Reflections

Hierve El Agua

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Last weekend I took Mica, Bardo and the kids from Hauyapam, and Charlie, who used to be a coffee bean roaster in Oaxaca in the 70’s but now is a roaster in Canada and here for a few weeks, in the car to Hierva El Agua about 50 miles into the mountains. There cold water mineral springs fall over steep cliffs and solidify into rock-hard deposits forming algae-painted slabs in level spots and accumulating into what appear to be grand frozen waterfalls…shining in the sun.

The governor is building a huge glassed-in pyramid-shaped restaurant within yards of the springs…giving diners (what diners?) a spectacular view of the Sierra Sur mountains where the indigenous Mixe live…but the place is accessed by pot-holed dirt roads. The only place to eat was an empty shack…interestingly named “Alice’s Restaurant” where we were the only patrons. The first evening a good-looking young woman gave us black beans, salsa and bread and coffee while she nursed her ten-month old little boy…her two year old by her side. She says it is common here for women to have ten children…but she has had her tubes tied, she says.

We stayed in the only bungalow…with “matrimonial” bed in a loft and two sets of bunk beds below. There was no gas for the stove or water heater. The gate-keeper in the same building had spent six years in LA and wanted to practice his English.

The next day we sat next to a smoke-filled wood fire in the corner of the dirt yard of the “restaurant” while an older woman made fresh corn tortillas on a huge comal. The tomatoes for the fresh salsa were roasted in the wood ashes…giving it a wonderful smoky flavor. She amazingly was able to grind the chilis on a window sill next to the fire. We devoured the avocados and cheese memelitas with the salsa and coffee…running for cover from the wood smoke whenever the woman stoked the fire. Best-tasting Oaxacan food yet!

On the way home, we stopped at a small family-run traditional mescal factory to buy jugs of Mescal. I will buy a small oak barrel with a spigot at the market to keep the mescal from drawing the taste of the plastic jug. The maguay plants are ground to a pulp in a round concrete “trough” under a huge marble “wheel” that is pulled round and round by a donkey. The mescal I chose had been stilled and aged with several different local fruits-and chicken breasts-in addition to the magay plant! Smooth, slightly sweet and full of flavor…40% alcohol…compared to the young 100% alcohol stuff that burns the gullet all the way to the stomach.

This week, Joe, a recently retired CPA from Chicago who is living in my apartment complex and teaching English, and I will have lunch together. Joe was married and has two grown children. Has also come here for a new life. Funny and gregarious…very nice guy. A young couple has just moved into the apartment (there are four apartments) from Canada. He is a writer …they have a 4 year old little boy who is squaring it off with the little girl in the manager’s apartment…neither of which knows the other’s language. They are driving the mothers nuts!

Can’t believe I’ve been here six months already. When my visa expires in August I will go to Asia to see my son and his wife, Josh and Amy, in Beijing China and son Doug and Luk, his wife, on the island of Koh Samui in Thailand…then probably back here if everything returns to normal politically. If not I’ll just stay in Asia.

Why Blog

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It’s a quiet Sunday morning…as Sundays are in Oaxaca…people home with their families.

I often think of this blog…and other blogs…and wonder what is the value of putting so many hours into writing about the myriad details of our lives…and other lives. Then I found this reply to a new blog on a favorite web site.

Will This Be Your Gift To The World?
This blog is about more than yourself, is it not? Twenty years ago…[or many more] you chose the meaning of your life – you picked a mission for yourself, did you not?

I wonder what you will make of this blog. This tribune is like no other. You are beholden neither to the story nor by the facts; here, you are just a man. You have no oath to impartiality. So I wonder – who is your master?

I cannot picture you a disciple, in belief subordinate to another man. I believe your life is your own – and to myself hope to be right. So here we face a false dichotomy: selfless and dedicated to a benevolent cause of your own making, or living in egoism, seeking for yourself a comfy niche?

Express yourself freely. Influence thoughts. Create memos. Whose lives will you touch with your words? Will you change the world by telling us how you view it?

Your words are strong, so I hope that your vision is a good and selfless one; that, guided by it, you will mark the world.

I try to see in others what I try to be myself. Odd.

Another person’s words…but articulated better than I would have. I wonder about these lines…this last has set me to thinking…another story perhaps.

I Could Be In India

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I was reading through some of my blog entries about India the other day and then I came upon this Slate.com article about India and laughed so hard I nearly cried. It’s really good to laugh.

Trying Really Hard To Like India

from: Seth Stevenson
Posted Friday, Oct. 1, 2004, at 2:27 PM ET

“In the mid-1970s, famed author V.S. Naipaul (of Indian descent but raised in Trinidad) came to India to survey the land and record his impressions. The result is a hilariously grouchy book titled India: A Wounded Civilization. Really, he should have just titled it India: Allow Me To Bitch at You for 161 Pages. I hear you, V.S. This place has its problems. As you point out, many of them result from the ravages of colonialism � and some are just India’s own damn fault. Still, I’ve found a lot to love about this place. For instance:

1) I love cricket. The passion for cricket is infectious. When I first got here, the sport was an utter mystery to me, but now I’ve hopped on the cricket bandwagon, big time. I’ve got the rules down, I’ve become a discerning spectator, and I’ve settled on a favorite player (spin bowler Harbhajan Singh, known as “The Turbanator”�because he wears a turban). I’ve even eaten twice at Tendulkar’s, a Mumbai restaurant owned by legendary cricketer Sachin Tendulkar. Fun fact: Sachin Tendulkar’s nicknames include “The Master Blaster” (honoring his prowess as a batsman), “The Maestro of Mumbai” (he’s a native), and “The Little Champion” (he’s wicked short). His restaurant here looks exactly like a reverse-engineered Michael Jordan’s Steak House. Instead of a glass case with autographed Air Jordans, there is a glass case with an autographed cricket bat. And in what could turn out to be a dangerous habit, I’ve begun going to Mumbai sports bars to watch all-day cricket matches. These last like seven hours. That is a frightening amount of beer and chicken wings.

2) I love the Indian head waggle. It’s a fantastic bit of body language, and I’m trying to add it to my repertoire. The head waggle says, in a uniquely unenthusiastic way, “OK, that’s fine.” In terms of Western gestures, its meaning is somewhere between the nod (though less affirmative) and the shrug (though not quite as neutral).

To perform the head waggle, keep your shoulders perfectly still, hold your face completely expressionless, and tilt your head side-to-side, metronome style. Make it smooth�like you’re a bobble-head doll. It’s not easy. Believe me, I’ve been practicing.

3) I love how Indians are unflappable. Nothing, I mean nothing, seems to faze them in the least. If you live here, I suppose you’ve seen your fair share of crazy/horrid/miraculous/incomprehensible/mind-blowing stuff, and it’s impractical to get too worked up over anything, good or bad.

(This is a trait I admire in the Dutch, as well. They don’t blink when some college kid tripping on mushrooms decides to leap naked into an Amsterdam canal. Likewise, were there a dead, limbless child in the canal� an Indian person might not blink. Though he might offer a head waggle.)

4) I love how they dote on children here. (I’m not talking about dead, limbless children anymore, I’m being serious now.) At our beach resort in Goa, there were all these bourgeois Indian folks down from Mumbai on vacation. These parents spoiled their children rotten in a manner that was quite charming to see. In no other country have I seen kids so obviously cherished, indulged, and loved. It’s fantastic. Perhaps my favorite thing on television (other than cricket matches) has been a quiz show called India’s Smartest Child, because I can tell the entire country derives great joy from putting these terrifyingly erudite children on display.

5) I love that this is a billion-person democracy. That is insane. Somehow the Tibetan Buddhists of Ladakh, the IT workers of Bangalore, the downtrodden poor of Bihar, and the Bollywood stars of Mumbai all fit together under this single, ramshackle umbrella. It’s astonishing and commendable that anyone would even attempt to pull this off.

6) I love the chaos (when I don’t hate it). Mumbai is a city of 18 million people�all of whom appear to be on the same block of sidewalk as you. If you enjoy the stimulation overload of a Manhattan or a Tokyo but prefer much less wealth and infrastructure. this is your spot. (Our friend Rishi, who we’ve been traveling with, has a related but slightly different take: “It’s like New York, if everyone in New York was Indian! How great is that!”) And whatever else you may feel, Mumbai will force you to consider your tiny place within humanity and the universe. That’s healthy.

There’s more good stuff I’m forgetting, but enough love for now. Let’s not go overboard. As they say in really lame travel writing: India is a land of contradictions. A lot of things to like and a lot of things (perhaps two to three times as many things) to hate.

It’s the spinach of travel destinations, you may not always (or ever) enjoy it, but it’s probably good for you. In the final reckoning, am I glad that I came here? Oh, absolutely. It’s been humbling. It’s been edifying. It’s been, on several occasions, quite wondrous. It’s even been fun, when it hasn’t been miserable.

That said, am I ready to leave. Sweet mercy, yes.”

A Field Guide To Getting Lost

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My son, Josh, the little weasel, asked me what it felt like to be living alone in Oaxaca. It got me to thinking. Then I picked up a book at Sharon’s apartment entitled “A field Guide To Getting Lost,” a book written by a woman in San Francisco. It reminded me of a blog entry I wrote one thoughtful day in Bangkok. Here it is for those of you who missed it.

June 12 2005

Perfect Memories
“What A Perfect Day…It’s Such A Perfect Day…And Then We Go Home.”

Have been re-reading a book that I have been dragging around with me for the last year. Pico Iyer can set my imagination afire like no other travel writer. One of his pieces reminds me of the fall of 2003 when I was traveling alone down the coast of Viet Nam. Imagine all the people sharing all the world: I was riding behind Mr. Binh, my kind motorcycle taxi driver, and after three days on the bike my rear-end was numb. He takes me to a small food stall by the side of the road leading out of a little town on the South China Sea, where we wave down a local kamazake minibus that will careen down Highway 1 to Hue. The bus is crammed full of Vietnamese one on top of the other so I sit on some rice sacks until someone gets off and I, the older one, am graciously allowed to have the emptied seat. A couple of giggling girls offer to share a small sweet tangerine with me.

The driver had very long hair-possibly in his 50’s-with a pocked and scarred face…signs of a life lived on the edge. This guy is feeling powerful and narrowly misses oncoming overloaded trucks leaning at odd angles. He is having a great time and I am breathless waiting for my life to end. Suddenly when he throws a dirty towel to the back of the van and it lands in my face he looks back with a grin to see if I am alright. Gasping, I return his thumbs up with a laugh.

“Travel the World and the Seven Seas…Everybody’s Looking For Something. Some of them want to use you�some of them want to abuse you.” For Pico, the best kind of traveling is when you are searching for something you never find. “The physical aspect of travel is for me,” he says “the least interesting…what really draws me is the prospect of stepping out of the daylight of everything I know, into the shadows of what I don’t know and may never will. We travel, some of us, to slip through the curtain of the ordinary, and into the presence of whatever lies just outside our apprehension…” he goes on to say. “I fall through the gratings of the conscious mind and into a place that observes a different kind of logic.” Transcendence… and pure Pico.

“Nobody told me there would be days like these! Strange Days Indeed.”

Chiang Mai Felt Like Home?

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Have been here three weeks and Chiang Mai did feel like home for awhile…just long enough to get oriented and find the good places to eat. I spent all afternoon today in my room researching Mexico on the web and then decided to go out for supper. For about 10 seconds I was completely disoriented…sights, sounds, smells…all different than what was in my head…and added to that was the haze in the air that obscured the sight of anything more than 600 yards ahead. “Slash and burn,” Lonely Planet says. Reminded me of Springfield Oregon in the fall when farmers burn their seed fields.

For excellent western food go to The Duke’s on the other side of the river from Old Town. Tender and mild white fish stuffed with lump crab with mashed potatoes on the side. Well, it came with rice but I asked for mashed potatoes instead. And apple pie for dessert…a nice break from noodle soup! I am “im” (sp?) meaning “stuffed.” I said “arroy” (delicious) to the young waiter who looked at me like I was nuts. He had on a black t-shirt and really baggy pants. Oops, I thought…I had assumed he was a Thai or at least that he spoke Thai. Or maybe he just didn’t understand my Thai such as it is.

It’s interesting to travel alone. The other day I was having breakfast in a lovely outdoor garden setting and a 78 (looked 65) year old Dane joined me…spent an hour or so telling me his life story (Denmark seems to be considerably homophobic) and then recounted his many gay sexual exploits during his seven years in Thailand…more than I wanted to know.

A couple days later in the same restaurant I was approached by an older Brit…13 years here…who had walked the entire length of Thailand. Kind of dinggy but likable. http://www.youmetdennis.com They were both fluent in Thai and I got the feeling they didn’t often talk to English-speakers. Dennis asked me to post the words of His Majesty the King…which I did in my last blog entry. He loves the King. “It’ll rock the world,” he exclaimed. I just looked at him wondering how long it had been since he had been in Europe…or the States!

The World A Playground?

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A friend recently emailed me asking what it is like to have all the world as my “playground.” This was my very brief answer:

Well, the best thing about traveling in developing countries like SE Asia, Africa and China is the smiles that fill the heart. Europeans generally ignore the people…very aloof…Americans are busy looking at buildings and statues and for something to buy. But if you make a cultural mistake and you smile and point to your head in Thailand and say “ting tong” (crazy in Thai) the people giggle and laugh and they love you for it because they are not used to Westerners being humble. Then the massages are wonderful $5-$8 for an hour. The food is incredible everywhere…a feast on the street…a big bowl of delicious noodle soup with pork for 50 cents that would cost $6 in the States. And if you stay in the cheap guesthouses instead of western style hotels that are exhorbitant by local economic standards, you meet wonderful travelers from all around the world. That is the fun part.

Then there is the work part. You get to practice patience and develop flexibility in dealing with inefficiency…and rules and regs that make no sense to a Westerner. You get used to the garbage and broken sidewalks with live electric wires hanging down everywhere…and the hacking and spitting Chinese. Pedestrians have no rights whatsoever so you have to watch you don’t get killed…the biggest vehicle on the road is king. You learn to be tolerant of other cultures…eg. it is considered rude in Thailand to be confrontatory and demanding. You learn that not everyone in the world wants to be American and that they love their own countries. People value their families over material things…and it rubs off.

And then you begin to notice other things. The police are not paid enough so they are always on the take and not to be trusted. Corrupt governments keep people impoverished. In fact, Prime Minister Thaksin in Thailand is being forced out of office as we speak…thousands demonstrating in the streets this week in Bangkok. I won’t even start on Robert Mugabe who is starving his own people in Zimbabwe and ought to be shot by somebody. And because of the government-controlled press, foreigners know more about China than the Chinese people themselves. I learn we don’t have it so bad in America.

So when I am in America I miss the warm-hearted people and the colorful streets and want to be here and when I am here I miss the humor, music, good roads, the efficiency and customer service (non-existent outside the U.S.) and general good governance with the exception of our foreign policy.

So briefly, that is what it is like to have the world as my playground. Actually travel is a very serious business. Besides being married and raising children, it is the most brutal spiritual work there is…needling selfish boundaries…culturing the heart. I think meditation is much less difficult!

Pico Iyer, author of “The Global Soul,” gives me great comfort. An Indian by birth, Pico was raised in England. Moved to California. Now lives with his significant other in Japan. If he can do it I can do it.

More On Mao

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We are grounded by the subway strike so have been reading more of the biography of Mao by authors Jung Chang, the author of the wonderful three-generation epic “Wild Swans,” and her British husband Jon Halliday.

What is especially interesting so far, is that this biography reveals much heretofor unknown information about Mao Tse Tung and the Cultural Revolution in China. Mao, for decades, held absolute power over the lives of one-quarter of the world’s population and was responsible for “well over 60 million deaths in peacetime,” more than any other twentieth-century leader. He used terrorism to try to establish China as a world-wide military nuclear power and to seat himself as it’s leader. To do this he wanted to draw draw Russia and America into a world war. Russia, hoping to appease Mao, allowed him to start the Korean War…Korea’s Kim even taking his orders from Mao. Mao sent thousands and thousands of troops into Korea thinking the Americans would never know the difference between Chinese and Koreans…and he was ready to sacrifice untold millions of people. He knew the Americans wouldn’t tolerate the body bags. Stalin (“The Master”) held the line, but when Stalin died, Khrushchev pulled the plug.

The detail illustrates Mao’s premeditated cruelty unprecidented in modern history. The authors had access to the Russian archives, interviewed hundreds of key people that are still alive…Russians, Chinese, Americans and anyone else who had a role during this time.

Values in China are carried forward by the culture…not by any ethical or civic standard. I could feel reverberations of China’s past during our several months in the country.

Deep Into Mao & China

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It’s cold and snowy outside and right now I am deep into the recently published biography of Mao Tse Tung by Jung Chang who also some years ago wrote the respected three-generation epic “Wild Swans.” Jung, born in China, was a Red Guard for a time during the Cultural Revolution and witnessed first-hand the devastation wrought by Mao. She soon after fled to Britain where she was educated. She and her British husband spent 12 years researching the Russian archives and interviewing many of the principal actors of the Cultural Revolution who are still alive.

The book answers my question about why most mainland Chinese still revere Mao after all the devastation he wrought. Apparently, it is because in the absence of a free press he manufactured his persona and made up the whole myth about the Long March (which he fed to the American journalist Edgar Snow who disseminated Mao’s lies in his book “Red Star Over China”) that most people in China still believe in today!

Mao began with no official party status and conscripted local “bandits” that he called an “army.” Then he basically stole a small army from a military commander through blackmail, manipulation and by taking advantage of a technologically ineffective communication system between Shanghai and the rest of China and Moscow where Stalin was pulling the strings. It was by creating an army and by that he was then able to gain credibility and ascend to party leadership. All the while he was carried over snow-covered mountains on a litter by mostly barefoot carriers so he could comfortably read his books.

Meanwhile, Stalin’s top agenda was China’s defeat of the Japanese. Mao’s modus operandi was to lead Stalin into thinking he was following the Soviet line but all the while outmaneuvering Chiang Kai Khek and the Nationalist Army and all other Red factions who were competing for power…no small feat! Moscow bought into Mao’s deception and protected Mao.

Chiang Kai Khek’s nationalist forces had been “chasing” Mao from the south (his wife raised millions of dollars in the U.S. for this war) but let Mao and his “army” go because Stalin was holding Chiang’s son hostage in Moscow. Ironically, for Chiang, the Reds took over China and it took Chiang 11 years to get his son back. As we know, Chiang eventually fled to Taiwan.

Another eye-opening book is the biography of Mao written by his personal physician of 25 years. After Mao died, his physician moved to Chicago near his two sons who had been university educated there. The biography was published just before his death around 1995.

When I was in Bangkok this summer, I gave the biography to a young Chinese woman in her early 20’s who was “visiting her boyfriend.” “He is very fat,” she said laughing, “but he is a very rich Texan!” She was by herself sitting next to me at a sushi bar. Her English was perfect and she was reading a Bangkok travel book in English! Since it is very unusual for mainland Chinese to get out of China alone, I suspect she was there to observe and report back. “Is it true, she asked, “that blacks have group sex?” Astounded, I answered that some may, but people are individuals and you can never say “all” people of an ethnic or racial group do anything! She looked puzzled. We talked for several hours the next morning in a busy coffee shop. I told her I thought Mao was worse than Hitler and she flew off the handle. “My mother (who is a university professor) loves Mao,” she yelled. She also embarrassed me to death in front of the Thais that were present: “I hate Buddah!” she yelled when I asked about Buddhism in China.

Meeting her reminded me of a young mainland Chinese “spy” in Australia who went public about a mainland Chinese spy network that apparently reports on overseas Chinese and asked for asylum when he realized that he had been duped by the Party leadership. Australia, trying to get along with China hesitated but finally gave him temporary asylum (the US refused). He said that if he returned to China he would probably be killed or at least jailed and tortured, a claim that China refuted.

It would have a profound consequence if these books became available to the mainland Chinese. Even better, the Chang book would make an incredible epic movie…and with all the pirated movies in China…it would spread like wildfire among the youth.

Great Days Great Wall

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Video
E found the website (www.wildwall.com) and the adventure offered intriguing potential…off the beaten track, away from the Chinese tourist groups that follow a guide with a microphone and colored flag held high in the air to designate location. After two short emails to William, arrangements were easily made and in the lobby of our Beijing guesthouse I met with the driver (No English) who carried a placard for “Mr. Bob.” After smiles and incomprehensible introductions his black auto carried us through a three-hour adventure negotiating Beijing traffic…bikes, pedestrians, tractors, donkey carts all navigate the same lanes, avenues, freeways where the basic rule is ” Bigger Has The Right of Way.” As throughout Asia, good brakes, good horn and good luck prevails.

My understanding was that we were to pick up another couple but as we finally exited Beijing for the countryside I began to make an alternative plan if perhaps this was an abduction…the imagination can wonder…

We finally entered mountain terrain and the pavement ended. After another 20 minutes we arrived at a small village surrounded by hills We parked and I carried backpack uphill to a courtyard surrounding a small idyllic farmhouse. There was evidence of other foreigners. William casually came out of the farmhouse and introduced himself. An Aussie couple, attired in the hippest of trek fashion had already arrived and they and I completed our trekking group. Subsequently I appreciated their humor, enthusiasm and good cheer and we shared good times and laughs.

After being shown my room, the first of many superb meals was served. Lily was William’s Chinese helper and sous chef…fresh trout in a spicy (picante) sauce. After the meal Schnapps was offered (an acquired taste I guess) and I learned that William was in his late forties, formerly from Liverpool England, but has lived in China for the past 15 years. He has a Chinese spouse and two sons. He is a former long distance runner, who because of his fascination with the Great Wall as a child, later decided to run it’s length. After an initial abortive try he was subsequently able to run most of the wall in the early 1990’s and it has since become his passion. He has authored several books, spear-headed environmental efforts and has become the local expert/personality/guru of all things Great Wall. On our hikes, whenever we were passed by local Chinese hikers he would be recognized and asked to pose for pictures. His affect was such that he always obliged with a smile and some Mandarin conversation.

For the next two days we arose at 5 a.m. and took off in darkness for a 4-6 hour trek that included a significant climb up to the Great Wall and then excursions for varying lengths of time on top of the wall. We were able to stand on the wall and observe the sunrise. Along the way there would be frequent stops for short antidotes or explanations of various aspects of the wall–its history, construction, functions etc.

The Wall was initially started in about 400 BC and continued until the Ming Dynasty (approximately 1600 AD). It was built in sections to protect the Han Chinese from the Northern nomads (Mongolian and Manchu). Initial construction was at points of obvious invasion routes…river valleys…and through the years the Wall was extended up the sides of the valleys and across mountain ranges. It is not one continuous structure but various branches meander and double back. Initial construction was simple but later architectural efforts became more sophisticated.
In c. 220 B.C., under Qin Shi Huang, sections of earlier fortifications were joined together to form a united defence system against invasions from the north. Construction continued up to the Ming dynasty (1368–1644), when the Great Wall became the world’s largest military structure. Its historic and strategic importance is matched only by its architectural significance and is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The areas we traversed were constructed of large carved stones, kilned bricks and morter which contained rice. As well as security, the Wall was used for storage, shelter and as a highway. It varied in width from two yards to 10 yards. In the area we were in, there has been no restoration and time and erosion have caused crumbling in many parts with an overgrowth of vegetation both on the sides and on top. It would seem that any minor earthquake could produce serious additional damage. William said his ecologic efforts have produced minimal results to date and he has been happy just to see that his efforts have caused fewer Chinese to litter. Ideally it would seem that stabilization against future damage without restoration would be the way to proceed. But the Wall is so long (estimates vary from 7000 to 10,000 kilometers) that total protection is impossible.

On descent: as frequently happens on hikes there is time for thought, reflection and subsequent contentment…and coming off the Great Wall of China in brisk warm autumn days a few magical to mystical moments. On one occasion while walking solo I heard leaves rustling in the trees –only a few colored leaves remained on each tree. Looking up the leaves would twirl on one tree then sequentially on another– like a self-conducted symphony—only in China. When I asked William whether his operation had reached a size sufficient for an assistant he replied, “I think I will see you again.”