Morocco 2008: A Much Needed Holiday

There are two sorts of traveling: on and off the path. The new generation of guide books (Lonely Planet, Moon Guide, etc.) aim to deliver the “off the beaten path” experience, but in their efforts, noble or otherwise, they have exactly the opposite effect – they turn the “off path” in to the “on path”. Thus contrary to our efforts to blaze new trails and avoid the crowds, we are still bumping shoulders with loads of ‘unnatural scenery’, all plodding along with the same guide book in hand. While hardly surprising, it still is disappointing to find out you’re not the first to capture a brilliant photo of an old Berber man sitting in front of a beautiful 13^th century mosque. Especially after he holds out his hand for money and you realize he earns his daily bread off our naivety.

Solutions to the guide dilemma are typically twofold: wholesale condemnation of travel guides for their homogenizing effect, or a search for an even newer, more ‘off-path’ publication. My recent experience in Morocco presented an alternative solution, namely focusing not on the trail of tourists, but their benefactor: the tourism industry itself. Economic rankings aside, Morocco beats out Thailand for its overtly tourist-oriented exploitation of its own cultural capital. Everyone wants you to take a picture of them in their faux-traditional garb, wants to put some bizarre animal in your lap, and wants you to lose your way in a labyrinth of handmade trinkets and domestically-useless junk. This sculpted strategy that homogenizes the travel experience is not the fault of the guide books, but the industry itself, and throughout my years of carefully yet often unsuccessfully avoiding this racket, I’ve become a very cynical traveler.

Some travelers with great amounts of charisma and creativity can not only navigate these traps but even see the experiential value in these interactions. I’m thinking about my pal Fielding, who on the streets of Bangkok or the sands of Boracay can craftily turn the joke on the tout and make a memory out of it. Outside of cynically rejecting it all or getting frustrated, what else can we do? On this trip, I realized the importance of getting out of the cities and into the real, where the touts aren’t crawling and the tourists aren’t sprawling. This is not to say that I got the authentic experience in our trek into the Sahara, but close enough to get a whiff of desert life without buying the camel. So forgive me if I come down too heavily upon our urban experience and look naively past the packaged, meals-included desert tour, but for my money and time, I’d allot a day to the former and the rest of two weeks to the latter.

Marrakech, Casablanca, and Fes

Moroccan cities developed in stages, and with each historic era, inherit a new quarter rather than refurbish the old. Unlike the hybridized architecture and city layout seen in colonial cities like Hanoi or Phnom Phen, Moroccan cities have distinct districts that each tell a different historical tale, neatly revealing its various artistic and cultural influences. While these areas are rather similar from city to city, they offer several different experiences within each city (my suggestion: just visit one). Within all three of these history-rich cities, there is a Medina (medieval town enclosed within crumbling walls) and Nouvelle (obviously French quarter with modern facilities, roads, and even a traffic light or two). Fes takes the crown for having three quarters, their Medina being so old that one Merenid (14^th century) ruler established a new quarter in his time, thus endowing the city with two “new” neighborhoods, one in Arabic, the next in French.

Predictably, the touts are awaiting you in the most scenic area: the Medinas. As I quickly discovered, it’s hard to get directions anywhere inside because everyone wants to show you for a tip or become your day’s ad hoc guide for hire. Jinhee had the most success, not only because she speaks some French, but being a girl, she got the most sincere responses from either women or shopkeepers who couldn’t tag along. There’s also the incessant cat-calling that assaults your senses from every angle. I found myself avoiding all eye contact because it immediately initiates the process and cringing after the 100^th time I heard konichiwa upon their seeing an Asian. I wonder, do they really think they’re each the first to try this? At the end of the day I began pre-empting everyone I had no intention of talking to with an assertive konichiwa! Our worst experience came about in the Jemaa El Fna (old market) in Marrakech, a circus of cultural simulacra and eager vendors. Upon sitting down at a food stall (among hundreds of identical choices), we picked out two dishes from the menu, neither of which were very expensive. While waiting, loads of appetizers were brought out, along with sauces, bread, and water. As we gorged ourselves and reveled in excess, so too arrived another item in excess: the bill. We were not the first nor last that night to fall for their scheme of perceived generosity. They charged a price for every last dish, down to each roll of bread, leaving the tab at more than double what we had anticipated (and more than what I might pay at a restaurant in Manchester). Unfortunately we didn’t have any small notes, so we ended up paying most of it despite arguing it out in three languages. Our final comment, more of a hand gesture, could be understood in any language, and based on the racket they were plying, I’ve no doubt they’ve already learned it.

On the more noteworthy side of our urban experience, I rather enjoyed the chaotic, impromptu layout of the residential streets within the Medinas. I can only wonder what a city planner was thinking (more likely there wasn’t one) when designing the mazes city-dwellers were to navigate to find their ways home. One night in Marrakech there was a blackout in the entire quarter, leaving Jinhee and I with the full moon and her sharp memory as our only resources in finding our way through the corridors to our guesthouse. Inside, we were greeted by the doorman with candles for each of us, which lasted us until the following day’s sunrise. Each morning, we would wake to a cacophony reverberating in the narrow street outside our window – dink donk, dink donk – the sound of a troupe of youngsters wailing away at their favorite toys, African hand drums. I’ll never tire the sound of a drum, but this was a different matter – these kids needed a lesson in rhythm! I do hope, given Morocco’s great leaps in educational enrollment over the last decade, that the drum corps routine each morning was their march towards the school and not the market.

Erg Chebbi (Sahara Occidental Minor)

The greatest treasures in all travels are to be found far, far outside the city. The degree of difficulty in reaching it is indicative of the value of what awaits. I’m reflecting on my stay in El Arenal, Nicaragua (the cooperative farm), motorbike ride through the outskirts of Hanoi, and especially Tel el Armarna, Egypt (the village of my undergrad excavation fieldwork). Trekking to the Sahara was no different. There is no easy flight or cushy train ride to the dunes. From Fes to our tent in the oasis, it took 10-12 hours, as the necessary transport was a 500km taxi ride, 25km in a 4x4, and another few by camel. The views along the way were astonishing, as we passed through each season and virtually every imaginable geographical terrain. To get there, we had to drive through a mountain pass in the middle Atlas range, across vast plains, through river valleys and steep ravines, until the last town on the map, where literally (and I use such word sparingly) the scenery just ends. While the dunes are still a ways off in the horizon, there is a buffer zone of scorched earth with absolutely nothing except one paved road and miles upon miles of Martian terrain. This is not the place for an engine breakdown. After many miles on this road, the 4x4 driver put his gas-guzzling vehicle to use and suddenly veered off the paved road and into the nothingness. There were no signs, so how and when he knew to turn still puzzles me. In the horizon, however, lay what we had come to see: dunes upon more dunes, still glowing in the setting sunlight. Because the dunes were surrounded by a horizon of flat, ashy terrain, Jinhee and I both were stirring the same whimsical thoughts: that this was god’s sandbox, or Samsung’s new “Desert Theme Park”. Who knows, we might just see the latter in Dubai any day now.

The first night we stayed in Les Hommes Bleu, a castle-like guesthouse perched right on the edge of the dunes. Sadly, because it was January, we were the only guests there, though the young staff made us feel welcome that evening with a round circle drum performance and singalong. I eagerly jumped in and followed along as we rotated drums, from large djembe style to smaller bongo sorts. Fortunately, we were all many notches above the dink-donk kids of Marrakech, so the outcome was absolutely beautiful and certainly more kind on the ears. This continued all throughout the following day while we waited for sunset to depart by camel.

No matter what you think you know about camels, don’t make any wagers on a race until you’ve ridden one, because no matter what Hollywood or Wikipedia tell you, these creatures are slower than mud. I could run laps around these things all day if they didn’t have one major advantage over me: weather conditioning. I admit I did start to adore the furry beast as we bonded over the next few days: he carried my pack and never got feisty like the one in Turkey that almost bit my hand off. Camels are so high-tech that they can pack their lunches for the next week in one of their several stomachs. My dromedary buddy spent his siesta hours burping and chewing, burping and chewing, and perhaps at that moment above all others I realized they’re not all that different from some of us.

We spent the next few days frolicking in the sand, racing up and down the dunes and just enjoying being kids again in the world’s largest sandbox. To risk sounding cliché, the silence was, in a sense, deafening. My ears felt like they were going to explode from the stark absence of any sound beyond my own panting. Sand absorbs sound more than it reverberates, and as there are no other surfaces to bounce off, it felt much like a sound-proof chamber: voices are flattened and even when calling from the next dune over, sound like they’re ten feet away. Before assuming that we must’ve had the best sleep of our lives, note well: 1.) a beach catnap and a full 8 hours on a sand mattress are entirely different experiences, 2.) the temperature dropped to below freezing every night, and 3.) even in the middle of NOWHERE, Morocco, there was a rooster calling away well before dawn. Suddenly the world felt small, as my anti-rooster encounters of Nicaragua and Thailand merged with this latest episode.

Despite having little to do but watch the sun and moon rise and set, we were more than content, and weren’t ready to head back (well, a shower and functional toilet are always welcome – when we asked our guide where was “le toilette”, his hand just waved across the horizon in a moment of mutual understanding). Each night, Jinhee and I shared a tent and dined by candlelight, then came out to watch the stars. It was perhaps the most romantic setting, putting the freezing temperature and minefields of camel dung aside, that a wanderlust grad student could afford. Of course, it wasn’t without a few snags. On our first night out there, upon climbing the most colossal sand pile in the region, I arrived at the peak, in the dark, out of breath, sweating, and feeling accomplished in my solitary achievement, only to be greeted by two spritely Americans from Philadelphia. Never in a million years did I foresee a discussion about Ed Rendell and the King of Prussia mall at the peak of nowhere. Another naïve assumption of mine led me to disappointment whilst wallowing in my own little paradise. It’s a wonderful day when you don’t have to reach in your pocket for money and the day is enjoyed without a single purchase – and there are no merchants eager to facilitate this. Our guide Mohammed, camel master and former caravan trader, was a fabulous host and talented chef, but even he had a touch of Marrakech in him. About once a day, he would open up shop and display for us his assorted collection of nature’s detritus – calcified shells, beads, and fossilized camel dung (he swears it’s a piece of meteorite), all on sale in various combinations for only 100 dirham ($14 dollars!!). The Berber children too, with their dink-donk drums and colorful miniature schoolbags, would come by when you’re not looking busy (it’s hard to look busy in the Sahara) and set up shop right before our eyes. Against all common sense, Jinhee and I were hoping those backpacks were packed for school and somehow the camel schoolbus would be rolling over the dunes any minute.

The ride home was turbulent, besides obviously being long. The moment the 4x4 made contact with the paved road to nowhere, I felt like I had reconnected with civilisation and was once again on the map. We took a bus from Rissani, the second to last town on the map before Algeria, 500km all the way back to Marrakech. While this could be done by car in 6 hours, the bus took a whopping 14. It wasn’t a particularly slow bus, it’s just that there is no direct bus to Marrakech. Rather, it’s more of one long commuter bus that stops in every little hamlet to empty and refill every last seat and inch of aisle. In fact, you could wave down the bus in the middle of the desert if it comes your way. Before taking the bus, we were warned back at our guesthouse that it’s a good idea to give a 1 or 2 euro “tip” (ahem, bribe) to the baggage handler to keep an eye on your luggage. We did this, and the young guy smiled and knew exactly what we meant… yet, as the bus departed, we discovered that that guy wasn’t on the bus. I’m not sure if he even worked for the bus company. But he sure did a heck of a job watching over our bags while the bus sat in the station (note: sarcasm). Alas, despite our worries, our bags made it with us all the way to Marrakech, though we barely did, for lack of sleep and borderline hypothermia (straight across the mountains with no heat). Upon arrival in Marrakech at 7am, I confessed my love-hate relationship with the city, which at the time, provided all the comforts we were awaiting – heated rooms, hot showers, and a hookah pipe (yes, we smoked at 8 in the morning).

While Morocco is a relatively expensive place to visit, it really was worth every dirham, euro, and dollar (they might even take Cambodian Riel). Especially this time of year, when the tourists are few and all the merchants can focus their attention on just us (hmm, maybe there is a upside to being surrounded by tourists), we got to see it all, urban, mountainside, desert, and passed through all four seasons, all in 11 days. And for an extra few thousand dirhams, they might just have let me take the camel home too.

Collegeville, In Sum

Two months had come to pass, and I did what I had come to do. The graduate school applications were finished and awaiting recommendations from former professors, I was back to health, relative to my month in China, and most importantly, I got to spend enough time with family and friends to sufficiently catch up on each other’s lives. Despite having spent a significant chunk of time behind a computer screen, tracking down every last grad program, or programme, since I’m applying to British schools, I reminded myself why there’s no place like home, which is, that all the things that one needs to live comfortably are there: a cozy bed, unlimited food, people who care, and of course, a drum set. Perhaps Abraham Maslow would disagree with one of those needs, but his thesis remains intact: needs and wants have a sequential order in which they must be fulfilled, and I’d like to thank everyone, minus our semi-autistic housecat Squeekers, for helping me fulfill those needs by spending quality time, in front of the fireplace, behind a bar, or with a video game. As days went by, I let Collegeville’s gravitational pull take hold of me, and if it weren’t for a few minor details, such as overreacting traffic cops, unpleasant cats, and not having a job (I did say minor details, right?) there would be no reason to leave. I’m glad I stayed as long as I did, and didn’t yield to knee-jerk instincts of taking flight when the reverse culture shock of suburbia kicked in. In the past two months, I feel like I was able to connect the old life with the new, merge the local with the international, and pave the way for the next eight months on the road with the two lives comfortably in the balance. Thank you for reminding me the importance of this.

That said, it’s time for another adventure. How about Thailand for starters?

October 20-22: Georgia State of Mind

Having been home for several weeks now, more or less strapped to this machine on the hunt for graduate schools, I've been having erratic fits of futility and plummeting self-confidence. I find it odd that I'm more comfortable surrounded by strangers in strange lands than crowds of my own kin. It might have to do with the fact that I have no excuse for not being able to communicate clearly, and of course, I'm no longer different by default. Instead I have to prove why I'm so cool (kidding).

In the midst of my disorganized march back onto campus, I'm slowly reintegrating myself with the me from 2004, before Asia. One leg of this process was the college break pasttime of choice - the road trip. Photographer and artist Adam Harvey and I drove roughly 800 miles from Trenton, NJ to Athens, Georgia to visit my old housemates-turned-UGA professors Roger Stahl and Kate Morrissey. We split the drive over two days, stopping somewhere outside of Charlotte, NC for the night at an overpriced Super 8 motel.

I'll spare the trivialities of our weekend in Winterville and get right to the top three spectacles worthy of mention here (excluding the cats Carlos and Sweetface, who get an honorary mention).

First up, there's Kate Morrissey, an emerging artist worthy of words I can't quite find in the dictionary. Positive words, naturally. Her songs are all solo keyboard and vocal pieces rife with playful, witty lyrics and upbeat, inspiring melodies. Among her latest, "Swim" is a personal favorite, probably because it's one of the darker tunes on her setlist. We had the pleasure of seeing her perform twice on our trip, once at the downtown listening room Flicker, and again at the opening event of the Georgia Nature Center. Kate's live performances outdo any recording tenfold because of her engaging interaction with the audience. I've never seen a performer appear to have more fun with her own show than Kate, whether it be by dedicating her song "Emily" to whoever carries that name on that night, or flexing her playfully nonsensical wit between songs. Notably, she asked the Flicker crowd to welcome her two friends from out of town (Adam and I) in warm Southern fashion - whether it be welcoming us into their homes, or accusing us of being gay. Check out her music and bio and pray she comes to your town (or country) soon.

Second, the sensory deprivation tank. Yes, I just segued from a lovely folk singer to a maniacal mechanism that robs the body of all five means of interpreting the outside world. Gently, of course. Here's a more polite description borrowed from a more knowledgeable source:

This tool is the floatation tank, an enclosed chamber filled with approximately ten inches of warm saturated solution of Epsom salts. A solution so dense that even the thinnest person floats supine with the entire body at or near the surface of the water. The buoyancy counteracts the effects of gravity, giving the floater a sensation of weightlessness. The chamber is pitch-black, silent. In the absence of sensory input, the floater feels detached, free, at peace, Most floaters report enhanced mental powers. Virtually everyone finds the experience immensely pleasant. And, as one prominent scientist says, the tank provides a method of attaining the deepest rest that we have ever experienced."

Unsurprisingly, I didn't experience any enhanced mental powers, but I did lose feeling in all my motionless limbs, which is a new experience, and became so relaxed at one point that I definitely blacked out, having experienced some sort of disconnect between thoughts and consciousness before and after. I estimated I was floating around naked for 45 minutes, but found out after emerging that it was at least an hour and twenty! It's quite an adventure that I'll gladly try again, this time being more mindful of keeping the salt-saturated water out of my eyes and throat.

On a final note, I was exposed to the budding world of electric vehicles: bikes in particular. Roger had tracked down the plans and parts to modify an ordinary ten speed all-purpose bike into a 1 horsepower car-battery run scooter of sorts that takes its fuel from the wall socket. As silly as it sounds and ridiculous as it looks whizzing down the street without peddling, it silently reaches speeds of 28-30 mph with a range of around 10 miles before needing a 20 minute recharge. When the weather is right, Rog uses it as an alternative way of getting to campus, a 7 mile distance, then charges it up in his office. Compared with taking even a compact car, which might have a fuel economy of 24-27 miles per gallon, this lil' roadster gets the electricity-fuel equivalent of an unbelievable 1,000 miles per gallon. It took Rog several months of tweaking and tinkering, as well as a hefty $1200 in parts, but he's working on a second, faster one that runs off typical 12-volt car batteries, which ought to cut the cost in half, if not more. I'd like to give this a try after I settle into my student-on-a-budget lifestyle starting next fall. I'm not mechanically inclined like Rog, but I think I'll be among many who are. It's worth a shot - I mean, I mastered the art of composting in 2003, right? How much harder could this be?

Here's are the stats for Rog's "Mr. Zip"

July 12 - Moving Out, Moving On

There's a healthy dose of phrasal verbs for ya. With the end of my Seogang classes in the mornings and the return of the five day work week, I found myself in a slump, unable to fill the void of "free time" with something meaningful, productive. It ultimately comes down to sweltering summer lethargy and the hazy mishmash of post-Korea plans [and something about selling to CDI my few precious hours in which I could define myself as something other than a teacher just doesn't settle well with me]. The solution to any of my melancholic moments: change something.

I had gone through a mental list of the mutable domains in my life - job, apartment, girlfriend (just kidding Jini), gender (just kidding Mom) - and realized the most practical, most logical, most inspiring, and most cheapestest... the domicile. It's time to move out of the gu! Gangnam Gu-Chung has served me well for the last year, as an outpost for all sorts of social functions, most of them involving raw meat and a redneck bbq blackbelt. It's also a stone's throw away from work (and I give serious literal thought to this ^^), Apgujeong, and Jini's office. At the same time, it's also a hefty eight hundred bucks a month and to be honest, a little lonely sometimes. Heather and Kelly moved back to the 'hood (Itaewon), leaving me with only the occasional nod of recognition from the corner store guy and the usual perplexed stares of passersby on the daily route to work. As I've noted in the past as well, moving into a neighborhood under development isn't a sound move unless you have plans to stick it out until it's developed. In the case of Gangnam, I'm convinced they're'll never be an end to the construction. By the time they finish erecting these monstrosities all around me and the subway below, it'll be time to tear my building down anyway. Thus, I say Kaja! (let's go).

This evening, Heather took me on a tour of her friend's semi-vacant house in Itaewon, right near where I used to live in 2004. A three story red-brick house covered in vines, it had a homely feel that really warmed up to me right from the start. The interior was an interesting mix of wooden floor and ceiling, fresh drywall, and artsy furnishings that actually felt more like a Thai beach bungalow from the inside, which might've been more just an effect of the heavy rain. The biggest change from my current habitat is the addition of roommates - one hip human and three furry little, fanged beasties (sorry to disappoint any tarantula fans, but I meant cats). As for the human, he seems like quite the cool cat himself (as any friend of Heather's invariably is) - a publisher by day, a chef by night. I could see this working out veeeerry well indeed. It made me wonder, however, what skill do I have to offer when it comes to communal living? I can write cover letters? Fix your computer? Offer free lectures on the threat of neoliberal globalization?

May 9, 2006 - It's getting hot over here!

Things are heating up over here, in both the literal and figurative senses. Today was somewhere around 25C (77F), a bit toasty for my usual longsleeve getup. Worse, at my university class, we're faced with a choice of a stuffy classroom or an inaudible one, at the behest of the traffic-plagued main drag through the university district in Sinchon, which conveniently runs right past our window. There's also some major highway being erected across the street, but making note of "construction in Seoul" is as relevant as pointing out that the Han River is wet. I've gotten in the habit of sleeping with earplugs in the afternoons or if I plan to sleep in past 7am. About three months back, I reveled in the sight of a building next to my apartment being torn to shreds with a mini-demolition team (see photo). What I hadn't considered at the time was that anything that comes down, must go back up - one creaky girder at a time. This building is, without exaggeration, directly outside my window, and I reap the benefits of its construction seven days a week, starting when the sun does, without exception. No doubt other neighbors are as vexed, but does this justify a low-key guerilla war? The easiest solution: move.

I did mention that life is heating up figuratively. In the sense that my workload is tilting closer towards the level of, say, "hell", I suppose it's a legitimate claim. Last weekend practically all of my writing students came back from their mid-term exam hiatus and bombarded me with essays to mark. I'm not insinuating that they voluntarily handed in such a heavy load.. it's simply the result of teaching 4 TOEFL writing classes (NB: don't try this at home), each with 6-13 students and two essays a head. That makes me the happiest bloke in the writing department one day each month (payday) and the sorriest chump for the other 30 days.

Also at Seogang Univ. (Korean language classes), this is our final week of class. It's been just under two and half months of an intense 9am-1pm, Mon to Fri, curriculum, where during this time I've no doubt quadrupled my vocabulary and overcome my weak spots: listening and speaking. At this point I'm confident enough to get past what I observed last summer as First Date Syndrome: having only enough lingual ability to impress one's date for one evening, where thereafter, conversing about the weather gets old real quick. Rather, after having completed level 2 at Seogang University, I can tell you not only the weather, but what my friend thinks about the weather too! ^^ Actually I saw the fruits of all this effort a couple weeks back when I hung out with one of my professors for an evening, covering quite a range of topics (in Korean) from family issues to human rights in China (that one didn't last long, but...). Also today in class we held a mock job fair with students from other classrooms, which was rather successful. Job interviews are nasty because one has to resort to the rarely-used impersonal, honorific form (there's actually a conjugation used only for news broadcasts, military subordinates, and... job interviews). Throughout the class I played a representative for GS25 (a 7-11 equivalent) and hired a French girl who offered to start work that day for a humble salary. Later on as we switched roles, I got the post as a foreign language teacher at Seogang! (considering the amount of paid vacation time that university instructors get here, this is something well worth considering if I'm to stick around any longer than 6 more months).

As disappointed as I am to see my time at Seogang come to an end, it'll be a necessary change, where in the future I'll have more time to pursue grad school plans, pay off the more bacchanalian moments of my Winter vacation in Thailand, and get back to poisoning my liver in the company of friends I've snubbed for the last few months. This is neither a shift towards over nor underachieving. Call it what it is: a horizontal thing.

Busan, Korea - May Day, 2006

Wha...what is this medium..a bl..blag? If you can believe it, the nomad is back on the web, three long months since my Kohphanghan, Thailand post. Let me catch you up on things since then: Bangkok, Koh Samet, Seoul, Sokcho (east coast), Seoul, Seoul, Seoul, Seoul...... ahhhhh. But at last, let's take the soju canteen back off the shelf, wipe those cobwebs off the backpack, we're going to Busan for May Day.

I had just finished teaching my last class on Sunday, finishing at 7:30, and was racing to get all those grades in the books before packing up and fleeing the scene. Jini and I reserved tickets for 9pm, so there was enough time to race home, switch gears (and shed the dorky suit jacket), and get to Seoul Station with enough time to pick up a pack of Uno cards and a mini-Jenga set (classified under: must-haves). The Busan-bound KTX train itself is an amazing development, modeled after the Japanese Shinkansen, the original bullet train begun in 1964. Racing southeast through major city after city, the television monitor above the aisles proudly informed us that we were flying at around 288km/hour (180mph), which, on the ground is pretty damn cool by any speed-demon's standards. Unfortunately it was too dark to see the Korean countryside fly by, but I had an alternate plan anyway - blink (sleep) and wake up in Busan, 3 hours, 400 miles later.

From Busan Station, it's another 25 minute taxi ride to Haeundae (해운대), the beachfront neighborhood. The view was riddled with shipyards, skyscraping piles of shipping containers, and unsurprisingly in Korea, construction. Part of me felt the usual jaded "Is this Seoul Jr.?", while another part of me was thrilled to finally come to the second largest city in Korea. But, I didn't come to appreciate it so much until the next day, when the sun came out.

The next morning, I couldn't believe I was still in Korea at all. In fact, I dare say that I didn't believe a Korean city could be clumped in the same sentence with the word "beautiful", but this moment proved me wrong. The city limits stretched right up to the shoreline, where there was a 2-3 kilometer stretch of beach from Dongbaek (a rock promontory) to Moon Hill (달맞이고개), and from the coastline was a panorama of ships, craggy sea peaks, and blue, blue mist. On the "Hill that meets the Moon", the mist seemed to leap right out of the ocean and cover the hill, giving it a mystical mini-planet-that-just-crashed-into-Earth visage. Not something I see on my daily commute across the Han River.

We wandered around, lounged in the sand, explored the Dongbaek peninsula, where the 2005 APEC summit was held last November (Asian-Pacific Economic Cooperation). I didn't take much notice to the summit as it was happening last year, but it's not hard to put together why Bush, Hu Jintao (China), Tran Duc Luong (Viet Nam), Thaksin (Thailand), and Arroyo (Philippines), and others from Asia and South America were under the same roof - to advance the liberalisation of trade and promote the agenda of the WTO. I mentioned these particular leaders because they're all despised in either in their own countries for abuse of power and corruption (Bush, Thaksin, Arroyo), or despised from the outside for the same (the remaining "communist" lot). Naturally this debate never crosses threads when discussing liberating Middle Eastern folk from their assorted yokes. If I sound cynical, it's because I am. The building left standing after the summit was a museum full of awkward photos of Bush and Roh wearing hanboks, glitzy APEC 2005 souvenirs and memorabilia, and anything else to commemorate the multi-million dollar occasion. If I had a protest sign at the time, I'd bring with me a stolen petting zoo sign that reads "please do not feed the animals".

After our stroll around the tiny peninsula, we made our way back to the beach and plopped down in the sand for a round or three of Uno, yes, the same card game Sam and I used to play to no end on summer vacations. Playing with an Uno rookie is a real test of ethics and trust, however, as I found myself creating rules and limitations wherever necessary or convenient. "No, Wild Draw 4's can't be placed on top of yellow cards, and no, you can't choose blue with a wild card. I don't know why, it's just a rule." I don't mean to take a stab at Korean culture, but it is rather analogous to the ill-necessity of explanations in this hierarchy-dependent culture. Workers don't ask their bosses why they have to do something, they just grumble, nod, and do it because the boss says so. I encourage my students to break this habit with every opportunity. "Teacher, why am I doing this?" is met with no greater welcome.

Snapshots from Busan

February 8-11 Phuket

"Amazing Thailand" - Mimicking the Thai tourism ads, my pal Young repeats this in response to anything that can and does go wrong here in Thailand. After a smooth landing in Bangkok, the misadventures began as we moved on to Phuket in the south. As we anticipated an overnight (12-hour) bus ride, we chipped in a few extra baht for the first class "VIP" bus, which entails all the trimmings of a business class flight: cozy seats, air conditioning, a stewardess, and possibly personal t.v. units. I say possibly because, well, we never made it on the VIP bus. We had a ticket, purchased a day ahead of schedule, but somewhere along the miscommunication between us and the ticket window staff, we got our first class ticket - for the same day, not the following. Thus as we showed up at the southern bus station, sweating and short of breath after barely making the 8pm departure, we were puzzled as to why two people were sitting in our seats. In fact, the stewardesses couldn't figure it out either. No one could, until one observant passenger pointed out that our ticket was for the day before, and our bus was 24 hours long gone. The station crew, as accomodating as they were, refused to refund us, but offered us two empty seats on the second class bus, which is pretty much what I'm used to when taking the Greyhound bus from home to State College or elsewhere. We were disappointed because our tickets were twice the cost of a second class, but in the end, we're talking a difference of $10 and $20, though $10 goes a long way in Thailand. That's 10 beers, 4-5 hours of massage, or an air-conditioned room for a night. The ride wasn't bad, and we managed to sleep through most of the full-volume Thai dvd moviefest.

To sprinkle a little salt on our wounds, we arrived at our guesthouse, where Young had called and reserved a double room days ahead of time. As you can probably imagine where this is going, they had never heard of us and had nothing to show for it. Again, "Amazing Thailand". With 30kg of luggage strapped to my back, we plowed onward, from place to place, until we found an overpriced, oversized room, where at this point, we didn't take a liking to continuing the hunt for cheap rent. December to April, the so-called "dry season", is the peak season for visitors, and of course the prices double, sometimes triple. Our room was 1200 baht (~$26) for two, compared to the same accomodation for 440 baht in Bangkok. Phuket, a reknowned tourist town, was exactly that - a haven for divers, drinkers, and tail-chasers. It's not the first place in Thailand to bring your kids, though I was surprised while having a beer at a transgender go-go bar to find myself next to a Korean couple and their pre-teen kids, clapping and staring in awe (as did I) at the view.

The nightlife might not be as classy as the Seoul scene, but the diving here certainly makes up for it. I had an amazing two days deep in the Andaman Sea - and got my advanced open water diving license in the process! Young, a experienced diving instructor, took me on as his student during our five dives and after having completed the various underwater skills and reviewing the PADI textbook, I left with a new rank in the deep sea circuit. The skills were actually no different than what my Penn State instructor drilled into us as beginner students. As I realized only after this latest excursion, my PSU class was far more in depth (no pun there) than most open water dive courses, which makes sense considering my class was 24 hours of class and pool time vs. the usual two day on-site crash course. Unfortunately there was no night dive, which I was very much looking forward to, but the deep wreck dive was mindblowing. At a depth of about 30-33 meters (100-110 ft.) lay an ocean transit ferry that scraped a coral reef in 1997. As we were told, all 600 passengers survived, being that the water is air temperature and there were a dozen fishing vessels in the vicinity. However, there was no shortage of life forms on this ship - just not the original 600 passengers. We saw a sea turtle, barracudas, clown fish (Nemo!), spotted groupers, angel fish, and schools upon schools of unknown but beautiful species. We actually swam through enclosed parts of the deck and stern areas. Because the front of the ship collapsed during its demise, the ship's commodes were exposed to the ocean, which would've made for a great photo if my camera were waterproof. The only frustrating aspect of this venture, aside from turning green on the first day after a night on the town (kids, don't drink and dive), was the human traffic. There were so many divers from the 100+ dive shops in town that it would occasionally get frustrating as I tried to enjoy a serene moment, get a better view of something, or simply navigate without having camera-clicking sea tourists bump into me from above and below. I even got a fin kick in the stomach as one unaware diver passed me from below. I found it humorous that a school of 5,000 fish can twist and turn on the dime and never once bump scales with a fellow schoolmate, but the more sophisticated species with 75-years of underwater technology can't seem to find enough room in the sea to negotiate a pass without someone getting a maskful. I had a handful of more abstract ideas while underwater as well, some of which could've been from the deep-depth hysteria that many experience (I missed the buzzwagon, so far as I could tell). When divers from different dive shops pass each other underwater, they typically give the thumb and first finger "ok?" sign. Frustrated by the traffic, I wondered at one point what would happen if I gave them the finger instead - what could they do? Start a brawl at 50 feet under? Report me to big daddy PADI? I wasn't buzzed enough to find out.

February 7 - More Bangkok Bonanza

As day three is coming to an end, I'm faced with two questions that have been lingering in the back of my mind all this time. First of all, is three weeks enough time to experience a fair share of both Thailand and Cambodia? As always, there's a unsightly swarm of heavily-loaded backpackers doing the long term trek of all of Southeast Asia, including India, Indonesia, and wherever else it's cheap and warm (take note: don't go to Seoul right now). I have only two weeks here in Thailand and one week in Cambodia, but feel like I should have come here much sooner into my three month leave of work. The second question is, why are all the Thais so freaking happy? Granted this a bloated overstatement, I've already met scores of Thais, who on the average, are just curious and like to talk. Naturally I've been keeping my guard up and my packstraps tight after having been through my share of gringo traps and having heard much worse, but in many of my interactions with Thais I've been delightfully surprised. Sitting outside of a Buddhist temple this afternoon, I talked with a lounging Thai who has lived most of his life in London and had returned to look after his aging father. He told me Thailand is known as "the land of smiles". "You smile at someone, they smile back, it's simple. You try that in London and they'll think you're crazy." There's not as high a market demand for smiles as for say fruit and fish, but this is an uncommodified something we should all look into importing.

Yeah, ok, so there was this one tourist trap that I voluntarily stepped into, strictly for field research, I assure you. My pal Young is still working off yesterday's rum baskets at the guesthouse, so I headed off to the royal palace (Thailand is still a kingdom, keep in mind) to take in some visual pleasures. While walking around the massive public square in front of the palace, "friendly" old men come up, ask where I from, etc., then tell me ALL about the massive Buddha statues around the city, and I should take a tour of the three. They don't ask for money, and show no interest in selling me something. They help track down a Ttuk Ttuk (covered motorbike) driver and show him the little map they drew for me, then "negotiate" for an hour's tour for only 40 baht. Well, not in Bangkok do you get deals like that, and I knew something was up when the driver didn't put up any fuss at all for the low bid. I found later that everything the old fellas described about the Buddhas is true, and the driver wheeled me off to the first of the three temples. The whole ride, I kept thinking through possibilities (how can this guy fleece me) and could only think of one - Young told me it has happened to him several times where the driver pretends to have misheard the location and takes him to a far off place of similar name where there are no Ttuk Ttuk's to speak of except the driver who hauled him out there, then asking for a pricey fare to the intended destination. Well, that didn't happen, though I was getting nervous that we were straying so far from the starting point. I got to have a look at a massive gold-surfaced Buddha and share a couple laughs with a young monk who took me inside. I was listing the numerous reasons why I could never become a pious monk like him, and in the act made myself look like I'm addicted to booze and women. Anyway, he saw my driver getting impatient outside the temple and whispered that the guy is up to no good and wants to take me shopping. The monk was right, of course, and as I climbed back into the Ttuk Ttuk, the driver told me we should stop by a famous and cheap tailor which is conveniently on the way to the second Buddha. I refused, so he counters that he needs gas, and so we'll stop by the gas station, and I can "have a look" in a tour agency for a few minutes. I knew he didn't need gas, but I wanted to get on with the show, so we went... straight to the tour agency (hmm.. forgot about the gas!). I told him I didn't need a single thing inside the agency, and refused to go in. He eventually got so frustrated that he just told me to leave. Fortunately, the scherade ended in an area about 20 mins walk from the Banglamphu neighborhood, where all the whiteys are, and I had had a free tour of the first Buddha (of many).

The guesthouse neighborhood cracks me up. There are more farangs (whiteys) than there are Thais, many of them weighing more in dreads and facial hair than clothing. Nevertheless, there's four, maybe five.. hundred drinking holes to hit up, most of which are just carpets draped over a sidestreet. My favorite makeshift bar is actually a gas station by day and a tropical-themed hotspot by night. We sat on short bamboo tables next to a gas pump and began to get anxious as the server lit the candle for our table and Thais took drags from their cigarettes all around us (thought chain: gas, flame, boom). The only sparks that night were in the eyes of a young Thai girl, who, sitting at a nearby table with her friends, wrote a cute little note to me that said something like "I would like to get to know you better and if so please come over and sit with us." Young and I, intending on heading home early after that bucket of rum, ended up back on the carpet-bar street, going bucket for bucket until 5am with the Thai girls, their Swedish friends, and practically the UN of foreigners. Clearly, making friends here is a heck of a lot easier than getting a glimpse of the Buddhas.

Photo: me (American), Young (Korean), Enouv (Israel), and Bai (Thai)

February 6 - Bangkok, Thailand

Sawatdikup! I've arrived at long last in the land of legends and have no idea where to begin the story. I showed up at the Incheon airport dissheveled and unkempt after an all nighter on the Apgujeong scene with PJ and Jinhee. Unpacked and unprepared, I decided a final hurrah at the new NB dance club was better than getting a few hours sleep before a six hour daytime flight. Of course I didn't plan on getting back to my apartment as late as we did, and had all of 15 minutes to unearth the summer wardrobe, pack my bag and dash to the airport (by bus this time, thank god). Once again I checked in as the final call for the flight rang out over the intercom. Nevertheless, I stumbled my way onto the plane and promptly passed out for the next six hours. The hangover kicked in just as we started doing loops around Don Muang airport, waiting in a long que to land.

As luck would have it in the past, I struck up a conversation with several Koreans, one of them heading to the same neighborhood that I planned on staying in. Oh-Young, an older Korean guy with a strong English talent, had been to Thailand over a dozen times and is a scuba instructor. Suddenly, I had an itinerary for the week, as well as a kind travel mate. We've been bumbling around the Th Khao San neighborhood together, dining on curry this n' that, and even making stops in a Korean guesthouse/bar to see what the others are up to. Walking down a sidestreet, we saw a poorly photocopied advertisement for a public Thai kickboxing (Muy Thai) event, held as a community anti-drug program, so we headed there to scope it out. It was actually a small street near the river with a crowd of several hundred cheering Thais and maybe one or two other foreigners, at most. The kicker was, as we got closer to the ring, found that the contestants were no older than ten, wailing at each other with gloves bigger than their heads. Muy Thai is a way of life for many, and as I was told by Fielding and others in the past, they start training early! As tiny as they were, I still would not want to get in a scrap with these little guys - they matches went on for 3-5 rounds, even after it got bloody. There was a girl on girl matchup too, again, maybe 12 years old. Each fight began with the ceremonial bowing to each corner, then a dance/stretch to the tune of a drum, tinny snake-charmer flute and a chime. As each fought, they danced around the ring, swaying their little arms in the Muy Thai defense position. It was an awesome scene, watching these kids go at it round after round, kick after powerful kick.

Surrounded by so many new sights, I quickly forgot about my headache and lack of sleep. We went back to the Korean guesthouse, where upstairs was a Thai-style bar with the ice bucket combos of Thai rum, cola and M150 (similar to Red Bull). The party started anew, and we followed Young's Thai friend, who was celebrating her 24th birthday, to a live-band bar and had another round of booze buckets. Where Chinese culture shares several dishes at a restaurant, the Thais share a bucket with their mates through plastic straws. Several buckets and a few losing rounds of pool later, we ended up back at the guesthouse at 3am in worse condition than I showed up in Incheon. Hooyah.

Gotta run. To be continued.

Jan 29 to Feb 4 - Recoop in Seoul

Ok, I've had a week for my stomach to recover from Chinese cuisine and enough time to say "there!" to all my family who'd been asking "when you gonna update that blog?!". I came to Seoul just in time for 설날 (Sulnal), the Lunar New Year holiday, held all over Asia. Actually, it's celebrated everywhere but Seoul, because every last city slicker flees the capital for warmer lands or hometowns. That's ok, there were plenty of empty rooms at the Grand Hyatt Hotel, where Jinhee and I had time to unwind (she has a friend who works high in the Hyatt ranks) and gets crazy discounts, sometimes free stays. She's a keeper ;)

My pal PJ, Heather and Kelly's little bro (the third Evans installation in Korea) came back to Seoul for the sixth time, this time to stay and attend Yonsei University's international school. He'll be here for the next four years and come out bilingual and with a business/economics degree from a reknowned school. And maybe 20-30,000 dollars in debt. But that's what family is for! Anyway, he'll be staying at the chateau de la gangnam (my place) until I come back from my next adventure, or he finds an apartment, either way.

Speaking of my next sojourn, it's time to unveil my next planless plan - 3 weeks in Thailand and Cambodia... alone! Actually, Jinhee is planning to come down 2 weeks later, so we'll have 5-6 days together, but I'll be flying solo for the bulk of it. I'm leaving for Bangkok early tomorrow morning, and will probably just stay up all night tonight, especially if I meet up with PJ and company at the new NB club in Apgujeong.

If you're wondering, "why Thailand?", I'll have to prove it via blog, but know this - it was 14 degrees F (-9C) in broad daylight in Seoul yesterday. Add a little wind, and it dipped down to 4 F (-14C), leaving us with no will to step outside at night unless we had a pretty good reason (eating was barely justified). In comparison, Bangkok right now is a toasty 91F (33C) by day and 75F (23C) by night. It'll be tempting to stay until the weather is bearable back home in Seoul, but I have to come back by March for work and korean class.

January 26-28 - Hong Kong

Unfortunately, I have little to say about Hong Kong, this time around. It was a wonderously massive and crowded city with a British infrastructure and Chinese culture on the surface. The neighborhood I stayed in, Tsim Sha Tsui, felt a lot like Chinatown in NYC, some streets with extended neon signs covering every inch of open sky, others lined with designer name outlets, all streets with a foreign/Western face every tenth person or so. Historically it was and still is an international port city. It's also ten times as expensive as SW China, on par with Seoul prices. I tried to explain this to a navy duo I bumped into in a touristy marketplace:

Me: "Hey are you guys traveling to the mainland after Hong Kong? If so, you should hold off on that silk shirt and buy it there. I bought this same one for a tenth of the cost here, maybe $3.

Crew cut: "So, what you're saying is, it's cheaper there...?"

Me: (faltering) "Um, yes, that's what I'm getting at.."

Crew cut 2: "We can't go there. We're in the navy."

Me: (to myself) "yeah, I picked up on that..."


The photos from Hong Kong speak for themselves


Also interesting - a pro photographer's China series - click on Hong Kong architecture inside

January 25 and 26 - Shenzhen, China

Rising way before sunrise in Lijiang, it was the usual below freezing chill. We flew from Lijiang back to Kunming, and then from Kunming to Shenzhen, Wangyang's hometown in the SE corner of the Chinese mainland, about a 30 minute drive from the border of Hong Kong. Though it is no further south latitudinally, it was warmer, as we were much closer to the ocean and sea level altitude. There, her parents picked us up at the airport and whisked us away to her apartment for routine decontamination (ie shower and change of clothes). Her parents were unbelievably hospitable, making sure I always had a piece of fruit in my hand at all times. We went out to dinner at a fancy restaurant, where we, in Chinese style, ordered numerous dishes and shared everything, including two firsts for me - fried rabbit with peppers and steam frog. I was thrilled to try both, and neither, aside from the little bones, let me down.

From here, I was taken on a car tour of Shenzhen, "the city with no history" (quoting Wangyang). It's true. The city was an open market experiment that began in 1978 when Chairman Deng Xiaoping ended communist China's closed door policy to allow foreign interests in, both investors and tourists. The city developed at hyperspeed as income flowed in, as did Chinese businessmen and other professionals from all over the country. Thus, despite the southern regions of China speaking Cantonese dialect (like Hong Kong), most Shenzhenians, including Wangyang's parents, only speak Mandarin, the majority and official dialect. The city wasn't very photo-worthy, as it was only tall business buildings and brand new recreation centers.

However, we had quite a blast back at the house, playing Mahjong until after midnight. I had only heard about it through Yahoo advertisements, but never actually learned to play because of its complexity and confusing tiles. Here was another good opportunity to learn basic Chinese words, which in the case of Mahjong tiles, were again similar to Korean. The numbers, ee, ar, san, ser, o and directions, dong (east), nam (south), and so on. The funny thing was, I bumbled my way through the practice round, learning with everyone looking at my pieces as I went along, but then won the first serious round against a family of veteran Mahjong players! Though we could only understand each other through Wangyang's bilingual expertise, I felt very welcomed and had amazing nonverbal conversations with Wangyang's father, a professor of Chinese literature, as he taught me random Chinese words, customs, and efficient ways to eat sunflower seeds and peanuts.

It was very sad to leave the next morning, as I had to trek onward alone to Hong Kong. Though Hong Kong was returned to China in 1997, it is still called the SAR (Special Administrative Region), and Chinese mainlanders have to apply for a special passport at least a month in advance in order to travel there. Our trip was on a whim's notice, so no passport could be acquired for Wangyang and family. Though there was little to see in Shenzhen, I could happily stay there for weeks, if only everyone were as warm and happy as her family.

Shenzhen photos

Jan 23-24 - Exploring Lijiang

As time is running out for me to sum up ALL my China experiences, I'll have to share only photographs and the highlights. Be sure to click on the links at the bottom of each post to at least check out the photo slide shows.

Here's some interesting info on Lijiang from a China travel guide

For our last two days in Lijiang, we decided to slow down the sightseeing pace and just enjoy the relaxed atmosphere of possibly one of the most beautiful towns on earth. Later in the day, we wandered from the center of town, got on a local bus, and headed towards an adjacent town, Sehe, which was closed off to outsiders until just last year. From what I understand, it was an independent Naxi community, semi-autonomous, and reliant only on local production and trade. Since it opened up, it sold off its farmlands to outside developers (planning on building modern apartment complexes and even a 5-star hotel) and shifted its economy to almost entirely tourism. Fortunately, being new, it wasn't well known to many foreigners, so it still had a pristine, untouched feel to it. In fact, we enjoyed walking around much more because it looked (and was) much more authentic than the "preserved" Lijiang. To get inside the gated community, there was a large front entrance, where outsiders had to each pay 30RMB ($3.75) to enter. However, long before we reached the gate, we were approached by a local Naxi woman who offered to take us around back to the secret (ie local) entrance for 10RMB each. We're talking a difference of a couple dollars, but who could complain?

Of all the great moments we had walking around town and talking to locals, two were most memorable. First of all, at the center of Sehe in a large courtyard, there was a Naxi celebration (I think they have one every night, because it wasn't a holiday or a weekend), where men and women, both local and foreign, danced traditional Naxi dances around an open fire in the center. We observed and tried to figure out the footing, which is easy once you get the code, then jumped right in. People of all ages danced counterclockwise, hand in hand or arm in arm, some in traditional furs and dresses, some in whatever kept them warm. The old Naxi grannies were by far the best dancers, but there were also Naxi teens who kept the party moving. The stepping usually went like this - right, left, right, left, left kick, right, right kick, repeat. Yes, if you count, that's only seven steps... being a musician, I still can't figure out how this always seemed to match up to the beat, but it did, and everyone kept in stept quite well except for us. Another mystery is that with the start of a new song, there'd be a new dance pattern, usually similar to the last, but noticeably different to me, who was still struggling with the last one. I couldn't figure out who sets the step for the rest to follow! We danced for several hours, taking breaks here and there to have a beer at the bar facing the town square. The festivities officially went from 8 to 10pm, but we, along with some other young folk, kept the circle (now broken) moving until 10:30 or later.

Another interesting moment was the following day, when while back in Lijiang, stumbled across the open door of a traditional Chinese doctor/therapist. We wandered inside and upstairs, where Dr. Xiao (pr. "Zyao") was napping on the couch, not having had any customers at the time. He jumped up and grabbed us stools to sit on while we asked him 101 questions about Chinese medicine. He said he could diagnose people by looking at their faces alone, and that mine seemed pretty healthy, although I could use more sleep (which was true). He was trained by the masters in Beijing (about as far as NYC to Dallas) 40 or 50 some years ago, and was certified in a number of eastern medicinal fields that I had never even heard of. I had always wondered about acupuncture, and talked about it often with a Seoul neighbor who studied it for many years. As well, one of my students wrote about his acupunture experience, assuring me it was helpful and painless. Before I could flash back into the present, I was on the table with my pant legs rolled up and a guy swabbing my shins with antiseptic. I told Wangyang that I'd try it if she would, and she agreed, but I didn't think it over thoroughly when I found myself going first, and remembering my intense fear of needles, no matter how small. Dr. Xiao tried to get me to relax, but I kept tensing up and even my palms starting sweating. I could feel the needle on each leg go in, and even worse, when he'd rotate the needles a little once they were inside me, but I didn't know until after it was over that he only stuck one in each leg (see Yahoo photo for a close up) - I could swear there were at least two on each side, maybe more. Admittedly, it felt like other injections - not the initial prick, but the feeling like there's a cool liquid flowing underneath the surface. This was not a hypodermic injection though, so it was interesting to know that something was happening to my blood flow with merely a silver pin stuck in the right place in my leg. Leaving the pins in, he rubbed my abdomen, telling me that this is where the body's "chi" is located, and so by moving heat and energy to that part of the body, I would feel more balanced and less tense (though my only stress that day was the procedure itself, ironically). I didn't feel much different afterwards, but I was glad to have the pins out of my legs, which indirectly made me feel better (perhaps one could compare this to punching himself in the face in order to feel better after the pain subsides). I was excited to see my travel buddy go through the same discomfo.. er, I mean relaxing therapy, but she never got any needles!! Instead, she got a relaxing, semi-chiropractic fixup! I had been fooled, but, at least I can say I've given it a try and will never do it again unless I'm a.) mangled in an accident, or b.) unconscious/dead.

See the photos (these are good!)

January 21-22 - Lugu Lake

The bus ride from Lijiang to Lugu Lake cannot be adequately portrayed in a blog. In brief, most would agree on these three: painful, scary and long. Similar to my flight from Kunming to Lijiang, if one flew directly to the lake, it would take probably twenty minutes at most. The terrain, as you can see in the photo slideshow (below), doesn't allow for the smoothest and straightest of highways. We were all bewildered by the view of the winding, rocky "trails" (I darenot call them roads) until it sank in, maybe by the second or third hillside, that it would continue like this for the next six hours. The paths were intentionally rocky and unrefined to provide better tire traction, which is a compromise but a blessing considering there are no guardrails that separate us in a minibus from the 100m near-vertical cliffs. All it would take is a slight overturn of the steering wheel or the driver to nod off for a second to send us all on our way down before our time. This trip was no joke, and because of the jagged road surface, reading, listening to music, or even hearing each other was out of the range of possibility, leaving us nothing better to do than hold on tight and enjoy the view. Not surprisingly, we blew a tire and had to make a pit stop in a more populous town. Also along the way, we passed through several ethnic Yi villages, which sadly, I didn't have much time to learn about, rather only stop and use their bathrooms every couple hours.

When finally catching a glimpse of the lake, I was immediately reminded of two mountainous freshwater lakes I had been to before - Crater Lake in SW Oregon and Lake Ometepe in Nicaragua. We went down the the water with our bus group and found two boatmen offering to paddle us across the lake to an island with a Buddhist temple and some tombs. On the slow but relaxing ride, I learned that Chinese people do not share the same comtempt for seagulls as most Westerners, and brought chunks of old bread to lure them near and take pictures of them.

It was later back at the guestlodge that I made another discovery. From the moment my day started on the bus at sunrise to dinnertime at sunset, the only spoken english I had heard came from Wangyang or myself. As everyone was deliberating dinnerplans, my translator... ahem, I mean bilingual companion was in the shower and I was in the dark as far as plans were concerned. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, two of them came up to me and asked in not too shabby english if I planned on joining them for dinner or waiting for my friend. I almost fell off the bed, and spent the next ten minutes retracing my every conversation that day to make sure I didn't say anything too offensive that day.

Keep in mind, the lake itself was only one reason to make the hellish journey from Lijiang. This land is better known as... the free sex kingdom of China. Before you get any ideas ("how could he sink that low!"), know this - foreigners aren't included. We're invited to sing and dance, but that's as far as it goes. The region is inhabited by members of the Mosuo ethnic minority, a splinter of the Naxi people with similar matriarchal social structure, but a twist in the love department. Here's an interesting excerpt from a German travel site on the "free love" deal:

Marriage free - "Azhu" Lovers
Mosuo People are marriage-free. When the Mosuo girls reached 15 years of age, the boys reached 17, they are allowed to start their love affairs. The lovers (Called "Female Azhu" and "male Azhu") found each other freely. Mosuo people are good in singing and dancing. The young people dancing together and singing in Musou language to express their love.
The Musou girl has a special "Azhu" house to meet her lover. Her lover visits her during night and leave at morning.If the girl wishes to stop the love affair, she closed the door of her "Azhu House" to the man. Then the man will not come again. The love affair is finished. The lovers have no economic or any legal relationship. It is based on mutual love affection only. The wiliness of the females are very respected.

We attended a couple social events that night, the last of which was simply a covered edifice with a hundred Chinese visitors crowded around galbi/hibachi-style table grills, trading off drinking songs. Some, as I was told, were tributes to the communist party, another was the national anthem. The funniest moment was when they saw me and noticed I wasn't singing along, so they all chanted in unison, "A, B, C, D, E, F, G... H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P!" Parts of the song/alphabet were a little off, but I left my gradebook in Seoul, so who's checking? Each drinking song ended with a chant that we still haven't been able to translate, "Yaksok! Yaksok! Yak Yak Sok!" I trust that it wasn't anything too offensive, because we joined in the chanting wherever we could figure out what was going on.

The next morning we woke up before dawn to catch the sunrise over the lake. 6:40am is not exactly the warmest hour in the Tibetan foothills in January. I wore just about every layer I brought with me (2 t-shirts, 1 long sleeve shirt, 2 sweaters, and a hoodie), and was still chilly until the sun came around. The lake started to get brighter and a fisherman was already out in the water, but we couldn't see the crest of the sun until 8:30. As the photos show, it was well worth the wait.

Lugu Lake Photos

January 20 - Jade Dragon Snow Mountain

Rising rather early, our guesthouse owners drove us to the Naxi village at the base of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain (keep in mind that the name flows much better in Chinese). On the way, we stopped by a open-faced restaurant for a bite to eat. I don't know a better word for it, because it looked like an American style garage with no menu, just locals sitting on makeshift stools warming their hands by a pile of burning embers. A typical Yunnan breakfast is a steaming bowl of rice noodles with cabbage, an egg or two, and maybe some steamed bread.

From there we headed to the Naxi village, a cobbled-street hamlet with crumbling terracotta roofed houses and the occasional random animals wandering about. We arranged to have two guides take us on horseback up and back down the mountainside, which took just about all day from sunrise to sunset. We never saw it, but apparently there is a cable car for the less adventurous (and even lazier, if you're scoffing at having a horse do all the work).

My guide and I didn't know a single word of each other's language, but he spoke Mandarin Chinese, as most Naxi people do, along with their own language, so Wangyang once again bailed me out. I learned that while it doesn't pay to be a male horse, who get to lug the tourists around, it's certainly advantageous to be a Naxi guy. In their society, the division of labor is by no means divided - the women do it all! I was at last getting acquainted with my first matriarchal society, one of many exemplified in any introductory anthropology textbook.

As we worked our way up the hill, weaving back and forth on dusty trails, we stopped at several camps along the way. One of them served a new favorite local cuisine of mine - yak on a stick! It was a thin slice skewered and grilled, then garnished with cumin and salt.

Around 4pm we reached the final camp near the peak, where the horses took a long overdue rest. Keep in mind, we had to walk the rougher trails, and at 4000m above sea level, you lose your breath pretty quickly. I thought it was funny that all the Naxi locals at the top take naps in the sunlight. Many of them, including my guide, look much older than their age because of their nonstop exposure to sunlight. Nevertheless, several of them swore that there has never been a case of cancer in their community. Add that to my list of research projects.

We never actually reached the peak, as we weren't acclimated to the altitude and it would've taken another hour or two at our pace. Wangyang and I hobbled up the hill (now a 45 degree slope) about a meter a minute (it was that hard to breathe). We set a goal of a ledge in the near distance and eventually made it, wheezing and exhausted.

In an effort to keep us moving on the way up, Yang says "c'mon, we're communists, we're tough.
me: "communists are stubborn."
me, later: "communists defy humanity!"
WY: "communists deny humanity!"
This was only the beginning...

From the ledge (maybe 4500m), we could see hundreds of kilometers in the direction of the Naxi valley to the south and even Lijiang in the horizon. Around 5:00pm, the sun was setting over the surrounding cliffsides and our day's source of warmth was about to disappear, so we hurried back down to the base and saddled up for a long ride home.

Photos from the mountain

January 19 - Kunming to Lijiang, China

The journey to Kunming was almost derailed from the get-go. I showed up at the airport bus terminal in Seoul around 8:15pm, only to find the ticket window closed and the bus bays dark. The old security guards on the first floor informed me that the last bus was at 8pm, chuckling as if everyone learned this in kindergarten. Considering that my flight wasn't until 10:30pm, this still doesn't make a whole lot of sense.. to a last minute fella like me anyway. Thus, I had to pay a taxi $70 to drive me out there (1 hour from Gangnam).

Naturally this put a dent in my enthusiasm, as well as my budget, but once again I found there are merits to being late. As I was the last to show up at the boarding gate, I was informed that the econo section was all full, and I had been bumped up to business class, allowing me to board first before the line of disapproving passengers-to-be. China Air South's business class service is nothing to brag about, but the full service and three course meal got me over the taxi bill pretty quickly.

I arrived at 1:30am in Kunming, not exactly the best time to get acquainted with a new place. Of course there were the usual offers of overpriced taxi rides and hotels where the driver knows the hotel owner and gets a kickback. I had already booked a hotel through travelocity.com to avoid this hassle, but it turns out Travelocity was the one scamming me because I paid a western price for a ho-hum hotel when even the cost of the hotels the drivers were peddling were cheaper than this. For the price I paid, I could've easily had a 5-star hotel with all the trimmings... if I were Chinese, that is. As it goes in most tourist towns around the world, there's a domestic price and a foreigner price.

The next morning, I met my travel mate Wangyang at the airport, where she had flown in from her hometown of Shenzhen (southeastern China, near HongKong). For all you who don't know the story of the two of us, we met the year before as classmates in a Korean language institute in Seoul. At the time, she was living with her Korean fiance (now husband) and doing much better in the class than I was! We had time to kill until our next flight to Lijiang, so we walked around the city and explored a fruit market, in search of the mystic "durian", a painfully-spiked surfaced fruit with a custard-like inside. I had tried it many years back in NYC, but it didn't live up to its reputation as a fruit that "...smells like hell, tastes like heaven" (Wickipedia.com's Durian). Even in a land of wonderfully fresh, cheap and abundant fruit, the durian that we eventually found was unripe and costly. We left it behind as the thrill of the find dwindled and were faced with the reality of hauling it back to the airport.

The flight from Kunming to Lijiang was only 45 minutes and 700RMB ($85 roundtrip), where a bus ride would take around 8 hours. This was puzzling, until we saw the terrain we were flying over - an undeveloped, highway-less mountain range. On the flight to Lijiang, Wangyang taught me how to write my first Chinese word, 中国 (Chun-guo), the word for China. This is similar to Korean, chun-guk and the word the respective words for Korea, Han-guo, hanguk.

I didn't know what to make of Lijiang at first. As much as it was a "preserved ancient city", it struck me as a touristy shopping mall, replete with foreign wanderers and camera wielders. After we got situated though, it grew on me, and there was so much to take in visually that I let my guard down. There's no shortage of guesthouses, but the one we found was owned by a Naxi (indigenous people) family and home to an irresistable, ankle-biting mutt we named "Pinky" for his stylish wardrobe of doggie coats.

Yunnan food, as I was beginning to learn during lunch, is cooked in one way only - deeeep fried. Everything, from the bread to the meats, take a hot grease bath, except for maybe the veggies, which are then sauteed in at least a wading pool of oil. My stomach wasn't my biggest fan during these days.

I found it rather strange that one beer costs nearly as much as a night at a guesthouse (between 30-50RMB, or $4 to 6). It goes without saying that I was a little more concerned about blowing a hole in my intestinal track than in my wallet.

Click here for today's photos (Yahoo slideshow)

Wednesday, D-Day

Greetings,

You are about to virtually join me on my five week Asian Odyssey and beyond. No pretense intended. As a blog reflects one's thoughts, so too does it reflect his work ethos - disorganized and last minute!!! I'm leaving for the airport in 10 minutes, so the journey, if not begun long ago, starts here and now.

First leg of the trip - Seoul to Incheon airport by bus, then fly to Kunming, China.

Kunmoi? Yes, type it in Google Earth. It's the capital of the Yunnan province in Southern China. The region, unlike all the major cities we've come to know in the news and whatnot, is the rural underbelly of the China juggernaut - home to dozens of undermentioned indigenous groups, surreal landscapes, as well as the gateway to the ancient Silk Road, Tibet and India.

Follow me down the rabbit hole. Here we go!