April 12th 2009
I spent most of the first week of April on Koh Tao island doing my Open Water Diving (OWD) certification followed by the Advanced certification. Koh Tao is the smallest and northernmost of the three main islands in Thailand's Andaman Sea. I arrived there on March 31st after a brief stint of rock-climbing in Koh Railay across the Thai peninsula. Dave, my climbing partner, had just come from Koh Tao and recommended Big Blue Diving. That was good enough for me.
Koh Tao is a major diving mecca so the process is very much streamlined. Prices are also standard across the island so the only real differentiation are the equipment and instructors provided by the different schools. Having done no homework on the situation I was lucky to fall into the Big Blue family as they had some of the better boats and experienced instructors around. Shame about their regulators, though (I'll get there). Big Blue is a combination hotel/dive school/restaurant/bar right on idyllic Sairee Beach, so once I arrived and settled I was in a very comfortable situation. Sairee Beach itself faces due west so every evening is a classic sunset, not a bad way to end a long day of diving.
The open water course lasts four days: Day 1 is an afternoon of introductory academics, Day 2 is morning academics and an afternoon confined water training dive, Day 3 is morning academics and certification test and two afternoon dives, and on Day 4 are the final two morning dives. Big Blue is, as described, a fairly big school so they can start new OWD courses every day. They even offer courses in several languages – English, Japanese and German being the big three. My OWD group was fairly large at 11 students so we were split into two groups, boys and girls. Enter the fun cast of characters who encompassed my new social circle: from the girl's group were the charmingly British Helen and Clare. Helen ended up being our group photographer, so you can thank her for the forthcoming photo links. Not in either group but still in the mix were Katie and Jess, two 18-year-olds from Scotland. Don't let their age fool you: these girls were way ahead of the curve. They'd already been through Eastern Africa (that's the dangerous bit) and India, at an age when I was just figuring out the whole travel thing was cool. In the boys group there was Joe, the 19-year-old Brit, Tom, the surfer-cum-sensei Aussie, and Frosty and Luke, a pair of proper English chaps. Also in the boys group, oddly, was Meghan the Canuck, who was placed in the boy group to her great confusion and somewhat chagrin. No one ever explained why she was an exception. The separation along the sexual divide seemed archaic at first but was quickly made apparent as a product of our instructors' idiosyncrasies. The girl's group got Rich the affable beach bum – he easily charmed the girls with his lazy grin and relaxed style. The boy's group, however, received the aptly named Germanator: our instructor Yvonne was discipline incarnate. While the girl's group laughed their way through academics, us boys dotted every “I” and crossed every “T”. We were, in short, put in our place. We also had Tina, another German, performing the part of Yvonne's assistant/protege, nick-named the Assistanator. Tina brought up our rear and caught anything Yvonne missed (which wasn't much), but who, when Yvonne wasn't looking, had a tendency to cut us some slack. But not too much.
Yvonne might have been intense, but I can't say it bothered me much. When a single mistake can cause serious harm, Yvonne is exactly the kind of instructor you want watching your every move. She understood that her particular style was often misinterpreted as aggressive. Well, it was aggressive: she wasn't an Alpha Female or an Alpha Male – she was just Alpha. Aggressiveness was merely a by-product of doing her job well. She was self-aware enough to understand that her style went down better with guys than girls and so she took over our boy's group.
When we finally got in the water on Day 2 I realized how addictive scuba diving could be. Breathing underwater is itself a crazy first-time experience. It's one thing to understand objectively that the regulator will give you the air you need – it's quite another to jump the mental hurdle that blocks you from inhaling underwater. When you do you're rewarded with that giddy sense of discovery you haven't felt since you were a child. The world is new again. I think this feeling alone made the whole course worthwhile. And then you get to do the really cool stuff.
The first dive is all about training. It's called a confined dive for a reason: standing in a circle in waist deep water we practiced basic skills necessary for diving. My least favorite was and still is mask-clearing; that is, what you need to do if you ever get water in your mask or if you lose it completely. I've always had a fear of opening my eyes underwater, let alone in salt-water, and the first time I had to do the full mask clear I just about panicked and started to breathe through my noise... this, of course, made things significantly worse. The Germanator, bless her heart, held me down until I got things under control and cleared the damn mask, eyes and sinuses stinging like hell.
We trained for about 2 hours in the water before we finished the first day. The second day we did our first real dives at two different dive sites: Japanese Garden and White Rock. We were around some real coral and aquatic life for the first time but since it was our first real dive we might as well have been drunk children in a zoo – we were keen to look around and see everything but we all had a distorted sense of depth and balance. We attempted to follow Yvonne's lead while working out our buoyancy and air-usage with varying degrees of success. Despite the difficulties, I think it's safe to say were all blown away.
Poor Luke and Frosty received the brunt of Yvonne's frustration. Basically you can't communicate underwater except through gesture and if you made a mistake Yvonne would gesture you with life-threatening intensity. I'm surprised her mask didn't have two pin holes in it because when she trained her pupils on you they burned with hellfire. I was their unlucky recipient two or three times myself and each time I staggered like a deer confronted by the wolf. Luke and Frosty might as well have invested stock in brimstone; bumping into people, changing depths, ascending too quickly (this causes decompression sickness, aka the bends), and a host of other diving no-nos. After Luke repeatedly failed to properly execute a Controlled Emergency Swimming Ascent (in case you need to go up without a buddy) she saved her frustration for a proper lecture on the surface.
In short the OWD course was awesome. There are so many firsts and etc that to put them all down would be an exercise in futility. The experience is unforgettable but hard to convey on the written page. We saw some cool stuff, and I'd say my favorite was a massive school of barracuda several meters high and several hundred fish deep that felt like I'd stepped into the Discovery Channel. There also, of course, is the modest short story of how America saved Australia, again.
I had enough fun during the OWD course that when Yvonne made the pitch for the Advanced course I was pretty much sold. Other takers included Tom, Luke, and Frosty. This was nice because we had the advantage of continuity from the original group. Yvonne relaxed a bit now that we had proved our mettle in the OWD and we saw some of the softer side. By now her countenance was something of a fond joke amongst us so it was all good. Anyway, we had five dives for the advanced course:
1)Deep-water Dive: the limit on the OWD was 18m, and here we got to do 30m. Hello nitrogen narcosis.
2)Nitrox: increased oxygen for increased dive time. Too bad I suffered a small panic attack and sucked down air at an accelerated rate. Oh well.
3)Computer skills, Navigation skills, Nunchuck skills, Bowstaff skills: girls only want boys who have great skills.
4)Navigation and Point Perfect Buoyancy: learning how to navigate underwater and learning how to balance yourself.
5)Night dive: because, really, we're all here to live out our James Bond fantasies.
So we had just started out the night dive, very much keen to check out all the nocturnal wildlife, when after six minutes under and 12m down there was a boom like a gunshot. I had been swimming in the rear and spun around to see where it had come from. Sound travels four times faster underwater, I recalled from the textbook, and loud noises often disoriented divers. This thought occurred to me briefly as, not seeing anything unusual behind or above me, I turned back around to see my buddy Tom in a state of emergency.
Recreational divers always use the buddy system in case of emergencies. Every diver has a primary regulator in their mouths and an alternate strapped to their chest, just in case your buddy runs into trouble. A tube on Tom's regulator had burst and he got about two quick breaths before his air went dead. That, my dear readers, is an absolutely horrifying feeling. I swam over to him as quickly as my little fins would take me and he clawed the alternate off my chest while I turned his tank off. After an all-clear check we did an emergency ascent and took a moment to rest on the surface and assess his near-brush with mortality. Talk about an adrenaline rush.
One burst regulator is an unfortunate accident, but two would have to be fateful coincidence. As it happens, the previous day my own regulator had burst, but thankfully it was during the buddy check while we were still on the boat deck. The same loud crack blew right in my right ear, deafening Tom and I briefly while I proceeded to hop around the deck yelling “Get it off! Get it off!”. Had we not had that experience, however, the sense of panic and confusion might have been significantly worse when it actually happened underwater... and that would have been extremely dangerous. At any rate, we reacted with calm and composure to the emergency and everyone surfaced safely. And that, I believe, is the final word on good diving instruction: I wouldn't trade the Germanator's discipline for anything.
And what better way to celebrate a life saved than to get rip-roaring drunk and dance the night away. A short walk down the beach from Big Blue is the loud and proud Lotus Bar, playing all your remixed favorites for the dance-crazy divers of Koh Tao. The party extended from the bar down the beach and into the sandbar. We had good cause to celebrate and I made sure to tell anyone who hesitated long enough the harrowing tale of my humble life-saving ordeal. I would accept no praise – I merely performed my sworn duties, sacrosanct since the ancient times of buddy system – but if they would buy me a drink, I would be obliged to indulge. Needless to say, the night was an epic one for the living.
You can find Helen's photos posted on my Facebook profile which is unfortunately inaccessible unless you're my official Facebook friend... but then, why wouldn't you be my official Facebook friend? Hop to it.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
A Monkey of a Day
February 17th, 2009
I had a great time in Hoi An but it seems most of the adventure in my trip occurs while moving from A to B, and the journey from Hoi An, Vietnam, to Vientiane, Laos, was one of epic proportions.
I got picked up by a van in Hoi An and was put in the back seat with what looked like two locals. They made no friendly advances so I just sat in silence for a while and was about to pull out my ipod when they started chatting in fluent English. North American accents to boot. Turns out the guy next to me was Seth, a Vietnamese-American, and the next guy over was Bryan, a Vietnamese-Singaporean. Score one point for not making assumptions about people. I ended up having quite a long chat with these guys over the next four hours back to Hue, but first something even more startling happened.
I'd been making the foundational traveler small talk with Seth for about ten minutes when I realized he was cradling a cardboard box with a monkey in it. I thought my eyes were fooling me the first few times I saw bobbing movement, but when monkey made a quick peep outside, I could not suppress my curiosity any longer.
"...and so that's when we were going to leave Saigon --"
"Excuse me, Seth, but do you have a monkey in that box?"
"Yes."
"I thought so."
"So we were leaving Saigon..."
Total deadpan. Monkey-in-the-box was, apparently, the most natural thing in the world. I got the whole story later on: turns out Seth and Bryan met "a man" in Saigon who told the sad story of monkey's mother's death. Baby monkey was alone in the world with no one to care for him. If Seth and Bryan didn't step up, who would? On top of this they had bought motorbikes off two Spaniards in Saigon and had driven halfway to Hanoi with monkey. In Hoi An, however, they had to ship the bikes up and take the bus. Why? Because monkey was tired and scared of motorbikes (he apparently loved the first two days, at least). This might sound crazy to you, and it did to me, but whatever you think of monkeys on motorbikes these guys ultimately did change course entirely to make monkey comfortable.
To further put all of this in context, these two guys were not your average travelers. Seth had been on the road and settling down sporadically for nine years, Bryan for five. They had met somewhere along the way and become good mates. They were on their way up to Sapa to start a sustainable mini-community. Bryan had been the owner of a monkey previously, but had to leave that monkey with friends when he left Thailand, so he had some monkey-care experience. And the longer I observed the odd trio, the more I became comfortable with the whole thing. Monkey seemed especially comfortable with them, at least, if not with the rest of us. When he finally got out of his box he fell peacefully asleep on their laps. Truly happy to be off the motorbikes. Monkey might have a new fear, though, that of small blonde girls, because the 5-year-old Swedish girl who got to play with monkey for a bit had the eyes nearly bugging out of her head with excitement and happiness. Monkey was less amused. No joke, though, this girl's elder brother turns around from front of the van and asks, "Excuse me, can my sister play with your monkey?"
...
I wanted to shout, scream, ululate from the mountain tops to the rice paddies: "That's what she said!"
But I didn't. I was handed monkey and then handed monkey onward. It was the only time I handled monkey, despite my growing affinity. Monkey hadn't had his shots and I have strict reservations about unnecessary trips to the hospital. By all allowances monkey wasn't a biter, but who is to say monkey wouldn't become violently jealous of my rugged good looks? I took no chances.
Also on this van ride, I'll make quick mention, was one of two psychedelic Vietnam moments: when we got out of Hoi An proper and onto the road, the driver turned on the music and cranked up Creedance Clearwater Revival. I don't think anything says Vietnam War to the average American quite like CCR's "Fortunate Son", and to actually hear it full blast on the road not 20 km from the DMZ was quite the mind-bender.
The other psychedelic moment was a similar situation at a cafe in Hanoi where the staff was blasting the best of CCR for a couple hours on loop. Maybe I just have a thing for CCR. But then, who doesn't?
That van ride to Hue was the first of three legs to Vientiane. The second leg was a relatively painless bus ride from Hue to Vinh. Most people on the bus were headed all the way to Hanoi, so I was put in the very front seat so I could get off without hassle. Unfortunately this meant I was very much aware of imminent death every time the driver made an ill-timed attempt at overtaking the vehicle in front of us. After Ghana, I have a tendency to wet my pants when drivers get too aggressive.
At Vinh I was dropped at a rest stop to meet the bus to Vientiane. I had a premonition that I was probably going to get screwed on this bus, as tends to happen when you don't get on from the point of departure. I just didn't realize how very screwed I was going to be.
Now I told you about my hostel in HK. Worst ever. Hands down. But this bus ride gives HK a run for its money, and might have even been worse than my ride from Accra to middle-of-nowheresville (you know the one, Lee). The bus was already overrun when I got on, even the aisle was packed full. Sacks of rice and wheat, boxes of this and that, and limbs of all assortments graced every nook and cranny. I shoved my way about halfway into the back and sat down on a box. This was 10:30 pm. I would be stuck like this until about 6 am without reprieve. In the interim babies cried, people climbed over me, Vietnamese pop songs blasted full volume, police were bribed, people used my aisle/seat as their garbage can, the kid next to me stretched out for his comfort and my gross discomfort... he even took over my backpack/pillow when I momentarily lifted my head... and then, yes, ten minutes later he screamed over me down the bus, plastic bags were sent his way, and as soon as he got he began to vomit violently, mere inches from my face. Vomit fumes filled the air and he went back to sleep... vomit bag held precariously between sleeping, slipping fingers. It was around this time, about 3 am, the driver stopped off at his house for a shag and a nap. Taking the keys with him, we were deprived of the air-con, the only narrow sliver of respite afforded to the luckless passengers. The bus, already assaulting my olfactory senses with the aroma of stinky feet and sweaty flesh, now baked this powerful perfume to such an enhanced degree as to induce a comatose state... had I only been so lucky. Sleep was not my friend that night.
At 6 am the border opened and we could get off the purgatory-on-wheels. The disorganized border turned into a shoving match and things were beginning to wear on my frayed nerves. Anyone who knows me well enough can tell you that without an appropriate eight hours sleep I can be a bit crabby, to say the least. This border crossing was truly trial by fire... I emerged without my proverbial eye brows but sane enough to see. At 8 am we were back on the road, me on my box, for another long haul drive until we reached Vientiane at around 3:30 pm. It was tough, my backside still feels it, but I'm alive and in Laos, one of the hi-light destinations of my trip. More to come as the story progresses.
For the curious and conscientious, my number here is (0)20-730-3959, country code +856. I think. The first zero probably gets dropped. If it doesn't work and you must have your Kevin, the Google should provide. Talk to ya'll soon.
I had a great time in Hoi An but it seems most of the adventure in my trip occurs while moving from A to B, and the journey from Hoi An, Vietnam, to Vientiane, Laos, was one of epic proportions.
I got picked up by a van in Hoi An and was put in the back seat with what looked like two locals. They made no friendly advances so I just sat in silence for a while and was about to pull out my ipod when they started chatting in fluent English. North American accents to boot. Turns out the guy next to me was Seth, a Vietnamese-American, and the next guy over was Bryan, a Vietnamese-Singaporean. Score one point for not making assumptions about people. I ended up having quite a long chat with these guys over the next four hours back to Hue, but first something even more startling happened.
I'd been making the foundational traveler small talk with Seth for about ten minutes when I realized he was cradling a cardboard box with a monkey in it. I thought my eyes were fooling me the first few times I saw bobbing movement, but when monkey made a quick peep outside, I could not suppress my curiosity any longer.
"...and so that's when we were going to leave Saigon --"
"Excuse me, Seth, but do you have a monkey in that box?"
"Yes."
"I thought so."
"So we were leaving Saigon..."
Total deadpan. Monkey-in-the-box was, apparently, the most natural thing in the world. I got the whole story later on: turns out Seth and Bryan met "a man" in Saigon who told the sad story of monkey's mother's death. Baby monkey was alone in the world with no one to care for him. If Seth and Bryan didn't step up, who would? On top of this they had bought motorbikes off two Spaniards in Saigon and had driven halfway to Hanoi with monkey. In Hoi An, however, they had to ship the bikes up and take the bus. Why? Because monkey was tired and scared of motorbikes (he apparently loved the first two days, at least). This might sound crazy to you, and it did to me, but whatever you think of monkeys on motorbikes these guys ultimately did change course entirely to make monkey comfortable.
To further put all of this in context, these two guys were not your average travelers. Seth had been on the road and settling down sporadically for nine years, Bryan for five. They had met somewhere along the way and become good mates. They were on their way up to Sapa to start a sustainable mini-community. Bryan had been the owner of a monkey previously, but had to leave that monkey with friends when he left Thailand, so he had some monkey-care experience. And the longer I observed the odd trio, the more I became comfortable with the whole thing. Monkey seemed especially comfortable with them, at least, if not with the rest of us. When he finally got out of his box he fell peacefully asleep on their laps. Truly happy to be off the motorbikes. Monkey might have a new fear, though, that of small blonde girls, because the 5-year-old Swedish girl who got to play with monkey for a bit had the eyes nearly bugging out of her head with excitement and happiness. Monkey was less amused. No joke, though, this girl's elder brother turns around from front of the van and asks, "Excuse me, can my sister play with your monkey?"
...
I wanted to shout, scream, ululate from the mountain tops to the rice paddies: "That's what she said!"
But I didn't. I was handed monkey and then handed monkey onward. It was the only time I handled monkey, despite my growing affinity. Monkey hadn't had his shots and I have strict reservations about unnecessary trips to the hospital. By all allowances monkey wasn't a biter, but who is to say monkey wouldn't become violently jealous of my rugged good looks? I took no chances.
Also on this van ride, I'll make quick mention, was one of two psychedelic Vietnam moments: when we got out of Hoi An proper and onto the road, the driver turned on the music and cranked up Creedance Clearwater Revival. I don't think anything says Vietnam War to the average American quite like CCR's "Fortunate Son", and to actually hear it full blast on the road not 20 km from the DMZ was quite the mind-bender.
The other psychedelic moment was a similar situation at a cafe in Hanoi where the staff was blasting the best of CCR for a couple hours on loop. Maybe I just have a thing for CCR. But then, who doesn't?
That van ride to Hue was the first of three legs to Vientiane. The second leg was a relatively painless bus ride from Hue to Vinh. Most people on the bus were headed all the way to Hanoi, so I was put in the very front seat so I could get off without hassle. Unfortunately this meant I was very much aware of imminent death every time the driver made an ill-timed attempt at overtaking the vehicle in front of us. After Ghana, I have a tendency to wet my pants when drivers get too aggressive.
At Vinh I was dropped at a rest stop to meet the bus to Vientiane. I had a premonition that I was probably going to get screwed on this bus, as tends to happen when you don't get on from the point of departure. I just didn't realize how very screwed I was going to be.
Now I told you about my hostel in HK. Worst ever. Hands down. But this bus ride gives HK a run for its money, and might have even been worse than my ride from Accra to middle-of-nowheresville (you know the one, Lee). The bus was already overrun when I got on, even the aisle was packed full. Sacks of rice and wheat, boxes of this and that, and limbs of all assortments graced every nook and cranny. I shoved my way about halfway into the back and sat down on a box. This was 10:30 pm. I would be stuck like this until about 6 am without reprieve. In the interim babies cried, people climbed over me, Vietnamese pop songs blasted full volume, police were bribed, people used my aisle/seat as their garbage can, the kid next to me stretched out for his comfort and my gross discomfort... he even took over my backpack/pillow when I momentarily lifted my head... and then, yes, ten minutes later he screamed over me down the bus, plastic bags were sent his way, and as soon as he got he began to vomit violently, mere inches from my face. Vomit fumes filled the air and he went back to sleep... vomit bag held precariously between sleeping, slipping fingers. It was around this time, about 3 am, the driver stopped off at his house for a shag and a nap. Taking the keys with him, we were deprived of the air-con, the only narrow sliver of respite afforded to the luckless passengers. The bus, already assaulting my olfactory senses with the aroma of stinky feet and sweaty flesh, now baked this powerful perfume to such an enhanced degree as to induce a comatose state... had I only been so lucky. Sleep was not my friend that night.
At 6 am the border opened and we could get off the purgatory-on-wheels. The disorganized border turned into a shoving match and things were beginning to wear on my frayed nerves. Anyone who knows me well enough can tell you that without an appropriate eight hours sleep I can be a bit crabby, to say the least. This border crossing was truly trial by fire... I emerged without my proverbial eye brows but sane enough to see. At 8 am we were back on the road, me on my box, for another long haul drive until we reached Vientiane at around 3:30 pm. It was tough, my backside still feels it, but I'm alive and in Laos, one of the hi-light destinations of my trip. More to come as the story progresses.
For the curious and conscientious, my number here is (0)20-730-3959, country code +856. I think. The first zero probably gets dropped. If it doesn't work and you must have your Kevin, the Google should provide. Talk to ya'll soon.
No Scrubs
February 17th 2009
So I think I'm getting an inkling of what it feels like to be a lone woman in the bar/club. The motorbike and rickshaw drivers of any city in Vietnam naturally assume a walking person is actually a person naturally dying for their company and services, not unlike the hapless males who believe with stubborn persistence that the aforementioned woman is just waiting for their companionship. Likewise, they all seem absolutely astonished when told their services aren't required, or desired.
I was in Hue. I didn't want to be in Hue, but that's where my bus took me and dropped me off for several hours while waiting for the next bus to get me to my true destination, Hoi An. Conveniently, the bus company knew "just the place" for me to spend my time. After escaping, I moseyed over to the part of town with a big fortress that I'd seen from the bus on the way in.
It was here that I met Tri, the most persistent coolie I've met thus far. Tri trailed me for no less than 45 minutes, using all variety of wiles within his play book to get me in his rickshaw. When the normal overtures failed, Tri would approximate my journey and ride ahead. After I caught up he'd act surprised, like two old friends meeting again after too long a separation. When this failed, he pulled out a photo and letter from "a happy American" who he had become the greatest of friends with over an afternoon of jokes and site-seeing. Truly, the Caucasian in the photo looked ecstatic. I was even permitted to read his ebullient letter (written, no less, in flawless handwriting:
Dear Tri
Yesturay I had the gratest time...
Well, you see where I'm going with this. Undoubtedly, at some point in history an American or foreigner had become friends with a coolie and shared a letter and photo or two. Further, this coolie undoubtedly let his friends know how much easier this made getting other foreign customers. Sadly for Tri, however, the tactic is well and overly played out. I'm not sure what the next evolution of this gimmick might be but I can assure you that Tri and I will not be starting a website or social-networking apparatus.
So I didn't even get to see the fortress in Hue because it was closed for two hours while the staff went to lunch. I did meet the tragic caricature called "Tri", however, and I got to write this email, so I guess all's well that ends well.
So I think I'm getting an inkling of what it feels like to be a lone woman in the bar/club. The motorbike and rickshaw drivers of any city in Vietnam naturally assume a walking person is actually a person naturally dying for their company and services, not unlike the hapless males who believe with stubborn persistence that the aforementioned woman is just waiting for their companionship. Likewise, they all seem absolutely astonished when told their services aren't required, or desired.
I was in Hue. I didn't want to be in Hue, but that's where my bus took me and dropped me off for several hours while waiting for the next bus to get me to my true destination, Hoi An. Conveniently, the bus company knew "just the place" for me to spend my time. After escaping, I moseyed over to the part of town with a big fortress that I'd seen from the bus on the way in.
It was here that I met Tri, the most persistent coolie I've met thus far. Tri trailed me for no less than 45 minutes, using all variety of wiles within his play book to get me in his rickshaw. When the normal overtures failed, Tri would approximate my journey and ride ahead. After I caught up he'd act surprised, like two old friends meeting again after too long a separation. When this failed, he pulled out a photo and letter from "a happy American" who he had become the greatest of friends with over an afternoon of jokes and site-seeing. Truly, the Caucasian in the photo looked ecstatic. I was even permitted to read his ebullient letter (written, no less, in flawless handwriting:
Dear Tri
Yesturay I had the gratest time...
Well, you see where I'm going with this. Undoubtedly, at some point in history an American or foreigner had become friends with a coolie and shared a letter and photo or two. Further, this coolie undoubtedly let his friends know how much easier this made getting other foreign customers. Sadly for Tri, however, the tactic is well and overly played out. I'm not sure what the next evolution of this gimmick might be but I can assure you that Tri and I will not be starting a website or social-networking apparatus.
So I didn't even get to see the fortress in Hue because it was closed for two hours while the staff went to lunch. I did meet the tragic caricature called "Tri", however, and I got to write this email, so I guess all's well that ends well.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Hanoi - Meandering First Impressions
February 10th 2009
My first impressions of Hanoi have been pretty positive. Arriving off the train at 5am with no money, I was helped into town by some fellow passengers. They did me a favor trading me some extra CNY for Vietnamese Dong until I could find an ATM.
Rocking into central Hanoi just before dawn didn't exactly give me a good sense of the city, which is to say that it was quiet – too quiet. I got dropped off by Hoan Kiem Lake, a north-to-south stretch that centers around the Old Quarter and the French Quarter, the busiest places in Hanoi. I wandered the streets looking for my hostel and when I found it just before 6am I got into my room and crashed out until about noon.
Keeping odd hours and sleeping in random places tends to take a weird toll on you. I don't find that I sleep any more than I usually do, its just spaced out at more irregular intervals. I'm not finding it uncommon to sleep 10pm to 4am on a train/bus, finding my next bed and sleeping again for a few hours... or not, and then taking a good nap in the afternoon. It's quite refreshing, actually, not being tied to any given schedule, but I do have to plan ahead occasionally for certain sites or show times. For example, I almost slept through my 8pm water puppet show... I'm sure you can all relate :-P
One of the premier attractions of Hanoi is the famous water puppets. Basically the team of puppeteers stands behind a veil in a pool of water about three feet deep. From behind the veil various puppets poke out on poles and illustrate various classical scenes, such as the Dance of the Phoenixes or Early Morning Fishermen. The premise here is that back in the day when the rice paddies were flooded over this custom developed as a way to entertain during festivals and etc. Today it's mainly reproduced on a stage with an audience of foreigners but we also benefit from modern puppeteering technologies, like dry ice and fireworks. To be honest I thought the puppets on water would get old after a bit, but every scene produced brand new puppets with novel tricks so it was quite entertaining the whole way through. Two thumbs up for water puppets.
Hanoi the city is very nice, except for the exhaust. When I rolled out of bed the first day and stepped out of the hostel, I was overwhelmed with the change a few hours can make. Motorbikes are everywhere. Where there isn't a motorbike, there are bicycle rickshaws and cars. Faded crosswalks are merely remnants of a droll/bored bureaucrat. If you want to get anywhere, step out into the street and feel the motorbikes flow around you like a pebble had been dropped into their stream. Not for too long, however, because the taxis have no qualms about running you down.
Hanoi is not a very tall city from what I can see. I've stuck mostly to the Old and French Quarters, of course, and the buildings here are two- or three-storied affairs. The European influence is still here, but it feels like it's fading quickly as people renovate sporadically around the city. The Hanoi people are a lot of fun as well, at least compared to China. The first day or two when I steeled myself for a barter or to order a meal, the unexpectedly relaxed composure of my adversaries very much threw me off. This was followed by a day in which I couldn't tell if people were joking or being pricks, and finally now I am able to appreciate the Northern Vietnamese sense of humor.
Which isn't to say everyone here is a saint. The way I like to say it is thus: In China, they will angrily scam you until you're too scared to ask. In Vietnam, they'll still scam you but at least have the courtesy to do it with a smile.
Met some nice people in and out of my hostel. My first two days I had periodic chats with a Scottish girl who'd been on the road with her boyfriend for quite some time. They were heading up into China for a week or two before finishing their months-long trip and then to return to Scotland. I believe her name was Chavonne and I never got her boyfriend's name because he never acknowledged my existence. I suppose opposites really do attract. Then there was Lisa Lin from San Fran, the pleasant American girl who was yet another student in China. We had a few meals and drank a few beers together and traded things to do in Hanoi. We were walking through the Old Quarter on one evening and came across the strangest scene.
There is plenty of street food to be had in all the cities of the world, but on this night we walked in to a full-on street bar. At one quiet intersection (comparatively quiet, that is), the four corners had spilled out into the street a bit with stools full of foreigners sipping draft beer. I found out that this was called Beer Hoi, a special bootlegged beer that tastes like swill but gets the job done at 3000 Dong (17 cents) a cup. Shiver me timbers.
While drinking our Beer Hois I chatted up this entertaining Australian family trio; father daughter and son were traveling together for a month through Vietnam on what I suppose was their summer break. The high school-aged son was trying to convince dad to buy him a tailored purple silk suit for his prom, a proposition I fully endorsed, but I don't think it was meant to be. Some people just don't know opportunity when they see it. If I come home in a tailored purple silk suit, you'll know who to thank.
My last observation about Hanoi so far is that there are lots of old people. Old tourists, I mean. Granted most of them are European and thus more accustomed to travel, perhaps, but I'm still surprised to see such a large constituency of older tourists on the regular. And, moreover, staying in the same sorts of places that I'm staying. I haven't seen any in the dorm bunks, yet, but I've seen what the regular rooms look like and they're not exactly luxurious. Anyway, I hope I'm still that spry when I reach my golden years. For now, its more Beer Hoi for me.
My first impressions of Hanoi have been pretty positive. Arriving off the train at 5am with no money, I was helped into town by some fellow passengers. They did me a favor trading me some extra CNY for Vietnamese Dong until I could find an ATM.
Rocking into central Hanoi just before dawn didn't exactly give me a good sense of the city, which is to say that it was quiet – too quiet. I got dropped off by Hoan Kiem Lake, a north-to-south stretch that centers around the Old Quarter and the French Quarter, the busiest places in Hanoi. I wandered the streets looking for my hostel and when I found it just before 6am I got into my room and crashed out until about noon.
Keeping odd hours and sleeping in random places tends to take a weird toll on you. I don't find that I sleep any more than I usually do, its just spaced out at more irregular intervals. I'm not finding it uncommon to sleep 10pm to 4am on a train/bus, finding my next bed and sleeping again for a few hours... or not, and then taking a good nap in the afternoon. It's quite refreshing, actually, not being tied to any given schedule, but I do have to plan ahead occasionally for certain sites or show times. For example, I almost slept through my 8pm water puppet show... I'm sure you can all relate :-P
One of the premier attractions of Hanoi is the famous water puppets. Basically the team of puppeteers stands behind a veil in a pool of water about three feet deep. From behind the veil various puppets poke out on poles and illustrate various classical scenes, such as the Dance of the Phoenixes or Early Morning Fishermen. The premise here is that back in the day when the rice paddies were flooded over this custom developed as a way to entertain during festivals and etc. Today it's mainly reproduced on a stage with an audience of foreigners but we also benefit from modern puppeteering technologies, like dry ice and fireworks. To be honest I thought the puppets on water would get old after a bit, but every scene produced brand new puppets with novel tricks so it was quite entertaining the whole way through. Two thumbs up for water puppets.
Hanoi the city is very nice, except for the exhaust. When I rolled out of bed the first day and stepped out of the hostel, I was overwhelmed with the change a few hours can make. Motorbikes are everywhere. Where there isn't a motorbike, there are bicycle rickshaws and cars. Faded crosswalks are merely remnants of a droll/bored bureaucrat. If you want to get anywhere, step out into the street and feel the motorbikes flow around you like a pebble had been dropped into their stream. Not for too long, however, because the taxis have no qualms about running you down.
Hanoi is not a very tall city from what I can see. I've stuck mostly to the Old and French Quarters, of course, and the buildings here are two- or three-storied affairs. The European influence is still here, but it feels like it's fading quickly as people renovate sporadically around the city. The Hanoi people are a lot of fun as well, at least compared to China. The first day or two when I steeled myself for a barter or to order a meal, the unexpectedly relaxed composure of my adversaries very much threw me off. This was followed by a day in which I couldn't tell if people were joking or being pricks, and finally now I am able to appreciate the Northern Vietnamese sense of humor.
Which isn't to say everyone here is a saint. The way I like to say it is thus: In China, they will angrily scam you until you're too scared to ask. In Vietnam, they'll still scam you but at least have the courtesy to do it with a smile.
Met some nice people in and out of my hostel. My first two days I had periodic chats with a Scottish girl who'd been on the road with her boyfriend for quite some time. They were heading up into China for a week or two before finishing their months-long trip and then to return to Scotland. I believe her name was Chavonne and I never got her boyfriend's name because he never acknowledged my existence. I suppose opposites really do attract. Then there was Lisa Lin from San Fran, the pleasant American girl who was yet another student in China. We had a few meals and drank a few beers together and traded things to do in Hanoi. We were walking through the Old Quarter on one evening and came across the strangest scene.
There is plenty of street food to be had in all the cities of the world, but on this night we walked in to a full-on street bar. At one quiet intersection (comparatively quiet, that is), the four corners had spilled out into the street a bit with stools full of foreigners sipping draft beer. I found out that this was called Beer Hoi, a special bootlegged beer that tastes like swill but gets the job done at 3000 Dong (17 cents) a cup. Shiver me timbers.
While drinking our Beer Hois I chatted up this entertaining Australian family trio; father daughter and son were traveling together for a month through Vietnam on what I suppose was their summer break. The high school-aged son was trying to convince dad to buy him a tailored purple silk suit for his prom, a proposition I fully endorsed, but I don't think it was meant to be. Some people just don't know opportunity when they see it. If I come home in a tailored purple silk suit, you'll know who to thank.
My last observation about Hanoi so far is that there are lots of old people. Old tourists, I mean. Granted most of them are European and thus more accustomed to travel, perhaps, but I'm still surprised to see such a large constituency of older tourists on the regular. And, moreover, staying in the same sorts of places that I'm staying. I haven't seen any in the dorm bunks, yet, but I've seen what the regular rooms look like and they're not exactly luxurious. Anyway, I hope I'm still that spry when I reach my golden years. For now, its more Beer Hoi for me.
Night Trains and Custom Lanes
February 10th 2009
I've fallen a bit behind on my updates, or maybe too much has been going on in the past few days. Anyways I'm about to potentially flood your in-boxes while I take a day and a half out to chill before I leave Hanoi tomorrow night. Peruse at your leisure. Onwards.
I went from Hong Kong to Hanoi in three parts: the first was a high speed train from Hong Kong to Guangzhou, the second was an overnight train from Guangzhou to Nanning, and the final leg was the overnight train from Nanning to Hanoi. The first leg out of HK was uneventful enough, probably because the HK train station has the technical standards of any other developed country and everything ran smoothly. I was happy enough to leave my sad little Room 27 in Tsim Sha Tsui's Mirador Mansion and see what the proper mainland had in store for me.
Entering and leaving Hong Kong required several progressions of security and customs checks on both sides. Maybe I'm just sick of being trundled off and on my chosen mode of transportation for redundant security checks, but I'll be happy to see the end of check points once I get to Vietnam.
I suppose I got my first taste of the real China (as opposed to supremely urban Shanghai or hardly-China Hong Kong) when I arrived at Guangzhou Main Station. Guangzhou actually has two main train hubs and, having arrived at Guangzhou East, I needed to metro over to Guangzhou Main. Although HK and Guangzhou are only two hours apart by train, the differences are very pronounced. The spectrum of ethnicities immediately dropped back to near homogeneity. Hand-in-hand with that comes the undue attention to outsiders (yours truly). That's nothing new to me, but compared to the topical acceptance in Japan or the bemused curiosity in Ghana, this southern part of China was a mix of guarded interest or disdainful indifference (explanation to come).
As for the physical reality of the place: there are a lot of Chinese people. It's one thing to observe the 1.2 billion statistic and quite another to move from place to place and never see the glut of people let up. Also, what I've seen of China is both intensely dirty and surprisingly clean. There is no cultural stigma against littering, arguably quite the opposite, and having all the aforementioned multitudes constantly using any open spot of ground (or not so open) as a trash receptacle generates immense quantities of visible garbage. So much so that, walking around, I was always surprised that I wasn't already wading around waist-deep in the stuff.
The solution lies in the problem: with so many people they can afford to employ street cleaners constantly. Once it's been pointed out to you once (thanks Cornell) you realize that you can't walk down the street without seeing a few people with brooms and bags sweeping back and forth all day every day. Kudos to China for taking care of garbage, but I'd still enjoy seeing a civic campaign against littering in the future. Why? Because sweepers can't get everywhere, and they couldn't get into Guangzhou Main. Once I passed through security, I made my way to the "Waiting Lounge". This vast hall was last clean when they built the place. Searching for a clean seat I had to dance past apple cores, soda cans, cigarette butts, orange peels and sunflower seeds, to name a few. I believe that orange peels and sunflower seeds make up about 80% of this vice, especially dismal since the seeds have been in and out of people's mouths and spat into great heaps on the floor. I think (hope?) there is a future market in some sort of portable disposal unit for this sort of refuse.
I got to the station relatively early so I watched the lounge slowly fill up until, just prior to departure, the place was seriously overflowing with people. When they finally let us on the deluge predictably tried to shove it's way through the inadequate entry gate, so I just hung back and let things thin out before I made my way. There was an element of risk in this because I wasn't sure what exactly the etiquette regarding inter-city domestic travel in China was: perhaps the seat number on my ticket was a mere formality and the initial rush to board had been the true competition, unknown to my naive eyes. I had a bottom bunk hard-sleeper, more convenient than the middle or upper bunks but, alas, infamous for being used by everyone as spare seats before lights-out. I wasn't looking forward to politely asking any Chinese people to kindly remove themselves from my bed and the guy who was thusly enjoying himself when I arrived departed immediately and I never saw him again.
Although I had prepared for boredom, I was happy to find three Australians in the same set of sleepers as me. Moreover, they too were headed all the way to Hanoi where they were doing long-term volunteer stints in a variety of job placements. Tim the geologist/topographer, Claire the teacher and Linda the something-or-other were very pleasant people and shared with me lots of valuable information on how to get around Vietnam and Hanoi in particular. I owe them a great debt of thanks for saving my wallet many a Dong.
On this train I experienced some of the aforementioned disdainful indifference. This is putting it kindly, I believe, but I'll let you be the judge. I was having dinner and then a beer with Linda in the dining carriage. Linda is Vietnamese-Australian and thus often got the fifth degree in both Chinese and Vietnamese before anyone truly believed she was foreign and even then she received mostly usually disapproving annoyance. So when we had to communicate via gesture for beers the guard in charge only reluctantly took our money for the service. The dining carriage "bar" was a money-covered table with two chain-smoking guys in uniform – you give them the money, the reach under the table and pull out something you hope you like. On the first beer the main guy didn't want to give me change, and when I could produce exact change he stared daggers at me for having been foiled. The second time we wanted a beer, he simply refused flat out. When we started to play cards, he told us to leave.
Who knows what had caused this ruckus. Maybe the guy was having a bad day... more likely he was enjoying his sad little power trip a little too much. What can't be overlooked, however, is at this point Claire, prototypical white female, enters the scene and suddenly we are treated to more warm beers and we can play all the card games we please. I don't know what was more sad, that his methods were so transparent or that he thought his efforts might count for something. Anyway, score one for white girls.
When we reached Nanning the next morning, we made for the Lotusland Hostel. Although I had a reservation, I didn't have a map; although they didn't have a reservation, they did have a map. We rocked up around 6am and got installed. Well, I thought they had got in, but I crashed immediately after getting my room key and when I woke up the next morning they were not to be found. Good people, best of luck to them.
My friend Eveline from HK had recommended Lotusland to me, claiming it was the best hostel ever. I'm not particularly fond of hyperbole but this place seriously is one of the best hostels ever. The place must have been designed by a backpacker for backpackers because it had all the amenities and homeliness that backpackers look for. The fact that it's not even in a primary destination makes the find all the more delightful. Most people to come Nanning in transit to or from Vietnam, but clearly many have stayed in the unexpected comfort of Lotusland for a few extra days. Friendly multilingual staff, sturdy clean rooms, modern hotel locks, an abundance of deep couches, plenty of clean and working amenities and some at-cost imported foodstuffs for comfort, this place truly had it all. It was even by a park by the riverside. Sadly, I didn't get to spend a single night here.
After waking up around 11, cleaning myself up and settling in, I trekked back to the train station to buy a ticket to Hanoi for the following evening. Indeed, I had wanted to take a bus (only five hours) but the bus station was still closed from New Years celebrations. To ease things along, I wrote out my itinerary in Chinese characters. I stood in line, paper ready. When I got to the ticket window, the conversation went like this:
"Hi, I'd like to take the train to Hanoi tomorrow night, 2/1." I pressed paper against the glass.
Pause. Pensive look. Papers shuffled. "Okay," in decent English, "506 yuan."
My turn to pause. Gesturing at the chart on the wall, "290 yuan? 290 yuan for Hanoi?" I only had 400 yuan on me.
"Tomorrow 506. Today 290. Go today?"
Well now, there's a quandary. I had about ten seconds to determine if she was trying to extort me or if for some reason tomorrow the prices really would jump up before the long line behind me got agitated. At seven second, I played for time.
"What about 2/2? 290 yuan?"
"506 yuan."
"Everyday 506 yuan?"
"Yes."
"But today 290 yuan?"
Nod.
"Dammit." So I bought the ticket for 290 yuan. It was already 2pm and the train left at 6:15pm so I had to hoof it back to the hostel and pack my stuff back up. Prematurely shaken out of my sublime mental and physical state of relaxation, I awkwardly explained to the hostel staff I wouldn't be staying with them. The guy at reception began to apologetically explain that he couldn't refund my money, but I waved it off and told him I'd already slept in the bed anyway.
Back at the train station, I found the "Lounge Reserved for Soft Sleepers" to be immeasurably better than the lounge in general lounge back in Guangzhou Main, though it turned out that the train was composed entirely of soft sleepers, eliminating any sense I had of class superiority. Moreover, I found that the only real difference between soft and hard sleepers were the amount of bunks (four versus six) and the existence of a door.
As opposed to the hundreds or thousands of bodies on the Guangzhou-Nanning lines, on Nanning-Hanoi there were little more than fifty passengers. My three bunkmates were Eric from Beijing and some Vietnamese couple. Eric, the 23-year-old Chinese student was an amusing enough guy: Eric being his English name because his Chinese name was nearly the same as a Mandarin word for "fuck" and us tone-deaf foreigners kept swearing at him. He had been a volunteer at the Olympic village last summer and the German team he was assigned to greeted him every morning with a hearty "Good morning, Fuck!", much to the glee of his co-volunteers.
Eric, moreover, had never been out of China in his life. I saw his brand spanking new passport with a single Vietnamese visa in it and he asked furtively if I'd ever been out of America much...
"Just a bit."
"Really? I heard to be careful Vietnam of the cheats."
"Mmmm, never happens in China, does it."
"No, never."
We split ways in Hanoi, though I got his email and thought we could meet up for a beer. I heard back from him the next day: "Really be careful if you want to take a motocycle or buy anything. Everyone seems to grab money from you." He was going to try his luck down south. I hope he makes it back to China alive.
I started left HK with some customs lines and I arrived in Hanoi the same way. At 11pm we were marched off the train for Chinese immigration and at 2am again for Vietnamese immigration. Suffice to say, in the interim three hours no one had smuggled any drugs or bombs on the train, but Kevin was measurably crabbier. The Vietnamese authorities also took the liberty of sticking a thingamajig in my ear and, having determined that I was a sufficiently healthy individual, charged me 2 yuan for the privilege.
At 5am we arrived in Hanoi, got kicked off the train, and it was at this point I found myself in Vietnam with no money. I felt like I had made this mistake once before...
I've fallen a bit behind on my updates, or maybe too much has been going on in the past few days. Anyways I'm about to potentially flood your in-boxes while I take a day and a half out to chill before I leave Hanoi tomorrow night. Peruse at your leisure. Onwards.
I went from Hong Kong to Hanoi in three parts: the first was a high speed train from Hong Kong to Guangzhou, the second was an overnight train from Guangzhou to Nanning, and the final leg was the overnight train from Nanning to Hanoi. The first leg out of HK was uneventful enough, probably because the HK train station has the technical standards of any other developed country and everything ran smoothly. I was happy enough to leave my sad little Room 27 in Tsim Sha Tsui's Mirador Mansion and see what the proper mainland had in store for me.
Entering and leaving Hong Kong required several progressions of security and customs checks on both sides. Maybe I'm just sick of being trundled off and on my chosen mode of transportation for redundant security checks, but I'll be happy to see the end of check points once I get to Vietnam.
I suppose I got my first taste of the real China (as opposed to supremely urban Shanghai or hardly-China Hong Kong) when I arrived at Guangzhou Main Station. Guangzhou actually has two main train hubs and, having arrived at Guangzhou East, I needed to metro over to Guangzhou Main. Although HK and Guangzhou are only two hours apart by train, the differences are very pronounced. The spectrum of ethnicities immediately dropped back to near homogeneity. Hand-in-hand with that comes the undue attention to outsiders (yours truly). That's nothing new to me, but compared to the topical acceptance in Japan or the bemused curiosity in Ghana, this southern part of China was a mix of guarded interest or disdainful indifference (explanation to come).
As for the physical reality of the place: there are a lot of Chinese people. It's one thing to observe the 1.2 billion statistic and quite another to move from place to place and never see the glut of people let up. Also, what I've seen of China is both intensely dirty and surprisingly clean. There is no cultural stigma against littering, arguably quite the opposite, and having all the aforementioned multitudes constantly using any open spot of ground (or not so open) as a trash receptacle generates immense quantities of visible garbage. So much so that, walking around, I was always surprised that I wasn't already wading around waist-deep in the stuff.
The solution lies in the problem: with so many people they can afford to employ street cleaners constantly. Once it's been pointed out to you once (thanks Cornell) you realize that you can't walk down the street without seeing a few people with brooms and bags sweeping back and forth all day every day. Kudos to China for taking care of garbage, but I'd still enjoy seeing a civic campaign against littering in the future. Why? Because sweepers can't get everywhere, and they couldn't get into Guangzhou Main. Once I passed through security, I made my way to the "Waiting Lounge". This vast hall was last clean when they built the place. Searching for a clean seat I had to dance past apple cores, soda cans, cigarette butts, orange peels and sunflower seeds, to name a few. I believe that orange peels and sunflower seeds make up about 80% of this vice, especially dismal since the seeds have been in and out of people's mouths and spat into great heaps on the floor. I think (hope?) there is a future market in some sort of portable disposal unit for this sort of refuse.
I got to the station relatively early so I watched the lounge slowly fill up until, just prior to departure, the place was seriously overflowing with people. When they finally let us on the deluge predictably tried to shove it's way through the inadequate entry gate, so I just hung back and let things thin out before I made my way. There was an element of risk in this because I wasn't sure what exactly the etiquette regarding inter-city domestic travel in China was: perhaps the seat number on my ticket was a mere formality and the initial rush to board had been the true competition, unknown to my naive eyes. I had a bottom bunk hard-sleeper, more convenient than the middle or upper bunks but, alas, infamous for being used by everyone as spare seats before lights-out. I wasn't looking forward to politely asking any Chinese people to kindly remove themselves from my bed and the guy who was thusly enjoying himself when I arrived departed immediately and I never saw him again.
Although I had prepared for boredom, I was happy to find three Australians in the same set of sleepers as me. Moreover, they too were headed all the way to Hanoi where they were doing long-term volunteer stints in a variety of job placements. Tim the geologist/topographer, Claire the teacher and Linda the something-or-other were very pleasant people and shared with me lots of valuable information on how to get around Vietnam and Hanoi in particular. I owe them a great debt of thanks for saving my wallet many a Dong.
On this train I experienced some of the aforementioned disdainful indifference. This is putting it kindly, I believe, but I'll let you be the judge. I was having dinner and then a beer with Linda in the dining carriage. Linda is Vietnamese-Australian and thus often got the fifth degree in both Chinese and Vietnamese before anyone truly believed she was foreign and even then she received mostly usually disapproving annoyance. So when we had to communicate via gesture for beers the guard in charge only reluctantly took our money for the service. The dining carriage "bar" was a money-covered table with two chain-smoking guys in uniform – you give them the money, the reach under the table and pull out something you hope you like. On the first beer the main guy didn't want to give me change, and when I could produce exact change he stared daggers at me for having been foiled. The second time we wanted a beer, he simply refused flat out. When we started to play cards, he told us to leave.
Who knows what had caused this ruckus. Maybe the guy was having a bad day... more likely he was enjoying his sad little power trip a little too much. What can't be overlooked, however, is at this point Claire, prototypical white female, enters the scene and suddenly we are treated to more warm beers and we can play all the card games we please. I don't know what was more sad, that his methods were so transparent or that he thought his efforts might count for something. Anyway, score one for white girls.
When we reached Nanning the next morning, we made for the Lotusland Hostel. Although I had a reservation, I didn't have a map; although they didn't have a reservation, they did have a map. We rocked up around 6am and got installed. Well, I thought they had got in, but I crashed immediately after getting my room key and when I woke up the next morning they were not to be found. Good people, best of luck to them.
My friend Eveline from HK had recommended Lotusland to me, claiming it was the best hostel ever. I'm not particularly fond of hyperbole but this place seriously is one of the best hostels ever. The place must have been designed by a backpacker for backpackers because it had all the amenities and homeliness that backpackers look for. The fact that it's not even in a primary destination makes the find all the more delightful. Most people to come Nanning in transit to or from Vietnam, but clearly many have stayed in the unexpected comfort of Lotusland for a few extra days. Friendly multilingual staff, sturdy clean rooms, modern hotel locks, an abundance of deep couches, plenty of clean and working amenities and some at-cost imported foodstuffs for comfort, this place truly had it all. It was even by a park by the riverside. Sadly, I didn't get to spend a single night here.
After waking up around 11, cleaning myself up and settling in, I trekked back to the train station to buy a ticket to Hanoi for the following evening. Indeed, I had wanted to take a bus (only five hours) but the bus station was still closed from New Years celebrations. To ease things along, I wrote out my itinerary in Chinese characters. I stood in line, paper ready. When I got to the ticket window, the conversation went like this:
"Hi, I'd like to take the train to Hanoi tomorrow night, 2/1." I pressed paper against the glass.
Pause. Pensive look. Papers shuffled. "Okay," in decent English, "506 yuan."
My turn to pause. Gesturing at the chart on the wall, "290 yuan? 290 yuan for Hanoi?" I only had 400 yuan on me.
"Tomorrow 506. Today 290. Go today?"
Well now, there's a quandary. I had about ten seconds to determine if she was trying to extort me or if for some reason tomorrow the prices really would jump up before the long line behind me got agitated. At seven second, I played for time.
"What about 2/2? 290 yuan?"
"506 yuan."
"Everyday 506 yuan?"
"Yes."
"But today 290 yuan?"
Nod.
"Dammit." So I bought the ticket for 290 yuan. It was already 2pm and the train left at 6:15pm so I had to hoof it back to the hostel and pack my stuff back up. Prematurely shaken out of my sublime mental and physical state of relaxation, I awkwardly explained to the hostel staff I wouldn't be staying with them. The guy at reception began to apologetically explain that he couldn't refund my money, but I waved it off and told him I'd already slept in the bed anyway.
Back at the train station, I found the "Lounge Reserved for Soft Sleepers" to be immeasurably better than the lounge in general lounge back in Guangzhou Main, though it turned out that the train was composed entirely of soft sleepers, eliminating any sense I had of class superiority. Moreover, I found that the only real difference between soft and hard sleepers were the amount of bunks (four versus six) and the existence of a door.
As opposed to the hundreds or thousands of bodies on the Guangzhou-Nanning lines, on Nanning-Hanoi there were little more than fifty passengers. My three bunkmates were Eric from Beijing and some Vietnamese couple. Eric, the 23-year-old Chinese student was an amusing enough guy: Eric being his English name because his Chinese name was nearly the same as a Mandarin word for "fuck" and us tone-deaf foreigners kept swearing at him. He had been a volunteer at the Olympic village last summer and the German team he was assigned to greeted him every morning with a hearty "Good morning, Fuck!", much to the glee of his co-volunteers.
Eric, moreover, had never been out of China in his life. I saw his brand spanking new passport with a single Vietnamese visa in it and he asked furtively if I'd ever been out of America much...
"Just a bit."
"Really? I heard to be careful Vietnam of the cheats."
"Mmmm, never happens in China, does it."
"No, never."
We split ways in Hanoi, though I got his email and thought we could meet up for a beer. I heard back from him the next day: "Really be careful if you want to take a motocycle or buy anything. Everyone seems to grab money from you." He was going to try his luck down south. I hope he makes it back to China alive.
I started left HK with some customs lines and I arrived in Hanoi the same way. At 11pm we were marched off the train for Chinese immigration and at 2am again for Vietnamese immigration. Suffice to say, in the interim three hours no one had smuggled any drugs or bombs on the train, but Kevin was measurably crabbier. The Vietnamese authorities also took the liberty of sticking a thingamajig in my ear and, having determined that I was a sufficiently healthy individual, charged me 2 yuan for the privilege.
At 5am we arrived in Hanoi, got kicked off the train, and it was at this point I found myself in Vietnam with no money. I felt like I had made this mistake once before...
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Absolute Mediocrity in Hong Kong
January 31st 2009
The rest of my time in Shanghai was pretty relaxed. I was hanging out with Yannick, Cornell's roommate, a lot because he is self-employed and so can work from home. Very nice guy. His current existence seems to revolve around a few hours work and then many more hours of leisure: books, dvds, occasional massage or walk around the city, completed with an evening of relaxed dinner and drinks with the good expats of Shanghai. He says its only a temporary thing, but it's one heck of way to spend your time, if only temporarily.
Cornell and I went old Nihon school for a couple evenings and went to play darts at a local Japanese bar. Of course I didn't want to show up my host, so I let him win most of the time. I did win a game now and again for the sake of appearances, just enough to sooth my ego... With a mug of a Asahi draft in hand, it really was a little slice of good old Wakayama.
Saturday morning (1/24) saw me up at crack of five bloody thirty to catch the metro to the maglev to the airport for my 7:45 flight to Hong Kong. The maglev was a pretty cool ride: a German-engineered 300km/hr speed machine that brings you 30km in about 7 minutes. Unfortunately the platform exits were not engineered by the same German; at the terminus there was one single escalator and no stairs for all one thousand passengers trying to rush to their planes.
The only hiccup at the airport was the suspicious interrogation I got for my deodorant. I had two sticks of Old Spice in my bag and the security guard took them out and shook them above his head: “What is this?! What is this?!” I took the cap off, took a big dramatic sniff and made the appropriate gestures under my arm. He seemed unconvinced but another guard cut him off and let me go. I'm sure there's a lesson there...
As you may have guessed from the title, when I finally got to Hong Kong my week was pretty mediocre. Which isn't to say that Hong Kong itself is mediocre, or that the people are mediocre, but rather that what I accomplished in 6 days seemed rather mediocre compared to what might have been.
My new home in Hong Kong's Tsim Sha Tsui, Traveler's Friendly Hostel, could not have been further from its namesake or the luxury I'd experience in Shanghai. I've stayed in many a shabby place on several different continents, but this place takes the cake as the hands down worst hostel of all time. It would be difficult and tiresome to explain in all it's painful glory just how dilapidated this place was, but I'll give you some more of the so-pitiful-its-humorous hi-lights.
My room, Room 27 with the yellow door, was a six-bunk dorm room. The beds literally shook so from my top bunk I swayed violently when I or anyone else moved. In stead of lockers, a large portion of our room was stacked high with cardboard boxes filled with toilet paper. The quarrelsome, warlike staff would enter without knocking to retrieve some required TP at all hours, usually not acknowledging our presence or locking the door again behind them. I suppose they were upset at having all these foreigners in their utility closet. A few unlucky visitors who had booked a bed ahead of time but arrived late in the afternoon found themselves relegated to the new “7th bunk” of our room, namely the tile floor, for which they received no discount or apology. I suppose it was better than the twelve-bunk room, which was actually just a hallway with beds in it.
I beg of you not to have me relive the horrors of contained in that cesspool they called a washroom/shower.
The list goes on. Alone I may not have stood a chance, but united through our common adversity, my bunkmates and I overcame these hardships and had a good time. In the mix was Chris, the relaxed and intelligent med student from Florida; Dani, Iowa party girl extraordinaire teaching in northern China; Eveline, a.k.a. Dutch, the sweet-as-only-the-Dutch-can-be student from Beijing; and Jessica, the internet-addicted Canadian teenager with a Danish boyfriend (I seriously heard enough about this guy to name him as a good acquaintance; he must be a patient man). The five of us partied pretty hard the first 3 or 4 nights, hence my utter failure to accomplish anything culturally stimulating in Hong Kong. As the days passed Chris, Dani, and Eveline were replaced by Dave the pregnant Brit (inexplicably sick every morning, yet never drank a drop of alcohol), and Mike the comedic Scotsman (I'm pretty sure humor a prerequisite for citizenship, anyway).
There were some other one-day friends who I only encountered briefly, such as Asser the German. Poor guy came into this room of six where the five of us were already well and good into the game. We rolled back in at 5am one morning with all the delicacy of a prison riot. Asser took it in stride, though we invited him to hang out the next day he either declined or disappeared. One day he said he was off to the Macau casinos and that's the last I saw of him. The last replacement friend of note was Joseph from New York, though he insisted he was there to represent China. I hate to be the one to propagate stereotypes, but this guy fit the bill for craziest foreigner on the mainland, within and without. Joseph rocked waist-length dreads and a beard to match, brown teeth (top left center missing), several layers of brown pants and sweaters (may or may not have been original color) and, well, his hands being the only piece of actual person visible, nothing pretty to look at. Now you can chide me for judging someone on appearances, but I made an honest effort to accept people as they come, as is necessary in the backpacker life. Joseph, however, oscillated between scary and batshit crazy. Here are some of Joseph's pearls of wisdom:
“Lung cancer is good for you.” (after our repeated denials to his requests to smoke in the room)
“So you support Al Qaeda?” (in response to some poor Japanese girl admitting she was an Islamic Studies student)
“I only watched the inauguration to see Obama get shot, like the NSA did to Kennedy.” (no instigation, just crazy talk)
Weird guy. Added tension. Didn't like it. Needless to say, I kept my stuff a little closer and slept a little lighter that last night in good old Room 27.
Party as we did, Hong Kong wasn't an entire bust. We saw the parade and the fireworks on the first two days of new year. There was a light show at the pier the first night. I got to the first half of the Hong Kong Historical Museum and a random Kung Fu show in Kowloon Park. The best bit though was at the end of the week I went to Lantau Island with Jess and Mike to see the largest outdoor Buddha in the world on top of the mountain. It was big. Sadly it was a bit foggy so the photos weren't so hot, but it was nice to get away from the hustle and bustle of Hong Kong. Also on Lantau was the monastery connected to the Buddha and a short walk away was the Path of Wisdom, tall tree planks arranged in an infinite sign and inscribed with the Heart Sutra. And yes, I do feel wiser having walked it.
Random side note: yes, I have about a bajillion pictures of all this stuff I've been writing about, but no I don't have a good way of uploading it. I was able to download Picasa, which is what I usually use, but after the initial install it isn't recognizing any new files I put on the computer. Yes, I've done the regular troubleshooting but it's still bugged. I am beginning to regret having gotten Linux with this thing. If anyone can suggest any Linux compatible alternatives, I'm all ears.
Til next time...
The rest of my time in Shanghai was pretty relaxed. I was hanging out with Yannick, Cornell's roommate, a lot because he is self-employed and so can work from home. Very nice guy. His current existence seems to revolve around a few hours work and then many more hours of leisure: books, dvds, occasional massage or walk around the city, completed with an evening of relaxed dinner and drinks with the good expats of Shanghai. He says its only a temporary thing, but it's one heck of way to spend your time, if only temporarily.
Cornell and I went old Nihon school for a couple evenings and went to play darts at a local Japanese bar. Of course I didn't want to show up my host, so I let him win most of the time. I did win a game now and again for the sake of appearances, just enough to sooth my ego... With a mug of a Asahi draft in hand, it really was a little slice of good old Wakayama.
Saturday morning (1/24) saw me up at crack of five bloody thirty to catch the metro to the maglev to the airport for my 7:45 flight to Hong Kong. The maglev was a pretty cool ride: a German-engineered 300km/hr speed machine that brings you 30km in about 7 minutes. Unfortunately the platform exits were not engineered by the same German; at the terminus there was one single escalator and no stairs for all one thousand passengers trying to rush to their planes.
The only hiccup at the airport was the suspicious interrogation I got for my deodorant. I had two sticks of Old Spice in my bag and the security guard took them out and shook them above his head: “What is this?! What is this?!” I took the cap off, took a big dramatic sniff and made the appropriate gestures under my arm. He seemed unconvinced but another guard cut him off and let me go. I'm sure there's a lesson there...
As you may have guessed from the title, when I finally got to Hong Kong my week was pretty mediocre. Which isn't to say that Hong Kong itself is mediocre, or that the people are mediocre, but rather that what I accomplished in 6 days seemed rather mediocre compared to what might have been.
My new home in Hong Kong's Tsim Sha Tsui, Traveler's Friendly Hostel, could not have been further from its namesake or the luxury I'd experience in Shanghai. I've stayed in many a shabby place on several different continents, but this place takes the cake as the hands down worst hostel of all time. It would be difficult and tiresome to explain in all it's painful glory just how dilapidated this place was, but I'll give you some more of the so-pitiful-its-humorous hi-lights.
My room, Room 27 with the yellow door, was a six-bunk dorm room. The beds literally shook so from my top bunk I swayed violently when I or anyone else moved. In stead of lockers, a large portion of our room was stacked high with cardboard boxes filled with toilet paper. The quarrelsome, warlike staff would enter without knocking to retrieve some required TP at all hours, usually not acknowledging our presence or locking the door again behind them. I suppose they were upset at having all these foreigners in their utility closet. A few unlucky visitors who had booked a bed ahead of time but arrived late in the afternoon found themselves relegated to the new “7th bunk” of our room, namely the tile floor, for which they received no discount or apology. I suppose it was better than the twelve-bunk room, which was actually just a hallway with beds in it.
I beg of you not to have me relive the horrors of contained in that cesspool they called a washroom/shower.
The list goes on. Alone I may not have stood a chance, but united through our common adversity, my bunkmates and I overcame these hardships and had a good time. In the mix was Chris, the relaxed and intelligent med student from Florida; Dani, Iowa party girl extraordinaire teaching in northern China; Eveline, a.k.a. Dutch, the sweet-as-only-the-Dutch-can-be student from Beijing; and Jessica, the internet-addicted Canadian teenager with a Danish boyfriend (I seriously heard enough about this guy to name him as a good acquaintance; he must be a patient man). The five of us partied pretty hard the first 3 or 4 nights, hence my utter failure to accomplish anything culturally stimulating in Hong Kong. As the days passed Chris, Dani, and Eveline were replaced by Dave the pregnant Brit (inexplicably sick every morning, yet never drank a drop of alcohol), and Mike the comedic Scotsman (I'm pretty sure humor a prerequisite for citizenship, anyway).
There were some other one-day friends who I only encountered briefly, such as Asser the German. Poor guy came into this room of six where the five of us were already well and good into the game. We rolled back in at 5am one morning with all the delicacy of a prison riot. Asser took it in stride, though we invited him to hang out the next day he either declined or disappeared. One day he said he was off to the Macau casinos and that's the last I saw of him. The last replacement friend of note was Joseph from New York, though he insisted he was there to represent China. I hate to be the one to propagate stereotypes, but this guy fit the bill for craziest foreigner on the mainland, within and without. Joseph rocked waist-length dreads and a beard to match, brown teeth (top left center missing), several layers of brown pants and sweaters (may or may not have been original color) and, well, his hands being the only piece of actual person visible, nothing pretty to look at. Now you can chide me for judging someone on appearances, but I made an honest effort to accept people as they come, as is necessary in the backpacker life. Joseph, however, oscillated between scary and batshit crazy. Here are some of Joseph's pearls of wisdom:
“Lung cancer is good for you.” (after our repeated denials to his requests to smoke in the room)
“So you support Al Qaeda?” (in response to some poor Japanese girl admitting she was an Islamic Studies student)
“I only watched the inauguration to see Obama get shot, like the NSA did to Kennedy.” (no instigation, just crazy talk)
Weird guy. Added tension. Didn't like it. Needless to say, I kept my stuff a little closer and slept a little lighter that last night in good old Room 27.
Party as we did, Hong Kong wasn't an entire bust. We saw the parade and the fireworks on the first two days of new year. There was a light show at the pier the first night. I got to the first half of the Hong Kong Historical Museum and a random Kung Fu show in Kowloon Park. The best bit though was at the end of the week I went to Lantau Island with Jess and Mike to see the largest outdoor Buddha in the world on top of the mountain. It was big. Sadly it was a bit foggy so the photos weren't so hot, but it was nice to get away from the hustle and bustle of Hong Kong. Also on Lantau was the monastery connected to the Buddha and a short walk away was the Path of Wisdom, tall tree planks arranged in an infinite sign and inscribed with the Heart Sutra. And yes, I do feel wiser having walked it.
Random side note: yes, I have about a bajillion pictures of all this stuff I've been writing about, but no I don't have a good way of uploading it. I was able to download Picasa, which is what I usually use, but after the initial install it isn't recognizing any new files I put on the computer. Yes, I've done the regular troubleshooting but it's still bugged. I am beginning to regret having gotten Linux with this thing. If anyone can suggest any Linux compatible alternatives, I'm all ears.
Til next time...
Friday, January 23, 2009
Shanghai -- More
January 23rd 2009
My second day in Shanghai started early. I woke up with Cornell and crew as they went out to work and got an early start at the train station looking for tickets. I was cut down pretty quickly, however, by the stone-faced ticket clerk who told me trains to and from Hong Kong were sold-out through January 30th. Mild panic. I zipped back to Cornell's apartment to hit the internet for flights. Just when I was wondering whether I could really trust any of the numerous Chinese online travel agents with my credit card info, Yanick came to my rescue with C-trip, a service he'd used many times before. They have a website but he suggested just calling up and making arrangements. To my pleasant surprise they spoke perfectly fluent English. Cooler still was that Yanick's phone was registered with them so they already had all the delivery details. Call me a dork but I love these little moments of technological synergy. Anyway, they hand-delivered the tickets later that afternoon (free of charge, woot) and with I breathed a huge sigh of relief. One problem down, one visa to go.
It was now 10:30 and the Vietnamese Consulate closed at 11:30 for lunch so I had an hour to get there and get straightened out. It takes exactly 4 business days to process the visa and, it being Monday morning, that gave me just the right amount of time to get it done before the weekend -- if I could only get there in time. I did, thankfully, just under the wire at 11:20. It was as exciting as most consulates tend to be, but I picked up my completed visa yesterday afternoon and so I'm officially set for the next couple weeks (at least until Laos).
Feeling accomplished, I spent Monday afternoon strolling around finally able to take in Shanghai with a carefree attitude. I was wandering down the street when I spotted a temple doorway. I meandered through into red, red, and more red. Inconspicuously watching some people pray from the doorway, ultimately some stony-faced guy (lots of stony faces in this place) waved me out. Well I thought he was waving me out but when I turned to leave he shook his head and held up five fingers. I gave him 5 CNY and he gave me two bundles of incense. After studying the basic prayer patterns of other visitors I gave it a shot myself and asked the temple guardian to grant me a safe journey. Sadly I had lit the incense from the wrong end and the bundles began to fall apart. Nobody else saw, anyway, and I haven't been hit by any cars/scooters/buses yet.
Which brings me to the nature of traffic in Shanghai. I could go on for ages about the various nuances required to survive the streets here, but suffice to say it's pretty wild. Not Accra-caliber wild, mind you, or even Bangkok-dangerous (nyuck), but definitely a cut above, say, New York. The city's infrastructure is as good or better than most other cities I've visited but drivers tend to take street lines and traffic lights as mere suggestions. Right of way belongs to those with the greatest inertia, so pedestrians are at the bottom of the food chain. You can't really trust the lights so whenever you need to cross a street it really is a frantic scamper, trying to look all ways at once. The scooters zip every which way – on streets, on sidewalks, with traffic, against traffic – and most have silent electric motors so you don't know how close you were to death until the blur has just passed out of your peripheral vision again. I haven't seen anyone get hit yet, but Cornell has assured me it happens often enough. Stay on your toes.
After the temple I headed to the east side of the Bund. This is the side with all the new skyscrapers and upperclass commercialism and etc. I think Shanghai must rival New York for skyscraper density, no joke. Anyway, one of these towers is called the Pearl and its a TV tower for some Chinese network. You can go up the tower for various views (its right on the riverside), but I contented myself with the “Notes for Entering the Tower” posted just outside the entryway. I'll post the photo as soon as I can, but the very first rule on the list is as follows:
“The ragamuffin,drunken [sic] people and psychotics are forbidden to enter the Tower.”
Oh my, the questions bubbled, boiled, and swirled in my mind. What exactly is a ragamuffin? Must one be both ragamuffin and drunken to be refused entry? Is there such a thing as a sober ragamuffin? And what exactly is the difference between a ragamuffin drunkard and psychotic? Who could possibly be in charge of answering these questions?
I mulled these and other tangential inquiries over a hot pot lunch (“Cooking Master” restaurant, where all the staff wear jackets proclaiming “I'm Cooking Master!”). It wasn't until later that evening that I was able to settle the ragamuffin question with the help of Cornell and Caroline. Cornell was of the opinion that it must be some synonym for 'hoodlum' or 'vagrant' and I was inclined to agree with him. Caroline, however, surprised us with a vehement declaration that 'ragamuffin' is in fact a reggae-hip hop fusion style. She grew up on a small island in the Indian Ocean, after all, and Marley and disciples rule the islands. It turned out that everyone was right. Wikipedia favored us with the following definitions:
1.Raggamuffin music, usually abbreviated as ragga, is a sub-genre of dancehall music or reggae, in which the instrumentation primarily consists of electronic music. Sampling often serves a prominent role in raggamuffin music as well.
2.A ragamuffin is a shabbily clothed child.
However, I prefer the definition offered by Urban Dictionary:
A grimy dirty little urchin or waif with ratted greasy hair. Usually female.
Brilliant. You've got to love that appended “Usually female.” I wonder who must have taken a survey of ragamuffins and discovered its disproportionately large female constitution.
Later that evening I met up with Cornell after he got off work. We tried a restaurant recommended by his boss for being both authentically Chinese and foreigner friendly. Even on a Monday, however, this place was already booked solid. The hostess gave us the “are you serious?” look when we said we didn't have reservations. Must be more popular than we imagined. It looked pretty posh, I suppose, but I'll never be able to attest to the menu.
Instead we went to the opposite side of the spectrum but no less appetizing. Nearby Cornell's apartment complex is a noodle shop that you'd walk by every time unless you had the go-ahead from someone in the know. It was just a small, tiled, unheated room with four tables and couple scattered stools and picture menus on the walls. Everything is in Chinese but the noodle dishes have pictures up so for me at least I could point and choose. The noodle master then rips off a hunk of dough and stretches out fresh noodles for you right then and there. After they finish cooking the noodles are taken in the back, topped off with whatever you had chosen and then served as a heap so massive my brother would appreciate it. All this for 10 CNY. And don't forget your soup.
The restaurant was one of many similar throughout the city. They are all run by domestic immigrants from the Muslim region of China. The menu and style is uniform at every location though I'm not sure if all the restaurants are connected or independently run. There must be a connection at some level, anyway. If soup doesn't cut it for you, you're free to bring your own beverage, just no alcohol. Also, no pork. If you can get past that, this place is an epic find.
Of course, with Cornell there that was not nearly where the cultural trivia ended. When I asked what the main noodle chef's name was, I was informed it's best to just call him shifu, or master. Any Kung Fu Panda fans out there might remember the redundantly named Master Shifu; same idea. So basically in Chinese culture anyone outside your circle of intimacy is called by their title rather than their name. So we call cabbies and chefs 'shifu' and the cleaning lady 'ayi'. There's probably a bunch more but that's all I've come in contact with so far. This idea is interesting in and of itself but is also telling about greater Chinese culture as well: how everyone treats strangers utterly callously until some connection is made or found, at which point (having entered the circle) people can treat each other as family. Anyway, the noodle shifu was a nice guy from the get go. Its hard to describe without sounding strange but he and the other workers there had a certain kindness about their eyes that was conspicuously missing from the vacant stares most people tend to give strangers, whether in China or elsewhere. Although we couldn't communicate at all, it was clear to me that these were good people or were genetically blessed with kind facial features, or both.
Tuesday was blur of walking around Shanghai sites. I saw Yuyuan Gardens, which must be the prototypical Chinese style garden. I gave up on taking decent pictures because its winter but I'll be back in the spring and I'm sure it'll be pretty outstanding. The garden is set in the greater Yuyuan “cultural area”, which is essentially stylized street mall. Still fun to walk around and people, however, and that's exactly what I did. The decorations for Chinese New Year are pretty impressive.
From here I walked through Old Shanghai, basically quasi-slums. I find it strange that nearly every source I looked at suggested seeing this place when in reality you're just walking through narrow alleys thinking “these people are all pretty poor”. Shanghai might be moving fast but these people aren't so much. And when they do it'll probably be literally: relocated to have their old neighborhoods renovated and redeveloped. I suppose it's a “see it while it lasts” sort of thing, but it still doesn't sit well. The redeeming end to this misadventure was that I found some street markets that don't make it on to any tourist maps. I could tell immediately because the hawkers weren't cat-calling me in broken English; I just got curious looks and then people went back about their business. These markets were cool because, in stead of selling the usual knock-off watches and apparel, they were overflowing with old Maoist paraphernalia. I had to stop myself from getting anything, mostly because I can't carry anything new but also because I'm sure Beijing will also be a treasure trove.
No wrap up for this email, just going to stop here because it appears I'm breaking my promise to stay succinct. Thanks for reading. Loving your response emails. Talk to you again soon.
My second day in Shanghai started early. I woke up with Cornell and crew as they went out to work and got an early start at the train station looking for tickets. I was cut down pretty quickly, however, by the stone-faced ticket clerk who told me trains to and from Hong Kong were sold-out through January 30th. Mild panic. I zipped back to Cornell's apartment to hit the internet for flights. Just when I was wondering whether I could really trust any of the numerous Chinese online travel agents with my credit card info, Yanick came to my rescue with C-trip, a service he'd used many times before. They have a website but he suggested just calling up and making arrangements. To my pleasant surprise they spoke perfectly fluent English. Cooler still was that Yanick's phone was registered with them so they already had all the delivery details. Call me a dork but I love these little moments of technological synergy. Anyway, they hand-delivered the tickets later that afternoon (free of charge, woot) and with I breathed a huge sigh of relief. One problem down, one visa to go.
It was now 10:30 and the Vietnamese Consulate closed at 11:30 for lunch so I had an hour to get there and get straightened out. It takes exactly 4 business days to process the visa and, it being Monday morning, that gave me just the right amount of time to get it done before the weekend -- if I could only get there in time. I did, thankfully, just under the wire at 11:20. It was as exciting as most consulates tend to be, but I picked up my completed visa yesterday afternoon and so I'm officially set for the next couple weeks (at least until Laos).
Feeling accomplished, I spent Monday afternoon strolling around finally able to take in Shanghai with a carefree attitude. I was wandering down the street when I spotted a temple doorway. I meandered through into red, red, and more red. Inconspicuously watching some people pray from the doorway, ultimately some stony-faced guy (lots of stony faces in this place) waved me out. Well I thought he was waving me out but when I turned to leave he shook his head and held up five fingers. I gave him 5 CNY and he gave me two bundles of incense. After studying the basic prayer patterns of other visitors I gave it a shot myself and asked the temple guardian to grant me a safe journey. Sadly I had lit the incense from the wrong end and the bundles began to fall apart. Nobody else saw, anyway, and I haven't been hit by any cars/scooters/buses yet.
Which brings me to the nature of traffic in Shanghai. I could go on for ages about the various nuances required to survive the streets here, but suffice to say it's pretty wild. Not Accra-caliber wild, mind you, or even Bangkok-dangerous (nyuck), but definitely a cut above, say, New York. The city's infrastructure is as good or better than most other cities I've visited but drivers tend to take street lines and traffic lights as mere suggestions. Right of way belongs to those with the greatest inertia, so pedestrians are at the bottom of the food chain. You can't really trust the lights so whenever you need to cross a street it really is a frantic scamper, trying to look all ways at once. The scooters zip every which way – on streets, on sidewalks, with traffic, against traffic – and most have silent electric motors so you don't know how close you were to death until the blur has just passed out of your peripheral vision again. I haven't seen anyone get hit yet, but Cornell has assured me it happens often enough. Stay on your toes.
After the temple I headed to the east side of the Bund. This is the side with all the new skyscrapers and upperclass commercialism and etc. I think Shanghai must rival New York for skyscraper density, no joke. Anyway, one of these towers is called the Pearl and its a TV tower for some Chinese network. You can go up the tower for various views (its right on the riverside), but I contented myself with the “Notes for Entering the Tower” posted just outside the entryway. I'll post the photo as soon as I can, but the very first rule on the list is as follows:
“The ragamuffin,drunken [sic] people and psychotics are forbidden to enter the Tower.”
Oh my, the questions bubbled, boiled, and swirled in my mind. What exactly is a ragamuffin? Must one be both ragamuffin and drunken to be refused entry? Is there such a thing as a sober ragamuffin? And what exactly is the difference between a ragamuffin drunkard and psychotic? Who could possibly be in charge of answering these questions?
I mulled these and other tangential inquiries over a hot pot lunch (“Cooking Master” restaurant, where all the staff wear jackets proclaiming “I'm Cooking Master!”). It wasn't until later that evening that I was able to settle the ragamuffin question with the help of Cornell and Caroline. Cornell was of the opinion that it must be some synonym for 'hoodlum' or 'vagrant' and I was inclined to agree with him. Caroline, however, surprised us with a vehement declaration that 'ragamuffin' is in fact a reggae-hip hop fusion style. She grew up on a small island in the Indian Ocean, after all, and Marley and disciples rule the islands. It turned out that everyone was right. Wikipedia favored us with the following definitions:
1.Raggamuffin music, usually abbreviated as ragga, is a sub-genre of dancehall music or reggae, in which the instrumentation primarily consists of electronic music. Sampling often serves a prominent role in raggamuffin music as well.
2.A ragamuffin is a shabbily clothed child.
However, I prefer the definition offered by Urban Dictionary:
A grimy dirty little urchin or waif with ratted greasy hair. Usually female.
Brilliant. You've got to love that appended “Usually female.” I wonder who must have taken a survey of ragamuffins and discovered its disproportionately large female constitution.
Later that evening I met up with Cornell after he got off work. We tried a restaurant recommended by his boss for being both authentically Chinese and foreigner friendly. Even on a Monday, however, this place was already booked solid. The hostess gave us the “are you serious?” look when we said we didn't have reservations. Must be more popular than we imagined. It looked pretty posh, I suppose, but I'll never be able to attest to the menu.
Instead we went to the opposite side of the spectrum but no less appetizing. Nearby Cornell's apartment complex is a noodle shop that you'd walk by every time unless you had the go-ahead from someone in the know. It was just a small, tiled, unheated room with four tables and couple scattered stools and picture menus on the walls. Everything is in Chinese but the noodle dishes have pictures up so for me at least I could point and choose. The noodle master then rips off a hunk of dough and stretches out fresh noodles for you right then and there. After they finish cooking the noodles are taken in the back, topped off with whatever you had chosen and then served as a heap so massive my brother would appreciate it. All this for 10 CNY. And don't forget your soup.
The restaurant was one of many similar throughout the city. They are all run by domestic immigrants from the Muslim region of China. The menu and style is uniform at every location though I'm not sure if all the restaurants are connected or independently run. There must be a connection at some level, anyway. If soup doesn't cut it for you, you're free to bring your own beverage, just no alcohol. Also, no pork. If you can get past that, this place is an epic find.
Of course, with Cornell there that was not nearly where the cultural trivia ended. When I asked what the main noodle chef's name was, I was informed it's best to just call him shifu, or master. Any Kung Fu Panda fans out there might remember the redundantly named Master Shifu; same idea. So basically in Chinese culture anyone outside your circle of intimacy is called by their title rather than their name. So we call cabbies and chefs 'shifu' and the cleaning lady 'ayi'. There's probably a bunch more but that's all I've come in contact with so far. This idea is interesting in and of itself but is also telling about greater Chinese culture as well: how everyone treats strangers utterly callously until some connection is made or found, at which point (having entered the circle) people can treat each other as family. Anyway, the noodle shifu was a nice guy from the get go. Its hard to describe without sounding strange but he and the other workers there had a certain kindness about their eyes that was conspicuously missing from the vacant stares most people tend to give strangers, whether in China or elsewhere. Although we couldn't communicate at all, it was clear to me that these were good people or were genetically blessed with kind facial features, or both.
Tuesday was blur of walking around Shanghai sites. I saw Yuyuan Gardens, which must be the prototypical Chinese style garden. I gave up on taking decent pictures because its winter but I'll be back in the spring and I'm sure it'll be pretty outstanding. The garden is set in the greater Yuyuan “cultural area”, which is essentially stylized street mall. Still fun to walk around and people, however, and that's exactly what I did. The decorations for Chinese New Year are pretty impressive.
From here I walked through Old Shanghai, basically quasi-slums. I find it strange that nearly every source I looked at suggested seeing this place when in reality you're just walking through narrow alleys thinking “these people are all pretty poor”. Shanghai might be moving fast but these people aren't so much. And when they do it'll probably be literally: relocated to have their old neighborhoods renovated and redeveloped. I suppose it's a “see it while it lasts” sort of thing, but it still doesn't sit well. The redeeming end to this misadventure was that I found some street markets that don't make it on to any tourist maps. I could tell immediately because the hawkers weren't cat-calling me in broken English; I just got curious looks and then people went back about their business. These markets were cool because, in stead of selling the usual knock-off watches and apparel, they were overflowing with old Maoist paraphernalia. I had to stop myself from getting anything, mostly because I can't carry anything new but also because I'm sure Beijing will also be a treasure trove.
No wrap up for this email, just going to stop here because it appears I'm breaking my promise to stay succinct. Thanks for reading. Loving your response emails. Talk to you again soon.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Shanghai, A Long Beginning
January 21st 2009
It's Wednesday afternoon in Shanghai, raining, so I'm taking the opportunity to take a break from the hustle and bustle to recount the goings-on of the past couple days. Plenty to talk about.
I walked off the ship Sunday morning and filed through a surprisingly casual Chinese immigration checkpoint. I didn't have any checked luggage to pick up so I ambled up the garage exit onto the street and – voila – Kevin was in China. Success! This victory was short-lived, however, because I realized I hadn't properly prepared for arriving in China. I needed to contact Cornell, but to do this I needed a phone. If I could find a phone, I needed money to pay for it. I was carrying plenty of money – USD and JPY – but no CNY. At most airports there are moneychangers in every corner, but having arrived by boat I was let off in a still-developing much-deserted corner of town. I started walking in concentric circles looking for a bank, contemplating the whole time that I was looking for an open bank on a Sunday morning. Just before panic and despair set in I did finally find an open bank and managed to change some of my JPY to local currency, though not without the requisite questioning by foreign authorities over my last name as printed in my passport (White III). This has happened to me in just about every country in the world and after a few futile attempts at explaining the peculiar naming traditions of my native culture I've decided to let the world's bureaucracies come to know me simply as “Whitey”. At any rate I'll need a new passport in 2010 so I'll take care of it then.
Now that I had plenty of cash, I had to find a phone. Unhelpfully, all the phone booths I found had the phones ripped out. Made me feel right at home, actually, because the same usually happens back in the states. I wandered in to a convenient store and attempted to express my predicament in sign language. When the women behind the counter figured me out but could not help I was saved by my first friendly stranger. The guy in line in front of me had stuck around to observe my act and, after his own gestured performance, led me around the corner to an inconspicuous kiosk. I wouldn't have guessed the two people chilling on lawn chairs were actually selling anything, but they had big white boards with long strings of numbers and two phones on a desk. The numbers were apparently SIMM cards and the phones were replacement public services. Sure. I made contact with Cornell and everything was good again. My new mime friend went back about his day and I hopped in a taxi.
Although Cornell was having lunch with his grandmother, I was let in to the pad by one of his roommates. Cornell lives in Shanghai with two lovely French expats, Yannick and Caroline. As for how I know Cornell, when I originally lived in Japan in 2005 we lived across the street from one another in Iwade. Yannick let me in to the apartment to drop off my stuff and then I headed to People's Square one metro stop away on Cornell's advice. People's Square is the very center of Shanghai and on Sunday afternoon was covered with the milling crowds one would expect from one of China's three largest cities. Walking down the pedestrian streets absorbing the vibe was a good first-contact with the city. I turned one corner and came face to face with a Howard Johnson's set into a an 1920s style building. A HoJos in downtown Shanghai? Call me crazy but I thought I remembered this hotel string going out of business when I was a kid. Well HoJo is alive and well in contemporary China and even constitutes an upper-middle class experience. Weird.
I probably don't give myself enough credit with my Japanese because when you come to a place where you really can't communicate it becomes very apparent very quickly. Ordering food or buying anything anywhere has degenerated to pointing at products and punching numbers into a calculator. So when I had lunch as a busy noodle shop on the pedestrian strip at People's Square it was quite a scene for everyone around. Even in metropolitan Shanghai the fascination with foreigners is more robust than it was in Japan and kids especially seem curious with a white man that can use his chopsticks skillfully. The aged woman next to me unobtrusively appraised my dexterous fingering and, I think (hope?), nodded approvingly.
When I related my lunchtime adventures to Cornell he quipped that my restaurant, Ajisen, was actually a localized Japanese noodle franchise. Oh well, so much for branching out. We met back at his place around 2:30 and reminisced about Wakayama for a while. I hadn't seen the guy in three years but rest assured he's still the same good old Cornell. He's an intelligent, professional, thoughtful sort of guy that you'd be lucky enough to meet two or three of these sorts people in your lifetime. Aside from granting me the gracious hospitality of his home and showing me the better parts of the city, his combined knowledge and experience of the place offers an insight into Shanghai that you couldn't get from a guide book and would be supremely lucky to get from even a good professional tour guide. I'd be fortunate if a fraction of what he's told me will be transmitted to you, and I'm sure it will end up significantly less eloquent. At any rate, I'm lucky to have met him this early in my trip as his advice will be useful throughout all of China and elsewhere. On with the good times.
We made our way to a local fake-market to test my bargaining skills. I got a Billabong t-shirt and Lacoste polo shit for a combined 100 CNY (I should note here I'm not sure exactly the best way to refer to Chinese money. I've heard it called “RNB”, “kwai”, “Chinese dollars”, “yuan” and the official international market abbreviation is “CNY”. For simplicity I'll stick with CNY). The current exchange is about 6.8 CNY to the USD, so I usually just divide by 7. Not a bad price, I thought, but now that I've been back a few times and having seen others haggle, I'm sure I could have gotten down to 50 CNY. Note, as well, that my opponent started somewhere around an absurd 480 CNY. As Cornell has explained its just a game to them and they're always going to be better at it than you. I'm sure they receive these shirts for less than a dollar apiece anyway so anything over 10 CNY is probably pure profit. Anyway, if you don't take it too seriously its great fun.
For dinner we went to restaurant that specializes in a Shanghai original, cold boiled chicken. The chicken is sliced with a butchers knife and so comes served bones and all. You gnaw the flesh away from the bones and then spit out on to the table. Yup, on to the table. Soon I had a morbid hill of delicious death growing beside my rice bowl. Considering the long history of bone-spitters before me, you can imagine that the 3-second-rule certainly doesn't apply here. We also had a boiled spinach dish and a mushroom beef dish. Cornell noted that 1) in Shanghai its traditional to eat rice last (as opposed to everywhere else in Asia where rice is ubiquitous with your meal) because its a sign of wealth not to have to serve such a cheap commodity as filler with your meal, and 2) the Western tradition of serving cold drinks with meals flies in the face of Chinese traditions of yin-yang, and so in China you'll find that the “drink” with you meal is typically the hot soup which accompanies it. Foreign infidels that we are, we ordered to Wong Lo Kats (totally not sure of the accuracy of this name), sweetened tea served by the can. All in all a good meal and a great introduction to proper Chinese cuisine.
After dinner we went to an area called Xin Tian Di which is being developed by Cornell's firm, Shui On. The firm was granted master planning rights to a huge swath of land south of People's Square and in stead of knocking everything down and starting from scratch there was a modest effort made to preserve the traditional Shikumen structures, a Euro-Asian fusion style developed when foreign powers exacted concessions from a weak Chinese governement back in the 1800s. Except for the unfortunately prominent placement of a Starbucks the place has a very good vibe. The developement's theme is “Where the past meets tomorrow, today.” and while this may sound cheesy it is actually a pretty apt description. Xin Tian Di has a museum on Shikumen architecture which I later visited, but coolest of all is that on one out-of-the-way street corner is the site of the First National Congress of the Communist Party of China, back when it was just thirteen guys in a room doing their best not be discovered by the KMT. The museum has short biographies with back-then photos of each of the thirteen delegates, including a 20-something Mao. Curiously, based on the biographies about half the original thirteen ended up being arrested, if not executed, at some point in the future by the very party they founded.
The last thing we did that night was to visit the west side of the Bund, the strip along the water that is home to Shanghai's famous skyline. I've seen many a skyline throughout the world, but Shanghai is blessed with one of the best. The west side is lined with roaring-20s style regal buildings that used to house European banks and now house Chinese banks. If any of you appreciate the old WB Batman cartoons, these buildings come straight out of that old-school Gotham City. On the east bank are more modern skyscrapers, all of which are impressively tall but have less personality. The exception to this rule is one building which fuses the two styles and is now my favorite. Not sure what it's called but it's a modern skyscraper, with the sleek glass and steel look, done in the 1920s tiered style that makes it look like something a cyborg King Kong might climb.
At the end of that day it was hard to imagine that I had woken up on a boat, but the next day was shaping up to be just as action-packed. And not in the good way. I had arrived the week before Chinese New Year's, arguably one of the most heavily and densely celebrated holidays in the world. My plan to travel the following weekend to Hong Kong started to seem laughably naive. On top of that, I had to get my visa for Vietnam and the consulates were sure to be closed in China over the holidays. As happy as I was to be in China at last, these problems were both large and pressing. No rest for the weary.
It's Wednesday afternoon in Shanghai, raining, so I'm taking the opportunity to take a break from the hustle and bustle to recount the goings-on of the past couple days. Plenty to talk about.
I walked off the ship Sunday morning and filed through a surprisingly casual Chinese immigration checkpoint. I didn't have any checked luggage to pick up so I ambled up the garage exit onto the street and – voila – Kevin was in China. Success! This victory was short-lived, however, because I realized I hadn't properly prepared for arriving in China. I needed to contact Cornell, but to do this I needed a phone. If I could find a phone, I needed money to pay for it. I was carrying plenty of money – USD and JPY – but no CNY. At most airports there are moneychangers in every corner, but having arrived by boat I was let off in a still-developing much-deserted corner of town. I started walking in concentric circles looking for a bank, contemplating the whole time that I was looking for an open bank on a Sunday morning. Just before panic and despair set in I did finally find an open bank and managed to change some of my JPY to local currency, though not without the requisite questioning by foreign authorities over my last name as printed in my passport (White III). This has happened to me in just about every country in the world and after a few futile attempts at explaining the peculiar naming traditions of my native culture I've decided to let the world's bureaucracies come to know me simply as “Whitey”. At any rate I'll need a new passport in 2010 so I'll take care of it then.
Now that I had plenty of cash, I had to find a phone. Unhelpfully, all the phone booths I found had the phones ripped out. Made me feel right at home, actually, because the same usually happens back in the states. I wandered in to a convenient store and attempted to express my predicament in sign language. When the women behind the counter figured me out but could not help I was saved by my first friendly stranger. The guy in line in front of me had stuck around to observe my act and, after his own gestured performance, led me around the corner to an inconspicuous kiosk. I wouldn't have guessed the two people chilling on lawn chairs were actually selling anything, but they had big white boards with long strings of numbers and two phones on a desk. The numbers were apparently SIMM cards and the phones were replacement public services. Sure. I made contact with Cornell and everything was good again. My new mime friend went back about his day and I hopped in a taxi.
Although Cornell was having lunch with his grandmother, I was let in to the pad by one of his roommates. Cornell lives in Shanghai with two lovely French expats, Yannick and Caroline. As for how I know Cornell, when I originally lived in Japan in 2005 we lived across the street from one another in Iwade. Yannick let me in to the apartment to drop off my stuff and then I headed to People's Square one metro stop away on Cornell's advice. People's Square is the very center of Shanghai and on Sunday afternoon was covered with the milling crowds one would expect from one of China's three largest cities. Walking down the pedestrian streets absorbing the vibe was a good first-contact with the city. I turned one corner and came face to face with a Howard Johnson's set into a an 1920s style building. A HoJos in downtown Shanghai? Call me crazy but I thought I remembered this hotel string going out of business when I was a kid. Well HoJo is alive and well in contemporary China and even constitutes an upper-middle class experience. Weird.
I probably don't give myself enough credit with my Japanese because when you come to a place where you really can't communicate it becomes very apparent very quickly. Ordering food or buying anything anywhere has degenerated to pointing at products and punching numbers into a calculator. So when I had lunch as a busy noodle shop on the pedestrian strip at People's Square it was quite a scene for everyone around. Even in metropolitan Shanghai the fascination with foreigners is more robust than it was in Japan and kids especially seem curious with a white man that can use his chopsticks skillfully. The aged woman next to me unobtrusively appraised my dexterous fingering and, I think (hope?), nodded approvingly.
When I related my lunchtime adventures to Cornell he quipped that my restaurant, Ajisen, was actually a localized Japanese noodle franchise. Oh well, so much for branching out. We met back at his place around 2:30 and reminisced about Wakayama for a while. I hadn't seen the guy in three years but rest assured he's still the same good old Cornell. He's an intelligent, professional, thoughtful sort of guy that you'd be lucky enough to meet two or three of these sorts people in your lifetime. Aside from granting me the gracious hospitality of his home and showing me the better parts of the city, his combined knowledge and experience of the place offers an insight into Shanghai that you couldn't get from a guide book and would be supremely lucky to get from even a good professional tour guide. I'd be fortunate if a fraction of what he's told me will be transmitted to you, and I'm sure it will end up significantly less eloquent. At any rate, I'm lucky to have met him this early in my trip as his advice will be useful throughout all of China and elsewhere. On with the good times.
We made our way to a local fake-market to test my bargaining skills. I got a Billabong t-shirt and Lacoste polo shit for a combined 100 CNY (I should note here I'm not sure exactly the best way to refer to Chinese money. I've heard it called “RNB”, “kwai”, “Chinese dollars”, “yuan” and the official international market abbreviation is “CNY”. For simplicity I'll stick with CNY). The current exchange is about 6.8 CNY to the USD, so I usually just divide by 7. Not a bad price, I thought, but now that I've been back a few times and having seen others haggle, I'm sure I could have gotten down to 50 CNY. Note, as well, that my opponent started somewhere around an absurd 480 CNY. As Cornell has explained its just a game to them and they're always going to be better at it than you. I'm sure they receive these shirts for less than a dollar apiece anyway so anything over 10 CNY is probably pure profit. Anyway, if you don't take it too seriously its great fun.
For dinner we went to restaurant that specializes in a Shanghai original, cold boiled chicken. The chicken is sliced with a butchers knife and so comes served bones and all. You gnaw the flesh away from the bones and then spit out on to the table. Yup, on to the table. Soon I had a morbid hill of delicious death growing beside my rice bowl. Considering the long history of bone-spitters before me, you can imagine that the 3-second-rule certainly doesn't apply here. We also had a boiled spinach dish and a mushroom beef dish. Cornell noted that 1) in Shanghai its traditional to eat rice last (as opposed to everywhere else in Asia where rice is ubiquitous with your meal) because its a sign of wealth not to have to serve such a cheap commodity as filler with your meal, and 2) the Western tradition of serving cold drinks with meals flies in the face of Chinese traditions of yin-yang, and so in China you'll find that the “drink” with you meal is typically the hot soup which accompanies it. Foreign infidels that we are, we ordered to Wong Lo Kats (totally not sure of the accuracy of this name), sweetened tea served by the can. All in all a good meal and a great introduction to proper Chinese cuisine.
After dinner we went to an area called Xin Tian Di which is being developed by Cornell's firm, Shui On. The firm was granted master planning rights to a huge swath of land south of People's Square and in stead of knocking everything down and starting from scratch there was a modest effort made to preserve the traditional Shikumen structures, a Euro-Asian fusion style developed when foreign powers exacted concessions from a weak Chinese governement back in the 1800s. Except for the unfortunately prominent placement of a Starbucks the place has a very good vibe. The developement's theme is “Where the past meets tomorrow, today.” and while this may sound cheesy it is actually a pretty apt description. Xin Tian Di has a museum on Shikumen architecture which I later visited, but coolest of all is that on one out-of-the-way street corner is the site of the First National Congress of the Communist Party of China, back when it was just thirteen guys in a room doing their best not be discovered by the KMT. The museum has short biographies with back-then photos of each of the thirteen delegates, including a 20-something Mao. Curiously, based on the biographies about half the original thirteen ended up being arrested, if not executed, at some point in the future by the very party they founded.
The last thing we did that night was to visit the west side of the Bund, the strip along the water that is home to Shanghai's famous skyline. I've seen many a skyline throughout the world, but Shanghai is blessed with one of the best. The west side is lined with roaring-20s style regal buildings that used to house European banks and now house Chinese banks. If any of you appreciate the old WB Batman cartoons, these buildings come straight out of that old-school Gotham City. On the east bank are more modern skyscrapers, all of which are impressively tall but have less personality. The exception to this rule is one building which fuses the two styles and is now my favorite. Not sure what it's called but it's a modern skyscraper, with the sleek glass and steel look, done in the 1920s tiered style that makes it look like something a cyborg King Kong might climb.
At the end of that day it was hard to imagine that I had woken up on a boat, but the next day was shaping up to be just as action-packed. And not in the good way. I had arrived the week before Chinese New Year's, arguably one of the most heavily and densely celebrated holidays in the world. My plan to travel the following weekend to Hong Kong started to seem laughably naive. On top of that, I had to get my visa for Vietnam and the consulates were sure to be closed in China over the holidays. As happy as I was to be in China at last, these problems were both large and pressing. No rest for the weary.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The Ferry
January 18th 2009
Two days ago I took a ferry out of Osaka port bound for Shanghai. This morning (it's around 9:00am) we're currently pulling in to Shanghai. I woke up to find a red disk sun rising over sparse forest off the port side... and warships lining the canal off the starboard. What an apt representation of this country's many curious dichotomies. I like China already.
My last night in Osaka I took a bath with three yakuza. The top floor of my Osaka business hotel had a sentou on it and so I went for my last ever Japanese bath. At first the businessmen were giving me dirty/curious/stony looks for my tattoo. When the yakuza walked in the businessmen's all eyes strayed toward fixed spots on the ceiling. All three of them had the tell-tale body-covering Japanese tattoos which identified them immediately. If surface area-covered is any indication of mafia hierarchy then the guy with both arms, back, neck, pectorals and cheeks (not face, ladies) was probably their leader. Of course, by nature of the fact that they were themselves staying in a cheap business hotel meant they couldn't be very far up the line. Anyway, when they started to read my back out loud I turned around and we made sparse conversation. They feigned interest in my up-coming trip; I forced laughter at their racist jokes. Most of the businessmen had taken this opportunity to excuse themselves so when the yakuza had sated their curiosity with me I was finally free to relax with my hot bath and ume-shu. Japan is all about the small pleasures.
The last week in Japan was full of sayonara parties: good food with great people and copious amounts of drinks. Thanks to everyone who helped me celebrate my many send-offs. Its hard to believe my Japanese adventures are over, at least for now, but I haven't had too much time to fret about it because all of mainland Asia awaits.
The ferry from Osaka to Shanghai hasn't been bad, exactly, but I can't really call it good, either. There isn't much going on on the ship. There's only about fifty passengers, including about six other foreigners, though everyone has mostly kept to themselves. My book was supposed to last me the entire trip (3 days and 2 nights) but I was so bored out of my mind that I finished it the first day. For anyone interested, The Kite Runner was good but incredibly depressing. Also, the ending was embarrassingly predictable which, considering the premise of the story, felt somehow cheap. Don't let this stop you from reading it, however, because despite my diatribes I still read it cover to cover in a single sitting which is more than I can say about most books.
The rest of my time on the ship has been spent on rotation between sleeping (twelve hours a day to kill time), eating, listening to lectures and podcasts, and also (children, earmuffs) a good amount of time on the john. Something from Friday definitely hit me hard on Saturday, and that's all I'm going to say about that.
Nothing else of note really happened during two days at sea. We hugged the Japanese islands for the majority of the time, only going into open water for the short stretch between Kyushu and maindland China. My room, advertised as “authentic Japanese style” was actually just a big open room with about twenty or thirty sleeping pads and a variety of passengers milling about. Besides the fact that I couldn't really roll over, on the whole it wasn't as bad as first appeared. Everyone was pretty mellowed out and except for the occasional talkative old man people generally kept to themselves.
Time to get off the boat.
Two days ago I took a ferry out of Osaka port bound for Shanghai. This morning (it's around 9:00am) we're currently pulling in to Shanghai. I woke up to find a red disk sun rising over sparse forest off the port side... and warships lining the canal off the starboard. What an apt representation of this country's many curious dichotomies. I like China already.
My last night in Osaka I took a bath with three yakuza. The top floor of my Osaka business hotel had a sentou on it and so I went for my last ever Japanese bath. At first the businessmen were giving me dirty/curious/stony looks for my tattoo. When the yakuza walked in the businessmen's all eyes strayed toward fixed spots on the ceiling. All three of them had the tell-tale body-covering Japanese tattoos which identified them immediately. If surface area-covered is any indication of mafia hierarchy then the guy with both arms, back, neck, pectorals and cheeks (not face, ladies) was probably their leader. Of course, by nature of the fact that they were themselves staying in a cheap business hotel meant they couldn't be very far up the line. Anyway, when they started to read my back out loud I turned around and we made sparse conversation. They feigned interest in my up-coming trip; I forced laughter at their racist jokes. Most of the businessmen had taken this opportunity to excuse themselves so when the yakuza had sated their curiosity with me I was finally free to relax with my hot bath and ume-shu. Japan is all about the small pleasures.
The last week in Japan was full of sayonara parties: good food with great people and copious amounts of drinks. Thanks to everyone who helped me celebrate my many send-offs. Its hard to believe my Japanese adventures are over, at least for now, but I haven't had too much time to fret about it because all of mainland Asia awaits.
The ferry from Osaka to Shanghai hasn't been bad, exactly, but I can't really call it good, either. There isn't much going on on the ship. There's only about fifty passengers, including about six other foreigners, though everyone has mostly kept to themselves. My book was supposed to last me the entire trip (3 days and 2 nights) but I was so bored out of my mind that I finished it the first day. For anyone interested, The Kite Runner was good but incredibly depressing. Also, the ending was embarrassingly predictable which, considering the premise of the story, felt somehow cheap. Don't let this stop you from reading it, however, because despite my diatribes I still read it cover to cover in a single sitting which is more than I can say about most books.
The rest of my time on the ship has been spent on rotation between sleeping (twelve hours a day to kill time), eating, listening to lectures and podcasts, and also (children, earmuffs) a good amount of time on the john. Something from Friday definitely hit me hard on Saturday, and that's all I'm going to say about that.
Nothing else of note really happened during two days at sea. We hugged the Japanese islands for the majority of the time, only going into open water for the short stretch between Kyushu and maindland China. My room, advertised as “authentic Japanese style” was actually just a big open room with about twenty or thirty sleeping pads and a variety of passengers milling about. Besides the fact that I couldn't really roll over, on the whole it wasn't as bad as first appeared. Everyone was pretty mellowed out and except for the occasional talkative old man people generally kept to themselves.
Time to get off the boat.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Kick Off
January 9th 2009
It's been a while but Kevin's Travel Journal is about to make its much-talked-about-but-little-seen return to prominence. Or at least regularity. The occasion, of course, is the start of my long awaited Asian Tour. This Tour has been my brainchild for the past five years, from the coffee shops of Montreal and lecture halls of McGill to month-to-month pay savings of Japan and the good people at UFJ Mitsubishi Ginko. I've finally managed to pull together a sufficient amount of funds to make this the trip I wanted it to be and with favorable weather patterns and planetary alignment it is time at last to set off. Departure date is set for January 16th from Osaka Port, headed straight for the Asian mainland via Shanghai. And so it goes.
The tentative plan is to travel south for warmth, through China to Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia and Thailand. By Spring I hope to travel north into India and then back east again through China and to make Mongolia by summer. That's the short of it; the long of it will be doled out over the next several months as it happens. The who/what/when/where/why/how will hopefully entertain, inspire, motivate and captivate you – do not hesitate to show your enthusiasm with response emails or Western Union wires.
In response to past commentary I will be pro-actively curbing the worst excesses of my infamous prolific tendencies. That's not to say there will be absolutely no exercises in reader-patience, but I promise that the majority of entries will come in more manageable bites.
In keeping with that spirit I will end this first email here with one last double-invitation: if you'd rather save your in-box some space don't hesitate to let me know and I'll remove you from my send-list with minimal offense; on the contrary, if you or someone you know needs more Kevin in their life, send their email address my way and I'd be happy to add them to said send-list. Finally, for those of you who want all your Kevin in one convenient location, simply bookmark this page, the official repository of all things Kevin: past, present, and future.
Take care for now, ya'll
Kevin
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