A teacher once told me that there are no good writers, just good editors and it's something I've repeated to students of my own. That being said, I think editing comes in different forms. When I was in school, I hated handing in drafts. Most often, I would write my piece and then go backwards and create the "drafts" I was supposed to hand in with the final copy, trying to create feasible changes I might have made. I found it a tiresome exercise, mainly because I tend to edit as I go. This is not to say I don't believe in teaching writing process -- I just believe that there's more than one.
The writing and editing process -- thinking through flow, word choice, and everything else as you write and revise -- took on a whole new meaning recently when I read The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby. Once the editor-in-chief of Elle magazine in Paris, the author suffered a stroke and became paralyzed, unable to move anything except one eyelid. By blinking his one eyelid then, he dictated a book about his experiences with Locked-In Syndrome. Thanks to the speech therapist who devised a blinking/alphabet code with the letters in order according to their frequency of use in the French language (brilliant!), and the woman who patiently recorded his words, Bauby offers a concise, but rich glimpse into his world.
On the subject of worlds, I've just finished Haruki Murakami's Kafka on the Shore that I thoroughly enjoyed. Totally surreal and fantastical but gripping action and interesting ideas as well. Would definitely recommend it...
Separately, Pat pointed out to me that I'm now a bona fide recording artist. I have a set of 6 CDs, on sale now, complete with a set of educational readers. That's right. I'm one of those voices. If you want to hear some questionably educational passages read by yours truly, give me a shout. They even come with multiple choice questions to test your listening/reading comprehension. Yippee :)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
Finally... the elephants
As I'm about to retire another notebook, I decided it was time to finally finish writing about my travels this summer. It's been a long time coming -- a little bit of the albatross on my shoulder -- but here it is.
This was more on the beginning end of our trip in Laos and we saw and experienced much more after this (probably accurately summed up as buddhas, stupas, fruit shakes and massages) but this remains the closest to my heart.
As most people who know me are aware, I've always liked animals. Dogs, monkeys, zebras, giraffes, lionstigersandbearsohmy. On this trip, however, I (re)discovered a deep, inner love for elephants.
Walking down the main tourist street of Luang Prabang on one of our first days in Laos, we spotted a sign for something called the Elephant Park Project. A few days later, we embarked on our excursion to "live like a mahout".
Move up, move up, closer to her head, my mahout gestured. I wriggled myself forward and brought my knees up, tucking them behind her wide, flapping ears. As we swayed from side to side, she folded her ears back, holding my knees snugly in place. Cozy, I thought. As we trekked through the grass, I rubbed the top of her head with its sparse but coarse black hairs. I held on as she leaned forward to grab a shrub or a bush with her trunk. Always snacking, these elephants are. Sometimes uprooting entire plants, leaving a gaping hole in the ground. Watch your step!
When they open their mouths, you can't help but think they look like they're smiling. I tore a couple bananas off the bunch and lay them on her trunk. She tossed them in. Chomp, chomp. "Ok, I'm ready again." She unfurled her empty trunk expectantly. One, two... she continued to wait. Ok fine, three, four. "Eat those, first," I told her. She indulged me, but I could't help but feel like she was thinking, "Silly person."
Over the afternoon and early next morning that we spent with the elephants, we fed them bananas and pineapples, we walked with them along the water, through the water, and into the jungle where they spent the night, and I fell utterly and completely in love. They're simply amazing. Every part of them. Their trunks, slurping up water like a straw and then squirting it into their mouths; their tails, with their long black hairs that look almost like feather; their big, thick, round feet with the rounded toenails and wrinkly bottoms.
The mahout tried to show me up how to climb up on her with a hop, skip and a jump. When he does it, it looks so easy. One, two, up. One hand holding onto her ear, then stepping onto the leg she's raised to help him up. Alas, I'm not quite so graceful. Even when she was sitting down, my ascent was not so pretty to look at.
When we met them in the jungle in the morning, our dear friends were covered -- absolutely caked -- in mud. It had rained hard the night before and clearly they had decided to have a little party of rolling in the mud. Who can blame them? They knew they'd have a bath in the morning anyways...
As we reached the river for said bath, the elephants opened their mouths and seemed to grin. My mahout and I were armed with a long handled brush and a metal basin but I wasn't all too clear how this 'bath' was going to go down. I soon found out. Splosh, splosh, splosh, in she went. As she got settled in the river, the mahout shouted an order and the next instant, she was sitting. He handed me the brush and pointed at her head. I scrubbed. We traded and I poured basins and basins of water on us, trying to rid her of the brown tinge. Limited luck. As I scrubbed away, I felt her weight shift. Oh no... tell me she doesn't want to roll around in the cool, brown water. I envisioned myself squashed like a pancake by a bathing elephant. The mahout steadied her though snd she resisted the temptation. Much scrubbing and rinsing later, we emerged, slightly less muddy, considerably more wet but altogether a happy crew. Oh yeah... elephants are the best.
This was more on the beginning end of our trip in Laos and we saw and experienced much more after this (probably accurately summed up as buddhas, stupas, fruit shakes and massages) but this remains the closest to my heart.
As most people who know me are aware, I've always liked animals. Dogs, monkeys, zebras, giraffes, lionstigersandbearsohmy. On this trip, however, I (re)discovered a deep, inner love for elephants.
Walking down the main tourist street of Luang Prabang on one of our first days in Laos, we spotted a sign for something called the Elephant Park Project. A few days later, we embarked on our excursion to "live like a mahout".
Move up, move up, closer to her head, my mahout gestured. I wriggled myself forward and brought my knees up, tucking them behind her wide, flapping ears. As we swayed from side to side, she folded her ears back, holding my knees snugly in place. Cozy, I thought. As we trekked through the grass, I rubbed the top of her head with its sparse but coarse black hairs. I held on as she leaned forward to grab a shrub or a bush with her trunk. Always snacking, these elephants are. Sometimes uprooting entire plants, leaving a gaping hole in the ground. Watch your step!
When they open their mouths, you can't help but think they look like they're smiling. I tore a couple bananas off the bunch and lay them on her trunk. She tossed them in. Chomp, chomp. "Ok, I'm ready again." She unfurled her empty trunk expectantly. One, two... she continued to wait. Ok fine, three, four. "Eat those, first," I told her. She indulged me, but I could't help but feel like she was thinking, "Silly person."
Over the afternoon and early next morning that we spent with the elephants, we fed them bananas and pineapples, we walked with them along the water, through the water, and into the jungle where they spent the night, and I fell utterly and completely in love. They're simply amazing. Every part of them. Their trunks, slurping up water like a straw and then squirting it into their mouths; their tails, with their long black hairs that look almost like feather; their big, thick, round feet with the rounded toenails and wrinkly bottoms.
The mahout tried to show me up how to climb up on her with a hop, skip and a jump. When he does it, it looks so easy. One, two, up. One hand holding onto her ear, then stepping onto the leg she's raised to help him up. Alas, I'm not quite so graceful. Even when she was sitting down, my ascent was not so pretty to look at.
When we met them in the jungle in the morning, our dear friends were covered -- absolutely caked -- in mud. It had rained hard the night before and clearly they had decided to have a little party of rolling in the mud. Who can blame them? They knew they'd have a bath in the morning anyways...
As we reached the river for said bath, the elephants opened their mouths and seemed to grin. My mahout and I were armed with a long handled brush and a metal basin but I wasn't all too clear how this 'bath' was going to go down. I soon found out. Splosh, splosh, splosh, in she went. As she got settled in the river, the mahout shouted an order and the next instant, she was sitting. He handed me the brush and pointed at her head. I scrubbed. We traded and I poured basins and basins of water on us, trying to rid her of the brown tinge. Limited luck. As I scrubbed away, I felt her weight shift. Oh no... tell me she doesn't want to roll around in the cool, brown water. I envisioned myself squashed like a pancake by a bathing elephant. The mahout steadied her though snd she resisted the temptation. Much scrubbing and rinsing later, we emerged, slightly less muddy, considerably more wet but altogether a happy crew. Oh yeah... elephants are the best.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Our first Three Elephants
The day begins at the market, us dutifully following behind Ruth, our Lao-Australian guide explaining and expounding on what 'the Lao' love to eat. Not a bit of an animal is spared, she tells us, and as if on cue, a pig's face appears on the butcher's table before us. I sneak a wide-eyed, gluttonous glance at the others as we pass overflowing piles of rambutans, mangosteens, lichees. As we walk, she picks up a few carrots here, a few mangoes there and hands them to Leng, who adds them to the bag slung over his shoulder.
It's the first part of our full-day Lao cooking class at the Three Elephants Cooking School in Luang Prabang. Our teachers are Neng and Leng, both who have been trained at Tamnak Lao, Ruth's affiliated restaurant. Over many hours, we watch, we taste, we try, and we eat. On a more minute level, we chop, we peel, we slice, we blend, we pound, we grind, and we stirfry. Again and again. The result? Seven dishes between two work stations and three very satisfied bellies.
As we eat, we also listen. Neng tells us about life in his Hmong village, a two-day journey from the city. There, they grow both steamed and sticky rice -- the one in paddies, the other in soil. He tells us about his eight other siblings and how he came to the city as an alternative to the hard life of the farmers. He is studying at the teacher training college and taking extra classes at an English language school, run by Ruth's friend. He tells us with humble gratitude that Ruth and her friend are like parents to him. They help him with rent, with lessons and the chance to cook and teach about making Lao food. He tells us he'd like to take what he's learned back to his village and let them taste this Lao food, so unlike Hmong food in their village. He tells us about getting sick when he was young; the visions he saw in his sleep and the sickness that has slowed him down ever since. He tells us about the computer classes he's taking and about typing emails to his uncle in Wisconsin, one finger at a time. He asks us excitedly if we have email and carefully writes down his address to exchange.
As I listen, again, I'm impressed with the openness with which he shares his life with us. He talks freely, unassumedly. His stories carry a hopefulness -- of being in the city, of studying and learning, of working hard to pursue a goal -- of what the future holds. What a contrast it seems to some of the tired and disillusioned comments we heard earlier that day...
It's the first part of our full-day Lao cooking class at the Three Elephants Cooking School in Luang Prabang. Our teachers are Neng and Leng, both who have been trained at Tamnak Lao, Ruth's affiliated restaurant. Over many hours, we watch, we taste, we try, and we eat. On a more minute level, we chop, we peel, we slice, we blend, we pound, we grind, and we stirfry. Again and again. The result? Seven dishes between two work stations and three very satisfied bellies.
As we eat, we also listen. Neng tells us about life in his Hmong village, a two-day journey from the city. There, they grow both steamed and sticky rice -- the one in paddies, the other in soil. He tells us about his eight other siblings and how he came to the city as an alternative to the hard life of the farmers. He is studying at the teacher training college and taking extra classes at an English language school, run by Ruth's friend. He tells us with humble gratitude that Ruth and her friend are like parents to him. They help him with rent, with lessons and the chance to cook and teach about making Lao food. He tells us he'd like to take what he's learned back to his village and let them taste this Lao food, so unlike Hmong food in their village. He tells us about getting sick when he was young; the visions he saw in his sleep and the sickness that has slowed him down ever since. He tells us about the computer classes he's taking and about typing emails to his uncle in Wisconsin, one finger at a time. He asks us excitedly if we have email and carefully writes down his address to exchange.
As I listen, again, I'm impressed with the openness with which he shares his life with us. He talks freely, unassumedly. His stories carry a hopefulness -- of being in the city, of studying and learning, of working hard to pursue a goal -- of what the future holds. What a contrast it seems to some of the tired and disillusioned comments we heard earlier that day...
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Photos...
So I'm back in Hong Kong now and need to gather my thoughts on the rest of our adventures in Laos. In the meantime, though, I've uploaded some photos onto Flickr (I've converted -- it's great!). You'll notice that there are significantly more photos from Laos and Yunnan than from Vietnam -- a reflection in part of how long I spent there, but also an experiment in relying on writing to capture my impressions of Hanoi, rather than pics.
More stories from Laos to come soon...
More stories from Laos to come soon...
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Birthday surprise
A belated thanks to everyone for all the birthday wishes. For those who hoped I was doing something special, let me assure you that I was -- thanks to YuppieNomad and j.fisher, my wonderful travelling buddies.
The first birthday surprise began at the Luang Nam Tha bus station with us realizing that we had set our watches forward instead of back when leaving China.
"Come back at 8:15? But it's 8:30 now."
"It's 6:30 now."
"6:30? Really?"
The upside is it gave us time for breakfast and a visit to the market to pick up some mangosteens and rambutans for the road. We were headed to Luang Prabang.
The second birthday surprise was the relative painlessness of the bus ride. We had heard horror stories of Lao buses and roads. A Brit we met in Kunming told us that he felt like Chinese buses were heaven, compared to Laos. I braced myself for the worst, but it wasn't bad at all. There was the regular picking up and dropping off of passengers at random spots along the way and the cramming in of passengers on little plastic stools in the aisles but we had no livestock this time (see j.fisher's accurate description of bus rides in recent memory), no smoking on the bus and only one little novice monk puking. Not bad at all. Plus, everyone seemed to be in great spirits. The bus driver and his crew were continually laughing and joking -- it really seemed like a party up there -- and bus rides that add 1-2 hours onto the scheduled time no longer faze me much.
The best birthday surprise though was where we headed after the bus ride. The dynamic duo revealed that in honour of my birthday, we were going to stay at a hotel. And a pretty luxurious one at that; fit for a king, you could say. Enter Maison Souvannaphoum, once the official residence of Prince Souvanna Phouma. Let's just say we enjoyed the eating, the comfy beds and the swimming pool enough that we gave in and asked for a late check-out. Thanks, guys! :)
The first birthday surprise began at the Luang Nam Tha bus station with us realizing that we had set our watches forward instead of back when leaving China.
"Come back at 8:15? But it's 8:30 now."
"It's 6:30 now."
"6:30? Really?"
The upside is it gave us time for breakfast and a visit to the market to pick up some mangosteens and rambutans for the road. We were headed to Luang Prabang.
The second birthday surprise was the relative painlessness of the bus ride. We had heard horror stories of Lao buses and roads. A Brit we met in Kunming told us that he felt like Chinese buses were heaven, compared to Laos. I braced myself for the worst, but it wasn't bad at all. There was the regular picking up and dropping off of passengers at random spots along the way and the cramming in of passengers on little plastic stools in the aisles but we had no livestock this time (see j.fisher's accurate description of bus rides in recent memory), no smoking on the bus and only one little novice monk puking. Not bad at all. Plus, everyone seemed to be in great spirits. The bus driver and his crew were continually laughing and joking -- it really seemed like a party up there -- and bus rides that add 1-2 hours onto the scheduled time no longer faze me much.
The best birthday surprise though was where we headed after the bus ride. The dynamic duo revealed that in honour of my birthday, we were going to stay at a hotel. And a pretty luxurious one at that; fit for a king, you could say. Enter Maison Souvannaphoum, once the official residence of Prince Souvanna Phouma. Let's just say we enjoyed the eating, the comfy beds and the swimming pool enough that we gave in and asked for a late check-out. Thanks, guys! :)
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The land of craaazy skies
My first impressions of Laos? The people are relaxed and the skies are craaazy. It seems like every time I look up, the clouds are doing something else to amaze/entertain me. Stripes, poufs, layers like shading, dark brooding clouds and others like a tornado touching down in the distance. One reminds me of the wind and clouds from the age-old story about the competition between the wind and the sun, blowing with all its might.
Suddenly, all there is is whiteness. The sky's been erased, leaving only the green outlines of the palm trees. We walk towards the white and I feel an isolated drop on my head. I check the pavement for confirmation. The splashes in the rice paddies along the road grow more frequent. We wave down a passing pickup. It passes, it slows, it hesitates, it goes. Yes? No? Yes? No? Finally, it stops. They've discussed, they've decided -- the teenagers in the pickup. j.fisher gestures and smiles, "Bus station?" We hop in the back with two of the guys. One motions to space in the backseat of the cab, but we shake our heads, no. "We're ok here. Thank you!"
It starts to rain some more. He asks again. We smile -- we're ok. A few minutes later, he bangs on the roof of the cab and the truck slows to a stop. He doesn't really ask, he just points. We relent and scramble into the backseat, touched by their graciousness. The guy in the passenger seat doesn't even lean back in his seat, for fear of squishing us. We insist it's ok but he persists with his forward lean. The rain is now pelting down on us and they roll up the windows. We look back to see the other two leaning against the cab for a tiny modicum of protection. We're cognizant that they gave up their shelter as a gesture of kindness to the strangers by the roadside. When they drop us off, they insist on backing up as close to cover as they possibly can. We drop our heads, we smile, we grin -- anything to try and convey our gratitude. We wave and shout our thanks as they drive off, "Khawp jai."
Suddenly, all there is is whiteness. The sky's been erased, leaving only the green outlines of the palm trees. We walk towards the white and I feel an isolated drop on my head. I check the pavement for confirmation. The splashes in the rice paddies along the road grow more frequent. We wave down a passing pickup. It passes, it slows, it hesitates, it goes. Yes? No? Yes? No? Finally, it stops. They've discussed, they've decided -- the teenagers in the pickup. j.fisher gestures and smiles, "Bus station?" We hop in the back with two of the guys. One motions to space in the backseat of the cab, but we shake our heads, no. "We're ok here. Thank you!"
It starts to rain some more. He asks again. We smile -- we're ok. A few minutes later, he bangs on the roof of the cab and the truck slows to a stop. He doesn't really ask, he just points. We relent and scramble into the backseat, touched by their graciousness. The guy in the passenger seat doesn't even lean back in his seat, for fear of squishing us. We insist it's ok but he persists with his forward lean. The rain is now pelting down on us and they roll up the windows. We look back to see the other two leaning against the cab for a tiny modicum of protection. We're cognizant that they gave up their shelter as a gesture of kindness to the strangers by the roadside. When they drop us off, they insist on backing up as close to cover as they possibly can. We drop our heads, we smile, we grin -- anything to try and convey our gratitude. We wave and shout our thanks as they drive off, "Khawp jai."
Why does it always rain in Kunming?
Our second visit to Kunming and it was raining again. As YuppieNomad pointed out, we had somehow designated it an errand-running city, and while that generally is not very exciting in itself, the rain didn't do much to lift our spirits.
M for meat or mother. A for apple. L for love. A for apple. R for red. I for ice cream. A for apple. No, I don't have malaria. I want to prevent it. I am speaking Chinese. So, perhaps needless to say, our quest for anti-malaria meds in Kunming was unsuccessful, despite a visit even to a local Chinese hospital. I don't like hospitals to begin with and believe me, I never want to see one like that again.
Kunming did have some redeeming moments, though. We did eventually get our Lao visas --and for the right dates-- after chasing down the consulate people in their rooms. We also visited the food court-esque place we had discovered the last time that has booths featuring foods from different parts of China (plus Korea). And, we found a place to have sushi after having talked about it many days previously. "Maybe in Kunming," YuppieNomad kept saying. Well, our hopes were realized. [Yes, we live a tough life.] At any rate, it was definitely a good last meal to have before the long bus rides to Lao.
M for meat or mother. A for apple. L for love. A for apple. R for red. I for ice cream. A for apple. No, I don't have malaria. I want to prevent it. I am speaking Chinese. So, perhaps needless to say, our quest for anti-malaria meds in Kunming was unsuccessful, despite a visit even to a local Chinese hospital. I don't like hospitals to begin with and believe me, I never want to see one like that again.
Kunming did have some redeeming moments, though. We did eventually get our Lao visas --and for the right dates-- after chasing down the consulate people in their rooms. We also visited the food court-esque place we had discovered the last time that has booths featuring foods from different parts of China (plus Korea). And, we found a place to have sushi after having talked about it many days previously. "Maybe in Kunming," YuppieNomad kept saying. Well, our hopes were realized. [Yes, we live a tough life.] At any rate, it was definitely a good last meal to have before the long bus rides to Lao.
Mama Naxi
I've been blogging a lot about people we've met and the reason is simple -- the people we've met in Yunnan are some of the kindest I've encountered in China.
For other views and more details about our travels, visit j.fisher and YuppieNomad's blogs. I love the fact that we're travelling and blogging together because I, for sure, can't remember or capture all that we're experiencing; plus, reading their renditions as we go along makes me smile and I haven't even left them yet. Another upside for you guys is that they've posted some pics, which I promise to do... eventually.
Ok so back to Mama Naxi. I first heard of her on a boat in Halong Bay, Vietnam from Emma, an Australian girl who had never been to Lijiang herself. Then, there were the American girls in Zhongdian who raved about her kindness and Mama-like tendencies. And finally, there was Amit, the Israeli guy on the bus from Baishuitai who told us about her 8 yuan all-you-can-eat dinners and led us to her. Now we too know why she's famous. Bananas upon arrival and departure, dinners where the number of dishes on the table does not vary proportionately with the number of people sitting around it, and potpourri on a string that has rescued our noses on countless occasions since then. Plus, you can buy bus tickets from her and she'll pick you up/drop you off at the bus station or even the airport. The place also has free internet (limited to half an hour at a time) and a cozy atmosphere where guests eat, sit and relax together. If you go to Lijiang, pay her a visit. The official name for her place is Gu Cheng Xiang Ge Yun Ke Zhan (Address: #78 Wen Hua, WuYi, DaYan).
For other views and more details about our travels, visit j.fisher and YuppieNomad's blogs. I love the fact that we're travelling and blogging together because I, for sure, can't remember or capture all that we're experiencing; plus, reading their renditions as we go along makes me smile and I haven't even left them yet. Another upside for you guys is that they've posted some pics, which I promise to do... eventually.
Ok so back to Mama Naxi. I first heard of her on a boat in Halong Bay, Vietnam from Emma, an Australian girl who had never been to Lijiang herself. Then, there were the American girls in Zhongdian who raved about her kindness and Mama-like tendencies. And finally, there was Amit, the Israeli guy on the bus from Baishuitai who told us about her 8 yuan all-you-can-eat dinners and led us to her. Now we too know why she's famous. Bananas upon arrival and departure, dinners where the number of dishes on the table does not vary proportionately with the number of people sitting around it, and potpourri on a string that has rescued our noses on countless occasions since then. Plus, you can buy bus tickets from her and she'll pick you up/drop you off at the bus station or even the airport. The place also has free internet (limited to half an hour at a time) and a cozy atmosphere where guests eat, sit and relax together. If you go to Lijiang, pay her a visit. The official name for her place is Gu Cheng Xiang Ge Yun Ke Zhan (Address: #78 Wen Hua, WuYi, DaYan).
Blue-eyed granny
We met our Granny Naxi on the same day as the incense cowboy; in fact, probably not a half hour later. We strolled past her restaurant where she was working in the garden and she waved an arm our way. "Come, see if you want to eat. If you want to eat, you eat; if you don't want to eat, it's ok."
Swayed by her kind lilting voice and good-natured soft sell, we sit ourselves down by the window. She brings us sunflower seeds and tiny nectarines to whet our appetites -- "We grow these ourselves. We don't sell them. Try. For free!" Tasty noodles and the best(!) wild mushroom fried rice later, she settles down to sit with us for a while. She tells us that most of the things they eat are wild -- from the mountain -- and not the things they grow. She tells us about her daughter, teaching Chinese and Chinese history at a high school in Shangri-la for over 10 years. She tells us about her son, now married to a Shangri-la girl, and their eight-month-old son that she's been helping to care for, until yesterday.
"Have you been to Bita Hai? It's really beautiful. My daughter drove me there -- she can drive -- on June 14th. It's beautiful. Everywhere you look!" She turns her head, "Over here is beautiful," and again, "Over there is beautiful."
"It's beautiful here," we interject, gesturing towards the mountain scenery.
"Yes, it's beautiful here, but it's more beautiful there. You didn't go? Oh, what a shame. Such a shame. And a shame that you came so late! If you came earlier, we would go around the village to tell the Naxi girls and they would do some Naxi dance for you. But now, so late, no time to go around. They would put on the traditional Naxi dress and dance. When the six students from Hong Kong came, they danced for them. And when the chefs from Guizhou came, they danced for them. They would dance for you too, but now, too late."
She's a sweetie, this granny, and she invites us back for breakfast the next day. "Good morning! Hello! I'll make some baba for you. Sit down." She watches out for our bus and encourages us to eat more, eat more. She worries we don't like it because we can't clean the plate. "No no, we like it. We're very full, thank you." She warns us that we won't get to Lijiang until after lunchtime.
"Next time, come again and I will take you to all the beautiful places around here. I know them -- Bita Hai, etc, etc. We'll go together. Next time you come. Do you live far? If you come, we'll go together. If you don't come, it'll be a shame but there's nothing I can do. Come again. May is the best time. Bye bye!"
We leave her, our granny Naxi with the kind face and grey-blue eyes, her little pup tangled at her feet, standing in the front yard making porridge and waving goodbye.
Swayed by her kind lilting voice and good-natured soft sell, we sit ourselves down by the window. She brings us sunflower seeds and tiny nectarines to whet our appetites -- "We grow these ourselves. We don't sell them. Try. For free!" Tasty noodles and the best(!) wild mushroom fried rice later, she settles down to sit with us for a while. She tells us that most of the things they eat are wild -- from the mountain -- and not the things they grow. She tells us about her daughter, teaching Chinese and Chinese history at a high school in Shangri-la for over 10 years. She tells us about her son, now married to a Shangri-la girl, and their eight-month-old son that she's been helping to care for, until yesterday.
"Have you been to Bita Hai? It's really beautiful. My daughter drove me there -- she can drive -- on June 14th. It's beautiful. Everywhere you look!" She turns her head, "Over here is beautiful," and again, "Over there is beautiful."
"It's beautiful here," we interject, gesturing towards the mountain scenery.
"Yes, it's beautiful here, but it's more beautiful there. You didn't go? Oh, what a shame. Such a shame. And a shame that you came so late! If you came earlier, we would go around the village to tell the Naxi girls and they would do some Naxi dance for you. But now, so late, no time to go around. They would put on the traditional Naxi dress and dance. When the six students from Hong Kong came, they danced for them. And when the chefs from Guizhou came, they danced for them. They would dance for you too, but now, too late."
She's a sweetie, this granny, and she invites us back for breakfast the next day. "Good morning! Hello! I'll make some baba for you. Sit down." She watches out for our bus and encourages us to eat more, eat more. She worries we don't like it because we can't clean the plate. "No no, we like it. We're very full, thank you." She warns us that we won't get to Lijiang until after lunchtime.
"Next time, come again and I will take you to all the beautiful places around here. I know them -- Bita Hai, etc, etc. We'll go together. Next time you come. Do you live far? If you come, we'll go together. If you don't come, it'll be a shame but there's nothing I can do. Come again. May is the best time. Bye bye!"
We leave her, our granny Naxi with the kind face and grey-blue eyes, her little pup tangled at her feet, standing in the front yard making porridge and waving goodbye.
Baishuitai
"White water terrace", so named for the only mildly remarkable limestone terraces that grace the hillside above this village, about a 2-hour bus ride away from Shangri-la. The different formations have been named for fairies, dragons, and goddesses among other things, but it was largely lost on us. In fact, from far away, they might even be mistaken for plastic tarp-covered crops. We did, however, meet on the terraces the man we would come to refer to as the incense cowboy.
Decked in the cowboy hat that is ever-popular around Yunnan, he invited us to his shrine on the terraces, handing each of us three sticks of incense, lighting a small fire and blessing the backs of our heads with a pine branch. He wished us peace, safety, good fortune and prosperity and instructed us to touch our heads, bowed, to the limestone. He asked us where we were from and for a token of appreciation, which we willingly gave -- to be repaid manifold only a short time later.
Our visit to the terraces was not long and soon we were wandering down the one street of the village, looking for a restaurant or place to sit. We noticed a finely decorated gateway, complete with tiled well-wishes and scenic pictures. We paused, wondering if it was a guesthouse or a restaurant, when a man at the doorway beckoned us inside. A courtyard, some chickens, a granny with a baby strapped to her back. "Ni hao."
He invited us in for some tea and I suddenly recognized that he was the one and the same, incense cowboy. He gestured us inside a dark doorway and we entered into a spacious room with sofas and cushions around a hearth -- fire, bursting through a wok with a heavy, black kettle, always ready for tea. He hung his hat and his necklace on their regular hook and together, we sat and chatted. Clad in his orange-yellow sweats, the three-year-old grandson wandered in and looked hesitantly at us strangers. Granny offered us tea and massive white steamed buns, of which the little boy would have none, despite YuppieNomad's efforts. He listened and looked as she showed him her pictures, though, and even posed for a shot himself. Meanwhile, we learned that the baby was not feeling well because she had just had a shot. We learned that the couple had four sons, one of whom lived down the street, while the others had flown the nest to work in the city (Shangri-la). Our cowboy asked us to invite others to come to Baishuitai and visit his shrine, but declined to give us his name. "Just tell them to come here. I'll be there. I'm there everyday."
So, as promised, I'm spreading the word. And, as he is too -- about the Vietnamese from America and the Chinese girl from Canada that he met. After all, he started telling his story about us before we even left. The incense cowboy has a cell phone too.
Decked in the cowboy hat that is ever-popular around Yunnan, he invited us to his shrine on the terraces, handing each of us three sticks of incense, lighting a small fire and blessing the backs of our heads with a pine branch. He wished us peace, safety, good fortune and prosperity and instructed us to touch our heads, bowed, to the limestone. He asked us where we were from and for a token of appreciation, which we willingly gave -- to be repaid manifold only a short time later.
Our visit to the terraces was not long and soon we were wandering down the one street of the village, looking for a restaurant or place to sit. We noticed a finely decorated gateway, complete with tiled well-wishes and scenic pictures. We paused, wondering if it was a guesthouse or a restaurant, when a man at the doorway beckoned us inside. A courtyard, some chickens, a granny with a baby strapped to her back. "Ni hao."
He invited us in for some tea and I suddenly recognized that he was the one and the same, incense cowboy. He gestured us inside a dark doorway and we entered into a spacious room with sofas and cushions around a hearth -- fire, bursting through a wok with a heavy, black kettle, always ready for tea. He hung his hat and his necklace on their regular hook and together, we sat and chatted. Clad in his orange-yellow sweats, the three-year-old grandson wandered in and looked hesitantly at us strangers. Granny offered us tea and massive white steamed buns, of which the little boy would have none, despite YuppieNomad's efforts. He listened and looked as she showed him her pictures, though, and even posed for a shot himself. Meanwhile, we learned that the baby was not feeling well because she had just had a shot. We learned that the couple had four sons, one of whom lived down the street, while the others had flown the nest to work in the city (Shangri-la). Our cowboy asked us to invite others to come to Baishuitai and visit his shrine, but declined to give us his name. "Just tell them to come here. I'll be there. I'm there everyday."
So, as promised, I'm spreading the word. And, as he is too -- about the Vietnamese from America and the Chinese girl from Canada that he met. After all, he started telling his story about us before we even left. The incense cowboy has a cell phone too.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Closer to the Sky
From Shangri-la/Zhongdian, our object was to get as close to Tibet as we could without crossing the border and in doing so, we got closer to the sky. We embarked on yet another bus ride, this time along winding switchbacks up and up and over and beyond countless mountains. Mountains that at one turn were dry and arid with sparse scrubby brush -- the deserts of mountains -- and at the next were covered in dense pine forests, interspersed with bright flashes of wildflowers. A new scenic surprise awaited with every turn of the road (and sometimes the stomach). Nestled among the mountains, Tibetan villages, monasteries and stupas and the occasional green of pastures, fields and paddies.
For me, many of the places we've visited are marked less by sights we've seen than by people we've met. In Deqin, I will remember the girl at the hostel next to ours, from whom we sought advice time and time again. My favourite moment perhaps was after we called "Keith", an English-speaking local who had posted a flyer offering guide services and recommendations for local activities. He recommended we head over to see the "old city" but when we filled the girl in on our plan, she erupted in laughter. Shaking her head at us, "There's no old city here!" and turning to her friend in disbelief, "They're trying to go see the old city!" Turns out the "old city" was a misnomer for a street of old houses, but we enjoyed the wandering and ultimately found our way to more town dancing, children playing and the grannies and daddies taking care of them.
Deqin will also be remembered for the restaurant with the fastest service and best fried fish ever. Compared to relaxed Shangri-la where each dish and drink is made and brought to the table one at a time, our food at this restaurant in Deqin was on the table before we had barely finished ordering it in the kitchen. So quick, in fact, that we had no opportunity to change our minds and thus had to go back the next day to try everything we wanted (namely the fish). And believe me, it was well worth it -- even the curious stares of the chefs checking on our progress.
We also thought we had discovered an establishment where you can hang out without ordering, but no, while it may be Shangri-la county, it's not that magical of a place. Nevertheless, our teapot was kept ever filled while we sat and played cards and no one ever pressured or even asked to take our order for only a minimal fee. Who's complaining?
For me, many of the places we've visited are marked less by sights we've seen than by people we've met. In Deqin, I will remember the girl at the hostel next to ours, from whom we sought advice time and time again. My favourite moment perhaps was after we called "Keith", an English-speaking local who had posted a flyer offering guide services and recommendations for local activities. He recommended we head over to see the "old city" but when we filled the girl in on our plan, she erupted in laughter. Shaking her head at us, "There's no old city here!" and turning to her friend in disbelief, "They're trying to go see the old city!" Turns out the "old city" was a misnomer for a street of old houses, but we enjoyed the wandering and ultimately found our way to more town dancing, children playing and the grannies and daddies taking care of them.
Deqin will also be remembered for the restaurant with the fastest service and best fried fish ever. Compared to relaxed Shangri-la where each dish and drink is made and brought to the table one at a time, our food at this restaurant in Deqin was on the table before we had barely finished ordering it in the kitchen. So quick, in fact, that we had no opportunity to change our minds and thus had to go back the next day to try everything we wanted (namely the fish). And believe me, it was well worth it -- even the curious stares of the chefs checking on our progress.
We also thought we had discovered an establishment where you can hang out without ordering, but no, while it may be Shangri-la county, it's not that magical of a place. Nevertheless, our teapot was kept ever filled while we sat and played cards and no one ever pressured or even asked to take our order for only a minimal fee. Who's complaining?
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Snapshots of Things I Like
The sight of steamers because they mean one of two things -- buns or dumplings -- and if I'm really lucky, both. Whatever you call these tiny packages of goodness -- dumplings, gyoza, momo, jiao zi, xiao long bao, perogies, gnocchi, ravioli, the list goes on... I love 'em. Thicker skins, thinner skins, fried, steamed, boiled, juicy, soupy, meat or veggie, I appreciate their differences. Pass me a plate of tasty ones and they're sure to bring a smile to my face. Mm...
Mountains. Snow-capped, craggy, tree-covered, bare. I'm pretty much certain to raise my head, spread my arms and drop my jaw in awe. Purty.
Cute dogs. Especially when they're found in unexpected places. At our hostel in Dali, we looked up onto the roof to find, not one, but two St. Bernards. And three German Shepherds. I guess they're not afraid of heights. The question is, do they always land on two feet?
Happy people dancing. On two recent occasions, we've stumbled across masses of people dancing outdoors. The first time, a group of elderly Naxi women in traditional dress, dancing to folk music. In time, in rhythm. Holding hands. Laughing, smiling but also watching intently to follow the steps. The second time, we were in Zhongdian, also known as Shangri-la. Wandering through the old city on our way back to our hostel, what should we find but the main square filled with the sound of music and seemingly everyone in town. Old ladies, young ladies, men and children danced together in festive and harmonious celebration. Those not dancing watched from the outskirts or from balconies and windows above. We smiled as a small boy before us crashed continually into his mother's bum, not yet quite in tune with when to go forward and when to go back, but oh, he thought it was funny.
The kindness of strangers.
"Have some plums," the landlady at our hostel in Lijiang said. "Do you like them? I'll get you some more tomorrow." Her cousin who took us to eat noodles and cancel my plane ticket, and her cousin's husband who drove us to the mountains, noting that horseback riding is "good fun for you young people." The man who directed us, unasked, to the public bus in Shangri-la while we were standing in front of a taxi stand. The Naxi mama who offered us a big smile and fresh mint tea. Jane, the chilled out, deep-voiced proprietor who stored our bags for free, gave us a map of the Gorge and refrained from laughing at our enormous meal after the trek. The fellow with the Commie cap who followed us around town in Dali until he was finally able to help us find a bus. The sweet girl in the Lijiang coffee shop, always with a smile on her face and coming back again and again to learn a new word or phrase in English. During our travels in Yunnan, we've encountered more kindness and warm hearted souls than we can count. To all of you, thank you.
Mountains. Snow-capped, craggy, tree-covered, bare. I'm pretty much certain to raise my head, spread my arms and drop my jaw in awe. Purty.
Cute dogs. Especially when they're found in unexpected places. At our hostel in Dali, we looked up onto the roof to find, not one, but two St. Bernards. And three German Shepherds. I guess they're not afraid of heights. The question is, do they always land on two feet?
Happy people dancing. On two recent occasions, we've stumbled across masses of people dancing outdoors. The first time, a group of elderly Naxi women in traditional dress, dancing to folk music. In time, in rhythm. Holding hands. Laughing, smiling but also watching intently to follow the steps. The second time, we were in Zhongdian, also known as Shangri-la. Wandering through the old city on our way back to our hostel, what should we find but the main square filled with the sound of music and seemingly everyone in town. Old ladies, young ladies, men and children danced together in festive and harmonious celebration. Those not dancing watched from the outskirts or from balconies and windows above. We smiled as a small boy before us crashed continually into his mother's bum, not yet quite in tune with when to go forward and when to go back, but oh, he thought it was funny.
The kindness of strangers.
"Have some plums," the landlady at our hostel in Lijiang said. "Do you like them? I'll get you some more tomorrow." Her cousin who took us to eat noodles and cancel my plane ticket, and her cousin's husband who drove us to the mountains, noting that horseback riding is "good fun for you young people." The man who directed us, unasked, to the public bus in Shangri-la while we were standing in front of a taxi stand. The Naxi mama who offered us a big smile and fresh mint tea. Jane, the chilled out, deep-voiced proprietor who stored our bags for free, gave us a map of the Gorge and refrained from laughing at our enormous meal after the trek. The fellow with the Commie cap who followed us around town in Dali until he was finally able to help us find a bus. The sweet girl in the Lijiang coffee shop, always with a smile on her face and coming back again and again to learn a new word or phrase in English. During our travels in Yunnan, we've encountered more kindness and warm hearted souls than we can count. To all of you, thank you.
Dong Bas and Leaping Tigers
Within days of extending my travels, I've reaped the rewards in two distinctly unforgettable experiences -- meeting a Dong Ba and hiking Tiger Leaping Gorge.
Yunnan province is one of the most ethnically diverse areas in China. Among the many ethnic minority groups that call this area home are the Naxi. One of the rare traditionally matriarchal societies, the Naxi are also unique in having their own pictographic script that is still in use today. Passed down from generation to generation by grand masters known as Dong Bas, the script has survived centuries. In fact, when we visited the Dong Ba Research Institute in Lijiang, we were shown a text more than 400 years old kept by this particular Dong Ba's family. The secret to its preservation? Paper that's made with poison to protect it from the ravages of worms.
Sadly, though, there are only 20 Dong Bas remaining today, with slim hope of the complex script surviving many future generations. We did meet a lovely girl who showed us around the institute, however, and it was really heart-warming to see how earnest she was in sharing with us and helping to preserve this part of her culture. She also introduced us to the resident Dong Ba, who was a picture-perfect grand master if you could imagine one -- complete with a long grey beard, time-wizened face and immense hat adorned with colourful feathers. We learned about their creation story that involved 7 sisters and 9 brothers, and to decipher a few simple messages (e.g. "Happy Birthday"). Over the past week, we've also attended a Naxi orchestra concert, seen the stone and wood houses that miraculously withstood the major earthquake in the early 90s that leveled most other buildings, and enjoyed the kind hospitality of Naxi families while hiking the gorge.
And that brings me to... Tiger Leaping Gorge. We hiked up and up and up, with the jangle of horses behind us and the songs of their men entreating us to go for a horseback ride or give them our bags. "It's a lot farther you know... you'll be tired..." YuppieNomad set them straight with a few vehement "bu yao"s, though, and thereafter we continued our hike in relative peace, save for the chirping of birds and the sounds of cicadas. The scenery was breathtaking and we paused probably just as often to catch our breaths as to enjoy the views. Snowcapped mountains piled on top of each other; waterfalls, trees and rockscapes; wonderfully sweet-smelling berries; the lazy curves and rushing rapids of the Jingsha River; and oh, the defiant brightness of wildflowers. Ten and a half hours of hiking, a mild sunburn and farmer's tan on one arm, but it was all worth it.
One thing the Gorge probably could do without, though, is the advertising that persists even there. Somewhere along the line, some of the guesthouse owners decided to mark the route with yellow and red arrows for the ease of hikers. Good plan, definitely, and we were often reassured by the sight of an arrow when paths diverged. I begrudge them not the right to say "Naxi family guesthouse this way" or "Tina's 30 min" but some (namely Woody's) were just too much. Directional signs are one thing, effective graffiti is another.
Yunnan province is one of the most ethnically diverse areas in China. Among the many ethnic minority groups that call this area home are the Naxi. One of the rare traditionally matriarchal societies, the Naxi are also unique in having their own pictographic script that is still in use today. Passed down from generation to generation by grand masters known as Dong Bas, the script has survived centuries. In fact, when we visited the Dong Ba Research Institute in Lijiang, we were shown a text more than 400 years old kept by this particular Dong Ba's family. The secret to its preservation? Paper that's made with poison to protect it from the ravages of worms.
Sadly, though, there are only 20 Dong Bas remaining today, with slim hope of the complex script surviving many future generations. We did meet a lovely girl who showed us around the institute, however, and it was really heart-warming to see how earnest she was in sharing with us and helping to preserve this part of her culture. She also introduced us to the resident Dong Ba, who was a picture-perfect grand master if you could imagine one -- complete with a long grey beard, time-wizened face and immense hat adorned with colourful feathers. We learned about their creation story that involved 7 sisters and 9 brothers, and to decipher a few simple messages (e.g. "Happy Birthday"). Over the past week, we've also attended a Naxi orchestra concert, seen the stone and wood houses that miraculously withstood the major earthquake in the early 90s that leveled most other buildings, and enjoyed the kind hospitality of Naxi families while hiking the gorge.
And that brings me to... Tiger Leaping Gorge. We hiked up and up and up, with the jangle of horses behind us and the songs of their men entreating us to go for a horseback ride or give them our bags. "It's a lot farther you know... you'll be tired..." YuppieNomad set them straight with a few vehement "bu yao"s, though, and thereafter we continued our hike in relative peace, save for the chirping of birds and the sounds of cicadas. The scenery was breathtaking and we paused probably just as often to catch our breaths as to enjoy the views. Snowcapped mountains piled on top of each other; waterfalls, trees and rockscapes; wonderfully sweet-smelling berries; the lazy curves and rushing rapids of the Jingsha River; and oh, the defiant brightness of wildflowers. Ten and a half hours of hiking, a mild sunburn and farmer's tan on one arm, but it was all worth it.
One thing the Gorge probably could do without, though, is the advertising that persists even there. Somewhere along the line, some of the guesthouse owners decided to mark the route with yellow and red arrows for the ease of hikers. Good plan, definitely, and we were often reassured by the sight of an arrow when paths diverged. I begrudge them not the right to say "Naxi family guesthouse this way" or "Tina's 30 min" but some (namely Woody's) were just too much. Directional signs are one thing, effective graffiti is another.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Free as a bird
Sometimes fortune smiles down on us and hey, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? My once two-week vacation has now suddenly been extended indefinitely... at least until such time as I feel like going home. And it's a glorious feeling. The plan was to visit jfisher and yuppienomad in Hanoi and then travel together around Yunnan province before I returned to a summer job in sweaty Hong Kong. Apparently, it wasn't meant to be and lucky for me, my travel companions have determined that my elementary Mandarin and I are yet still useful... we'll see what happens when we head to Laos.
But no, I'm feeling very lucky as we sit in Lijiang, a charming preserved town in southwestern China, complete with lanterns and streams lining the cobblestone streets, kind folks, and evenings with candle-lit paper flowers set floating gently down the streets by the myriad of Chinese tourists. It's kitschy, but well done, and I'm definitely charmed. A horseback ride up Jade Dragon Snow Mountain earlier today with stunning views, whistling and song-singing guides who notably walked up the mountain with us, and I've had one of the most pleasant days in recent memory.
Sleeping under the stars on a boat and kayaking amid mountains jutting out of Halong Bay probably comes a close second, though. Even the Vietnamese karaoke blasting over the water from the fishing village didn't faze me. I'm a romantic, after all.
Anyways, more thoughts and photos to come. A bientot!
But no, I'm feeling very lucky as we sit in Lijiang, a charming preserved town in southwestern China, complete with lanterns and streams lining the cobblestone streets, kind folks, and evenings with candle-lit paper flowers set floating gently down the streets by the myriad of Chinese tourists. It's kitschy, but well done, and I'm definitely charmed. A horseback ride up Jade Dragon Snow Mountain earlier today with stunning views, whistling and song-singing guides who notably walked up the mountain with us, and I've had one of the most pleasant days in recent memory.
Sleeping under the stars on a boat and kayaking amid mountains jutting out of Halong Bay probably comes a close second, though. Even the Vietnamese karaoke blasting over the water from the fishing village didn't faze me. I'm a romantic, after all.
Anyways, more thoughts and photos to come. A bientot!
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Japan Photos
The upside of Pat training in Japan is that I've had the chance to visit Tokyo twice in the past few months -- the first time in February for a weekend and the second for Easter break. Here are just a few photos:
I was lucky enough to catch the tail end of the cherry blossoms in April. Here, in Shinjuku Gyoen.
I know vending machinese in Japan are famous, but we were surprised to see this fortune vending machine at a shrine in Kamakura.
I was lucky enough to catch the tail end of the cherry blossoms in April. Here, in Shinjuku Gyoen.
I know vending machinese in Japan are famous, but we were surprised to see this fortune vending machine at a shrine in Kamakura. 
Aside from relaxing hot springs, Hakone offers a touristy but pleasant route of attractions that combines train, bus, tram, cable car and ferry travel. One stop is Owakudani -- 'hell valley', formed by a volcanic eruption centuries ago and complete with steam and sulfur smells. 
My photos can't capture the elaborateness of the Toshogu Shrine in Nikko. Definitely worth a visit for the sheer contrast of the ornately sculpted buildings with the imposing but quiet natural beauty of the forest around.
If you're interested in more photos, go here.
Blast from the Past and other thoughts on the way to Tokyo
Blast from the Past
I was browsing in an airport bookstore, waiting for my flight to Tokyo, when what did I see? Prominently displayed in the centre of a shelf just below eye level -- none other than Inside Chinese Business by Ming-Jer Chen. Apparently, it's still in print, he's still at Darden, and the book has made its way to paperback. Who ever would have thought? Standing on the shoulders of years of undergraduates... Cat -- will you guys invite him to your wedding? ;p
Hong Kong in the sunshine
I'm not usually one to wax poetic about the beauty of Hong Kong, but as I rode the bus from my home to the airport, the thought crossed my mind on more than one occasion. The view of buildings scraping the sky on the edge of a crowded harbour; the shipping containers, stacked and ready, coloured and uniform like a child's lego set; the giant crane-machines with their long legs and tiny suspended operators. Maybe it's the influence of my fourth graders, but I kept watching and waiting for the robotic giants to step up and march to battle against the backdrop of rolling hills. Ok... imagination still overactive.
Then, as we made our way across the bridge, I gazed out at beautiful views of Lantau Island -- at the seafoam green water, churning as boats sped past, and at the darker green shadows of clouds overhead flitting across. Water, beaches, and low green-covered mountains. Hong Kong in the sunshine, not so bad -- from the inside of an air-conditioned bus, anyways.
Airport daydreams
Does anyone else daydream in the airport as they walk to their boarding gate? When there are no more shops to browse and views become airplanes instead of restaurants? I know I do. I dream about stepping off the moving walkway early and making my way to a new, unexpected destination. I read the signs -- Hanoi, Vancouver, Kota Kinabalu, San Francisco -- and I feel a twinge of destination envy. I imagine stepping up to an alternate gate, handing over my ticket, and by some miraculous failure in airport security, being on my way to a new adventure. I get as far as imagining dropping in on friends or wandering unfamiliar streets before the voice of the walkway lady brings me back: "The walkway is ending. Please watch your step."
I was browsing in an airport bookstore, waiting for my flight to Tokyo, when what did I see? Prominently displayed in the centre of a shelf just below eye level -- none other than Inside Chinese Business by Ming-Jer Chen. Apparently, it's still in print, he's still at Darden, and the book has made its way to paperback. Who ever would have thought? Standing on the shoulders of years of undergraduates... Cat -- will you guys invite him to your wedding? ;p
Hong Kong in the sunshine
I'm not usually one to wax poetic about the beauty of Hong Kong, but as I rode the bus from my home to the airport, the thought crossed my mind on more than one occasion. The view of buildings scraping the sky on the edge of a crowded harbour; the shipping containers, stacked and ready, coloured and uniform like a child's lego set; the giant crane-machines with their long legs and tiny suspended operators. Maybe it's the influence of my fourth graders, but I kept watching and waiting for the robotic giants to step up and march to battle against the backdrop of rolling hills. Ok... imagination still overactive.
Then, as we made our way across the bridge, I gazed out at beautiful views of Lantau Island -- at the seafoam green water, churning as boats sped past, and at the darker green shadows of clouds overhead flitting across. Water, beaches, and low green-covered mountains. Hong Kong in the sunshine, not so bad -- from the inside of an air-conditioned bus, anyways.
Airport daydreams
Does anyone else daydream in the airport as they walk to their boarding gate? When there are no more shops to browse and views become airplanes instead of restaurants? I know I do. I dream about stepping off the moving walkway early and making my way to a new, unexpected destination. I read the signs -- Hanoi, Vancouver, Kota Kinabalu, San Francisco -- and I feel a twinge of destination envy. I imagine stepping up to an alternate gate, handing over my ticket, and by some miraculous failure in airport security, being on my way to a new adventure. I get as far as imagining dropping in on friends or wandering unfamiliar streets before the voice of the walkway lady brings me back: "The walkway is ending. Please watch your step."
Saturday, May 20, 2006
The Upside of Dictation
Going to try and catch up on posts that I've put on hold from the last month... posts and pics from Japan trip to come.
First, though, I was walking on the street today and heard a little girl talking to her mom. I noticed she wasn't jabbering on and on in the way that kids usually do, but instead, was speaking in a kind of stilted, but very purposeful, slow manner. As I approached, I realized she was speaking in English. It explained the slow, stilted speech, but I was intrigued -- what was she talking about? She looked only about 7, so if my students are any indication, she wouldn't have enough vocab to be engaged in any lengthy conversation. I got closer and heard, "He sits under a tree and says, 'I think I will take a rest.' The turtle...." I heard no more, but as I'm sure you've all deduced, she was reciting the age-old story of the tortoise and the hare. Recited, I say, because I realized she was probably practicing for her English dictation -- a weekly English class test that involves reciting (and sometimes writing) word for word a passage from the unit's storybook. Any of you who have taken Chinese school will probably recall this torturous teaching method. It's a painful exercise, but I guess even if they can't hold a conversation, they can at least tell a story??
First, though, I was walking on the street today and heard a little girl talking to her mom. I noticed she wasn't jabbering on and on in the way that kids usually do, but instead, was speaking in a kind of stilted, but very purposeful, slow manner. As I approached, I realized she was speaking in English. It explained the slow, stilted speech, but I was intrigued -- what was she talking about? She looked only about 7, so if my students are any indication, she wouldn't have enough vocab to be engaged in any lengthy conversation. I got closer and heard, "He sits under a tree and says, 'I think I will take a rest.' The turtle...." I heard no more, but as I'm sure you've all deduced, she was reciting the age-old story of the tortoise and the hare. Recited, I say, because I realized she was probably practicing for her English dictation -- a weekly English class test that involves reciting (and sometimes writing) word for word a passage from the unit's storybook. Any of you who have taken Chinese school will probably recall this torturous teaching method. It's a painful exercise, but I guess even if they can't hold a conversation, they can at least tell a story??
Thursday, April 06, 2006
3 days, 2 nights
Last week, I set off on a 3-day camp with my fourth graders. All 160 of them. Luckily, camping in Hong Kong is not typically in tents, sleeping bags and the like. Our site: Lady MacLehose Holiday Village in Sai Kung. Students stayed in "bungalows" equipped with hot showers, electric kettles, beds and linens, and campsite facilities range from tennis and squash courts to archery, rock climbing and karaoke.
While they got a chance to enjoy the facilites on the last day, our students spent most of their time engaged in team-building activities led by social workers from a local social service organization. It was an experience. While I had no official duties other than to serve as the school photographer, the days were tiring. For many of the students, it was the first time away from home ever and the combination of nerves and excitement resulted in a lot of tears, hyperactivity, and general madness.
As I watched a couple of the lead social workers (who were quite young) lose patience with our noisy students, I felt kind of sad. Sad because I could see the transformation in their tone and approach to the students. Sad because I could see how fast it happened. Sad because it reminded me of how I underwent the same transformation over the course of this past year. At the beginning, they (and I) spoke quietly. We appealed to reason -- 'If we aren't quiet, we won't be able to hear the instructions, so then we won't be able to play the game. Please be quiet. Are you ready yet? We're not quiet yet...' When they didn't listen, we tried again, slightly louder. When it still didn't work, we looked around helplessly, appealing to somebody, something to make them listen. Usually, it came in the form of a local teacher and this camp was no exception. The school teachers (myself included this time) stepped in to take the role of discipline enforcers. Essentially, we yelled, we threatened, we pulled students out. Following our examples then, it didn't take long before the social workers' calls echoed our sentiments. They yelled. They asked students to step out. They threatened by invoking us and our empty threats to send students home.
I don't blame them. I know what it's like to face these kids with no authority, no respect. And it's not all the kids. But when you've got 160 of them and you're trying to run a whole-group activity, it's not the majority of well-behaved ones that disrupt the game. I feel their pain and it's not that I could do any better. But it still makes me sad. Being fun and friendly and nice isn't enough to get respect from students.
So did the students enjoy themselves and learn stuff in the end? Yes, I think so. Were the social workers able to run the activities? Yes. Did the activities work? Sort of. They certainly worked better when the students were split into their small groups. Fostering team-building, mutual trust and cooperation is a heavy task, though, particularly when you expect it to happen overnight (or over two nights) but don't spend much effort on it the rest of the year. In a school culture where public humiliation is a common source of punishment and students thrive on telling on each other, where do we expect this trust to come from? I was amazed over the few days how many times students intentionally got each other into trouble when it wasn't necessary. Something as simple as finding someone's left-behind item and returning it to them had to be made into a big production of public shaming by handing it in to the discipline teacher. Why?? Why not cut the guy some slack and just give it back? I guess they haven't figured out they live in glass houses...
While they got a chance to enjoy the facilites on the last day, our students spent most of their time engaged in team-building activities led by social workers from a local social service organization. It was an experience. While I had no official duties other than to serve as the school photographer, the days were tiring. For many of the students, it was the first time away from home ever and the combination of nerves and excitement resulted in a lot of tears, hyperactivity, and general madness.
As I watched a couple of the lead social workers (who were quite young) lose patience with our noisy students, I felt kind of sad. Sad because I could see the transformation in their tone and approach to the students. Sad because I could see how fast it happened. Sad because it reminded me of how I underwent the same transformation over the course of this past year. At the beginning, they (and I) spoke quietly. We appealed to reason -- 'If we aren't quiet, we won't be able to hear the instructions, so then we won't be able to play the game. Please be quiet. Are you ready yet? We're not quiet yet...' When they didn't listen, we tried again, slightly louder. When it still didn't work, we looked around helplessly, appealing to somebody, something to make them listen. Usually, it came in the form of a local teacher and this camp was no exception. The school teachers (myself included this time) stepped in to take the role of discipline enforcers. Essentially, we yelled, we threatened, we pulled students out. Following our examples then, it didn't take long before the social workers' calls echoed our sentiments. They yelled. They asked students to step out. They threatened by invoking us and our empty threats to send students home.
I don't blame them. I know what it's like to face these kids with no authority, no respect. And it's not all the kids. But when you've got 160 of them and you're trying to run a whole-group activity, it's not the majority of well-behaved ones that disrupt the game. I feel their pain and it's not that I could do any better. But it still makes me sad. Being fun and friendly and nice isn't enough to get respect from students.
So did the students enjoy themselves and learn stuff in the end? Yes, I think so. Were the social workers able to run the activities? Yes. Did the activities work? Sort of. They certainly worked better when the students were split into their small groups. Fostering team-building, mutual trust and cooperation is a heavy task, though, particularly when you expect it to happen overnight (or over two nights) but don't spend much effort on it the rest of the year. In a school culture where public humiliation is a common source of punishment and students thrive on telling on each other, where do we expect this trust to come from? I was amazed over the few days how many times students intentionally got each other into trouble when it wasn't necessary. Something as simple as finding someone's left-behind item and returning it to them had to be made into a big production of public shaming by handing it in to the discipline teacher. Why?? Why not cut the guy some slack and just give it back? I guess they haven't figured out they live in glass houses...
Taiko drums
Last weekend, I got invited to an orchestra concert by the Hong Kong Philharmonic with a special program featuring Taiko drum master, Eitetsu Hayashi. SO COOL. As far as orchestra programs go, the whole thing was pretty light, starting off with Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade (think Arabian Nights/Aladdin). The second piece by a Japanese composer was kind of creepy/haunted-sounding, but the main attraction was well worth any reservations you might have had. It was simply amazing. Basically a concerto for taiko drums, I assure you no one was focused on the orchestra. The one-man show had all our attention and then some. I felt like I was back in fourth grade, but all I could think over and over was "So Cool." If any of you ever get a chance to see taiko drums, do it. The number and range of sounds that can come from just one drum, and the immense power of it all, is beyond words. I want to learn taiko drumming.
Separately, during intermission, my friend and I were amused to hear a woman complaining to her companion that she couldn't even hear the taiko drums. I hope they stuck around for the second half.
Separately, during intermission, my friend and I were amused to hear a woman complaining to her companion that she couldn't even hear the taiko drums. I hope they stuck around for the second half.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
map
Here's my version of the aforementioned map. The trail of comments/debate on the site about which countries got noted, ignored, swallowed, etc. is pretty amazing. His stance is that the borders of the mapmaking tool will be governed by UN recognition of nations.
In many ways, the idea of generating this kind of map feels more than a little imperialistic but I'm influenced by my recent read about colonial Hong Kong. Nevertheless, to ease my own conscience, I will note the superficial nature of this map of mine, reflecting neither length nor depth of experience in a given place (and often single city within a country). The more I write, the more absurd this seems but ah, everything's a journey.
There is no way really to transfer stories and memories layered upon each other into one single simple fixed three-colour two-dimensional political map, so let's treat this as a conversation-starter and not a badge... more like a favourite photo pinned to a cubicle wall than a display of stamps in a passport. My memories of travel are much more deeply imprinted on images of specific places and people, rather than the outlines of borders, but here goes nothing. For the record, if the map showed places I want to visit or live (and visit or live again), almost everything would be one colour.
In many ways, the idea of generating this kind of map feels more than a little imperialistic but I'm influenced by my recent read about colonial Hong Kong. Nevertheless, to ease my own conscience, I will note the superficial nature of this map of mine, reflecting neither length nor depth of experience in a given place (and often single city within a country). The more I write, the more absurd this seems but ah, everything's a journey.
There is no way really to transfer stories and memories layered upon each other into one single simple fixed three-colour two-dimensional political map, so let's treat this as a conversation-starter and not a badge... more like a favourite photo pinned to a cubicle wall than a display of stamps in a passport. My memories of travel are much more deeply imprinted on images of specific places and people, rather than the outlines of borders, but here goes nothing. For the record, if the map showed places I want to visit or live (and visit or live again), almost everything would be one colour.
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