After a 22 hour train ride (the longest single mode of transport journey of our travels), we arrived at 10pm in Bombay [the official name of Mumbai was designated by the extreme right wing Hindu Shiv Sena party, so many people not in agreement with their ideas continue to call the city Bombay].
We took an auto rickshaw to Lucia's, the 91-year-old mother of Alfin, Rachel's parents' next door neighbor. She lives in Santa Cruz, a northern suburb. Lucia woke up to greet us when we arrived after 11pm--although she has a little trouble hearing, she's otherwise in terrific health, and was a wonderful host to us. It felt great to end our time in India staying with her, and we enjoyed hearing her life stories. Her servants Sunita and Laksmi were also really friendly, and Sunita had an adorable baby.
The next day, we took the train into what the British dubbed the "first city in India." Bombay commuter trains are often horribly overcrowded, but since we took them on a weekend and at off times, they were ok. A couple English women we met in Dharamsala said that Bombay felt like London to them, and while that may be an exaggeration, it certainly felt very, very different from any other place we'd been in India. These differences are more than superficial: Bombay produces a whopping 60% of India's GDP, and 40% of its manufacturing.
Our train arrived at the Victoria Terminal, a really crazy looking Gothic and Baroque building which looked like some buildings we'd seen in Australia. We walked around downtown, which felt much cleaner, more attractive, and calmer to walk than anywhere else in India. After a good afternoon at the Prince of Wales art museum, we sampled some of Bombay's street food: sugar cane juice, a grilled vegetable sandwich, mango juice, and pani puri (little shells of dough filled with a sweet or salty soup). Also better food here than elsewhere in India! Despite being more humid and still pretty hot, the temperatures were also considerable lower than other places we'd been, which was nice.
The next day we visited the house where Gandhi stayed in Bombay, and where he launched his nonviolent movement. We also walked along Chowpatty beach, which was mostly empty. We ate bhel puri (almost tasted a little Mexican, a mix of starches with cilantro and onions) and falooda, a delicious drink with pieces of kulfi ice cream. That evening we ate dinner with Lucia's extended family, all of whom are very well educated, successful and friendly.
Our last day in Bombay was relaxed- Rachel did some shopping with one of Lucia's relatives, and we went to a Bollywood movie called Bheja Fry (unfortunately not very good). Leaving that night for the airport, we were grateful to have been able to stay with Lucia. I read an anecdote somewhere about Gandhi's slogan to the British "Quit India," and how a British soldier had added under one of the posters "I wish I could." Despite feeling that way sometimes ourselves in India, we had some great experiences there, and enjoyed our time in Bombay.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
City of Light, Jungle of Tigers
The week after leaving Agra was dominated by train rides-- about 40 hours of them-- along with another 10 or so hours sitting in hot, filthy, crowded stations. In between these long rides and waits, though, were some iconic Indian experiences. From Agra, we headed east to Varanasi, a city on the Ganges that is one of the holiest places in Hinduism. This is not the right time of year to go there (or anywhere in India, really), as the temperatures the week we arrived had been daily hitting 115 degrees F; the blast of heat as we stepped out of the train was frightening. Although the heat was no better 10 kilometers away in Sarnath, where we had a SERVAS host, the noise and crowding were less. Our host was Christine, a German Buddhist married to an Indian man named Nehru. Christine runs a small eco-guest house that is also their home; they use solar power, build with natural local materials, and cook simple vegetarian food. There is no running water, but a pump in the yard provides plenty. Unfortunately Christine fell ill soon after we arrived, so we didn't get to spend much time with her or Nehru, who was either working in his saree shop or caring for Christine. There were some other travelers at the house, though, who were good to talk to.
Our first morning in Sarnath, the sun did not, as it usually does, burn through the clouds and start scorching the ground by 7. Taking this as a sign of a cooler than usual day, we headed into downtown Varanasi with another guest, a friendly, starry-eyed guy named Tom. He had already spent three months in Varanasi just hanging around, so he made an excellent guide for us in our one day there. We had to fight to get out of Sarnath though-- the auto-rickshaw drivers demanded exorbitant prices, and the public buses one after another refused to stop for us. Finally we all piled onto the narrow bench of a bicycle rickshaw-- incredibly hard work for the driver, with only one gear, but he was very happy to have such a large fare. It took an hour to cover the 10k into Varanasi, giving us a chance to look around calmly at the street scene. (From an auto rickshaw, all you can see is what's at eye level, which tends to be the underbellies of trucks and the front wheels of other ricks, all of which seem to be coming straight toward you at terrible speeds.) Once downtown, we headed toward the ghats. Ghats are, architecturally speaking, just wide steps leading up from the river; spiritually, though, each ghat has a different name and significance, and pilgrims make a certain circuit of the ghats, dipping in the holy water of the river at each of several different places. Many of them have shrines or temples on them or behind them, while others are backed by hulking castle-like buildings. The light, reminiscent of Nice, had a weightless, shimmering quality that covered everything with a sprinkling of fairy dust. We spent much of the day on the ghats, mostly walking, but also taking a rowboat ride on the river to see them from another view. They were endlessly engaging to look at because of the swirl of activities that centered on them. Huliking water buffaloes were scrubbed and polished in the water by their keepers; old goats napped in the shade while young ones chased each other; boys played small-scale games of cricket, oblivious to the pedestrians in their midst; tea-sellers sat and chatted with the regulars; unoccupied boatmen played cards. Meanwhile, groups of male prilgrims stripped to their underwear and jumped into th water, while the women mostly sat in groups on the steps. Tow of the ghats have a singular purpose, as cremation sites. Hindus believe that to die in Varanasi guarantees instant transport to heaven, and even for those who don't die here it is an honor to be cremated here. From the boat, we watched a group of men carrying a corpse, covered with a sheet, on a bamboo stretcher, then taking wood from the huge stockpile and lighting it, and the body, on fire. At any one time there are several cremations happening, at various stages; the male family and friends stay and watch the fire until it burns down, and then one person (generally the oldest son, I think) pours a bucket of Ganges water over the ashes. It was a powerful ceremony to observe. Sarnath is also a holy city in its own right, and we spent the following day exploring it a bit. There is an archeological site that is said to be where the Buddha preached his first sermon, making it a pilgrimage place for Buddhists from all over the world. That day the heat was relentless, though, and as we'd been having trouble sleeping (the solar powered fan only lasted a couple hours in the night), we spent much of the afternoon in the relative cool of the internet cafe.
The next day was the least complex of the marathon travel days: just one long train ride from Varanasi to the town of Satna, where we arrived at 9 p.m. and found a place to sleep and, as ever, a thali to eat. (A thali is a metal tray of rice, bread, one or two "vegetables"--almost invariably meaning potatoes--and lentils. It's good, once or twice. But in northern India it is both ubiquitous and exclusive-- most restaurants, except in very fancy or touristy places, serve nothing else. If I never eat thali again, I think I'd be okay with that.) The next morning we got on a train at 6:30, then another, then a bus-- and that was an experience. It started out great; we had a seat at the front, and it seemed to be leaving, unthinkably, ahead of schedule. But then it stopped a few minutes away, and proceeded to sit, in full sun, for an hour. During that time more and more people piled into the bus, to the point that people were squatting on seatbacks and there was no room to so much as shrug one's shoulders. Then, when the bus finally pulled away, another 20 or so people pushed and scratched to get on! There were people riding on the roof and a dozen hanging out the door. A 10 year old child had been put into my lap; soon after the bus pulled away, he started vomiting-- mosty out the window, but some on me. Then the old women who was sitting on Erik started hacking in a very ominous way; luckily we found a plastic bag in our backpack, and she managed to spit mostly into that and not on Erik. There were at least 85 people crammed into a bus that was half the size of a school bus or city bus at home. Suffice it to say that the hourlong ride dragged.
The goal of all this travel had been to reach Bhavangarh National Park, which according to our guidebook had one of the highest concentrations of tigers of any park in India. By the time we finally arrived, we were already questioning the wisdome of this quest; when we learned that prices had more than doubled since our book was published, it really started to feel like a mistake. But, having gotten there, we figured we should do the safaris we had planned on doing. Being the hottest time of year, the tourist presence was minimal and hotel rates were reduced, so we were able to stay in a much nicer room than we normally would have-- a shower with good water pressure instead of a bucket, and a powerful fan. Our evening "safari" (ride around the park in a jeep) did not yield any tiger sightings, but being in an open, clean, beautiful natural environment had a calming and rejuvenating effect on us. The next morning, we were back in the park at 5:45 (the park closes from 9:30 to
3:30, when both animals and peoples need to just be immobile and attempt to keep their blood from boiling). We saw herds of deer grazing in the meadows, a stork, sleeping owls, showoffy peacocks, lots and lots of monkeys, and a tree full of vultures. And then, at last, we saw a tiger. She was a 22 month old cub, not fully grown but spending the morning out on her own (her mother and 3 siblings are all around, we were told). She was up on a rock ledge, about 50 feet away and 30 feet above us. We never got a full view of her; mostly she was just lying around, gracing us with the sight of her head. We wished, temporarily, that we had an 18 inch camera lens like the other several tourists all did; our photos, I'm afraid, aren't too impressive. But she was truly gorgeous, and we were glad we got to see her. We spent a few hours after the safari luxuriating in our room, trying to prepare ourselves for the travel to come. Then we went back to the train station-- by taxi this time-- and retraced our commuter-line steps back to the hub, where we waited, and waited, and waited. Finally the train came, and we got on for our 20 hour ride to Mumbai.
Our first morning in Sarnath, the sun did not, as it usually does, burn through the clouds and start scorching the ground by 7. Taking this as a sign of a cooler than usual day, we headed into downtown Varanasi with another guest, a friendly, starry-eyed guy named Tom. He had already spent three months in Varanasi just hanging around, so he made an excellent guide for us in our one day there. We had to fight to get out of Sarnath though-- the auto-rickshaw drivers demanded exorbitant prices, and the public buses one after another refused to stop for us. Finally we all piled onto the narrow bench of a bicycle rickshaw-- incredibly hard work for the driver, with only one gear, but he was very happy to have such a large fare. It took an hour to cover the 10k into Varanasi, giving us a chance to look around calmly at the street scene. (From an auto rickshaw, all you can see is what's at eye level, which tends to be the underbellies of trucks and the front wheels of other ricks, all of which seem to be coming straight toward you at terrible speeds.) Once downtown, we headed toward the ghats. Ghats are, architecturally speaking, just wide steps leading up from the river; spiritually, though, each ghat has a different name and significance, and pilgrims make a certain circuit of the ghats, dipping in the holy water of the river at each of several different places. Many of them have shrines or temples on them or behind them, while others are backed by hulking castle-like buildings. The light, reminiscent of Nice, had a weightless, shimmering quality that covered everything with a sprinkling of fairy dust. We spent much of the day on the ghats, mostly walking, but also taking a rowboat ride on the river to see them from another view. They were endlessly engaging to look at because of the swirl of activities that centered on them. Huliking water buffaloes were scrubbed and polished in the water by their keepers; old goats napped in the shade while young ones chased each other; boys played small-scale games of cricket, oblivious to the pedestrians in their midst; tea-sellers sat and chatted with the regulars; unoccupied boatmen played cards. Meanwhile, groups of male prilgrims stripped to their underwear and jumped into th water, while the women mostly sat in groups on the steps. Tow of the ghats have a singular purpose, as cremation sites. Hindus believe that to die in Varanasi guarantees instant transport to heaven, and even for those who don't die here it is an honor to be cremated here. From the boat, we watched a group of men carrying a corpse, covered with a sheet, on a bamboo stretcher, then taking wood from the huge stockpile and lighting it, and the body, on fire. At any one time there are several cremations happening, at various stages; the male family and friends stay and watch the fire until it burns down, and then one person (generally the oldest son, I think) pours a bucket of Ganges water over the ashes. It was a powerful ceremony to observe. Sarnath is also a holy city in its own right, and we spent the following day exploring it a bit. There is an archeological site that is said to be where the Buddha preached his first sermon, making it a pilgrimage place for Buddhists from all over the world. That day the heat was relentless, though, and as we'd been having trouble sleeping (the solar powered fan only lasted a couple hours in the night), we spent much of the afternoon in the relative cool of the internet cafe.
The next day was the least complex of the marathon travel days: just one long train ride from Varanasi to the town of Satna, where we arrived at 9 p.m. and found a place to sleep and, as ever, a thali to eat. (A thali is a metal tray of rice, bread, one or two "vegetables"--almost invariably meaning potatoes--and lentils. It's good, once or twice. But in northern India it is both ubiquitous and exclusive-- most restaurants, except in very fancy or touristy places, serve nothing else. If I never eat thali again, I think I'd be okay with that.) The next morning we got on a train at 6:30, then another, then a bus-- and that was an experience. It started out great; we had a seat at the front, and it seemed to be leaving, unthinkably, ahead of schedule. But then it stopped a few minutes away, and proceeded to sit, in full sun, for an hour. During that time more and more people piled into the bus, to the point that people were squatting on seatbacks and there was no room to so much as shrug one's shoulders. Then, when the bus finally pulled away, another 20 or so people pushed and scratched to get on! There were people riding on the roof and a dozen hanging out the door. A 10 year old child had been put into my lap; soon after the bus pulled away, he started vomiting-- mosty out the window, but some on me. Then the old women who was sitting on Erik started hacking in a very ominous way; luckily we found a plastic bag in our backpack, and she managed to spit mostly into that and not on Erik. There were at least 85 people crammed into a bus that was half the size of a school bus or city bus at home. Suffice it to say that the hourlong ride dragged.
The goal of all this travel had been to reach Bhavangarh National Park, which according to our guidebook had one of the highest concentrations of tigers of any park in India. By the time we finally arrived, we were already questioning the wisdome of this quest; when we learned that prices had more than doubled since our book was published, it really started to feel like a mistake. But, having gotten there, we figured we should do the safaris we had planned on doing. Being the hottest time of year, the tourist presence was minimal and hotel rates were reduced, so we were able to stay in a much nicer room than we normally would have-- a shower with good water pressure instead of a bucket, and a powerful fan. Our evening "safari" (ride around the park in a jeep) did not yield any tiger sightings, but being in an open, clean, beautiful natural environment had a calming and rejuvenating effect on us. The next morning, we were back in the park at 5:45 (the park closes from 9:30 to
3:30, when both animals and peoples need to just be immobile and attempt to keep their blood from boiling). We saw herds of deer grazing in the meadows, a stork, sleeping owls, showoffy peacocks, lots and lots of monkeys, and a tree full of vultures. And then, at last, we saw a tiger. She was a 22 month old cub, not fully grown but spending the morning out on her own (her mother and 3 siblings are all around, we were told). She was up on a rock ledge, about 50 feet away and 30 feet above us. We never got a full view of her; mostly she was just lying around, gracing us with the sight of her head. We wished, temporarily, that we had an 18 inch camera lens like the other several tourists all did; our photos, I'm afraid, aren't too impressive. But she was truly gorgeous, and we were glad we got to see her. We spent a few hours after the safari luxuriating in our room, trying to prepare ourselves for the travel to come. Then we went back to the train station-- by taxi this time-- and retraced our commuter-line steps back to the hub, where we waited, and waited, and waited. Finally the train came, and we got on for our 20 hour ride to Mumbai.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Ambiguities in Agra
In Agra, we were looking forward to staying with our first Servas hosts since Australia. However, it turned out to be our strangest (and least pleasant) Servas experience, although also very interesting.
Leaving Mcleod/Dharamsala, we caught the overnight bus to Delhi, which provided some beautiful views of sunset (after a downpour of rain that afternoon) with the mountains and town in the background. Back in Delhi, we caught the train to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. The ride wasn't very scenic, with lots of flat, dusty land cultivated into small fields.
After giving up on making train reservations at the crowded station, we were happy to get to Krishna, a former member of parliament, and his wife Saroj's house, where they live with their son Vikram, his wife Varsha, and their two children Baras and Nina. While it was cooler that day because of clouds and even a little rain, after lunch we were still glad to retire to our room for a siesta during the afternoon heat. After that, Saroj, a social worker who is involved in many community functions, invited us to accompany her to the innaugeration of an area summer school. The school itself was a good example of our surprise at the state of infrastructure in India- given how it's portrayed in the media (IT jobs, such a fast growing economy, etc.), we expected to see at least a moderate level of infrastructure, but in terms of things like roads, schools, and sanitation India is more like the least-developed places we've visited, about on par with Ghana.
At the school, we sat around for awhile with the group of other dignitaries/speakers, and then the ceremony began, with some students and the local tv station cameras in the audience. In a lineup that also featured school girls chanting, people giving speeches and enthusiastically reciting poems, and a dance routine by 3 boys straight out of Bollywood, we were also asked to speak. It was nice to be part of the ceremony, although still a little weird to be viewed as so important just because of our foreign status. Just like our appearance in a local newspaper back at the start of our trip in Turkey (at the eco-village Pastoral Vadi), we made the news, apparently both in tv news and the newspaper (unfortunately we never saw any of this).
The next day we rose early (but not early enough for sunrise) and went to the Taj Mahal, where we stayed for several hours. It was very impressive, and we could notice changes in the color of the marble with the changing light (the main reason to stay while there); but of course it was very hot and some hassles. Returning to the house, we left again shortly to buy groceries (to cook for the family tonight) at a store they said "had everything." When we arrived, not only did we discover that they certainly didn't have everything, but also what they did have was of pretty poor quality. We bought ingredients for pasta, and back at the house vegetables from a cart the the vendor pulled through the neighborhood.
That afternoon, Saroj brought us to a Hindu ceremony where a young "guru" was presiding. The ceremony was in a covered courtyard space in the middle of the old city, where the street life looks like it was lifted directly out of the Middle Ages--people, animals, goods, garbage, everything all jammed together in such tight spaces. Like at the summer school innaugeration, again we were guests of honor, going up to the front to have an orange saffron and sandalwood paste dot put on Rachel's forehead, and stripes on mine. The ceremony consisted of dancing, singing, and the guru speaking; Rachel was recruited several times to dance in front with the main women. At the end, we were given "holy food" (sliced cucumbers and a bag of potato chips), and touched with holy water. At one point, we were again pulled aside to talk to the tv cameras. The ceremony was really interesting to see, and one of those things that we definitely couldn't have done on our own. We cooked the pasta that night, but it seemed strange that only Vikram ate with us- Varsha watching the kids, Krishna in the other room drinking whiskey with some political friends, and Saroj not joining us because, as Vikram told us, it's not respectful for a son to drink in front of his mother.
It was interesting to talk with Vikram and his wife (separately) about their marriage, which was arranged. In India there's an entire section of the newspaper called "Matrimonials," with ads seeking both brides and grooms. The ads include caste, profession- strange to us, but maybe not that different from the personal ads at home. Varsha asked to see the perfumes we had with us, she said she collects them so Rachel gave her some of hers.
The following day Vikram gave us a tour of his marble workshop. He said that he is the 11th generation marble worker in his family, which did the marble work on the Taj Mahal. Vikram's workshop is currently responsible for the maintenance of the marble in the Taj, still using the same methods as his ancestors. The marble inlay work is so detailed and beautiful, and it was really interesting to see the process. He said the workshop is closed except to friends and dignitaries--one of the recent famous Americans who visited was Bill Clinton! That afternoon Saroj took us to a fabric store and tailor to get some clothes made- we thought for another ceremony we were attending that evening, but that turned out to not be the case.
Our final interaction was what made us look at everything a little differently: we were taken "to a friend's to have a drink," which turned out to be a jewelry store, where we did have a drink, but then were given the tour and expected to buy something, which we didn't. After this, it wasn't ambiguous to us whether or not we were being manipulated to buy things, but rather whether this was the only motivation, or it was mixed with some genuine hospitality. We think the latter was true, but still it was a sour note to end the time in Agra as we boarded an overnight train to Varanasi.
Leaving Mcleod/Dharamsala, we caught the overnight bus to Delhi, which provided some beautiful views of sunset (after a downpour of rain that afternoon) with the mountains and town in the background. Back in Delhi, we caught the train to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. The ride wasn't very scenic, with lots of flat, dusty land cultivated into small fields.
After giving up on making train reservations at the crowded station, we were happy to get to Krishna, a former member of parliament, and his wife Saroj's house, where they live with their son Vikram, his wife Varsha, and their two children Baras and Nina. While it was cooler that day because of clouds and even a little rain, after lunch we were still glad to retire to our room for a siesta during the afternoon heat. After that, Saroj, a social worker who is involved in many community functions, invited us to accompany her to the innaugeration of an area summer school. The school itself was a good example of our surprise at the state of infrastructure in India- given how it's portrayed in the media (IT jobs, such a fast growing economy, etc.), we expected to see at least a moderate level of infrastructure, but in terms of things like roads, schools, and sanitation India is more like the least-developed places we've visited, about on par with Ghana.
At the school, we sat around for awhile with the group of other dignitaries/speakers, and then the ceremony began, with some students and the local tv station cameras in the audience. In a lineup that also featured school girls chanting, people giving speeches and enthusiastically reciting poems, and a dance routine by 3 boys straight out of Bollywood, we were also asked to speak. It was nice to be part of the ceremony, although still a little weird to be viewed as so important just because of our foreign status. Just like our appearance in a local newspaper back at the start of our trip in Turkey (at the eco-village Pastoral Vadi), we made the news, apparently both in tv news and the newspaper (unfortunately we never saw any of this).
The next day we rose early (but not early enough for sunrise) and went to the Taj Mahal, where we stayed for several hours. It was very impressive, and we could notice changes in the color of the marble with the changing light (the main reason to stay while there); but of course it was very hot and some hassles. Returning to the house, we left again shortly to buy groceries (to cook for the family tonight) at a store they said "had everything." When we arrived, not only did we discover that they certainly didn't have everything, but also what they did have was of pretty poor quality. We bought ingredients for pasta, and back at the house vegetables from a cart the the vendor pulled through the neighborhood.
That afternoon, Saroj brought us to a Hindu ceremony where a young "guru" was presiding. The ceremony was in a covered courtyard space in the middle of the old city, where the street life looks like it was lifted directly out of the Middle Ages--people, animals, goods, garbage, everything all jammed together in such tight spaces. Like at the summer school innaugeration, again we were guests of honor, going up to the front to have an orange saffron and sandalwood paste dot put on Rachel's forehead, and stripes on mine. The ceremony consisted of dancing, singing, and the guru speaking; Rachel was recruited several times to dance in front with the main women. At the end, we were given "holy food" (sliced cucumbers and a bag of potato chips), and touched with holy water. At one point, we were again pulled aside to talk to the tv cameras. The ceremony was really interesting to see, and one of those things that we definitely couldn't have done on our own. We cooked the pasta that night, but it seemed strange that only Vikram ate with us- Varsha watching the kids, Krishna in the other room drinking whiskey with some political friends, and Saroj not joining us because, as Vikram told us, it's not respectful for a son to drink in front of his mother.
It was interesting to talk with Vikram and his wife (separately) about their marriage, which was arranged. In India there's an entire section of the newspaper called "Matrimonials," with ads seeking both brides and grooms. The ads include caste, profession- strange to us, but maybe not that different from the personal ads at home. Varsha asked to see the perfumes we had with us, she said she collects them so Rachel gave her some of hers.
The following day Vikram gave us a tour of his marble workshop. He said that he is the 11th generation marble worker in his family, which did the marble work on the Taj Mahal. Vikram's workshop is currently responsible for the maintenance of the marble in the Taj, still using the same methods as his ancestors. The marble inlay work is so detailed and beautiful, and it was really interesting to see the process. He said the workshop is closed except to friends and dignitaries--one of the recent famous Americans who visited was Bill Clinton! That afternoon Saroj took us to a fabric store and tailor to get some clothes made- we thought for another ceremony we were attending that evening, but that turned out to not be the case.
Our final interaction was what made us look at everything a little differently: we were taken "to a friend's to have a drink," which turned out to be a jewelry store, where we did have a drink, but then were given the tour and expected to buy something, which we didn't. After this, it wasn't ambiguous to us whether or not we were being manipulated to buy things, but rather whether this was the only motivation, or it was mixed with some genuine hospitality. We think the latter was true, but still it was a sour note to end the time in Agra as we boarded an overnight train to Varanasi.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Himalayan Respite
After a comfortable, air-conditioned train ride that included two servings of tea and a meal of naan and dhal, we arrived in Amritsar, in the northwestern state of Punjab. The population of Punjab is majority Sikh, a religion developed in the 1400s largely in opposition to the caste structure of Hinduism, with instead a core belief in the equality of all people. Amritsar is a pilgrimage destination for Sikhs because their most important shrine, the Golden Temple, is there. After a couple hours in our room to let the scorching heat of the sun dissipate a bit, we followed the pilgrims. Like them, before going to the temple we walked around a memorial on the site of the Amritsar massacre, a 1919 atrocity in which British soldiers opened fire into an enclosed crowd of unarmed protesters, killing a disputed but unquestionably grotesque number. (The British say 379; the Indians say almost 2000). We were there on a Sunday, two days after the anniversary of the event, and it was crowded with Sikh families making the circuit around different parts of the memorial. Leaving there, we bobbed along in the slowly moving crowd to the temple complex itself. Taking off our shoes (unlike in Delhi, we put them into our bag with no problem), we walked through the foot-washing area (much more symbolic than actual, given the number of dirty feet the water had seen!) and down the stairs. In front of us opened up a massive courtyard of white marble, surrounded by imposing white temple-related buildings. The courtyard formed a square border (albeit with 20 foot wide and 50 yard long sides) around a dark blue pool of sacred water. In the middle of the water, connected to one side by another marble walkway, stood the Golden Temple, shimmering wildly. For Sikhs, there are several sacred places in the complex in addition to the temple itself, and as we shuffled slowly through the crowd on the walkway we saw people praying at a holy tree and swimming in certain places in the water. The line to get into the temple was quite claustrophobic, and we didn't stay long inside the temple, but once outside again we could sit quietly and watch the setting sun soften the glare of the gold, creating a gentle reflection in the water. For Sikhs the last part of visiting the temple is partaking in a free meal in the open canteen-- people eating together as a symbol of equality-- and although we did not do that, we did sit in an area full of pilgrims and accept a drink of tea, following the invitation of a venerable Sikh elder to "feed our hearts".
The next day we left the agricultural plains of Punjab for the Himalayan foothills of Himachal Pradesh. The bus ride up to Dharamsala was, honestly, terrifying-- the bus seemed to lilt wildly with each turn, and the driver seemed scarily infected with road rage. We were happy to put the ride safely behind us, and to get settled into a room 15 minutes up the road, in the town of Mcleod Ganj. Mcleod is a very strange place, and one which even after two weeks here I haven't really figured out; nor am I exactly sure how I feel about it. In some ways it is wonderful: there are cafes everywhere, with atmospheres highly conducive to just hanging out; on a clear day, snow-covered mountains loom in the not-so-far distance; there are lots of activities to take part in, ranging from bootlegged movie showings to women-only dances to Buddhist debates to classes in any number of Eastern philosophies or practices (various forms of yoga, reiki, belly-dancing, meditation, Tibetan cooking, etc.). One of the unique things about it is that there are also a range of opportunities for both short and long-term volunteering, so even in a week or two it's possible to makes some connections with people and learn something about the community here. That community is mainly Tibetan: Mcleod is the home of tens of thousands of Tibetan refugees, and as the seat of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan Government-in-Exile is really the capital city for Tibetans throughout the world. Between what we've learned from the Tibetan museum and what we've learned talking to people, we've gained some understanding of what Tibetans have been through since China occupied their country in 1959, much of it horrific. The Chinese goal was both to exploit the rich land of Tibet and to force the people to assimilate; to do this, they focused on oppressing the Tibetan language, culture, and-- crucially-- religion. This was to be accomplished both through measures like tightly controlling the education of Tibetan children, and through the systematic use of violence and torture, much of it directed against monks. The Dalai Lama, who is both the spiritual leader and the head of government, escaped by walking through the Himalayas in 1960, and 120,000 of the 6 million total Tibetan population have made similar escapes-- we've met several people who walked around 26 days to reach India or Nepal.
We've been very impressed by the organization and spirit of the Tibetan community in Mcleod. The language and culture are taught to the children and are celebrated in daily life, as evidenced in part by the beautiful traditional woven dresses and aprons many of the women wear, the ubiquity of "momos" (dumplings) and other traditional foods, and the prayer flags that hang in the air all over town. There are a great number crimson-robed monks, male and female, many of whom are involved in politics and the study and teaching of philosophy. There are also many community organizations run by Tibetans and geared toward easing and improving the lives of fellow refugees, such as an unemployment cooperative that provides short-term jobs for those who need them, or an environmental group focused on recycling and trash reduction. I've been spending my mornings happily surrounded by laughing, crying, runny-nosed babies and toddlers in a free day-care for Tibetan single or both-working parents; there is a permanent staff of 6, supplemented by volunteers who sign up for two weeks or more. Erik has written an article and done some editing for a community newsletter, and participated in English conversation classes for Tibetans trying to learn the language. (The four photos of the man in a room are of one of his students, who asked us to send them to his brother in New York.) Even the for-profit enterprises-- shops, restaurants, etc.-- tend to have a community-empowerment slant.
All of this has been inspiring to see and cool to be part of in our small way. At the same time, there are other sides of Mcleod that have troubled us. The most significant of those is the disparity between the Tibetan and Indian populations here. Sometimes it feels like the only Indians we see here are beggars-- and there are many of them, a large percentage tiny, filthy, malnourished children. Of course that feeling is not actually accurate, but it does seem that, with the exception of a significant group of Indian teachers (mainly of yoga), the other Indians in Mcleod are either construction or restaurant workers, Kashmiri store owners, or tourists. There is an Indo-Tibetan Friendship Society that works to establish rapport between the groups, but there has been tension in varying degrees in the past, in part because Western tourists tend to be engaged with Tibetan people and issues here and not Indian ones. I think the infrastructure is a part of that-- the Tibetan community is really well set up to engage tourists-- but I can see why there would be some resentment. We've also been rather disturbed by the amount of development in the area. As it is now, cars careen noisily down the pedestrian-clogged single lane streets, and looking out over the valley brings a view of densely clustered cement buildings, with many more under construction. They have done a good job reducing the use of plastic water bottles, at least; there are several stores where we can cheaply fill our bottles with filtered water. One final, less significant gripe: some of the tourists here are a bit too kooky, even for us. Like in Thailand, there are a lot of people who come here every year for months at a time, which sometimes strikes us as frustratingly escapist. Then there's the countless hordes walking around with their wool hats and seven scarves and big cotton pants and bare feet, looking so constantly soulful that it just feels a little ridiculous. It's funny to be in a place where we feel, like, "establishment"!
To be fair, though, we've met some really great people here as well, and we were singing as loud as anyone when "Blowin' in the Wind" was sung at an open mic night. This is the longest we've stayed in one place all year, with the exception of our dear Henrik's apartment in Cairo, and it has felt really good-- and really needed. Erik's done some meditation; I've taken a great, challenging classical yoga class; we've both done a lot of reading and writing. Yesterday we took a beautiful hike up to an alpine meadow at 9325 feet: after 9 kilometers of walking up, we rounded a final bend onto an incredible panorama of looming, snow-covered mountains. We had tried the hike a week earlier and turned around halfway because the sky was black with rain clouds; getting up there on a clear day was wonderful. We've been eating at the same restaurant almost every night: it's such a pleasure at this point not to have to study a menu every time we want to eat, and besides, they have great brownies and lemon cheese cake. Thus fortified, we're ready (we think) to head back into hot, dusty, crazy India tomorrow, and to enjoy our last two weeks as fully as we can.
The next day we left the agricultural plains of Punjab for the Himalayan foothills of Himachal Pradesh. The bus ride up to Dharamsala was, honestly, terrifying-- the bus seemed to lilt wildly with each turn, and the driver seemed scarily infected with road rage. We were happy to put the ride safely behind us, and to get settled into a room 15 minutes up the road, in the town of Mcleod Ganj. Mcleod is a very strange place, and one which even after two weeks here I haven't really figured out; nor am I exactly sure how I feel about it. In some ways it is wonderful: there are cafes everywhere, with atmospheres highly conducive to just hanging out; on a clear day, snow-covered mountains loom in the not-so-far distance; there are lots of activities to take part in, ranging from bootlegged movie showings to women-only dances to Buddhist debates to classes in any number of Eastern philosophies or practices (various forms of yoga, reiki, belly-dancing, meditation, Tibetan cooking, etc.). One of the unique things about it is that there are also a range of opportunities for both short and long-term volunteering, so even in a week or two it's possible to makes some connections with people and learn something about the community here. That community is mainly Tibetan: Mcleod is the home of tens of thousands of Tibetan refugees, and as the seat of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan Government-in-Exile is really the capital city for Tibetans throughout the world. Between what we've learned from the Tibetan museum and what we've learned talking to people, we've gained some understanding of what Tibetans have been through since China occupied their country in 1959, much of it horrific. The Chinese goal was both to exploit the rich land of Tibet and to force the people to assimilate; to do this, they focused on oppressing the Tibetan language, culture, and-- crucially-- religion. This was to be accomplished both through measures like tightly controlling the education of Tibetan children, and through the systematic use of violence and torture, much of it directed against monks. The Dalai Lama, who is both the spiritual leader and the head of government, escaped by walking through the Himalayas in 1960, and 120,000 of the 6 million total Tibetan population have made similar escapes-- we've met several people who walked around 26 days to reach India or Nepal.
We've been very impressed by the organization and spirit of the Tibetan community in Mcleod. The language and culture are taught to the children and are celebrated in daily life, as evidenced in part by the beautiful traditional woven dresses and aprons many of the women wear, the ubiquity of "momos" (dumplings) and other traditional foods, and the prayer flags that hang in the air all over town. There are a great number crimson-robed monks, male and female, many of whom are involved in politics and the study and teaching of philosophy. There are also many community organizations run by Tibetans and geared toward easing and improving the lives of fellow refugees, such as an unemployment cooperative that provides short-term jobs for those who need them, or an environmental group focused on recycling and trash reduction. I've been spending my mornings happily surrounded by laughing, crying, runny-nosed babies and toddlers in a free day-care for Tibetan single or both-working parents; there is a permanent staff of 6, supplemented by volunteers who sign up for two weeks or more. Erik has written an article and done some editing for a community newsletter, and participated in English conversation classes for Tibetans trying to learn the language. (The four photos of the man in a room are of one of his students, who asked us to send them to his brother in New York.) Even the for-profit enterprises-- shops, restaurants, etc.-- tend to have a community-empowerment slant.
All of this has been inspiring to see and cool to be part of in our small way. At the same time, there are other sides of Mcleod that have troubled us. The most significant of those is the disparity between the Tibetan and Indian populations here. Sometimes it feels like the only Indians we see here are beggars-- and there are many of them, a large percentage tiny, filthy, malnourished children. Of course that feeling is not actually accurate, but it does seem that, with the exception of a significant group of Indian teachers (mainly of yoga), the other Indians in Mcleod are either construction or restaurant workers, Kashmiri store owners, or tourists. There is an Indo-Tibetan Friendship Society that works to establish rapport between the groups, but there has been tension in varying degrees in the past, in part because Western tourists tend to be engaged with Tibetan people and issues here and not Indian ones. I think the infrastructure is a part of that-- the Tibetan community is really well set up to engage tourists-- but I can see why there would be some resentment. We've also been rather disturbed by the amount of development in the area. As it is now, cars careen noisily down the pedestrian-clogged single lane streets, and looking out over the valley brings a view of densely clustered cement buildings, with many more under construction. They have done a good job reducing the use of plastic water bottles, at least; there are several stores where we can cheaply fill our bottles with filtered water. One final, less significant gripe: some of the tourists here are a bit too kooky, even for us. Like in Thailand, there are a lot of people who come here every year for months at a time, which sometimes strikes us as frustratingly escapist. Then there's the countless hordes walking around with their wool hats and seven scarves and big cotton pants and bare feet, looking so constantly soulful that it just feels a little ridiculous. It's funny to be in a place where we feel, like, "establishment"!
To be fair, though, we've met some really great people here as well, and we were singing as loud as anyone when "Blowin' in the Wind" was sung at an open mic night. This is the longest we've stayed in one place all year, with the exception of our dear Henrik's apartment in Cairo, and it has felt really good-- and really needed. Erik's done some meditation; I've taken a great, challenging classical yoga class; we've both done a lot of reading and writing. Yesterday we took a beautiful hike up to an alpine meadow at 9325 feet: after 9 kilometers of walking up, we rounded a final bend onto an incredible panorama of looming, snow-covered mountains. We had tried the hike a week earlier and turned around halfway because the sky was black with rain clouds; getting up there on a clear day was wonderful. We've been eating at the same restaurant almost every night: it's such a pleasure at this point not to have to study a menu every time we want to eat, and besides, they have great brownies and lemon cheese cake. Thus fortified, we're ready (we think) to head back into hot, dusty, crazy India tomorrow, and to enjoy our last two weeks as fully as we can.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Darwinian Delhi
India-whew! In many ways it's appropriate that this is our last new country of the trip, as it seems like we'll have to marshal everything that we've learned about traveling in order to get by here.
Delhi was our first stop in India- admittedly not one its easier cities, with lots of people, traffic, dirt, heat, and general chaos and hassle. Rachel said that India so far feels positively Darwinian, with so many people just struggling to survive.
Any guesses as to which country we've visited most resembles India? Yup, it's Egypt (probably didn't take most of you long). The similarities are multiple: very hot (it's over 100 here) and dry, ridiculous traffic, and almost every interaction being difficult in some way (haggling over the price of transport, trying to stay away from people out to scam tourists, having to have the exact small change for a transaction...). I can see why India has such great spiritual traditions- you need something to take you away from the chaos (and less humorlessly, the poverty) of everyday life here.
On our ride from the airport in an ancient taxi (may have even predated the Cairo dinosaur models), we passed a few cows along the urban roadside on our way to the Gandhi Peace Foundation, where a Servas host Babulal arranged for us to stay. We ate dinner in the "canteen" for about 75 cents each-- here it's common to eat everything (rice, beans, etc.) with your (right) hand, so I gave that a try. We then retired to our room--simple, as fits the Gandhian tradition, but already here I think our standards for what's acceptable have changed. In a place where there are so many people living on the street and in shacks, it's nice to have some privacy, a room and bathroom. From our balcolny we could see (and hear) commuter trains going by, often stuffed with people.
On our first full day in Delhi we visited the National Museum, a mix of some very interesting collections alongside some rooms that looked like they've barely been dusted, much less revised, during the past 50 years. While we were there, the lights would keep going out for periods of a few minutes. We saw the Harappan (Indus Valley) civilization artifacts, contemporary with Ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia and China; Buddhist and Hindu sculpures that had Barbie beat by thousands of years (most of the women have huge breasts and tiny waists), and finally the miniature paintings of the Mughal era and after. Like the erotic depictions in sculpture, many of the miniatures featured royalty or gods and the trinity of wine, women, and song. The miniatures were painted in exquisite detail- Rachel may have stayed looking at them all day, but we finally tired and left to a downtown commercial center called Connaught Place to check email. Connaught Place is the commercial center of Delhi, and while there are a few new looking boutique and brand stores (Adidas, etc.), many other basic amenities seemed very difficult to locate: we found only one internet cafe in this area, only one pharmacy, no convenience/corner stores, and very few restaurants or even street food vendors. Strange. Other than at a few of the more prominent sights, we also encountered almost no other tourists in Delhi.
Indian food in Delhi has been good but not exceptional, and a little repetitive. Meat is as rare here as anywhere we've been: no beef (Hinduism's sacred cows) or pork (taboo for Muslims), but unlike Indian restaurants at home, no lamb. We also haven't seen any fish so far. Tried some good mughal and tandoori chicken dishes, but the only other meat option seems to be "mutton," which our guidebook says actually means goat and not sheep. Local food in Delhi is very starch-heavy (rice, lentils, breads--many of which are fried, potatoes), with not many vegetables or fruits. While there are lots of interesting spices, the food hasn't been as spicy hot as what we've been used to eating in S.E. Asia. We went to a couple of Southern Indian restaurants in Delhi, which seem to feature different kinds of bread pizzas/tortillas and were mediocre.
Also unlike Indian restaurants at home, finding a beer can be difficult--I believe some entire states in India are dry. Most restaurants in Delhi don't serve beer, and places that do have a sign posted that the drinking age is 25, as well as security/police at the door. To have a beer one night we ended up at a place called Rodeo, where we sat on saddle seats at the bar and were served by waiters in cowboy costume.
On our second day we visited Old Delhi (Delhi/New Delhi aren't really different cities or names for the same city, instead the city of Delhi is composed of (7?) different areas from different time periods). We saw the massive Red Fort, built by Shahjahan in the 16th century, and the Jami Mosque, the largest in India. We were at the mosque in the middle afternoon, and the heat was so intense that after removing our sandals, we literally burned our feet walking on the stones. We climbed up one of the minaret towers for a view of the city. On the way up the tower, we were bullied by people shouting at us to pay to watch our shoes (or, like with "parking attendants" and cars in South Africa, basically paying people not to steal them), which seemed silly. As Rachel pointed out, it's even sillier that people have to sit on the hot roof all day and do this in order to make a living here. Looking out from the tower, there was hardly a tall building in sight. Apparently the areas of Delhi that are seeing a lot of development are further out--two advertised in a newspaper include Nodia and Gurgaon, which seem like enormous planned communities similar to the ones being built in Dubai. India is really trying to sell "medical tourism," or people coming here to have operations done more cheaply than their home countries; and one of these developments includes an entire "MediCity" to cater to these tourists' needs.
Our third day was spent going to the National Gallery of Modern Art, and the impressive Humayun's (one of the Mughal rulers) Tomb. That evening we met up with Jonathan (a friend of my friend Dan Vazquez), a very friendly and interesting guy who has spent 5 years in India. Part of his work here has been with sexual minorities. He told us that the categories of sexual identity are very different here; for example 99% of men who have sex with men are also married to women. Hearing about differences like this often make us think of how little we are scratching the surface of other cultures, based solely on what we're able to perceive as we move around as tourists.
Our last day in Delhi, we splurged for the luxury of hiring a car to drive us to some of the more distant sites. We first visited the Nehru museum and memorial, and next the Indira Gandhi (Nehru's daughter) museum. Visiting a Sufi tomb was difficult--the area was like the worst parts of Egypt and Cairo, so dirty but with so many more people just lying on the ground in awful conditions. After lunch in an ok but pricey Italian restaurant (it's been almost always true on our trip that "foreign" restaurants aren't so much good as just a change of pace) we visited a crafts bazaar, and finally an older suburb with the ruins of an aqueduct in the center.
Despite India being in many ways a socially conservative place, many Indian men seem to have no qualms about harassing women. Many men stare, not just from a distance but crowding around or following us. Rachel has already been grabbed once by one of our rickshaw drivers. Hopefully the stares are all the she has to put up with for the rest of our time here.
India is famous for its bureaucracy, and some of the strangest examples that we've experienced seem to be anti-terrorism measures. For example, you need a copy of your passport, visa, and a passport photo in order to purchase a cell phone simcard (we gave up for now); and to use the internet at a cafe you need a passport/I.D. that the business records, and has to hand over your internet records if requested by the government. Not clear to me how effective these measures are, but they certainly are a hassle.
Leaving Delhi, we caught an early morning train to Amritsar, a gruellingly difficult experience in just getting to the train station and finding our seats. As the train pulled away, we were glad we'd seen what we did of Delhi, but also glad to be leaving the city.
Delhi was our first stop in India- admittedly not one its easier cities, with lots of people, traffic, dirt, heat, and general chaos and hassle. Rachel said that India so far feels positively Darwinian, with so many people just struggling to survive.
Any guesses as to which country we've visited most resembles India? Yup, it's Egypt (probably didn't take most of you long). The similarities are multiple: very hot (it's over 100 here) and dry, ridiculous traffic, and almost every interaction being difficult in some way (haggling over the price of transport, trying to stay away from people out to scam tourists, having to have the exact small change for a transaction...). I can see why India has such great spiritual traditions- you need something to take you away from the chaos (and less humorlessly, the poverty) of everyday life here.
On our ride from the airport in an ancient taxi (may have even predated the Cairo dinosaur models), we passed a few cows along the urban roadside on our way to the Gandhi Peace Foundation, where a Servas host Babulal arranged for us to stay. We ate dinner in the "canteen" for about 75 cents each-- here it's common to eat everything (rice, beans, etc.) with your (right) hand, so I gave that a try. We then retired to our room--simple, as fits the Gandhian tradition, but already here I think our standards for what's acceptable have changed. In a place where there are so many people living on the street and in shacks, it's nice to have some privacy, a room and bathroom. From our balcolny we could see (and hear) commuter trains going by, often stuffed with people.
On our first full day in Delhi we visited the National Museum, a mix of some very interesting collections alongside some rooms that looked like they've barely been dusted, much less revised, during the past 50 years. While we were there, the lights would keep going out for periods of a few minutes. We saw the Harappan (Indus Valley) civilization artifacts, contemporary with Ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia and China; Buddhist and Hindu sculpures that had Barbie beat by thousands of years (most of the women have huge breasts and tiny waists), and finally the miniature paintings of the Mughal era and after. Like the erotic depictions in sculpture, many of the miniatures featured royalty or gods and the trinity of wine, women, and song. The miniatures were painted in exquisite detail- Rachel may have stayed looking at them all day, but we finally tired and left to a downtown commercial center called Connaught Place to check email. Connaught Place is the commercial center of Delhi, and while there are a few new looking boutique and brand stores (Adidas, etc.), many other basic amenities seemed very difficult to locate: we found only one internet cafe in this area, only one pharmacy, no convenience/corner stores, and very few restaurants or even street food vendors. Strange. Other than at a few of the more prominent sights, we also encountered almost no other tourists in Delhi.
Indian food in Delhi has been good but not exceptional, and a little repetitive. Meat is as rare here as anywhere we've been: no beef (Hinduism's sacred cows) or pork (taboo for Muslims), but unlike Indian restaurants at home, no lamb. We also haven't seen any fish so far. Tried some good mughal and tandoori chicken dishes, but the only other meat option seems to be "mutton," which our guidebook says actually means goat and not sheep. Local food in Delhi is very starch-heavy (rice, lentils, breads--many of which are fried, potatoes), with not many vegetables or fruits. While there are lots of interesting spices, the food hasn't been as spicy hot as what we've been used to eating in S.E. Asia. We went to a couple of Southern Indian restaurants in Delhi, which seem to feature different kinds of bread pizzas/tortillas and were mediocre.
Also unlike Indian restaurants at home, finding a beer can be difficult--I believe some entire states in India are dry. Most restaurants in Delhi don't serve beer, and places that do have a sign posted that the drinking age is 25, as well as security/police at the door. To have a beer one night we ended up at a place called Rodeo, where we sat on saddle seats at the bar and were served by waiters in cowboy costume.
On our second day we visited Old Delhi (Delhi/New Delhi aren't really different cities or names for the same city, instead the city of Delhi is composed of (7?) different areas from different time periods). We saw the massive Red Fort, built by Shahjahan in the 16th century, and the Jami Mosque, the largest in India. We were at the mosque in the middle afternoon, and the heat was so intense that after removing our sandals, we literally burned our feet walking on the stones. We climbed up one of the minaret towers for a view of the city. On the way up the tower, we were bullied by people shouting at us to pay to watch our shoes (or, like with "parking attendants" and cars in South Africa, basically paying people not to steal them), which seemed silly. As Rachel pointed out, it's even sillier that people have to sit on the hot roof all day and do this in order to make a living here. Looking out from the tower, there was hardly a tall building in sight. Apparently the areas of Delhi that are seeing a lot of development are further out--two advertised in a newspaper include Nodia and Gurgaon, which seem like enormous planned communities similar to the ones being built in Dubai. India is really trying to sell "medical tourism," or people coming here to have operations done more cheaply than their home countries; and one of these developments includes an entire "MediCity" to cater to these tourists' needs.
Our third day was spent going to the National Gallery of Modern Art, and the impressive Humayun's (one of the Mughal rulers) Tomb. That evening we met up with Jonathan (a friend of my friend Dan Vazquez), a very friendly and interesting guy who has spent 5 years in India. Part of his work here has been with sexual minorities. He told us that the categories of sexual identity are very different here; for example 99% of men who have sex with men are also married to women. Hearing about differences like this often make us think of how little we are scratching the surface of other cultures, based solely on what we're able to perceive as we move around as tourists.
Our last day in Delhi, we splurged for the luxury of hiring a car to drive us to some of the more distant sites. We first visited the Nehru museum and memorial, and next the Indira Gandhi (Nehru's daughter) museum. Visiting a Sufi tomb was difficult--the area was like the worst parts of Egypt and Cairo, so dirty but with so many more people just lying on the ground in awful conditions. After lunch in an ok but pricey Italian restaurant (it's been almost always true on our trip that "foreign" restaurants aren't so much good as just a change of pace) we visited a crafts bazaar, and finally an older suburb with the ruins of an aqueduct in the center.
Despite India being in many ways a socially conservative place, many Indian men seem to have no qualms about harassing women. Many men stare, not just from a distance but crowding around or following us. Rachel has already been grabbed once by one of our rickshaw drivers. Hopefully the stares are all the she has to put up with for the rest of our time here.
India is famous for its bureaucracy, and some of the strangest examples that we've experienced seem to be anti-terrorism measures. For example, you need a copy of your passport, visa, and a passport photo in order to purchase a cell phone simcard (we gave up for now); and to use the internet at a cafe you need a passport/I.D. that the business records, and has to hand over your internet records if requested by the government. Not clear to me how effective these measures are, but they certainly are a hassle.
Leaving Delhi, we caught an early morning train to Amritsar, a gruellingly difficult experience in just getting to the train station and finding our seats. As the train pulled away, we were glad we'd seen what we did of Delhi, but also glad to be leaving the city.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Finding Family in Malaysia
When Erik lived in the co-op his senior year of college, one of his neighbors and friends was Nat, a friendly, quirky, motivated, very smart student from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Since we were in the neighborhood, relatively speaking, we were thrilled to make a trip from Bangkok to Kuala Lumpur to spend a few days with him. We stayed with Nat and his family in their luxe but very homey house, which in itself felt great-- having a place to actually be able to unpack for a few days, and take a bath, and sit around chilling out without having to pay for the privilege is rare for us, and something we've come to value highly. On top of that, his parents, Bob and Sulumari, and sister, Cheryl, were warm and welcoming hosts, and we had a lot of fun spending time with them. We also got to hang out with his girlfriend, Lisin, a journalist. Eating was a central activity for all of us together (which we, obviously, love to do), and they introduced us to the full gamut of Malaysian food: Malay (similar to Indonesian, with lots of rice with different vegetables and sauces), Chinese, and southern Indian. Eating can take up a good percentage of the day in Malaysia, with long lunches, snacky afternoon teas, and late night dinners that can stretch on for hours of chatting (if you can stay awake!). We felt thoroughly spoiled, especially when Sulumari (an expert baker) made us brownies because we said we missed them from home. She put bananas in them, and rich rich chocolate-- delicious. They also had an amazing refrigerator drawer full of fabulous chocolates, which they got out one afternoon to eat as we watched one of my all-time favorite movies, "Fiddler on the Roof". It was one of the nicest days of bumming around we've had all year.
We were lucky to learn a lot about Malaysia in the short time we were there-- exponentially more than we would have learned had we not been staying with Nat and his family. The racial composition of Malaysia is a defining aspect of the country, not least of all because many politicians have, since independence in 1947, manipulated race (and racism) to control the government. The population is approximately 50-60% Malay (almost all of whom are Muslim), 20-30% Chinese (mainly Christian and Buddhist), and 10-20% Indian (mainly Hindu, Muslim, and Christian). Many, if not most, people are mixed, especially if their families have been in the country for more than a couple generations, but the identity cards that all Malaysians have to carry state only a single race (passed on patrilineally) and a single religion. The ruling government, unfortunately, has consistently racialized politics to try to garner favor with the Malay population; a couple of the opposition political parties are similarly race-based. Nat works for a different opposition party, one which stands firmly on a multi-racial platform and which is headed by Anwar Ibrahim, the former deputy Prime Minister who is only recently out of jail after spending six years there on spurious charges. (The original charge was sodomy, which is indeed illegal in Malaysia; once that was shown to be too far-fetched for even the biased judges, he was jailed on another charge instead.) This gives a pretty good indication of the condition of opposition parties in Malaysia, which is basically just desperately trying to gain ground in an exceedingly oppressive political environment. The newspapers and other media are connected to the ruling party, which controls 92% of parliament seats as well as the ministries. There is an active community of bloggers, including Nat and Lisin, and apparently they are making the government a bit nervous, as one minister proposed making bloggers register. (The same minister also claimed that 80% of the 10,000 bloggers are "unemployed women" who are bored and trying to stir up trouble.) One night we got to attend a big fundraiser for Nat's party (for which he wrote the opening speech), an event that is much less frequent in Malaysia than in the U.S. Although the speeches were mostly in Malay, with some sprinklings of English (and Chinese), we were still impressed by the strength and charisma of both Nat's boss Tien and Anwar Ibrahim as speakers, and, from what we could understand, by the topics. (It didn't hurt that there was a never-ending supply of yummy Chinese food being served while they talked.) Hanging out with Nat's group of fellow activists and friends at a "mama" (a cheap, indoor-outdoor cafe where people can sit for hours) after the event, we felt similar energy as in our own group of activist-friends in Hartford; if these people have the chance to do their work, it seems like a lot of positive change could come to Malaysia.
On the more touristy side of things, we spent a couple days wandering around downtown Kuala Lumpur, a city fully surrounded by highways going every-which-direction (often without many signs), but with a pleasant and walkable downtown area. The mix of old and new buildings was striking, with mosques, temples, grand colonial buildings, and unusually attractive skyscrapers layered against each other. We were too late to get a ticket up the Petronas towers (the tallest buildings in the world up until a couple years ago), but we did walk around the fancy mall at their base, including a photojournalism exhibit tracing Malaysia's history since independence, and an aquarium with a cool tunnel to walk through with fish and sharks over and around you. We also took a day trip to Melaka, a city 2 hours south of KL, on the famous Strait of Melaka, that has an important history as a port from the days when globalization happened through ships. We went through the state house, which had fun exhibits of pottery and wedding costumes and the like, and through the history museum, which went painstakingly through the Melakan, Portuguese, Dutch, English, and Japanese periods of rule of the city. (The Portuguese-Dutch-English sequence felt very familiar from Ghana, South Africa, Mauritius, and Indonesia!) We met one of Nat's uncles for lunch, the Melaka specialty of chicken-rice balls (as they sound like, they are balls of ground rice flavored and held together with chicken broth-- very tasty). We also toured through the Baba-Nonya house (the male and female names for people of Chinese-Malay heritage), which was filled with outstanding works of embroidery and mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture. Then we headed back to KL, for one last evening with Nat and his family before flying back to Bangkok and on to our last 'new' country of the trip (France doesn't count, since we've been there several times), India.
We were lucky to learn a lot about Malaysia in the short time we were there-- exponentially more than we would have learned had we not been staying with Nat and his family. The racial composition of Malaysia is a defining aspect of the country, not least of all because many politicians have, since independence in 1947, manipulated race (and racism) to control the government. The population is approximately 50-60% Malay (almost all of whom are Muslim), 20-30% Chinese (mainly Christian and Buddhist), and 10-20% Indian (mainly Hindu, Muslim, and Christian). Many, if not most, people are mixed, especially if their families have been in the country for more than a couple generations, but the identity cards that all Malaysians have to carry state only a single race (passed on patrilineally) and a single religion. The ruling government, unfortunately, has consistently racialized politics to try to garner favor with the Malay population; a couple of the opposition political parties are similarly race-based. Nat works for a different opposition party, one which stands firmly on a multi-racial platform and which is headed by Anwar Ibrahim, the former deputy Prime Minister who is only recently out of jail after spending six years there on spurious charges. (The original charge was sodomy, which is indeed illegal in Malaysia; once that was shown to be too far-fetched for even the biased judges, he was jailed on another charge instead.) This gives a pretty good indication of the condition of opposition parties in Malaysia, which is basically just desperately trying to gain ground in an exceedingly oppressive political environment. The newspapers and other media are connected to the ruling party, which controls 92% of parliament seats as well as the ministries. There is an active community of bloggers, including Nat and Lisin, and apparently they are making the government a bit nervous, as one minister proposed making bloggers register. (The same minister also claimed that 80% of the 10,000 bloggers are "unemployed women" who are bored and trying to stir up trouble.) One night we got to attend a big fundraiser for Nat's party (for which he wrote the opening speech), an event that is much less frequent in Malaysia than in the U.S. Although the speeches were mostly in Malay, with some sprinklings of English (and Chinese), we were still impressed by the strength and charisma of both Nat's boss Tien and Anwar Ibrahim as speakers, and, from what we could understand, by the topics. (It didn't hurt that there was a never-ending supply of yummy Chinese food being served while they talked.) Hanging out with Nat's group of fellow activists and friends at a "mama" (a cheap, indoor-outdoor cafe where people can sit for hours) after the event, we felt similar energy as in our own group of activist-friends in Hartford; if these people have the chance to do their work, it seems like a lot of positive change could come to Malaysia.
On the more touristy side of things, we spent a couple days wandering around downtown Kuala Lumpur, a city fully surrounded by highways going every-which-direction (often without many signs), but with a pleasant and walkable downtown area. The mix of old and new buildings was striking, with mosques, temples, grand colonial buildings, and unusually attractive skyscrapers layered against each other. We were too late to get a ticket up the Petronas towers (the tallest buildings in the world up until a couple years ago), but we did walk around the fancy mall at their base, including a photojournalism exhibit tracing Malaysia's history since independence, and an aquarium with a cool tunnel to walk through with fish and sharks over and around you. We also took a day trip to Melaka, a city 2 hours south of KL, on the famous Strait of Melaka, that has an important history as a port from the days when globalization happened through ships. We went through the state house, which had fun exhibits of pottery and wedding costumes and the like, and through the history museum, which went painstakingly through the Melakan, Portuguese, Dutch, English, and Japanese periods of rule of the city. (The Portuguese-Dutch-English sequence felt very familiar from Ghana, South Africa, Mauritius, and Indonesia!) We met one of Nat's uncles for lunch, the Melaka specialty of chicken-rice balls (as they sound like, they are balls of ground rice flavored and held together with chicken broth-- very tasty). We also toured through the Baba-Nonya house (the male and female names for people of Chinese-Malay heritage), which was filled with outstanding works of embroidery and mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture. Then we headed back to KL, for one last evening with Nat and his family before flying back to Bangkok and on to our last 'new' country of the trip (France doesn't count, since we've been there several times), India.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
King Power: Bangkok and the beach
One omission from the previous Thailand entry is Thailand's obsession with its king and queen, which makes even the British respect for royalty look small. We previously posted the picture of a store full of yellow shirts that read "We Love the King" on the back. Monday, the day the king was born, is the day to wear your yellow shirt, and many, many Thais do so(Friday is the day for a blue shirt in honor of the Queen). Thai Airline's elite membership status is called "King Power", and the king's picture is everywhere: restaurants, public spaces, you name it.
One of the longest-ruling world leaders (I think for over 60 years), the king is a cross-eyed, slight bespectacled man who appears to split his time between living in extreme opulence and going out in his jeep to get in touch with the "rural people" (although that may have been more in the past, as most of the photos and footage of him doing this look at least 20 years old). We went to 2 movies in Bangkok, and before the movie you have to stand to "honor our king" while some sort of anthem and photo montage of happy Thais and the king plays (unclear if this tune doubles as Thailand's national anthem). I guess you could also say it's a little weird to play the U.S. national anthem before a sporting event, but this seems weirder.
Making fun of the royalty is strictly prohibited: Thailand recently shut down the video website Youtube because of a post that "defamed the king." While the royal infatuation strikes us as plain silly, aside from wearing yellow shirts most Thai people seem, like people in most places we've been, pretty much ignore politics completely. The governing politicians aren't much better than the royalty: last fall's military coup has left the billionaire and corrupt former Prime Minister Thaksin as the only opposition (his TV station, the only non-state media channel, has been banned).
So, back to our journeys. After the overnight train from Chiang Mai, we arrived in Bangkok, and proceeded to spend what felt like at least 45 minutes on a city bus through snarling city traffic. Someone told us that 10 years ago Bangkok was like Ho Chi Minh City, with scooters dwarfing the number of cars, but that as the number of cars increased the traffic has gotten much worse. We finally boarded the bus and after a 3 hour ride, a ferry to the island Ko Samet, and a "saganaw" (public transport pick-up truck with seats in the back) ride we arrived at a beach bungalow on a quiet stretch of sand. The island of Ko Samet is a national park, a designation we couldn't quite figure out other than maybe making the beach access public and not allowing big resorts to build there. We spent 3 full days on the beach, and developed a daily routine of walking into town for a "cheap" lunch (usually noodle soup and coconut ice cream) instead of the "expensive" but good restaurant at our bungalow, where main dishes cost about $2. At our bungalow we ate spicy glass noodle salad, green curry, eggplant with soy sauce, shrimp with ginger, and warm coconut milk with bananas for dessert.
Getting back to Bangkok from the beach also involved a lot of sitting in traffic. From the bus stop we took the new skytrain, an elevated train that seems to help some in alleviating traffic, as well as facilitates funneling people into the numerous shopping malls--with their elevated walkways you can go from mall to mall and avoid the street entirely for stretches. After a hot walk, we found a decent place to stay, although with a tiny room. That night we went to a mall food court very different from those in American malls: here the food is fantastic. We had Tom Yum Kung (spicy shrimp and lemongrass soup) and a vegetarian sampler, then mango sticky rice and a sort of sno-cone consisting of sugared fruits topped with shaved ice and condensed milk. We then went to an even fancier mall (Paragon) with an extremely fancy movie theater and watched "The Good Shepherd."
The next day we ventured out into the intense heat and sun to see the sights: the temple Wat Po with a huge reclining Buddha, and the King's palace (which had a bit of a Disneyland feel) including the Emerald Buddha (although I failed to notice it while we were there). From our hotel we took the skytrain and then a public transport boat along the river, both nicer options than being stuck in traffic. Bangkok is a huge city so it takes awhile to get around. It has a very developed, western look to it with lots of gleaming white skyscrapers. Culturally, the mainstream population seems very image-oriented, with enough electronics and lights in the area around the malls that made us think maybe Bangkok is a little like Tokyo. That evening, after getting a skewer of chicken hearts and livers from a street grill, we tried to go to a Muay Thai (kickboxing) fight, but finding the tickets having doubled in price from our guidebook's listing instead took a walk through nearby Limphini Park. Lots of people were exercising (one of the only times of day the hot weather permits this). We also walked through a night market, which had a stage of incredibly bad singers performing.
The next day we went to still more royal sights, this time the Vinamek teak mansion. We expected a dress code (long pants and covered shoulders) for the palace, but were surprised to find the same requirements here as well (they let you borrow the necessary garments). We also walked through Kho San road, the legendary heart of backpacker culture in Bangkok. It probably has an edgier feel at night, but at the time we weren't too impressed. For our last night in Bangkok it was back to the food court and the movie theater, and the next morning we flew to Malaysia (bypassing the long but also troubled overland route, where violence between the Thai government and Muslim separatists has occurred near the Malaysian border).
One of the longest-ruling world leaders (I think for over 60 years), the king is a cross-eyed, slight bespectacled man who appears to split his time between living in extreme opulence and going out in his jeep to get in touch with the "rural people" (although that may have been more in the past, as most of the photos and footage of him doing this look at least 20 years old). We went to 2 movies in Bangkok, and before the movie you have to stand to "honor our king" while some sort of anthem and photo montage of happy Thais and the king plays (unclear if this tune doubles as Thailand's national anthem). I guess you could also say it's a little weird to play the U.S. national anthem before a sporting event, but this seems weirder.
Making fun of the royalty is strictly prohibited: Thailand recently shut down the video website Youtube because of a post that "defamed the king." While the royal infatuation strikes us as plain silly, aside from wearing yellow shirts most Thai people seem, like people in most places we've been, pretty much ignore politics completely. The governing politicians aren't much better than the royalty: last fall's military coup has left the billionaire and corrupt former Prime Minister Thaksin as the only opposition (his TV station, the only non-state media channel, has been banned).
So, back to our journeys. After the overnight train from Chiang Mai, we arrived in Bangkok, and proceeded to spend what felt like at least 45 minutes on a city bus through snarling city traffic. Someone told us that 10 years ago Bangkok was like Ho Chi Minh City, with scooters dwarfing the number of cars, but that as the number of cars increased the traffic has gotten much worse. We finally boarded the bus and after a 3 hour ride, a ferry to the island Ko Samet, and a "saganaw" (public transport pick-up truck with seats in the back) ride we arrived at a beach bungalow on a quiet stretch of sand. The island of Ko Samet is a national park, a designation we couldn't quite figure out other than maybe making the beach access public and not allowing big resorts to build there. We spent 3 full days on the beach, and developed a daily routine of walking into town for a "cheap" lunch (usually noodle soup and coconut ice cream) instead of the "expensive" but good restaurant at our bungalow, where main dishes cost about $2. At our bungalow we ate spicy glass noodle salad, green curry, eggplant with soy sauce, shrimp with ginger, and warm coconut milk with bananas for dessert.
Getting back to Bangkok from the beach also involved a lot of sitting in traffic. From the bus stop we took the new skytrain, an elevated train that seems to help some in alleviating traffic, as well as facilitates funneling people into the numerous shopping malls--with their elevated walkways you can go from mall to mall and avoid the street entirely for stretches. After a hot walk, we found a decent place to stay, although with a tiny room. That night we went to a mall food court very different from those in American malls: here the food is fantastic. We had Tom Yum Kung (spicy shrimp and lemongrass soup) and a vegetarian sampler, then mango sticky rice and a sort of sno-cone consisting of sugared fruits topped with shaved ice and condensed milk. We then went to an even fancier mall (Paragon) with an extremely fancy movie theater and watched "The Good Shepherd."
The next day we ventured out into the intense heat and sun to see the sights: the temple Wat Po with a huge reclining Buddha, and the King's palace (which had a bit of a Disneyland feel) including the Emerald Buddha (although I failed to notice it while we were there). From our hotel we took the skytrain and then a public transport boat along the river, both nicer options than being stuck in traffic. Bangkok is a huge city so it takes awhile to get around. It has a very developed, western look to it with lots of gleaming white skyscrapers. Culturally, the mainstream population seems very image-oriented, with enough electronics and lights in the area around the malls that made us think maybe Bangkok is a little like Tokyo. That evening, after getting a skewer of chicken hearts and livers from a street grill, we tried to go to a Muay Thai (kickboxing) fight, but finding the tickets having doubled in price from our guidebook's listing instead took a walk through nearby Limphini Park. Lots of people were exercising (one of the only times of day the hot weather permits this). We also walked through a night market, which had a stage of incredibly bad singers performing.
The next day we went to still more royal sights, this time the Vinamek teak mansion. We expected a dress code (long pants and covered shoulders) for the palace, but were surprised to find the same requirements here as well (they let you borrow the necessary garments). We also walked through Kho San road, the legendary heart of backpacker culture in Bangkok. It probably has an edgier feel at night, but at the time we weren't too impressed. For our last night in Bangkok it was back to the food court and the movie theater, and the next morning we flew to Malaysia (bypassing the long but also troubled overland route, where violence between the Thai government and Muslim separatists has occurred near the Malaysian border).
Thursday, March 29, 2007
The Slow Boat to Thailand
To get from Luang Prabang, Laos, into Thailand, we had a few options: a flight, expensive and not recommended since Laos Air won't release its crash statistics, which are assumed to be high; a rickety, bumpy bus that may or may not have gone the whole way; a fast boat, taking 6 hours, but for which crash helmets and life jackets are mandatory and which kills some people every year; or a slow boat, two 10-hour days on a bench-seated wooden ferry chugging along at a few kilometers an hour. Much preferring slowness to unnecessary danger, we chose the latter option, and though there is no denying that it was not the most scintillating or comfortable way to spend a couple days, there was a quiet beauty in the trip. For the majority of the trip, no road was visible from the Mekong; until recently, the river was the only mode of transport through much of Loas, and in some places it still is. There were occasional villages of stilt-legged wooden houses perched high up the cliffs, with steep sandy paths leading down to the river. We passed groups of people, including children, standing in knee-deep water bowed over large metal trays, sifting for gold. In the rapids that dotted the river there would often be fishermen gathered with poles and nets. Late in the day we saw a solitary elephant bathing near the banks, having seemingly finished a day of pulling logs nearby. A couple times, we passed other ferries (which seems to serve as a houseboat for the families who operate them) moving in the opposite direction, and a couple times the narrow, treacherous speedboats zoomed past. Other than that, though, the river was quiet and empty, save for goats and water buffaloes grazing and wading by the banks. The nights were spent in villages that seem to have their entire economies based on the tourist ferry traffic, with competing grungy guesthouses and unsavory restaurants lining the steets. The second of these was just across the river from Thailand, and in the morning we took a 5 minute ferry across to the border.
Northwestern Thailand is renowned as an area of great beauty, with lush rolling hills. Unfortunately, at this time of year (the hottest and driest), all we could do was try to imagine what it would look like, because everywhere we could see was dusty and desiccated. The air was still slightly smokey, although nowhere near as bad as it had been a week ealier (like in Luang Prabang), when forest fires and human-set fires were raging and smog levels were dangerously high. We took a bus from the border to Chiang Rai, a small, nondescript town (maybe also pretty in the right season) with a very laid-back atmosphere. Our friend Mark, from Bali/Singapore, was there with some other friendly, artsy, adventurous people he had met, and we found all of them at their guesthouse-- a place with a pool, wonderful in the heat, that was a clear magnet for the aging hippy ex-pats (many of them with Thai wives) that northern Thailand is known for. The weather and the profusion of unappealing tourist agencies combined to quell our ambitions to go hiking, and we spent much of our time just hanging out with everyone-- two women from Belgium, one from Finland, one from Germany, two men from Oregon, and Mark. Our favorite spot in town was the night market, which had tons of yellow metal tables jammed together in font of a stage (sponsored by Singha Beer) where a constant stream of dancers (some women and some men in drag) and ballad-crooning singers performed. Although it seemed that most of the tourists in town were hanging out at the market, we were collectively vastly outnumbered by locals, which is always an important indication of quality as far as food as concerned. And the food was delicious-- we tried as much as we could stomach from among the 100+ stalls, our favorite dish being a sweet-spicy-sour noodle soup called kaow soi that is typical of the region. There was a stall specializing in bugs, which Erik of course had to try, so we had a little plate of fried worms and crickets and really freakin' huge cockroaches; the woman selling them said not to eat the head, but Erik didn't see why, and at it anyway. (No bad results so far...). It was funny to see the cockroach next to a shrimp, because they really don't look that different, but that rationalization still didn't bring me any closer to tasting the bugs. After our nightly stuffings at the market, we would usually head over to Teepee Bar, a teeny place lined with punk and heavy metal posters, decorated with random bicycle parts, and with two bunnies who ran around as they wished on the upper balcony. We did manage to take in a little bit of "culture" as well, visiting a shocking, blindingly glittery white temple under construction just out of town. The inside walls of the temple were also unique; in addition to the standard images of Buddha, there were murals with dark warnings about modern life: gas pumps leading into the World Trade Center towers, nuclear rockets sporting Pepsi logos, and a tiny Superman looking sadly helpless in the midst of it all.
After a couple days, the Chiang Rai group headed off in different directions, and we left with Mark and Molla (the Finnish woman) for Chiang Mai, Thailand's second largest city, a few hours south. Erik's and my main activity there was to take a one day cooking class, held at the home of, and partially taught by, a popular TV chef. The class was a lot of fun; we made 6 different dishes and had to eat each one, making us totally stuffed. The cooking highlight for me was learning to make our own curry paste in the morning; we mashed roasted spices and herbs using a mortar and pestle, and learned how to preserve the paste as well so it will be feasible to make it at home. But the coolest aspect of the day was not the cooking itself, but a wacky and wonderful coincidence: as we chatted with one of the other women in the class, we figured out that she lives a couple doors down from my Aunt Jill in Phildelphia! Small world. After class, we met up with a woman from Servas, an Australian who has been living in Chiang Mai as an AIDS education volunteer for two years. After drinks with her, we met again with Mark and Molla, and managed despite our fullness to eat some more mango sticky rice, the food highlight of Chiang Mai. (The sticky rice is slightly salty, and topped with the stunningly sweet mango and creamy coconut milk, the combination is indescribably delicious.) Mark and Molla headed off to Bangkok early the next morning. After spending a couple hours in the cheesy but sweet city museum and puttering around a bit, we did the same, being shaken around like martinis in our little bitty bunks on the overnight train.
Northwestern Thailand is renowned as an area of great beauty, with lush rolling hills. Unfortunately, at this time of year (the hottest and driest), all we could do was try to imagine what it would look like, because everywhere we could see was dusty and desiccated. The air was still slightly smokey, although nowhere near as bad as it had been a week ealier (like in Luang Prabang), when forest fires and human-set fires were raging and smog levels were dangerously high. We took a bus from the border to Chiang Rai, a small, nondescript town (maybe also pretty in the right season) with a very laid-back atmosphere. Our friend Mark, from Bali/Singapore, was there with some other friendly, artsy, adventurous people he had met, and we found all of them at their guesthouse-- a place with a pool, wonderful in the heat, that was a clear magnet for the aging hippy ex-pats (many of them with Thai wives) that northern Thailand is known for. The weather and the profusion of unappealing tourist agencies combined to quell our ambitions to go hiking, and we spent much of our time just hanging out with everyone-- two women from Belgium, one from Finland, one from Germany, two men from Oregon, and Mark. Our favorite spot in town was the night market, which had tons of yellow metal tables jammed together in font of a stage (sponsored by Singha Beer) where a constant stream of dancers (some women and some men in drag) and ballad-crooning singers performed. Although it seemed that most of the tourists in town were hanging out at the market, we were collectively vastly outnumbered by locals, which is always an important indication of quality as far as food as concerned. And the food was delicious-- we tried as much as we could stomach from among the 100+ stalls, our favorite dish being a sweet-spicy-sour noodle soup called kaow soi that is typical of the region. There was a stall specializing in bugs, which Erik of course had to try, so we had a little plate of fried worms and crickets and really freakin' huge cockroaches; the woman selling them said not to eat the head, but Erik didn't see why, and at it anyway. (No bad results so far...). It was funny to see the cockroach next to a shrimp, because they really don't look that different, but that rationalization still didn't bring me any closer to tasting the bugs. After our nightly stuffings at the market, we would usually head over to Teepee Bar, a teeny place lined with punk and heavy metal posters, decorated with random bicycle parts, and with two bunnies who ran around as they wished on the upper balcony. We did manage to take in a little bit of "culture" as well, visiting a shocking, blindingly glittery white temple under construction just out of town. The inside walls of the temple were also unique; in addition to the standard images of Buddha, there were murals with dark warnings about modern life: gas pumps leading into the World Trade Center towers, nuclear rockets sporting Pepsi logos, and a tiny Superman looking sadly helpless in the midst of it all.
After a couple days, the Chiang Rai group headed off in different directions, and we left with Mark and Molla (the Finnish woman) for Chiang Mai, Thailand's second largest city, a few hours south. Erik's and my main activity there was to take a one day cooking class, held at the home of, and partially taught by, a popular TV chef. The class was a lot of fun; we made 6 different dishes and had to eat each one, making us totally stuffed. The cooking highlight for me was learning to make our own curry paste in the morning; we mashed roasted spices and herbs using a mortar and pestle, and learned how to preserve the paste as well so it will be feasible to make it at home. But the coolest aspect of the day was not the cooking itself, but a wacky and wonderful coincidence: as we chatted with one of the other women in the class, we figured out that she lives a couple doors down from my Aunt Jill in Phildelphia! Small world. After class, we met up with a woman from Servas, an Australian who has been living in Chiang Mai as an AIDS education volunteer for two years. After drinks with her, we met again with Mark and Molla, and managed despite our fullness to eat some more mango sticky rice, the food highlight of Chiang Mai. (The sticky rice is slightly salty, and topped with the stunningly sweet mango and creamy coconut milk, the combination is indescribably delicious.) Mark and Molla headed off to Bangkok early the next morning. After spending a couple hours in the cheesy but sweet city museum and puttering around a bit, we did the same, being shaken around like martinis in our little bitty bunks on the overnight train.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Laos: Where are we?
After hearing that the bus was an excruciating ride, we decided to fly from Hanoi to the capital of Laos, Vientiane, a strange-feeling and sleepy city on the banks of the Mekong. Leaving the airport, we saw the locals unloading from their version of public transport: people packed tightly into the back of a large flat bed truck. We found another American couple (James and Ewa) to share a minibus ride into town, and found out that they were from Stamford, CT, and that Ewa had immigrated with her family from Poland to New Britain, CT! Our most local connection (in terms of people we've met) in one of the places that seems farthest from anywhere. Vietnam and now Laos also have had by far the largest number of American travelers of any countries we've visited on the trip.
Laos is a place that we've heard people describe as "what Thailand used to be like." Since the Communist takeover in 1973?, it has been a very closed society, which apparently has loosened/opened somewhat during the last decade, especially in terms of tourism and marginally in terms of economic development. That the country's primary economic goal is to crawl out of the U.N. category of "Least Developed Country" by 2020 gives a good indication of its current state. In contrast to the noisiness and crowded conditions of Vietnam, Laos seems quiet, sleep, and empty (granted we were there on a weekend, but the central area of Vientiane seemed depopulated aside from tourists). If I squinted my eyes, I could almost picture an American cityscape: mostly cars instead of scooters on wide roads with wide, empty sidewalks.
After a bit of a search (several accomodations were full, and there seemed to be a good number of tourists around), we found a nice guesthouse, thankfully air conditioned given the heat and humidity, and joined James and Ewa for a riverfront meal after we'd withdrawn from one of the only international ATMs in Laos. The next day, after breakfast at one of the French bakeries, we went to the Laos National Museum. There were some interesting history exhibits, but we thought about something that has struck us at many of the museums we've visited on the trip: how poorly presented and preserved the contents are. It seems like there should be clear opportunities for international collaboration especially in the realm of preservation/physical space maintanence (we imagine foreigners having a role in the content to be a more complicated issue than preservation). Security was also an issue for this museum, as they currently displayed a collection of small gold Buddhas that had been stolen and then recovered several years ago inside of a hulking cage of iron bars that obscured most of the statues.
In the museum's section on the U.S. "secret war" in Laos (during the Vietnam War), it was funny to see the word "imperialist" always follow a mention of the U.S. in photo captions, as in "the U.S imperialist weapon supply." One of the best presented exhibits of the museum was in fact a collaboration between Laos and the Netherlands, detailing a representative of the Dutch East India Company and his travels in Laos in the 1600s. Those Dutch were everywhere during that time period! From home in Hartford to so many other places we've visited: Ghana, South Africa, Mauritius, Indonesia.
Later that day I got a haircut, and then went to a meditation sitting and herbal sauna/massage at a nearby temple, while Rachel went to a spa in town. We met up with James and Ewa that night to drink some green beer for St. Patrick's Day at a local rooftop bar; the waiter brought the bottle of food coloring and squeezed a few drops into our glass before pouring the bottle of beer. We went home after the bar, declining a local's invitation to join him at a club at the recently constructed (by the Chinese) 14-story luxury hotel on the river.
The next day we took the day-long bus to Luang Prabang, a former capital of Laos. Dubbed the "VIP Bus," some buses were double-decker and painted with scenes from the Little Mermaid and said "King of Bus" on the front windshield. We had to settle for a brightly colored bus with purple floral print curtains, but it did come with an unadvertized guard carrying a machine gun, the first time we've had that anywhere. We drove through very primitive looking villages, the houses either wooden or thatched roofs and reed mat sides. We saw huge water buffalos, goats, and small black pigs along the road, as well as a motorized cart vehicle that had a small engine on the front axle and a steering mechanism that made the driver look like someone using a push lawnmower.
The air quality has been really bad in the region due to many fires (mostly from slash and burn agriculture--we saw from the bus a lot of banana trees planted in burned off areas--but also forest fires); some parts of northern Thailand have been designated disaster areas. At one point on the bus ride we were so close to a fire that we felt intense heat for a few seconds passing through. Sadly, as we were already anxious for the bus ride to be over as we neared Laung Prabang (LP), the bus was involved in an accident (not the driver's fault) where one scooter hit another scooter and one of the scooter drivers was knocked into the bus. He was still alive and taken to a hospital.
At our guesthouse in LP, we met another American couple, Zach and Gemma from the Bay area. The next day we visited the Royal Palace, which in addition to stunning glass mosaics, featured state gifts from other countries to Laos (moon rocks from the U.S.). There was also a great contemporary art exhibit with Western artists collaborating with Lao artists in many different media.
The following day, after breakfast at a western coffeehouse that could have been anywhere, the 6 of us Americans took a tuk-tuk (3-wheeled vehicle made from a motorcycle front and two benches with a roof on back) to a nearby waterfall. This is supposed to by the hottest time of the year as well as the driest (the rainy season starts in May), so we figured the waterfall would be a great way to cool off. As we approached however, the sky kept getting darker and darker, and when we finally hiked up to the waterfall the rain poured down in a terrific storm, leaving us drenched and shivering but laughing as we rode back and the rain stopped. The 6 of us had a nice dinner that night, and the next day Rachel and I set off on the slow boat to the Thai border.
Laos is a place that we've heard people describe as "what Thailand used to be like." Since the Communist takeover in 1973?, it has been a very closed society, which apparently has loosened/opened somewhat during the last decade, especially in terms of tourism and marginally in terms of economic development. That the country's primary economic goal is to crawl out of the U.N. category of "Least Developed Country" by 2020 gives a good indication of its current state. In contrast to the noisiness and crowded conditions of Vietnam, Laos seems quiet, sleep, and empty (granted we were there on a weekend, but the central area of Vientiane seemed depopulated aside from tourists). If I squinted my eyes, I could almost picture an American cityscape: mostly cars instead of scooters on wide roads with wide, empty sidewalks.
After a bit of a search (several accomodations were full, and there seemed to be a good number of tourists around), we found a nice guesthouse, thankfully air conditioned given the heat and humidity, and joined James and Ewa for a riverfront meal after we'd withdrawn from one of the only international ATMs in Laos. The next day, after breakfast at one of the French bakeries, we went to the Laos National Museum. There were some interesting history exhibits, but we thought about something that has struck us at many of the museums we've visited on the trip: how poorly presented and preserved the contents are. It seems like there should be clear opportunities for international collaboration especially in the realm of preservation/physical space maintanence (we imagine foreigners having a role in the content to be a more complicated issue than preservation). Security was also an issue for this museum, as they currently displayed a collection of small gold Buddhas that had been stolen and then recovered several years ago inside of a hulking cage of iron bars that obscured most of the statues.
In the museum's section on the U.S. "secret war" in Laos (during the Vietnam War), it was funny to see the word "imperialist" always follow a mention of the U.S. in photo captions, as in "the U.S imperialist weapon supply." One of the best presented exhibits of the museum was in fact a collaboration between Laos and the Netherlands, detailing a representative of the Dutch East India Company and his travels in Laos in the 1600s. Those Dutch were everywhere during that time period! From home in Hartford to so many other places we've visited: Ghana, South Africa, Mauritius, Indonesia.
Later that day I got a haircut, and then went to a meditation sitting and herbal sauna/massage at a nearby temple, while Rachel went to a spa in town. We met up with James and Ewa that night to drink some green beer for St. Patrick's Day at a local rooftop bar; the waiter brought the bottle of food coloring and squeezed a few drops into our glass before pouring the bottle of beer. We went home after the bar, declining a local's invitation to join him at a club at the recently constructed (by the Chinese) 14-story luxury hotel on the river.
The next day we took the day-long bus to Luang Prabang, a former capital of Laos. Dubbed the "VIP Bus," some buses were double-decker and painted with scenes from the Little Mermaid and said "King of Bus" on the front windshield. We had to settle for a brightly colored bus with purple floral print curtains, but it did come with an unadvertized guard carrying a machine gun, the first time we've had that anywhere. We drove through very primitive looking villages, the houses either wooden or thatched roofs and reed mat sides. We saw huge water buffalos, goats, and small black pigs along the road, as well as a motorized cart vehicle that had a small engine on the front axle and a steering mechanism that made the driver look like someone using a push lawnmower.
The air quality has been really bad in the region due to many fires (mostly from slash and burn agriculture--we saw from the bus a lot of banana trees planted in burned off areas--but also forest fires); some parts of northern Thailand have been designated disaster areas. At one point on the bus ride we were so close to a fire that we felt intense heat for a few seconds passing through. Sadly, as we were already anxious for the bus ride to be over as we neared Laung Prabang (LP), the bus was involved in an accident (not the driver's fault) where one scooter hit another scooter and one of the scooter drivers was knocked into the bus. He was still alive and taken to a hospital.
At our guesthouse in LP, we met another American couple, Zach and Gemma from the Bay area. The next day we visited the Royal Palace, which in addition to stunning glass mosaics, featured state gifts from other countries to Laos (moon rocks from the U.S.). There was also a great contemporary art exhibit with Western artists collaborating with Lao artists in many different media.
The following day, after breakfast at a western coffeehouse that could have been anywhere, the 6 of us Americans took a tuk-tuk (3-wheeled vehicle made from a motorcycle front and two benches with a roof on back) to a nearby waterfall. This is supposed to by the hottest time of the year as well as the driest (the rainy season starts in May), so we figured the waterfall would be a great way to cool off. As we approached however, the sky kept getting darker and darker, and when we finally hiked up to the waterfall the rain poured down in a terrific storm, leaving us drenched and shivering but laughing as we rode back and the rain stopped. The 6 of us had a nice dinner that night, and the next day Rachel and I set off on the slow boat to the Thai border.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Don't Blink: HCMC to Hanoi in a Week
Having arrived yesterday in Vientiane, Laos' sleepy, eerily quiet capital city, we're feeling even more aware of the bustle and buzz that defined the cities large and small that we visited in Viet Nam-- the noise of traffic and vendors and conversations, the swarms of people everywhere,the rush of scooters and bicycles and cars. Added to this the fact that we were moving from one place to another daily or every other day, and our time in Viet Nam takes on the quality of a movie or song played at high speed-- but a great movie, a favorite song, enjoyable even if there's not enough time to fully appreciate it.
We made our way from HCMC north to Hanoi on a hop on/hop off tourist bus, run by one of many identical companies with identical itineraries. We chose it because it was by far the easiest way to get from one place to another in the limited time we had-- using local transportation can easily double the amount of time it takes to get from place to place-- but the trade-off was that we never got even slightly off the tourist trail (which is much, much bigger in Vietnam than we had expected). But of course, even the most touristy places were new to us, and we really enjoyed seeing them.
Our first couple stops, where we spent all day (or night) on the bus and had only a couple hours to poke around, were nothing special. We enjoyed hanging out in the market in the highland town of Dalat-- it was Women's Day,and families were out in force, eating at the several dozen food stalls serving pho bo (beef noodle soup) or big bowls of unflavored steamed snails. We ate with a friendly, if dazed, hippy from New York who had spent the last month at the Rainbow Festival in Thailand, wandered around a bit, and fell into bed. The next day, we had a couple hours in the late afternoon on the beach in Nha Trang, where we gave in to persistent pestering from a woman selling lobsters and let her grill a small one for us-- tough and short on meat, no match for a New England lobster. (Which reminds me that baseball season is about to begin... hooray! Which reminds me that we'll be home soon... hooray again!)
From Nha Trang we suffered through an overnight bus ride dominated by a couple of obnoxious English and Irish guys who kept turning on the lights and talking loudly while everyone was sleeping, and putting their feet on our seats. But arriving in Hoi An, a beautiful, interesting little city with a UNESCO-preserved Old Town, pushed them quickly out of mind. We spent the morning wandering around the Old Town, where almost all of the buildings are painted sunflower-yellow and one ticket gains you entrance to a range of sweet little attractions: a museum in an old wooden house displaying ceramics from the area's long history of trade, a Chinese/Japanese house with exquisite furniture lived in currently by the 7th generation of the same family, a Cantonese temple where a pig offering had just been put at the altar, a Japanese covered bridge. The city is also famous for its silk, with both lantern- making and tailoring as specialties of the residents. (How could Mia and I NOT have had silk dresses made to order, for a price that would have bought two hot dogs at Fenway Park?) That afternoon, we chartered a car out to My Son, an area of ruins from the Cham kingdom, which ruled much of Viet Nam from the 2nd to 16th centuries. One of the most striking aspects of the site was the fact that a number of important, well-preserved buildings had been destroyed by American bombs during the war-- they could survive for 1500 years, and then be ruined just like that. Of the buildings that were still somewhat intact,my favorite part was the Hindu carvings and sculptures that decorated them-- elephants, coconut trees, and quite prominent giant phalluses.
We had to say goodbye to Mia the next morning, so she could continue north in time to catch her flight back to Denmark. But Erik and I spent the day-- a poignant and in some ways terrible one-- at Son My, a couple hours outside Hoi An and the site of the My Lai massacre. The visit started with a video, which described life in the region before and during the war, then went into the horrific details of the massacre itself. Son My (a village of four hamlets, only one of which was actually called My Lai, but which the American soldiers referred to as My Lai 1-4) was believed, on scanty to no evidence, to be a hot-bed of anti-American activity. It seems more accurate that the people left behind in the village (the men always had to fight, on one side or the other), while probably not fans of the Americans who were bombing their land and killing their compatriots, were only actively engaged in trying to survive through the war. Regardless, the American in charge of the area, Lt. Calley, gave his troops the order to kill and destroy everyone and everything. Reduced to numbers, this came down to 504 people murdered, including 56 infants under 5 months old, 117 children, 182 women (including 17 pregnant women), and 60 men over 60 years old.
Much of this we knew, and were, in some way, prepared for. What got me more deeply about the site was all that we didn't know. The video, for example, focused on two American heroes I had never heard of, officers named Thompson and Colburn. Thompson was the commander of a helicopter who saw soldiers killing villagers and burning the village. He tried to get them to stop, and they told him to mind his own business. He got in his helicopter, and as he flew over the area saw a group of 10 villagers running away from a couple soldiers who were trying to kill them. He landed and ordered his gunner, Colburn, to point his gun at the soldiers, opening fire if they approached the villagers. Then he loaded the villagers onto the chopper and brought them a few miles to safety. These two men saved 10 of the 18 people from Son My who survived that day. What happened to Thompson? He was excoriated by the military, sent hate mail by the public (while Calley was lauded and, although sentenced to life in prison for his actions at My Lai, was pardoned by Nixon and never served any time), and became so depressed that he drank himself to death. There was one beautiful scene in the video, though, where Thompson and Colburn returned to Son My for a ceremony at the site, and were then reunited with the people they had saved, everyone too choked up to speak. The site itself was also very powerful. Next to the museum and a large statue were the remains of one of the hamlets: the foundations of burned houses, with a list of the family members who had been killed; bunkers where families had tried to hide before soldiers threw grenades into them; the ditch where 75 people had been systematically shot, after all the women and girls had been raped. The woman who guided us around this area had lost her grandfather and two uncles in the massacre. As we walked away from the ditch, she pointed at an old woman who was squatting cutting grass right near it, and told us that the woman was one of the 18 survivors-- she had lived because she was hidden under the corpses in the ditch, by some luck not having been shot.
The stories and images from Son My did not, of course, leave our minds during the rest of our time in Viet Nam, and never will. But one of the surprises for us in Viet Nam was how non-dominant the American War is in terms of the culture and longer history of the country. I think "Vietnam" has come to have such specific and multi-layered meanings for us at home-- a sort of code word for so many things-- that somehow I hadn't quite realized that it was also a real, living place. But it is-- I'd say one of the most vibrant, energized places we've been. The proud earlier history was on display at our next stop, the city of Hue, which used to be the governing seat of the emperors. There is a walled citadel enclosing the well-preserved (formerly) forbidden city of palaces and pagodas, and along the river, for many kilometers, are spread the emperors' tombs. We took a slow, quiet boat trip one day, which went from tomb to tomb (only one of which we paid to get into, having heard that they are all quite similar) and also to a beautiful monastery, which had been the home of one of the monks who burned himself in the street in opposition to President Diem in the early 1960s. We also tried another fabulous new food (I'd have to vote for Vietnamese as my favorite cuisine of the trip so far), rice-based globby things with shrimp steamed inside banana leaves, one type soft and almost drinkable, the other type chewy like Turkish delight.
From Hue, we headed to our last stop in Viet Nam, Hanoi. We were a bit worn out by this point and didn't make it to everything on our list, but still got a good taste of the city. It's smaller and less modern feeling than HCMC, but feels even more ridiculously busy traffic-wise, maybe because the streets are narrower and the sidewalks have even less (as in, no) walking space, they're so filled with soup stands and scooters and people drinking coffee. We spent a morning at the (imho) ridiculously overwrought mausoleum for Ho Chi Minh, a place where officious guards make you stand in line 2 by 2 and bare shoulders are not allowed (it felt like Vatican City, a place I find similarly uncomfortable and kind of gross). It was interesting to watch the many Vietnamese people visiting, as it did seem like a pilgrimage for many of them, with children in their best dresses and old people supported by a child on either side. The feeling of farce won out, though, when a soldier standing guard at the exit to the tomb room grabbed my butt as I walked out. (We furiously reported the incident to the office, where people said disciplinary measures would be taken, but I have my doubts....)
On the nicer side, Hanoi has a lovely lake right in its center, offering needed respite from the noise all around. The opera house, in bright yellow with gleaming white columns, was beautiful, and it was fun to see crowds of brides and grooms and their families gathered on the steps, trying not to get in each other's photos. There was a cool ethnology museum, with displays about several of the different ethno-linguistic groups in Viet Nam, as well as a really interesting room reflecting on the difficulties and tragedies of the 11 years, 1975-86, the country spent under total state control. We ate more awesome food at one of a few restaurants where former street and very poor children are trained to be chefs and waiters, and later placed in full-time jobs in the business. My favorite thing, though, was probably the water puppet show we spent an hour watching. Hidden behind a set, puppeteers hip-deep in water sent colorful, animated wooden puppets out to process, dance, and play in the water stage. In one number, a lone stilt-legged bird stalked through the water, followed by a meditative lute-playing farmer riding a water buffalo; in another, huge fish jumped and flopped around while a fisherman jumped up and down, haplessly trying to catch them before putting his basket over another fisherman's head instead; in another,fire-breathing dragons took center stage. The show was peaceful and chaotic, traditional and wildly energetic; just, in our little experience, like Viet Nam.
We made our way from HCMC north to Hanoi on a hop on/hop off tourist bus, run by one of many identical companies with identical itineraries. We chose it because it was by far the easiest way to get from one place to another in the limited time we had-- using local transportation can easily double the amount of time it takes to get from place to place-- but the trade-off was that we never got even slightly off the tourist trail (which is much, much bigger in Vietnam than we had expected). But of course, even the most touristy places were new to us, and we really enjoyed seeing them.
Our first couple stops, where we spent all day (or night) on the bus and had only a couple hours to poke around, were nothing special. We enjoyed hanging out in the market in the highland town of Dalat-- it was Women's Day,and families were out in force, eating at the several dozen food stalls serving pho bo (beef noodle soup) or big bowls of unflavored steamed snails. We ate with a friendly, if dazed, hippy from New York who had spent the last month at the Rainbow Festival in Thailand, wandered around a bit, and fell into bed. The next day, we had a couple hours in the late afternoon on the beach in Nha Trang, where we gave in to persistent pestering from a woman selling lobsters and let her grill a small one for us-- tough and short on meat, no match for a New England lobster. (Which reminds me that baseball season is about to begin... hooray! Which reminds me that we'll be home soon... hooray again!)
From Nha Trang we suffered through an overnight bus ride dominated by a couple of obnoxious English and Irish guys who kept turning on the lights and talking loudly while everyone was sleeping, and putting their feet on our seats. But arriving in Hoi An, a beautiful, interesting little city with a UNESCO-preserved Old Town, pushed them quickly out of mind. We spent the morning wandering around the Old Town, where almost all of the buildings are painted sunflower-yellow and one ticket gains you entrance to a range of sweet little attractions: a museum in an old wooden house displaying ceramics from the area's long history of trade, a Chinese/Japanese house with exquisite furniture lived in currently by the 7th generation of the same family, a Cantonese temple where a pig offering had just been put at the altar, a Japanese covered bridge. The city is also famous for its silk, with both lantern- making and tailoring as specialties of the residents. (How could Mia and I NOT have had silk dresses made to order, for a price that would have bought two hot dogs at Fenway Park?) That afternoon, we chartered a car out to My Son, an area of ruins from the Cham kingdom, which ruled much of Viet Nam from the 2nd to 16th centuries. One of the most striking aspects of the site was the fact that a number of important, well-preserved buildings had been destroyed by American bombs during the war-- they could survive for 1500 years, and then be ruined just like that. Of the buildings that were still somewhat intact,my favorite part was the Hindu carvings and sculptures that decorated them-- elephants, coconut trees, and quite prominent giant phalluses.
We had to say goodbye to Mia the next morning, so she could continue north in time to catch her flight back to Denmark. But Erik and I spent the day-- a poignant and in some ways terrible one-- at Son My, a couple hours outside Hoi An and the site of the My Lai massacre. The visit started with a video, which described life in the region before and during the war, then went into the horrific details of the massacre itself. Son My (a village of four hamlets, only one of which was actually called My Lai, but which the American soldiers referred to as My Lai 1-4) was believed, on scanty to no evidence, to be a hot-bed of anti-American activity. It seems more accurate that the people left behind in the village (the men always had to fight, on one side or the other), while probably not fans of the Americans who were bombing their land and killing their compatriots, were only actively engaged in trying to survive through the war. Regardless, the American in charge of the area, Lt. Calley, gave his troops the order to kill and destroy everyone and everything. Reduced to numbers, this came down to 504 people murdered, including 56 infants under 5 months old, 117 children, 182 women (including 17 pregnant women), and 60 men over 60 years old.
Much of this we knew, and were, in some way, prepared for. What got me more deeply about the site was all that we didn't know. The video, for example, focused on two American heroes I had never heard of, officers named Thompson and Colburn. Thompson was the commander of a helicopter who saw soldiers killing villagers and burning the village. He tried to get them to stop, and they told him to mind his own business. He got in his helicopter, and as he flew over the area saw a group of 10 villagers running away from a couple soldiers who were trying to kill them. He landed and ordered his gunner, Colburn, to point his gun at the soldiers, opening fire if they approached the villagers. Then he loaded the villagers onto the chopper and brought them a few miles to safety. These two men saved 10 of the 18 people from Son My who survived that day. What happened to Thompson? He was excoriated by the military, sent hate mail by the public (while Calley was lauded and, although sentenced to life in prison for his actions at My Lai, was pardoned by Nixon and never served any time), and became so depressed that he drank himself to death. There was one beautiful scene in the video, though, where Thompson and Colburn returned to Son My for a ceremony at the site, and were then reunited with the people they had saved, everyone too choked up to speak. The site itself was also very powerful. Next to the museum and a large statue were the remains of one of the hamlets: the foundations of burned houses, with a list of the family members who had been killed; bunkers where families had tried to hide before soldiers threw grenades into them; the ditch where 75 people had been systematically shot, after all the women and girls had been raped. The woman who guided us around this area had lost her grandfather and two uncles in the massacre. As we walked away from the ditch, she pointed at an old woman who was squatting cutting grass right near it, and told us that the woman was one of the 18 survivors-- she had lived because she was hidden under the corpses in the ditch, by some luck not having been shot.
The stories and images from Son My did not, of course, leave our minds during the rest of our time in Viet Nam, and never will. But one of the surprises for us in Viet Nam was how non-dominant the American War is in terms of the culture and longer history of the country. I think "Vietnam" has come to have such specific and multi-layered meanings for us at home-- a sort of code word for so many things-- that somehow I hadn't quite realized that it was also a real, living place. But it is-- I'd say one of the most vibrant, energized places we've been. The proud earlier history was on display at our next stop, the city of Hue, which used to be the governing seat of the emperors. There is a walled citadel enclosing the well-preserved (formerly) forbidden city of palaces and pagodas, and along the river, for many kilometers, are spread the emperors' tombs. We took a slow, quiet boat trip one day, which went from tomb to tomb (only one of which we paid to get into, having heard that they are all quite similar) and also to a beautiful monastery, which had been the home of one of the monks who burned himself in the street in opposition to President Diem in the early 1960s. We also tried another fabulous new food (I'd have to vote for Vietnamese as my favorite cuisine of the trip so far), rice-based globby things with shrimp steamed inside banana leaves, one type soft and almost drinkable, the other type chewy like Turkish delight.
From Hue, we headed to our last stop in Viet Nam, Hanoi. We were a bit worn out by this point and didn't make it to everything on our list, but still got a good taste of the city. It's smaller and less modern feeling than HCMC, but feels even more ridiculously busy traffic-wise, maybe because the streets are narrower and the sidewalks have even less (as in, no) walking space, they're so filled with soup stands and scooters and people drinking coffee. We spent a morning at the (imho) ridiculously overwrought mausoleum for Ho Chi Minh, a place where officious guards make you stand in line 2 by 2 and bare shoulders are not allowed (it felt like Vatican City, a place I find similarly uncomfortable and kind of gross). It was interesting to watch the many Vietnamese people visiting, as it did seem like a pilgrimage for many of them, with children in their best dresses and old people supported by a child on either side. The feeling of farce won out, though, when a soldier standing guard at the exit to the tomb room grabbed my butt as I walked out. (We furiously reported the incident to the office, where people said disciplinary measures would be taken, but I have my doubts....)
On the nicer side, Hanoi has a lovely lake right in its center, offering needed respite from the noise all around. The opera house, in bright yellow with gleaming white columns, was beautiful, and it was fun to see crowds of brides and grooms and their families gathered on the steps, trying not to get in each other's photos. There was a cool ethnology museum, with displays about several of the different ethno-linguistic groups in Viet Nam, as well as a really interesting room reflecting on the difficulties and tragedies of the 11 years, 1975-86, the country spent under total state control. We ate more awesome food at one of a few restaurants where former street and very poor children are trained to be chefs and waiters, and later placed in full-time jobs in the business. My favorite thing, though, was probably the water puppet show we spent an hour watching. Hidden behind a set, puppeteers hip-deep in water sent colorful, animated wooden puppets out to process, dance, and play in the water stage. In one number, a lone stilt-legged bird stalked through the water, followed by a meditative lute-playing farmer riding a water buffalo; in another, huge fish jumped and flopped around while a fisherman jumped up and down, haplessly trying to catch them before putting his basket over another fisherman's head instead; in another,fire-breathing dragons took center stage. The show was peaceful and chaotic, traditional and wildly energetic; just, in our little experience, like Viet Nam.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh (City)
The chorus to Vietnam's rousing national anthem is "Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh (repeat)", and our first stop in Vietnam was Saigon, renamed Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC) in 1975 in honor of "Uncle Ho". We didn't have much of a mental image of Vietnam apart from movie and photo images of the war. It turns out Vietnam isn't that small (bigger land area than Italy), and certainly doesn't have a small population: 80 million, more than double that of 1975. HCMC is hot and fairly humid, but the land around is dry and the grass brown--not the tropical green vegetation we pictured (the image of the whole country as jungle from Vietnam movies).
Vietnam is the first country we've been in since Ghana where traffic drives on the right-hand side, and also the first country (not counting Singapore) back in the Northern Hemisphere since Ghana. Vietmam is the first "socialist" country we've ever been in, but you'd hardly know it from the feel of the chic streets in downtown HCMC--it feels nothing like our image of a drab, colorless, and consumer goods-short Soviet Socialism. Some of the evidence for something called socialism still existing here includes propaganda billboards that look like they could have come from Moscow in the 1920s or a Mexican mural in the 1950s, featuring smiling workers and peasants standing shoulder to shoulder, a dove flying overhead and the symbol of the atom floating nearby.
Today socialist Vietnam subsidizes 40% of the cost of gasoline, but most people aren't putting it in cars, as it also imposes a whopping 200% tax (even more than Denmark's 180%!)on every car purchased. Subsequently, there are lots and lots of scooters: 4 million of them (1 for every 2 people) in HCMC alone. All of these scooters make for an interesting traffic experience: despite being chaotic, the traffic is actually easier to walk through than a place like Cairo (now always the point of reference in matters like these), since the scooters can maneuver around us as we slowly cross the street. Riding in a car is a little more nerve-wracking, as the sides of the roads are always taken up by bikes and scooters, and cars are continually rushing to pass the truck or bus ahead of them so that it often ends up looking like a game of chicken on narrow 2 lane roads but somehow all works out without too many accidents.
We've also observed that scooters can be transformed into pretty much anything: places for people to sleep on top of as they balance against a wall, as well as a place for young couples to sit together in the park at night (who we guess are otherwise living with their parents). We did have one negative scooter encounter when one ran a red light and hit me on the arm; fortunately I was unhurt, but the collision was enough to knock him off his scooter.
Women riding scooters are clothed in gloves, face masks (which seem like more of a cultural thing than health, as the air quality doesn't seem as bad here as others), and hats. Like many other places, there's very little room available to walk on the sidewalks- mostly taken up by parked scooters, but also all kinds of food and other vendors. Pirate copies of books (the first time we've seen these!) are hawked everywhere- always the same Lonely Planet guides, best sellers and countercultural titles.
On our first day in HCMC we got a massage at the Vietnamese Traditional Medicine Institute from blind masseuses. From the similarity of their appearance with photos we saw in museums, we wondered if they were blind from Agent Orange exposure. Walking around that night we passed the local version of Times Square--huge ads for cell phones and electronic companies in brilliantly lit screens. Many of the buildings look new, with colorful and funky-designed facades.
The next day we took a tour bus to the Cu Chi Tunnels 70 km northwest of HCMC, used by Viet Cong guerillas and the local population from the war against the French and then the Americans. 16,000 Vietnamese people lived in the tunnels in those years, and 12,000 died. On the way there we passed rice fields (Vietnam is the second largest exporter of rice in the world, after Thailand), rubber tree plantations, and water buffalo. We didn't expect all the tourists who were there visiting the tunnels, but it was still an interesting site. We watched a Vietnamese propaganda film from 1967 lauding Cu Chi locals as "American killer heroes" and referring to American soldiers as "devils". We saw large craters from B-52 bombs, and various bamboo traps used against the Americans. There was a shooting range where you can fire automatic weapons--we passed. One stretch of tunnel was widened so that larger Westerners can crawl through it. While it was less than 5 minutes, the experience was intense: much of it completely dark and very small. Hard to imagine what crawling through it would feel like with the knowledge that others are there trying to kill you.
In the afternoon we visited the Reunification Palace. Rebuilt on the site of the French Palace, which was bombed by counter-Diem (the U.S. puppet president of South Vietnam) forces in 1960, the Palace housed the South Vietnamese government until North Vietnamese tanks rolled through the gates and "liberated" the city in 1975. We had a nice guided tour, and saw some of the signs of the corrupt and hated Diem's pleasure-rooms, including a gambling room with psychedelic portrait of Jim Morrison, a red plush cinema, and the top floor which was designed as a meditation space but converted by Diem in a discotheque.
That night our Danish friend Mia (who we'd met in Egypt) arrived, and we went out to dinner at a chaotic restaurant where your order is prepared by different chefs at a number of specialized food stands. The next day the three of us went to the War Remnants Museum, a great collection of intense photos and artifacts. It featured exhibits on the effects of Agent Orange on mainly the Vietnamese population but also on American soldiers, the massacres of My Lai and (Phan Huong?), the latter led by Senator Bob Kerrey, and a large and moving exhibit on war photographers and their role. We felt like every American should see this museum and these photos, and that it only cemented the outrage at America's needless war.
That afternoon we visited the Jade Pagoda, which was a baroque combination of Buddhist, Hindu and Catholic images and offerings. For lunch we had terrific shrimp pancakes wrapped in greens and dipped in fish sauce (see photos), while for dinner we splurged and ate at a nicer French restaurant. The next morning we boarded our bus for the journey to Dalat.
.
Vietnam is the first country we've been in since Ghana where traffic drives on the right-hand side, and also the first country (not counting Singapore) back in the Northern Hemisphere since Ghana. Vietmam is the first "socialist" country we've ever been in, but you'd hardly know it from the feel of the chic streets in downtown HCMC--it feels nothing like our image of a drab, colorless, and consumer goods-short Soviet Socialism. Some of the evidence for something called socialism still existing here includes propaganda billboards that look like they could have come from Moscow in the 1920s or a Mexican mural in the 1950s, featuring smiling workers and peasants standing shoulder to shoulder, a dove flying overhead and the symbol of the atom floating nearby.
Today socialist Vietnam subsidizes 40% of the cost of gasoline, but most people aren't putting it in cars, as it also imposes a whopping 200% tax (even more than Denmark's 180%!)on every car purchased. Subsequently, there are lots and lots of scooters: 4 million of them (1 for every 2 people) in HCMC alone. All of these scooters make for an interesting traffic experience: despite being chaotic, the traffic is actually easier to walk through than a place like Cairo (now always the point of reference in matters like these), since the scooters can maneuver around us as we slowly cross the street. Riding in a car is a little more nerve-wracking, as the sides of the roads are always taken up by bikes and scooters, and cars are continually rushing to pass the truck or bus ahead of them so that it often ends up looking like a game of chicken on narrow 2 lane roads but somehow all works out without too many accidents.
We've also observed that scooters can be transformed into pretty much anything: places for people to sleep on top of as they balance against a wall, as well as a place for young couples to sit together in the park at night (who we guess are otherwise living with their parents). We did have one negative scooter encounter when one ran a red light and hit me on the arm; fortunately I was unhurt, but the collision was enough to knock him off his scooter.
Women riding scooters are clothed in gloves, face masks (which seem like more of a cultural thing than health, as the air quality doesn't seem as bad here as others), and hats. Like many other places, there's very little room available to walk on the sidewalks- mostly taken up by parked scooters, but also all kinds of food and other vendors. Pirate copies of books (the first time we've seen these!) are hawked everywhere- always the same Lonely Planet guides, best sellers and countercultural titles.
On our first day in HCMC we got a massage at the Vietnamese Traditional Medicine Institute from blind masseuses. From the similarity of their appearance with photos we saw in museums, we wondered if they were blind from Agent Orange exposure. Walking around that night we passed the local version of Times Square--huge ads for cell phones and electronic companies in brilliantly lit screens. Many of the buildings look new, with colorful and funky-designed facades.
The next day we took a tour bus to the Cu Chi Tunnels 70 km northwest of HCMC, used by Viet Cong guerillas and the local population from the war against the French and then the Americans. 16,000 Vietnamese people lived in the tunnels in those years, and 12,000 died. On the way there we passed rice fields (Vietnam is the second largest exporter of rice in the world, after Thailand), rubber tree plantations, and water buffalo. We didn't expect all the tourists who were there visiting the tunnels, but it was still an interesting site. We watched a Vietnamese propaganda film from 1967 lauding Cu Chi locals as "American killer heroes" and referring to American soldiers as "devils". We saw large craters from B-52 bombs, and various bamboo traps used against the Americans. There was a shooting range where you can fire automatic weapons--we passed. One stretch of tunnel was widened so that larger Westerners can crawl through it. While it was less than 5 minutes, the experience was intense: much of it completely dark and very small. Hard to imagine what crawling through it would feel like with the knowledge that others are there trying to kill you.
In the afternoon we visited the Reunification Palace. Rebuilt on the site of the French Palace, which was bombed by counter-Diem (the U.S. puppet president of South Vietnam) forces in 1960, the Palace housed the South Vietnamese government until North Vietnamese tanks rolled through the gates and "liberated" the city in 1975. We had a nice guided tour, and saw some of the signs of the corrupt and hated Diem's pleasure-rooms, including a gambling room with psychedelic portrait of Jim Morrison, a red plush cinema, and the top floor which was designed as a meditation space but converted by Diem in a discotheque.
That night our Danish friend Mia (who we'd met in Egypt) arrived, and we went out to dinner at a chaotic restaurant where your order is prepared by different chefs at a number of specialized food stands. The next day the three of us went to the War Remnants Museum, a great collection of intense photos and artifacts. It featured exhibits on the effects of Agent Orange on mainly the Vietnamese population but also on American soldiers, the massacres of My Lai and (Phan Huong?), the latter led by Senator Bob Kerrey, and a large and moving exhibit on war photographers and their role. We felt like every American should see this museum and these photos, and that it only cemented the outrage at America's needless war.
That afternoon we visited the Jade Pagoda, which was a baroque combination of Buddhist, Hindu and Catholic images and offerings. For lunch we had terrific shrimp pancakes wrapped in greens and dipped in fish sauce (see photos), while for dinner we splurged and ate at a nicer French restaurant. The next morning we boarded our bus for the journey to Dalat.
.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Hungry Singapore Nights
Or night, more accurately. Before coming to Singapore, we had only two associations with that teeny-tiny but totally packed city-state: the hyper-strict society that caned an American 15 or so years ago, and the name on the tag of lots of cheap manufactures. In our 20-hour stint there, we saw some hints of those, but also experienced a bright and vibrant global city.
We met up with our Irish friend Mark, from Bali, at a hostel in Singapore's Little India neighborhood. Walking in around 5, we couldn't see what the name was all about, but when we left the hostel at 7 to see the town, the area around us had been transformed into a different world. The narrow streets were packed to the gills with men (literally, only men) from southern India-- eating from stands serving Indian pancakes and chickpeas, standing in groups in the street talking, praying in the temple, sitting at plastic tables drinking tall beers-- and Mark, who had come from India before going to Indonesia, said it felt like a piece of Mumbai. We wriggled our way through the crowd to the subway, which, in itself, was pretty technologically cool. (The single-use tickets are sturdy plastic, which open the gate via a scanner, and come with a refundable deposit to ensure recycling, and the announcements of stations are impeccably audible.) The reputation for order and strictness was also in evidence: there was a looping video showing a simulation of what a Singapore subway bombing would be like and giving explicit instructions to passengers on how to avoid such situations; more lightly, there were signs at all the entrances saying "No Durians". (Tangent #2: A durian is one of the weirder tropical fruits we've eaten. It's the size of a coconut, but covered with short, sharp spikes; you really wouldn't want one to fall out of a tree on you. It smells like a mango slowly rotting in the midst of a garbage heap, a scent which not only carries across a room but also leaves its trace on anything it touches-- hence the subway ban. The edible part is a thin layer of slimy coating on the mouse-sized seeds. We also tried some rather more easily enjoyed fruits lately: rambutans, which are like lychees; mangosteens, which have a purple skin and almond-like seeds shaped in a flower; and salak, with a snakeskin-pattern rind and a pear-apple taste.) Anyway, point was, we got on the subway in India, and got off, it seemed, in China.
Ethnic Chinese make up almost 77% of the population of Singapore, so the Chinatown there is not the residential center for the community, as it has traditionally been in American Chinatowns. However, it definitely felt like the cultural and culinary center for Chinese in the city. From the subway, we came out onto a market street lined with tent-roofed stores selling red-tasseled lanterns, gaudy pink stuffed animals, and multi-colored sequined bags. The next street (the one we had been eagerly awaiting) was lined entirely with food stalls. We walked up and down the row, perusing our myriad options; then we dove in and feasted. Two choices had been recommended to us as Singapore specialties, a delicious barbecued stingray and rather slimy but generously filled oyster omelette. In addition, we had bitter greens sauteed with chilis, steamed buns filled, respectively, with pork, lotus paste, and red bean paste, and a wonton soup that was by far the most delicious I have ever tasted-- a rich, sour/bitter/spicy/sweet broth with thick, chewy, flavorful dumplings. Mmmm. We washed it down with weak but suitably-beerlike Tiger Ale, gaped at the flourescent parade celebrating the last night of Chinese New Year, then waddled our way back to Little India and went to bed.
In the morning, we said goodbye to Mark (but with the happy possibility of meeting agin in Thailand or Cambodia), then headed back to the airport for our third country in two days. Singapore was not a stop we had planned, but it was a thoroughly delicious one.
We met up with our Irish friend Mark, from Bali, at a hostel in Singapore's Little India neighborhood. Walking in around 5, we couldn't see what the name was all about, but when we left the hostel at 7 to see the town, the area around us had been transformed into a different world. The narrow streets were packed to the gills with men (literally, only men) from southern India-- eating from stands serving Indian pancakes and chickpeas, standing in groups in the street talking, praying in the temple, sitting at plastic tables drinking tall beers-- and Mark, who had come from India before going to Indonesia, said it felt like a piece of Mumbai. We wriggled our way through the crowd to the subway, which, in itself, was pretty technologically cool. (The single-use tickets are sturdy plastic, which open the gate via a scanner, and come with a refundable deposit to ensure recycling, and the announcements of stations are impeccably audible.) The reputation for order and strictness was also in evidence: there was a looping video showing a simulation of what a Singapore subway bombing would be like and giving explicit instructions to passengers on how to avoid such situations; more lightly, there were signs at all the entrances saying "No Durians". (Tangent #2: A durian is one of the weirder tropical fruits we've eaten. It's the size of a coconut, but covered with short, sharp spikes; you really wouldn't want one to fall out of a tree on you. It smells like a mango slowly rotting in the midst of a garbage heap, a scent which not only carries across a room but also leaves its trace on anything it touches-- hence the subway ban. The edible part is a thin layer of slimy coating on the mouse-sized seeds. We also tried some rather more easily enjoyed fruits lately: rambutans, which are like lychees; mangosteens, which have a purple skin and almond-like seeds shaped in a flower; and salak, with a snakeskin-pattern rind and a pear-apple taste.) Anyway, point was, we got on the subway in India, and got off, it seemed, in China.
Ethnic Chinese make up almost 77% of the population of Singapore, so the Chinatown there is not the residential center for the community, as it has traditionally been in American Chinatowns. However, it definitely felt like the cultural and culinary center for Chinese in the city. From the subway, we came out onto a market street lined with tent-roofed stores selling red-tasseled lanterns, gaudy pink stuffed animals, and multi-colored sequined bags. The next street (the one we had been eagerly awaiting) was lined entirely with food stalls. We walked up and down the row, perusing our myriad options; then we dove in and feasted. Two choices had been recommended to us as Singapore specialties, a delicious barbecued stingray and rather slimy but generously filled oyster omelette. In addition, we had bitter greens sauteed with chilis, steamed buns filled, respectively, with pork, lotus paste, and red bean paste, and a wonton soup that was by far the most delicious I have ever tasted-- a rich, sour/bitter/spicy/sweet broth with thick, chewy, flavorful dumplings. Mmmm. We washed it down with weak but suitably-beerlike Tiger Ale, gaped at the flourescent parade celebrating the last night of Chinese New Year, then waddled our way back to Little India and went to bed.
In the morning, we said goodbye to Mark (but with the happy possibility of meeting agin in Thailand or Cambodia), then headed back to the airport for our third country in two days. Singapore was not a stop we had planned, but it was a thoroughly delicious one.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Beautiful Bali: Beach/Volcano/Beach
We left Ubud for Lovina, a small town on the beach in the north of Bali. The bus went up and up and up volcanic mountains (the landscape was a little similar to southern Mexico), and then down to the coast. In Lovina, we stayed at Gede's Homestay (which I think just means that the owners live in the hotel), a basic beachfront place. The super-frienldy owner Gede was a local fisherman for 30 years, and has owned the homestay for 15, in which time he's learned to speak English (a process which we've heard so many people are able to do, still seems pretty impressive to us to just pick up a language from tourists). Because of the volcanic rock, Lovina has a black sand beach, the first of those we've ever seen. It also has a beautiful horizon, one that seems very flat and seems to spread out continually with beautiful low lines of clouds.
In addition to our stomachs having to readjust to developing world bacteria in Bali, another readjustment we've had to make after our South Africa to New Zealand developed world hiatus is our status as walking ATMs in the eyes of the local population. Everyone is trying to sell us something, and although people usually leave us alone after we say no a few times, a few are annoyingly persistent. At the same time that it's an unpleasant interaction/feeling for us, we also recognize that tourism is how people here live (again like other places we've seen, outside of agriculture there seem to be no jobs besides tourism). And targeting tourists as a means to make a living in Bali seems to have taken on a mood of desperation, as tourism has declined significantly since the bombings (one Australian woman we met said that there were more tourists here when she came 25 years ago than there are today). One sign in a hotel window read "Don't Let the Terrorist Win: Come Back to Bali" while a cruder t-shirt version read "Fuck Terrorist."
In Lovina we met Michael from Germany and Mark from Ireland, and the four of us signed up to go fishing. We set out with a fisherman (Gede's nephew) at 6:30 am in a narrow wooden boat with supports on each side. As we headed out to sea, we marveled at the beautiful mountains of Bali behind us. On the water we saw some amazing small flying fish, which looked a little like humming birds, that would zip along just above the water for what seemed like really long distances. The process of fishing consisted of the boat going to different spots marked with floating stations, throwing out jugs with a line and hook attached, and also trawling a line wrapped around a spool. While we never had a bite on the trawling lines, we caught one smaller grouper and one large Mahi-Mahi (see photos) on the jugs. Another highlight of the outing was seeing dozens of dolphins swimming and jumping nearby, including a few who swam right beside the boat for a short time. We returned about 11 am, and later (thankfully) that afternoon the skies opened up in a huge rainstorm, which we would experience many more times in Bali. That night we enjoyed the Mahi Mahi, which Gede had barbecued for us.
We left Lovina with Mark, heading towards the Gunang Batur volcano. We were dropped at the town of Penelokan, at the top of the ridge, and after walking around a little and getting hassled a lot, we spotted another couple who had just arrived--Steven and Ana from Holland--and all went together to a hotel in a village at the bottom of the valley. After more hassle from the hotel trying to sell us their exorbitantly-priced volcano hike, we followed the guidebook's suggestion and walked to the official hiking office to book for the next day. As the rain came that afternoon, we sat around the hotel talking and then went to bed early in preparation for our hike the next day.
Like Mt. Sinai in Egypt, the volcano hike is timed so that you can see the sunrise, which means that the 5 of us had to start at the unfortunate time of 4 am (the leftover bumper bar from N.Z. came in handy). We followed a guide up the side of the volcano, some of which was level and relatively easy but some very rocky and steep, which was difficult to navigate given that we were half asleep and didn't have enough flashlights to go around. But we made it to the main observation point and sat there with a few other groups of tourists, enjoying the spectacular view of the island of Lombok in the distance and the taller volcano Gunang Anung across from us despite that fact that the sunrise was obscured by a few clouds. We then hiked a little further to the very top, where except for a small store and owner we were all alone with our guide, looking down into the steaming crater, out over the black lava flow and over much of Bali. At the top, our guide cooked us eggs and bananas in the steam from the volcano. We then started our descent, part of which included "skiing" in stretches of black sand. We felt great arriving back at the hiking office around 10 am. It was an awesome experience and amazingly beautiful--see all the photos we took!
After a second breakfast at the hotel, we packed up and the 5 of us headed to the beach at Pading Bai, an even smaller town than Lovina in the south of Bali, and the ferry port for Lombok. Rachel and I hadn't planned to come here, but both Mark and Steven and Ana had been and enjoyed it, so we decided to check it out. Mark and Steven and Ana both had planned to move on the next day, but luckily for us they decided to stick around, and the 5 of us had a great time lounging on the beach but mostly eating, drinking, and talking in the local restaurants. They're all really interesting and friendly people; Irish Mark from is a chef, and Dutch Steven and Ana (via Portugal) are an architect and artist. Steven spent time in Indonesia before and speaks Indonesian, which also came in handy a few times. Although there were a few incredibly pushy massage women, overall Pading Bai was much more low key and low hassle than Lovina. We stayed in a nice garden bungalow (although unfortunately we found evidence of a rodent staying with us a well, who apparently stole one of my soaps). Some mornings were sunny and most afternoons were rainy, including one terrific storm where we sat in the beachfront restaurant drinking beer and jumping at the booming thunder.
Overall we stayed 4 nights in Pading Bai, with Steven and Ana staying 3 and Mark 4 also. It was great to hang out with people and have a very slow pace for awhile. The most exciting thing we saw in Pading Bai were beautiful processions of people to a local Hindu temple, with people dressed in white tops and multi-colored sarongs. We left Pading Bai on Saturday, March 3, and came to Ubud, where I'm writing this blog, for a little end-of-Bali eating and shopping. On our van ride here was a couple from Ostrava, Czech Republic! (Where one of the Partnership churches is located, and where Rachel attended the conference in 2001 and we both visited in 2002.) For lunch today in Ubud we took Mark's suggestion for a Babi Guling (suckling pig) restaurant--it was incredible! (unfortunately no photos) We saw a whole roasted pig being carried into the kitchen. Really juicy, flavorful meat, pork rind, blood sausage, and a few other tasty pieces we couldn't name but loved eating. From here we'll catch a van to the airport tomorrow morning, then on for one night in Singapore tomorrow night (where we plan to meet up with Mark), and then to Vietnam!
In addition to our stomachs having to readjust to developing world bacteria in Bali, another readjustment we've had to make after our South Africa to New Zealand developed world hiatus is our status as walking ATMs in the eyes of the local population. Everyone is trying to sell us something, and although people usually leave us alone after we say no a few times, a few are annoyingly persistent. At the same time that it's an unpleasant interaction/feeling for us, we also recognize that tourism is how people here live (again like other places we've seen, outside of agriculture there seem to be no jobs besides tourism). And targeting tourists as a means to make a living in Bali seems to have taken on a mood of desperation, as tourism has declined significantly since the bombings (one Australian woman we met said that there were more tourists here when she came 25 years ago than there are today). One sign in a hotel window read "Don't Let the Terrorist Win: Come Back to Bali" while a cruder t-shirt version read "Fuck Terrorist."
In Lovina we met Michael from Germany and Mark from Ireland, and the four of us signed up to go fishing. We set out with a fisherman (Gede's nephew) at 6:30 am in a narrow wooden boat with supports on each side. As we headed out to sea, we marveled at the beautiful mountains of Bali behind us. On the water we saw some amazing small flying fish, which looked a little like humming birds, that would zip along just above the water for what seemed like really long distances. The process of fishing consisted of the boat going to different spots marked with floating stations, throwing out jugs with a line and hook attached, and also trawling a line wrapped around a spool. While we never had a bite on the trawling lines, we caught one smaller grouper and one large Mahi-Mahi (see photos) on the jugs. Another highlight of the outing was seeing dozens of dolphins swimming and jumping nearby, including a few who swam right beside the boat for a short time. We returned about 11 am, and later (thankfully) that afternoon the skies opened up in a huge rainstorm, which we would experience many more times in Bali. That night we enjoyed the Mahi Mahi, which Gede had barbecued for us.
We left Lovina with Mark, heading towards the Gunang Batur volcano. We were dropped at the town of Penelokan, at the top of the ridge, and after walking around a little and getting hassled a lot, we spotted another couple who had just arrived--Steven and Ana from Holland--and all went together to a hotel in a village at the bottom of the valley. After more hassle from the hotel trying to sell us their exorbitantly-priced volcano hike, we followed the guidebook's suggestion and walked to the official hiking office to book for the next day. As the rain came that afternoon, we sat around the hotel talking and then went to bed early in preparation for our hike the next day.
Like Mt. Sinai in Egypt, the volcano hike is timed so that you can see the sunrise, which means that the 5 of us had to start at the unfortunate time of 4 am (the leftover bumper bar from N.Z. came in handy). We followed a guide up the side of the volcano, some of which was level and relatively easy but some very rocky and steep, which was difficult to navigate given that we were half asleep and didn't have enough flashlights to go around. But we made it to the main observation point and sat there with a few other groups of tourists, enjoying the spectacular view of the island of Lombok in the distance and the taller volcano Gunang Anung across from us despite that fact that the sunrise was obscured by a few clouds. We then hiked a little further to the very top, where except for a small store and owner we were all alone with our guide, looking down into the steaming crater, out over the black lava flow and over much of Bali. At the top, our guide cooked us eggs and bananas in the steam from the volcano. We then started our descent, part of which included "skiing" in stretches of black sand. We felt great arriving back at the hiking office around 10 am. It was an awesome experience and amazingly beautiful--see all the photos we took!
After a second breakfast at the hotel, we packed up and the 5 of us headed to the beach at Pading Bai, an even smaller town than Lovina in the south of Bali, and the ferry port for Lombok. Rachel and I hadn't planned to come here, but both Mark and Steven and Ana had been and enjoyed it, so we decided to check it out. Mark and Steven and Ana both had planned to move on the next day, but luckily for us they decided to stick around, and the 5 of us had a great time lounging on the beach but mostly eating, drinking, and talking in the local restaurants. They're all really interesting and friendly people; Irish Mark from is a chef, and Dutch Steven and Ana (via Portugal) are an architect and artist. Steven spent time in Indonesia before and speaks Indonesian, which also came in handy a few times. Although there were a few incredibly pushy massage women, overall Pading Bai was much more low key and low hassle than Lovina. We stayed in a nice garden bungalow (although unfortunately we found evidence of a rodent staying with us a well, who apparently stole one of my soaps). Some mornings were sunny and most afternoons were rainy, including one terrific storm where we sat in the beachfront restaurant drinking beer and jumping at the booming thunder.
Overall we stayed 4 nights in Pading Bai, with Steven and Ana staying 3 and Mark 4 also. It was great to hang out with people and have a very slow pace for awhile. The most exciting thing we saw in Pading Bai were beautiful processions of people to a local Hindu temple, with people dressed in white tops and multi-colored sarongs. We left Pading Bai on Saturday, March 3, and came to Ubud, where I'm writing this blog, for a little end-of-Bali eating and shopping. On our van ride here was a couple from Ostrava, Czech Republic! (Where one of the Partnership churches is located, and where Rachel attended the conference in 2001 and we both visited in 2002.) For lunch today in Ubud we took Mark's suggestion for a Babi Guling (suckling pig) restaurant--it was incredible! (unfortunately no photos) We saw a whole roasted pig being carried into the kitchen. Really juicy, flavorful meat, pork rind, blood sausage, and a few other tasty pieces we couldn't name but loved eating. From here we'll catch a van to the airport tomorrow morning, then on for one night in Singapore tomorrow night (where we plan to meet up with Mark), and then to Vietnam!
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Meeting Bali
We've been in Bali, Indonesia's small but oh-so-famous island, for a little less than a week now; but in that time, we have gotten rich, enticing tastes of many aspects of this beautiful place: the art and music and dance, the landscape, the food. It didn't start out so wonderful. We arrived in Kuta, a crowded, cheap-feeling resort town where RipCurl and Billabong stores line the main street and stalls selling vulgar t-shirts and low-quality clothes line the alleys. Needless to say, we weren't planning on spending much time there, just stopping for a night because of its convenience to the airport. Our plan was foiled, though, by the fact that our luggage had apparently liked Sydney (where we had a stopover on the way out of New Zealand) and decided to stay there. So until it arrived, which turned out to be two full days later, we were stuck. Not wanting to hang out at the beach in my underwear, which was all I had for a swimsuit, we spent much of our time at the hotel pool instead, which was beautifully set in a lush garden. We also walked around the town, as much as we could stand. We stared at the ground a lot, watching out for the daily offerings of flowers, food, and incense within a palm leaf that Hindus (the majority in Bali) set out on the ground each morning-- one of many ways in which mundane things are made beautiful here. We also visited the stark and moving memorial to the 200+ victims of the nightclub bombings that terrorized Kuta in 2002.
Finally getting our bags and leaving Kuta, we headed for Ubud, a small, artsy inland city that feels a little like Northampton. Here, unlike Kuta, the reason that so many people we respect got googly-eyed when talking about their own trips to Bali became much clearer. Ubud attracts a lot of tourists, meaning that there are of course a lot of touts; it is impossible to walk down the street without every 3 meters having hopeful voices ask, "Transport? Taxi?" while miming steering a scooter. But "no, thank you" is accepted with a smile, unlike in Egypt (although here they'll usually say, still hopeful, "Maybe tomorrow?"), and the high-intensity, jumbled, colorful beauty of the town more than compensates for any annoyance.
Ubud is known particularly as a center for the arts, and we have enjoyed exploring that side of it. We visited two museums, one noticeably better funded than the other, but both quite delightful and interesting with their collections of both traditional and more recent Balinese paintings and sculptures. The traditional works center around the great Indian epics and stories of the Hindu gods, and are rendered in extraordinary detail-- reading the paragraph-length captions accompanying the pictures gave us some idea of what was going on, but the artists always showed much more than was described. Many of the more recent pieces from the 60s and after, called "Young Style", were influenced by the presence of various European artists in Ubud, some of whom stayed here permanently. Some were described as having a "Western aesthetic," mostly for the use of perspective and, sometimes, the focus on one or two characters instead of many. But they also had a very distinct look from any European art we've seen, with an often extraordinary use of pattern, detail, and color. All three of those elements seem to be a central part of the visual life here: the shops spill over with gorgeous (sometime, er, irresistible) batik fabrics and clothes, which are also worn by people visiting the temples and the women who carry baskets full of offerings on their heads. There was rarely a painting of people that did not include representation of the fabric of their sarongs.
Besides the museums, we also took in two performances. The first was a series of traditional dances, accompanied by 15 or so musicians playing traditional (clangy, I have to say, to my ears) instruments. Some of the dances, mostly involving two or more female performers wearing tightly-wrapped silk bodices and skirts, would have been entertainments for a king in his palace. One, a warrior dance, would have been done at ceremonies to extol the virtues of Balinese-style manliness. (It was interesting for us to think about how this dance, which celebrated dexterity and fine movements, would have been different if it were an American warrior dance!) The most amazing thing about the dances was the incredible control the dancers had over every part of their body. They would hold their ring-fingers at impossible angles while quick-stepping their feet, always in a forward bended squatting position, and then move their eyeballs purposefully and keep their eyes open to painful-looking sizes. The next night was quite a different scene, as we went to a shadow-puppet show. We couldn't follow the story much, as the only bit in English was the occasional joke (including one with a puppet named Monica Lewinsky who has another puppet kind of drooling all over her, who then invites her for a honeymoon in Iraq... no, how about Bali instead... odd, no?). But it was cool to see the outlines the metal puppets made, backed by a glowing flame.
Although the main streets of Ubud are quite busy with traffic, not far off them are dirt roads, often narrowing into stone or dirt paths that lead through rice paddies to people's homes. We walked along two of those, one climbing gently along a ridgeline, and the other meandering past people working and ducks, cows, and chickens hanging out in the paddies. The green of all of it is both brilliant and calming. In addition, just at the bottom of one of the main streets is a quite enchanted-feeling, sacred monkey sanctuary and temple complex. Stone carvings of dragons, komodo and otherwise, seat peacefully in their moss-covered state, seeming quite breathingly alive. Meanwhile, the ubiquitous monkeys demonstrate the aptness of the phrase, monkeying around. They topple off walls, chase each other in circles, pounce on each others' stomachs and pick off bugs, beg for bananas, tackle the hard shell of coconuts-- all in all, quite a scene. We also took a little field trip out of Ubud to visit an excellent bird park. Set in a lush garden (everything here seems to be lush), the park had separate areas for South American and African birds, many of them cage-free, as well as groups of birds from several of the Indonesian islands; two of these exhibits, Bali and Papua, were set in miniature jungles enclosed by huge nets. There was also a bird show in which eagles, parrots, and owls flew from handler to handler chasing bits of meat, all backed by a landscape of rice paddies.
Given all these paddies, it should be no surprise that a food we've been eating a lot of lately is rice. We've sampled several of the typical Balinese dishes that go with it, and they've been almost universally delicious. One favorite is nasi camphur, which basically seems to mean a mini-smorgasbord of yummy vegetable, tempeh, and chicken preparations centered around some rice. We've also had jackfruit in a couple preparations, which tastes like a cross between artichoke and heart of palm; whole fish with forceful garlic sauces; gado gado, steamed veggies with peanut sauce; and rendang, a nicely spiced sauteed beef. There are also fruit juices of all sorts, sometimes ambrosia-good. (Although the avocado and chocolate juice was, I think, a one-time type of thing!). Tonight we've placed an order for a specialty dish: a whole duck, smoked with delectable spices. And the irony of it is that it costs less that one bowl of noodle soup we ate for lunch in our long day at the Sydney airport.
Finally getting our bags and leaving Kuta, we headed for Ubud, a small, artsy inland city that feels a little like Northampton. Here, unlike Kuta, the reason that so many people we respect got googly-eyed when talking about their own trips to Bali became much clearer. Ubud attracts a lot of tourists, meaning that there are of course a lot of touts; it is impossible to walk down the street without every 3 meters having hopeful voices ask, "Transport? Taxi?" while miming steering a scooter. But "no, thank you" is accepted with a smile, unlike in Egypt (although here they'll usually say, still hopeful, "Maybe tomorrow?"), and the high-intensity, jumbled, colorful beauty of the town more than compensates for any annoyance.
Ubud is known particularly as a center for the arts, and we have enjoyed exploring that side of it. We visited two museums, one noticeably better funded than the other, but both quite delightful and interesting with their collections of both traditional and more recent Balinese paintings and sculptures. The traditional works center around the great Indian epics and stories of the Hindu gods, and are rendered in extraordinary detail-- reading the paragraph-length captions accompanying the pictures gave us some idea of what was going on, but the artists always showed much more than was described. Many of the more recent pieces from the 60s and after, called "Young Style", were influenced by the presence of various European artists in Ubud, some of whom stayed here permanently. Some were described as having a "Western aesthetic," mostly for the use of perspective and, sometimes, the focus on one or two characters instead of many. But they also had a very distinct look from any European art we've seen, with an often extraordinary use of pattern, detail, and color. All three of those elements seem to be a central part of the visual life here: the shops spill over with gorgeous (sometime, er, irresistible) batik fabrics and clothes, which are also worn by people visiting the temples and the women who carry baskets full of offerings on their heads. There was rarely a painting of people that did not include representation of the fabric of their sarongs.
Besides the museums, we also took in two performances. The first was a series of traditional dances, accompanied by 15 or so musicians playing traditional (clangy, I have to say, to my ears) instruments. Some of the dances, mostly involving two or more female performers wearing tightly-wrapped silk bodices and skirts, would have been entertainments for a king in his palace. One, a warrior dance, would have been done at ceremonies to extol the virtues of Balinese-style manliness. (It was interesting for us to think about how this dance, which celebrated dexterity and fine movements, would have been different if it were an American warrior dance!) The most amazing thing about the dances was the incredible control the dancers had over every part of their body. They would hold their ring-fingers at impossible angles while quick-stepping their feet, always in a forward bended squatting position, and then move their eyeballs purposefully and keep their eyes open to painful-looking sizes. The next night was quite a different scene, as we went to a shadow-puppet show. We couldn't follow the story much, as the only bit in English was the occasional joke (including one with a puppet named Monica Lewinsky who has another puppet kind of drooling all over her, who then invites her for a honeymoon in Iraq... no, how about Bali instead... odd, no?). But it was cool to see the outlines the metal puppets made, backed by a glowing flame.
Although the main streets of Ubud are quite busy with traffic, not far off them are dirt roads, often narrowing into stone or dirt paths that lead through rice paddies to people's homes. We walked along two of those, one climbing gently along a ridgeline, and the other meandering past people working and ducks, cows, and chickens hanging out in the paddies. The green of all of it is both brilliant and calming. In addition, just at the bottom of one of the main streets is a quite enchanted-feeling, sacred monkey sanctuary and temple complex. Stone carvings of dragons, komodo and otherwise, seat peacefully in their moss-covered state, seeming quite breathingly alive. Meanwhile, the ubiquitous monkeys demonstrate the aptness of the phrase, monkeying around. They topple off walls, chase each other in circles, pounce on each others' stomachs and pick off bugs, beg for bananas, tackle the hard shell of coconuts-- all in all, quite a scene. We also took a little field trip out of Ubud to visit an excellent bird park. Set in a lush garden (everything here seems to be lush), the park had separate areas for South American and African birds, many of them cage-free, as well as groups of birds from several of the Indonesian islands; two of these exhibits, Bali and Papua, were set in miniature jungles enclosed by huge nets. There was also a bird show in which eagles, parrots, and owls flew from handler to handler chasing bits of meat, all backed by a landscape of rice paddies.
Given all these paddies, it should be no surprise that a food we've been eating a lot of lately is rice. We've sampled several of the typical Balinese dishes that go with it, and they've been almost universally delicious. One favorite is nasi camphur, which basically seems to mean a mini-smorgasbord of yummy vegetable, tempeh, and chicken preparations centered around some rice. We've also had jackfruit in a couple preparations, which tastes like a cross between artichoke and heart of palm; whole fish with forceful garlic sauces; gado gado, steamed veggies with peanut sauce; and rendang, a nicely spiced sauteed beef. There are also fruit juices of all sorts, sometimes ambrosia-good. (Although the avocado and chocolate juice was, I think, a one-time type of thing!). Tonight we've placed an order for a specialty dish: a whole duck, smoked with delectable spices. And the irony of it is that it costs less that one bowl of noodle soup we ate for lunch in our long day at the Sydney airport.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
N.Z. Post-biking: Queenstown, Christchurch, and Wellington
After our Backroads bike trip concluded in Queenstown, the "Adventure Capital of New Zealand" and where local A.J. Hackett brought bungy jumping to the world, we spent a couple days there, in Christchurch, and then Wellington before saying goodbye to N.Z. Although we were finished riding, our Backroads guide Michael didn't let us get away without a few more culinary experiences, including the Ferg Burger, and a great breakfast at Joe's Garage. On our first full day in Queenstown post-biking, we took a walk along its beautiful lakeshore, caught up on email, and had a nice dinner in and Scrabble game that evening. We also acquired a lovable stuffed kitty, who we named Queenie and who has been sleeping on our beds ever since. On the second day, Rachel and I did a great kayaking trip on the lake, with really choppy water. The scenery was still magnificent, and our kayaking guide was a real character who said he was a friend of A.J. Hackett (the bungy innovator). That afternoon, we visited the Kiwi Park, a piece of land that had been reclaimed by a family from a dumping ground and made into a bird sanctuary, where N.Z. birds including the elusive, nocturnal Kiwi were on display. We also watched (and participated in- see photos) a Maori cultural show there.
The next morning we set out on the long drive to Christchurch, the South Island's most populous city, and one of N.Z.'s most England-like places (sort of- a few pretty old buildings downtown and a beautiful botanical garden/park, but otherwise the same incredible N.Z. natural setting but marred by ugly sprawl). Allan and Sally drove the rental car, and, like us driving in Australia, could never quite get the hang of the turn signal/windshield wiper distinction on these cars. Apart from a break to watch people bungy jumping (they all made it look easy), we drove most of the day, enjoying some of our last glimspes of the amazing N.Z. landscape. The Seascape Escape Bed and Breakfast we stayed at in Christchurch was spectacularly located with a great view of the ocean, and we enjoyed their hospitality, as well as the hot tub we were wishing for after the days of biking! The next day we visited the Canterbury museum and a cool Arts Centre (the original university building, now made up mostly of working artist studios, a little like what used to be in the Colt building in Hartford). That afternoon we managed, despite technical difficulties, to talk to Rachel's sister Karen over Skype, did a little packing and enjoyed one last delicious dinner together.
Before going to the airport the next day, we visited the Antarctic Experience (70% of people going to Antarctica leave from Christchurch). In addition to live penguins and a "storm" room where we had to don boots and coats for a few minutes of cold temps, we also took a ride in a Haaglund tank-like vehicle over a land and water course behind the museum. At the airport we said goodbye to Allan and Sally, and they mentioned that at that point it was only 98 days until we come home! (Makes it sound like not very much time for all the countries we still plan to visit.) While they headed back to the U.S., we flew to Wellington, where we stayed with my friend Matt during our last days in N.Z.
I first met Matt at a hostel in London, when I stayed for a couple weeks after Rachel's and my Europe trip in the summer of '02, and then lived with him again in London while I was traveling in the spring of '03. Despite not having seen each other for 4 years, he was generous enough to host us, and it was great to catch up with him and his girlfriend Chrystyna. The afternoon we arrived, we took advantage of the fabulous sunny weather and Matt's friend's boat to do some wake boarding in the harbor: Chrystyna at an impressive level, Matt even more so, and myself, in my second time trying it, making a little progress so that i could actually stand up for a fraction of a second.
The next couple days, we slept in, caught up on email, picked up our Vietnamese visa and applied online for our Cambodian visa, and saw an exhibit which included photos of sheep wearing sweaters at the City Gallery. It was great both to see Matt and to regenerate before moving on to Bali!
The next morning we set out on the long drive to Christchurch, the South Island's most populous city, and one of N.Z.'s most England-like places (sort of- a few pretty old buildings downtown and a beautiful botanical garden/park, but otherwise the same incredible N.Z. natural setting but marred by ugly sprawl). Allan and Sally drove the rental car, and, like us driving in Australia, could never quite get the hang of the turn signal/windshield wiper distinction on these cars. Apart from a break to watch people bungy jumping (they all made it look easy), we drove most of the day, enjoying some of our last glimspes of the amazing N.Z. landscape. The Seascape Escape Bed and Breakfast we stayed at in Christchurch was spectacularly located with a great view of the ocean, and we enjoyed their hospitality, as well as the hot tub we were wishing for after the days of biking! The next day we visited the Canterbury museum and a cool Arts Centre (the original university building, now made up mostly of working artist studios, a little like what used to be in the Colt building in Hartford). That afternoon we managed, despite technical difficulties, to talk to Rachel's sister Karen over Skype, did a little packing and enjoyed one last delicious dinner together.
Before going to the airport the next day, we visited the Antarctic Experience (70% of people going to Antarctica leave from Christchurch). In addition to live penguins and a "storm" room where we had to don boots and coats for a few minutes of cold temps, we also took a ride in a Haaglund tank-like vehicle over a land and water course behind the museum. At the airport we said goodbye to Allan and Sally, and they mentioned that at that point it was only 98 days until we come home! (Makes it sound like not very much time for all the countries we still plan to visit.) While they headed back to the U.S., we flew to Wellington, where we stayed with my friend Matt during our last days in N.Z.
I first met Matt at a hostel in London, when I stayed for a couple weeks after Rachel's and my Europe trip in the summer of '02, and then lived with him again in London while I was traveling in the spring of '03. Despite not having seen each other for 4 years, he was generous enough to host us, and it was great to catch up with him and his girlfriend Chrystyna. The afternoon we arrived, we took advantage of the fabulous sunny weather and Matt's friend's boat to do some wake boarding in the harbor: Chrystyna at an impressive level, Matt even more so, and myself, in my second time trying it, making a little progress so that i could actually stand up for a fraction of a second.
The next couple days, we slept in, caught up on email, picked up our Vietnamese visa and applied online for our Cambodian visa, and saw an exhibit which included photos of sheep wearing sweaters at the City Gallery. It was great both to see Matt and to regenerate before moving on to Bali!
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