..circumnavigate.with.me..

Ｇｒｅａｔ　Ｗａｌｌ．．．　ＵＰＳ　Ａｎｄ　Ｄｏｗｎｓ

Downs:

LOUD NOISES! 

Movement of the masses…. Of tourists and school groups along the wall.

Spittin’…. The Chinese seemed fully committed to the practice of hawking and spitting everywhere

Power lines, litter, and other by products of modernization

Destroying one of the Wonders of the World by sending the boulder-turned-footrest plummeting down a cliff

Ups:

Conquering the climb to the top

Sounds:

On my left:  wind rushing up through the canyon rubbing the branches of trees together

To my right:  jubilant birds announce the return of spring

I can feel my lips burning from the sun and wind exposure, but the moment is just too perfect to fuss for chap stick in my purse

The shrieks of Chinese teenagers and car horns are just barely audible, depending on  the direction of the wind

Pantomime Professional

Since cross-language communication in China bordered on impossible, Lindsay and I relied solely on pantomime and copying Chinese characters to get by.  Here is a small  collection of my best successful pantomimes

o        Where is the bus station?

o        Harder than it sounds:  money changer?

o        We tried to go down to ‘arrivals’ but there is a fence and it’s locked us in.

o        …and my best work to date:

o        This guy over here wants us to pay 50 Yuan for each bag to put them under the bus for a Petrol surcharge… is this legit or is he lying?  (as a side not he was a con artist that through our persistence we were able to foil in cheating us out of about 100 Yuan!)

.future.fears.

I’m very nervous to return home to the US. For so long (nearly a year!) I defined myself as a future world traveler and the itinerary that lie ahead of me as my goal. Every small pang of homesickness is now countered with a rush of panic. What am I going to do when I’m not flying around town in my mother’s Toyota trying to collect anything needed for a four month excursion on the high seas? Unfortunately, the answer is ‘work’… and a lot of it!

 The fleeting memories of Minnesota summers, Drake winters, and all weekend activities in between are now overshadowed by the impending drone of everyday life. Before, my life consisted of planning and packing and speaking only of the great adventures that Semester at Sea would soon bring. Though I will soon find myself in a more interesting position (one where I am able to tell all my tales of the world), the transition of the trip from future to present and then to past will be depressing, to say the least. Luckily, I am returning home with a few great gifts (other than the clothes and paintings I purchased in the Orient). I am bringing back a new outlook and appreciation for life on the global spectrum. The people I’ve met in foreign countries have passed on a sense of humility that I ought never to forget. Coming home I will recognize the monumental changes in attitude and perspective that I have gained in the last 4 months. Adjusting to new (old) surrounding may take some time though.

::early::bird::

I have seen more sun rises on this journey than I have in my entire lifetime. Luckily, I have found companionship in others willing to shake off early morning slumber in exchange for the promise of early beginnings to unforgettable adventures.

A pivotal moment in my culinary consumption career occurred in the limbo between officially exiting Hong Kong and checking into China.

In a last ditch effort to alleviate myself of un-exchangeable Hong Kong coins, I made my way to a brilliantly lit case full of vibrant looking pastries.  My indecisive nature soon took hold of me and I began hurriedly pacing the case, back and forth until my travel companion grew tired of my dawdling.  Remembering the delectable chocolate sweets sampled in Malaysia, I settled on a treat labeled ‘Chocolate and Peanut’ in imperfect English.  As my change was deposited in my hand, a moment of glory swept over me as I realized that the excess coinage was enough to make a second selection.  I could feel my fellow traveler’s eyes rolling as I scanned the case once again.  Without recalling the sub-par coconut pastry that I sampled in Vietnam (yes, I am far too fond of these baked treats), I hastily gestured toward a title containing a word that looked like ‘coconut’.  I quickly paid the last of my Hong Kong change and scooted towards the entry immigration for mainland China.  As we bopped along through the mass of Chinese and Western tourists, I opened the bags, unable to wait any longer to sample my purchases.  Glorious!  The first selection contained a dense filling of chocolate icing and peanut bits that overflowed onto the corners of my mouth with each bite.  Completely satisfied with my initial taste test I turned to the yellowish, coconut confection that looking less and less appetizing with each passing minute in line.  This became the ultimate lesson, in culinary version, of the gross error of first impression judgments.

The crumby outside and the soft filling created a clash of interesting textures.  The inside of the delightful coconut was the most addictive combination of butter and sugar that I had ever tasted.  The next fifteen minutes of my life, though filled with Chinese immigration paperwork, queues and security checkpoints, bordered on bliss as I slowly devoured the ‘coconut’ pastry. 

If we hadn’t been in such a hurry to Shenzen Airport, I would have back tracked and invested in an entire tray full. Luckily for my wallet, and my cholesterol level, there was no time to fulfill this desire. 

:listen:to:this!:

No matter what my mood was last November, “Flake” by Jack Johnson seemed to fit any situation.

Before reaching South Africa, I could not go more than two hours without listening to “Send me on My Way” by Rusted Root or Tido’s powerful vocals on the track “Africa”.

A few weeks ago a Ben Folds Five cover of “Video Killed the Radio Star” kept my finger close to the replay button.

Currently, I’m adding about 17 to my iTunes play count for “Babylon” by David Gray… every day.

Many sincere apologies to my roommate Lindsay who becomes the bystander caught in the crossfire of my obsessive listening habits.

SD’s Calling

I am being bombarded by little familiarities calling me ‘home’ to San Diego. The other night I was waiting for my appetizer (though the dish of deep fried scorpion did anything other than ‘tize’ my appetite) at an outdoor café in the heart of Saigon, when my nose captured the neighboring Aussie woman’s perfume. The smell rocketed me into the imagined presence of my Aunt Teresa: familiarity so powerful that I scanned my surroundings twice to ensure that my aunt was not in the very same restaurant. It wasn’t until the Aussie woman paid her bill and left the restaurant that memories of countless summers with my aunt in California dissipated in the humid Vietnamese night.

Just a day before this memory laden meal, I was romping on the sand of Vietnamese beach, reenacting my carefree days as a child in San Diego. While the white sand and warm water were much different than that which lines the coast of Southern California, the character of the waves was quite similar. In my playful dodging, ducking, and diving through the powerful surges of water, I was pounded after trying to regain my stable footing in the sand. Once, just like a thousand other times that my mother references, I’m nearly pulled out to sea by the rush of the undertow. Just as cocky as I was in my youth about the power of the current and its potential to put me in harm.

Once these two daydreams were inspired, my subconscious began amplifying other observances to connect with SD days and nights. It appears no matter how hard I will the end of the trip to remain aloof, the final port of call is calling me home.

。Football。Fanatic。

On a SAS sponsored trip in Vietnam, we took a slow boat out to ‘explore’ some islands off the coast of Nha Trang.  The only inhabitants of these islands were concentrated in small fishing villages at the water’s edge (with many living in houses on the water).  During the heat of the day, we wandered through the village, peeking in huts to see many people napping to avoid the sun.  There were some children stirring in a school yard, but the atmosphere was sleepy.  I did the ultimate double take when passing by the open doorway to a dark house: I passed by, came to an immediate halt, and stepped backwards without breaking my gaze from the door.  Inside was exactly what I had imagined that I saw.  A young man was sitting on an archaic looking barstool watching an English professional football game.  I stared long enough to determine the teams playing and the score.  Before I disappeared down the street with the rest of the group, I noticed the man had shifted his gaze on me and was beaming at my interest in his television program.

I guess I wasn’t as close to the middle of nowhere as I had thought.

A couple of days later on the walk from the War Remnants Museum to the Ben Thahn Market I caught the sound of cheering and banging across the street from where we were walking.  It seemed to be pouring over the tops of stalls selling sporting goods.  I was entranced by curiosity and I absentmindedly abandoned the group in search of the sound’s source.  Passing through a gate, I came upon a weathered Vietnamese man reading a newspaper.  He signaled me over with enthusiastic motions and said “student game, student game!”  I traced the direction of his gestures and discovered a football match in session.  Even at 11am the air was already heavy with heat, but the players seemed unfazed.  The crowd was small and mighty.  Numerous percussion instruments were represented as fans banged together rhythms and chants.  An elderly drum-less woman frantically beat together two empty plastic bottles in hopes of stirring up the players that she favoured.   Because of my interest in the culture and passion for the sport, I was unable to tear myself away from the game.  I gladly traded in my shopping to sit on the dirty bleachers, surrounded by shouting Vietnamese sports enthusiasts who loved football as much as I did.

..::packing::problems::..

When I traveled to Lençois (in Brazil) for three days of trekking, I packed so much weight into my large pack that it was nearly impossible to carry through the bus station. In Mauritius I made progress by carrying the same bag, but with a smaller potential to cause a hernia. Months later, I am finally learning efficiency. For a three day trip in Vietnam, I am bringing only the small back pack that I used to carry textbooks in high school. Could it be that I am weaning myself of my habit of excessive over packing? I love this trip.

…Remembering.the.forgotten…

I wrote this with the intention of preserving my own memories about the brave little girls that I met at Mother Theresa’s Orphanage in Chennai in the spring of 2007. I don’t know their names or the details of their medical histories. But I know their smiles and their eyes. And though we were different in background, ability, age, and language, knowing only their faces was enough to begin to understand their souls. I want to remember these beautiful little girls since much of the rest of the world has forgotten about them.

A girl in a faded green dress sat within in an arm’s reach of an archaic looking radio. Even in her incapacity, she had neatly folded her legs, feet resting atop knees, in a position that my own inflexibility would never have permitted. She kept one hand permanently pressed to the source of sound and the other hand seemed to methodically flutter in the air. Eyelids were pressed tight and lips formed something of a chant or silent conversation. Had I not known differently, I would have guessed that this young girl was a powerful spiritual master; through her persistent and intense meditation she was able to connect the rhythm resounding from the radio with the divine of another world in a way that only the most trained practitioner could. After pausing to observe her actions, it would be easy to grow tired of the repetition and excuse the ceaseless gestures as nothing more than a tick of sorts: another sign of disability or difference. But I saw much more. There was dedication etched into her closed-tight eyelids and focused facial features. Whatever thought or belief or hope or memory she held in her head, she had focused her entire being into ensuring that the feeling would not disappear. She was passionate, persistent, and beautiful.

There is a saying that my mother, and consequently my family, has always used to describe an uncomfortable and/or painful situation, emotion or experience. It always made perfect sense to me, but when I began to use the phrase, “it made me want to jump out of my skin” in my collegiate days some were confused as to the meaning of the phrase. It could describe a time when you fell so ill that the fight to break fevers and beat the rise in your stomach contents to the toilet had nearly driven you to tears of frustration. Alternatively, you may feel this way when you realize that an individual you just insulted stands injured within earshot. Or perhaps on an occasion when you collect too many mosquito bites and your relaxing summer slumber turns into a sleepless night of scratching and itching may induce this feeling.

There was a little girl in a gold shirt that spent the majority of her time in a crib, though her age would suggest that she would have outgrown such a piece of furniture long ago. While she lay dormant most of the time, she would gather up her energy and have something like a fit every 20 minutes or so. The little girl in the gold shirt would raise her legs in the air and thrash up and down. It was never in an effort to injure another as a tantruming toddler might. Her motions would carry over from side to side and she would cry out in discomfort, though it was silent because her vocal chords were undeveloped. This awful look of frustration and agony was pasted on her tiny face. I could see her soul, her entire being, struggling against a disobedient body, aching to be free of it. She looked as if she really was trying to jump out of her (misbehaving) skin.

I was completely consumed in this moment in time. I forgot about every worry about grades, and internships and friends stuck in my mind. I tried to will her free from her pain. I tried to imagine what this beautiful little human might become if born at a different place, at a different time, into a different body. She would be able to run, skip and play with other children. She would be able to sing, speak and, most importantly, cry like all little girls do. But she would still be the same big eyed, toothy grinned little girl in a gold shirt because she was already gorgeous.

A young girl in a pastel pink jumper sat in a chair next to the window, with a bright red ball grasped at the end of her extended right arm. She gazed at the crimson toy with the wonder and intrigue that must have graced the faces of ancient explorers upon discovering new worlds. The almost bewildered look was plastered on her face as if the ball had only appeared in her hand moments ago. A weathered artist might have mimicked the pose in stone, replacing the young girl with a man of importance and the bright red ball with a historical invention. During the first two hours I spent in the upstairs room of the orphanage, I attended to the attentions of other girls in the room. But I had an eye on the bright red ball, and the little girl attached to it every now and then. There she sat, under the window, never breaking her gaze at the toy (it wasn’t until much later that I noticed that her chair was tied to the window ledge and that she was tied into the chair). I wanted to engage her in an activity, but I feared that any separation from the object of her affection, even if only to play catch, would devastate her. I only mustered the courage to advance these intentions when another child lost stumbled into her chair. The ball fell from her tiny but mighty outstretched hand and rolled across the room. Fearing instant distress I pounced in an effort to return the toy to it’s keeper before impending tears surfaced.

However, when I wheeled around the little girl in the pink jumper was collected and had shifted her interest from the big red ball to the big white girl now in front of her. We exchanged eye contact and excited facial expressions while I scooted closer to sit at her feet. I clasped her hands into mine and tried to see her no differently than I would any other child her age. After occupying ourselves with tickling attempts, my face was soon buried in that pastel pink dress as her tiny arms scooped up my head in a bear-hug fashion. Her grasp was tight around the nape of my neck and her little hands had accidentally caught a few sections of my hair in the embrace. But I hardly minded the discomfort and sought only to return the hug with as much compassion as she radiated. This physical contact, perhaps to her a direct acknowledgment of her existence in the world, thrilled her and joyous squeals were emitted far too close to my ear. But the piercing volume, the uncomfortable tension on my scalp and the fleeting thoughts of the slew of germs that all kindergarteners seem to tote around were not enough to break my grasp. If time had permitted, I would have held onto this forgotten little girl until the world forgot us both.