.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
biographical history paper
for class we were supposed to interview a chinese person of any age, ethnicity, class, etc, and write a paper.
dad suggested that i only add half of it. if you like it and want to read the rest, please find my paypal (karab123) and make a donation.
just kidding. it's quite long. if you're interested i'll post it...but the first half is always the better anyways. i tend to lose my wind after awhile.
My good friend, "Little Landlord"
The family that I entered into for this Chinese home-stay is imbued by art, culture, and ideas. Traditional Chinese paintings of grapes, birds, and fancy words line the walls, everyday plentiful, simple food brings thirteen different people to laughter, and five boarding students, with each pen stroke, create a step their parents couldn't reach. A son of thirty-something with a perpetual grin plastered across his face, one that hints at the daily, long winded luxuries that their hodge-podge family enjoys, frames browned teeth that love cigarettes, good food, laughter and telling stories. He's a professor of Marxist thought who shared with me during my first night in their home, that his biggest dream is to earn lots of money; "those who earn more money, earn better living," he explained in Chinese. The students range from ten to fourteen, three boys, a girl, and during my time shared with them, an additional boy aged nine took a bunk--where, I don't exactly know. In this bizarre arrangement there is another child, a small girl aged two, who I doubted was at all related, except for the pictures taped up inside their mirrored dining room, repeating infinitely, that intimated boundless love and familial ties. Their maid, my "Ai Yi", seemed to be more of a mother, to both her and myself, for she was the one who fixed our meals, drew my shower water, and lived elsewhere with the two-year old. The professor's wife held some sort of profession that allowed her to sleep-in late some days, make me hermetically-sealed Chinese-French bread for her few days of breakfast duty, and come home at about six-thirty every day. She always had a smile on her face, and as her father and husband also did, always had something funny to say, as their horde of children would cackle through mouths of rice, meat and vegetables. She must've been a teacher, for every over-pronounced Chinese syllable could have either warranted the previous or a direct assault on my perceived Chinese capability, but really, it was the relaxed facial muscles, wide and sweet, non-threatening eyes, and her uncanny ability to relate with children. Her father, who was ironically called "YeYe,'' also lived with us. All traditional art aforementioned, was courtesy of him. He is who I choose to write about.
One night at the dinner table, I asked him if he had time available on the coming Wednesday. Every night he would help the students with their homework, even when I didn't need help, especially when I didn't ask, I could always count on YeYe opening my door, his slicked-back hair glistening in the light pouring in from the family room, sitting down next to me on my bed, putting his head close to mine and pulling out his glasses to slowly see for himself what I was up to. For, "one person by themselves study," definitely didn't do the trick, my Chinese characters were hopelessly ugly and misprinted, and there was no way an American could live under his watch without knowing, at least the very basics, of proper character penmanship. One time when I was reading my own English novel, he came in to give me a book purely on the different styles of Chinese print; inside there were rippings of many wax-like transparent sheets of paper that he had meticulously traced character after character upon. YeYe is a person that has to look for himself.
When I asked YeYe if he was busy, it was more of a rhetorical question, and one that would open the gates for a conversation about: what should be in the essay; what my classmates are doing; what the teachers want; etc. Because YeYe is indeed an artist, by all walks in life, it was almost inevitable that he would call the shots. There was no question about it, except: "When do I need to have my essay, my story to you?"
I suppose somebody's life is very personal, and it must be allowed its own format of expression. As I sat next to YeYe, somehow both straight-backed and nose to the paper, scribbling away in a noticeably beautiful, but noticeably indistinguishable text, I became unnerved. Reading aloud as he wrote, he talked about a "xiao di zhi," or little landlord. Di meaning the earth, 'small' translated into 'little' for sought after English alliteration, and an emphatic jump from the desk chair to indicate histrionic hoeing motions, I understood that this was his ascribed identity during, or for at least part, of the cultural revolution. With the energy kindled in the leap made by those sixty-three year-old legs, the muscles moved, it stirred his memories in a direct and passionate way. Trying to explain such a vivid, intense, and sad part of one's life in such simple, rudimentary terms is absolutely tearing. The corners of his eyes loosened from a lively pucker to a loose searching as he tried to explain the consequences beset on him by pretense of "little landlord."
"I had to wear a large sign," he said for the third time in Chinese while pantomiming a box strung from his neck, assuming a flat back and a submissive position bent like a right angle at the waist; having to explain what is already so painful to remember, over, and over, and over, made the situation much more real. His body was tense in the position, it was almost like I could see the wire digging into his neck, and even though eyes automatically understand, it was if his mind needed to complement the repetition of the basic Chinese words of "sign, neck, small land-owner, capitalist," with the suddenly more real process of acting and reacting his story. The display could have been understood as an act of catharsis instead of a product of language incapabilities. The imaginary sign hanging around his neck read: Capitalist; Member of the Guomingdang; Litttle Landlord: as it sliced deeper, as people yelled at him, and as he thought about his injustices.
"其实"小地主"并非地主，但在那阶级斗争的岁月里，因为小地主的爷爷可能是地主，他的爷爷是清朝人还是民国人我们不太清楚，反正他家祖辈可能是地主，因为那个时代有这样的不成文的规定，阶级斗争为纲，纲举目张，凡人都得打上阶级的烙印...
"Actually "little landlord " was by no means landlord, but in those times of class-struggle, because little landlord's grandfather was possibly a landlord, because his grandfather was maybe a Qing Dynasty supporter, or the Republic of China supporter--we are not too clear, his family ancestry probably contains a landlord in any case--but because that time was lacking a written stipulation, the class struggle spilled into that vacancy, becoming the outline, the key to understanding, and everything else simply fell into place..." ¶ 10/23/2008 07:45:00 PM 0 Comments
dad suggested that i only add half of it. if you like it and want to read the rest, please find my paypal (karab123) and make a donation.
just kidding. it's quite long. if you're interested i'll post it...but the first half is always the better anyways. i tend to lose my wind after awhile.
My good friend, "Little Landlord"
The family that I entered into for this Chinese home-stay is imbued by art, culture, and ideas. Traditional Chinese paintings of grapes, birds, and fancy words line the walls, everyday plentiful, simple food brings thirteen different people to laughter, and five boarding students, with each pen stroke, create a step their parents couldn't reach. A son of thirty-something with a perpetual grin plastered across his face, one that hints at the daily, long winded luxuries that their hodge-podge family enjoys, frames browned teeth that love cigarettes, good food, laughter and telling stories. He's a professor of Marxist thought who shared with me during my first night in their home, that his biggest dream is to earn lots of money; "those who earn more money, earn better living," he explained in Chinese. The students range from ten to fourteen, three boys, a girl, and during my time shared with them, an additional boy aged nine took a bunk--where, I don't exactly know. In this bizarre arrangement there is another child, a small girl aged two, who I doubted was at all related, except for the pictures taped up inside their mirrored dining room, repeating infinitely, that intimated boundless love and familial ties. Their maid, my "Ai Yi", seemed to be more of a mother, to both her and myself, for she was the one who fixed our meals, drew my shower water, and lived elsewhere with the two-year old. The professor's wife held some sort of profession that allowed her to sleep-in late some days, make me hermetically-sealed Chinese-French bread for her few days of breakfast duty, and come home at about six-thirty every day. She always had a smile on her face, and as her father and husband also did, always had something funny to say, as their horde of children would cackle through mouths of rice, meat and vegetables. She must've been a teacher, for every over-pronounced Chinese syllable could have either warranted the previous or a direct assault on my perceived Chinese capability, but really, it was the relaxed facial muscles, wide and sweet, non-threatening eyes, and her uncanny ability to relate with children. Her father, who was ironically called "YeYe,'' also lived with us. All traditional art aforementioned, was courtesy of him. He is who I choose to write about.
One night at the dinner table, I asked him if he had time available on the coming Wednesday. Every night he would help the students with their homework, even when I didn't need help, especially when I didn't ask, I could always count on YeYe opening my door, his slicked-back hair glistening in the light pouring in from the family room, sitting down next to me on my bed, putting his head close to mine and pulling out his glasses to slowly see for himself what I was up to. For, "one person by themselves study," definitely didn't do the trick, my Chinese characters were hopelessly ugly and misprinted, and there was no way an American could live under his watch without knowing, at least the very basics, of proper character penmanship. One time when I was reading my own English novel, he came in to give me a book purely on the different styles of Chinese print; inside there were rippings of many wax-like transparent sheets of paper that he had meticulously traced character after character upon. YeYe is a person that has to look for himself.
When I asked YeYe if he was busy, it was more of a rhetorical question, and one that would open the gates for a conversation about: what should be in the essay; what my classmates are doing; what the teachers want; etc. Because YeYe is indeed an artist, by all walks in life, it was almost inevitable that he would call the shots. There was no question about it, except: "When do I need to have my essay, my story to you?"
I suppose somebody's life is very personal, and it must be allowed its own format of expression. As I sat next to YeYe, somehow both straight-backed and nose to the paper, scribbling away in a noticeably beautiful, but noticeably indistinguishable text, I became unnerved. Reading aloud as he wrote, he talked about a "xiao di zhi," or little landlord. Di meaning the earth, 'small' translated into 'little' for sought after English alliteration, and an emphatic jump from the desk chair to indicate histrionic hoeing motions, I understood that this was his ascribed identity during, or for at least part, of the cultural revolution. With the energy kindled in the leap made by those sixty-three year-old legs, the muscles moved, it stirred his memories in a direct and passionate way. Trying to explain such a vivid, intense, and sad part of one's life in such simple, rudimentary terms is absolutely tearing. The corners of his eyes loosened from a lively pucker to a loose searching as he tried to explain the consequences beset on him by pretense of "little landlord."
"I had to wear a large sign," he said for the third time in Chinese while pantomiming a box strung from his neck, assuming a flat back and a submissive position bent like a right angle at the waist; having to explain what is already so painful to remember, over, and over, and over, made the situation much more real. His body was tense in the position, it was almost like I could see the wire digging into his neck, and even though eyes automatically understand, it was if his mind needed to complement the repetition of the basic Chinese words of "sign, neck, small land-owner, capitalist," with the suddenly more real process of acting and reacting his story. The display could have been understood as an act of catharsis instead of a product of language incapabilities. The imaginary sign hanging around his neck read: Capitalist; Member of the Guomingdang; Litttle Landlord: as it sliced deeper, as people yelled at him, and as he thought about his injustices.
"其实"小地主"并非地主，但在那阶级斗争的岁月里，因为小地主的爷爷可能是地主，他的爷爷是清朝人还是民国人我们不太清楚，反正他家祖辈可能是地主，因为那个时代有这样的不成文的规定，阶级斗争为纲，纲举目张，凡人都得打上阶级的烙印...
"Actually "little landlord " was by no means landlord, but in those times of class-struggle, because little landlord's grandfather was possibly a landlord, because his grandfather was maybe a Qing Dynasty supporter, or the Republic of China supporter--we are not too clear, his family ancestry probably contains a landlord in any case--but because that time was lacking a written stipulation, the class struggle spilled into that vacancy, becoming the outline, the key to understanding, and everything else simply fell into place..." ¶ 10/23/2008 07:45:00 PM 0 Comments
Saturday, October 18, 2008
minorities of china
many people are unaware that china is an incredibly diverse nation as ethnicities are concerned. in the thirties (?) they undertook the enormous task of categoizing all of the minority peoples of china. this includes the peoples of the tibetan (xizang) autonomous region, as well as the xinjiang a.r., inner mongolian a.r., the guangxi a.r., and the ningxia a.r.. all of the autonomous regions aforementioned are regions at the provincial level and they have some autonomy from the chinese gov't. the key word being "some". there also exists autonomous prefectures and districts which are much smaller ways of giving highly concentrated groups of certain minority peoples some ability to make the rules for their people. the chinese gov't has officially recognized fifty-something groups, thouggh many more want their own formal recognition.
mao zedong in forming the prc, in rallying his fellow countrymen, as he himself came from the countryside, promised the minority groups that upon establishment of the PLC, upon overthrowing the guomingdang who now resides in taiwan, that they would recieve their freedom, their own nation states separate from china. just as lenin instructed, mao followed; "promise them this, and once you gave gained power, take it away, deny them [this]."
people in xinjiang,* for example, look turkish with their white skin and european/arabic eyes. their muslim beliefs and turkic-arabic language can render them anything but confuscian decendants, like the "han" identify as.
in the yunnan province alone, we have over half of these officially recognized groups--many more ethnicties who have under ten-thousand people. with kunming being the provincial capital, and the largest city in yunnan, kunming is all diversity.
*
(note: i wasn't able to get a good picture of the uyhgurs, the people of xinjiang, because the gov't has blocked the picture search for the term "uyghur." i suspect this is because of the recent violence there.)
today i was in a coffee shop and i said "hello, good morning" in chinese to a man sitting at an adjacent table. he began talking to me in english, and i would respond in chinese.
he asked me if i spoke english, and i reposnded that i did in chinese. he then asked, "well, why don't you speak it," in english.
i again responded in chinese to say that "since i was in china, i would speak chinese".
its common for chinese people to try out their english on you, since english is cumpulsory in public education, and they are perfectly fine, if even flattered, if you continue to talk in their mother tongue.
however, unbeknowned to me, this man was form thailand and spoke little chinese, in fact, his english was much better and spoke to the chinese waitstaff in it.
i suppose in this situation one could easily be offended for being mistaken as a chinese, a thailandnese, a burman, etc. but in the yunnan, the province who borders four countries, not including tibet (for tibet is legally considered part of china by the world), and the province who has the most, by far, minorities/ethnicities, you get a wide variety of looks. actually, the dai people who live near the border of thailand, are indistinguihsable from the vietnamese and their language is either vietnamese or their own hybrid of something and vietnamese. this kinda of mistake can happen often in the yunnan. everybody looks so different. ¶ 10/18/2008 01:08:00 PM 0 Comments
mao zedong in forming the prc, in rallying his fellow countrymen, as he himself came from the countryside, promised the minority groups that upon establishment of the PLC, upon overthrowing the guomingdang who now resides in taiwan, that they would recieve their freedom, their own nation states separate from china. just as lenin instructed, mao followed; "promise them this, and once you gave gained power, take it away, deny them [this]."
people in xinjiang,* for example, look turkish with their white skin and european/arabic eyes. their muslim beliefs and turkic-arabic language can render them anything but confuscian decendants, like the "han" identify as.
in the yunnan province alone, we have over half of these officially recognized groups--many more ethnicties who have under ten-thousand people. with kunming being the provincial capital, and the largest city in yunnan, kunming is all diversity.
*
(note: i wasn't able to get a good picture of the uyhgurs, the people of xinjiang, because the gov't has blocked the picture search for the term "uyghur." i suspect this is because of the recent violence there.)
today i was in a coffee shop and i said "hello, good morning" in chinese to a man sitting at an adjacent table. he began talking to me in english, and i would respond in chinese.
he asked me if i spoke english, and i reposnded that i did in chinese. he then asked, "well, why don't you speak it," in english.
i again responded in chinese to say that "since i was in china, i would speak chinese".
its common for chinese people to try out their english on you, since english is cumpulsory in public education, and they are perfectly fine, if even flattered, if you continue to talk in their mother tongue.
however, unbeknowned to me, this man was form thailand and spoke little chinese, in fact, his english was much better and spoke to the chinese waitstaff in it.
i suppose in this situation one could easily be offended for being mistaken as a chinese, a thailandnese, a burman, etc. but in the yunnan, the province who borders four countries, not including tibet (for tibet is legally considered part of china by the world), and the province who has the most, by far, minorities/ethnicities, you get a wide variety of looks. actually, the dai people who live near the border of thailand, are indistinguihsable from the vietnamese and their language is either vietnamese or their own hybrid of something and vietnamese. this kinda of mistake can happen often in the yunnan. everybody looks so different. ¶ 10/18/2008 01:08:00 PM 0 Comments
Sunday, October 12, 2008
backtracking the backpacking in yubeng
so, as i said before, there was recently a week-long national holiday in china. it's called golden week. they basically let off all the state employees, and teachers, public and private, are included in that bunch. since it ain't kosher for our privately employed teachers to work, we got off as well. unfortunately, if everybody gets a week off, you'd bet that everybody will be traveling. our school basically forced us to take trips (darn) by ourselves to anywhere in china. they gave us 1,000 kuai, which is basically $125. you'd be surprised how far that'll last ya in china, especially in the yunnan. since anywhere outside of yunnan is a far trip, much more expensive, and difficult to do during a very busy week of travelings and clogged transit systems, everybody stuck to our province. myself and two other girls decided to go to zhongdian (or, "shang-ri-la," which i refuse to believe), dequin, and yubeng. zhongdian is a nasty city that i visited last time i came to the yunnan. it is almost completely new and the "old town" centre is nothing compared to dali's or lijiang's. i think its convenient location to tibet--even though a foreigner can't legally access tibet from zhongdian, you must go through lijiang, i think--yubeng, feilaisi and other small yunnan-tibetan towns makes zhongdian an ideal gateway with bus hubs and an airport. other than that, zhongdian is not somewhere to stay and enjoy. though, we did find a great local manna hot pot restaraunt that was only 40 kuai for three people. hot pot is probably my favorite food, not only is it good for foreigners--its a boiling pot of veg, fish, or meat broth that you dip vegetables and raw meats into to cook--but apparently, as some zealot in lijiang once told me, "it cures cancer, syphyllis, aids, colds, stomach aches, head aches, muscle pain..."
dequin was the real destination. well, that and yubeng. the bus ride from zhongdian to dequin was as gorgeous as the guidebooks described. (usually i'm let down by the guidebooks, so i don't buy them. if they suggest a "quiet, cheap, local cafe," it'll definitely be expensive, tacky and swarming with foreigners.) we drove through the mountains and thank god i had a window seat, otherwise my motion sickness would have kicked in like our bus driver roundin the curves--non sympathetic. chinese also have a habit of smoking on buses when the windows are closed, sometimes even in the pouring rain, so it is imparitive when one travels in 3rd world countries that they purchase a window ticket. even if it takes you the embarrassing task of thumbing through pocket language guides, stuttering, pantomining, etc. after driving through five hours worth of only the "foothills" of the himilayas, which dwarf the rockies, we rounded a bend on a city/town that looked much like moracco. it was wedged inbetween two mountains on a steep slope. all around were steeple mountains with snow caps, including one of china's most holy mountains, mei li mountain.
oh, i almost forgot! on the way there our bus was half full with chinese army men. often the bus drivers will pull offside the road into a small restaraunt that obviously exists solely for the purpose of tourist and people buses, as there is no central town around. the bus drivers get free meals for stopping there so when you ride a bus in China, never be afriad that you'll go hungry, the bus drivers always will claim their free meal, even when the passengers complain that they'd rather keep going the road. well, we had stopped at one of these places and a chinese woman a few feet in front of us ran up the restaraunt steps. she slipped and hit her nose, pushing it right from the bottom of the bridge, near the nostrils, upwards into the crest of step. it jammed her nasal bones back into her head as well as taking i n c h e s of skin off. her right middle finger was bent in the opposite direction at the middle joint. the army men clamoured to finally put some training to use--bravo, no-brovado, please--pillaging through dozens of bags underneath the bus looking for their first aid kit. needless to say, nobody ate at that restaraunt, and i don't even think the bus driver got his free meal. as we wheeled away to find a hospital, through the window the skin and blood were still noticibale on the steps.
so, dequin was pretty. but ironically, we didn't stay there. we took a ten minute cab ride to the outside of the town, 15 rmb (15 "kuai", same meaning), and stayed at the beautiful mountain resort pictured in the below entry. it was drafty and i was freezing. although, the stars that night on the flat top roof were the most beautiful i've ever seen. the milky way was so clear at 2,000 ft above sea level, and i saw six shooting stars.
the next day with two "strapping" (this language is not from my book) dutch men we rented a cab to go to yubeng. since the week was golden week things were much more expensive than planned. it costed us for a two hour cab ride 250 rmb! which is absolutely rediculous--it should've been 150 rmb. the translation is 7 rmb to a u.s. dollar. in the guidebooks they call the hike from the "hot springs"--i never saw them--"trekking." i thought they were the same, until i finished this one. it was like 1,900 feet upwards on like 2 or 3 miles, so it took us like five hours. it was the worst hike i've ever done. i couldn't enjoy the scenery.
yubeng was gorgeous nestled in a valley of waterfalls, glaciers, and crested mountains. clean air, nice sun, and the crisp cold was a needed break from city life. we had trouble finding lodgings and we were afraid we'd have to sleep outside. everywhere was booked for golden week! we asked to stay in people's houses but even they were filled to the brim with blankets and roll out mattress pads. finally some tibetan guy who had learned great english from travelers invited us to stay in the dining room of his lodge. they even had mattress pads, blankets, and pillows to provide. for this we paid 25 rmb each. of course, we didn't go to bed until late because eveyrbody was drinking and eating, and we were woken up very early to slurping of yunnan noodles. but, oh, the joys of a roof over our heads!
that day we left early to find proper lodgings in the lower yubeng, which we did! we then took a nice hike, much more my style, which was one hour of strenuous and one-and-a-half of rolling hills, to a holy waterfall. when i got there i heard that one should run around the rock directly underneath the waterfall three times clock-wise, because it is incredibly holy to do so. (you k n o w i'm not going to pass up a holy ritual when i've hiked three hours about.) after i completed this task and was soaked in cold mountain air, rainy day mist and spit from the gods, i heard that i was supposed to have done so while making a wish. i contented myself by the fact that if it was that holy of water it must have read my my deepest thoughts. osmosis, or something. wanting a shower badly i raced back while my friends went to explore the glacier. in doing so i ran, maybe even smashed, into some chinese friends we met the night before. they told me that i wasn't supposed to shower for three days following my holy bath. already being wish-less--come on, let's be realistic--i decided that i wasn't going to be showerless as well. so, in the muslim scheme of things, i pilgramiged to mecca, circled the rock, but didn't touch it. ¶ 10/12/2008 03:07:00 PM 0 Comments
dequin was the real destination. well, that and yubeng. the bus ride from zhongdian to dequin was as gorgeous as the guidebooks described. (usually i'm let down by the guidebooks, so i don't buy them. if they suggest a "quiet, cheap, local cafe," it'll definitely be expensive, tacky and swarming with foreigners.) we drove through the mountains and thank god i had a window seat, otherwise my motion sickness would have kicked in like our bus driver roundin the curves--non sympathetic. chinese also have a habit of smoking on buses when the windows are closed, sometimes even in the pouring rain, so it is imparitive when one travels in 3rd world countries that they purchase a window ticket. even if it takes you the embarrassing task of thumbing through pocket language guides, stuttering, pantomining, etc. after driving through five hours worth of only the "foothills" of the himilayas, which dwarf the rockies, we rounded a bend on a city/town that looked much like moracco. it was wedged inbetween two mountains on a steep slope. all around were steeple mountains with snow caps, including one of china's most holy mountains, mei li mountain.
oh, i almost forgot! on the way there our bus was half full with chinese army men. often the bus drivers will pull offside the road into a small restaraunt that obviously exists solely for the purpose of tourist and people buses, as there is no central town around. the bus drivers get free meals for stopping there so when you ride a bus in China, never be afriad that you'll go hungry, the bus drivers always will claim their free meal, even when the passengers complain that they'd rather keep going the road. well, we had stopped at one of these places and a chinese woman a few feet in front of us ran up the restaraunt steps. she slipped and hit her nose, pushing it right from the bottom of the bridge, near the nostrils, upwards into the crest of step. it jammed her nasal bones back into her head as well as taking i n c h e s of skin off. her right middle finger was bent in the opposite direction at the middle joint. the army men clamoured to finally put some training to use--bravo, no-brovado, please--pillaging through dozens of bags underneath the bus looking for their first aid kit. needless to say, nobody ate at that restaraunt, and i don't even think the bus driver got his free meal. as we wheeled away to find a hospital, through the window the skin and blood were still noticibale on the steps.
so, dequin was pretty. but ironically, we didn't stay there. we took a ten minute cab ride to the outside of the town, 15 rmb (15 "kuai", same meaning), and stayed at the beautiful mountain resort pictured in the below entry. it was drafty and i was freezing. although, the stars that night on the flat top roof were the most beautiful i've ever seen. the milky way was so clear at 2,000 ft above sea level, and i saw six shooting stars.
the next day with two "strapping" (this language is not from my book) dutch men we rented a cab to go to yubeng. since the week was golden week things were much more expensive than planned. it costed us for a two hour cab ride 250 rmb! which is absolutely rediculous--it should've been 150 rmb. the translation is 7 rmb to a u.s. dollar. in the guidebooks they call the hike from the "hot springs"--i never saw them--"trekking." i thought they were the same, until i finished this one. it was like 1,900 feet upwards on like 2 or 3 miles, so it took us like five hours. it was the worst hike i've ever done. i couldn't enjoy the scenery.
yubeng was gorgeous nestled in a valley of waterfalls, glaciers, and crested mountains. clean air, nice sun, and the crisp cold was a needed break from city life. we had trouble finding lodgings and we were afraid we'd have to sleep outside. everywhere was booked for golden week! we asked to stay in people's houses but even they were filled to the brim with blankets and roll out mattress pads. finally some tibetan guy who had learned great english from travelers invited us to stay in the dining room of his lodge. they even had mattress pads, blankets, and pillows to provide. for this we paid 25 rmb each. of course, we didn't go to bed until late because eveyrbody was drinking and eating, and we were woken up very early to slurping of yunnan noodles. but, oh, the joys of a roof over our heads!
that day we left early to find proper lodgings in the lower yubeng, which we did! we then took a nice hike, much more my style, which was one hour of strenuous and one-and-a-half of rolling hills, to a holy waterfall. when i got there i heard that one should run around the rock directly underneath the waterfall three times clock-wise, because it is incredibly holy to do so. (you k n o w i'm not going to pass up a holy ritual when i've hiked three hours about.) after i completed this task and was soaked in cold mountain air, rainy day mist and spit from the gods, i heard that i was supposed to have done so while making a wish. i contented myself by the fact that if it was that holy of water it must have read my my deepest thoughts. osmosis, or something. wanting a shower badly i raced back while my friends went to explore the glacier. in doing so i ran, maybe even smashed, into some chinese friends we met the night before. they told me that i wasn't supposed to shower for three days following my holy bath. already being wish-less--come on, let's be realistic--i decided that i wasn't going to be showerless as well. so, in the muslim scheme of things, i pilgramiged to mecca, circled the rock, but didn't touch it. ¶ 10/12/2008 03:07:00 PM 0 Comments
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
poop
at the four story super walmart of kunming the other day and besides the absurd amounts of curing indentity-less hanging meats from the ceilings and whole chickens heaped on ice with bare hands pillaging through them
between the frog shaped humidfiers and raindbow colored knock-off tupperware was there a mother dangling her toddler, donning the popular chinese children's crotchless pants*, over a trashcan. the child was relieving himself. number two.
+++
this week the commies let everybody have time off who works from the government. it is called "golden week" and the country is infested with baseball wearin packs of verocious picture takin chinese tourists. teachers get off too and even the ones employed by private or foreign companies like mine are entitled to vacation so with our week off myself and two fellow students hiked along the border of tibet**. one of my travel-mates became really sick and we took her to the hospital to find out after several electronic dictionary enquiries that she had "infection of the mucus lining". whatever that is. point is that to find this out they made her take a stool sample in a c a r d b o a r d box. in fact, she got preferrential treatment for everybody else, pee and poop testers alike, were forced to use a transparent, shallow, l i d - l e s s plastic cup. this nice two centimeter deep, recycled pill box, however, did not save her from the three minute trek to-from the bathrooms to the clinical area, nor did it reprieve her of the crowding around the window chinese corral style with various sloshing contents eager for testing
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both photos below courtsey of google
*
**
¶ 10/05/2008 07:57:00 PM 0 Comments
between the frog shaped humidfiers and raindbow colored knock-off tupperware was there a mother dangling her toddler, donning the popular chinese children's crotchless pants*, over a trashcan. the child was relieving himself. number two.
+++
this week the commies let everybody have time off who works from the government. it is called "golden week" and the country is infested with baseball wearin packs of verocious picture takin chinese tourists. teachers get off too and even the ones employed by private or foreign companies like mine are entitled to vacation so with our week off myself and two fellow students hiked along the border of tibet**. one of my travel-mates became really sick and we took her to the hospital to find out after several electronic dictionary enquiries that she had "infection of the mucus lining". whatever that is. point is that to find this out they made her take a stool sample in a c a r d b o a r d box. in fact, she got preferrential treatment for everybody else, pee and poop testers alike, were forced to use a transparent, shallow, l i d - l e s s plastic cup. this nice two centimeter deep, recycled pill box, however, did not save her from the three minute trek to-from the bathrooms to the clinical area, nor did it reprieve her of the crowding around the window chinese corral style with various sloshing contents eager for testing
+++
both photos below courtsey of google
*
**
¶ 10/05/2008 07:57:00 PM 0 Comments
