4 strangers (Andy, John, Jackie and myself) are welcomed last minute guests. AND...The bride has only thought of video-taping the event two days ahead of time.

Wisecracks aside, this day is the most authentic of all my days in China.

We first gather at the bride's home. Before you can enter the home, you must drink some type of alcohol out of what seems to be two shofars. Cool. Inside, the dining room table is ample with snack food. I'm not talking chicken satay or crab cakes. This is Costco-style, individually wrapped cookies and crackers.

One man is lighting candles under what looks like a shrine to the ancestors or to the spirits, for luck either way. I guess the ancestors like imitation Oreos.

The procession down to the restaurant elicits the usual stares, but this time it's not me and Andy. The bride and her bridesmaids are in full Miao traditional dress. Silver flowers are attached to springy stems, creating a moving orb. Heavy necklaces are draped around the neck and shoulders. A think belt and bracelets add to the constant jingle. The accessories almost completely cover a traditional skirt and wrap-around top. (Go look at the pictures.)

At the restaurant, 150 family members and friends sit around 10 circular tables. Cigarettes and beer are the first coarse. One man asks if anyone wants the cigarettes and then immediately pockets them. Same with the beer. Because everyone must present a "red envelope" upon entrance, they all feel entitled to take whatever they want for themselves, as they've already paid for it. At the end of the meal, everyone is tying up the leftovers in plastic bits they're ripped off the table cloth.

The Red Envelope - when you go to a Chinese wedding, you don't bring a gift. You bring a red envelope full of cash. There is someone at the door who takes your red envelope, opens it, counts the money and makes note of it. Andy and I each gave 50 yuan ($5.50), an appropriate amount for someone who doesn't know the bride, keeping in mind standard of living, etc.

Dishes of food are piled on the table, one atop the next. Everything is pork. All the pork parts, right here. I'm pretty sure I ate pig intestine, but usually I am one of those people that think the travel experience is not enhanced in the least by eating freaky and/or exotic things. Really, is pig intestine so exotic? Watching them eat it is enough for me. But there are plenty of tasty dishes to be had. I make a neat little pile of bones and gristle next to my plate. Everyone else is tossing their waste on the floor. I'm not even gonna talk about the state of the floor...or the kitchen. Some things are best left alone.

Initially, the family keeps their distance from me and Andy. But after dinner and a few beers they warm up to us. Unfortunately, I don't understand their Chinese and they think my Chinese is English. But we manage to bond over photographs and children.

We're back at the bride's home and she has taken off her ensemble. She brings me into the bedroom and helps me into the outfit. The head dress is not comfortable. It's a perfect circle, which few heads are. There is a cushions under-hat, but this little comfort item seems to have been forgotten. When I come out of the room the old ladies are all smiles and cheers. I twirl around like a trained monkey. It's so unlike me being the center of attention. But for one evening I can play the part of the friendly American and enjoy it.

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It's my last day in Kaili and the sky is unchanged. Maybe this place isn't as depressing when the sun is shining. Some of Andy's students are joining us for lunch. Of the four of them, no one knows where to go. No one can make a decision. No one takes charge. We just stand on the street corner doing nothing. This is their home town, and they can't think of one place to eat lunch. Andy suggests the same place they went last time. Done. The hotpot restaurant is at the mall. Of course it is. After the meal, everyone argues about who will pay. I'll let the men duke this one out for themselves.

When Andy suggest we take a walk to the park, they all reply, "What park?" They've lived here there whole lives, and it's a small place, and they don't know where the park is. Granted, the park is the size of my mother's backyard, but it has a nice view of the city and there are trees. That's something. These are nice people, but I get the impression that their lives aren't, say, well-rounded. I think English class is the most stimulating thing they do and that they presume knowing English will be a ticket to a more interesting life. Otherwise, it's work, the Internet and TV. Of course this is a huge generalization. There are many Chinese with hobbies, friends, social lives. I just don't think they're living in Kaili.

Then again, how diverse is my life, most of our lives when we're working everyday. Humm? The travel life has spoiled me. I push the thought of cubicles and fluorescent lighting out of my head.

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VILLAGE HOPPING - The Backdoor into Guangxi Province.

Andy and I say our farewells for the second time as I begin my week of village hopping.

I haven't been alone now in 2 1/2 weeks. I'm lonely. Ah, here's my old friend, Mr. Nicotine. I lasted 2 weeks. It always works better when there's someone watching me, says the shy, overlooked, middle child. (Oh my g-d! Wrong story!)

Anywho...

Congjiang is a transit town and the first place I've been where not a word of English is spoken or I'm not with someone who speaks Chinese. It is a minor annoyance (enough to drive me back into the arms of Mr. Nic.) but manage to find out what time the bus leaves the next day and get a hotel room for slightly less then they originally quote. For the latter, I think they simply get tired of hearing me repeat "too expensive, too expensive."

The true destination is Zhaoxing. The bus woman in Congjiang says I take one bus to San Loshang and then another to Zhaoxing. On the drive to San Loshang, a kid vomits and, well, that's it. A kid vomits. The bus driver doesn't stop. The mother makes no attempt to clean it up. We all sit there in a vomit smelling bus for 2 hours.

In San Loshang, I am informed that there is no bus to Zhaoxing. Here we go. This is one of those moments. I don't know where I am, how far it is to where I want to go, how I'll get there. Luckily I have Nic and we sit there under a tree and wait for something to change. Something will change. It's mid-day. I have many daylight hours to wait for something to change.

The woman whose shop I'm sitting in front of, brings me a stool to sit on. I point to a tuk-tuk (I have no idea what they're called in this country.) and motion "driver" and say "Where?" She tells me to wait. Alright. This is fine. No crying today.

This man in a van could be a taxi driver. He bargains like one. He'll take me to Zhaoxing. But if he's a taxi driver, he's doubled the price on me, at least. My counter-offer is half and I stay still. I'm in no hurry. I'll sit here and wait for the tuk-tuk driver.

"Guy with van" takes me the TEN MINUTES to Zhaoxing. That's right. Ten minutes. I paid too much.

Zhaoxing is a beautiful Dong minority village sitting in a small valley and surrounded by terraced rice fields. Nothing much happens here. I take walks. I play with the hotel owner's kid. I sit in a cafe and drink coffee. Though it's a tourist stop, there are few tourists, and the people are used to foreign faces. They leave me alone. If anything, I feel as if I'm intruding on them.

The people here are small. I'm in Munchkinland. Many of the older people are horribly bent over or bow legged from I lifetime of farming I assume. The women wear their long hair brushed up into buns on the very top of their heads and held in place with elaborate combs, which they persist in trying to sell me.

If a large enough tour group is in town, traditional song and dance is performed at one of the 6 drum towers. Nothing about the songs are Chinese. Their sound is distinct. The harmonies are sharp and clear. There is humor in the story-telling. There is romance. It is a charming performance, made more so by the local children who sing along and the grandparents who encourage them to do so.

Zhaoxing will remain one of my favorite places in China.

Chengyang Qiao is home to one of the largest "Rain and Wind" bridges in China and probably the world but I don't know about that. (I didn't even know there was such a thing as a "Wind and Rain" bridge. But there is. As far as I can tell, it's characterized by a roof.) At 78 meters long, it look locals 12 years to build.

This is a 24 hour stop and nothing much happens. I walk around and look at more rice fields. I cross some bridges. I'm the only guest at the guest house, which is this tilted wooden structure overlooking a large stream and water wheel. It's quiet and pleasant.

PING AN (The Dazai Debacle)

Today's bus adventure involves an infant pooping in his mother's lap. They don't use daipers here so the mother is trying to hold a cloth under this kid's ass to minimize the amount of shit already on her pants. These are the people sitting next to me. Yay.

The Dragon Back Rice Terraces of Ping An, Guangxi Province are considered an engineering feat and a scenic wonder as they climb the 800 meter mountain, just like a dragon's back!

From the parking lot, it's a good 20 minute walk up the steps to the first guest house. But this place is about the view. No one stays at that first guest house. Chinese tourists hire locals to carry their suitcases and often themselves to over-priced hotels that are always at the top of the hill. Skinny, dark men carry old, umbrella-shaded women in bamboo sedan chairs. Mao said that people shouldn't carry people. And yet, while the people of China love Chairman Mao, most of his edicts have faded into evanescence.

I find a great room which the owner gives me for $5 if I promise not to tell anyone else.

There are great hikes to do this area and I'm sure I can spend a couple days here wandering through the terraces. I tell the hotel owner that I'm walking to Dazai, a town 4 hours north east. I can take the bus back on the main road and be back by dinner. He tells me that when I get to Zhonglu, the halfway point, ask locals the way to Dazai. Okay. No problem. I can ask locals.

The walk to Zhonglu is gorgeous. The terraces, while spring brown, cover every inch of incline. There is not one square foot of un-utilized land. I follow steps or balance on the rims of rice plots, up and down the hills until the tiniest of wooden villages comes into view from across a small valley.

Just as my hotel owner has advised, I ask locals which way to Dazai and obiedently follow their pointed fingers. But something feels off. The hotel owner says it's a flat path for the second 2 hours. The path I'm on seems a bit small and narrowish. Not like a direct path that people might take everyday. But every person I ask keeps pointing me onward.

It's now been much longer than two hours and I've been climbing and descending stairs non-stop. My thighs are shaking but there's no time to rest. The sun is setting. I'm almost out of water. There are numerous forks in the path and each time I need to decide for myself which way I think is best. My compass doesn't help as the paths wind around hillsides and back. I try to use my phrase book to ask locals how much farther to Dazai but I'm not sure of my pronunciation and many of these people can't read. But I am pointed onward. One family asks if I'm alone and give me the thumbs up. Yeah. Good for me. Hiking by myself when I don't know where the hell I'm going.

At this point, I'm congratulating myself for bringing a torch (that's flashlight to all you Yanks). However, one of those thermal blankets would probably be useful in case I need to sleep under a tree. But I over-exaggerate. There are people all over these hills and if things got bad I'm sure someone would let me sleep in their house.

Regardless, I'm slightly freaked out.

It's now dusk and I've come upon a man and woman tending to their rice paddies. I ask them which way to Dazai and the woman asks if I need a place to sleep. "YES." I'm saved. She rinses off her mud-caked feet and legs and brings me back to her home, which just happens to be a hotel as well. There is a small cluster of homes here and one of her friends who we pass along the way gives me another thumbs up for going it alone.

Finally able to relax, I sit on her front steps and her son runs to the local shop to get me a Coke and cigarettes. Today, I deserve both!

I'm playing cards with the neighborhood kids when a couple of well-dressed Chinese pass by. These folks are not farmers. And one of them speaks English. They are staying at a hotel just 5 minutes away. So, it seems that I've hit the edge of Dazai and this woman, my savior, was smart enough to reel in some business that would otherwise have gone to a more established inn. But I can't very well leave now. She did save my life.

The farmer and his wife live in a huge, wooden, 2-story, rectangle house. They and their 5 year old son share a bedroom on the first floor. The kitchen is in the front of the house, looking out onto the walkway. The common area is probably 30 feet by 50 feet but only a small section is used for a few pieces of furniture. There are also two closets: toilet and shower. Out the back door is the livestock.

The second floor are all hotel rooms, one of which is used by a family friend.

I eat dinner with the farmer, his wife, their son and the friend. I recognize a few dishes: tofu, green vegetables, frogs in broth and meat fat. One dish remains a mystery. I look up the word for "vegetarian" so that I don't have to put a whole frog - head and all - into my mouth. I don't think they realize that if I were really a vegetarian I would probably already know how to say it in Chinese.

The farmer offers me jiu (alcohol). My resual is polite - I hope - as I explain that "I drink, I crazy." But I offer him and his friend cigarettes. One vice is good enough I'd say.

In the morning I wake to intense thigh and calf pain which will last me a good 7 days.

The woman, my savior, overcharges me for everything. Twenty-two yuan for part of a family meal I barely ate? Thirty yuan for a room in an empty hotel! What I took for kindness was business. What I took for hospitality was a scam. I feel used and niave. It's my fault. I didn't ask once how much anything would cost. It's hard to argue after the fact, especially with the woman who saved my life, which is how I prefer to remember her (that dirty, deceptive bitch).

She's now walking me to the bus stop in Dazai and I'm afraid she'll charge me for it. She wants to carry my small pack but I'm afraid she'll charge me for it.

Because of recent landslides on the main road, the regular bus is not currently running. Farmer woman and I get into a truck where 4 other locals are waiting. The driver is off eating breakfast. We sit there for 1/2 hour. When the driver returns, he takes us to the first landslide where we all get out and climb over the pile of dirt and rock.

On the other side is a bus, which takes us to the second landslide. Again, we all get out and climb over the dirt and rock, this time also manuvering around the excavator. Farmer woman wants to help me down but I'm afraid she'll charge me for it.

A third bus that is on it's way to town drops me at the bottom of the hill. I sit on the corner and wait for the bus that will take me back up the mountian to Ping An and my beautiful, unused hotel room.

The owner sees me when I walk in. I'm don't have the energy to yell at him for not telling me to hire a guide. He asks me if I slept in my room and I told him I slept in Dazai. "I am not happy." I'm certain I don't look happy. The phone rings and that's as far as his interest goes in my ordeal.

Looking back, I'm still not sure if this was a wonderfully genuine experience or a series of events caused by incompetant and uncaring people. Buddha would say not to attach good or bad to it. My reaction is what makes it good or bad. It is what it is. And what it is is a pretty good story. Years from now, I'll be saying "There was that time I got lost in the rice terraces and had to tell the locals I was a vegetarian so I didn't have to eat little baby frogs..."

YANGSHUO

Today's bus adventure is yin and yang. My attendant on my first bus of the day was unnecessarily rude. The attendant on the second bus made up for it by walking me across the bus station, waiting in the ticket line with me, ordering me my ticket and then walking me to the correct bus. (The attendant on the third bus didn't do anything.)

Yangshuo is one of those places visited if you are on a package tour. I am back in the land of the suitcase brigade, the tour guide flag and the matching outfits. Home to some distinct and strinking scenery, it is one of the most visited places in China.

The main street, Xi Jie (West Street), is like Kao San Road or Haight Street or the 3rd Street Promenade. The rest of town looks like any other dirty, hardware on the sidewalk, trash in the street, dead animals in the window, block-structured, Chinese town. But beyond that are the bizarre karst peaks that characterize the area.

Let's define KARST: An area of irregular limestone in which erosion has produced fissures, sinkholes, underground streams, and caverns.

What you see from above ground has been compared to a Dr. Suess storybook: The Lorax or Green Eggs and Ham. They are Conehead protrusions layering the skyline.

It's a 45 minute bike ride to Moon Mountain where you can climb to the top of this arched peak. I have never seen anything like this. From the summit, I feel as if I'm looking at a picture. It is unreal. Completely Dr. Suess.

I continue my bike ride east down a dirt road that is supposed to hook up with the main road back to town. After riding for hours, I wonder if I've gone the right way. Not again. How do I keep doing this to myself. But there are people around so I'm not that worried. And for some reason I can't bring myself to turn back. I'll just see what's around this corner, and then the next, and the next. There are no tourists here and the landscape is enchanting. It's peaceful and green and I'm enjoying the muscle burn. Eventually, I reach paved road.

My map, I later realize, is far from being to scale. Again, I silently curse the guest house for not telling me how long it would take when I showed them my route. Let's perpetuate some Chinese stereotypes...A Chinese person will rarely give you information that you don't directly ask for. They won't make that an iota of extra effort that, in the end, would save you heartache and misery. (I guess there are Americans who behave similarly and I curse them and their descendants as well.)

I hear people talking about the river rafting: bumper to bumper innertubes going downstream. I am not interested. Caves: I've seen caves. The Laser Light Show: Did I hear that correctly? I don't think so.

I talk to few people. I'm bored with small talk. I do have a memorable chat with a young woman who confides in me her disdain for travel flirtation.

"These guys just pretend to like you to get what they want and then the next day they leave."

So different from how men are in normal life! My reply:

"Why are you playing the victim? This is your adventure. They're not leaving. YOU'RE leaving. They are a part of your story. Do what you want. Do what makes you feel good."

"I never thought about it that way," she tells me.

"You can stop hating men now."

I have another fascinating discussion with a couple of guest house employees. They are Christian zealots. I don't know why I bother talking to irrational, illogical fanatics. Nobody's mind will ever be changed. I ask them how they feel about tossing aside their own culture, one that's been around far longer than Christianity. "You are right and 1 billion of your country men, including her family are wrong. You'll go to heaven and everyone you know will go to hell." All answers involve helping others find the way, of letting Jesus into their hearts. I think they are morons. Sweet people, but complete idiots.

A quote on religion:

"One is often told that it is a very wrong thing to attack religion, because religion makes men virtuous. So I am told; I have not noticed it...

You find as you look around the world that every single bit of progress in humane feeling, every improvement in the criminal law, every step toward the diminution of war, every step toward better treatment of the colored races, or every mitigation of slavery, every moral progress that there has been iin the world, has been consistantly opposed by the organized churches of the world...

My own view on religion is that of Lucretius. I regard it as a disease born of fear and as a source of untold misery to the human race. I cannot however, deny that it has made some contributions to civilization. It helped in early days to fix the calendar, and it caused Egyptian priests to chronicle eclipses with such care that in time they became able to predict them. These two services I am prepared to acknowledge, but I do not know of any others."

- Bertrand Russell

So, instead of letting Jesus into my heart, I let Heath Ledger into my rectum. I finally see Brokeback Mountain on the guest house computer. Talk about some wicked man love. I swear I blush.

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I leave Yangshuo with 2 days of travel ahead of me before I reach my next destination. Huang Shan (Yellow Mountain) is 4 provinces, 2 trains, 2 buses and around 1500km away.

Part 13 - Yunnan Province, China

2006-05-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

I have a new photo sharing website: http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/1698975

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April 12 - May 8, 2006
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Look at this road. This road is amazing. I haven't seen a road this great since...well I don't know. But it's been a lone time. I'm in Laos, heading toward the Chinese border, and this is a new, awesome road that will soon connect someplace in China with Chaing Mai in Thailand. I am in love. The smooth black asphalt. The dashed middle yellow line. The solid white road shoulder lines. Road shoulders!

On the bus is a crazy old man who has no papers. At one alleged check point (I'm not really sure why we stopped in the first place) the police handcuff old man, but the other men on the bus somehow manage to talk the handcuffs off. The old man is feigning an ability to speak. I've done this as well and it's gotten me out of more than one Taiwanese traffic ticket.

Nearing the Chinese border, the bus stops and kicks old man to the curb, literally. He's going to have to take to the mountains if his plan is to enter China illegally.

THE BORDER

Sadly, I must recant my statement that all border towns are shit-holes. The crossing between Laos and Yunnan Province, the town of Boten, is clean, planted and well-groomed .

Another disappointment is that there is no huge sign saying "Welcome to China". Chinese aren't into pleasantries. They do emphasize their might by boasting this area as "Frontier Defense". I would take this more seriously if the smiling guard wasn't surrounded by potted flowers.

MENGLA

On the drive to Mengla I am stuck by the largeness of this country. From the moment I cross the border, everything looks bigger here: the sky, the mountains. It is vast and lush. The hillsides are terraced as far as you can see: tea, corn, rubber trees, pineapple.

We arrive in Mengla, a smallish city, in the midst of Water Festival. Everyone shuts the windows as we inch down the main street that is filled with people of all ages wielding hoses, buckets and water guns. The main street is wide and free of rubbish, lined with small, modern shops selling shoes, clothes and cell phones.

Andy walks 10 feet in front of me as usual. This man walks with more purpose than anyone I've ever seen. I walk slowly, laden with backpack and dayback and look pitifully at the celebrants, begging them not to douse me and pointing to my bags and putting my hands in prayer position. I arrive at the hotel unscathed. Andy is drenched. Pity has reigned supreme over purpose. Ha ha.

While Andy knows where to stay and where to eat, since my Chinese is better (never thought I would be able to say that) I am able to contribute. I am not a complete freeloader. We're tying to explain to the hotel clerk that we need to exchange money before we can pay. He's not getting it.

(From this point on, Chinese will be in bold and italics.)

Finally, I say Wait.

OK.

Hey, I did it!

We change our clothes and venture out. Oh, the foreigner target. It's not 5 minutes before we are dripping. The boys think it's funny to shoot at my breasts. So easily amused. I rip the hose from their hands and shoot back. Take that you Commies!

Back at the hotel, the cleaning woman keeps talking to Andy and I in Chinese. I try to tell her that we don't understand, but she just keeps talking. Okay. We smile and nod.

JINGHONG

On the 4 1/2 hour drive to Jinghong along winding roads, we see the new highway being constructed the entire way. Hillsides are being cut away so that the road can be straight. The immensity of the project is typical of Chinese undertakings: The Great Wall, Three Gorges Damn, the train from Golmud to Lhasa. These people are not daunted by the seemingly impossible.

Jinghong is another lovely city. Wide boulevards and sidewalks. The buildings are typical Chinese: cement blocks with tiled fronts.

It's night and I feel safe walking alone. People stare. They smile if I smile first. I walk towards a bridge decorated in neon. The riverside is full of restaurants and dance clubs. From the bridge I can see into an open-air disco. It's like Chinese polka electronica. The dancers run in place or walk back and forth on the dance floor. Fly Girls they are not. As I watch, a boy of maybe 10, comes up and asks for a cigarette.

What? You want this? No, no, no. You are small. This no good.

In the center of town, everyone congregates. Some listen to live music being played on traditional instruments. Others dance to a solo flute player. Toddlers have their heads shaved except for one small tuft in front which is supposed to bring luck. Girls with umbrellas stroll the grounds, the umbrellas signifying that they are for sale. (Andy has to explain these things to me as there are several similar type experiences to which I am not privy. I thought they just like carrying around cute umbrellas on warm, rainless nights.)

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In preparation for my first overnight sleeper bus, I wander around the outdoor market beside the bus station stocking up on steamed buns and fruit. Andy and I are Kunming bound, the capital of Yunnan Province. Everyone removes their shoes on the first step of the bus and puts them in plastic bags. Regardless of this sanitary precaution, people are smoking and spitting on the floor. I'm so glad they made me take off my shoes for this.

The bunks run down along the bus in 3 rows. The berth is just about the width of my ass. At least I won't roll over the edge. I snuggle into my pillow and blanket for tonight's viewing of one of Jackie Chan's early Hong Kong movies. No translation necessary.

The dinner stop is turbo dining. People crowd around the assortment of dishes and everyone screams their request. The lone girl is dishing it out. She doesn't blink. She doesn't waver. Oh G-d. Foreigners. She'll have to stop now so that we can ask moronic questions about each dish. As usual, the bus stop restaurant is a great meal but a bit pricey at $1.50.

Along the way, the bus stops several times. Each time the guy in the adjacent bunk tells me if it's for "eat" or " bathroom". Look at me. Communicating with the locals.

KUNMING

We arrive early morning and I am grumpy.

"How far to the guest house?" I ask Andy.

"Oh, maybe half hour."

"Ok, so that's half hour at the speed YOU walk. I'm taking a taxi."

I'm certainly not going to have a discussion about this with someone I'm not even traveling with. And I won't feel bad about not wanting to walk 3 miles at 6am with 25 pounds on my back.

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This is my first dorm. The moment I've dreaded has arrived: sharing a room with a bunch of strangers. If someone even looks at me while I'm sleeping, I'll wake up and now my sleep is at the mercy of the snorers, the partiers, the early risers. But besides the people that decide to pack all their clothes into plastic bags at 6am instead of doing it the night before, the dorms are much better than expected. It's the best shower I've had in at least 6 weeks.

I go to meals with people I meet in the lobby. I order dinner for everyone in Chinese as well as utilizing some invaluable pointing skills. We want one of that. Two of that. No pork. And steamed rice.

During another ordering wonder (What's that? Ok. Yes.") the woman sitting next to me is holding her dog, smoking a cigarette and then touches every pair of unwrapped chopsticks in a basket looking for the perfect set. And somehow this woman has no clue of the impropriety of touching eating utensils with her dirty hands. Bird Flu, SARS. Are these people not seeing the connection?

Kunming, however, is a charming city. Nicknamed "City of Eternal Spring" and at an elevation of almost 1900 meters, it boasts some of the best weather in the country. The main streets are wide and clean, as are the sidewalks. And are people obeying the traffic laws? Are they actually stopping at red lights and waiting behind the thick white line? What country am I in? I stand at an intersection waiting for the light to change. Something seems off. It only takes a moment before I realize that it is uncharacteristically quiet. All the scooters are electric. No 100cc engines revving. No black soot covering my clothes. Big points for Kunming.

What's more...

People here seem to understand everything I say in Chinese. People in Taiwan don't even understand me. I was under the impression that Chinese people never understand when foreigners speak, and put no effort into deriving the meaning. But so far, people have been warm, helpful, and fully capable of understanding my hacked Chinese.

And as time goes on, my stories of local people going out of their way for me, far out-number tales of outright rudeness. (This, of course, does not include people who push their way in front of me in the queue as that would fall under the category of "normal Chinese behavior that I will never understand.")

It is a dark and stormy night. Really, it is! Because I still carry with me the ridiculous belief that umbrellas are dorky, I am taking shelter under the narrow awning of a brightly lit Motorola store. A man working in the store peeks his head out and beckons me over. He has placed a chair near the door and offers me the seat. Now, if this were America, the store owner would have mumbled something like "No loitering" and gone off to call the cops.

Back at the hostel, Andy compliments a young German girl on how she looks. When she leaves, we continue our debate on how to best pack for travel.

"Wow. She's wearing a real outfit."

I look at him in disbelief. "You see! You like it when the girls look good. But you criticize us for carrying too much stuff."

"Yes, this is all true."

End of debate.

DALI

After 8 days of having a travel buddy and guide, I am about to have my first solo journey. I'm not sure why I'm nervous. You get used to having someone around all the time. And there isn't another non-Asian face as far as the blue eye can see.

It's a 7 hour ride and I'm in a hard seat. The name is misleading as the seats aren't particularly hard. But it is a 90 degree cushioned bench. Why on this night do we sit totally upright? Across from me are two woman and their children - one infant and one toddler. The toddler is a poorly behaved little boy and I glare at him. When he kicks me, I kick back. The mother, an obvious pillar of patience and love, gives him a smack, which he immediately returns. So much for setting an example.

Dali is an ancient town. The old city is walled and cobbled and quaint and swarming with Chinese tour groups. I'm staying at a Chinese hotel. The communal bathroom is an open space with sink, shower head and two squat toilets. Each time I go in there, I lock the door. There's just something unnatural about taking a poop while someone is brushing their teeth.

I spend most of my time in Dali outside of Dali. The old city is brimming with tourist shops, fancy restaurants and woman trying to sell marijuana. Don't be too surprised but I'm not interested in any of these attractions. To the west of Dali is Cang Shan (Cang Mountain) and to the east is Lake Erhai (Erhai Hu). In between are farming plots surrounding small groups of cement houses. All provide great exploration opportunities, without the bull horns and matching hats of Old Dali.

On Cang Shan, the guide book says that you can hike from the top of one cable car about 3 hours to the top of another cable car. Great. I haven't exercised in a month. I don my hiking boots, lather up with SPF 50 and pay my 50 yuan for a one-way ride up the mountain. At the top I watch the shadows of the clouds drift across the fields, homes, lake and distant hills.

With the iPod pumping out the "Treadmill" playlist, I set out hoping for some good mountain paths, some Nepali flat (a little up, a little down).

My excitement quickly dissipates as I realize that this "hike" is actually a level, paved walkway. This is my first experience with what is to become common knowledge. The Chinese take everything beautiful, pave it, rail it and charge an entrance fee.

I see two other foreigners and they look equally as disappointed and overdressed. Or should that be under-dressed, as none of us are wearing high heels or sports jackets.

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Today I think I'll walk down to the lake. Maybe take a stroll along the waterfront. Oh, won't that be nice. The street that leads down to Erhai Hu is filled with local farmers and their crops. They use archaic tools and methods to thrash and separate the beans from the husks.

A small 2x4 is attached to a long pole. The 2x4 can rotate in a complete circle. So, the farmer hits the newly cut crop that's laying in the street, I imagine, to open the husks. Of course, the buses and cars that drive up and down this street must also help. Then dusty husks and beans are shoveled into a shallow basket. The basket is slightly tilted and shook over a bag. The heavier beans fall straight down into a burlap sack and the lighter husk pieces are blown aside by the wind.

At one point, two woman are arguing fiercely. I imagine their conversation goes something like this:

1) Hey, you're totally doing that wrong.
2) What are you talking about? I've been thrashing beans my whole life.
1) Look! You're getting too much husk into the bag.
2) Why don't you just worry about your own pile of beans.
1) You stupid bitch. This effects the whole community.
2) Leave me alone or I'll cut you with this machete. You should pay as much attention to your husband.

When I get to the lake, I see that there is no waterfront. Crops run directly up to the edge of the lake. There is only a small port where tourist boats take you to various sites around the lake. I see that a boat is about to leave so I buy a ticket. I have no idea where it's going but manage to communicate my need for a round trip, again, using Chinese and lots of body language. "I go. I come here." "Yes, yes."

I am with 8 Chinese tourists and we're crossing the lake. When we get to the other side, someone says "20 minutes." But as I disembark, 10 people surround me and try to sell me a ticket with a temple on it. Even though it's 3 yuan (less than $.50) I'm not interested in seeing any more temples. I go to get back on the boat, but now all the people from my boat are trying to explain. Everyone is yelling at me in Chinese. And all I can say is "It's okay. I don't want. I wait here." But no one can possibly comprehend that I just don't want to look at a temple. Eventually, a man from my boat buys me a ticket and I go look at another stinkin' temple.

Back on the boat I get out my phrase book. I say to my fellow tourists, "I want to go on boat. I don't want to see...." I'm looking for the word "temple" or "stupa" or "pagoda" or "shrine". Anything that would express a place to worship Buddha. But it's not in the book. How can it not be in the book? Finally, I point to the ticket and say "What's this?" The man tells me the word in Chinese, and another man says in English, "Oh, temple!" Well that was easy.

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I'm having a bad food day. Actually it's been a few days. This doesn't mean that the food is bad, but I'm not in the greatest mood and it seems that I'm always having a problem with what I order.

At breakfast I order eggs and toast, coffee and apple juice. Twenty minutes later I have to remind them about the juice. And then I hear the blender. Oh fuck. They are pureeing apple. Mango fine. Banana great. But who doesn't know that you can't blend apple. And the menu says "juice", not shake. Who doesn't know what apple juice is. This isn't a language barrier. It's restaurants in tourist places doing whatever they can to make a buck. I try to explain that it's not juice. Juice is like water. But I don't know the word for "like" in Chinese. Just forget it. Pay for everything and be gone.

At dinner I go to a Chinese place because the tourist places are overpriced and often not as tasty. I point to some things, say some things in Chinese. I want one of this and one of that. "Small. Small." I say the words and make a gesture with my hands.

What do they bring me? A soup tureen of steamed rice and 2 family sized plates of food. Then they charge me for several helpings of rice and two large plates. Sometimes it seems as if they are completely incapable is adjusting their thinking, of preforming outside of the box. However, this meal was still half the price of one at a tourist restaurant so I'm not that upset, but I walk away thinking about that huge bucket of rice.

That's a bad food day.

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LI JIANG

If Disneyland had an "Ancient Chinese Land" Li Jiang would be it. The old city is a maze of narrow, cobble-stoned alleys, canals and bridges. Most of the homes in the center of the old city have been transformed into souvenir shops, coffee houses, bars and restaurants. And when you get stuck behind a Chinese tour groups, you're stuck. There's no room to get past these well-dressed, upper-middle class, umbrella carrying, microphone led, meanderers. Damn that growing Chinese economy. Communism? I don't think so!

The public bathrooms are clean, staffed and more impressively, equipped with small LCD screens in each stall. But you can only watch Li Jiang advertisements while squatting for so long. If you want a feature length film, go to one of the western coffee shops where they have rooms set up for free movie viewing, pirated DVDs included．

While looking for my guest house, I ask a foreigner for help. Kristen is an exchange student from the states and she shows me where to go. Despite the fact that Kristen says "like" like every other like word, I haven't like talked to anyone in like 6 days, so I like make dinner plans with Kristen for like the next night.

When I wake up the following morning, the 2 Swiss guys that I had met in Dali on the "hike" are sleeping in my dorm room. Of all the dorm rooms in all the guest houses...

(Speaking of dorm rooms...People reveal the most bizarre behavior when sharing a room with strangers. I will call this continuing section "Dorm Room Decorum." Another dorm mate in Li Jiang comes into the room, starts talking about himself without ever asking a question to anyone else. He then announces that he has one small idiosyncrasy...He must eat chocolate and read in bed before going to sleep. That night I listen to him breaking off bits of chocolate from the noisy tin wrapper and flipping pages.)

The next evening Kristen brings with her another American (Maranda) who is doing research on a minority group in the southern mountain area of Sichuan.

And finally, Valerie, a girl I met in Burma and have been keeping in touch with, has just arrived.

I've been totally alone for 6 days and now I'm out with 5 people. Traveling often gives you these acute lessons on how fast life can change. From one day to the next, everything can be completely different. Thus, when you're having a bad day, you just have to wait it out. It will, undoubtedly, all turn around tomorrow.

Having Maranda around is great. She speaks fluent Chinese and is not only doing all the food ordering but is teaching me some useful words.

raisin - putaogan: When the Chinese were fighting in the Korean war, the soldiers were taught to say putaogan because it sounds like "put down gun".

prune - oh may: I use word association to remember this. After you eat prunes, you say "Oh may I use the bathroom now?"

I meet another American guy who is all about good-humored self-deprecation and one-liners. We're talking about American currency and he says "Benji is on the hundo." I'm laughing at his typical American style abbreviation. The Europeans stare blankly. 　

Besides going out with these people for dinner and buying dried fruit, I don't do much in Li Jiang. The weather is crappy and cold and I just can't be bothered. I'd rather sit in Internet Cafes, drink Yunnan coffee and smoke. Yes, I am the picture of health.

But activity will come soon enough...

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TIGER LEAPING GORGE

Tiger Leaping Gorge is believed to be the deepest gorge in the world. It runs for 9 miles along the Jingsha River. At one narrow section of the river is a large rock. Ancient legend says that a tiger used this rock as its stepping stone so it could leap across from one side of the gorge to the other.

Outdoor enthusiasts can trek a high path along the gorge. This usually takes 2 days. Most Chinese tourists take a bus along the newly built low road and spend a few hours viewing this feat of nature, including lunch, photo ops and souvenir shopping.

Maranda, Valerie and I are at the bus station on our way to Qiaozou, the town at one end of the gorge.

A girl approaches and asks if we're going to Tiger Leaping Gorge and what time our bus leaves. She's actually an hour behind us, but she's on her own and no one should go hiking by themselves. We offer to wait for her at the ticket office that marks the trail head. (Tara is Swiss or Swedish - I can't remember - and she'll play a bigger role later in the story.)

We wait for Tara at the Leaping Tiger Cafe, run by a feisty little Australian woman who is forever running about frantically. Margo provides a great service. She stores packs for free, serves decent coffee and repeats the same bus information daily without ever seeming annoyed.

The first 4.5 hours of the trail are all uphill. A man and his donkey are following us, thinking that our lazy white asses will give up far before reaching the summit. After a couple hours of listening to that incessant and irritating donkey bell jingle from behind, Maranda gives it to him. She says something like, "We won't take the donkey because that would mean that we failed. And we're westerners. We don't fail." Bye-bye donkey man.

At the summit a local man has painted a sign on a rock. Picture viewing area - 8 yuan. I'm not paying some guy money to take a picture just because he carried a bucket of paint up here. Maranda teaches me how to say, "You don't own the mountain." But soon Maranda has won the man over and we walk down to the vista without paying. We take pictures with him and of course he wants a copy. He writes his address on a 1 yuan bill. In the end he pays us. Sweet sweet irony.

We are the last hikers to arrive at the Tea Horse Guest House at 6:30pm. The Tea Horse is full, but the next guest house is an hour and a half down the path. The sun is setting. We can't leave.

A man who we think is the owner has a storage room cleaned out and beds made. We are set up. Turns out, however, that this man isn't the owner at all, but a Korean computer scientist on holiday. You can read a very amusing blog about "Super Guest" at http://www.expreference.com/2006/05/super-guest.html, written by Ryan Petersen, who will also play a larger roll in my life in the coming week.

The second day is markedly more beautiful. Rather than the dirt switch back immediately in front of us, we can see down the gorge. But it's now downhill and after 4 hours we're all tired, sore and pissy (Ok, I'm referring to myself.) When we reach the main road, we're not sure if this is the end of the trek or how far it is to Walnut Garden. We're not even sure what Walnut Garden is. Is it an actual garden? An area? The name of a guest house? This is a little anti-climactic.

"It's gotta be around this bend."

"It's gotta be around THIS bend."

"It's gotta be around THIS bend."

Ahhhh. Finally. Tucked back into the hillside, the "area" of Walnut Garden consists of a few guest houses, some local homes, and a shallow incline of crops leading down to the edge of the gorge. What gives this place it's renown is the view. Directly across from Walnut Garden is a vertical rock face that consumes your entire field of vision. We do the final 200 meters with out heads turned skyward.

We order a huge dinner, wait for an hour and a half while the two kitchen workers cook for 25 guests, and watch as the shadow from the mountain behind us engulfs the opposite precipice. This is why we're here. Legs up, beer down.

My other favorite feature of Sean's Guest House is the western toilet. It's been weeks. Seeing the rock face was great and all, but seeing that western toilet, I can't help but jump up and down and clap with glee. I run back to my room, grab toilet paper and a book. Sweet sweet release.

ZHONGDIAN

May 1 - 7 is the annual Chinese May holiday. It's Thanksgiving Weekend; Everyone goes somewhere. Guest House prices go up and bus and train tickets are almost impossible to get. In order to avoid the crowds, I continue my journey north to the Tibetian town of Zhongdian. At 11,000 feet, the only Chinese people who bother traveling this far are outdoor lovers. We are all sporting fake Northface, Mountain Hardware, Merrill and Columbia and we are looking good.

In order to boost tourism, the residents of Zhongdian have started calling their little part of the planet Shangri-La. This moniker is also used to desribe the town of Deqin which is an 8 hours drive further north west. Seems that any town wanting to bring in more cash, starts calling their town Shangri-La, a title none of them could possibly live up to.

But the region of Zhongdian comes close. Set in a vast, high-plateau valley, snow-capped peaks rim the plain. Rolling hills roll and there are few buildings to interfer with the greens and golds of the pristine meadows. Once again, I feel ignorant for not realizing how beautiful China could be.

The Tiger Leaping Gorge group has shifted. Tara and I join Ryan and Bernhard, two guys studying Chinese in Kunming. Because we all just happened to be going the same way, I am now hanging out with 3 people under the age of 24. Ryan (American) and Bernhard (German) are entertaining. Bernhard knows every country and capital in the world. Some are astounded by his memory but I point out that it hasn't been that long since the guy graduated high school. He hasn't had time to forget. Ryan is a Berkeley grad. Your average over-achiever. Tara doesn't say much. I have no idea what she is, besides cute. Unless you're a dude, that doesn't go very far with me.

Every toilet in our guest house is filled with shit. The staff, who actually live here, have no desire to do something about this. They'd rather look at piles of crap day-in and day-out. Thankfully, after suffering through this you can spend 1/2 hour in the wood-lined, steam room type showers. With little benches so that you can sit down and put your shoes and socks back on without having to balance on one foot, these showers may be the best in China.

The youngsters and I rent bikes (brakes optional) and ride the 1/2 hour to Ganden Sumtseling Gompa Monastery. This working Monastery is a miniture version Potala Palace in Lhasa. We enter from the back, away from the tourists, and find ourselves walking around the living area of the monks. We are spotted. None of us are sure we're even allowed to be here. But we're invited into the kitchen - a gigantic room with a wood burning stove on one side, and some benches around a smaller stove in the opposite corner. Most of the space is unused. The monk busys himself as we wonder what we're in for. It is first experience with local food that I am oblidged to eat. There is no way to politely turn this down. Yak Butter Tea is made with, yep, Yak butter, salt, milk and very little tea. It is thick and I struggle to get it down without making faces. We are also offered some "cake" that tastes like bad pot brownies. Because the monk doesn't speak Chinese, we sit quietly and smile in thanks.

Back at the hostel, we hand in our laundry to be done. They happily take our money. After noticing it sitting there for an hour, we question the hostel employee. He informs us that it's too cold to do the laundry that we've already paid him to do.

He must be the same staff member who put cherry tomotoes in my fruit salad. I know that technically, tomatos are fruit, but I'd rather have tomatoes in my laundry.

Dorm Room Decorum: Vernon, the Aussie, and I are talking from our respective beds. It's late. The lights are out. I can't see him. As he readies himself for sleep I hear something. "What is that sound?" I inquire. "Oh, that's my iPod. I usually have it in my ears, but I need to hear my alarm in the morning so I just turned it up and put in on my pillow." "Oh good. That way we all can hear it."

By this point, I've discovered what Tara is all about. She's that girl that can't make decisions for herself and has nothing to offer the group except her cuteness. Yes, I'm sure many of you males will want to reply with comments on the importance of the cuteness factor, but please just keep it to yourself.

Tara cannot cross a street without asking if she should cross the street. After she's had a cup of tea, she must ask what to do with the cup. "Um, I don't know. Wash it? Bring it back to the kitchen?" At meals, Tara says nothing. Ryan, Bernhard and I are deep in discussion and Tara has nothing to contribute. But hey, she's cute. I'm sure that gets her far.

I am the default gal pal. Everytime Ryan and Bernhard go off I'm stuck there trying to think of something to say to this insipid girl. I need to get away.

I decide that whichever way Tara is going, I will go in the opposite direction. But, shockingly, she's not making any decisions. I have to make a move. I inform the youngsters that I'm heading to Emerald Pagoda Lake, some 20 miles to the east. I'll spend the night at the lake and then head further south back towards Li Jiang.

The Book says that you can sleep at the lake. Ryan and Berhnard decide to go that way as well. Fuck. I love these guys, but there's little chance of loosing Tara if they come along. Tara is deliberating, ruminating, waiting for someone to make the decision for her, which Ryan finally does. "Why don't you just come with us."

Bita Hai (Emerald Pagoda Lake) is yet another place of extreme beauty that the Chinese have ruined. Pave it, rail it, charge an entrance fee. And since everything is China is under construction, the bungalows that The Book says you can sleep in are now being occupied by construction workers building new, deluxe bungalows.

We leave our packs at a food kiosk and walk on the elevated, cement path until it ends in a heap of building materials and tools. That takes about 23 minutes. We've paid 60 yuan, plus the fee to hire a taxi for the day in order to not hike, not walk on the grass, not eat lunch, not sleep. And I'm still with Tara. Fabulous.

This is when our taxi driver offers to take us to lunch in his village. "Wow, your village has a restaurant?" I think. Well, no. He is talking about his house. I've been wanting to see inside these enormous Tibetian houses. Six large tree trunks serve as the main framework. Wood is used for the doors, stairs, roof, the front wall and the second floor. Cement/mud form the walls. The bottom floor is used for the animals and work tools. The family lives on the second floor. And animal feed is stored in the roof rafters. In the huge main room, there is a small stove and bench around which the family congregates.

Taxi driver host first serves us sweet Yak milk. Not bad. Then he makes us Yak Butter Tea and brings out this strange bowl of fine powder. He scoops a couple spoonfuls of powder into the Yak Butter Tea and mixes it with his fingers until it becomes doughy. We all take our turns mixing our Yak Butter Tea and wheat powder. The smell of the "qing ke cao mien" powder is strangely familiar. What is it? Why, it's Cheerios! Turns out that Yak Butter Tea is greatly improved by Cheerio powder. But is anyone surprised that cereal is the greatest food in the world? Of course not!

BAISHUITAI

Many foreigners are dissapointed with Baishuitai, a limestone deposit plateau. You go, you look, you leave. But I thnk they type of thing is great. Much better than another temple that looks exactly like the last 50 temples. I take my shoes off and skid my feet over the white, stone mound looking down at the shallow pools formed by each terrace.

I meet Myles, an ebullient South African. He and two Chinese college students are renting a taxi for the late afternoon drive to Tiger Leaping Gorge (I am about to complete a circle). I recommend Sean's Guest House and decide to join them. There's no reason to spend the night here. I went, I saw, I'll leave.

BACK AT SEAN'S

It takes about 12 hours with Myles before I realize that this guy never shuts up. We're taking a walk down the road and he just keeps talking about how great this is, how beautiful it is, how peaceful it is. "Dude, is it possible for you to be quiet for 5 minutes and just take it in?" He is uncomfortable with silence.

And he uses the word "buddy" all the time. I find it so insincere. "Yeah, buddy." "Of course, buddy." "Anything for you, buddy."

On the bus ride back to Li Jiang, Myles is fiddling with some bells he has bought as a souviner. It's driving me mad listening to him jingle. I am fighting the urge to grab those freakin' donkey bells and throw them out the window.

We say farewell at the main bus station in Li Jiang. Myles is sentimental. He looks into my eyes and say, "I want you to have these." Oh g-d! He's giving me the donkey bells. (Those bells will remain buried in my pack for the next year.)

As I wait for my bus I watch in disgust as a man spits on the bus station floor. (Another country-wide habit in the category of things I will never understand.) A second man watches me watch the first man and laughs.

The man sleeping in the berth to my rear has stinky feet.

BACK IN KUNMING

I am having a bad day as I get ready to leave Yunnan province. It's all the little things:

1) I leave hostel forgeting that I need a tampon.
2) Buy pads (few tampons in China) but drop my toilet paper on the filthy public bathroom floor.
3) Can't find any food I want to eat.
4) ATM will only give 2000 yuan. This is less than $300 and I'm charged heavy international fees with each withdrawal.
5) Waste 1/2 hour standing at wrong bus stop, in the rain.
6) Want to cry and feeling a strong nicotine pull (I'm on day 8 of my latest effort to stop smoking.)

But I meet up with Ryan and Bernhard for dinner and things get better. It only takes 1/2 a day for things to turn around this time.

I am taking my first overnight train in China. At $25, this isn't cheap. I'm expecting something on par with Thailand and I am not disappointed. The hard-sleeper consists of 6 beds in each open compartment. There are fresh sheets, a soft pillow and a cozy comforter. Besides the old man who, in all likelihood, doesn't know how to flush the toilet and leaves a big pile of crap for me to look at, my fellow travelers are well-behaved and quiet and I sleep well, albeit with my iPod stuck in my ears. There is always a snorer.

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Our saga continue in Kaili, Guizhou Province where I meet up with Andy once again, go to a genuine minority wedding party and start a week of village hopping...

Part 12 - Bangkok and Northern Laos

2006-04-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

Back in Bangkok, I go straight to my favorite guest house. Single rooms with bathroom for 190 baht. That's about $5. The food is terrible, the beds are uncomfortable, but they play movies on a big screen TV everynight and the grilled chicken stand is 50 feet away. And this is the only guest house I've ever stayed where I actually meet other people.

My bag, as usual, explodes in my room. Everything comes out. Oh, the ecstacy of having all my toiletries laid out on a nice little table.

Cherie is here taking a massage course to compliment her acupunture business. Along with some of her classmates, we stupidly head to the Nana district in search of a pool table and some good music. Along with Pat Pong, Nana is hooker central. In an empty bar, we play pool and watch the old farts across the way shake their groove thang with young ladies of the night. They all dance like my father. No offense, Dad.

Tim stands in the middle of the walkway and waits to be approached. He's looking good, looking cool, but the girls are hip to the fact that he is with farang girls. Unlike the prostitutes in Cambodia, Thai hookers are friendly to everyone. They are not threatened by white girls and will show them equal attention, just for fun.

For live music, the Bamboo Hut is recommened. Okay, so we just asked for music, not good music. The local band plays funk covers. They're not bad. At one point, a farang man gets on stage and belts out, what is apparently, a Thai favorite. Everyone in the bar sings along.

And then, the Cabaret show starts. In traditional dress, the performers lip-sync and dance. We are all arguing about which of them are women. "Oh, the one of the left is totally a girl." Later, the girl on the left does a solo piece and takes off her top. Okay, she's not a girl. Those breasts are way too perfect. All the "women" are amazingly beautiful. The lady-boys do "girl" better than girls do "girl".

The highlight of the show is a mustached man in drag. He lip-syncs and shakes his skinny little ass all the while flicking his tongue lasciviously. Local girls hand him shots and try to lift his skirt, hoping for a glimpse of his tucked-under package. Everyone is howling madly.

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The Beer Mats

All the bars in the Koa San area close at 1am. This is quite different from the situation 4 years ago, but in an effort to minimize drunken and disorderly behavior, the authorities have instigated this futile attempt to get people off the street. What now happens is that everyone heads straight to the beer mats. Along one section of a side street, tables and chairs are packed up and large bamboo mats on placed on the ground. Here you can sit and drink for an eternity. Every now and then, the police come by and shut it down. But this doesn't happen often.

It is here, on the beer mats, usually nearing the wee hours of the morning that fights break out. And, surprisingly, it's often between locals. Undoubtedly, one of the Thais will pull out a butcher knife and hold it threateningly above his head. If his opponent isn't too far intoxicated, he'll back down. Otherwise, the farang boys (Brits and Irish - as these guys are never afraid of a fight) will hold the drunkard back.

On one sweltering evening, I am sipping my big Chang with some people from my guest house. We chat with a convival Brit (is there any other kind) and later I notice him snogging a girl on the far side of the now beer soaked mat. When he returns to talk with us, I mention that his lady friend ("Oh no. That's my wife.) is out cold. "Well dude. Your WIFE is passed out in a puddle of beer. Why don't you take her home." I offer my assistance in getting her back to their guest house. Ali, a Turkish born German, who has been fetishly staring at my feet, comes along. (10 to 1 this guy's a toe sucker.) The girl is dead weight and Ali and the Brit wrap her arms around their necks while her feet drag behind her. Ali then carries her up 2 flights of stairs. We remove her beer sodden clothes and position her on her side so that if she throws up during the night she won't choke to death. When all is settled, the Brit asks if Ali and I would like to stay for a drink. Is this guy kidding? It's 5am. His wife will, no doubt, have alcohol poisoning the next day and he wants to continue drinking. We politely decline. How is it possible that you don't say at some point in the evening, "Ok, I'm really drunk. Let's go home." Nope. They just drink and drink until they're incapable of lifting the beer bottle.

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The rumor is that getting a visa for China longer than one month is almost impossible. One friend suggests I write down my itinerary and bring that to the embassy. I spend two days going through my guide book figuring out where I want to go and writing it all down.

To my shock, the Chinese Embassy is a finely tuned machine. I take a number and fill out my form. There are 50 people in front of me. Thirty minutes later and I'm up. So there are some positive thigns about Communism. (For the Myanmar visa I waited 4 hours.) I have requested a 4 month, double entry visa. The woman says ok. "Ok?" Are we having a communication problem? "Ok?" "Yes," she repeats. "Ok".

And the best part, which I'm sure sounds completely irrelevant to anyone who isn't dealing with visas every month, is that it only cost $85. That's $21.25 a month, by far the best visa deal I suspect I'll ever get.

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Finally, after almost 3 weeks in Bangkok, I'm ready to leave. I'm really ready to leave.

It's a full 24 hours to the Thai/Laos border: an overnight train, and two 4 hour local buses.

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In the Thai border town of Chiang Khong, I take a 2 minute ride across the Mekong and I am in Laos again, exactly 5 months since my first entry. That's $70 in visa fees.

I have choosen this route so that I can go overland to China. Taking planes when not necessary is cheating.

It's a two day ride down the Mekong on a slow boat to Luang Prabang. As one traveler said, 'The slow boat is...slow.' Genius, huh? Travelers and locals squeeze into the boat, which is outfitted with hard, wooden benches. Beer and sodas are sold out of iceless coolers. Forget about water. Who needs water.

Here, the Mekong is much more narrow than in Cambodia. Hills rise up out of the murky waters and slabs of rock are in various states of deterioration. Sand banks act as local ports and bamboo fishing poles stick out, unmanned, from cracks in rocks, a sign of the continuous habitation along the river. I watch with disgust as the boat driver throws his plastic bags into the river. I watch with sheer outrage as travelers do the same. And then there are the local people who wash in the river with non-biodegradable soaps and shampoos. The hillsides are ravaged by slash and burns (a country wide occurance), leaving the sky in constant haze. The beauty of the country is overshadowed by it's imminent environmental devistation.

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The halfway point is a town called Pak Beng, which sort of sounds like "pack bong", all the more fitting because the guest houses ask if you'd like your change in marijuana.

At the Phone Tip Guest House, I am drinking a beer with the 3 other guests. The owner urges us to eat our meals there because she needs money to send her daughter to school. I find this an interesting sales pitch. Who doesn't need money? And if I want to go back to school, it will take more than selling a few plates of fried rice and warm beer. Patronage by guilt just doesn't work for me.

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I arrive in Luang Prabang guide book free. As sure as the sun will rise, I'm certain that there will be a plethora of guest house middle men to coax me in their direction. I go with the guy who offers to carry my pack, heavier after stocking up on supplies in Bangkok, up the hill.

I am shown a room for a whopping $7.50. I take a walk down the street in search of a better deal. I stop two western women, ask them where they're staying and how much they're paying.

"We have a very nice room for 70."

"70 dollars? 70 US dollars?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that's like The Plaza. That's 5 star."

These people are not my peers. I didn't even realize that Luang Prabang would have rooms for that much. This place is not at all what I thought. I take the $7.50
room. What with the new year festival of Songkran approaching, the town is filling up and this is probably as good as it's going to get.

Songkran, celebrated in Thailand, Laos, Cambodia (and to my utter surprise, Southern China), is a water festival. While it is supposed to start 6 days from now, kids are already lining the streets armed with hoses and buckets of water. I wrap my books and electronics in zip-lock bags to walk the 100 meters to the coffee shop.

It is at my favorite coffee shop that I overhear a conversation between an American ex-pat (I can tell he's an ex-pat because he's poorly dressed, obese and has a cellphone permanently attached to his ear.) and a German.

"Are you from Holland?"

"No, I'm German."

"Oh, I thought I heard a Dutch accent."

"Well, as long as you don't think I'm American."

And here I am, an American, sitting quietly in a cafe reading my book thinking that Germans should be the last ones to be casting negative stereotypes about. I am not my government. I know the capital of Switzerland. I know the name of the German Chancellor. We are not all the same. Some of us have passports. The arrogance and insensivitity of his response to an obvious North American is shameful. I am tempted to ask him about his views but hold back, thinking it too confrontational, too American. But more so, he's not worth the effort. While everyone has stereotypes about everyone else, Germans, like other travelers are nice people. We can say this about Brits, that about Israelis, this about Americans, that about the French, but when you meet people one-on-one, those preconceptions rarely hold true. There are good and bad people from everywhere. This is far from a revelation and I am certainly not the first person to say it. The unfortunate thing here is that we must continually remind ourselves of what is nothing more than common sense.

But those Loatians. Now they just kill me. I sit at a quaint restaurant on a street full of other quaint restaurants and upsacle boutiques complaining about the greedy, dishonest locals with some perturbed Germans, Swiss and Israelis.

"Every internet cafe has tried to overcharge me."

"A taxi charged us $20 to take us 10km."

"The bicycle rental place said that if the bike was stolen, we'd have to pay $60. Of course, she's going to pay some guy $30 to follow us and steal the bike."

"$2 for a banana shake and they don't put any banana in it."

Yes, yes, we have the choice to leave, which is exactly what the German couple is doing. But it's only in these tourist laden spots where such attitudes prevail. But it can taint your view of a country.

And because I choose not to pay $20 for a guided day hike, I spend my days sipping locally grown coffee and reading. I get out to the Kuang Si Waterfall twice, one of those places that is understandably popular. On three levels, the large pools allow for swimming and sun bathing. On the upper level, young adventure seekers scale the slanted rock face and jump into the mouth of the pounding falls.

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Each night I don long underwear and turn my fan on full-blast to drown out my neighbors, who talk and watch TV until 2am. Sound, like water, drips easily through the gaps in the wood and I am just waiting for them to start having sex, which, in 6 nights, they never do. What's wrong with them? All this talking and late night movies and no sex. AND THEY'RE FRENCH! Humm? They must be married.

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I choose to endure the water fights, sub-standard fruit shakes, and loud neighbors of Luang Prabang so that I can attend a Pesach Sedar. It's been 4 years since I've celebrated anything other than Christmas and Moon Festival and I'm thinking a night with the chevrai (friends) would ease the pang of homesickness I only get this time of year. Luang Prabang is the only place in Laos that will host a Sedar. I guess it may sound bizarre that any Asian city hosts a Sedar, but thanks to the unwavering efforts of Chabad House, there is nary a place in the world that a Jew cannot reach out to almost 6000 years of tradition, thank you very much. Amen.

I take the back streets to the new Chabad House hoping to avoid supersoaker packin' youth. Though the Sedar ticket requested that no one bring backpacks for security reasons, everyone does.

One hundred Israelis, 2 Canadians and me take our seats and wait, for what seems like 40 years, for the Sedar to begin. Ah, just like home. The air-conditioner can't cool the packed room creating a desert-like heat, albeit a tad more humid.

The Rabbi goes through the Hagaddah, mumbling quickly. Group readings are a free-for-all and I can't follow along. "Is it time to eat the bitter herbs?" "Where's the charoset?" I cringe at the off-key singing. Kosher wine, meat, and matzah have been imported. I never thought there would come a day when I craved matzah. After so many months in Asia, anything not fried is a welcome change. The matzah balls, heavy and dense, are like a Jewish version of Elfin bread. This is really going to clog me up.

During the Sedar people sneak outside for smokes.

After Sedar everyone goes for beer.

Okay, so this wasn't exactly like home. No discussion. No witty digs. No harmony. No strawberries. No logistical precision. And like my yearly vow to never again attend the Haight Street Festival, I promise myself that this will be my last Chabad Sedar.

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Early the next morning I am sitting on a public bus eating bread with some sort of sweetened filling waiting to start my journey north to Oudomxai, Luang Nam Tha and then into China. It is here that I meet a lovely man. (The use of the word "man" infers a non-romantic nature. If I had used the word "guy", romantic interest would be implied and I wouldn't be telling you about it.) Andy is a 50 year-old American who lives in Homer, Alaska. "Hey, I've been to Homer." How many people can say that! Andy is a seasoned traveler. His backpack is the size of my daypack. Of course, he doesn't have to carry bras or tampons. And even though I think I have really held back by only carrying 3 paris of shoes, Andy good-heartdly berates me for it. My excuse is simple. "I'm a girl."

Andy is the perfect example of an American Jew who is Jewish in every way except religion. In his speech: "What, are ya tryin da kill me?" In his expressions: "Oy!" In his mother: "She lives in Florida."

He says that the only Jewish girl he ever dated was in high-school and that was because "she had big tits."

Andy and I will be bus buddies for the next 5 days. We are both going into China and have planned to do it in small steps. Andy has been this route before, and while entering a new country is scary and exciting, I feel fortunate to be with someone who knows the drill.

OUDOMXAI

Five hours north of Luang Prabang is the transit town of Oudomxai. There's nothing to do here. I go in search of food and am invited to drink with a group of local 20-somethings celebrating Songkran. They are drunk and soaked and listening to Jennifer Lopez. One of them is unknowingly invading my personal space, but I stay for a small glass of beer, pass out some cigarettes and bid farewell.

Andy and I spend the evening chatting on the balcony watching the blaze on the distant hills and picking ash out of our hair.

LUANG NAM THA

It's another 5 hours to Luang Nam Tha. Here, we have a wonderful view of the bus station. Andy and I spend the evening with our guest house neighbors, Ronnie and Alijandro, sitting on the balcony and playing Ronnie's new $25 guitar. Gangs of youth roar through the one street that makes up town on their 100cc mini-motorcycles. It's Hello Kitty Hell's Angels. When a thunder storm unplugs the sky, the gang, which has congragated in front of our hotel, scatters like they were being chased by the coppers. Lightening slices up the sky over the hills to the north and the rain comes down sideways, sending us to bed.

Tomorrow, China!

Part 11 - Bagan, Myanmar

2006-03-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

The fast boat from Mandalay to Bagan is an easy 11 hours. I board at 5:30 am, trying not to expect too much, perhaps something like the boats in Thailand which are dangerously overcrowded and void of any type of seating. I am filled with joy and thanks as I enter the main cabin and see actual airplane-like chairs. The sweet sweet release of sleep awaits.

I am denied REM by the numerous and loquacious tour groups. The Suitcase Brigade pays dearly for the privilege of not carrying their own bags and having no idea where they're going or how they'll get there.

When the boat makes it's stops at various sand banks, it is the Suitcase Brigade that tosses goods stolen from hotel rooms and leftovers from company promotions out to locals who wade, chest deep, in the water, grabbing and bobbing for the coveted items like Christmas shoppers at an After-Thanksgiving Sale. Shampoo, toothbrushes, soap, hats and shirts with European corporate logos float atop the surface as the boat pulls away from shore.

While all parties involved seem as pleased as a Chinese teenager in front of a computer, I find the exchange sad and dehumanizing. At least their giving out toothbrushes.

Disembarking, I keep my eyes to the ground. Because of the Suitcase Brigade, locals welcome passangers descending the gangplank with an outstretched arm and an open hand.

Walking up the dirt knoll that is the port, though I am trying to ignore all external stimuli, I hear "Excuse me, miss. Excuse me! MISS!" Reluctantly and fearing regret, I look up to see a man holding a whiteboard with my name and country written in large block letters. Oh! This is a new one. Cherie, who arrived in Bagan 3 days prior, has sent a taxi to pick me up and escort me back to her guest house.

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Bagan is a vast area known as the land of 4 million pagodas, though the actual number stands at around 2200. It is one of the richest archeological sites in Asia.

Vocabulary lesson:
Pahto: Burmese for temple, shrise or religious structure with a hollow interior.

Paya: Generic Burnese term for holy one, applied to Buddha figures, zedi, or religous monuments.

Zedi: Burmese term for Stupa.

Stupa/Pagoda: A dome-shaped monument, used to house Buddhist relics.

Along with "temple" these terms mean basically the same thing. Though, usually, you can't enter a zedi, stupa or pagoda.

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Touring Bagan can be done on bicycle (poor and/or fit travelers), horse carriage (small, older groups), or horrible, loud, dust-stirring tourist buses (Suitcase Brigade).

At 5:20am I meet up with some folks from Hsipaw and, with headlamp firmly in place, peddle down the dark, paved road toward what we think is one of the best payas to view the sunrise.

This is one of those moments when I've decided not to be a bossy, anal, control-freak. Yeah, I'll let you guys lead the way and I won't question you. But after riding for 20 minutes, I just have to ask.

"So where did your guest house tell us we should go?"

"Shwesandaw Paya."

"You guys, that's totally the other way."

Valerie takes out the map and stares at it blankly.

"It's right here," I point out. "And we're way the hell out here."

She continues to study the map. I just love this. A person who readily admits that she's terrible with maps questioning the person who knows she's good with maps. Fine. Take your time. I smile and wait. I've known these people for maybe 6 days. I surely can't be myself.

A car slows to help us. Look at me keeping quiet. The kind people point to a road to the right and assure us that we can reach Shwesandaw this way. It's the long way around but it should work.

As the sky lightens, we decide to cut right again and take a shortcut across a dirt path. As the sun emerges, we are pushing our bikes through what is now a path of sand. Depsite my know-it-all eye-rolling, I am well aware that the times when you get lost are often the best, that the moments when things don't go according to plan are the most exciting. This is when you see the stuff that isn't in the guide book, experience things that aren't mapped out and walked on a thousand times over.

So, as we push our bikes through sand, the sun appears red-orange hovering beside some non-descript pagoda. We are alone, rather than surrounded by 30 tripod-toting tourists. It is silent. There are no buses reving, no horses clopping, no locals hawking. Good things happen when I resist being a bossy, anal, control-freak.

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The next 4 days consist of getting up for sunrise, bicycling the 20 minutes to Old Bagan, climbing to the top of one pahto or another and looking out across the flat, ochre terrain. It's now mid-March and the afternoons are blistering. Hot winds dry the sweat on my face and leave a salty residue. Naps and strawberry lassis are abundant. My current book is a page turner (White Teeth by Zadie Smith), and keeps me up late or glued to my chair on the courtyard porch.

Cherie has gone back to Bangkok so dinner time is spent with Thomas, a German man I met in Yangon, Kalaw and now here at my guest house. Thomas is a police detective. I ask him if he wants to get high with me. Tehee.

Thomas likes to wears his new t-shirt on which the Myanmar alphabet is printed. It is a crazy mixture of circles, intersecting circles, partial circles, circles with apendages and squiggles. There are 4 sounds for "t" but because this isn't a tonal language, it's possible to learn some Burmese and, more importantly, be understood.

Thomas and I have little in common but it's a simple case of "friends of circumstance". We talk about online dating, jobs, travel and the predominant issue in my head - The Beggars of Bagan.

I am haunted by the question: To give or not to give?

If I give, I feel as though I'm perpetuating a useless cycle of locals equating a white face with the words, "Give me." If I don't give, I feel like an unsympathetic, bourgeois, keeping down the plight of the proliteriate.

While it can be beneficial to the recipient to give food, clothes, even money, it seems that the beggars of Bagan are after things that decorate their lives rather than better their impecunious circumstances. What they covet won't feed their families or get them medical attention. They will take
anything that isn't permanently attached.

The examples are endless and erode the sprit of true charity.

At Shwesandaw, a woman points to the hair clip attached to my backpack and says, "Give me." "Huh?" I look at her tentatively. She points to the hair clip clamped on her own head, then to mine and repeats her request. I answer in regular, speedy, grammatically correct English, not wanting to make communication easy on her. "Why in the world would I give you my hair clip? You have a hair clip."

Immediately following, a man asks me for one of my earrings and points to the flimsy metal rod wrapped through his lobe like a twist tie. "These are my only earrings. Why would I give them to you?" His reply is casual and rational without a trace of the presumption I have ignorantly affixed to such a solicitation. "You can buy more in America."

A little girl has me in her sights. With eagle eyes, she scans me and my belongings. "Give me candy. Give me hat. Give me shirt." I smile and point to her braclet. "Give me braclet." She grabs her wrist covering what must be her most prized possession and backs away, looking at me as if I were an escaped mental patient.

Yes, I can get another hair clip, another earring, another hat in America. I can walk to town right now and buy anything I want. But what will be accomplished by giving these items away to people who are obviously not starving, not homeless, not sick.

Should I give candy to a child who doesn't own a toothbrush and will never see a dentist? Should I give a pen to one of the 20 children that ask, knowing full well that as soon as I leave, that pen will be fought over like the Coke bottle from "The Gods Must Be Crazy"? Should I give my hair clip to a woman who already has one?

If I do so then I'm reinforcing the biggest misconception of western, capitalistic life...the more things you have, the happier you are.

Maybe these tourists give in order to alliviate their own guilt for being born white in an affluent country. Maybe they think this is the only way to connect with locals.

But here stands a major hypocracy, for if you truely wanted to connect you'd talk to someone other than your tour guide. If you wanted to alleviate your guilt you would be respectful of their culture and wouldn't throw your cigarette butts on the grounds of historical monuments.

It's not their fault. We have trained them to behave as such. We follow the directions of the tour group brochures and bring superfluous items that mean nothing to us.

What is the answer? I don't know. I still don't know. Maybe it's as simple as being a good role model: be friendly, respectful, don't liter (even though they do), give money to monks, give leftover food to street people. Thomas brings bubbles, which enables him to play with the kids and when he leaves, he leaves them with a smile. And, at my request, he has stopped throwing his cigarette butts on the ground.

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I take an overnight bus back to Yangon the day before my flight back to Bangkok. Because so many areas are off-limits to foreigners, it is impossible to go overland.

At my hotel I run into an amusing British couple I had met in Hsipaw. We share a taxi to the airport and I use my last bit of local currency to pay the taxi driver. Perfect!

The plane flys over the Andaman Sea and the coast of Myanmar looks as if it's sliding into the brown waters. Small rivers funnel their way to the bluer Bay of Bengal, carrying with them the plastic bags, bottles and food wrappers of the country.

The clean, blue sky is full of puffy, marshmallow, dream-like clouds, the kind you're sure would support you. I seek out animal shapes. I envision Zeus, lightening rod in hand, gazing down to earth and choosing the mother of the next mortal hero.

As we near Bangkok airspace, the plane careens left and I'm looking up into the sky as if I was in the center of a snow globe. I am still and the world is spinning around me.

Part 10 - Pin U Lwin and Hsipaw, Myanmar

2006-03-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

PIN U LWIN

I'm getting lazy with my road travel, the only adverse result being increased costs. Just the thought of a 3 hours drive through winding mountain roads in the back of a pick-up truck is making my stomach churn. Cherie and I secure a private taxi to the old British hill station of Pin U Lwin for the low low price of $5 each. This may not seem like much for a 75 minute drive, but for approximately the same price you can purchase a 7 hour train ride or a 10 hour bus ride. But like I said, I'm getting lazy.

We have been duped into paying for the local couple that joins us. The hotel clerk lies through his red-stained teeth when he says that we're all paying around the same price. This is far from likely.

I'm riding shotgun, the seat of death. There are no seatbelts. There's no "oh shit" handle. There isn't even an inside door handle.

We ascend through the green and brown hills of the Shan State, passing every other vehicle on the road. As we approach 3500 feet above sea level, the air is getting refreshingly cool. Controlled burns are visible on distant hillsides. Military units clear dry brush from the road's shoulders.

With wooden blocks propped behind each tire, the driver of a large delivery truck is napping under his vehicle, utilizing the man-made shade.

It's a quick ride to this quaint, quiet town. The one main street is marked by a clock tower donated by Queen Victoria and an out-of-service Mosque. The local market is authentic; No one vies for our business. There are 2 internet accessible computers in the entire town. The girls that work at this internet cafe / drug store are from Nepal. Together, we sing the most popular song in Nepal which I remember from 4 years prior. It's that catchy. We sang it that much.

Re some phee ree ree
Re some phee ree ree
U dede jomkey dada ma bajong
Re some phee ree ree.

Or something to that effect. Giggle, giggle.

A short bike ride way from town center is the Botanical Gardens est. 1915. It is a welcome deviation from what is the rest of the country. This refuge of tanquility and groomed beauty contains 344 species of trees, 42 species of indigenous orchids, 25 species of roses, a bamboo garden, an aviary and a pen of strange mountain animals that resemble a moose/goat hybrid. Unfortunately, due to the incompetance of the guy who burned my CD of pictures from my memory card and the lack of diligence on my part to check his incompetance, pictures from this day are to be lost. Sadly, there is no record of the alleged moosegoat.

With limited sunlight remaining, too many people want to stop and talk to me. One local man asks where I'm from.

"America."

"Oh, who will be the next US president?"

How the hell am I supposed to know! I'm still can't believe our current president is president.

The sun's quickening plunge powers my pace. A group of university students intercept my route. Their innocence and giddiness is more evocative of a group of 14 year-olds. You know that point in life before the consciousness of alcohol and drugs and sex. Oh, maybe I've just said too much. So, this group of kids want to take a picture with me. Okay, let's do this quickly. Group shots with everyone's cameras. Yes, those are gone too. All the boys had big smiles. The girls sat stone-faced. And then the Alpha male wants individual shots with me and each person. "Sorry dude, your time is up. I've got 40 minutes of sunlight. Nice to meet you. Buh-bye."

I ride back into town listening to the iPod. Big mistake. A couple near-misses.

LOCAL MUSIC

In every town, on every street there is at least one person playing guitar in front of his home/business. I take the Mynamar people's love of music as a good sign. A sign of what, I don't know. But a good sign nonetheless. There's something soulful, hopeful, passionate about music lovers. The most famous band in the country is IronCross, made up of maybe 5 guitar players, bassist, bongos, drums, keyboard. They all takes turns on vocals. At this point, I have seen and/or heard the DVD live concert numerous times: overnight buses, bars, small kiosks, restaurants. It is everywhere. A ticket to one of their concerts is an exorbitant $50 US. IronCross makes their fortune by translating popular western songs into Burmese. If I want to make the locals smile, I sing "Leader of the Band" in English. They all recognize it immediately. Somebody, please call Dan Fogelberg and tell him that these guys are getting rich off of his music.

In Pin U Lwin the guy who works and lives at the store next to our guest house sits each night with his out-of-tune guitar and strums IronCross songs. He is hesitant to play for us. He's shy. We request a certain IronCross song. He pulls out the CD sleeve which includes lyrics and chords. Even though these people can speak English, no one can tell us the English title of the song. Cherie and I take our turns. Locals peak their heads out of their front doors. It's nearly 10pm and the street is silent except for the regularly requested "Hotel California". Masmiliano, a colorful and convivial Italian traveler, is recording video. Cherie and I will forever be a part of his travel documentary. His friends will be forced to watch video of cute and talented stangers.

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I am standing on a metal grill welded to the end of a military jeep. The jeep is carrying at least 17 people: 10 inside and 7 others on the grill alongside me. As I lean into the curves of the road, I think about who I will use to break my fall if the jeep tips. It's a short ride to the stop for the Anisakan Waterfall. Everyone on the back grill tells us where to get off and points down a side road in the direction of the falls.

Emma and Jay (2 of the 8 travelers in Pin U Lwin) and I are soon joined by a group of local women also going to the falls. "How cute," I think. "The locals also come here for afternoons of leisure." It is a gradual 30 minute descent and the women warn us to be careful and go "slowly, slowly". One of the women is 8 months pregnant and yet she flits down the naturally-worn steps like a feather from the sky. She takes my hand at the especially steep steps and acts as a brace. I try to refuse her assistance. I can surely get down a hill without the help of a flip-flop wearing, pregnant woman. "It's okay. It's okay." I try to assure her but she doesn't relent. How can I argue?

When we reach the falls, these lovely women try to sell us sodas. Oh!!! So they're not carrying picnic supplies in the cylindrical coolers on their backs. They're not having a day of leisure. They're working. How naive of me. This is why they stayed so close. Nevertheless, I choose to feel that their concern was primarily genuine. I could just as easily feel used, conned, hornswoggled. But it is a beautiful day, the sight of the falls is gratifying and I'm thristy. I touch each can of cheap, local brands searching for the coldest beverage and happily hand over my $.80. Their work for the day is complete.

At the falls a youth group is having an event. I can tell it's a youth group by the speeches, alcolades and Kumbaya-type songs.

Boys in daiper-like, rolled-up longyis swim in the chalky, light blue waters. The girls, fully dressed in jeans and long sleeves, shriek wildly as they splash handfulls of water on one another.

The soda women lead us back up the hill, this time taking a more precipitous but direct route. When we stop to catch our breath, the women fan us with large leaves. Emma, Jay and I are all very uncomfortable being fanned by "the natives". We beg them stop.

Near the top, the soda women stop and wait for their next potential customers. Their work day is not over. They don't ask us for money. We don't offer. Thank yous and good-byes seem to suffice.

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In the morning while purchasing coffee and coissonts, I watch women stand outside their shops and homes combing their long black hair. The streets slowly awaken to a cool, overcast day. Emma, Jay and I take a horse-drawn, elaborately painted carriage to the train station.

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HSIPAW

I am finally getting my train ride. The journey from Pin U Lwin to Hsipaw (pronounced Sipo) is the most popular in the country, due to the famous Gokhteik Viaduct. Built in 1901 by the Pennsylvania Steel Company, this British designed bridge traverses a 990 ft deep gorge and is considered an engineering masterpiece. It is the second highset viaduct in the world. The government, with an unwarrented sense of paranoia and self-importance, prohibits photography.

The train approaches the viaduct slowly. Switchbacks ease the declivity from the mountain top. With the bridge outside the opposite window, I lean over a French couple and start snapping photos. A soldier appears out of nowhere. "No pictures." So they're serious about this. I sit down and turn off my camera, wondering if the soldier would be able to navigate my camera's interface and delete the photos. I get a couple good shots which will be sold to the highest bidder, though I'm not sure who has a grudge against Myanmar, besides it's own citizens.

The train stops at each small town where vendors sell food and water through the windows. We buy yams on a stick for lunch.

Cherie, who was too scared to take the train over the gorge, has headed in the opposite direction. Emma, Jay and I have picked up a new 4th: Valerie of France. We arrive in Hsipaw in the afternoon and make our way to the renowned Mr. Charles Guest House.

Mr. Charles has earned his reputation by taking travelers on various outings around Hsipaw. He is a charming, engaging man. He loves that I lived in Taiwan and tests my Chinese. Oh. This is embarrassing. But I recite the animals of the Chinese Zodiac. Good enough. Mr. Charles' father came from China in the 1950s, met his mother and never left.

On our first morning, we set out with Mr. Charles for the countryside. He points out the various types of crops and flowers. When the government insisted that everyone grow rice, the locals adhered to this ridiculous edict by planting rice only as far as an official could see from the road. Further out in the fields, they continued to grow the crops that thrive in this area.

We stop for tea at a family home that used to be a mill. The floor is compacted dirt, the thatched roof has sections that have worn away and will be replaced before the rainy season starts. We all ask if we should leave money but Mr. Charles encourages us to give "gifts". I search my backpack from something appropriate. Allergy medicine? No. Lip gloss? No. Tampons? A big no. Oh, here are some batteries. Those could come in handy. The Swiss boys have brought postcards of their home country. The matriarch is thrilled. She thinks that Zurich is a huge city, what with the towering 4 story buildings. These Swiss guys have made us all look like chumps. Without ceremony, I leave the batteries on the table.

Along the way, we are shown a genuine noodle factory, not created nor intended for tourists. We see the candle making factory, the town blacksmith and basket weaving groups, the later reminding me of American sewing circles, the women sitting together talking about their no-good husbands who spend all their time at the bar (or tea shop in this case).

Another tea break is on the edge of a watermelon field. The watermelon crops in the area are funded by Chinese and the harvest will be brought back to China. We sit with the Chinese workers who are smoking cigarettes out of a 3 foot bamboo bong. These water pipes are also used to smoke Kacoo, the resin from Opium.

At dinner every traveler in town sit around one table at Mr. Food's Restaurant. Mr. Food, a happy little man, seems to be the only Asian that can add without the use of a calculator.

It's tap beer and travel talk. Emma and Jay talk of their international love predicament. She can't work in the US. He can't work in the UK. Finally someone has the nerve to suggest the obvious. "Why don't you guys just get married?" Silence. "Or break up," I suggest. Both options seems to scare the bejesus out of them.

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EVERYBODY LOVES A BOAT RIDE

Today Mr. Charles is taking us on a boat ride. About an hour upsteam we disembark and make our way uphill. The path leads through pineapple and papaya plantations. I have never seen a pineapple plant before. Why did I think they grew on trees?

At a monastery, monks serve us tea and pineapple. We sit in a circle and Mr. Charles talks about the history of the Shan State. When Myanmar opened up the country to widespread tourism in 1995, forced labor stopped in many, but not all, areas of the Shan State. Hsipaw used to be all forced labor. According to Oren (Israeli), 70% of the tourists in those first three years beginning in 1995 were Israeli. Oren also insists and Israelis are the ones that named the Mr.s of Hsipaw: Mr. Food, Mr. Book, Mr. Bean. I have found no other sources to confirm or deny these proclamations.

Ack. Isn't this boring? What is a perfect day for me is, unfortunately, less than exciting story telling. I'll have to work on that.

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Tonight it's a semi-homemade group dinner. Even though every vege shop in town has closed, Oren manages to procure a large bag of avocados, lemons and onion. Israeli ingenuity. He makes guacamole and we buy Indian roti and chick pea sauce (it's almost hummus). Everyone at the guest house sits around the outside tables for a family style dinner. The anomaly of the evening is a nice touch and adds to the warmth and serenity that now characterizes our time in Hsipaw.

--------------------------------

For the past 19 days it has been Go Go Go. I'm carrying around a fat, hard-back book I've barely had time to crack. At night I'm so exhausted that I read 3 sentences are fall into heavy sleep.

The beds in Myanmar rank #1 on the Asian comfort scale. Soft yet firm mattresses and soft pillows. At Mr. Charles, I have an overly elevated queen size bed with heavy blankets. I snuggle in and feel like a princess.

With thoughts of sleeping in and an afternoon nap, I take the day off. My goal...sit on my ass. My exercise...turn pages.

At Black House Coffee, I order a real latte. And even though I'm propped on the deck overlooking the river with a book in my lap, the eccentric Aussie owner, a self-proclaimed "square peg in a round hole", comes and yaps at me. Deprived of native English conversation, are we? I am far from interested in her story and less keen in retelling mine. Clyde, an older American gentleman from my guest house, joins us and now I'm sandwiched between these garrulous geriatrics talking about landscaping.

I seek solitude back at the guest house. Everyone is out for the day riding bikes or looking for the popcorn factory. The mezzanine beckons, with promises of a warm beer and a cool breeze.

Part 9 - Mandalay and Around, Myanmar

2006-03-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

THE ROAD TO MANDALAY

Cherie, Laurent, Stinus and I are determined to have at least one train ride. The trains are remarkably slow so what would be a relatively short bus ride is the perfect opportunity to spend half a day on the train looking out the window.

We arrive at the train station 2 hours before departure time. We cannot buy tickets in advance. The Kalaw stationmaster will know if there are available seats only after the train leaves it's starting point. Alas, it is not to happen today.

Back on the main road we talk to a shop owner who makes a call and reserves us some seats on a bus that should arrive shortly. It is a 4 hour ride to Meiktila, the main junction to Mandalay, Yangon and all places east and west.

The minibus is packed with people, all of whom have vast quantities of stuff tucked under seats and tied to the roof. The people in the aisle sit on red, plastic stools. I am sitting in a single seat next to the door, which remains open the entire way. There isn't enough room for me to put my legs in. I'm too tall!!! One knee faces forward, under the railing and into the butt crack of one of the standing bus attendants. The other is in the aisle, being stabbed by the oddly sharp corner of a betel nut-chewing woman's bag.

The two bus attendants take turns sitting on the roof, changing places while the bus is in motion . For most of the ride I watch one of these guys spit his betel nut out the door, and wait to get splattered. I let him listen to my iPod for a while and wonder if he likes Manfred Mann's Earth Band and Patty Griffin. After some time I notice that there's a dead chicken sticking out of the bag under my seat. Oh no! Bird flu! Bird flu!

In Meiktila, 20 men are crowding around the bus door shouting "Mandalay, Mandalay" in our faces. We wave good-bye to Stinus, who is heading east and approach an official looking booth inquiring about the price to Mandalay. At the actual bus, it's double. Laurent is pissed off. He angrily refuses and walks away. The catch here is that there is no other bus to Mandalay. A bus will sit there until it fills. Once it leaves, then the next bus takes its place. Cherie negotiates an acceptable price. But the bus guys are ornery. They throw something at Laurent as he's walking to get water. I am in the bus and see the whole thing. I scold the culprit, speaking plainly as if to a child. "No okay! No nice!" He tries to blame a 10 year old boy who thinks it's cool hanging out with the big boys. I shake my head and look at him like my parents used to look at me when they knew I was full of shit. After 11 days in Myanmar, this is my first encounter with such virulent behavior and will, thankfully, be an isolated incident.

I have chosen the very back, middle seat, thinking that this will at least give me some leg room for the 5 hour ride to Mandalay. To my extreme disappointment, my little plan backfires. As the space between benches is too small for most Myanmar people as well, the passengers on either side of me place one leg into the aisle, squashing my knees together. I later discover that the back bench also has far less padding. My bum quickly falls asleep and I continuously alternate my crossed legs, allowing one butt cheek at a time to recover.

After the dinner stop the courage of our fellow passengers raises to the level of their curiousity. The questioning begins. The young gentlemen sitting next to are civil engineers. "So you're the ones responsible for this road," I think. I can smell their betel nut breath and pray they don't use any "p" words. The extol the beauty of their country and ask me where I've been. They also clue me into some local prices. 100 kyat for an orange. I knew that orange vendor was trying to rip me off.

Cherie and Laurent are near the front of the bus, no doubt having the same conversation with their neighbors.

We arrive on the outskirts of town. A taxi driver actually climbs in the back window of the bus to ask me where I'm going. "I'm not going anywhere until I smoke a cigarette, buddy."

The truck-taxi itself is similar to a British Mini, except really frickin' old. There is the cab and there is the back which has the usual benches along the sides. The rear seats 4 uncomfortably. I ride in front. Every piece of interior that can come off has. There is barely any metal left separating the cab from the engine. Fumes pour into the cab. The little thing chugs down the road. It's like those commercials where the old lady is driving in the fast lane and everyone is passing her giving her the finger. My vibrator has more horsepower.

These little blue monsters are one of the few types of vehicles that have left-side steering. Most cars have right-side steering, as do the buses. However, the country drives on the right side of the road. When you get off the bus, you step out into the middle of the street. So, the cars are remnants from British Rule. No one car afford new cars. But the government has abandoned all British customs.

MANDALAY

Mandalay - what a romantic, poetic sound. The name alone conjures up exotic images of grandeur. Unfortuenately, it is no more than a dirty, dusty, noisy shithole. The roads are poorly paved, the sidewalks speckled with open trenches and filled with the crap that oozes out from small shops. The intermittent electricity is sustained through the use of generators which create a constant, annoying drone all over the city and especially outside of my hotel room. Trishaw drivers beg for your business. Clean, well-dressed, old ladies beg for money. And for the first time in Myanmar, people stare.

There is little charm, little character.

But my hotel room has a bathtub. After our day on the bus, a bath is in order and a rare travel treat. The water is only slightly yellow, but hot.

The complimentary breakfast at the Nylon Hotel consists of cold eggs, cold toast and cold tea. One morning we watch the waiters refold the cloth napkins they had just removed from our table. I call to them. "Hey, she (pointing to Cherie) just ACHOO (pointing to napkin)." What do they think people do with napkins?

SIGHTSEEING

We hit the big sites on our first day. The walk to the east entrance of the Royal Palace is long and on the way we stop at the luxurious Sedona Hotel. Another expensive drink in a comfortable, air-conditioned settings. We eye the guests suspiciously. Who are these people? What are they doing here? Why are they wearing dress shirts?

The Royal Palace is somewhat of a let down. It burned to the groud sometime during WWII and has been completely rebuilt, but to a far lesser degree of elegance and workmanship. The most interesting item on display is the very handy gilded chin rest. I think this could sell big back in the states. In the king's bedroom, a palace employee is asleep on the royal bed.

The once venerable palace is now covered in dust. No one cleans the floors. No one cares. Soldiers live outside the palace proper, but within the palace walls. They cultivate their own gardens to suppliment their meager wages.

Laurent and I take the long way up Mandalay Hill. We opt to walk rather than pay a taxi pick-up $7 to go the one mile. Shoes are prohibited as is the case at all pagodas. Except here the stares and floors are filthy. Absolutely filthy! There are several levels to the climb. At each level is a Buddhist shrine, usually protected in a locked cage. At each level we think we've reached the top. Nope. Another 20 minutes to go. The ubiquitous vendors line the stairways. The vendors have set up make-shift shacks where it looks like they live.

A palm reader has a sitting area on one of the levels nearer the top. Someone had told me about this guy. I stop and look at him. "4000 kyat," he says. "1000 kyat," I reply. Deal.

His fabrications are wrapped in good news, most of which I can't remember. His accent is difficult to understand. He says something about my second lover being the "one". Well now! We're a couple decades too late on that second lover. Let's change the word "lover" to "love". Ah, that's better. There's still hope.

At the top of the hill I am less than awe struck. What I was imagining to be a vast area of grass and trees is a small tiled area coverd in dirt and bird shit and partially under construction. The sky is hazy brown and it's impossible to see to the horizon. I don't bother with pictures.

Laurent and I go to the parking lot and try to hitch a ride down the hill with a tour group. A Swiss tour group loads into the back of a truck. I ask if we can get a ride. They invite us along. But then thier local guide says no. We can't ride down with them. The Swiss apologize. Maybe I'm being too American here, but I would say that the tour group, the paying customers (Yep, that's American), can decide for themselves who they'd like to give a ride to. If I were them, I would have spoken up. Such passivity coming from a group of adults! The Suitcase Brigade does not take responsibility for themselves. "'Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind."

------------------------

Our favorite restaurant is the Indian corner cafe. This posh little treasure uses plastic chairs and folding tables and opens when the shops clear their crap off the sidewalk, which acts as the restaurant floor. We drink sweet chai and eat chicken biriyani, minced chicken wrapped in a thin pancake and fried, and banana prepared the same way.

(I will later be shown an even better Indian corner cafe with a different group of people. This place has the best roti in the entire country.)

Our waiter is Bido. Sixteen year-old Bido looks. Besides what's on the menu, his English is non-existant. He works hard. He is polite, quick, efficient. Needing someone to take a group photo we teach Bido how to use a digital camera. It is clear that this is the first time he's ever touched one. I do a couple practice shots with him, illustrating how to get the people in the center of the screen. I put my finger over his finger over the shutter button. Halfway...beep...go. We laud a job well done but he doesn't seem pleased. He is reserved, maybe even a bit scared. Indeed, technology can be a frightening thing.

Ashi is a local man and friend of the owner. Our first night at the "Indian Corner" he helps us order and assures us that there are no "tourist prices" here. He is a delightful, friendly man. If only his teeth weren't stained red and erroding from betel nut. In the middle of sentences he leans to one side and spits in the gutter. Uummm. Yummy.

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DAYTRIP TO SAGAING, INWA & AMANAPURA

Cherie meets another lone traveler at our hotel who she says "seems lonely". She congenially invites him along on our daytrip. Paul, from Canada, seems to be a strange bird. We'll see how this goes.

Sagaing is a religious center, as it has been for centuries. Across the Inwa Bridge from Mandalay, it is home to over 600 nunneries and monasteries. The hillsides are enshrouded in pagodas.

We climb to the top of one paya (another word for pagoda). The resident monk is pushy and won't stop asking for money. Again, the behavior of some monks in this country is not what one would think of as pious and far from enlightened. A monk isn't a common beggar. Yet, here is seems as if joining a monastery is the best career option one has. You are fed and clothed and housed. And it certainly doesn't keep you from chasing life's little pleasures: smoke, drink, women.

The former capital of Inwa used to sit at the confluence of the Ayeyarwaddy & Myint Nge rivers. However, the 14th century King Thado Minbya had a canal dug to connect the Myint Nge and Myint Tha, and, thus, create an island safe from enemy attacks.

We take a wooden boat across a narrow section of river. Horse-drawn carriages await the constant flux of tourists. Due to Laurent's obvious and futile crush on Cherie, Paul has no other choice but to follow me into of the the carriages. He doesn't have much to say. It's hot and I am tired of looking at ruins. Inwa does have one stop that's out of the ordinary: an old teak monastery. It is a working school as well, and a group of children sit on the floor in front of low desks by some open doors, using the natual light to read.

Laurent and I do another climb to the top of another structure, this one being the 90 foot high Leaning Watch Tower of Inwa that was damaged (that's the "leaning" part) in the massive 1838 Earthquake.

Okay, another old temple. I'll stay here and play hacky sack with the kids. Oh, how sad. Their hack has no beans!

Back at the taxi park, we eat lunch while our guide is off somewhere taking his afternoon nap. We are all exhausted from the heat and sit silently. Except Laurent. He's never silent. He tells flight attendant horror stories: Having to lay on the floor of the bus for the hour long ride from the airport to the hotel in Congo; Police-escorted deportees who shit themselves; Subduing crazy passengers who try to open the hatch. He shows us his synthetic knife (metal-detector proof) that he carries at all times. "I'm not waiting for ze terrorist to keel me!"

I tilt one side of my plate of friend rice up and let the copious amounts of grease slide to the opposite side of the plate. I eat the rice from the top, leaving the bottom, oil-soaked layer untouched.

Paul, on the other hand, eats like a starving orphan, all five fingers gripped tightly around the fork, palm-side down.

Our last stop is U Bein's Bridge, the longest teak bridge in the world. I thought it would be bigger. "Elevated walk way" is a more accurate description, though it doesn't flow off the tongue as nicely. There are sections of the bridge that have no railings. This is not the place to anger anyone.

Finally, we're going home. The four of us deftly alternate legs and feet back into the blue mini-taxi. Paul's feet are moist and dirty. How is this possible? The rest of us have dry, reasonably clean feet. Cherie, who invited him, barely talks to him. Urbane Laurent doesn't speak to Boorish Paul at all. Laurent continues his one-man show for Cherie. I am pained. The time has come for a day of solitude.

As we near our hotel, the taxi driver pulls over to put his shirt back on.

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OTHER THOUGHTS AND OBSERVATIONS

Women wear towels on their heads, I would assume for lack of a fashionable scarf. But they all look like the just got out of the shower.

One of my trishaw drivers learned English in 3 years by watching American action movies.

No beggar ever says "Thank You". They don't say it to local people either, so it's not a language thing. Beggars in the States say "Thank You". Why don't they do it here.

What I call "The Longyi Ball Tuck": men take the extra cloth from the middle of their longyis and, with a quick bend of the knees, tuck it under their testicles, where it stays put. A little perspiration protection, no doubt.

Part 8 - Kalaw & Pindaya, Myanmar

2006-02-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

I have learned 6 phrases in Burmese. I say Burmese because Myanmarese just doesn't work.

Mingala ba - greetings (No exactly "hello")
Chee zu tin ba day - thank you very much
Chee zu bay - thanks
Show ba - discount
Me minha ladhay - You have a beautiful face (Then I ask if I can take their picture.)
Shi may - I pay? (Say this in a sing-song way or it can sound rude.

If you want to get the attention of the restaurant servers you can also make a kissing sound. Psychologically, male travelers have a hard time with this.
-----------------------------

KALAW

Cherie and I get a taxi a half hour further down the road then requested because the driver happens to live there. In Heho, the driver drops us off on some random corner. He tells the owners of the corner restaurant where we are going and asks them to help us catch a bus. Everyone in the neighborhood gets involved in this. A man runs home and brings his child back, wanting to get her photographed. The child is not happy about this but the father seems pleased with the outcome.

The digital camera has had a great impact on traveling. That you are able to immediately show the subject a picture of himself is a wonderful and tangible thing.

While Cherie and I sit at the restaurant, a man stands on the street keeping a look out for the bus. He flags it down and helps us carry our packs across the street. What kind-hearted people. This would not happen in Cambodia. On the bus, a military medic tells us how much the ticket should be, obviously unaware that there's this thing called "tourist price".

The ticket taker is adamant about the tourist price. We gave it a shot. Like many Asian countries, the bus driver does not deal with money. There is another employee who collects fees while the bus is moving. This saves time and increase employment opportunities.

Kalaw is a quiet, peaceful place that was a popular hill station in the British days. It is also the starting point for treks into the surrounding mountains.

Mr. Chain (56 years old) is our guide for the next 2 days. We have invited another traveler from our guest house to join us - Stinus from Denmark. On the way out of town we stop by Mr. Charles' home where he introduces us to his daughter and grandson. His nephew, Joe, a college student and trekking guide in training, also joins us. This has turned into a little party.

It is 12 km to our first stop, the village of Nyaung Gone. The mountains are brown and bare. The trees have long been cut down. In the distance I hear yelling. Mr. Chain points to men on the opposite mountain side. With the harvest season over, they are hunting. In a vertical line down the mountain side, the men make yelping sounds to scare animals away from them. The animals then run towards hunters lying in wait. Brilliant.

In Nyaung Gone, Mr. Chain takes us to the local monastery where he and Joe cook us a lunch far exceeding my expectations. Rice, noodle soup, fresh avocado with lemon and salf and peanut brittle. He then lays pillows on the floor and tells us to nap for a while. Feet away from Buddha.

The village is populated by the Palaung people. They live way the hell up here where there's no water for fear of malaria. They also cut down all their trees for firewood. They neither grow nor eat vegetables. They have short life spans. Mr. Chain calls them narrow-minded.

During the second half of the day we walk through other Palaung villages. Multiple families live in long houses, which are one-room, long houses. In one village, the children of the different families didn't get along, so they cut out the middle and made individual houses.

We are spending the night at "View Point", a thriving little business owned by a Nepalese man. This man made his way to Myanmar on foot. He has no passport and cannot go back to Pohkara to see his family. But he has created a wonderful place here, complete with flower gardens, vegetable gardens, and his own cows. For tourists, he provides comfortable beds, warm blankets, a chill spot to watch the sunset, dinner, breakfast and horrible homemade rice wine.

We are fed a great Nepalese meal and must beg them to stop filling our bowls. After dinner our host pulls out a guitar and asks if anyone plays. It's his guitar but seems to be for the benefit of his guests. The consumate host. I haven't picked up one guitar in this country that is in tune. This particular one has black, finger-shredding strings and a low E string incapable of being tuned. More rice wine and who will notice. Our host asks me if I know any John Denver. "I don't know. Let's see." I totally bust out "Country Roads", having never played it before. Genetic Gill talent. I didn't even realize I knew all the words. Myanmar people love John Denver.

Outside the sky is unbelievable. I know it's such a cliche to say blanket of stars. But... Us city folk forget how many there are up there. It has been years since I have seen a sky like this. To quote the Koa San Road and surfer favorite, Jack Johnson: "There were so many fewer questions when stars were still just the holes to heaven." It just isn't possible to talk about stars without sounding cheesy.

The next morning we are served fresh chai. We all ask for more. Oh, what's taking so long? They're actually milking the cow. Awesome.

The hiking today is through lush country. This area is populated by Dann people. They keep their trees for shade and water flow. They grow vegetable. They are clean. Mr. Chain is Dann. Oh, I get it now.

We eat lunch at friends of Mr. Chain. He brings them supplies, but more importantly, the sports page. The husband has the whitest teeth I've ever seen.

Coming back into Kalaw, children give flowers to me and Cherie. How cute. Where did they learn this?

--------------------------------

Laurant is a Belgian flight attendant (not gay). We meet him and other lone travelers in front of our guest house back in Kalaw. Laurent is ecstatic that he has finally met other single people. "Fuck couples!" He has been on a 3 day trek from Inle Lake. He alone hired his own guide, but there were two other couples on the same path. A dinner he sat by himself, eyes looking up in wonder, thumbs twiddling, waiting for someone to ask him to join them. In fact we 5 are the first single people he's met in his 2 weeks in Myanmar.

After dinner we all go to a bar that is rumored to have guitars all over the walls. Okay, there's one guitar. And this is the smallest bar in the world. As women never come in here, the bathroom contains one urinal. The bathroom door has a window so you can see the man's back as he takes a leak. Charming.

Once again, I am super cool guitar playing chick. Not that I'm great or anything but standards are low. I do every song I learned in my first 3 years of playing. Thus, it is dated. Nobody would know the stuff I play now. It's not mainstream. The owner asks me how old I am. Cherie, the sweetie, tries to cover for me saying that I just like old songs. But I fess up. I'm not ashamed. I'm 31. Kidding. I tell the truth. But come on, Van Morrison is classic. How can you not know "Moondance". Shawn Colvin would just be wasted on this crowd.

One patron says he's never seen a woman play so well. Talk about government oppression. No satellite dish on his roof. All his extra cash goes for beer. Priorities!

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PINDAYA

Laurent joins me and Cherie for our day trip to the famous caves of Pindaya. The guest house has assured us that public transport will be plentiful as it is market day.

We hop a local bus to the Aungban junction leading to Pindaya. Then we wait and wait and wait. Where's all this public transport we've heard so much about. Laurent takes the initiative and finagles us a ride with a watermelon delivery truck. Cherie and I sit in the large cab with 3 local men - 2 drivers and the English speaking gentleman. Laurent has been exiled to the top of the truck. It takes almost an hour and a half to go the 30 miles to Pindaya. These thoughtful men ask us where we would like to be dropped off. They even slow the truck so that I can take a picture of the "Welcome to Pindaya" sign.

We are let off at the base of the mountain leading to the caves. Laurent climbs down from the truck, hay sticking out of his clothing and hair, rubbing his bum. "Watermeloms weren't too comfortable, huh?"

It is a arduous climb up the 400 steps to the cave entrance. Our legs are sore and heavy from the recent trek and we stop every 50 steps or so. Most people come in cars, tourist buses or private taxis and vans. There is a parking lot adjacent to the cave entrance. Today we are envious of The Suitcase Brigade.

As we buy our tickets, a local family of 30 people exits from the "I'm a cream puff" elevator. We are now behind 30 people kowtowing and snapping shots of the capacious cavern. Over 8000 Buddhas fill the various cave chambers. They have recently been painted red and gold, the thought being that this is an improvement. It is a fascinating sight, though somewhat amusement parky.

After days of walking up and down hills, Cherie's knee is now throbbing. We go to the parking lot hoping to hitch a ride down the hill. She approaches a van of tourists and starts talking. Oh, no. They're French. "Je parle Francais." We point to Laurant. Laurent plays up Cherie's injury wonderfully, so much so that the group's guide takes out his medical kit and gives Cherie his only elastic bandage. They drive us down the hill and leave us at the weekend market.

I am tired and I think that the fresh, unpasturized cow milk from the previous morning didn't agree with me. I don't want to look at the market. Let's find a taxi and go home. Of course, now that we want to pay for a taxi, there are no taxis to pay. There is one public transport pick-up truck bound for the Aungban junction. It's filling up.

"When do you leave?" we ask.

"3 o'clock."

"That's in 2 hours. Why are people getting in the truck now?"

Local people will sit in this crowded, breezeless flatbed so that they won't have to sit on the roof or hang off the sides. We try to hitch hike. That doesn't work. We try to flag down other tourist vehicles. That doesn't work. We join the locals.

I pay an extra 200 kyat for a seat in the cab. As I wait, the only fat woman in the country walks by and gets in the back of the truck. I know that she will be sitting on Laurent and Cherie. I just know it. Oh the guilt of riding shotgun.

A local woman joins me in the cab. She opens her notebook and asks me my name. I write it down. She then writes some numbers and signals me to write the English word. I make her a 1-10 chart and go through the pronunciation of each. This is as much as we're able to communicate, but it's enough.

The driver, a broad, light-skinned, young man, finally gets in the cab and starts the engine. Ten minutes after leaving the market, the pick-up stops at a market! People buy snacks and the proprietors bring out cups of tea, which the passengers quickly quaff down. My seat mate offers me some deep fried grease. It has no taste. No salt. No sugar. Just grease. My fingers are coated. As politely as possible, I place the...thing...on the dashboard, making a slightly disgusted face. I offer her and the driver some soy beans, hoping they will understand my preference for natural foods. (Coffee and tortilla chips are natural foods, right?)

The pick-up is so weighted down it is barely able to chug up the ever-so-slight inclines. An hour and a half later we arrive at Aungban and immediately get a $5 taxi back to Kalaw.

-----------------------

At dinner Laurent and I marvel over the Myanmar bottle opener: a small piece of wood with a flat head bolt through one end, though not flush with the wood, and held on by a nut. Hook the bolt under the bottle cap and pull up. Voila!

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With everything going so well - having a great time, meeting nice people - my stories are becoming increasingly boring. I did this, then I did this, then I did this. BORING! Am I due for some hardships? Stay tuned... (Ya see that? That was a hook!)

Part 7 - Yangon & Inle Lake, Myanmar

2006-02-14T00:01:00.000-08:00

Aung San Suu Kyi (daughter of independence movement leader Bogyoke Aung San who was assassinated in 1947) and Susan Sarandan (famous American actor and activist) condemn tourism in Myanmar, as it provides legitimacy and income to Myanmar's ruling military regime.

Others believe the path to political reform involves friendly diplomatic pressure. While most western countries have sanctions against Myanmar, there are plenty of countries who seize the
opportunity to exploit the land's natural and human resources.

It is a deliberate decision each traveler must make.

While the oppresive and corrupt government does benefit from tourism, 80% of travel dollars go to private citizens. While travelers are barred from areas where forced labor still occurs, the opening up and expansion of tourism has been and continues to be the impetus for the
cessation of forced labor in many communities. Blocking tourism also keeps locals isolated from international witnesses to internal oppression, which may aid the regime's ability to rule.

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The plane is descending over patches of stark brown farm land. Where are all the trees? Isn't this place supposed to be tropical? The change in cabin pressure combined with my hangover (Bangkok - need I say more.) has me chewing gum and taking slow deep breathes. There must be some empiracal evidence correlating the degree of excess of the unplanned evening with having to do something important the next day (like catching a flight or taking the SATs). Ten more minutes and we're on the groud. Then it's straight to an air-conditioned hotel room.

The arrivals hall has roll-away desks set up for the immigration officials. There are no electronics of any kind. They're writing things down. With paper! And pens! I look at the other passengers from the flight and think, "Oh my g-d! What am I doing here?" I am alone.

Outside, the expected surge of taxi drivers surround me like sperm. The only other single person IN THE WORLD and I look at each other simultaneously. "Do you want to share a taxi?" we say simultaneously. "Where are you staying," we ask simultaneously. "The White House Hotel," we answer simultaneously.

Cherie (Aussie from Brisbane) and I do the normal chit chat on the 20 minute ride into Yangon. How long are you blah blah blah. Where have you blah blah blah. What do you blah blah blah. Interesting looking blah blah blah.

At the White House Hotel, which is actually red, there are no more air-conditioned rooms available. Instead, I am staying in a closet on the 8th floor (no elevators mind you) with the bathroom down the hall.

YANGON

After a shower (due mostly to the trek up the stairs) and a quick nap I venture out onto the streets.

This is so much like India. This is my first thought. The variations in the types of people you see: body size, skin tone, facial features. Cars shoot out dark exhaust. The buses are filled far past capacity. Besides the few upscale tourist hotels, buildings don't extend beyond 10 floors, and these are all covered in black grime running down from eaves and window sills. Vendors line the sidewalks selling fruit, samosas, sunglasses and posters of Avril Lavinge. The women are
dressed modestly. However, most men wear "longyis", which is essentially a sheet wrapped around the waist and tied in front. And it becomes qucikly evident that it is impossible to buy a longyi that matches any shirt.

With map in hand, I head towards Shwe Dagon Pagoda, the largest and most impressive in the world. At one ponit walking up Shwe Dagon road, I am politely asked by a soldier to walk on the other side of the street. Okay. Walking in front of military compounds is not allowed.

Emerging from the covered stairway onto the pagoda floor, all eyes are drawn upwards. The sun shimmers and reflects off this upside-down margarita glass. Buddhist chanting is amplified through the air. It is magical, fairytale-like.

I harken and behold. Ahh. This is what I'm doing here!

And who disrupts my spiritual trance? Monks. Powada and Tharthana request a few minutes of my time to practice their English. I speak slowly. They speak enigmatically. "Look at me. puh. puh. puh Lips together." Monks get free English lessons. But the conversation progresses. "No, I'm not married. No, I don't know why." They tell me that I'm too beautiful not to be married. What? Huh? Are these monks flirting with me? This is a new one. "Okay, well. I have to go now. Nice meeting you. Bye."

Walking clockwise around the rest of Shwe Dagon (always walk around pagodas clockwise) there are Buddhas in every corner and alcove. Some are decorated with blinking lights mounted behind their heads somewhat like a halo, but more like a Buddha carnival.

A young boy in a Superman outfit is ringing a large bell.

It is dark when I start back for my hotel. I'm not sure if I should be worried. But people seem to ignore me or give a quick smile. Crossing a pedestrian bridge a young man says hello and asks where I'm from. I am forcing myself to be open so I talk to him. I ask John (obviously a self-given western name) where to get good street food and he takes me to a nearby stand. He sits with me as I eat. He's not hungry. We talk about his life. He's from Thailand (Chaing Mai) and
moved to Myanmar with his father when he was young. He father dies some time ago and now he's a student. It's hard for him to find work because he doesn't have legal identification. Only a student card. His mother is still in Chaing Mai and he must illegally cross the border to visit her. His story is incongruous but I'm not sure if I'm misundestanding or he's deliberately trying to guilt me into offering him some cash. As he walks me back to my hotel he offers his services as a guide. I knew this was coming. I decline and give him 500 kyat (pronounced chat) - about $.50 - for his help.

The streets of Yangon are relatively safe, a by-product of the omnipresent military. While there are incidences of travelers falling victim to pick-pockets and petty robbery, violent crime against
tourists is a rarity.

I start my first full day in Yangon with the most important of errands - exhanging money. No one exchanges money at banks. The black market is the norm. The official exchange rate is about 6 kyat to the dollar, while the black market rate is 1000 kyat to the dollar.

At Bogyoke Aung San Market, I stroll through the aisles waiting to be approached. That takes about 30 seconds. I am offered 1120 kyat for a crisp $100 bill. Being that the hotel offered me 1080, I take this for a decent price. I follow the old man to a booth down a smaller aisle where he presents me with 112,000 kyat. I sit and count the 112 1000 kyat notes. Good to go. That way easy. I continue through the covered market where vendors sell jade, puppets, local clothing, jewelry boxes, hand-made purses, paintings. I could spend a lot of money here.

I then make my way to the nearest internet cafe. Because of government censorship, accessing websites like yahoo, hotmail and gmail is difficult, if not impossible. The internet staff helps me
set up an email account with a sanctioned provider - www.sailormoon.com. Sailormoon is a popular Japanese cartoon character. I have no idea what makes this free email provider
acceptable to the Myanmar government.

Many internet cafes use bypass programs to circumvent the government firewall. In reality, you can access any site you want. I find it hard to believe that no one in government is aware of this
work-around. It seems one of those things that is overlooked, not being worth the trouble of enforcing.

The Bagan Bookstore is said to have the best collection of English books. It is a narrow, dark shop on a quiet side street. I purchase a hard cover, photo-copied edition of The Glass Palace for $10. The owner, Htay Aung, sells the origianl for $30. Htay Aung shows me pictures of his recently deceased father, who was a renowned collector of rare books. Htay Aung is visibly proud of his father and still grieving.

There is a guitar leaning against the wall and I ask Htay Aung to play a song for me. We take turns playing Beatles songs. He shows me his favorite music CD: Joe Satriani and Steve Vai.

The Strand Hotel is, historically, the most elegant and exclusive hotel in Yangon. I walk around the lobby, sensing nothing that would warrent $400-900 per night. In fact, I am disgusted by the arrogance necessary in spending so much in a country where people subsist on $2 a day. In the jewelry shop I try on the most expensive ring - a garish diamond-encrusted monstrosity. In the bar, I order a $4 latte, served with biscuits (that's cookies for all you Yanks) and enjoy the
air-conditioning. The extent of my own tourist pretension doesn't go beyond ordering expensive drinks in nice hotels.

Walking back to my hotel I am approached by a smiling old woman. I immediately say "No thank you". She assures me that she isn't selling anything. Hard to believe. But she is vivacious, so I listen. Ethel is a tour guide with her "office" on the street next to the Baptist church. She shows me letters from past travelers (one being Adam Cohn from Seattle) and pictures of their excursions to Inle Lake and Mandalay. She charges $50 per week not including transportation and housing fees. Ethel is gregarious and charming. You cannot help but be engaged. He brown face shows her years and her belly protrudes, giving the first impression that she's pregnant. She gives a sly look and speaking out of the side of her mouth with one hand raised to indicate a secret, tells me that she'll talk about the political situation. I tell her that I'll think about it and invite her to meet me for dinner in a few hours.

Cherie and I take Ethel to a Chinese restaurent. We get lots of stares when we enter and I wonder if we've done something inappropriate, bringing a poor person into a regular restaurent.
Cherie and I share our dinner with Ethel, as she refuses to order anything, saying she isn't very hungry. Ethel tells story after story of all her experiences with travelers. Her type of talk is the kind where you needn't reply. She's just talking.

After dinner Cherie and I tell Ethel that we've decided to go it alone. While Ethel is a lovely woman, there is no way that I can listen to someone talk incessantly for a week. For her time, I give Ethel 2000 kyat ($2) which I imagine will feed her for 3 days.

Cherie and I then make our way to a bar/restaurant that has a live band every night. The band plays western covers and has 4 different singers that alternate. Their set list includes:

Take It Easy - Eagles
Gangster Paradise - Coolio
Staying Alive - Bee Gees
Hurt So Good - John Mellencamp
Material Girl - Madonna
Soldier of Forture - Deep Purple
When Your Gone - Brian Adams
Against All Odds - Phil Collins
We Will Rock You - Queen

One of the singers, a long-haired, tattooed "cool" guy, keeps giving Cherie the eye. We are giggling and can barely look towards the stage. Rodeo (that's his name) sends a note to our table asking for Cheries head scarf. We don't get it. But we're polite and invite him to sit down. Rodeo talks like John Wayne on speed. From what we can understand, he spent some years in New Jersey, but he can't explain why he would then choose to return to Myanmar. He hopes to make a political record in Bangkok. He says he knows a music producer. Um-hum.

When we leave the bar at 11pm, the center streets are all blocked off to through traffic. Something about curfews. We take the streets on the perimeter and wonder what the security issues could be.

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Kandawgyi Park is filled with strolling families, groups of young men playing guitar and young lovers hiding under umbrellas. The lake is surrounded by foot paths and gardens. Cherie and I stop and listen to one group of naughty looking boys. They are smoking Cheroot and
drinking what I take to be whiskey from a plastic bottle. I pretend to take a picture of the whiskey bottle and one boys shakes his head "no", clasping his wrists together and says "police".

That night we try out another live music venue, this time at Mr. Guitar Cafe. This is a nice place with large tables in the center of the room and couches lining the walls. Nobody is wearing longyis, the sign of a modern crowd. The three piece band plays classic rock and folk. Lots of Eric Clapton. Their rendition of Dust in the Wind is spot on. Cherie and I are the only people that applaude after each song. The band does a double-take.

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After 3 days in Yangon, I'm still trying to figure out what a typical Burmese face looks like. Some look Indian. Some Chinese. Some a mixture of both. There are 8 official national races but these can be sub-divided into over 100 distinct groups. Even after 4 week in the country, I will be unable to look at someone and say "Yeah, they're from Myanmar."

-------------------

INLE LAKE

It is a 17 hour overnight bus ride bound for Nyaung Shwe which sits on the shores of Inle Lake. There are 3 other tourists on the "tourist bus". Fortune has smiled down upon me. I have 2 seats to myself. This will be the only time this will ever happen, I'm sure. I pop antihistamines and sleep. The bus stops at 6pm, 10pm, 1am and 4am for food/bathroom breaks. At each stop every local person sits down for a full meal. I watch in amazement as they consume plates of greasy fried-rice and chicken curry. I resist the temptation to buy a Coke as it will keep me awake and make me have to pee.

One of the best meals I have is at one of these ramdom road-side restaurants. I sit with the other foreigners: a middle-aged German couple and an around-30 guy from Brooklyn. The New Yorker is a sweet man but not the fastest car on the lot. I judge him harshly because he doesn't know the meaning of "prerequisite". I freely admit that my vocabulary is far from impressive, and this is far from an erudite (I just looked that up) type word, so if someone doesn't know a word that I know, well, you get the point.

We arrive at the Nyaung Shwe junction at 5am. I take a taxi with the other travelers to the hotel at which Cherie has told me she'll stay. She was a wuss and paid the $80 to fly from Yangon. The taxi driver has to wake up the owners. I ask, "Do you have 3 rooms?" "Oh, yes,
yes." As soon as the taxi leaves the four of us are shown to 2 rooms. I tell them that I don't know this man and I'm not sharing a room with him. Brooklyn and the Germans unhesitatingly take the 2 rooms. Okay then. I'll just wait in the lobby until the sun comes up. I read my book by candlelight waiting for sunrise at which time I walk down the road looking for another guest house. This is not a big deal, as I'm in a small town and the next guest house is a short 5
minute walk.

I fall into bed at the Mingala Inn, dirt and all.

I force myself awake before the complimentary breakfast has finished. I sit on the second-floor outside deck. The sun is warm. The sky is clear. The streets are quiet. The pancake is yummy. The coffee-mix is...not real coffee. That's okay.

While unsuccessfully trying to get online (Where is Cherie?), a French girl invites me on a bike ride. We ride down the east side of the lake, stopping to talk with girls who are working in the sugarcane fields. They give us fresh sugarcare to suck on. Now they want my hair clip. Uh, I don't think so. I give them a couple oranges instead.

At the tiny village of Maing Thaul we walk out into a wooden foot bridge that will soon connect a floating village with the mainland. The workers ask us where we're from. They tease their friend by saying that he's from Korea. Everyone in Asia hates Koreans.

After some really bad deep-fried tofu and a hike to a hilltop stupa, it's a long and bumpy ride back to Nyaung Shwe. My bum is beginning to seriously ache. We pass 4 older American tourists who are walking and, thus, must be staying at the outrageously expensive Inle Princess Resort. They are probably paying $150 a night. I am paying $4.

Back in town, I take a walk checking in a couple guest houses looking for Cherie. A kiosk owner starts up a conversation and so I sit and have some tea with him. I am once again struck by the warmth of the local people. It's a mental switch, not thinking that everyone wants something from me. After some time his sister drives up with her fiance. They are beautiful and dressed in western attire. They met while attending the nearby university and are to be married the
following weekend. I am invited to the wedding but won't be able to stick around that long. What I will be missing is an afternoon of eating.

On my way back to my guest house I run into Cherie. It had to happen. This place is only so big.

The next morning Cherie and I go to the docks to hire a boat for a day on the lake. We split the $10 fee with a French couple. The male component of this couple doesn't speak any English. This seems to be commonplace with Froggies. But for a couple this means that the girl has to responsible for all communiation: planning, ticket buying, bargaining, food ordering. Hopefully she's a control freak.

The downside of the day is that we're taken to every tourist trap they can think up: silk-making factory, cheroot-making hut, paper-making hut, silver-making hut. Each stop invariably includes a walk through the giftshop. The last stop is the Jumping Cat Monastery. Here,
monks have trained cats to jump through hoops, literally. A crowd gathers around a monk, who feeds the felines catnip. The crowd, mostly large tour-group types which I call "The Suitcase Brigade", oohs and aahs as the cats do their thing. Another backpacker and I look at each other. "I don't know which is more disgusting?" he remarks. "Cats doing tricks or the reactions of the tourists." I nod in agreement. "If you get me high, I'll jump through hoops too."

What's equally as appalling is the amount of vendors in what should be a spiritual place. Monastery or shopping mall. Pick one.

The upside of the day is the floating villages. These communities are amazing. Rows upon rows of houses on stilts. Kids play outside on small wooden boats. You can ascertain the economic condition of the family by the size of the house and the material used to make it. Having a small plot of solid ground is equivalent to a 3 car garage, a swimming pool and maid's quarters. I am surprised to see satelitte dishes on many roofs. They don't use motorized boats in order to save
money on petrol, but they have cable. Priorities!

I wonder where the toilets are and where their waste goes. I ask our guide and he points to an outhouse. Okay, so poop goes straight into the lake. I think about the oceans of the world filling up with the poop of 6.5 billion people. The Poop-ulation.

Motoring back to Nyaung Shwe, the lake is calm and the sun is setting, highlighting the opposite mountians in purple and red. It is getting chilly and I wrap my sarong tightly around my shoulders, cozy and content...

Part 6 - Bangkok Refreshed

2006-02-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

Back in my home town of Camarillo, I go through the usual culture shock. Dinner for 3 costs $50! The nights are quiet. The streets are clean. No one is walking. Bar/Restaurants don't sell cigarettes. Strip malls create a nondiscript, sterile atmosphere. Everyone wears baseball caps. Asian people that speak perfect English. And all these white people! Out of habit, I keep throwing toilet paper in the trash can instead of down the toilet.

But I relish in the things that haven't been available to me in a long time:
Mexican food
Salad
Riding my bike
Great cheap coffee
A comfortable bed
A warm shower
Water pressure
A closet full of clothes
All my shoes
Bikram Yoga
Driving
People that know and love me
My sweet nephew, Noah

Cousin Danny's wedding was da bomb. An elegant, emotional, joyous affair that was worth every dollar and hour spent to get there I looked hot in my silk dress made in Bangkok. The Gill family closed the party down. Aged 3 to...really old, everyone was on the dance floor until the band unplugged. Of this I am exceedingly proud. My family knows how to celebrate.

But after 2 months with little to do except ride my bike to the coffee shop and gym I am more than ready to continue my journey. LAX to BKK feeling healthy, refreshed and excited.

-----------------

At 7:15am I am over an hour later in arriving at the Myanmar Embassy than was recommended by the travel agent at my guest house. There is a line of people sitting against a high cement wall. Curiously, the Thai woman selling fish-shaped waffles has a stash of visa application forms and glue stick. My wall mates and I glue our passport photos onto the forms and copy the address of a Myanmar guest house from the one girl who thought to bring an actual street address. It's better to give inaccurate information than to leave a blank space on the form.

It's almost 9am when the doors open. Each person signs the registration book, like this is a wedding reception. "Best wishes on gettng me my visa." Once inside I'm given the ticket number 25. Only 30 tickets are given out each day. If you don't get a ticket, you have to come back the next day.

There are hoards of people that have just arrived and are now waiting in line, not realizing that there is a ticket system in place and that the people seated in the waiting room have already been here for hours. They're in line wasting the time of the people behind the counter with their uninformed questions and pretty much garaunteeing that there will be no time to see poor person #30 before noon, when the frosted help window shuts tight untill the next morning.

But today the gods are smiling on me. A Thai man who is there with a stack of passports has to wait for another passport to arrive and wants to change tickets with me. I stare down at his #14 ticket in disbelief. I'm thinking it's a fake ticket and he's trying to swindle me. But it's real and I am obviously being rewarded for all the horrible things that happened to me back in September and October, which we don't think or talk about anymore because it's in the past and there's nothing we can do about it.

After 2 hours, number 13 is up. But what's this? Number 13 is 3 people, one of whom isn't ready with his forms. This sweaty, fat, old guy has manuvered his way onto line, hitching a ride off 2 naive Scandanavian girls. Drops of perspriation drip down his bald head as he frantically runs across the room in need of the all important glue stick.

Noticing the ticket loophole, an Israeli couple approaches me and asks if they can ride with me on #14 to visa heaven. As politely as possible, I explain to them that 3 people takes 3 times as long and if I were to do this I would simply be FUCKING everyone in front of them. At this point, it's quite possible that #25 won't even get in before the noon deadline. Sorry, but it just wouldn't be right.

I also explain this to the sweaty, fat guy who is still dealing with his paper work as my number is called.

"Sir, some of these people have been here since 6:30am."

"Well, you do what you can do", he replies.

"But wouldn't the world be a better place if sometimes we did what we SHOULD do?"

I think the woman behind the counter hears our exchange and refuses to help him.

-----------------

My visa is ready 2 days later and my flight is booked. Country #21.

Part 5 - Northern Cambodia and Laos

2005-11-20T00:01:00.000-08:00

Moving north towards the Laos border, I stop in the town of Kratie (pronounced Kra-chay). This is one of the few places where it's possible to view the soon-to-be extinct Irrawaddy dolphins. Dead infant dolphins have recently been found in the Mekong. Scientists predict that the dolphins will be extinct within 15 years unless new policy is established and enforced banning the international trade of the species. Fisherman use the fresh and salt-water dolphins to help herd fish into their nets, where the dophins often become entangled. Along with pollution and isolated breeding, the dolphins have little hope of survivial without immediate government interaction.

I arrive exhausted, as I seem to be all the time. I take a quick nap before the hotel wakes me for my 20 minute motodup ride up river to see the dolphins. I hop on the back of a motorcycle. There's another couple on the back of a second bike. As we're leaving the town center, there's a police checkpoint. A police officer motions for my driver to pull over, which he does not. A second officer 20 feet further up the road steps in front of us. We slow down. However, before we come to a complete stop, the first officer reaches us, almost pushes us over, takes the key out of the ignition and without even glancing my way, angrily walks away.

I'm slightly shaken up, more from the lack of control I always feel when I'm a passenger rather than the fact that this policeman nearly pushed an economy-boosting tourist from a moving vehicle.

"What's going on?" I ask. "Why did he do that?"

"The motorcycle isn't registered."

"Why not?"

"It costs $20."

"How can you get the key back?"

"Pay $2."

The driver pushes the bike to a nearby shop and they preceed to try to hotwire it.

After watching these guys fiddle with the ignition, I suggest that the other couple continue on and that someone call the hotel and get another motodup out here. No one has a cell phone. This is odd, as everyone in the country has cell phones.

Magically, somehow, a new key is produced. We start the bike and continue on.

Riding down a narrow, poorly-paved, one-lane road that runs along side the Mekong, I ask my driver to go slow. He laughs.

Finally at the "Irrawaddy National Park", we pay our entrance fees at a make-shift booth obviously started by locals looking to make some easy cash. I highly doubt that this is a government initiative, though I'm also sure that the police are happy to take their cut.

A small group of us board a long boat and we noisily proceed to the middle of the river and wait. Everyone is ready with camera in hand. The surface of the water is broken by the square heads of the dolphins. And down they go. What with the delayed reaction of the point-and-shot digital camera, there's no way I'm going to get a picture. We stay on the river for a half hour or so, watching to sun descend and waiting for a short glimpse of the top fourth of a dolphin head. "Don't they do flips or something?" It's a pleasant, relaxing afternoon, but Seaworld it ain't.

I skip dinner and go to bed early. I have no appetite, which is a rarity.

The next morning I awake to 50 dead cockroaches on my hotel room floor. They are the flying kind and will land on you in the middle of the night. I carefully tip-toe on clear spaces of floor, back my bag and go to meet a Dutch couple for a share taxi further north to Stung Treng. Chris, Karine and I share the back seat while 4 people ride in front. Yep, there are 2 people in the driver's seat. It is peddle to the metal all the way. Red dust coats our clothes, skin, tongues.

In Stung Treng Chris and Karine order breakfast at a riverside restaurant. I lay on a bench feeling nauseous and burpy.

Soon enough we board a speed boat for the hour trip to the Cambodia/Laos border. Now, when I say speed boat, I'm not talking Miami Vice, Charlie's Angels speed boat. I'm talking 3 feet wide, 15 feet long, 2 feet high. The seats are level with the bottom of the boat and one is only able to sit with knees folded up to the chin. But it does go fast.

We skirt along the top of the water, weaving through groups of trees that grow from the middle of the Mekong. The water is brown. The river is wide. I imagine Khmer Rouge hiding along it's banks. This is fun.

At the border, 3 boats of travelers pull up to the left bank where the Cambodian immigration shack sits perched at the top of a muddy incline. We patiently wait for the uniformed officer to stamp our passports. We then board the boat again and cruise to the opposite bank. We are now in Laos. We need to pay an extra overtime fee of $1 because it is Saturday.

There are 7 of us and a Belgian guy negotiates a ride in a large transport truck to the nearest town. The negotiation process is long, as there is one truck and the driver knows that we have no other choice but to pay the exorbitant fee. Jack is a savvy diplomat, but the driver ultimately drops us off at a point in the river 20 minutes further south than we had agreed upon. For me and the Dutch couple, this results in a higher price to reach the island of Don Det and the impossibility of the Belgians catching a bus to the next town north. They have no other choice but to go to Don Det for the night.

Don Det is one of what they call The 4,000 Islands. Electricity operates for approximately 3 hours a day. Mosquitos are abundant. Accomodations are basic.

While everyone else spends the rest of the day talking and drinking, I sleep in a stifling room. It has now been almost 2 weeks since I started feeling ill. My initial self-diagnosis of heat exhaustion or dehydration seems less plausible. But I push on, not feeling bad enough to spend an entire day in a room without fan or air/con.

The next day I take a walk around the island. At what looks like the community Buddhist temple, a huge festival is under way. Family and friends eat together, make offerings to Buddha, play sports and dance. Everyone smiles at me and happily lets me take their pictures. My guest house owner later explains that this is a roaming party, with different islands taking turns playing host.

I continue down the path that crosses the island. It is longer than I expect and the heat is gruelling. A tourist truck, not totally unlike the ones at Universal Studios, comes up behind me and I need to stand on the shoulder of the road to let it pass. Instead, I flag it down and join a small group of Thais on holiday. We are brought to one of several waterfalls that populate the island before returning to the Don Det docks. This is the common Asian tour. Get on bus, go to destination, take picture. Rinse and repeat.

While Don Det is beautiful, I gladly leave the next day with the Dutch/Belgian crew, hoping for respite from the heat in the next town.

It's a 2 hour drive north in a jumbo truck. Two chain-smoking monks sit opposite me. An old lady is chewing betel nut. Her teeth are solid lumps of black tar. Another women has just bought fish at the market and is spilling fish juice on everyone's feet. The truck is packed, with people sitting on the roof and hanging off the sides.

We are dropped off at the Champasak junction and must take a small wooden ferry across the river to reach this former capital. Champasak consists of one main street. The buildings are quiant and well-kept. Souchitra Guest House looks out onto the river and the distant mountains. It is cool (the temperature that is) and chill (the vibe that is).

I arrange a 5am tuk-tuk pick-up for the next morning so that I can see the sunrise from Wat Phu Champasak, as my Lonely Planet suggests. It is only as we approach the locked gates that I double check "The Book". Why would the authors suggest a sunrise viewing when the place doesn't open until 8am? But my tuk-tuk driver is resoureful. We go to the side entrance, wake up the grounds keeper and he not only lets us in, he takes me up the mountain side. This is, of course, not an act of altrusim. A tip is in his very near future. He's a kind man, though. He waits patiently while I take pictures of blades of grass and cracks in rocks.

Wat Phu Champasak is the most sacred site in Southern Laos. At one point it was part of the Angkor Empire and it's said that there is a road that leads straight to Angkor Wat.

That's it. One night in Champasak and I'm on the move again, thanks to the initiative of the Belgians. They have rented a boat to take us all 2 hours up river to Pakse. We try to play word games in the boat, but one girl doesn't speak English all that well. She is using French names for countries which often have different spellings. For instance, in French Uganda and Uzbekistan start with an "O". Germany starts with an "A". Chad starts with a "T". I ammuse myself with singing songs with the word "boat" in the title.

If I had a boat (Lyle Lovett)
Rock the boat (Hues Corporation)
Michael row your boat ashore
Row row row your boat

Okay, that's all I can think of.

Enjoying the fact that I haven't had to plan anything in days, I accompany the Belgians (along with some French and Germans) on an all day tour of the Boloven Plateau, the fertile plains north of Pakse. We visit coffee and tea plantation, both of which are grown in abundance in this area. At the tea plantation I ask where the lemon zinger tea plant is. Every single one of these arrogant fucks thinks I'm serious. Just another unrefined American.

I must mention that I am the only native English speaker in the group. Not really in the mood to talk, I have a good excuse to tune out the sound of their voices. When the different groups want to converse with each other, they use English. So, what I do get to listen to is a bunch of anti-Semites complaining about Israeli travelers. I am equally as sick of defending Israelis as I am of defending America so I keep quiet. I've had this conversation too many times. Yes, large groups of young Israelis can be loud and complaining and they're always trying to get a better price. But you never hear anyone complaining about Brits who drink themselves into oblivion but not before picking fights with anyone who walks by. Uhg! Fucking Nazis! I don't see any of them making friends with Israelis. Their limited observations are from afar. Nope. Everyone self-segregates. Except Americans. Last thing I want to do is hang out with a bunch of loud, complaining, wacko Americans.

American nut-job example: A man walks into an Indian restaurant and asks for Italian bread. This is a true story.

With the discomfort of my bloated stomach and the excrutiating pain of the skin boil that has been growing in my armpit since Sihanoukville, I decide to leave the French speakers and take an overnight bus to Vientiane, where I can recuperate in a cushy hotel room with a/c and cable. The bus ride is horrible. All through the night music keeps coming on, but only through the speaker directly above my head. The aisle is filled with people so there's no way I can get to the front of the bus to tell the driver to turn it off. Then, while in the bathroom the light goes off. I don't know where the switch is and I can't get out. I have no idea how I manage to finally open the door.

After two days in Vientiane with no change in my health, I go to the international medical clinic. I try to take a tuk-tuk, but when the driver quotes me a price more than double what I know it should be I start yelling at him. "I NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL AND YOU TRY TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME!!! WHAT KIND OF PERSON ARE YOU!!!" Of course I know what kind of person he is. He's the kind of person who wants to feed his family. He takes a shot, as chances are good that he'll come across a tourist who doesn't know any better. I know I'm in a bad state, as I only yell at these guys when I'm over-tired or ill.

I walk to the clinic. Two doctors look at my armpit and suggest that it's a spider bite, which I know it isn't. They prescribe amoxicillin and some other meds for my stomach. The combination of the meds give me such severe heartburn that I'm throwing up.

There are two English movie channels on cable. For 4 days straight not one movie is repeated. This is an amazing thing is Asia. They show every Rocky movie. It is my opinion that the Rocky / Adrian romance is one of the greatest movie love stories ever told. Dumb, good-hearted, street thug falls for shy, homely pet lover. You don't get more real than that.

I spend 10 days in that hotel room with my arm raised above my head trying to keep the now cigar-sized crater of an open wound clean and dry. My stomach has not improved and I am forcing myself to eat so that I can take the medication.

I have now come to a critial point. I can barely move my arm, making it difficult and painful to carry a backpack, let alone put on a bra. The medication has not worked. I have no choice but to spend the cash to fly back to Bangkok. No Northern Laos. No Vietnam. These things happen.

As soon as I get on the plane I feel better. The psychological relief of a good decision I suppose.

In Bangkok I go immediately to Mission Hospital, which has been recommended by Steve Goodman. In the waiting room are pictures of hospital scenes where Jesus is standing in the background. Jesus in the operating room behind the surgeon with one hand placed supportively on his shoulder. Jesus standing over a doctor who assiduously researches G-d's latest plague. Jesus standing with the family of a terminally ill patient.

I am entered into the computer system and given an ID card. The comfort of a modern, networked computer system far exceeds that of the "Jesus is watching over you" evangelism.

For my skin ulcer I see a dermotologist who informs me that amoxicillin (prescribed by the Laos doctor) is for sore throats, not skin infections. She prescribes the correct anti-biotic and says that if my wound doesn't improve within a week I will have to have a biopsy. Freak out #1.

The internist tells me that I may have hepatitis. Freak out #2. I give a stool sample (yuck) to check for parasites which comes back negative. I then have blood taken to check for hepatitis. I have to explain to the nurse that people are really bad at taking my blood and to please get it right the first time. I have never gotton over the paradox of taking myself to do something I despise so much. If my mother isn't pushing me down the hallway, why don't I just turn around and leave?

Turns out I don't have hepatitis. A few anti-nausea pills and my symptoms start to fade. My terribly sexy armpit also starts to improve. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

In the two weeks I am waiting to get better, my good friend, Shai, arrives in Bangkok, having just been released from an Indian hospital where he was on an IV drip for 8 days. We recount our illness stories. He helps me negotiate a good price on a wedding present (Not that your wedding present was cheap, Danny). You see, if you want to get a discount, take an Israeli shopping with you.

I go to the movies at the shopping mall. After previews but before the main attraction, a salute to the King comes in the form of a short multi-media presentation. Everyone stands. Still pictures of the King and the grand landscapes of Thailand move across the screen while deafening Thai music plays in Surround Sound.

I also wander around the mall trying not to buy anything. The most curious item is "Pink Nipple Cream". I had no idea there was a market for this type of product.

So now I'm better. In the past 3 months, I've had my money belt stolen, been forced to socialize with men who'd rather pay $15 in order to NOT talk to women, had an upset stomach for 5 weeks (which curiously started just about the time I had the oatmeal cookie from the euthanasia activist), had fits of vomitting due to incompetent doctors and have cryed my eyes out watching my flesh fester and ooze. I'm sick of Asia. I haven't been home in a year. My cousin is getting married.

I'm going home. For now...