Nanjing and its coincidences

October 28, 29,30 2010
The weekend getaway came at the right time: I needed a break from Shanghai’s city lights and I had to clear my head to make an important decision.
In the days before going to Nanjing my global education advisor came to visit Kevin and I here in China. He took us out to lunch on a Tuesday afternoon and then asked me if I wanted to join him touring the Shanghai School of Economics and Finance—they have a study abroad option. I took the afternoon to go with the Dean because I had planned to attend this program next semester. In the two hours or so I spent at SUFE I realized that this program was could be a pitiful mistake—I had to make a choice: stay at Fudan and do independent research or head to SUFE.
At dinner that night—the Dean took Kevin and I to a fancy restaurant downtown—I told my advisor that I did not like the SUFE program and I might opt for something else. His advice was figure it out fast. Kevin and I took our guest to see the sights around Shanghai and later that night I wrote and email to my academic advisor at Wheaton asking her what I should do. In the morning I received an email saying that I need to find my own independent research topic and advisor—I needed a Chinese professor. But how was I going to find this over the weekend?
So here is the trip to Nanjing:
Barely being able to get up after the lash the night before I find my feet packed the bare minimum of necessities in my backpack and headed out to the streets for a morning cracker sandwich. Waiting for the bus and the other 30 odd students and stragglers to show I up I talk baseball with my buddies—after all it was the first game of the world series in San Francisco.
One dud joked with me while we waited for the bus to come: “if the Giants are in the world series you should be stealing someone’s iphone to read updates, I know if the Cubs were in the series I would do that.” “we both know that you will never have to live up to that wager because the bubs will never get into the series”
Finally the bus comes and we all pile in and I see that a professor that I have never seen before was to join us on the trip, Professor Shu. In the process I almost forgot my passport.
The peace of a cloudless sky was first enjoyed in Shanghaiese traffic on a rooftop freeway. When we got to the train station the sleek granite was covered in sharp morning sunlight. Inside the clean and efficient Asian train station finding the right platform was a simple straight shot. We boarded our Japanese made bullet train (a Shinkansen) and it left the train station with mathematical precision.
I fought for the last window seat in the hemisphere and watched the world float by as the train accelerated to infinity. At 210mph the train sprinted through the world of new; buildings, farms factories, power plant and homes, all brand new and spotless. Almost as if the residents of these places woke up one morning with a brand new suburb.
We stop in Wuxi, which all I can remember about the place is that it was where the companies of both DJ (my sister’s boyfriend) and Nate (my cousin) have development laboratories. Forty five minutes later we are in Nanjing.
We are greeted by a Chinese guide equipped with flag and loudspeaker—ew. On the bus ride to our welcoming feast he informs us that Nanjing literally means southern capital and is one of the historic capitals of China. We eat lunch and I realize that I love Nanjing food because they serve cold, salted duct at every meal. I also learn that I don’t like stinky tofu. I have tried an eaten everything in China but stinky tofu smells exactly like cow manure and I can’t imagine it tasting much different.
After lunch we head to the tomb of Sun Yet Sen. We climb the up to his neo-roman mausoleum and take pictures of ourselves and the hordes of Chinese political pilgrims. We keep exploring to find that Sun Yet Sen’s burial site is more of a patriotic themed park with plenty of attractions. The nicest part about the place is that there are trees everywhere—natural trees. I missed trees so much and forests and I got my fix (if only for a second) walking from one patriotic building to another. The other nice thing about this spot was that most tourist only enter museums to see the wax figure displays and read about the rifles and cloths on display. Outside of most of the buildings there are beautiful untouched gardens along stunning Asian architecture and no one to bother you. I spend my own time wandering around, exploring my own secret corners.
There are several temples on the property as well, the only thing is, the Chinese government has gutted out any religious affiliation and installed more historical information. Again I am more into walking around these specimens of blasphemy—the 600 year old stone buildings are mind blowing. I find a pagoda with some of my friends and we climb up it to look out over Nanjing. Bellow us civilization is polluted and fascinated with skyscrapers.
Our guide finally herds us back into the bus and we head downtown to check into our four star accommodations. After a short break we are back on the bus heading to dinner at a place that specializes in fish—we never actually ate that much fish though. After dinner we headed on a night cruise of Nanjing’s canal system. Nanjing’s old town has been refurbished to look like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean. Everywhere there are historic looking buildings with bars and restaurants in them and everything is lit up with neon lighting. At this point I’m exhausted and I feel like I’m on a ride at Disney land without Mickey ears. Soon we get bused back to our hotel and I melt in my cushioned bed.
The next day we started out by taking a tour of an accredited graduate school in Nanjing that is run by John Hopkins. It went like any other college tour except I kept ducking out to see if the Giants were winning game two. At this point I wasn’t sure if I had been disowned by my father who was not calling me to keep me updated. When we toured the library I checked to the score and saw that the Rangers were walking home runs for the Giants. My family did end up calling me to tell me San Francisco won and underneath my well worn SF cap a smile shined the whole day.
After lunch we were taken to the ancient palace of Nanjing. At first we were being led by our guide but soon most American students found our guides use of a flag offensive and a group of 30 dwindled down to nothing. I got myself purposefully lost in the ancient maze of classical Chinese architecture and garden scapes. Once I had enough I called up Kevin and Alex to see what they were up to.
When I found my crew we decided to head to the city center to see what this city is all about. We went one metro stop and found a commercial sector that was not unlike the place we live in. We were becoming desperate for an afternoon bar but Nanjing is as dry as a Monday night AA meeting and everyone we asked looked at us as if we had come to corrupt all of Nanjing. Apparently Nanjing was made by McDonalds and KFC because at ever corner there is at least one American fast-food restaurant. After getting some essentials at Wall Mart we headed back to our hotel lounge.
At night we headed out to the Jiu Ba Street (right across from the hotel) which as far as translations goes can either be 98th street or bar street. There every club was the same: we would go in, find a table order a bottle of something and soon learn that they did not have it. Kevin and Alex were supremely disappointed in the nightlife of Nanjing and longed for Shanghai.
The next day we started early to head to the museum of the Nanjing massacre. On the outside, architects designed a place where the massacre can be revered and the feeling of a crushed city can be felt. The first thing that we did was hear the recount of a survivor of the Japanese attack on the Republican capital. He spoke tearlessly about the horrors that happened to him and his family. It sounded like his raspy voice has recounted this many times before. After the haunting tales, we walked through the museum displays. It was a bit like seeing the exhibits at Auzwichz,, having to read about such terrible crimes. The museum was a bit manipulative and gave no chance for reconciliation but overall it was a good display of how 300,000 people lost their lives.
When I was waiting for the bus I just happened to be in the same place as Professor Shu, who is my program’s Chinese politics professor. He tells me that he is actually a political economist—what I study—and he got his PhD at the University of Texas. I just hit the jackpot. I, by chance, ran into exactly the right person. I ask him if he can be my independent research advisor and he says he would be glad to do it.
We have lunch at vegetarian restaurant that makes fake meat look like real meat. I enjoyed the plane vegetables. After lunch we walk on Nanjing’s ancient city wall and enjoy the Saturday afternoon sunshine. Soon we are back on the train and silently zoom into Shanghai’s city lights in the early evening.
That night was Shanghai’s Halloween celebration and I went with my buddies to a club owned by one of Kevin’s contacts to celebrate. I dressed as white trash and Kevin was a Buddhist monk. We had a blast.
My camera is now completely dead but you can always check out Kevin’s photo blog at http://www.flickr.com/photos/kpatnode/page2/

The Giants

This is it; as good as it gets. If you are a Giants fan and a live chances are life couldn’t be better right now: the Giants have won The World Series.
I am not the person who can’t stop pinching himself; I’m not the guy who wakes himself up in the middle of the night smiling, thanking God that the orange and black are now the royal colors of victory. In any case I, like many of my fellow Giants fans, cannot really believe that some hours ago on a field in Texas our team clinched their destiny.
For me though it’s a little different; I live a world away where the closest baseball fans are across an East Asian sea, and fans eat noodles at baseball games—not hot dogs. Shanghai is not a baseball city.
In thinking about what my team has done this year I want to go back a few steps, to the beginning of the year—the beginning of spring training. I remember reading the headlines of who the front office was signing. Mark DeRosa, then Aubrey Huff and then I think it was the resigning of Bengie Molina. Pitching was excellent, but in terms of hitting the only destiny that fans could foresee was that the team’s bats would be asleep at the plate.
Pathetic as the team was, some glimmer of hope was shinning in my soul. I knew back in early spring that this was going to be the year the Giants would take the World Series. I knew this because I was planning on spending the following academic year abroad—here in China.
I told my friends and my family—mainly my Dad—about my prophesy and of course I was received with laughs and taunts. My hope began to dwindle away when the Giants lost their first place in the Western Division to San Diego. Still I was back to my nine year-old self, watching every game I could, memorizing every player’s stats and analyzing my team’s chances of success. Then I left the home of the greatest national pastime and crossed an ocean.
During my first few weeks in China I kept up with how los Gigantes were doing and wore my baseball cap on the weekends. Being outside of the culture of baseball one finds that no one really cares about the sport at all, but that didn’t deter me from bringing up my team’s chances of success in October at ex-pat parties.
I read the Chronicle online and watched my team’s playoff chances go from possible, to probable, to an almost mathematical assurance, to just barely making the playoffs, to the playoffs. Then when the Giants faced off with the Braves in their first game I felt the dire need to be a part of the cultural baseball movement that was rumbling deep beneath the San Andreas fault. I read the play-by-play in the mornings before my Chinese class and once I was home again I would look at the game’s pictures and read the recap.
As the Giants did exceedingly better in the playoffs it seemed as if Californian hope was snowballing into something productive. I read articles detailing how fanatical Giants fans had become with their Mr. disguiseo beards, panda hats and rally thongs. Whenever I read the play-by-play I would have my facebook page open and read my friends’ comments. The chat seemed as filling as what one would hear on any color commentary.
Then it was game six of the NLCS with Philadelphia. I woke up on a late Sunday morning poked around my email and facebook then remembered the game was on. I immediately bolted out of my groggy state and caught up with what was happening on most TV sets in the Bay Area. The Giants had squeezed a lead out of nowhere with Uribe’s homerun and it was now the eighth inning. My cell phone rings and my dad is on the other side. “Do you want me to put the game on?” he asks without saying hello.
I pace up and down my room with my Giants cap on and my phone in my ear. With so much static, I can barely make out what John Miller is saying during Brian Wilson’s rollercoaster of a ninth inning. With two outs and one of baseball’s most productive hitters is at the plate with two strikes on him, the static clears and all I can hear is “STRIKE THREE CALLED!” The Giants were in the World Series and I was as happy as can be.
When I woke up on Tuesday morning it was Monday night in the States. I called my parents to chat and almost forgot that there was a game on. I got online and soon I was reading the game pitch by pitch. As Cliff Lee and The Freak battled it out I did my Chinese homework and glanced at my computer every thirty seconds or so. I watched as Uribe and Ross got on and were bumped to scoring position by Huff’s first career sac bunt. I watched to see what Burrell could do, then Rentaria got up. Right as the Afro Colombian launched the ball over the awestruck Texan outfielders the play-by-play cuts to a commercial. I switch over to facebook to see if there are any updates and all I can remember is “RENTARIA…HR!!!
My cheers woke up my roommates and now that the game was just starting to get interesting I had to go to class. I took my laptop to class and read my play-by-plays but my teacher interrupted me to kick me out of the room. I made a deal that after the morning quiz I could take all the time I needed but I would get an F on attendance for the day. “Whatever you gotta do, I don’t care, this game is too important.”
Back in my room I call my dad and I he puts the phone to the radio again. The airwaves are clear over the Pacific Ocean and I get every word out of Kruk and Kuip’s microphone. I am now pacing back and forth in my room, my Californian flag draped over my shoulders and the phone in my ear. My heart thumps and tears well up in my eyes as I realize what is about to happen. I listen to the ninth; it was a one, two, three with Wilson’s signature strike-out closing out the game.
It’s unreal. I guess it all happened but how do I know—I could only read about it. Facebook lights up with my friends’ posts from all over Nor Cal. Everyone is pumped. My sister calls me and I talk to her as I listen to KNBR’s patter in one ear. Soon enough I realize I have to get back to the alternate reality—the one that I am in, the reality of the country that I live in and the Chinese class that I am missing.
I enter in the classroom all smiles. “They won!” My Chinese teacher and the other American girl who came to class today couldn’t care less. “I don’t understand” my Chinese teacher said. “Let me explain: my family has been in California for over 80 years, in that time the Giants have only been a part of California for some 50 odd years, and in those 50 odd years, none of my family has ever seen the Giants win the World Series.” She giggles and says, “No, I don’t understand baseball.”

Tales from the Tibetan Plateau Part VI: Good ol Friday

Tales from the Tibetan Plateau Part VI: Good ol Friday
10.1.2010
10.2.2010
On our final Friday on the Tibetan Plateau we first head out to a market place where they sell everything, especially tourist souvenirs. I wander around a bit, examine what I want to buy and then bargain with the Han Chinese who sell sacred Tibetan gear. Markets always make me anxious.
Next, the group walks through the city streets and a sea of stares to China’s largest mosque. Outside of the sacred building our program director describes the place’s significance and how it is the fourth most important mosque in China—I don’t know what is more important. By the time she gets to the part about how the mosque was torn down during the cultural revolution a small army of curious Huar men and women join our group to listen in. They look on with curious stares as they cannot quite comprehend what she is saying. Soon more Muslims are listening to what’s going on then American tourists!
I love watching the Islam faithful heading to their place of worship. The men are very elegant in their suits and white caps and are respectful of everyone they come across. We wind up waiting for the bus in a Huar neighborhood where I snap shots of Huar businesses.
The bus takes us to lunch—Uyghur food. They feed us a giant stew of two whole chickens with potatoes and spicy sauce. Even after they fill the stew with noodles we are still hungry and our guide brings us more mutton grilled on a stick—some delicious stuff.
After lunch there is an optional trip to another monastery on the outskirts of the city. Most people in the group have had enough exploring through these religious sights and only about ten people make it. I feel that they are the ones missing out. The weather was perfect and brought out the colors in the Tibetan buildings perfectly. We go in and out of the holy buildings and we are joined with hundreds of other Chinese tourists and some Tibetan and Mongolian pilgrims. I can’t take pictures inside the monastery that is filled with giant Buddha’s, offerings and yak butter candles. One place had an exquisite sculpture of a religious text made out of yak butter wax. It smelled like rank milk but it was an extraordinary sight.
Outside the holy grounds the village is stocked with small shops selling touristy stuff with a faint whiff of religious significance. I nap on the bus and in the hotel room before I head to our farewell dinner at a fancy restaurant. I get stuffed on good food and after the thank-you section I leave. On my last night I tagged along with some friends as we head to a few Xining bars. We make it to two places that are overly smokey and have bad drinks. The second place we go to has a Tibetan interior design scheme and they serve us a traditional wine. After all that I head to Bill’s bar and enjoy my last night in the place where I spent so much time. I play cards and get my butt kicked in Texas Hold’em. Before heading out Bill blasts some American tunes on the loudspeaker and we enjoy our last hours in Tibet. This time the cops did actually come in and break up the party claiming it was too loud. Bill’s excuse: “This is what it looks like when Americans party Man!”
In the morning we pack the bus one last time and head to the airport. The morning goes by simply and all I want to do is get on the plane and sleep. When I finally do get on the plane I am treated to the most uncomfortable flight I have ever been on for all kinds of icky Chinese Airliner reasons. I am happy once I am back in Shanghai and I am very glad to be back in my apartment in a cozy corner at the top of a communist block building.

Tales from the Tibetan Plateau Part V: Flirting with Central Asia

9.29.2010
9.30.2010
In the morning I packed up my belongings in the hotel room and boarded the sleepy bus. We were heading for an overnight adventure into the mountains far beyond the city. The bus ride to our first destination was supposed to take three hours. I embraced the long ride and welcomed spending the morning looking out the window and listening to my iPod—one of my all time favorite past-times. In the morning light we passed by numerous Tibetan mountain villages. Most of the time the bus glided high above rooftops on the new freeway but sometimes the route was diverted through towns. The valleys that people lived in were carved by the most extraordinary glaciers at some point thousands of years ago. Looking out the window was made more interesting by examining the people that lived in the villages. Half the time the villagers were Tibetans—or Buddhist Tibetans—and the other half of the time people were Huar or Muslim Tibetans. Ethnologically the two peoples might look the same but culturally they live in different worlds. Huar people dress much different, with white caps for the men and black lace head pieces for the women; Tibetans in traditional threads have bright colors all over their clothes.
The bus made a pit stop on our first sight of the Yellow River. People snapped shots and pissed off the side of the cliff. Mostly the banks of the river were littered with garbage and the almost stagnant water below wasn’t anything majestic. After a bit we continued on, this time off the freeway and onto busy country roads. Now the villages were becoming far more interesting, mud huts populated with hard working Huar men in perfectly white hats and their families. The road was not only being used by cars but by businesses mixing paint, crushing wheat, selling fruit among other things. Abruptly the bus halted and I thought we were waiting on a shepherd to move his goats out of the road but really we had arrived at our lunch spot about an hour and a half early.
The group dismounted from the bus and climbed the hill to where the restaurant was. At the top of the hill each and every student slowly came to realize that we had just arrive at somewhere very special. The valley that we were in was freckled with beautiful orchards, free flowing streams, tiny little farms and quiet little houses. In the mountains on the other side of the valley there was a Buddhist monetary carved into the cliff side. On the near side range it was as if the mountains climbed forever into the heavens. Bare and without trees the only thing on the mud colored summit were the countless families of sheep wandering around and eating weeds.
It took a few minutes to collect my thoughts then I went around to talk with some of my friends. Two people had found a trio of baby goats that had wandered into the yard of the restaurant. They tried to pet the white chievs but the spasmodic creatures had retreated down the hill. When I joined them at the bottom of the hill two of the goats had forced their fat bodies through the wire fence. One was left and after five minutes it was completely panicking without its brother and sister. I got my two buddies, Hannah and Mike to help me corner the sorry kid and I grabbed him by the legs. He hollered at me a great deal but with one hoist I threw him over the fence and he ran off to find his lost goat siblings.
Soon after the goat liberation lunch was served in the restaurant’s garden. I found a table in the perfect Tibetan paradise and ate with about seven other people. The meal began with cold dishes, pickled vegetables and sampa—a Tibetan mush that you mix with your hands, then we had two kind of hot pots, mutton, dumplings and countless other dishes. It was by far the best and most delicious meal I have had so far in China. In the perfect afternoon I enjoyed tasty food and great conversation with my friends. After lunch we still had more time to explore around a little but and I toured the garden. I picked a few apples and sniffed some flowers then it was back on the bus.
After the beautiful village which no one could tell me the name of we headed now further into the mountains. Soon after we crossed the Yellow River again we ran across the Chinese cavalry who clogged up the road with a herd of horses. We came again to a bridge across the Yellow River and this time we stopped to get out and walk across. The unnaturally high green water looked beautiful in the thin mountain air. The bridge was decorated with prayer flags and when some vehicles would pass over they would chuck wallet sized prayers out their window for safe passage. At the end of the bridge I waited for the others to cross and talked about conspiracy theories with my tour guide.
I loved the clear mountain air but we had to move on. Now we left the Yellow River valley and drove into more sharp cliffs. The bus was swerving around tight winding corners and below white water rapids rushed in and out of rocks. This place was beautiful, as beautiful as it gets and then it occurred to me that this was the kind of place I have wanted to see since I wanted to start seeing places. To hell with Shanghai, this is the place.
Out of the cliffs we reached another plateau valley, this one was far more Tibetan than what we were just in. We reached our destination, place that specialized in making handmade thangkas. Inside a small house 35 Americans squeezed into a gallery that belonged to some local monks. There men in orange robes had made the some of the most extraordinary religious art the eye can imagine. Intricate designs colorful as can be. The price tag on these was more than what I had in my pocket and their religious importance was beyond comprehension for me to actually buy one.
Around the gallery was a monastery. I walked around it and soon knew that this was a very special place—it had golden towers. It was quiet and peaceful and I enjoyed walking around the grounds only listening to the wind.
Our next stop was at an orphanage that taught children how to paint thangkas. We went in and out of their galleries and discovered the level of detail in these pieces. All of the tapestries had images in them the size of fingernail. Impressed, we got to see the young artists in action, painting incredible works of art. After that we heard a brief explanation of the art form and I learned that the art of making thangkas is about 4,000 years old.
After the orphanage we headed to our hotel in the town of Rebkong (in Tibetan) or Tongren (in Chinese). Once settled in our simple Chinese accommodations I headed into town to get some food with some friends. We ate noodles at a place close to the small towns center. Everywhere we went we got stares from red faces, I’m not too sure many westerners make it out this far.
After dinner the whole group was invited to the home of a friend of our tour guide. In the traditional Tibetan compound we drank salty tea and ate sampa, yak yogurt, fried bread and these apple shaped pears. It was divine but I was already very stuffed. After the tea the host came around and invited us to tour the house. I was amazed when she showed us her kitchenware, the wooden bowls she used to serve us were literally one thousand years old! Much of the goods had been passed down from generation to generation and were still in use today—those are some serious antiques. It wasn’t warm high up in the mountains but we were warmly allowed into the home of these people.
Once back at the hotel some people wanted to go out and see what the nightlife in the small town was like. One of our tour guides took us into the city. Walking through the streets everything was dark, not a streetlight anywhere. This, I began to realize, was the China that my dad saw 20 years ago. We walked for 30 minutes and our guide lead us down a dark alley way and all of a sudden there was a Tibetan night club. Inside tacky lights and bad music made for a funny atmosphere. Elements of pop culture once thought of as forgotten about are alive and well in remote mountain cultures; fashions once thought to be buried in the 80s, disco tracks trapped in the 90s thrive in the mindsets of the peoples of Everest and the Andes like syrup stuck to the bottom of a plate. On the dance floor Tibetan men get down to these dead super trends.
The club was definitely a cultural experience but one can only take so much and after a few beers and few hours I leave with a friend and we poke through the streets to find our way back to the hotel. There I collapse in exhaustion.
The following day we are back at it early and head to Tongren’s central monetary. This was the most extensive religious compounds that we had yet discovered. We spent almost three hours going in and out of the various religious compounds statues of giant golden Buddha’s and blue gods, beautiful thangkas, child monks in orange robes memorizing religious texts and everywhere pilgrims. Inside the buildings everything smells of the burning yak butter candles and the simple smell of incense. Dust is everywhere cause everything is ancient but nothing really seems dirty. The people are the most interesting sights to me. I wanted to take pictures of the many pilgrims as they prostrate in front of their holy sites but out of respect I cannot do such a thing—even though my colleagues don’t seem to have this problem. Many of the pilgrims are nomads, they smell of yaks and they are very old. The female faces are ancient not only from another world, but another time. They leave offering after offering in front of the statues. I think to myself that there is nothing more pure than this place.
After the monastery we walked through the village and poke in and out of the shops by the religious sight. They are selling spiritual items—prayer flags, bells, thangkas—Kevin winds up buying monk robes. Soon we have to leave the city of Tongren and the army of monks that are everywhere. We head to our lunch spot in a distant village with a completely different ideological background. On the way we stop at a nomad settlement high up in the mountains beyond the tree line. We get out and head up into the grass lands where everything is covered in sheep shit. Out from one of the yurts come three American girls on their gap years. They describe their situation while complain about it at the same time. Some of my colleagues pay to ride horses but I opt to climb the hill to see what lies beyond. Everything lies beyond and the green hills continue forever it seems. I shoot some pictures at the top and pick some Tibetan edelweiss.
Back on the bus everyone smells like yaks and sheep manure and we continue on the road down to the valley bellow. There we stop at an elementary school where an army of children await us. At first the five, six, seven year olds are shy and run away from us. I give my edelweiss to the first three darlings I see. They accept them and then run off and hide. I headed to the soccer field and the American men take turns booting soccer balls as high as they can go. As the ball is sky rocketed the entire play field awes at how high the ball was shot up. All of a sudden there is so much love that was just created out of nothing. People are slow to get on the bus, as they resist leaving the cuteness of a hundred Tibetan school children behind.
Finally in the late afternoon we arrive at a restaurant to have lunch. They serve us noodles and the best mutton I have ever tasted—and the freshest, it was butchered that morning. The village we were in was one of the last Turk tribes to make it to China and everywhere there are sophisticated looking Chinese Muslims with perfectly white caps and combed white beards. The place is full of life and business is good in every shop I pass. Some stores sell smart phones or nice cloths others sell butchered lambs hanging intact or dried fruit. I buy some dates and a nice hunting knife. I didn’t want to leave this beautiful town where everything seemed to be going great but that is the nature of the road.
Now we are heading back to the city of Xining. Outside Huar life is unstoppably beautiful yet simple. This is a rugged place but pure and harmonious. The bus burns through potato farms and mud huts until we get back on the freeway. Arriving back into Xining I remember that this is the city with the most cranes one can imagine. The difference between the city and the rural life surrounding hit me in the face. The bus was now entering a people who based their priorities on materialistic ambitions and leaving a lifestyle that is based on spirituality. Funny what you might learn from getting out a bit.
After checking into the hotel I head out with some friends to get some food. We go to the opposite end of town where Bill’s bar lies and explore around a bit for a good bite. We end up at an expensive hot pot restaurant that serves us various animal innards in a spicy sauce. Not exactly what I wanted but it was an experience.
At Bill’s bar I socialize a bit and then I wind up as the bar’s DJ and I play beats until the cops come in and threaten to close the place down.

Tales from the Tibetan Plateau Part IV: The Tree House

9.28.2010

In the morning we bussed into the rural mountains beyond the city of Xining. At one point towards the end of the one and a half hour ride the bus full of white people stopped in a village, everyone got out to piss on the side of the road and we all left. Climbing deeper into the mountains we finally arrived at the village of Youningsi and stopped at the monastery there.
It was cold and raining outside and I had the faint hope that the gate place of worship would offer some warmer salvation. Entering the monastery the world seemed to explode with color, blues, reds, oranges of all shades decorated the sacred buildings on the outside. On the inside, giant Buddhas were handsomely decorated and well kept. The monastery was build in 1400 A.D. and I could really tell if anything had changed. I was shivering as cold rain drops pounded the top of the colorful monastery roof. The guide gave us a clockwise tour of what was inside the monastery pointing out what the ceremonial Thangkas meant and the meanings of the Buddhist scripture behind them. The place smelled of yak butter candles, which vaguely has the odor of fermented milk.
The group followed our Tibetan guide to other shrines and points of interest inside the monastery. We did a lot of standing outside in the cold rain while learning about Tibetan Buddhism. In the background the rolling clouds brushed against the mountain tops. I couldn’t hear much as the rain drops on my parka forbade me from hearing the lecture in front of me.
The monastery was partly situated on a hill and we climbed to the part which perched itself on the rocky hill side. We walked up a trail that reminded me of my mountain biking roads in Nor Cal and ended up at a shrine where a monk was praying while beating a drum. People took photos and we descended back down again.
After the monastery the entire group walked into town to have lunch at a very small restaurant. We had dirty noodles with sheep broth and meat with Tibetan salt tea. People were so hungry and cold that they didn’t care that the tea was uncomfortably salty.
After lunch the group bussed uphill 2 km past the alpine tree line on a small road. We ended up at a point of no return where the bus had to back up about a half mile in order to get out. There we were given the choice of walking up the road more or using the older trail. I chose to walk the older dirt trail and even though it was only a few hundred meters it was a tough climb at such an intense altitude. Winded I reached a collection of buildings—shrines and farm sheds—with a perfect vista of the valley bellow. Had the clouds not been there it would have been easier to see that the mountain top monastery continued up into the heavens—or at least to the top of the mountain. The quiet and harmonious spot was now being invaded with rowdy American students. I was overwhelmingly intrigued and I snapped photos of everything that caught my eye. With each step I climbed higher on the monastery’s grounds the world became a little more interesting. There was a shrine carved into a cave and above that a intricate maze of foot trails and ladders, everything leading up to a beautiful prayer house built six hundred years ago. At the top I saw Kevin who was conversing in mandarin with a monk dressed in orange robes. Kevin turned to me and said “this is the most incredible place I have ever been.”
Exploring the tree house had to come to an end and with a group of my friends we headed back down to the bus. In the process we crossed paths with a few flocks of sheep and the clouds cleared on the sacred mountain to give us a perfect glimpse of where we had just been.
Back in the city of Xining we headed to dinner at an upscale hot pot restaurant where our guests were Tibetan students. At my table I sat with a handful of American students and two painfully shy Tibetan students. They spoke very good English because an Australian professor had been helping them pass Western college entrance exams for their entire college careers. We were desperate for conversation but every question turned into a one word answer. Somehow I was able to understand that Tibetans are a people within a people. They are Chinese in a national sense but culturally they are definitely Tibetan. The two students we spoke claimed not to be able to speak Chinese and communicated easily with their family and people in Qinghai in Tibetan.
Once the steamy pots of meat and vegetables had been drained I headed with some friends to Bill’s Bar. There I was watching a taped American football game with some buddies when a Chinese guy came over to me and put his arm around me “Pengyou!” (friend). After some bad communicating I realized that he was inviting me to his table upstairs. I joined my newly acquired belligerent friend at a table of respectable looking business types in the corner. I laughed and smiled at the phrases I didn’t understand—which was almost everything—until finally Bill (the owner of the bar) came over. I thought Bill had come to translate but he had really showed up to cheer me on; “these guys are high party officials, they are some very important people. So keep up the schmoozing.” Beers kept appearing in my hand, gifts from my CCP friends and finally Kevin and some other friends came up to see what happened to me. With Kevin’s Chinese skills it became far easier to understand what was going on. For the next hour or two we sat upstairs and cracked jokes by this time my Chinese friend was far gone. After making a huge mess and not paying for any of it the officials packed up and left the place winded. All of our colleagues came over to ask us what just happened and we laughed about our new found friends for about an hour before heading home.

Tales from the Tibetan Plateau Part III: Golden Qinghai Lake

9.27.2010
After a salty communist breakfast of fried dumplings steamed vegetables and bread I got on the bus waiting outside the hotel. We traveled through Qinghai which I was now just getting used to looking at. The first thing that strikes me about Qinghai is that I have never seen so many cranes in one place in my life. Everywhere you look you will see a building being erected, most of these structures are apartment buildings. On top of most these monstrosities fly red flags pure, proud, and Chinese. For all its growth, Qinghai lacks creativity, all the ridiculously boring buildings are built on grid.
Despite is minimal reputation the city is large and strung out and the bus takes 45 minutes to clear out onto the country road. The heavy pollution in the light mountain air follows us outside of the city and into the surrounding valleys. While there is a great deal of construction going on in the Mountainous city, the metropolis gets most of its income from mining. One can be reminded of this because there is soot and dust everywhere.
Our destination for the day was the famous Qinghai lake but on the way we stop at a town which at one point was a major hub on the silk road. The bus takes us to a touristy spot, a recreated silk road village. During the cultural revolution all historic buildings and artifacts were destroyed but in recent years towns folk regained their senses and rebuilt a replica city. The place is now something of a living history farm where locals get paid to dress in antique cloths and sit outside of Tea houses. The shops sell an endless supply of souvenirs and tourists are free to explore all the temples, government buildings and historic displays that the site has to offer. I walked once down the main road and then back again to snap some photos. As I walk through the village a parade comes out of nowhere and all of a sudden models are dancing in colorful outfits with ribbons and streamers. This ques in the PA system which plays some lame Chinese music. The architecture was fascinating—out of a tour China brochure—but the place reeked of tourist trap and I was eager to get out.
The next stop in town was at a vai jo distillery. As I may have mentioned vai jo is the Chinese hard stuff made from fermented rice. People on the tour took some snap shot so of the process and a some students had a few too many free samples. After that, it was time for lunch. We waited for two hours for a disappointing spread of noodles, salt tea, veggies and a little meat. I was happy to get on the bus and head for the lake.
It took about two hours of climbing through Tibetan mountains with terrace agriculture to end up in the lake valley. We got off the highway in a purely Tibetan town where the inhabitants were dark skinned. I looked at them with a curious stare and they came back at me with same astonishment. It was just a normal place, monks walked the streets in their Nike Dunks, sheep were heading to slaughter and China mobile had multiple outposts but the pure foreignness of the place made it infinitely interesting.
Outside of town we enter into nomad land. In a valley an epic valley of flat open grass land, tree less because of the tundra I feel I am in God’s country. The bus stops to make a pit stop with snow capped mountains in the background. Back on the road we pass by a sky burial site where well respect Tibetan monks have their remains scattered for vultures to pick through. It is an honor to have this ceremony which only takes hungry birds less than a minute to finish up.
The bus nears the lake as I nod off to sleep. When I wake up the bus is stopped at the sight of the sand dunes. 35 American students get out and climb up the dunes. We stick to the trail markers until our program director tells us that we can spend an hour here. When I heard that I hopped off the climb the highest dune I can find. It takes me a while to find enough oxygen at 11,000 feet to give to my climbing legs but after 20 minutes I am king of the castle with the beautiful world bellow me. Life is nice at the top of the dune, I can hear the feathery whisper of American voices having fun bellow me. I smell the nomad encampment bellow with a whiff of sheep dung and the campfire smell that reminds me of fruit trees burning in Yuba City. A mile or two off I see the flat lake and its flat salt water; the combination makes for a blue, blue reality. Hovering over my head is the only thing higher than me, a very hungry hawk. Close to me I feel the perfectly fine yellow sand and in the far off distance is a mountain range that only nomads and locals know the name of. Heavy clouds fall off of the worn snow caps and threaten to come our way but the strong alpine sun beats through the malignant rain clouds. This place is perfect and after spending a claustrophobic month in the big city I cannot ask for anything more.
The bus honks and beckons everyone back to it. 35 American students fall from all corners of the dunes and head to the cell phone tower where the bus is parked. While I wait for more people to show up a pilgrim is prostrating on the road bellow us. The lake is one of the most holy places in Tibetan Buddhism and many will spend a few months of their lives prostrating around the circumference of the lake—that’s almost 400km. He passes the bus, most people get some shots and when the bus fills we head back to the city. Along the way we stop to take pictures of traveling nomads and their yaks. When our tour guide asks us if we want to stop to see the lake there is a majority NO for fear that the lake is poisoned with nuclear waste.
The trip back to Qinghai is long—about three hours—and when we get back everyone is hungry. We eat at a nice restaurant owned by a couple from Nanjing and Norway. As I walk back to my hotel I lose all yearning to go out with my friends, the altitude sickness set in and the only way to cap off the day is to sleep away a headache.

The Hospital

10.5.2010

So while I’m writing about to Tibet I am only looking back at my memories from last week, meaning I’m actually in Shanghai right now. I will be writing about Qinghai and Tibet once I get this most recent experience off my chest.
Sunday was a beautiful fall day in the city and I took the metro to a close by shopping area and walked around a bit. I mostly went there to do some people watching and to enjoy the day outside but after buying an Inter Milan soccer jersey I remembered I had the erge to eat some American food. There are KFCs on almost every corner and at every metro stop and somehow I convinced my conscious that it would be alright to have some fast food—just this once. The chicken sandwich wasn’t to die for or anything and I finished my meal quickly and headed back to my apartment by foot. I spent about two hours navigating back to my home. When I got back it was dinner time but I was not that hungry, so I headed to a close by bakery. There they had evening pastries one of them was a bad attempt at focaccia. I tried two pieces, two pieces that will live in infamy.
That night I learned that I had sustained some serious food poisoning and I couldn’t keep anything down. The gastrointestinal discomfort continued into the morning when I realized that something had to be done. I called my mom and asked her for advice on what medications to take. Of course I didn’t pack the right pills and I had to make due with what I had. I took a morning’s dose, called my language teacher to tell her I would not be in and went back to sleep.
When I woke up in the afternoon Kevin had brought me some fluids and fruit but I was not feeling well enough to consume them. Still not being able to hold down fluids, I decided that I had to resort to plan B and go to the doctor. I called my program director and for two hours both of us dealt with the insurance company and tried to make an appointment at the clinic. Unfortunately the clinic was not open (because of a national holiday) and I had to go to the emergency room. I was weak but I hailed a cab that drove me across town (to the opposite side of the city). Sprinting through the endless moped traffic and over the rooftop freeways, the cab went by advertisements that depicted cold glasses of beer and tasty fruit juices. All I wanted was to drink something! It was pure torture.
At the hospital I was greeted by an army of Chinese nurses who spoke English. “Herro, what is wrong?” they asked “I’m…sick” I replied. They took me to a bed in the emergency room and the North American doctor came in. I told him my problems and he said that I needed some IV, some anti-biotics and an anti-nausea potion. Two nurses came around quickly and started a line. When the IV started flowing through my system I felt as refreshed as showering in a tropical waterfall; life was returning to my dehydrated state.
I laid in the emergency room for about three hours as I received my treatment. During that time I listened to the cases next to me. Interesting people, foreigners from all over the West with normal medical problems. The Georgian next to me let me know that ‘Niners got beat by the Falcons last weekend and then told me the best place to get sandwiches in Pudong. The hospital was probably the cleanest emergency room I had ever seen and the staff was nice and I felt comfortable getting healed.
By the fourth and last bag of IV the doctor came in and told me how to go about taking the antibiotics that he prescribed. We chatted a little bit, he was from New Orleans and found out about this job from a friend in Beijing. I signed the bill that my program took care of, picked up my meds and walked out of the hospital looking for a cab.
On the way home I used broken Mandarin to describe to the cab driver where I lived. He was unsure where to drive, he called his dispatcher and spoke thick Shanghaiese. At some point he just drove through Shanghai’s brilliant neon lights. Somehow he found his way back to Fudan University and I directed him back to my place. At home I drank fruit juice and slept for a long time. I felt much better.

Tales from the Tibetan Plateau Part I: The Dark Heart of Qinghai

9.25.2010
9.26.2010

The Saturday we left was tainted by the exhausting night before and the nervous feelings of not being packed. I left most every task for my trip to the last minute; there was no emphasis on build-up only on the genuine experience of going to the province of Qinghai to smell, see, taste, feel, hear and understand what the place is all about.
At this point I knew very little to nothing about Qinghai. The first time the place ever crossed my mind was when Tyler Hamilton announced that he would participate in the internationally sanctioned bike race around Qinghai—the Tour of Qinghai Lake. He won the race and became the second American to have done so. In China the far off place became a whole new animal. Here most people could barely place the province on a map. The ones who could told me that Qinghai was more Tibetan than Tibet, they also told me about the nuclear waste dump site and the infamous gulags.
My stomach full of Shanghai dumplings and my Ecuador rucksack finally packed I headed for the gate of the international village and got on the bus with the rest of my colleagues. The bus was small and I felt claustrophobic as the entire program left the soggy city and went to the airport.
At Pudong International Airport we walked across the departure hall to find the group check in desk for China Southern Airlines. I was feeling quite antisocial and I did not want to be a part of the 35 person strong group of rowdy and ecstatic American students. Once I got my boarding pass I cleared security and headed for my plane. I walked clear to hell in the endless Pudong Airport passing the world’s largest planes from all pockets of the world. After getting my seat changed to be close to the window I wandered around a bit, bought and economist and a World Expo themed pen.
When the crew finally called for the flight to boarded the walkway became clogged with people. I fought to the back of the plane and found my seat next to the window. The plane was built for Chinese legs and I was cramped, not to mention the flight was packed with travelers. The Chinese airliner was tainted with a sour collection of airline smells and the seat was indented from the stress of previous Chinese ass cheeks. By the time everyone had got on the flight and I came to realize that I had an open seat next to me, the announcement was made that we were delayed for about an hour and we waited patiently for something to happen.
When we were airborne I ate shitty airline food and looked at the people around me. My geoethnological locator went haywire trying to guess where all the different faces came from. There were Tibetans, Uyghurs and Han Chinese. One flight attendant looked to be from Central Asia or Southern Europe but she did not speak English to me, only mandarin.
On decrepit airliner the tray tables fell down during turbulence. As we flew over china I was not sure if we flew over vast openness or if there was major cloud cover but there was a hell of a lot of black. Finally we began a decent fell into the endless mountainous darkness below. The only thing that could be seen was the construction and the light bulbs from the countless bulldozers below.
Walking through the airport we were greeted by the Tibetan Plateau’s cool breath. The airport was poorly lit and very dark, strange feelings lacked welcoming. Where was I? How did I end up here?
After getting our bags we were shepherded to our tour bus by a handful of North American and Tibetan strangers who we would later find out were our tour operators. They greeted us with traditional Tibetan white scarves.
On the way from the airport I looked out of the bus into the black nothingness and listened to Sigur Ros. As far as I could tell the dark heart of center of Qinghai was fast asleep.
Our hotel was cold but clean and full of light. Exhausted Kevin and I stashed our bags and took to the streets to find some grub. We wanted simple street food but no hawkers were braving the roadside cold so we opted to stumble around the streets in search of a midnight snack. Biting the cold we walk the streets and got stares from all sorts of night prowlers: pub goers, bums, late night businessmen and ladies of the night. We find a poorly lit noodle shop with a barbeque set up out front. Anything Kevin tried to order they did not have so we asked them for whatever they did had and they brought out two bowls of flat square noodles with lamb meat broth. This is when we noticed culture shock. No actually it was before that, when we saw the waiters hacking lamb parts on a giant wooden block at the front of the restaurant. We devoured the delicious noodles and the main waitress who wore a traditional Muslim nit head piece asked us if we wanted more. Stomachs full we retired to our room where I tried to sleep but the change in altitude (some 7,000 feet) made me restless.
In the morning we awoke to a filling Chinese breakfast and then scrambled to get on our tour bus. We ended up at the bar owned by Bill—our tour operator—in the center of town. For three hours we had an introduction to what Tibet is all about. We were lectured by women who ran an NGO to help with women’s rights issues, a linguist who ran a NGO to save traditional music, expats who live in Qinghai and one man who was both helping run the tour company while simultaneously studying for a PhD. We even learned a few words of Tibetan and came to the understanding that the language is nearly impossible to learn. Our tour operator told us how after spending six months trying to learn the Amdo Tibetan he could get around but after studying Lhasa Tibetan (a separate dialect) he could barely pronounce his name. After the presentations we head upstairs to gorge ourselves on American Pizza.
After pizza 35 American students and a hand full of tour guides made the trip to the traditional Tibetan medical museum which houses the largest thangka in the world. There an English speaking docent took us for a whirlwind tour of the extensive museum. Tibetan medicine is fascinating stuff and was far more advanced than any other form of treatment. Tibetan doctors first learned about the process of egg fertilization and most of the body’s main organs 1,500 years ago! Treatment regimens were well documented by artists who painted the processes on thangkas. Thangkas are ornate textiles that are either painted or knitted. In their center is a portrait usually of a Buddhist scripture but in the case of Tibetan Medicine they contained healing practices.
At the top of the museum was the world’s largest thangka which stretched 600 meters! This is quite impressive because most thangkas are usually the size of a wall mounted painting. This unthinkably detailed thangka described what Tibetans believe—everything from their history to their religious background. The painting combined Tibetan mythology, Buddhist theology and actual happenings to create a beautiful image of what Tibet was about.
As incredible as the museum was patience was thin with many of the adrenaline thirsty American frat boys and the bus was a welcomed solution to standing too much. We headed back to the hotel where I had a quick nap. For dinner the group was split into two but both groups landed at a Tibetan restaurant. We feasted on a traditional meal of milk tea, yak meat, mutton, mutton sausage, various vegetables and potatoes with yak yogurt and salty Tibetan tea. The good food complimented the good conversation as we sat on Tibetan sheep rugs.
The night time meant going back to Bill’s bar drinking Wild Turkey whiskey and listening to Tom Petty and Willie Nelson. After being so far stretched from American culture it was a relief to enjoy the American ambiance at the familiar Western enclave. The night ended early and I piled in a cab with some friends and headed across town to my warm bed at the top of a hotel block. Never ending exploration and discovery combined with the comfort of familiarity; this was what Tibet was going to be all about—the harbinger of an excellent adventure.

some photos from world expo

Two markets

9.12.10 and 9.14.10

Market Number 1: the South Bund Soft Fabric Market.
On Sunday Kevin, our friend Alex and I all wanted to make the trip to the fascinating and mind-boggling cheap Fabric Market. In the late afternoon we took an hour long metro ride to the Southside of town.
When we climbed out of the subway station and saw a city seen that looked like the rest of Shanhai—sky scrapers, rooftop freeways and hostile moped traffic. I followed the guys because the two fashionistas could seemingly smell where the market was. We walked towards a neighborhood that Kevin said reminded him of the fashion district in New York. There we found a three story building that stretched about a block long and we walked in.
Inside we were immediately met by countless stalls overloaded with fake polo shirts, wrist watches, belts, socks and of course fabric. We meandered around the premises for a while and looked at the display models and catalogues that the vendors had on hand. Alex and Kevin were foaming at the mouths and they could not help but stop at any place that looked intriguing.
We went upstairs where people say you can find the best deals. The crowd was mostly North American and European tourists—businessmen and women—getting custom made silk shirts, ties and blazers. Sometimes you could find families of westerners shopping together. One time I saw a woman, who by my best guess was Dutch, go from stall to stall with her oversized suitcase with a duty free shopping bag—she had just gotten off the plane and her first stop was this market. As outrageous as this may sound, it’s an economically wise idea. If you are looking for deals, it’s cheaper to buy a plane ticket from the west, buy a wardrobe and fly back rather than buying all this stuff at Nordstrom or Saks.
I followed my eyes to a stall and looked through a catalogue. They had cut outs from magazines that they could steal the designs from. I found an article from a GQ that Kevin had left on the coffee table from last month!
I met up with Kevin and Alex who were enchanted by one saleswoman’s charming English skills. She said that she wanted to give students a discount on everything so she was gonna sell us Y80 tailored shirts—about $13. I hung out as Alex ordered up a custom plaid long sleeve and Kevin got a Khaki suit. Kevin’s suit, cut to his specifications and his exact figure is going to cost him Y500 and he didn’t even bargain!
The initial purpose of the visit was to peruse what the market had to offer and not actually buy anything. I didn’t want to spend anything quite yet but by the time we left I knew that I would be back.

Market Number 2: the Meat and Vegitable Market
Yesterday I went out with a group of three other people to complete a project for our anthropology course. Our mission was to analyze Chinese people’s spending habits and see how they buy their groceries.
Our first stop was the closest large grocery store. There, we split off into two groups so we could evenly distribute the Chinese speakers with the non-Chinese speakers. I went around with Kevin and smiled as he asked questions in mandarin to female shoppers and store keepers. We ended up finding out that most Chinese people use grocery stores to augment what they have already bought in a market place. They shop close to home and would go out of their way to wind up at a store like this. We got this information from shoppers young, old and middle age. From the shop keeper we learned that their most sold item is Vai Jo or hard rice wine.
After compiling our findings we headed to a market about a block away that contained all other Chinese food necessities. The dimly lit market place had an array of interesting smells and I felt like a curious Labrador sampling air from all the bizarre corners of the football field sized area. We first passed a stall that sold chickens, pigeons and rabbits (this was the place that Kevin got our chicken feast from a few weeks ago). The squawking birds and lethargic bunnies gave off a stench that could make a hog farmer cringe.
I was going around the market place with a Chinese American girl who spoke good Chinese. When we would interview people I would say “ni hao,” get their attention and she would do the rest. I spent the time she gave the interview looking around and picking up a few and words and phrases here and there. Most stalls had a great collection of vegetables—most of them green, sea food, meat, beans, rice and spices. The place was not overly packed but busy all the same. Some people were so down to business that they hated being in an interview. We found out that most women—from all different age groups—come to the market about four times a week and even though they find it expensive they still prefer this market over a grocery store. After we had finished our interviews we snapped pictures with giant eggplants, inked squids, live eels and giant melons. As we were heading out Kevin spoke with the owners of the chicken stall who remembered him. Their three year old daughter gave him a kiss and the owner of the stall shook Kevin’s hand when he learned that Kevin is a student at Fudan.

The Shanghai World Expo

9.11.10

There were a lot of people, other than that, it was great…



….
The day started as a drizzly Saturday morning. Kevin and I thought we could outsmart the crowds and visit the expo on a day that was overrun with monsoon downpours. We would soon be out outsmarted ourselves by hundreds of thousands of other die-hard tourists.
We took a moto-taxi to the metro stop half a mile away. A moto-taxi is the newest version of a rickshaw. It is a motorcycle up front and a two seat tricycle in back. On the streets this contraption is absolutely terrifying experience as the amped up driver jolts around traffic going in the bike lane and in oncoming traffic. I paid the driver five kuai for getting us to the station alive and we submerged to the underground.
It was a long train ride on the worlds most expansive metro system—it took us maybe 40 minutes to get to the Expo’s gates. When we arrived there was a lot of walking around huge crowd control fixtures that are the metal barriers to keep people in long curving lines. We bought student tickets for 100 kuai (about 15 bucks) and then proceeded to the Expo’s own metro line. Still there were not too many people and Kevin and I thought that maybe we did actually outsmart the crowds. On the train over the overhead TV read that there were some 350,000 people at the event—I hoped they had room for two more.
After getting frisked at security and walking through many ticket lines we emerged to find the expo grounds. The first thing that we saw was the Australian pavilion. “What the hell is that?” “oh shit, it’s the line.” People wrapped around the pavilion building, hundreds of people long, the wait must have been at least three hours. We had not found a way to beat the crowd but we were about to see what 400,000 people look like!
Having no idea where we were , we explored the pavilions that lied around for a little while. We were in the Oceana square and we bypassed the New Zealand and Indonesian pavilion to the get in the much shorter line at the Brunei site. Because it was our first stop on the day, it was shockingly interesting and simple all at the same time. We walked into the architecturally immaculate oversized shack to find a lame display of what Brunei is about. There would be a picture of a traditional instrument or article of clothing with a terse half paragraph of explanation. For not having too much intellectual depth, the building was certainly beautiful and I can say that the most interesting part of this exhibit was the floor design—milky neon lit glass made to look like opal.
We continued our prowl to the European section. Kevin wanted to go to every site that didn’t have much of a line but given I have no real interest in seeing what Slovakia has been doing with itself for the past four years I acted as the filter; I wasn’t about to wait in line for nothing. We waited about five minutes to get into the rat-packed Czech Republic exhibit. Inside we saw sophisticated science fair like displays of how Czech people are finding the first cures for AIDS and how their scientists have been able to the view the molecular formations of certain fabrics. On the ceilings were works of art—so crowds wouldn’t overrun the sights. In one such display a civic formation was created from discarded electronic equipment—it was pretty cool. I had a lot of respect for the Czech pavilion, they had put a lot of money into displaying what’s going on in their country. The only thing is, I think my respect was unshared by the hundreds of Chinese tourists who trampled the sight. It was becoming clear that most people coming in were only there for the most basic of photo opts and to get their Expo passports stamped (you can buy a Passport and get a stamp from every pavilion—lame).
We breathed oxygen outside then continued on to a collection of countries from the Balkans. The pavilions for Macedonia and Albania had small lines and were surrounded by some bullshit countries like the Republic of San Marino. Once again these places were low on info, high on pizzazz. In a very sophisticated manor the countries’ greatest touristic sights were outlined. Many people in line in front of us bolted through the exhibits, got their Expo passports stamped and ran outside for the next pavilion. The crowds were already getting to me.
Next up was the Swedish pavilion, which according to other visitors was one of the highlights of the Expo. We waited in line for an hour and defended our spot the entire way in; people tried to cut us the entire way in. The pavilion was a two-storied architectural masterpiece. The first thing I noticed was a giant picture of happy Scandinavians playing ping pong as if to say “hey china, we play ping pong in our country too.” The first exhibit showed how the Swedish government created livable neighborhoods and bountiful wilderness from on land that was once ecologically destroyed. There were more colors and pictures and the Chinese swarm around us seemed to pay more attention to what was being presented. For a country that doesn’t have Wikipedia (P.R. China), learning about the outside world in the World Expo is such an eye opening experience. My Chinese friends who are all studying for their masters at the MIT of China (SUFE) know very little about the cultural traits of other nations, not like students in the U.S. might. Thus, the Expo is a good way get a feel for the world around the middle kingdom.
We entered in the main display area where IKEA furniture was bolted to the ceiling to be displayed for all to see (the main corporate sponsor was IKEA after all). Kevin, who never officially has been to Europe was enthralled by what Sweden has to offer. To me, it was like going to my fatherland for a few minutes and examining the best moving parts of Swedish society; after all I already know that Sweden is a Utopia of sorts.
After stopping in the gift shop to buy the coolest t-shirt memorabilia ever, we saw a hipster group of neo-electronic musicians outside. They were dressed in black and purple spandex and looked hilarious. When they were warming up to perform the drummer hit himself in the sweet-spot trying to jump on to his band member’s shoulders—that was also hilarious. They sang with synthesizers and electronic beats. We left the pavilion and felt like such losers for not being Swedish—how come our country sucks so much more?
Hungry and sick of lines we had to find some food. I was hopeful that outside of the Belgian pavilion there would be a beer garden with cheap plates but a downpour was just starting and this was no time to enjoy the outdoor air.
We headed for the Spanish pavilion which most everyone has said “this was the place” to see. The beautiful building was in a wave like pattern and dressed with 6x4 wicker panels. It looked so modern, yet so classy—100% Spanish. The line was more intense than expected and people stretched around the block to get inside and see the giant baby sculpture that was built for the pavilion. It was raining outside but you could feel the humid warmth of sweating bodies stopped in tandem behind the crowd controlled gates. Too much waiting, too many people, we headed for the café for some grubb. We were soaked but we were warmly greeted by a well dressed Galician and given a spot in the café that had the same feeling as a the Guggenheim. Looking over the menu of overpriced typical dishes from all over Iberia the sommelier came out of nowhere and explained the wine list in Spanish. “Yo quiero dos de esto” and he went back to retrieve whatever the hell I ordered. At this time I realized that at some point I should spruce up my Spanish skills a little more so I can utilize a more elegant lexicon. The bow tied Spaniard came back with two glasses of white sherry and pour them in a theatrical manner. He assured me that this would be similar to what we drink in California but he was completely and totally wrong. The sherry was acidic and strong but cool and refreshing. I ate stuffed peppers with bits of cod mixed in and Kevin had some Spanish meat balls. In a typical Spanish way we stayed about an hour and a half and sipped coffee after our minimeal. We were drying off and soaking up the calmingly classy atmosphere. I always love Spain.
After we emptied our pocket books on the café lunch, we started our map-less search for the American expo. Walking clear to hell we finally found the giant pavilion at the end of the expo sight. Along the way we walked through the Africa building. If your country does not have enough money to fund its own pavilion you can slap together a room of colorful flags, maps and pictures of your dictator in one of the three or four massive display buildings. The African exhibit was a tacky mess of fake rainforests and portraits of Robert Mungabe. It was also filled with Chinese people but we made our way through to the Americas square and the good old USA.
We walked around the pavilion and scoped for a freedom loving countryman to let us through the velvet rope. Kevin and I found secret servicemen enjoying a cigarette who assured us the line would only take half an hour. As we were talking to him a group of Frenchmen asked us if they could piggyback inside the pavilion on our American IDs. “Yeah whatever” we said. We headed for the line and found it to be unbearably long so Kevin poked to the front of the VIP and disabled line found some American insiders and begged them to let us in. I waited at the end of the glob, hopeful that the seas would part and let me, Kevin and the Frenchmen in but after waiting about 10 minutes, Kevin came back and said that a guy who went to school in New England would let us in if we walked to the other side of the line. No Frenchmen allowed though.
We met a middle 20s pavilion worker and bypassed a three hour line of dizzy Chinese people. Inside the movie had just begun—Americans play movies rather than having a showy display. The first section of the film was a series of shots taken of everyday Americans trying to learn to say a few words in Chinese. The rest of the movie was a welcoming message in Chinese from real Americans who could actually speak the language. Once the film was over a woman with fiery red hair announced in Chinese that we should walk to the next room. In the next room we watched a movie that featured Kobe Bryant, Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama (people snapped photos when the prez came on). The film gave off the message that America is a place where new ideas are born and grow. It was full of hope and multiethnic people. In the last cinema room we watched an interactive movie (there was rain and simulated earthquakes) with some lame message of “we can do it together”. The presentation was very American—overly dramatic, heavy on the special effects, heavy on the sappy messages and idealistic in every sense of the word. It was a well orchestrated attempt to send the message “Yeah China, we got this.”
--Oh and Dad, there was a section in the movie interviewing a Chinese American who worked for a potato farm in Inner Mongolia owned by Pepsi co.
After the movies was a room filled with presentation booths from all the corporate sponsors. According to everyone else, the pavilion was dangerously underfunded but apparently every major US company from Boeing to Disney to Chevron chipped in to made sure that America is number 1. In the sponsors lobby Chinese people demanded they take pictures with Kevin and I (we were the only white people in the 500 person mass) and we talked to the guy who let us in. He told us that the pavilion was only staffed with Americans who speak Chinese fluently.
When everything was over at the American pavilion we headed over to the Latin American building. In it was most small Latin American countries. We stopped at the first booth—Ecuador. We scoped to see if there were any empanadas but we were disappointed. Everything in the booth was right out of the Guayaquil International Airport gift store except for the cumbia band that played. Kevin and I talked with the leader of the group. He was from Otavalo—the market city—and he said that there weren’t too many Ecuadorians that he had run into in Shanghai. We were given Ecuadorian flags and we left.
The final stop we made was in the Uruguay room. They had pictures of blond Latinos enjoying the beautiful South American country. I had to have my picture taken with a life sized image of the soccer great Diego Forlan.
We tried in vain to get into the Canadian pavilion but the skinny, bearded Canuck bouncers at the door would not allow Kevin to prove his Canadian residency. Kevin lives in Toronto for part of the year but forgot his fake McGill student ID at home.
Totally worn out from the massive crowd we walked through expo looking for the metro out. We got lost and it took us a long time to finally get out. That night I was exhausted but my friends made me go out to a Canadian bar where I hung out with some Mexicans and other American students. The Expo was a cool place and I would like to go back if I have any more patients and money but it still remains true that Shanghai is a very international city—Expo or not.

My New Rig

9.5.2010

On Sunday Shortly after I wrote my last post Kevin and I went out to have some lunch at Muslim place downstairs. Emerging from a filling plate of homemade noodles and salty stir-fry, Kevin dragged me over to a street side vendor of bicycles. They wanted 150 rmb (like 22 bucks) for a shabby built street bike. Maybe we said, but we were really looking for a bike for 100 rmb and I was not about to buy crap. We walked down the street to a “real” bike shop that gave exorbitant sticker prices (for Chinese standards). I was dumbfounded to find a rip-off Specialized S-Works—a $6000 bike internationally being sold for 600 kuai.
We determined that the bicycle street vendors were destined to rip us off because our lack of Chinese skills. We were just about to give up and wait for Marx to help us when we stopped at a woman’s stand right outside of the Fudan campus. She started with a hard 200 kuai asking price for the stock Chinese everyday bike. A little much we bargained her down to 150. She decided to throw in a basket and we were more less set on her price. After she took her time installing the basket I gave the rig one last test ride. But something was up, I parked the bike and found the crank arm was just about to fall off and the seat couldn’t handle my American body weight. I couldn’t buy this bike, as a former bike mechanic I couldn’t buy crap. We left the troll-like street bike merchant in the dust as she chassed after us giving us any price we wanted.
Back at the apartment we saw Marx who immediately took us out to do some more shopping. He took us back to one of the stalls we had been but couldn’t negotiate any better price. Marx after returning from talking with the merchant: “he said that these are nice used bikes. They are 200- now but if you buy two at the same time they could be 200-” Kevin: “That’s the same price.” And so on.
We were losing patience and we didn’t want to buy someone’s stolen bicycle so Marx led us to a nearby bike shop that was a little more authentic than any of the places we had seen before. They showed me the biggest bike they had, which still made my knees think they were using the little BMX rig that I had in high school. Regardless of the pain in my lower extremities the bike was pretty well made and for 320- we could get a nice ride with a basket and an extra lock. It was a sale for Kevin too and we went to the bank to get some more funds. At this point I only had some hundreds bills and a little mixed change so instead of paying the full 320 I just handed the vendor 300- and left with my bike. I rolled out of the bike shop with a slick new black commuter and Kevin followed in a blue identical with Marx sitting on the rear basket.
At sunset I took my new rig out for a spin, swerving in and out of traffic, passing up grandma and grandpa in the bike lanes and running stop lights—when in Rome, do as the Romans.

Pets Mart

9.3.2010

Last Friday my program took us to what they called the “bird and insect market.” What I had thought would be a tourist trap of sorts where foreigners go to sample unheard of delicacies like scorpions and sparrows actually turned out to be nothing more than an overgrown pet store.
The whole group left the International Village and traveled by subway to the center of Shanghai. When we arrived at the closest metro station it was a short walk to a concealed alley way. A long string of American students squeezed into the tight walk way. As we walked around most people snaped shots of miniature turtles and exotic birds.
It soon became obvious that insects and birds were not on the menu, they we to be pets and bets. As a matter of fact, most of the animals being sold were grasshoppers. Chinese people love to give them as gifts of good luck or train them to fight with other grasshoppers. They were definitely the most lethal grasshoppers I had ever seen, they were being specially bred to be big and strong.
After a couple of laps around the block sized market I headed out and followed my group to the nearby antique market. Even thought the antique market may have sounded like a good fined, it turns out that most of the stuff they have there is just faked to look old. I like looking at the mass produced posters of Mao and the various statues and figures you could buy. Given that anything cool enough to buy probably would not fit in my suitcase, I gave up trying to find stuff to buy and I left.
Going home I wanted to walk around Shanghai a little bit so I decided to take a different metro stop closer to the city center. What I thought would be a nice little detour actually turned into two and a half hours of lost. I wandered the streets for the better part of the afternoon searching for a subway station that didn’t appear until I landed at the tourist swamp of a destination known as Yuyuan Gardens (I posted about this place earlier and yeah its cool and all but it’s totally overrun with people). I mostly enjoyed by detour because I got to see the shops and small streets that hide themselves in the shadows of major skyscrapers, but by the time I wanted to go home I had to deal with the mayhem of the excretion of tour bus gridlock. I was happy to finally find my underground way home.
I had hoped to be back at the apartment in time to accompany Marx and Kevin to the market. We were planning to make dinner for our friends and Marx gave us the idea that we should have a chicken slaughtered for our feast. Marx and Kevin did in fact go to the chicken slaughtering market without me but I did get to see some pictures. It’s actually not as gruesome as it may sound, I won’t go into secondary details but all I can say is that the chicken was really fresh.
Once we had the chicken we made stir-fry and rice and people brought other dishes that we enjoyed as a group of about ten. It turned out to be a pretty good dinner party and we will hopefully be doing it once a week!

Food and Jenga

9.4.2010

I was just about to go out to have a little walking adventure in Jing’an district—which is known for its elitist populous and fu-fu shops and restaurants—but right as I walked out the front gate the heavens opened up and the monsoon from the Fuzhou arrived and poured rain. Thick drops of rain fell from the sky in all directions at my body. I walked down the block thinking it would let up but by the time I reached the other end I was SOAKED. People in cars and busses pointed and laughed at the drenched white kid. This was a bad sign I thought and I turned around and headed back to the apartment.
I guess instead of heading out, I should reflect on the past 24 hours or so because they have the best insight to the awesome adrenaline feed that I have gotten from this city’s night life:
After waking up at a considerably lazy hour Kevin Marx and I finally found enough motivation to head over to Shanghai School of Finance’ recreational field and kick the ball around a little bit. When we got to the field the gates were locked and we decided to wait for someone to open it. We headed to the basketball court where China’s new found pastime is quickly being developed. Marx really wanted to play and when he begged Kevin and I to join him we looked at him with about as much desire to play meatball as two cats about to be bathed. Luckily for the both of us Marx didn’t have a ball and no one invited us to their pickup games.
When the clock struck four we decided to see if the gates were unlocked. They weren’t and we opted to hop the steel bared fence and break into to the astro turf ground. Within no time we were kicking the ball at each other, in the net and down the field. Another pair of Chinese soccer boots showed up and after they had warmed up we challenged them to some two on two. They were pretty good but Kevin was once drafted for the US armature national team and we Americans were better. I fed him the ball and we found it easy to beat their off side trap. Kevin tapped it into the net almost every time. The heat was exhausting though and even in the late afternoon shade we sweat profously. Once the game was over we talked to our opponents and found out that we might be eligible to try out for the SUFE soccer team. That would be fun!
After soccer we got cleaned up and headed out to eat at our favorite Hunan restaurant down the block a ways. The place was packed and we waited for almost 40 minutes. We were starving but the wait was totally worth it. We had plates of stewed cabbage, peppered beef, rabbit kabobs, and sweet tomatoes—it was the definition of divine. The entire meal was flavored just perfectly with a pepper that is so, so tasty and just perfectly spicy. Kevin and I will become regulars at this place in no time.
After dinner most of the people from our program came over to our room to celebrate someone’s birthday party. It was loud, slightly obnoxious and very American; exactly like being at a party at home.
Closer to midnight I got in a cab with some people and we headed to the good side of the French Concessions. We went into a few bars before we ended up meeting more people we know at a bar called Logo. Inside the place was packed and the dance music kept hot bodies cozy. It was interesting to look around. On the walls they played animated Disney movies and had a light show. The place was about half foreigners and half Chinese people. My group laughed at one French guy who with his long black beard, dread locks and bled mascara looked like Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean.
Next we hit up a “pub” close by which was a total mistake and we then went to a place called Dada (the two syllable thing is the trend right now). This bar was the place. The music was even better: the DJ who was from Maine spun music from genres that will only become popular in the coming years. We drank mixed drinks and sat in a booth and played Jenga while the whole dance floor thumped. When we could not contain our North American animo and we found ourselves lighting up the dance floor.
We stopped in one last bar but were turned off by the expensive glasses of scotch, the dim light and the hokey lounge band—not to mention they didn’t have any food. We had no other choice but to abruptly end our self designed pub crawl and head back up north.
We ate at a restaurant downstairs which lets you pick out what you want to be grilled on the open flame. I chose a skewer of chicken, one of lamb, one of beef and one of tree mushroom. They were all excellent but the tree mushrooms really stood out in my mind. When it was all over I climbed the elevator into my cozy hovel in the quiet part of the big city.