Letter from Chengde, China

Chengde-Tuesday November 27, 2007.

Chengde was definitely a new geographic location for me, closer to Mongolia and North Korea than Shanghai. Chengde has the Summer Palace. It is cool during the hellacious August heat of Bejing, yet in winter, Chengde is a cranky old city huddling in the cold; all greys, browns and dingy reds.

The Yunshan Hotel is considered a 4star hotel in this small town. It is the best they can offer to their foreign guests. But an American breakfast was included(eggs, toast and bacon) with the price of the room and I was happy.

We arrived around noon, checked in and took about 15minutes before we took off again for the factory. I had spotted a glass door leading outside when I was first shown to my room. So on stolen moments alone, I went exploring to the rooftop area that must be a hustling, hot spot when Chengde swings with tourists in the summer. I found the area startling, because it was green and evoked a secret-garden feeling. Having wandered into it alone, I felt like I'd found out a special secret place. Yet when I leaned over the parapet or stared out the view, the winter greys superceded the garden illusion.

I had spent the night comfortably ensconced in the hard Chinese mattress. But there was a sterility to the room thatcomforted me against the stories of bed bugs, smoky rooms and thin walls. The heat was strong against the winter night, I watched the river slowly freeze. I spent some time hanging my head outside the open window in my room. I was forewarned before this trip that I should expect the windows to be lined with moist towels. It provides the humidifying effects that will otherwise cause a winter nosebleed. It is a dry heat that is so strong, it feels like there is a force field of heat that guards the window against the cold mists. I had a silly thrill of waving my hand back and forth, hot, cold, hot, cold.

In the evening, I was taken to a Mongolian restaurant that sat next to the Summer Palace walls. It was an odd looking arrangement. You walk into a building that looks like any other kind of building and you are greeted with a comfortable reception area. But then you walk through a doorway that takes you back outside. It seemed covered, yet there was no heat for my breath steamed before me. Then we walked along a narrow cement pathway that meandered across a pebbled courtyard. We were brought to a rounded room, styled from the Mongolian yurt. We walked in and a large circular table, synonymous with Chinese eating sat with its lazy susan empty and forlorn.

We walked in and an employee immediately scuttled in and increased the fan on the room heater and started to lay out cups and cutlery. It was comfortably warm and I removed my coat and followed my hosts as we settled in for a traditional Mongolian dinner.

I can’t begin to describe the amount of food nor the different types of food I ate, except to note, that I ate venison that was rolled in a tempura-type coating and sat on a bamboo skewer, it looked like milk chocolate and had a slight chocolate taste. But it was firm and had a texture akin to cornmeal. The other prominent feature was the Chinese vodka that was drunk. It was so strong, it smelled like industrial cleaner. So potent; the shot glass was the size of a thimble. Where my hosts tossed it back with gusto, I sipped hesitantly. Where they clanged their glass against the glass lazy susan with appreciation, I tapped with trepidation. I’ve been know to take shots, I know how to drink strong libation, when asked I still order Russian vodka, but the Chinese version is nothing I’ve ever tasted before. When I risked a full blown swallow, after having only sipped previously, my eyes watered and my throat closed up; in seeming revolt for the assault.

My host voiced his concern, he thought I had eaten something that was too spicy, instead I could barely wave my hands and smile blandly while I tried to recover my breath. Before long, I looked around me and my hosts’ faces were cherry bright.

The other fascinating observation I had was the majority of Mongolian cuisine is meat, meat and more meat. Pork, beef, chicken, mutton, venison, duck; if it walks, it’s eaten. I’m not sure of what all the meat dishes were. But in the afternoon as we drove through the countryside on our way to the factory, I noticed a man walking with his donkey. Assuming it was a beast of burden, I turned to my host, Tony, who nonchalantly told me, before I could even ask; “That’s dinner.” Yes, the memory of that moment flashed a few times during dinner, but I pushed it aside, intent on simply experiencing the evening.

When in Rome, do as the Romans, when in China, become Chinese.

But I demurred when my hosts invited me to go dancing and more drinking, Tony was gracious and escorted me back to my room before he went out with the rest of the men for a night of more baizhuo(sp?), it's pronounced BYE-JOE. Instead, I snuck away to the rooftop garden. At night the scene took on an eerie rose-colored glow, my camera couldn't handle the darkness. But I was soothed, when I'm in a strange, unfamiliar land, I'm comforted in my solitude. It allows me to regain my sense of self and I let the inner dork in me escape without fear of seeming odd. I position my camera to take the pictures, I try to blow smoke rings with my breath, I make clicking noises with my tongue to hear the empty night's echo.

The next morning, I pledged to catch the sunrise in Chengde, it wasn't the best sunrise I've ever seen, but at least there was a sunrise. On my previous trip, I never saw the sun, it was filtered by the extremely strong smog that seems to cover all of China and it badly affected my mood and my throat. I spent most of that previous trip with my tonsils feeling like golf balls. It made things difficult to swallow and my throat felt like it was raw with pain. But that's another post.

It started out a crisp cold Mongolian morning. I awoke before sunrise and ran out to the rooftop garden to catch the sunrise. Some odd romantic idea about sunrises permeate my mornings in new geographic locations. It is settled on a the crook of this small river that stretched out about 500 yards across. At this date, the river has already frozen overnight, still and cloudy in the morning light. The air is thick with frost, the traffic is a quiet hum with a light blush of orange peaking behind the mountain in front of me. Yet what took the eye and grabbed it like a mugging, was a tall, dark, foreboding chimney blasting black bilous smoke into that quiet sky. It is the legacy being left to this country, the stereotype of all the horrible pollution stories written about industrial China. Looking at the picture, I tried my best to disguise the chimney, you can barely see it in one side of my picture, but standing on that rooftop, I found that it ruined any shot of the city.

I spent some time taking pictures of the rooftop garden with the sun quickly illuminating the dark corners from last night. The effects were startling, the garden was inviting and cheery. I could easily imagine visitors strolling around and a little section, about one floor down had tables and chairs, so I could see how nice the place would be in the summer with a meal and drinks.

When I left Chengde, I left with fine memories and a new Chinese name, Gao Le Da, it is supposed to mean, achieving more happiness. My hosts gave me the name in appreciation for my affable nature and my winning smile. You know what they say about first impressions, it’s usually right.

Letters from Beijing

Monday, Nov. 26, 2007

I landed in Beijing last night, it actually felt like a faster trip than I'd ever flown out to the far east. I had found a hotel on the internet, close to the airport was all I wanted. The guys driving me to the factory liked it too because it was close to the airport and we avoided all the Monday morning legendary Beijing traffic.

Sino Swiss Hotel, Japanese and Swiss conglomerate, how could they go wrong I asked myself? Yeah, well, the lobby looked great, but with a "No fly" list, "Do Not Call" list, I've got my 1st entry into the "Do Not Stay" hotel list.

I was on the 7th floor, yet I heard the singers in the lounge back on the 1st floor. The sound wafted through the vents along with hot air, lots of it. So much hot air that I had to open a window so I could breathe. When I opened the window and stuck my head out, I could see my breath, yet it barely staved off the strong dry heat of the hotel.

The air was so bad I woke up at 2am and thought someone had their dog in their room only to realize that it was someone sneezing/coughing at the same time. The reason I know it was a human? Because a few minutes later I heard the distinct sound of someone trying to cough up a phlegm ball and having a hard time.

I checked the mattress for bed bugs, I checked the seams, if there is evidence of them there, then the mattress has got bedbugs. So I slept on top of the beddings, luckily I had brought long sleeve flannel pajamas, the thought of it now, still leaves me itchy.

I only had one bath towel, one hand towel, a bar of soap, 2in1 shampoo and body wash that came out of a screwed-to-the-wall dispenser. So I took their toothbrush.

I'm in Chengde tonight, check your map if you're really interested. It's where the royal summer palace is located-I ate next door to the summer palace for dinner. But my hosts told me it was basically inner Mongolia. We actually drove through the Great Wall. The region reminds me of the Mojave desert and Colorado. Mountains and desert. This place is only 60km away from the border between Mongolia and China. People take the drive up there to saddle up and ride around like a Mongolian, sleeping in a yurt. I wonder if the tours offer fermented yak milk?

The picture is a view from my room, the city is split in half by a river that is lined with large rubber bladders that they inflate/deflate to regulate the water levels.

This is my 2nd stay in a Chinese hotel, and this is better than the Sino Swiss. I checked the mattress and it's clean. Maybe because the owner of the factory I'm visiting is a hotshot in the area and they knew better than to give me substandard service. I have two of everything, towels, slippers and robe! The bathroom was stocked will all kinds of goodies.

But again, even though parts of the road are icy from the cold, I'm sitting here with the window open because the heat is stifling. I should have turned off the heat completely when I left for dinner.

On my bedstand is this Star Trek-like command console, you can control the lights, the temperature, the radio and television. I want one for myself!

I slept maybe 8total hours since Sat. morning when I left Chicago, it is now Monday night in China and my hosts are all impressed that not only did I work through the afternoon, I was able to perform intricate computer work without once going crossed-eyed nor did I fall asleep during dinner, which from what they said, have actually happened.

Lunch was beef dumplings, mutton dumplings(tastes like beef), pork w/cabbage dumplings, and pork w/onion dumplings. Lunch was called a light meal.

I ate at a traditional Mongolian dinner, served in a restaurant shaped like a traditional Mongolian yurt(tent). I tried a few new dishes. Venison was served rolled in what looked like tempura and served on a skewer, tasted like chicken. I ate their version of Peking duck, tasted like beef. They are heavily into meat, meat and more meat.

Then there was the obligatory cheer to everyone's health. The northern Chinese drink a Chinese vodka that is so strong it could probably cure gangrene. They serve it in this teeny weeny brandy snifter looking thimble. Probably only held one teaspoon, but when I brought that to my lips, I stopped and watched everyone else toss back their heads. My host told me not to do the same, just take a small taste. I took a very little sip simply because before I even tasted it, I smelled it and my teeth turned black. It felt like I was drinking rubbing alcohol. I was promptly informed that despite the various cheers the rest of the group exercised, I only had to lift my glass or drink my tea. But I did take several sips to at least give them the benefit of my respect and appreciation. I finally stopped sipping when I took a bigger sip than previously and promptly had my eyes water as the alcohol drained down my throat. It burned my lips and my tongue, instantaneously caused a bright red flush across my face. My host thought I had eaten something spicy and expressed his concern. I thought my brain had liquified.

Bon!

(Pronounced like bung!I think. It's what they say in the north, to be said with a thumbs up, meaning "Good!" "Great!")

Lakawon Island

A few years ago, I had the chance to spend some time in the Philippines. When I say time, I mean time measured in weeks that turned into months. It was a moment that defied explanation. It was the year that I drifted from one lonely dream to another and took a chance to stop and look back. I wanted to go home and be a child, without responsibilities, deadlines or a salary for that matter. It was unimaginable that a sales job can give you such a great bonus. Maybe because sales job gives such a horrid hit to your ego when you are rejected over and over again, they compensate you with a comfortable salary, expansive expense account and a large bonus. But I would not put a price on my pride; it has never been for sale. Since I have so little of it, I horde it.

I had an outside sales job. I walked into a place and was told “Get out. Don’t take it personally, but your company sucks. Please leave.”

I still remember it, I smile at the guy, hands in the air, backing away as you would back away from a rabid dog. I leave quietly, much like the way I came it. I went to my car, imagined myself an Academy Award winner trying to muster a smile and confidence to get me to my next stop. It lasts for all of 10seconds before the lie implodes. I am not an Academy winner, I don’t have that confidence nor that ego. I whimper, drive home and type out my resignation letter. Then I left, hoping to recharge my batteries, find some clarity and figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I recharged my batteries, clarity was “I need money”. I have yet to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I’m still hoping I grow up, but as each day passes, my doubt grows on that accomplishment. I may be a 12yr old for the rest of my life.

But I had the chance to spend a day in paradise and this is what it was like.

Lakawon Island is an hour drive north from Bacolod City, Philippines. You exit the main highway in the apex of a sharp right turn, make sure you take that sharp left or you’ve missed it. The incongruity of the country is demonstrated at that moment you make your left turn looking for on coming traffic blindly speeding round the right turn curve. You finish the turn with a quick exhalation of relief.

The road is paved simply with cement so the path is smooth. Solid white cement scoring the countryside of green tall stalks of sugar canes and soft nebulous squares of muddy rice fields. You feel like an invader, your 20^th century diesel engine pouring smoke through the 18^th century field.

You pass farmers bent over in the hot sun, placing the young rice shoots deftly into ankle high muddy water. Their faces obscured by the large grass native hats. They gamble a quick glimpse as you fly by them in your loud machine. Then finding you inconsequential to their task, they return to the seedlings in their hands.

You wonder if you could ever be that strong, to labor from sunup to sundown, feeding people worlds away. People who will never know the pride you take in a fresh harvest or a straight row, the ache in your body when the sun drops low. Then you realize the fence upon which you lean. Gazing longingly at the simplicity of their green grass, they peek back and see the greener grass upon your side of the fence. The grass you don’t notice everyday.

You drive down this narrow two-lane road at a brisk pace, you yearn for the little town that waits at the edge of the water. Then amidst the sharp turns and stomach churning dips, you break hard. You’re slammed forward and the road ends abruptly. You maneuver over the sharp sudden drop from cement to dirt road. You can only drive in first gear, the engine groaning in the pits and dips over the random, resolute rock that refuses to move.

Suddenly behind another sharp turn, the road is transformed by a grove of coconut trees that line the road on both sides like tapestry. You can’t see past the trunks, the leaves sing gently in the breeze, you are hypnotized.

Then you are rudely pulled from your reverie to the paradoxical sight of a single strip of white cement and you push your vehicle over that rut and cautiously move. The disappearance and reappearance of a recognizable road goes on for another mile, which seems to stretch into ten for all the caution and care.

You notice small grass thatched shacks amidst the fields, leaning against a small grove of trees. Sometimes it’s a few coconut trees, sometimes it’s banana trees, but often it’s shady. They stand against the sparseness of a rice field.

You know you’re closing in on the place they call Barangay Lakawon-neighborhood Lakawon, loosely translated. It sits on the edge of the water. It is there for 50 pisos you park your car, pay 600 pisos for an oversized outrigger motor boat that will take you across the water to the little slip of hazy blue that stretches on the horizon called Lakawon Island, walk around island.

The boat is bracketed by bamboo pontoons that keep the boat from capsizing but does nothing to minimalize the swells of the surf. You pick your way across the shell-strewn black sand and gingerly step aboard via a small two-by-four wooden. ramp. You reach for the boat to steady your stance and find a friendly but firm hand to guide you aboard.

Then you settle in, it’s narrow and an inch of water marks its territory at the bottom of the boat. It’s a waste of effort to bail for a few ounces that will return with each spray of a stubborn wave.

The boat rocks as it breaks against the swells of the rising tide. The motor shouts across the bay, the water flies by, a murky dark green. You watch as that strip of blue grows into a ribbon of white trim against a row of green, painted against the big bright blue sky.

Interloper puffs of clouds linger like tourists visiting for the day. Your boat chugs along, the crew languid against the closed mast. Should the motor fail, patched sails can continue your ride.

As you cross the 5 miles of open sea, Lakawon Island grows in your vision, until you see the trim of white transformed into a sandy beach. Then the green rows are more coconut trees and you begin to see the small grass shacks that dot the beach in neat rows.

It’s been 15 minutes since you boarded when the motor burps into silence. You rock in the swells of the passing waves. The crew jumps into the crystal blue waters and drag the boat to shore. The wooden ramp is pulled for your convenience, but the white sand glitters beneath the clear water, winking an invitation to jump. So you jump, gleefully into the surf of Lakawon Island.

It’s a city block long and half a block wide. It is simple, no loud lounge band, no 5 ft tall speakers with dance party fever music. No bevy of babes in two-piece bikinis, no muscle bound studs with tattoos, just you and a quiet beach on a midweek day.

There is the white sand, the grass hut without walls and a picnic table in the shade. You have your pick of a shed house as the natives call them. You pick the house with the rope hammock hanging limply between two of the four bamboo poles that hold the hand-thatched roof up.

The sand is even marked with bright buoys and ropes to demarcate your stretch of rented beach.

You walk to the “comfort room” that contains a shower and porcelain bowl. It’s a manual flush. There’s a large 50 gallon bucket beneath a water spigot and a large 1qt plastic cup that you will use to ladle the water into the porcelain basin to flush your detritus. There is a shower curtain to hide behind as you change into your swimsuit.

This is the price you pay to be on this island, on this day, with no one else but you, with the only strangers being the staff who stand away in the shade patiently waiting for a sign from you to attend your needs.

You swim first, to cleanse away the tension of the ride. You wear a mask and snorkel because you don’t want to miss the translucent fish that dart around your ankles. You won’t see the common brown jellyfish that inhabit the waters of the mainland. Lakawon’s jellyfishes are translucent bubbles trimmed with faint purple markings.

Lakawon’s beach is protected from the larger swells for it faces the mainland and the island curves like a kidney bean. Its shape affords its beach calm water like a giant saltwater pool.

You snorkel with your face in the water, watching the fish scamper about the sea grass, watch a crab crawl, pick up a starfish and watch it curl protectively inward and run the risk of enchantment. Turning onto your back, the salt water catches you and you float. You become jetsam, a small piece of a larger, grander universe and the heavy load of duty is forgotten. Replaced with a peace and wonder so profound, you’re glad for the scarcity of others for you treasure the moment for yourself.

Before you fall gently asleep and float away, you take yourself back to the shed house for refreshments, dry yourself off and lie on the hammock.

There in the shade, you watch the sun bleach the sand and blaze away to noon. That beautiful white, hot glare of a tropical day with the surf as your music and your laughter its song. You rock yourself into a nap in the middle of the day with the salty breeze tickling your sand encrusted hair and breathe deep. For that moment hanging in time, just as you drift away to sleep, you know paradise.