Laos

Luang Namtha, Laos: January 2007

“Just make sure you don’t get hurt, the nearest adequate medical facilities are in Thailand and an airlift is quite expensive”. Tom's advice seemed almost parental.
I smiled wryly.
“I’m not joking, most of the medical facilities up here barely have soap.”
I knew Tom wasn’t kidding. He had provided nothing but good advice to me here. Tom was a native Laotian but spent most of his life in the US. I had met him by chance in the small city of Luang Namtha. He was spending his annual vacation with his family in the capital Vientiane. He explained that he often needed a vacation within a vacation; the life in Vientiane was vastly different than the countryside he grew in. He told me he enjoyed the simplicity of northern countryside as well as the reminder of how far Laos needed to come. From Vientiane Laos seemed to be growing like many other developing nations. But in the north the needs of Laos were greatly defined: unpaved roads unusable during the rainy season, children in rice fields rather than schools and live mine remnants of the Vietnamese war.

Tom worked in education and much of his time outside the US involved improving the Laos school system. Over the last few days he had narrated Laos at great lengths, from the birth of civilization on the Mekong to the current administrations grapples with corruption and incompetence. I was happy to meet him early in my trip as I’d underestimated the knowledge of English in Laos. I had entered Laos through southwest China and had found enough Mandarin speaking immigrants and tradesmen to reach easily. However, I did not look forward to education on Laos through the Mandarin language and Tom seemed the perfect guide.
I had rented a motorbike and intended to do a three day swing through the northeast corner of Laos. I had heard of a few noteworthy cities and decided to take my time reaching them, enjoying the freedom of a motorbike. While Tom and I explored the vicinity of Luang Namtha, Tom taught me a few key phrases in Laos but acted mostly as a lingual crutch.

I set off on my bike early in the morning. The road was decently paved and nearly deserted. In my first two hours I passed exactly one truck, it’s bed overloaded with people. The road carved through lush mountains, peaks rising at a sharp angle. Scattered settlements sat along the road, most of them having extended agricultural fields adjacent to them. About a half hour from reaching the nearest town I spotted a man and a women fussing with a motorcycle. Although I have very minimal knowledge of motorycycles, I stopped to see if they needed a hand. The man spoke in a thick Russian accent,
“We have run out of gas.”
We spoke for a while. He periodically stopped and translated in Thai to his wife. He explained he had been living in Thailand for the last 10 year and he and his wife were on holiday. They had rented the motorcycle in Thailand and were on their way back. He said their lack of Laos had made their experience frustrating and preferred their future holidays in Thailand.
“It just really limits our activities. And like now. How am I supposed to convince someone here to help a white man and a Thai women!”
He explained that Laotians weren’t particularly fond of Thais though could be sympathetic to Russians in light of their Cold War support(Laos today remains communist). I offered to siphon some gas into his tank. He seemed delighted but our joy was stopped short by our lack of siphoning tube. We searched through our bags and found nothing. After much discussion we decided only one logical solution: go the nearest home and ask for a tube.

His wife stayed with the bike and our things and we set out to the nearest home. I had just passed some homes a few miles back so I backtracked in that direction. We reached a very modest house with a thatched roof. The man started negotiations in Thai. This reached nowhere. He threw up his hands,
“the languages have some similarities giving you the impression you can use parts interchangeably, but as you see, you can’t."
We then spent the next 10 minutes miming the act of siphoning. Her yard was littered with various piles of trash. Some piles were plastics, wrappers and other highway litter. Other piles were organic and looked something like compost piles. We soon found a straw on the ground and indicated that we sought something like that, only longer. The womens face suddenly beamed; she understood exactly what we needed. She went in her house and returned with a hose perfectly suited for the job. We thanked her profusely(That is one Laos phrase I had mastered). The Russian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pocket knife. He motioned for her to take it and now it was her turn to unleash thank you’s. As we headed back to the bike the Russian must have sensed my curiousity,
“In my years I have found that an exchange is much more beneficial and kind than monetary donations…Look how far away this place is. She could really benefit from that knife. If someone gives her money, what is she going to buy? Next time she goes into town she’ll buy some new gadget she’s never seen? And plus, if I give her money she will just go on expecting money everytime.”
I thought, “Well now she’s going to expect quality Russian knife all the time.” I declined to comment as we hopped on the bike. He sounded awfully presumptuous and supposing though I could see his points. If anything I gave him credit for thinking so deeply about it although it looked like he had gotten himself into similar situations as this one before.

Chinese Cartoons

Chinese Cartoons
I have recently begun to create some Chinese cartoons. Although Chinese characters have roots in "pictograms"(pictures), most characters are phono-semantic compounds. This means one element suggests the meaning, the other pronunciation.

Chinese often view characters as just that, characters. They hold little artistic merit aside from the Roman equivalent of penmanship. However, I am not a Chinese, rather I use it as a second language. So I have created a series of cartoons using Chinese characters, I hope you enjoy them.

This first cartoon is the Chinese character 胆子, the pronunciation is dan zi. This character means roughly "strength" or "bravery". This year will mark the 20th anniversary of June 4th 1989, when the streets of Tiananmen Square ran red...


Cartoon II:
This is the Chinese character "gai" which mean "to change" or "reform". In this cartoon, "改 gai" is rewriting the rules "Hu kou zhi du", which refers to the Maoist system of organizing households as either rural or urban. This can be somewhat analogous to an apartheid systems. This system has negative side effects, especially due to the large numbers of countryside people who move to urban areas, yet have lower quality education, housing and health opportunities.

MUSIC

I love music. It could possibly be my favorite form of art. The self expression with music can be fused with the group dynamic of several musicians. In the ideal circumstances music can be a seamless expression of several individuals art. Music also has the potential to be combined with poetry. This both combines the power of the words chosen with the instrument of the human voice. I have chosen some songs that I believe to represent the power of music.

1. Espresso- Taraf de Metropulitana
Music of the Balkan Gypsies, this track explodes with the meanest accordian solo I've ever heard. Fast chord and tempo changes along with flawless playing makes this piece a powerful one.
2. Hong Kong Mambo- Tito Puente and His Orchestra
Afro-Latin sound. Heavy rhythms with beautiful melodies played with instruments possessing unique and pleasing timbre.
3. Paradiso- Konono Nr. 1
Rhythm! Straight from the heart of Africa, this piece has spectacular improvisation and enormous energy.
4. Congo Man - Ernest Ranglin
Blending jazz and reggae. This guy is a must hear!
5. The Gumbo Variations- Frank Zappa
Groove based improvisation. Changes in tempo add a lot of energy. Great instrumentation for a unique sound.
6. Cars Trucks and Buses- Phish
This jazz tune has always been one of my favorites. Tight playing combined with tension and release energy carries this song.
7. I Wanna ride you- Medeski Martin and Wood
Bass and drums with some smooth organ playing.
8. Backdrifts- Radiohead
Electronic music showcasing complex sound layers and digital sound.
9. Chamelon- Herbie Hancock
This has one of my all time favorite basslines. Keyboard layers from Herbie Hancock show an innovative range for the time of recording.
10. Taka Sarava-Silvia Torres
She has a beautiful voice that carries this Latin tune. Brazilian Bahia style.

You can download these as a .zip file here...

Sichuan, China: Part I

成都- Chengdu, China: September 2006

I had been stuck for two months in one of the poorest and polluted provinces in China. I sorely needed a vacation. The air in my residence of Yuncheng was sour with coal. Mass amounts were collected and burned from nearby factories. The air remained a stale yellow tint and obstructed all the nightly stars. A thin layer of black film was present on everything. People didn’t dare sit on any benches without a piece of cardboard between them. After I played basketball my hands would look as if I had finished working in the mines myself. I had attained a bicycle and subsequently stopped riding because the air was hard to breath and irritated my throat. I constantly swept my floor, collecting little piles of black dust, even though I never had my windows open and my house seemed reasonably sealed. I had never seen any wild life except two different species of birds, and even they were rare.

You know those masks you see depicting air pollution in China? They are seriously worn, though not to such an exaggerated way as you might imagine. Students would wear removable sleeves to wrap their forearms. This would prevent the coal dust from the desk from staining their clothes. When I hung my clothes to dry, they frequently needed to be batted off to remove the excess dust. I despised the coal. I tried to think it was various other factors that were making the air quality so bad. It had to be some other air pollutant combined with it…but is that any better? Either way, I decided I needed to get out.

I traveled down to Sichuan, a province renowned for its cultural flavor and spicy food. Geographically it lay on the edge of the Tibetan plateau and I had heard from several friends it had some amazing landscapes. I took the 16.5 hour train ride to the capital of Chengdu. Chengdu was a larger, better organized and cleaner city than Yuncheng. The peoples skin looked darker and they spoke with a different accent, making it near impossible for me to understand. It was still a big city, judged clean only in comparison to Yuncheng and hardly the scenic undisturbed area I was seeking. However, I’d have to stop over here to coordinate transportation to the more remote areas.

I spent the night seeking out some of the world famous Sichuan cuisine. I figured this was the place to get it. I spent a few hours roaming around various cook shops. It was still difficult for me to read any of the menus; my knowledge of Chinese characters was minimal. I didn’t want a huge restaurant; rather I wanted a hole in the wall kind of place. I came upon a restaurant that was sparsely decorated but very clean. It was packed full of Chinese. I figured a small place at capacity had to be a good sign. I took a seat across from a man much older than I and took the menu. The waitress came over and I asked her what the best thing was.

Basically what next happened was a mess of confusion and hilarity that became typical until my knowledge of Chinese improved. When I soon realized I couldn’t understand them I told them my usual “I am not Chinese, I’m American. I only speak a little Chinese” line and they laughed in disbelief. As usual, the laughing turned serious when they realized I wasn’t joking, I actually couldn’t understand what they were saying. They couldn’t grasp that I was not actually Chinese. I mean, I looked Chinese. I spoke some Chinese. But here I was with a plea for help on my face saying “ting bu dong”(I don’t understand) to just about every question coming my way.

However, hand gestures are a very useful tool and I soon agreed on some type of food. I sat there and joked with the man across the table from me who mostly just stared at me, asked me an impossible question, then laughed repeatedly. I ended up getting a mushroom soup that was very spicy and contained an impossible variety of mushrooms. Thin ones, fat ones, brown ones, white ones, far exceeding the variety of mushrooms I previously had thought possible. I was hungry though and it was satisfying. And this was certainly not the only time I sat down to eat in China and the food was bizarre. I mean, how often do you sit down and you’re eating frogs, snakes, dog or pig penis?

I finished up at the restaurant and walked the streets of Chengdu. My hotel was close to the Nan River. There wasn’t exactly a river walk, nor was the water in pristine conditions, but it provided a venue for people to hang out. I saw couples hugging on the railings, mahjong boards busy with gambling, young families walking and old men smoking cigarettes.

Suddenly I began to feel very strange. The night lights seemed to be pulsating and wavering. The rivers flow became increasingly fluid. The feeling of a new, strange place swept over me. This was not the China I had begun to adapt to. This was a bigger city, with different people speaking a different language. For that matter, this was a far cry from my home of America. This city was foreign to me, but the country felt increasingly comfortable. But it all felt a little strange compared to America. So where was I now? And what the hell was I doing?

I wandered around the streets of Chengdu that night. I enjoyed the smells of outdoor cooking markets, the sounds of horns busy in the streets and the faces of the people that passed me by. I thought about my experience here in China. I never thought of being in such a foreign place and being racially disguised so well. Unlike African countries where I was instantly greeted with locked, gazing eyes, here my presence went unnoticed. Yet my eyes were also locked and gazing at the people and the fact its presence went unnoticed felt strange.

Yet I enjoyed it. Cultural standards that Chinese would let pass with a noticeable foreigner I was held accountable for. It helped me learn what Chinese really expect in behavior and manners. Once people know you are a foreigner you are treated differently. Not even necessarily negative, but you have a different standard. So I enjoyed passing under the radar, especially that night in Chengdu.

Sichuan Part II

Part II
九寨沟- Jiuzhaigou, China: September 2006

I decided to go to a place called Jiuzhaigou. It was high in the mountains in the north of Sichuan. It would require a long buss ride, an estimated 12 hours through winding mountain passes. I figured that was a good sign. I took the first bus out the next morning, leaving at 7am.
The bus was a typical bus and I sat in the very front seat on the passenger side. I sat by the window next to a very old man. He was eating sunflower seeds loudly and reeked of cigarette smoke. The ride was unspectacular in the beginning. We were making good time and I enjoyed looking out at the developing areas bordering the highway. There was a distinct bridge over a river where the scenery went from interesting to spectacular.
The bus was forced to move at a slow pace. Rising switchbacks eventually made me a bit carsick. Deep valleys dropped off to one side. Buddhist shrines lined the roads and Tibetan prayer flags hung high on the mountainsides. We passed through a few villages and children on horses clogged the road. What a traffic jam! Passengers continually got off the bus and I realized the last stop for this bus was the city closest to Jiuzhaigou but most of the people used it to reach their homes en route. Unfortunately this was not the case for my neighbor. He snored loudly, used his sharp elbows and routinely attempted to smoke cigarettes, sometimes successfully. He did not seem interested in my small talk and carried with him a clothe sack that reeked of fish.
The ride continued into the mountains until darkness came. Now I could see only small patches of coniferous trees and dense growth. Our bus finally pulled into Jiuzhaigou at 10pm, 15 hours after leaving Chengdu.
Jiuzhaigou National Park has an interesting layout. It encompasses an area of 72,000 hectares and elevations ranging between 1,990m (6,529 feet) to 4,764m (15,630 feet). It has two main sections and you can take a bus that stops at the different attractions. The bus runs like a shuttle and arrives/leaves the attractions every 20 minutes or so. There are also nine Tibetan communities nestled throughout the land, some of them developed for tourism and others in relative isolation.
When I ventured into the park area I realized that nearly all the visitors were Chinese. Many people told me this park is very famous in China and due to the remoteness it possesses a romantic spirit(Chinese are suckers for that kind of thing). I noticed that people almost exclusively used the bus system. The park contained wooden walkways throughout the whole park and you could essentially walk the whole thing. I was in no hurry at all and figured as long as it took me so long to reach here, I might as well stretch it out for all its worth.
I enjoyed the boardwalks. Due to the fact that most tourists took the bus system, I was virtually alone. The landscape was amazing, unlike anything I’d ever seen before. There was evidence of logging on some of the hillsides but most of it remained undisturbed. I strolled into one of the Tibetan settlements in relative isolation. The area was sparsely populated with a seemingly “public” and “private” area. The public area had several people in traditional wear and many had stands with various crafts. The private area behind them was a collection of decent housing containing nothing out of the ordinary. People wore simple clothes and sewed crafts and prepared food. One women approached me and asked me if I was interested in a tour or crafts. I told her no thanks but she continued to ask me questions. Her Chinese had a thick accent, different from the Sichuan dialect and the dialect I had become accustomed to. I finally told her I’m not Chinese but I’m American and I was interested in the differences between Han Chinese and Tibetan Chinese life. She immediately gave me a suspicious look and said the Han had meddled in this area for a long time. The women looked older than 50 and she said when she was younger she rarely remembered any incidences with foreigners. She said when the Chinese came they logged much of the area they considered sacred. She told me the land had powerful religious beliefs but since tourisms arrival the children seem less interested in their history and more interested in making money.
Our conversation soon drew some bystanders. An old man joined us and offered his take on things. I explained to them that I wasn’t Chinese and I had never known much about China. I told them many people in America think China and Tibet are different so I wanted to know what they thought. They man and women were carefully selective in their responses but the overall feeling was “Everything was fine until the Chinese came, and now things are changing”. The conversation was drawn out due to translation issues but they admitted the positive changes of Chinese interaction: more education and opportunities, better connectivity to the interior for trading, and protection against illegal logging(ironically the Chinese government were the “illegal loggers” they remembered). Although our conversation was interesting, I still felt I was missing something. Perhaps because of translation, perhaps their reluctance to open up to a stranger, perhaps my overly inquisitive attitude…either way, I felt like they wanted to say more.
I thanked them for talking with me and I also told them it was the most beautiful place I had ever been(true). I told them that I looked forward to going to their homeland of Tibet and learning more about their culture.

Chilean Adventures

Icalma, Chile: December 2007

While in my first year in graduate school, I was fortunate enough to receive a grant to research in Chile. I had made a link with a Chilean working on ecotourism in the south of Chile and he requested assistance in proper sustainable development. I was excited to work directly with a community though I knew very little Spanish and even less about Chile.

I arrived in the small village of Icalma at the onset of spring. It was a sharp contrast to the modernity I had seen on my voyage through the rest of Chile. The village of Icalma was a semi-autonomous Mapuche area in Region IX. The Mapuche are the largest indigenous group in South America. The village sat high in the Andes, so high in fact that travel was impossible during the winter months. The boarder of Argentina lay 2km away and the nearest modern grocery store was two hours west. I only saw two cars the entire time I was there: the car that picked me up and a large flatbed truck used to transport fertilizer. Donkeys and bicycles were sparsely scattered throughout the dirt roads.

I enjoyed my research in Icalma. I was the first “white” person the majority of these people had met. Icalma only contained about 50 households so it was possible to interview everyone. The people enjoyed having their opinion sought and stated it was the first time anyone had ever asked them about the development in the area. The hospitality was amazing, with people offering what little they had to their strange guests. Freshly baked bread and mate accompanied almost every interview. I had a horse as my primary transportation as the houses were spaced quite far apart. One house in particular fascinated and humbled me.

Far on the outskirts of the village there was a single home surrounded by vast unkempt farmland. Myself, my translator, and my translator’s translator (for Mapudungun language) approached the house. Two women met as at the door and seemed skeptical of our presence. We explained what we were doing and immediately their hesitancy disappeared and was replaced with welcoming smiles.

We were invited in and took seats on their makeshift furniture of tree stumps, dilapidated plastic chairs and wooden benches. Two small children greeted us with shyness characteristic of all children their age. Our translator spoke to the women exclusively in Mapudungun. I stared around the room at the coal stove, aged furniture and other items in their house. It did not have electricity nor did it have running water. After a few minutes our translator told us that they spoke very little Spanish. We in turn apologized for not speaking Mapudungun (as we did at almost every household).

I was excited that I could be more involved in the interview as it was easier to speak to a non native Spanish speaker. I asked them several icebreaker questions about their life. They said they had lived there as long as they could remember. They were caring for their grandchildren while their children sought money and success in Chile’s cities. Their tone of speech was absent of resentment, one thing I found disturbing through many of my previous interviews. They spoke of an early simple life of farming and subsistence living. They enjoyed sewing and other textile work. They had grown old now(they couldn’t remember exactly how old they were) and their many physical ailments prevented them from doing much work. They received a stipend from the government that they felt was too small. They told me that they had to travel to Icalama to get it, something that was becoming more and more difficult. Aside form this they said their life was fine and they neither were encouraging or discouraging about tourism. “Mas o menos”(more or less) dominated their responses when I asked them questions to gauge their attitude.

This household was by far the least influenced by western values and development. They were very little use to my actual academic study but provided a look into humility and modesty unparalleled. Physically, mentally and financially suffering, they used the opportunity of talking with a western development worker by simply saying “todo bien”(everythings good).

I snapped a picture of us and sent a copy back to them. I'm not sure if it ever reached. I like that this picture captures their height(I'm 5'7''), their mismatching shoes and my dirty pants from the horse ! The women also declined to have their pictures taken but with encouragement agreed. They retreated to their rooms to dress and comb their hair.

Picture of Picture

My friend sent me a few pictures of myself taking pictures. Although I usually don't find much interest in these pictures, I decided to look and see if i could locate the picture of the picture. So here they are. The one on the top is in West Lake, Hangzhou, China and the one on the bottom is of nearby Longjing Tea Garden in China.