Yangshuo, outside of Guilin and home of the famous jutting karst formations, is by far the most touristy place we have been in our travels outside of Beijing. It is all honking buses, bodies, touts offering "bargain" local tours or bamboo boat rides, cheap trinkets, and expensive drinks.
Upon our arrival we took a whole day to rest and recover from the shock of the crowds. But all it took was renting a few bicycles. We paid for two days and rode out of town among light mists and fellow cyclists. We were transported into a fairy land where green dominated the scene. In quaint houses lived quiet folk who tended sturdy garden plots in fertile valleys between the unreal mammoth karst cliffs.
After bumping along the narrow dirt and stone paths between rice fields, peanut, orchards, and more, we reached a tranquil, deep green river, the Yulong (Dragon River). Though raining slightly, we jumped in and wallowed in the current and quiet. We have one week remaining in China, and I will look back fondly at this glimpse paradise.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Of Tigers and Gorges
Each step was taken with apprehension whether we knew it or not. Our minds seemingly drugged by the landscape that lay in each direction. There are words that could be used. Breathtaking. Sublime. Overwhelming. But it doesn't help. Land of the likes we have seen can't be captured.
Dynamite blasts can be heard echoing along the walls of the high granite gorge. A new road winds its way along the treacherous slopes, defying rock falls and new mountain springs, to provide so-called scenery to clamoring Chinese tourists. Although, we are no better.
Every morning we wake to the clatter of construction. Symmetrical opposition to the ancient serenity of the granite peaks. They have never been successfully climbed, and so rest unconquerable, challenging the carpenters, the farmers, the westerners who look on filled with awe.
Dynamite blasts can be heard echoing along the walls of the high granite gorge. A new road winds its way along the treacherous slopes, defying rock falls and new mountain springs, to provide so-called scenery to clamoring Chinese tourists. Although, we are no better.
Every morning we wake to the clatter of construction. Symmetrical opposition to the ancient serenity of the granite peaks. They have never been successfully climbed, and so rest unconquerable, challenging the carpenters, the farmers, the westerners who look on filled with awe.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Too much
Oliver is feeling slightly unwell as we camp in the narrow alleyways of Lijiang, a charming valley town nestled between rough gray-green peaks and the blueness of a sky that can only be described by altitude. We are in the southwest of China. It is a mixing point of culture and environment that caught our breath as we rounded every bumpy bend along our bus ride through the countryside. The land roller coasters from lush subtropical fruits in deep valleys, climbs into high, dry, sweet pine-smelling forests shrouding the Himalayan foothills. It is where Han Chinese is finally met by minorities in force, by Tibetans, and Naxi, Dai, and the influences of Burma, Thailand, and Laos that surround Yunnan Provence.
Everyday I hope to record the details of our travels. We have felt countless textures of humanity... a woman washing shoes in her smoke lit doorway, the sweat and sweetness of climbing through green, misty forests, the resonance of sound and motion as a gong sounds temple prayers... but before I have time to fully process the impressions of similarity and difference, we are whisked away to our next destination.
There is simply too much, but it seems such a shame to leave it as such. I couldn't possibly write anything worth reading that accurately reflects our past few weeks, but I would like to share a few thoughts and memories.
Pilgrimage: As we hiked up Mount Emei on Easter weekend, I began to reflect upon the idea of pilgrimage. I believe it is supposed to be a journey of moral or spiritual significance. Emei Shan has been a place of Buddhist worship for centuries. In addition to the mystical quality of the landscape, temples and monasteries are scattered along the route to the top. Oliver and I had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, but after 12 hours of ascent and as many of panting, I knew the feeling of sacrifice in the journey and sheer elation at the summit. We were joined an hour's hike from the summit by busloads of Chinese tourists who "cheat" their way to the top. Pilgrimage? It must come in different shapes and sizes.
Retreat: After spending a month and a half in Beijing and hopping from city to city and attration to attraction, nothing felt better than to escape to a mountain lake with few guests, cheap but genuine accomodation, and unbelievable natural beauty. Before Lugo Lake, I would not have believed that China could boast such clarity of water and air. The sky and lake were duling depths of blue. We bushwhacked our way around the shore a bit, but mostly were content to lounge in the soft breeze and partial shade (after a pretty deep sunburn on my part) reading books, sighing over the shapes of clouds or the song of a Mosuo fisherman. We rested and relished the break from the gogogo of travel.
And there's more! But I suppose that can wait for another time when the words eventually come. Perhaps our photos will be the biggest aid.
Everyday I hope to record the details of our travels. We have felt countless textures of humanity... a woman washing shoes in her smoke lit doorway, the sweat and sweetness of climbing through green, misty forests, the resonance of sound and motion as a gong sounds temple prayers... but before I have time to fully process the impressions of similarity and difference, we are whisked away to our next destination.
There is simply too much, but it seems such a shame to leave it as such. I couldn't possibly write anything worth reading that accurately reflects our past few weeks, but I would like to share a few thoughts and memories.
Pilgrimage: As we hiked up Mount Emei on Easter weekend, I began to reflect upon the idea of pilgrimage. I believe it is supposed to be a journey of moral or spiritual significance. Emei Shan has been a place of Buddhist worship for centuries. In addition to the mystical quality of the landscape, temples and monasteries are scattered along the route to the top. Oliver and I had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, but after 12 hours of ascent and as many of panting, I knew the feeling of sacrifice in the journey and sheer elation at the summit. We were joined an hour's hike from the summit by busloads of Chinese tourists who "cheat" their way to the top. Pilgrimage? It must come in different shapes and sizes.
Retreat: After spending a month and a half in Beijing and hopping from city to city and attration to attraction, nothing felt better than to escape to a mountain lake with few guests, cheap but genuine accomodation, and unbelievable natural beauty. Before Lugo Lake, I would not have believed that China could boast such clarity of water and air. The sky and lake were duling depths of blue. We bushwhacked our way around the shore a bit, but mostly were content to lounge in the soft breeze and partial shade (after a pretty deep sunburn on my part) reading books, sighing over the shapes of clouds or the song of a Mosuo fisherman. We rested and relished the break from the gogogo of travel.
And there's more! But I suppose that can wait for another time when the words eventually come. Perhaps our photos will be the biggest aid.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Present Location
The past few weeks have presented massive changes in landscape, climate and culture.
From dusty Yulin we moved to springtime in Xi'an. From Xi'an we migrated further south to lush and lovely Chengdu. For the past few days we have been climbing Emei Shan, a famous peak for Buddhist pilgrimage which took us from subtropical forests, to tea gardens, through a cloud forest, and onto a nearly frozen summit. Now we are in LeShan and hoping to go to Kanding, Litang and more ethnic Tibetan areas from here... That is, if they are open to foreigners.
Trace our steps
From dusty Yulin we moved to springtime in Xi'an. From Xi'an we migrated further south to lush and lovely Chengdu. For the past few days we have been climbing Emei Shan, a famous peak for Buddhist pilgrimage which took us from subtropical forests, to tea gardens, through a cloud forest, and onto a nearly frozen summit. Now we are in LeShan and hoping to go to Kanding, Litang and more ethnic Tibetan areas from here... That is, if they are open to foreigners.
Trace our steps
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Urban Palette
Chengdu's skyline rests mute amongst the heavy gray humid air, while the emerald explosion of plants and trees cherishing warmer weather fills the air with a respiratory haze. The 18 hour sleeper train from Xi'an had slipped through the remaining khaki colored landscape unbeknownst to its heavy lidded passengers. We had overnight shed the gray brown palette of dry winter, replacing it with the lush tones of a sub-tropical city.
Despite the city's gray muteness upon arrival, we ventured forth eager to explore the green alley ways of this humid place. Open air markets and porcelain basins filled with fish and squirming eels litter the windy urban infrastructure while darkly shaded back porches hum with mid day games of mahjong lit by dangling light bulbs.
The city, like its palette, is more subdued. A tropical lull. A familiar southern slowness perhaps encouraged by the mild weather. And it is a pace we can appreciate, as we crunch on horse beans while lounging in our hostels water filled back garden.
Despite the city's gray muteness upon arrival, we ventured forth eager to explore the green alley ways of this humid place. Open air markets and porcelain basins filled with fish and squirming eels litter the windy urban infrastructure while darkly shaded back porches hum with mid day games of mahjong lit by dangling light bulbs.
The city, like its palette, is more subdued. A tropical lull. A familiar southern slowness perhaps encouraged by the mild weather. And it is a pace we can appreciate, as we crunch on horse beans while lounging in our hostels water filled back garden.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Best of Shaanxi
* Before you read further, take note: if you click the picture to the right, you can see some of our recently posted photos, and yes, the chicks in the blog header above were actually those colors....hm...
O+K in Shaanxi has revealed a series of extremely fortunate events. Yulin? We gave it good reviews upon our arrival, but what now? If a boom-town, built on coal, and surrounded by dusty dunes is not one's idea of paradise, Yulin may not warrant a several day stay. However, if you appreciate meeting good friends who invite you to their birthday dinners and karaoke, if you like planting trees to stop desertification surrounding one of the fastest growing deserts in the world, and if you don't mind getting free food and curios while walking down the street just for being a foreign face, Yulin is perfect!
Yes, we were completely surprised by our good fortune in making friends that were so eager to show us around. Here's a quick review of the town:
Accommodation: 5
Food: 8
Other than being treated several times for superb dinner and eating an absolutely delicious farmers lunch in a small village outside of the city, Yulin food was decent.
Overall: 9.4!!
Thanks to the generosity of our friends ShiHei, Qi, Zhang, Candy, Lao Zhu,...etc this was great... KTV (karaoke) was the best night yet:)
Last night we took a sleeper train twelve hours to the south of Yulin and now we are in Xi'an, still in Shaanxi provence. For hundreds of years Xi'an was the capital of dynastic China, so it is steeped with historic flavor and maintained with modern pride. We are settled into a very cool, relaxed international youth hostel, preparing to go tomorrow to see the Terra Cotta Army... if you don't know much about Xi'an (or the terra cotta soldiers) definately skim the wiki article: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xi'an.
O+K in Shaanxi has revealed a series of extremely fortunate events. Yulin? We gave it good reviews upon our arrival, but what now? If a boom-town, built on coal, and surrounded by dusty dunes is not one's idea of paradise, Yulin may not warrant a several day stay. However, if you appreciate meeting good friends who invite you to their birthday dinners and karaoke, if you like planting trees to stop desertification surrounding one of the fastest growing deserts in the world, and if you don't mind getting free food and curios while walking down the street just for being a foreign face, Yulin is perfect!
Yes, we were completely surprised by our good fortune in making friends that were so eager to show us around. Here's a quick review of the town:
Accommodation: 5
Food: 8
Other than being treated several times for superb dinner and eating an absolutely delicious farmers lunch in a small village outside of the city, Yulin food was decent.
Overall: 9.4!!
Thanks to the generosity of our friends ShiHei, Qi, Zhang, Candy, Lao Zhu,...etc this was great... KTV (karaoke) was the best night yet:)
Last night we took a sleeper train twelve hours to the south of Yulin and now we are in Xi'an, still in Shaanxi provence. For hundreds of years Xi'an was the capital of dynastic China, so it is steeped with historic flavor and maintained with modern pride. We are settled into a very cool, relaxed international youth hostel, preparing to go tomorrow to see the Terra Cotta Army... if you don't know much about Xi'an (or the terra cotta soldiers) definately skim the wiki article: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xi'an.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
City Walls
Yulin is an unassuming town. By town I really mean to say large city by most American definitions. Inside its ancient crumbling city walls bustles a Chinese city few Americans (or for that matter westerners) come to. Walking down the street you can hear the people gasp (followed by a ridiculous case of the giggles) at the sight of mei guo ren.
We are unmistakably the only foreigners here. Yet, we have felt more at home here than almost anywhere else because of the kindness of strangers.
The search for information about desertification has lead us to the fringes of northern Shaanxi, a place once stricken by increasing dunes and sand storms. Today, the land seems full of scrub that amongst rains must blossom into lush green hills. Helped by the benevolence of local college students, we were able to see a community organized tree planting group, visit the local govt's sand control center, and finish the day by dining, family style, with the dean of the international office.
Sometimes all you need is an invitation to KTV (karaoke) to finish it all off.
We are unmistakably the only foreigners here. Yet, we have felt more at home here than almost anywhere else because of the kindness of strangers.
The search for information about desertification has lead us to the fringes of northern Shaanxi, a place once stricken by increasing dunes and sand storms. Today, the land seems full of scrub that amongst rains must blossom into lush green hills. Helped by the benevolence of local college students, we were able to see a community organized tree planting group, visit the local govt's sand control center, and finish the day by dining, family style, with the dean of the international office.
Sometimes all you need is an invitation to KTV (karaoke) to finish it all off.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Review: Huhehaote, Inner Mongolia
These quick city reviews are meant to give a brief overview of our impressions. In many cases we will not have had enough time to see or do everything, but from our limited experiences, we will give each location ratings and reviews:
Lodging: 7
We stayed at the Binyue International Hostel in decent four-bed "dorms" that were old hotel rooms. It was nice and we had the room all to ourselves for 50 RMB per person.
Food: 8
In order to taste a bit of Mongolian culture we tucked into a mutton and milk tea type hot pot pairing... It was good but pricey. We thoroughly enjoyed a small shop with fantastic baozi (steamed dumplings).
People: 9
As Oli said in the last post, we made a Mongolian friend. He was a singer! Although his hospitality was superb and seemed completely genuine, we were sometimes overwhelmed by the attentions he paid to us. But he certainly was the best part of Huhehaote (closely followed by the baozi).
Generally: 6
We thought we would love Hohhot and assumed it would be more charming without tourists (who come in the summer to see the beautiful grasslands). What we found was a coldish, crowded and typical city with no beautiful grasslands (yet).
Now we're in Yulin, Shaanxi, a relatively small town on the line of desertification. It is quaint and surrounded by a massive, crumbling, yellow earthen wall. Tourists must not frequent Yulin much in the winter (or ever?) and we made quite a stir on the street. After a family photo shot with big, tall, and strong Oli holding the baker's young boy-child, we scored some freeee baked goods and two cones of frozen yogurt.
Yellow Earth vs. Desert? Tomorrow we will observe this match with experts from Yulin University.
Lodging: 7
We stayed at the Binyue International Hostel in decent four-bed "dorms" that were old hotel rooms. It was nice and we had the room all to ourselves for 50 RMB per person.
Food: 8
In order to taste a bit of Mongolian culture we tucked into a mutton and milk tea type hot pot pairing... It was good but pricey. We thoroughly enjoyed a small shop with fantastic baozi (steamed dumplings).
People: 9
As Oli said in the last post, we made a Mongolian friend. He was a singer! Although his hospitality was superb and seemed completely genuine, we were sometimes overwhelmed by the attentions he paid to us. But he certainly was the best part of Huhehaote (closely followed by the baozi).
Generally: 6
We thought we would love Hohhot and assumed it would be more charming without tourists (who come in the summer to see the beautiful grasslands). What we found was a coldish, crowded and typical city with no beautiful grasslands (yet).
Now we're in Yulin, Shaanxi, a relatively small town on the line of desertification. It is quaint and surrounded by a massive, crumbling, yellow earthen wall. Tourists must not frequent Yulin much in the winter (or ever?) and we made quite a stir on the street. After a family photo shot with big, tall, and strong Oli holding the baker's young boy-child, we scored some freeee baked goods and two cones of frozen yogurt.
Yellow Earth vs. Desert? Tomorrow we will observe this match with experts from Yulin University.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Pronounced best when yawning
The smoke absolutely filled car #4 of the train creaking its way to Hohhot, the capital of inner mongolia (pronounced hu he ho te). We were leaving Beijing for the first time except for occasional jaunts to the countryside. Bobbing along with the gyrations of the trains were the black haired masses, with only two, as the local children call us, yellow haired.
The bleak pre-rain spring landscape seemed increasingly uninviting as what looked to be a thunderstorm turned out to be a massive dust storm raging through the plains broken only by veins of deep washed out gorges.
Countering the bleakness of the landscape stood the unimaginable kindness of the Mongolian who sat beside us on the final leg from Datong to Hohhot. His Chinese slowed to a pace of understanding for some (hint hint, not me), while his Mongolian, when talking to his little brother, was startlingly different to anything we had ever heard. He explained, and we are still not compeltely sure about this, that he was a singer (perhaps for something like Mongolian Idol). Despite his joblessness he was eager to help us get to our hotel (all the while us naive and cynical westerners were wary for scams).
If we were impressed by his kindness the night before, waking up the next morning to knocks on the door from this titan of generosity just came as a shock. He was determined to help us have a proper Mongolian experience. Hailing cabs, and advising on menu choices, his presence was warm but, towards the end, unwanted as we just had hoped to set our own pace of travel.
The clear-aired neon and concrete outpost that is Hohhot is unfortunately not welcoming enough to stay for long, and so tomorrow we are off again, this time to another small town (only about 4 million) just on the edge of the desert, striving hard not to be buried in sand.
The bleak pre-rain spring landscape seemed increasingly uninviting as what looked to be a thunderstorm turned out to be a massive dust storm raging through the plains broken only by veins of deep washed out gorges.
Countering the bleakness of the landscape stood the unimaginable kindness of the Mongolian who sat beside us on the final leg from Datong to Hohhot. His Chinese slowed to a pace of understanding for some (hint hint, not me), while his Mongolian, when talking to his little brother, was startlingly different to anything we had ever heard. He explained, and we are still not compeltely sure about this, that he was a singer (perhaps for something like Mongolian Idol). Despite his joblessness he was eager to help us get to our hotel (all the while us naive and cynical westerners were wary for scams).
If we were impressed by his kindness the night before, waking up the next morning to knocks on the door from this titan of generosity just came as a shock. He was determined to help us have a proper Mongolian experience. Hailing cabs, and advising on menu choices, his presence was warm but, towards the end, unwanted as we just had hoped to set our own pace of travel.
The clear-aired neon and concrete outpost that is Hohhot is unfortunately not welcoming enough to stay for long, and so tomorrow we are off again, this time to another small town (only about 4 million) just on the edge of the desert, striving hard not to be buried in sand.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Fairwell Beijing
Hello Inner Mongolia!
We have settled in here... We feel comfortable in a city of millions, lost in a sea of black hair, streaming along city streets to the tune of bicycle bells and honking horns. The strange nooks and greasy crannies of old Beijing are well known by our cameras and palettes.
So now we are packing our bags, bidding friends farewell, baking a large batch of granola for the road, and heading north and west, away from the crowded city to Hohhot, Inner Mongolia. Hohhot marks the beginning of the Zhaohe grasslands, a vast ocean of green in the summer, and coooooold spot for half the year (including now:). Hohhot means Blue City--the color blue, in Mongolian culture is said to represent the blue sky, eternity and purity.
What awaits us? This is what we would like to find out. Check back in soon for stories of our adventure:)
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sorry
For those of you who actually check in, I am sorry.
We had a good thing going for a while, but... I don't know... I guess I just don't have much to say.
Soon we will be leaving Beijing and then the adventures will surely be recorded in the cyberspatial realm. The most I can say is greens are getting slightly greener as spring whispers its way into the city. We have enjoyed sitting in the sun in our courtyard, sometime eating strawberries, sometimes drinking tea. Biking here and there.
We had a good thing going for a while, but... I don't know... I guess I just don't have much to say.
Soon we will be leaving Beijing and then the adventures will surely be recorded in the cyberspatial realm. The most I can say is greens are getting slightly greener as spring whispers its way into the city. We have enjoyed sitting in the sun in our courtyard, sometime eating strawberries, sometimes drinking tea. Biking here and there.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Future Forecast
I had heard about the Chinese methods of controlling the weather. Before the Olympics, reports reached us about weather magicians in Beijing cloud-seeding to solicit rain from the withholding skies. Three days after our arrival in the city, we woke up to a modest dusting of snow.
"This is the first snowfall of the season!" smiled Ray, as we watched people sweep the scanty snow with brooms. Although many complained about the hassle and delays on roads, Beijing needed this snow, as it needs every lick of moisture it can summon. And summon this snow, it did. The Beijing Weather Modification Control Center seeded the clouds with "426 cigarette sized silver iodide sticks" to receive the snowfall.
Although reports at the time claimed the snowfall ended the drought, Beijing will have to see a lot more precipitation to reverse a situation that becomes more and more serious each day. The Office of State Flood Control and Drought Relief states that over 4.5 million people are in the drought area. Already millions of dollars this year have been spent of drought relief efforts.
Yesterday I went hiking on the border of Beijing and Hebei provinces. We left one tiny village, crested some mountains and came down the other side to meet a small group of farmers. While speaking with them, one man said the last time he had seen a good harvest was 1979. Indeed, this drought has been long, hard, and seemingly unending.
Why unending? The problem is two very stubborn and thirsty clients. First, agriculture in China (as elsewhere) is highly input intensive and requires high levels of irrigation. Second, Beijing. The city's municipality is approximately 17 million people. Are there water restrictions? No. Is there enough water to keep them (us, for I must not excuse myself) drinking, bathing, washing, and wasting? No. Beijing is overdrafting its own underground water resources and sucking dry the surrounding provinces.
Where am I going with this? I'd like to look out at the future for a second. Despite the magic worked by the Beijing Weather Modification Control Center, the future in Beijing (and other places throughout the world that overdraw from aquifers) looks pretty grim... If we take out all the water, the land subsidizes before the rock can recharge, or reabsorb, enough water to keep it functioning. If this happens, it will never be able to hold the same amount of water, and water table levels will continue to drop.
What now, Beijing? Pray for rain, I supposed. Hope for a downpour.
"This is the first snowfall of the season!" smiled Ray, as we watched people sweep the scanty snow with brooms. Although many complained about the hassle and delays on roads, Beijing needed this snow, as it needs every lick of moisture it can summon. And summon this snow, it did. The Beijing Weather Modification Control Center seeded the clouds with "426 cigarette sized silver iodide sticks" to receive the snowfall.
Although reports at the time claimed the snowfall ended the drought, Beijing will have to see a lot more precipitation to reverse a situation that becomes more and more serious each day. The Office of State Flood Control and Drought Relief states that over 4.5 million people are in the drought area. Already millions of dollars this year have been spent of drought relief efforts.
Yesterday I went hiking on the border of Beijing and Hebei provinces. We left one tiny village, crested some mountains and came down the other side to meet a small group of farmers. While speaking with them, one man said the last time he had seen a good harvest was 1979. Indeed, this drought has been long, hard, and seemingly unending.
Why unending? The problem is two very stubborn and thirsty clients. First, agriculture in China (as elsewhere) is highly input intensive and requires high levels of irrigation. Second, Beijing. The city's municipality is approximately 17 million people. Are there water restrictions? No. Is there enough water to keep them (us, for I must not excuse myself) drinking, bathing, washing, and wasting? No. Beijing is overdrafting its own underground water resources and sucking dry the surrounding provinces.
Where am I going with this? I'd like to look out at the future for a second. Despite the magic worked by the Beijing Weather Modification Control Center, the future in Beijing (and other places throughout the world that overdraw from aquifers) looks pretty grim... If we take out all the water, the land subsidizes before the rock can recharge, or reabsorb, enough water to keep it functioning. If this happens, it will never be able to hold the same amount of water, and water table levels will continue to drop.
What now, Beijing? Pray for rain, I supposed. Hope for a downpour.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
中国长城
As the years go by, give me peace,
Freedom from all things.
I ask myself and always answer:
What can be better than coming home?
A wind from the pine-trees blows my sash,
And my lute is bright with the mountain moon.
You ask me about good and evil fortune?
Hark, on the lake there's a fisherman singing!
Wang Wei
Sunday, March 1, 2009
where in the world?
THIS JUST IN: it may be too early to publish this information, but thursday, oliver f.p. hulland will be leaving china to go to nairobi, kenya... just for a week. i will be left behind and the dream team divided by a rift that spans two continents.
please send comments and condolences to kristynasolawetz@gmail.com
Thursday, February 26, 2009
we are the dreamers of the dream
Who are these people?
For the past few days two tall, light-colored xifangren, have been walking through our streets. They are photographing strange things. He took a picture of our telephone, our stove, cabbages, and my neighbor making noodles. She buys pineapple on a stick and speaks putong hua, the language of the people, but cannot understand what I say to her.
We are staying at the home/studio of the environmental organization that we are volunteering with, and exploring the local environs. Inside we are surrounded by familiar English, computers, even granola, but once we emerge from a little gate to the south east of the house, we find ourselves in the outskirts of rural Beijing. Much different from the cosmopolitan bustle of Wudaokou, our new home is full of low houses, soft coal-burning stoves, tiny alleyways, and many many people.
Most stare. Some ask us questions.
Where are you from? What are you doing here?
Does it matter? Where are we from? I could say across the stream, in the grove, through the gate and into the large courtyard house just a few hundred meters away... But usually I say, Wo men dou shi Meigouren, we are both American. But I wonder what this means to the people who hear it. Does it mean we are rich? Does it make them think all foreigners are strange and wander around taking pictures of battered household items?
What are we doing? We are tasting. We are lapping up the flavor and texture of what it means to be in this city. It is busy, it is modern, growing, and established. The young generation knows what it means to blush and beam with the pride of becoming a vibrant and emerging global power. Hidden in the bricks of their narrow-laned hutong homes, in the shadows of their wrinkled hands, the older generation knows the weight and the cost of the morphological changes it takes to form such a nation--like a pheonix, of sorts.
What are we doing? We are dreaming. That is all we can do to envision the China that once was and the China that the world will see. We dream up our own interpretations of the village we visit, imagining the lives of the owners of our noodle shop. And I am sure they dream of us to... they must picture our country to be one of excess, eccentricity, and (I hope) good natured tall people. I'll ask them tomorrow.
For the past few days two tall, light-colored xifangren, have been walking through our streets. They are photographing strange things. He took a picture of our telephone, our stove, cabbages, and my neighbor making noodles. She buys pineapple on a stick and speaks putong hua, the language of the people, but cannot understand what I say to her.
We are staying at the home/studio of the environmental organization that we are volunteering with, and exploring the local environs. Inside we are surrounded by familiar English, computers, even granola, but once we emerge from a little gate to the south east of the house, we find ourselves in the outskirts of rural Beijing. Much different from the cosmopolitan bustle of Wudaokou, our new home is full of low houses, soft coal-burning stoves, tiny alleyways, and many many people.
Most stare. Some ask us questions.
Where are you from? What are you doing here?
Does it matter? Where are we from? I could say across the stream, in the grove, through the gate and into the large courtyard house just a few hundred meters away... But usually I say, Wo men dou shi Meigouren, we are both American. But I wonder what this means to the people who hear it. Does it mean we are rich? Does it make them think all foreigners are strange and wander around taking pictures of battered household items?
What are we doing? We are tasting. We are lapping up the flavor and texture of what it means to be in this city. It is busy, it is modern, growing, and established. The young generation knows what it means to blush and beam with the pride of becoming a vibrant and emerging global power. Hidden in the bricks of their narrow-laned hutong homes, in the shadows of their wrinkled hands, the older generation knows the weight and the cost of the morphological changes it takes to form such a nation--like a pheonix, of sorts.
What are we doing? We are dreaming. That is all we can do to envision the China that once was and the China that the world will see. We dream up our own interpretations of the village we visit, imagining the lives of the owners of our noodle shop. And I am sure they dream of us to... they must picture our country to be one of excess, eccentricity, and (I hope) good natured tall people. I'll ask them tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Lingering Spice
My lips still tingle from the chili in the spice I added to the bowl of steaming hot noodles. The oil that oozes out of the la da seems to have numbed my lips even a half hour after finishing the bowl. This culinary delight once more reminds us of the adage "seek and ye shall find".
Having just moved out of Wudaokou we had no expectations of the place we would find. It was seemingly so far from the glitzy lights of the up and coming neighborhoods of Modern Beijing. Nestled in groves of perfectly spaced aspen or white birch (the kind of spacing that seems like an optical allusion when you look straight down the rows), we found ourselves in a traditional courtyard style house. The hallways, unlike the subsidized heat of the apartment complex, remain cold all the time—ushering you quickly into the respite of the few heated rooms. During any other season the pagoda in the center of the garden that the house surrounds would beckon all who see it to come and read, but now we only look on and shiver as we rush between warm spaces.
Seemingly cut off from the rest of Beijing we were uncertain of what we could find in the surrounding area. But a quick walk around the ramshackle neighborhood revealed just as much life as anywhere in Beijing. I can only imagine that the dusty and dirty alley ways of this neighborhood closer resemble the Beijing of 20, or even 10, years ago. Laundry lines and raw coal littering the walkways amidst streams of whitish colored liquids and other foreign substances.
As if seeking to inverse the previous experience of a hyper modern Beijing, this place oozed like an open sore. It was raw, and hard. The faces of those who live there bore more wrinkles. More soot, more dirt. We received stares, and bemusement. Not anger, or rejection, but an experience of being considered completely alien, completely foreign. It seemed they were stunned when we sat down for a bowl of noodles (the only thing on the non-existent menu).
It was, to me, a more authentic China. Perhaps that is my obligatory Western perspective. Always seeking to find the developing in developing countries. But, there was something magical about seeing the backlit dust of flour explode into the air as our proprietor stretched and twisted the fresh noodles. Something far more real than the fluorescent and plastic place we had formerly found ourselves in.
It was far less comfortable, but far more tasty.
Having just moved out of Wudaokou we had no expectations of the place we would find. It was seemingly so far from the glitzy lights of the up and coming neighborhoods of Modern Beijing. Nestled in groves of perfectly spaced aspen or white birch (the kind of spacing that seems like an optical allusion when you look straight down the rows), we found ourselves in a traditional courtyard style house. The hallways, unlike the subsidized heat of the apartment complex, remain cold all the time—ushering you quickly into the respite of the few heated rooms. During any other season the pagoda in the center of the garden that the house surrounds would beckon all who see it to come and read, but now we only look on and shiver as we rush between warm spaces.
Seemingly cut off from the rest of Beijing we were uncertain of what we could find in the surrounding area. But a quick walk around the ramshackle neighborhood revealed just as much life as anywhere in Beijing. I can only imagine that the dusty and dirty alley ways of this neighborhood closer resemble the Beijing of 20, or even 10, years ago. Laundry lines and raw coal littering the walkways amidst streams of whitish colored liquids and other foreign substances.
As if seeking to inverse the previous experience of a hyper modern Beijing, this place oozed like an open sore. It was raw, and hard. The faces of those who live there bore more wrinkles. More soot, more dirt. We received stares, and bemusement. Not anger, or rejection, but an experience of being considered completely alien, completely foreign. It seemed they were stunned when we sat down for a bowl of noodles (the only thing on the non-existent menu).
It was, to me, a more authentic China. Perhaps that is my obligatory Western perspective. Always seeking to find the developing in developing countries. But, there was something magical about seeing the backlit dust of flour explode into the air as our proprietor stretched and twisted the fresh noodles. Something far more real than the fluorescent and plastic place we had formerly found ourselves in.
It was far less comfortable, but far more tasty.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Streets of Beijing
It is impossible to predict the moment when you will realize you are somewhere foreign. Not simply different. But alien. Beijing, like most cities, can lull you into a sense of familiarity. A quality of almost-New York. Concrete imagery that seems so familiar despite the 7,000 miles of earth that separate the two capitalist outposts. New York's china town seems a portal to this place, whilst parts of ritzier Beijing lead you right down Fifth Ave.
Yet, there is a moment when it hits you. Perhaps it is crossing the street with a thousand jet-black haired Beijingers (with the occasional Korean's flare of purple), indifferent to the blaring horns of yellow -striped green taxis and looming buses. Perhaps the smell of street food is different. No longer saturated with the familiar tinges of cumin and paprika from the Halal carts, instead replaced with the distinct tangy spiciness of da la or the sizzle of jian bing crepes being poured onto a hot griddle.
Or, it could be the sense of fracture. Of explosive potential and incendiary like growth that fueled the transformation of a once developing nation into a capitalist power house. Where it's newly moneyed citizens gawk at diamonds and authentic Gucci in hyper-modern malls instead of their parents' street vendors who still pawn their Louie Vuetton and Channel down in the Hutongs.
It is hard to describe the experience of being in Beijing, especially during these times of economic uncertainty. As a Westerner who is only visiting here it looks to be an up and coming cultural playground not unlike New York. Yet, there is a hesitancy. Behind every gleaming building there is a ghetto of sorts being unbuilt brick by brick, bulldozer by bulldozer. On the half-finished tracks of a new subway, piles of trash emerge several stories high.
Despite its occasional urban similarities, we have arrived in a place thoroughly new. A city still seemingly in its infancy despite the paradoxical presence of the artifacts of an ancient empire. It is this mix that best captures the feeling here. It is something akin to the vendor's antiques, those trinkets that bear the bizarrely perfect patina of antiquity. It seems that Beijing is an ancient city still trying on the botoxed facade of somewhere far more modern. And while it succeeds in fooling most, we can look to the wrinkles and cracks to find a much more interesting place.
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