June 13, 2014: Mongolia

Wide open space. Clean air. Clear, crystal water that sparkles brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight. Sun! No more dim, lifeless skies choked by pollution. The slow suffocation of sanity by millions of constricting bodies has been lifted. My mind has been saved. I can no longer hear loud abrasive mechanical and human noise, sounds that dig into the fibers of my brain. I've found peace and stillness. We have arrived in Mongolia. One of the world's truly wild places. 

I feel at home here. People are scarce and nature rules supreme. In the north, green vibrant grasslands roll into bare earth-toned mountains that are so still and lonely you can hear the whispers of time. By listening I feel like I am intruding on a deep secret  that wasn't meant for my ears. I listen anyway.To the south the great Gobi stretches wide and unforgiving under the unrelenting sun. It never ceases to amaze me how, by a matter of a few degrees longitude and the right tilt and rotation of the earth, this burning star, which is over ninety million miles away, can gently kiss our upturned faces with warm tenderness, or scorch the earth and bones with its fixed searing gaze. The big bright-blue Mongolian sky in which this temperamental god sits feels like it could swallow me whole. Its vastness consumes me.

I didn't just travel to Mongolia from China, I fled; with all the speed and desperation that self preservation and hope induces. And I never looked back. 

Our adventure in this thrilling, timeless land was short and concise. Upon our arrival in the capital city, Ulaanbaatar, we began immediately making preparations for our exploration. Within a few short days we were on the road heading south. Our spirits fluttered with excitement as we travelled forsaken stretches of sun-scorched land with our hired Mongol driver, Gumba. 

Gumba didn't speak much English. The few comprehensible words he knew included: machine (the name he gave to all motored vehicles), lunch (the word he used for every meal), and Mongolia (the term he used to describe the people, language, and place of his birth). But perhaps my favorite verbal idiosyncrasy that came out of our driver's mouth was his third person referrals. "Gumba, machine, yes!" (Meaning: get in the vehicle, it's time to go). Or, "Gumba lunch, no." (Meaning: he wasn't hungry for lunch... or, depending on the time of day, breakfast or dinner.) 

Dave and I enjoyed our driver's company. We were able to communicate through games of charades and a small incomplete Mongolian phrase book. We even taught him a few card and dice games which he embraced enthusiastically. "Gumba yes!" We were sad when we reached our northern-most destination, Lake Khosvgol, and parted ways. He was a good driver and a friendly embassador. 

Our wide encompassing journey started in the north, in the capital, where we arrived by train--the Trans Mongolian line--from China. As we meandered south through expansive grasslands where herds of horses, sheep, goats, and yaks wandered and grazed methodically, we soon realized that paved roads were luxuries of the past. Where by most developed country's transportation standards would have lain a smooth black surface accented with yellow, instead revealed multiple sets of tire tracks heading in a general direction. These tracks were printed in mud, grass, and sand, and led vehicles through streams, rock fields, and some of the steepest terrain ever to be called a road. It was an exciting driving experience, but painfully spine-jolting at times. We left a couple of nice cranium-shaped dingers on the ceiling of our Russian imported van.

As we travelled south we watched the landscape magically transform before our eyes. Cool snow-dusted mountains turned to dry thirsty hills tormented by heat. The change in temperature was shocking. We awoke one day with a chill northern wind nipping at our faces and went to sleep with the thermometer still a blaze from the sun's ceaseless stare. 

When we reached the Gobi region Gambu stopped the machine, locked the hub-caps, shifted to 4WD and turned the wheel west, proceeding through some of the most unforgettable miles of "road" I have traveled. 

Bactrian Camels speckled the sandy wasteland--their goofy-looking double humped bodies moving together in stride.They stopped intermittently to graze on resilient shrubs so thorny and dry I wondered how the creatures got them down their gullets with out injury. We rode these beasts, swaying in our saddles. Their movements are strange. Unlike most four legged animals, these creatures step with both their front and hind legs simultaneously, moving one side of their body and then the other. A fast trot on a camel feels like you are being vigorously shaken; teeth rattling, head boggling. Ouch. 

We climbed, rather we crawled, up golden-hued sand dunes a hundred stories high. The wind swept their surface, cutting sharp edges into the pyramid-like forms and erasing our blundering hand and footprints. A clean, smooth slate. These edges became more defined and acute by the shadows cast by the sun and, as we witnessed from our campsite one night, the full moon. The dunes sang an erie song as the wind played against their surface--a harmonious choir of moaning voices. That song haunts me still. 

We drove past dead, forlorn mountains as dry as sun-bleached bones, and hiked through shaded, half-lit canyons that held secrets of past worlds in the form of fossils. Great birds of prey, wide-winged wonders, soared at heavenly heights. I first noticed a massive shadow. The darkened ground caught my eye and I craned my neck unnaturally, skywards, towards its origin. I winced, momentarily blinded by the illumination of the sun. The shadow skimmed the ground's surface and as my eyes adjusted I discovered the source of the projection--the connective life flying a thousand feet above me. She is the shark of the sky, a golden eagle! Circling slowly, purposefully, she searches-her sharp eyes scanning the valley for a life she can snatch in her great, sharp talons. 

Here in the desert the sky battles the earth for space. A contrasting clash of brilliant blue, glittering gold, brass browns, and peaceful purples--the colors of the Gobi. The desert holds a magical appeal to those who come prepared--with eyes wide open and souls filled to the brim with wonder. Most travelers don't bother, preferring the lush vitality of alternate climates to this heart-breaking land. Even Marco Pollo looked upon his journey through the Gobi Desert with disdain and dread. But there are people who choose it. They thrive here. This land is part of them. They breath it. They bleed it--the blood returning to their hearts time and time again. They are modern nomads. The last of their kind.

They say home is where the heart is. The Mongol heart belongs to the land. Their lives and the lives of their beasts are dictated by weather patterns, the changing of seasons, droughts, etc. They live their lives on the steppes, in the mountains, and within the harsh desert--moving in cycles with the earth. They reap the bounties from fertile seasons--stoically thanking the gods of the earth for their benevolence--and resiliently absorbing the tragedies of famine--praying fervently, searching for atonement. 

They live a migratory life, like Canada Geese and the Monarch Butterfly. They float on the winds of necessity, never excess, and their homes are well suited to their nature. Gers--round tent-like structures--are broken down, transported by horse and cart or, just as often, by yak and cart, and rebuilt in a new location. The process of packing up and resetting one of these homes is quick, taking less than a day. They move rapidly and leave only foot prints and vodka bottles behind.

Through out our Mongolian journey we were generously given the opportunity to sleep in more than one nomadic home. We would be invited in with gestures and smiles, offered warm yak milk and biscuits, and asked to stay. We camped part of the time and slept in gers the rest--each spot containing a story and a memory. 

The first ger I entered surprised me greatly. Despite some extremely remote locations, many of these homes provided the comforts of a stationary life. A few even contained appliances! Of course these luxuries only exist alongside a generator. And this magic box comes at a great expense. 

The furniture, except for a small table, is arranged along the wall of the ger--a ring of comforts. Typically included is a vanity or wardrobe, a bed or two, a chair, and a small sink--the drain pipe leading to a removable bucket. Half the floor is a strip, or multiple strips, of carpet and the other side--the kitchen side--is a heavy plastic tarp or synthetic tile. In the middle of the room sits a small wood burning stove. The chimney pipe leads up and through a hole in the canvas ceiling, leaking sunshine that spills onto the centrically placed table. Gers are always warm and cozy. Always. The Mongols swaddled the interior walls of their tents with blankets--adding more in winter for insulation, and less on hot summer days. Family photos and embroidered pictures often hang from these unconventional walls--a hint of decor and a homey touch.

These homes are not glamorous by the western standard. The blankets on the wall are always miss-matched, the furniture is clashing, you have to dispose of your bucket-filled drain water, and sometimes the ger has no chairs--forcing you to sit cross-legged on stained carpet squares. And, of course, you have to brave the elements when using the bathroom--which consists of a hole in the ground sheltered by a couple of slabs of wood. No, these homes are not the feng shui three bedroom, two and a half bath, architectural masterpieces most people consider livable. It's a nomad's home. And I find the simplicity inviting and intrinsically warming. I would choose a ger.

We travelled directly up the heart of the country, heading north, immersing ourselves in the natural beauty of Mongolia. We hiked the dead cratered remains of extinct volcanos, felt the cool misty breath of pounding waterfalls, and skipped smooth, round stones off the surface of caribean-blue lakes, where chunks of ice lingered in the wintery waters. We tasted camel meat and yak cheese, sat in a circle on the floor of a ger drinking vodka with locals, rode horses up green hills smattered with bleating goats and lambs, and watched herds of antelope burst across the plains with explosive speed. We gazed awe-struck at flaming meteorites falling from a dark diamond-filled sky, and witnessed the birth of a new day--the morning sunlight visibly moving its rays across the green valley floor, chasing away shadows and lighting up lakes and rivers causing them to burn reflectively. We said goodnight to the sun as it disappeared over ancient mountains, the colors in the sky bleeding out like a mortal wound. 

Oh the beauty of freedom! The joy of travel and the thrill of exploration! Driving with windows down through new territory, wind tumultuously whipping my hair, my man--my heart--by my side, a herd of wild horses attempting to out-run our rickety-Russian van, Gumba blaring Mongolian-pop music and singing unabashed in his Mongol-tongue. 

I've never been happier. 

May 10, 2014: Lost In Translation

When we first arrived in Taiwan Dave, my master linguist, surprised me by speaking his first words in Spanish, not Mandarin. Where did that come from? Obviously it had been deeply rooted by our South American trip and had made the flight over the Pacific to Asia. Dave gave a good shake, rust went flying, and he was his normal proficient self again. I love Dave, but there are times while I am watching him break communication barriers with grace and ease that I feel some jealousy and resentment towards him and his gift. What takes him days to master, takes me months of sputtering and babbling to learn. And even then I am not always guaranteed to be understood. There is nothing more frustrating then asking for something in a foreign language, a phrase I have been practicing and repeating for some time, only to get a blank stare of incomprehension in return. Or to be completely taken out of context, that's just as maddening.

Once while we we were traveling in Chile, Dave and I were buying meat for dinner at a market. We stood across the case from the butcher deciding how much beef to buy. Feeling a rare bout of confidence I waved Dave back and stepped up to complete the task. I got this! Spanish flowed from my lips like honey as I trencended the language barrier to provide steaks for me and my man. When my words had ceased, I gave a nod of satisfaction and waited for a response and action from the butcher. My answer came in the form of laughter. Confused, I looked towards Dave to explain. He was choking back his own amusement as he translated the meaning of my own words.

"My boyfriend has big meat. I want more meat."

That wasn't the first time I made a foreigner laugh with my broken attempts at his language and it wasn't the last.

You can imagine my fears when I realized Mandarin-Chinese was the new language on the table. Dios mio! This time, however, I decided to confront this challenge with goals--determined to be less reliant on Dave and more self sufficient and confident in my own ability. With a new attitude I began this endeavor.

Goal number one was to learn enough of the language to be able to order and survive off of the local food stalls if I were to become separated from Dave. A girl's gotta eat. The second goal was to learn how to say "bathroom" so I wouldn't have to resort to committing obscenities in the streets. After visiting China I have found that this goal wouldn't have mattered as much by Chinese standards. That's ucky, China! The third task I appointed myself to learn was how to say, "I don't speak Chinese" ...as if it wasn't obvious. 

At first I almost cried with frustration. How is it possible that I could speak one word in Mandarin and have it translate into five different meanings with the slightest, and I do mean slightest, change in my voice? The word "ma" if spoken with different tones can translate into scold, mother, horse, or hemp. Not to mention that it is also added to the end of sentences to turn phrases into questions. Ah! 

I desperately wanted to give up, grab a strong drink, and let Dave do the talking. But, I set a goal, and if there is one thing I pride myself on, it's my tenacity. I set myself to work and as I practiced these words with the falling and rising tones endemic to the Chinese language, it magically started to get easier. I began to understand. I began to be understood. With my confidence growing, I started adding more goals--four, five, six goals...

Now I can not only feed myself and use the bathroom, but I can order iced coffees in the size I want, have brief, superficial, conversations, ask directions, and most importantly of all, I can say that "I speak a little Chinese."

I wouldn't say that I am taking to this language like a duck to water, maybe more like a child with swimmer trainers. The point is that I may lack grace, proficiency and, most of the time, comprehension, but I am floating and that feels good. However, we have crossed borders, China is behind us and Mongolia is before us with the Mongolian language--a Russian-Asian acrylic-hybrid of tung-twisting difficulty. It's one language that will leave you with your mouth ajar and with eyes staring uncomprehendingly into space. God help me!

April 22, 2014: Asia Proper

We are travelers again, travelers in a land of billions. We have regained our adventurous personas as well as our back-pack toting forms--mine looking more like a giant tortoise and less like a seasoned traveler. My legs are weak and shaky and the muscles on my hips protest loudly, but the more I march to the travelers tune, the stronger I will become, and the lighter my shell will feel.This I know as fact--part of the laws of traveling. For now, I look forward to the day when I don't feel like I'm hauling the world in the contents of my mint-green back pack.

So here we are, laden down with our necessities. We carry our belongings. We carry ourselves. We carry each other. We have arrived in China--Asia proper.

This journey is different from other trips we have taken. Our usual two is company has become three. Matt has joined us, and we are happy to have him. Not only does he provide an extra critically-thinking mind, enjoyable company, and a third-pegging opponent in our cribbage matches, he also possesses wander lust and a wide-eyed appreciation for the natural world. He fits right in.

We arrived in China by boat--the Cosco Star. As we shuffled up the boarding dock to the large vessel we didn't know what to expect. We had purchased the cheapest tickets possible and we were braced and ready for anything--almost anything. I don't believe any of us expected to be placed in a private cabin with downy-soft comforters and a bathroom/shower. Was there a mistake? None of us were about to point it out. That night as the Cosco Star rocked us softly to sleep, I wondered what we would find at the end of the China Sea.

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Hours earlier we stood on Taiwanese ground--the first stop on our travel itinerary. When you say 'Taiwan' most Westerner's automatic and singleminded response is: 'made in Taiwan!' 

Of course. It's their claim to fame, their trademark. However, most don't know, or care to know, Taiwan's complicated political history and their ongoing struggle to become or maintain (depending on whose side you're on) a sovereign identity. Many don't even know where in the world Taiwan is located.

An age-old story. The little people want their freedom, and the power in charge says, forget it. The Republic of Taiwan, as the members of the independence movement call themselves, are in a struggle to maintain their sovereignty from The People's Republic of China. Two coalitions clash within the small island; One pulling for democracy, the other tugging towards remaining with the communist state. Childishly, China pretends Taiwan's sixty-year old government and successful capitalistic economy doesn't exist. In their eyes, the islands off the coastline are still under Chinese dominion. During our first week of travel within China we met many people who, upon hearing where we came from, responded, "Ah, Taiwan Province." The declaration of independence has not been heard.

Not only does China refuse to accept it, but so does the World. The United Nations are staying out of this fight, declining to acknowledge Taiwan's claims. And, of course, the world symbol for liberty and justice, the good ole US of A is turning a blind eye towards Taiwan's requisitions. Let's face it, we are too deep in bed with China to do otherwise. China owns our governing official's little green, greedy souls. They wouldn't dare undermine the hand that holds our massive debt.

And so this political dance goes on and on. Only no one will dance with Taiwan. It will most likely join the ghosts of The Republic of the Congo, and other self-declared nations whose fates were decided by powerful players in an aggressive and extrinsically motivated game. They never had a chance. Odds be what they are, I'm still rooting for you, Republic of Taiwan.

Enough with the politics. Continuing on...

Dave and I began our trip in the middle of March when we flew to the capital city, Taipei. A week after our arrival we were joined by Ryan, and another seven days later by Matt. Showing incredible hospitality and impressive linguistic skills, Dave's friend, an American and a six-year resident of Taiwan, introduced us to this beautiful country. Not only did Devin offer-up his home for a month, translate meal after meal of characterized menus for us, and supplied David, Ryan, and I with surf boards, he also drove us full circle around the island giving us the grand tour. We couldn't have asked for a better host, tour-guide, and friend.

Right off the plane the Taiwanese people impressed me with their friendliness. We were given hellos and smiles in excess. By embarking in simple tasks, like buying tokens for the train, we would sometimes become encircled by radiant faces wanting to offer help where it was needed. One afternoon while eating noodles in the park, Dave and I were gifted with a double-thumbs up by a wide-grinning man. We weren't quite sure if his enthusiastic approval was for the noodles we were consuming or for our foreigner-status, but we soon realized that he wasn't about to put his thumbs away until we returned the gesture. With a resolute nod of his head he strolled gaily away, still smiling, as we lowered our digits. It was a humorous transaction.

They are even nice to their animals!

The Taiwanese are wonderful, but there is one thing that can transform these sweet, passive people into dangerous, shadowed nightmares of their formal selfs: a motored vehicle. Like Jekyll and Hyde, when they get behind the wheel they metamorphosize into license-wielding, horn-blasting monsters. There is no end to their negligence and no where a walking pedestrian can feel safe. We witnessed many traffic violations that would have left any American law official shocked by its audacity. Not only are there literally no stop signs in Taiwan, the stop lights are viewed as guidelines rather than the law. Solid lines on the road are considered perfectly passable--especially around the curves--and the middle of the road is a fine place to park your vehicle if you want to run into the store or have a leisurely lunch in a restaurant. There were several occasions when we were stopped behind a vehicle, patiently waiting for them to make their move, only to find that the car was missing its driver. Despite some close-calls, we never witnessed a single accident. However, I did get clipped once by a side-view mirror while walking.

Off the road, Taiwan won me over with its beauty and mystique. Jungles, waterfalls, and mountains fill this small island to the brim with loveliness and it pours over onto its shorelines. The cities are clean, modern and successful. And the entire country is easily navigable--with ample trains and busses to get you anywhere you want to go. Much of our time was spent enjoying the culture and the food, hiking, and soaking in the hot springs. Devin, David, Ryan, and I took many trips to the coast to surf--which brought back fond memories for Dave, who lived in Taiwan for close to two years and spent much of that time in the water. 

It's what you want!

Twice we drove south from our lovely little home-base in Jiaoxi, to a beautiful beach where we camped, surfed, and ate bowls and bowls of noodles. This was the spot where Ryan, after surfing twice in his life, shocked us with his surprising skill on a board--more than a little infuriating for me to watch after struggling with the sport for some months. But! There's nothing like a little sibling jealously to motivate and drive. I had my own personal success while bobbing in Taiwan's waters--catching some nice waves that are still rolling out in my memory. I hope my muscles remember the motion and can recall it with ease the next time I surf--which may be a while.

Dave Tearing It Up

The end of our time in Taiwan saddened everyone. We had to say goodbye to a beautiful place, which we were becoming well acquainted  with, and farewell to new friends and siblings. I was especially gloomy. Our exit meant parting ways with Ryan who had to fly back to the States the night before our departure. All good things must come to an end... or just start again new somewhere else. Why not China? Thoughts of future adventures with my brother danced in my head while I headed straight into the present one.

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So how was our introduction to China? Was it polite or rude? I must say, the port town of Xiamen was a gracious host. Again, an unexpected but pleasant surprise. A major tourist destination for the Chinese, Xiamen welcomed us with its westernized properties; large parks, colonial-style buildings and, of course, McDonalds, the staple of every refined and non refined society. We were absorbed softly and slowly into a country we knew was masking something--we felt it intuitively, smelled it olfaction-ally. We knew it was there. And it didn't take us long to find it through the smog.

A couple of turns off one of the European-modeled streets, a short walk down a narrow, winding alley and we found ourselves in the heart of Asia. If you ever want to overload your senses, take a stroll down a market street in China. I have seen many memorable and shocking sites throughout my travels, but China takes the prize as the most jaw-dropping.

Dave and I have many inside jokes. One of them is, "that's ucky, China" A phrase we use to describe the Country's insatiable appetite for anything and everything that moves. It goes something like this: "Ew, shark fin soup? That's ucky, China!" or "Put that puppy down! You can't eat that, that's ucky, China!" And so on. Silly, I know. But as we strolled down the narrow street of our first Chinese food market I was definitely thinking "that's ucky, China!"

Blood speckled our shoes as we walked through puddles of gore. Headless chickens, with dying nervous systems still jerking with the muscle memory of life, hung from their feet. The dim, glassy eyes of recently decapitated pig heads stared through us as we passed by their site-less gaze. And fish! Every kind of fish I recognized, and every specie I didn't, I'm sure, were present and piled high in that place. The sheer amount of seafood in that one little market, in that small district, of that single city in China, made my skin crawl. In the past I have heard people talk exuberantly about the depletion of our Oceans and the subject has always made me scoff. 'Our impact is insignificant' I would say. 'Mother Nature can take care of herself. She will always bounce back'. After walking down that narrow street, I'm not so sure.

What else was on the menu in that Chinese market? I don't have the lungs to tell you. But I will try to paint a small picture with the color of my words.

Truck loads of crustaceans and shellfish of every kind--clams, muscles, starfish, crabs, lobsters as long as my arm, sea snails, and urchins etc, etc--all waiting to be consumed. Some in buckets of water, some left out to dry on matts and tarps--flexing their shells and squirming from the discomfort of an oxygen-rich environment.

We walked past tubs containing turtles, eels, sea snakes, squid, octopus and frogs. Fish, fish, fish of all types and sizes lined the street. From shark and tuna to the smallest mino and ferry shrimp. Some alive, but most already dead.

A short distance further revealed the insect and bug section--grasshoppers, scorpions, millipedes, worms and grubs. Some piled high in buckets while others were impaled on skewers being fried or grilled--ready to eat. Oh boy! 

Just past the creepy crawlies was the pet store section. At least I thought it was a pet store. I was horrified to find even the furry and feathered critters weren't exempt from being considered palatable. I can't imagine a little song bird has much meat on its delicate little bones. That's shameful, China!

Of course the typical edible farm animals, as well as the untypical (horse meat), were displayed. I now understand the overwhelming desire Americans have to detach themselves from their food. Not many people, in North America, enjoy staring into half-closed, lifeless eyes on their plate. The Chinese, however, won't hesitate to eat those eyes--believing that they will attain better vision through their consumption.

Here is a small taste of what we saw. I am happy to report that the food we've had in China has been delicious. However, our experience in that market has put me on my guard and I am very careful not to ask for any song birds when ordering.

This is the last cat in China... which will be eaten on Tuesday.

We have since left Xiamen behind and are making our way town by town through our three week tour of China. One of the incredible aspects of traveling through China is that you'll look at a map and find the name of a place printed so small, you need a magnifying glass to see it, and you think, 'this must be a quaint, quiet place' only to find upon arriving that it has a population of over a million people. Madness! Getting use to the throngs of people has been difficult for this recluse from Montana. Crowds flow like massive rivers, unfamiliar and unnavigable--I fear I might drown. Tall, ugly buildings line the sky boxing me in. I am a trapped animal in these cities.

Not only are we often choked by numbers, but we are anomalies. From the moment we arrived, we have been met with confusion, awe, fear, and excitement. Mouths unhinge and are left ajar where ever we go. Cameras and iPhones come out and we are suddenly celebrities--very unglamorous ones, if you ask me. Stars travel in town cars and limos, not the local bus and on foot. 

Nearby a few girls giggle and hold up peace-signing fingers while posing with Matt. Standing next to me, Dave is approached by a smiling, eager little man."You take picture with girlfriend?" he asks, pointing to his smiling, eager little woman. Meanwhile I'm being prompted to hold a stranger's baby while she targets me in her camera's sites. The child screams with fear while the white-devil holds her--I shift its weight uncomfortably in my arms and give a wincing, awkward little smile. You get the picture. Where ever we go we are greeted with clicks and bright flashes.

At first all the attention was amusing. At first. But it has long since worn off--like my fake smile. The unabashed, unyielding stares I find to be the worst form of attention. The other day I asked Dave how to say in Mandarin, "why don't you take a picture? It last longer." Then I realized, they probably already have. 

Needless to say the Chinese are an excitable (and easily amused) group of people. They, however, can also be very sweet and generous--which allows me to forgive them time and time again for their camera-yielding transgressions. David, Matt and I have a plethora of stories depicting individual's generosity. 

There was Tina who we met in Tian Luo Keng. The region of Tian Luo Keng was our first destination outside of Xiamen and one of the locations of the infamous roundhouse--large traditional homes that can house entire villages. Some are so massive that they were at one time mistaken by the CIA as missile silos. After using her native tongue to help us procure a room in one of the roundhouses, Tina took us out to a big elaborate, multi-course lunch and insisted on paying the bill. 

Roundhouse

Then there was Wu. We met her at the train station. She bought us armfuls of packaged chicken feet to snack on during our long train ride (it's the thought that counts). And as if that wasn't enough, she raided her purse and handed out gum, toilet paper (a valuable commodity to have with you in China), fruit, and instant coffee. She even tried to give us money! 

The list of generosities goes on and on, growing larger each day. These friendly ambassadors all smile, take pictures, call us their good friends, and say, "welcome to my country."

When ever I travel in a new place I am continuously reminded of the similarities and differences between that country and my homeland. Whether it be cultural, societal, political, etc. I usually compare and analyze. I have been in China for close to two weeks now and I have found some contrasting  points. The first noted observation being the lack of personal space. I suppose this is to be expected from a country with a population approaching two billion. It's not only the dense crowds, it's how the individuals within those crowds behave which makes life as a traveling American a frustrating affair at times.

In the US there are rules that are inherently followed and upheld. For example, when we stand in line to purchase something at a store, the person behind us waits patiently for their turn to make a transaction. Or when we enter a building, we hold the door or stand politely to the side and let others exit or enter before us. We rarely stare unabashedly, shout in public, or smoke outside of courteous boundaries. There are exceptions, of course. Not every American follows these unspoken rules. But those individuals are the anomalies. Structure, order, and unspoken politeness is the norm in our country. 

In China, rules don't exist. As polite Americans we could wait in line forever and never move. That's because the Chinese consider line-cutting an art. We are learning fast how to hold our own against these sneaky, impatient people. It's a difficult process to embrace. Our parents would be disappointed to witness years of hard work being shed like a warm coat. Their little gentleman or lady--products of their meticulous behavioral training--reduced to pushing old people and children out of the way to get a seat on a bus. Monsters, we have become. But there are never any hard feelings. It's the Chinese way. Push and be pushed.

Another differentiating factor we've been exposed to is the constant noise. Life in China is a loud business. There is no off button for the ambient clashing of sound--unless you retreat deep into the country side and avoid all people. The Chinese, as a whole, are boisterously loud. Whether they are angry or having a polite conversation, everyone yells. Especially the old. This can be extremely confusing when you don't speak the language fluently. Is she angry with me or asking a general question? I don't know!

We have had mostly positive experiences in China. Mostly. Another rule in the backpackers trusty handbook is to always try and find the good in the bad. It's one way, and sometimes the only way, to maintain your sanity on a long, challenging journey. The three of us travel by this rule--making jokes and finding the positive angles even if we have to pull them out of thin air. However, two days ago we found ourselves in a situation where our eyes were beginning to twitch and we had nothing to hold on to.

We had booked a thirteen hour over-night train to Chengdu from Fengshou. We tried to purchase the hard sleeper option--which would have procured beds and a descent night sleep--but those tickets were sold out leaving only seats. We took them. This won't be too bad, we said. It's only thirteen hours. We spoke assurances to each other as we made our way to the station. Our positivity faltered the moment we stepped onto the train. 

I have never witnessed so many people stuffed into one place. We fought hard for every inch gained towards our assigned seats--pushing hard and stepping on bodies as we slowly made our way through the aisle. Of course people had claimed our seats. We held our tickets high and spoke forcefully in our basic, faltering Mandarin. We eventually dethroned our adversaries and went to work looking for somewhere to store our bulky back packs. After more arduous pushing and stumbling we managed to procure a spot and went to work stuffing our bags between other pieces of luggage. Sweating from the exertion and lack of ventilation, we reached our seats and again had to cast out the occupants.

Settling into our tightly crammed seats, we tried to relax and breath. Breath! Not long after we sat down, and the train began to lurch forward, did we realize that something was terribly wrong with the air quality. Craning my neck to investigate, it didn't take me long to find the source of our new problem. Only a few seats down an old man was chain-smoking. A bummer, especially since nonsmoking signs were hanging throughout the entire train. I'll just push and shove my way down the cattle-car and politely ask him to smoke elsewhere. Problem solved. I stood up with the goal of snuffing out the source of our trepidation, but as I took my first step, over the inert body of a sleeping women, I stopped short. A new wave of horror rushed over me as I perceived the gravity of our situation. My target, the old man, wasn't smoking alone. A large majority of our car had pulled out their packs and lighters to join him. I turned towards the door, our only hope, and saw a blockade of men, butts in hand, in the adjoining car. We were surrounded. There was nothing left to do but resign ourselves to our fate. We covered our faces with our shirts and wet wipes and settled down attempting to breath the acrid air. The look on our faces translated to each other that the positivity that we had once embraced was long gone.

We bore those thirteen hours as best we could--trying not to stare at our watches as the seconds dripped slowly into minutes and flowed thick as molasses into deep, heavy hours. None of us slept. Dave and Matt were continuously being crowded and leaned heavily on by people in the aisle. I luckily had a middle seat and wasn't subjected to that level of torment. The train was so crowded that we literally had to step on people to get to the bathroom. Everyone was sweating profusely because there was no ventilation. It had to be at least eighty degrees in that train car.  

With quiet relief we finally exited that train. And as we breathed deeply we found our positivity once again--and a little skepticism. I am no longer convinced that the heavy clouded air that hangs like a shroud over the cities of China is actually smog. I think it's Marlboro smoke.

We are finding that transportation can be difficult in China, and not only because of the previously mentioned obstacles. What often appears to be a relatively easy distance turns into a headache of connecting trains to busses, busses to trains. We spent two full days, and nights, on both before we reached the beautiful town and region of Yangshuo. We have found that the rewards of the journey are well worth the effort. They have to be. The karst landscape of the Yangshuo valley was unlike anything I have seen before. Huge limestone pillars draped with vegetation speckle the region and are a dramatic sight to behold. The mental pictures I carry with me from our time in Yangshuo look like they have been torn out of the pages of a fairy tale. Once upon a time in China...

We have just arrived in Sichuan--a region bordering Tibet. We've been told it shares many similarities with its infamous western neighbor. We plan on hiking and camping for a few days--shadowed by the Four Sisters Mountains--before moving north to visit the Terracotta Warriors. From Xi'an, it's onward to Beijing and the Great Wall, where we hope to hike and camp along those grand archaic stretches of stone. It's a relatively short yet eventful journey through China. I've always found that when borders are crossed, cultural diversity emerges, eyes are opened and memories are made. And those memories run deep and take a lifetime to forget. 

The Rooftop Of The World, The Himalayas

Thanks for sticking it through to the end. More to come in the following weeks.

Much love from China.

March15, 2014: Please Let Us Fly

"It's a different world from when I started traveling" David solemnly voices to me. "I can't believe that just happened."

We sat leaning forward, our elbows on our knees, vacantly looking at invisible spots on the carpet a few feet in front of us. People surround us in the terminal--animatedly chatting to one another or tranquilly drinking their coffee. Everyone seems happy. Everyone is waiting to fly.

I am breathing hard. I unconsciously check my pulse, it's high, and from the corner of my eye I can see the vein along the side of David's head throbbing. He is red, and for a moment I am worried about his health. I soon remember that I am red too, and that the sun, not the stress or the sprinting, is to blame. It's funny, our day started out so well.

That morning we boarded our flight in Portland and eight hours later we were laying on a beach in Hawaii sipping beers and piña coladas. It was the perfect lay-over. Fourteen hours in paradise. That evening we leisurely packed our bags and took a shuttle bus back to the airport--relaxed, rested, and a little sun burnt, but ready to go to Asia, ready to start our adventure.

Adventure. I recently looked up adventure in a dictionary and its definition is not at all what I thought it would be. "An undertaking usually involving danger or unknown risk." I have been using this term loosely to describe our fun, lighted hearted, safe experiences. Yes, we've had some difficult situations occur from time to time, but I usually call those hiccups. 

As we heaved on our back packs, said good-bye to our driver, and headed towards the airport doors our spirits were high. We joked and laughed and smiled widely--completely ignorant of the adventure we were about to have. 

The airport was peaceful and empty--the quiet before the storm. We found our airline, approached the desk and presented our pasports--still smiling broadly. A polite greeting, a swipe of our passports, the weighing of the bags, and a few questions. How long are you planning on staying in Taiwan? What is your exit date? May I see the itinerary for your exit? 

Dave and I paused. Itinerary for our exit? 

"Yes" the man behind the computer said, "Taiwan wants to make sure you are not planning on staying forever."

Oh that's easy. We chuckled as we whipped out our $280 Chinese visas, holding them high and flashy like police badges. We are going to China, you see. Taiwan is only a brief stop, we told him.

"I'm afraid that won't work." He shook his head. "I need to see a ticket for your departure from Taiwan."

Dave and I stood frozen, our smiles long gone. We were planning on taking a flight to a small Taiwan island called Kinmen, and from there jump on a boat to mainland China. We had tried to purchase the boat tickets but had found that they was inaccessible online, they had to be bought in person. We explained this, but to no avail. We needed exiting tickets and that was that. No flying to Taiwan without them. No passing go. No collecting two hundred dollars.

Extremely annoyed, we pulled out our iPad and irritably flipped the flap. We'll just buy some tickets on Expedia--they have that great 24-hour cancellation policy--and we'll be on our merry way. The airline agent even said that if we bought the cheap tickets to Kinmen he would accept them as our implied exit from Taiwan. Fine, we were eventually going to purchase those tickets anyways.

Searching, searching, searching, no signal.

"Oh ya" our airline agent chimed in, "we don't have wifi here."

We stared blankly at him.

"But you might be able to get it at the Starbucks in the main terminal." He added.

"Where is the main terminal?" I said through clenched teeth. I was ready to hurdle the desk and shake it out of him. 

"Out the door and to the right."

In a flash we were on our way, trotting under the weight of the backpacks, and cursing with every exhalation. We soon had a steady rhythm of obscenities flowing from our lips accompanied by the beat of our pounding feet on the pavement.  Our music carried through the still and quiet airport. A few homeless people were the only life we encountered as we ran towards wifi, towards hope. 

After what felt like a lifetime we finally arrived at our destination. The frenzied atmosphere that usually accompanies Starbucks was no where to be found. We stood quietly staring at locked doors. Dave wasted no time pulling out his iPad. This was it, the moment of truth.

Searching, searching, searching, no signal.

Our heads simultaneously dropped to our chests. Now what? How are we going to save ourselves from this hiccup? Breathe. Think. Think, breathe. 

Suddenly, the clouds parted and a light shown through. As if divinely placed in that forsaken airport, we noticed a small family holding electronic devices. What is this? Could it be? Do you think they have wifi? We didn't have to speak, our minds were as one, and so were our legs as we ran towards our miracle. 

They were a family of three from Canada. They had been unfortunately yet fortunately bumped from their flight and were searching for hotels with their, yes! Their wifi! We hastily explained our situation and, with full empathy--the stuff that redeems our species over and over again--they offered us their wifi password with grace.

I knew it would be difficult for David to admit that it was the Canadians who were our Salvationists; but, in the end, borders were crossed, prejudices were transcended and friends were made in the most unlikely of places.

After being rejected three times by technical difficulties on Expedia's finicky website, and running out of time, we had no choice but to purchase non-refundable tickets through a different website. We exchanged hasty, grateful hugs with the Canadians and were on our way--this time at a much quicker pace. 

We arrived at the desk, sweaty and disheveled and were greeted by a different agent. We made it! And with only four minutes to spare, they told us. While they printed our tickets we walked in small circles in front of the desk, stopping to put our hands over our heads and suck in deep breaths of air. We smiled again as we watched our checked bags get placed on the rotating belt and slowly disappear through the small hatch. That was a close one, we agreed. A pretty big hiccup. We congratulated each other on our narrow escape.

As our pulses slowed and we regained our peaceful, traveler personas we were asked by the agent to show our proof of exit. No problem. Dave grabbed his iPad and brandished our recently purchased itinerary with an air of triumph. 

The airline agent scanned the itinerary with an equal air of indifference and glanced up at Dave to flatly say, "this won't work."

"Excuse me?" 

"This won't work" the agent repeated. "You have to show proof of leaving the country. The island you're flying to is owned by Taiwan."

The next fifteen minutes was a torrent of words like, "but we are traveling to China!" and "your travel agent said Kinmen was fine!" along with visa flashing and lots of frustrated hair grabbing. We soon had a crowd of travel agents as well as a few managers surrounding us, all spouting the same dialogue: "we understand, but this is our policy."

Obviously they didn't understand. Thirty minutes before our flight was scheduled to take off we were still arguing and getting no where--literally. We were almost out of time, being asked to buy yet another ticket for which we had no wifi connection, no way to save ourselves, when one of the agents pulled out her phone and offered us our salvation with her personal wifi connection. 

You know the cliche movie scene where time is running out and the hero has to use his steady hands to disarm the bomb? At that moment I was reminded of one of those scenes. I watched Dave, and his nerves of steel, type in the vital information needed to confirm our second ticket. His fingers moved speedily and purposefully as beads of sweat formed on his furrowed brow. There was no room for error. We were out of time.

I clasped my hands tightly as he touched the confirm button on the screen. We waited with bated breath as the hourglass spun and spun. Finally, after what seemed like hours, we heard the beautiful little chime indicating the confirmation email had been received. Hastily we gave the attendants the information they required, they told us to have a nice flight, and we dashed to the security line. Luckily the airport was still deserted. 

'Where are all the people?' The thought managed to escape my muddled brain and float up into the air where it broke with a pop back into panic. 'We're not going to make it!' was my next thought.

The security officers smiled, told us to breath, and that we would be okay. Didn't they know what time it was? Didn't they know that our plane could be pulling away from the gate... with out us? 

We sprinted the rest of the way shouting out to each other. 

"Are we going to make it?"

"We're going to make it!"

As we turned the corner into our gate's boarding area we skidded to a stop--panting and sweaty--and were greeted by a hundred eyes. The boarding process had been delayed and everyone was still waiting to get on the plane. 

What? I expected drama! I thought we would have to yell "hold the door!" Or perhaps I would have to make a scene with some tearful begging--clutching pathetically to some poor flight attendant's leg.

 We quietly took a seat and stared, traumatized, into space. 

"It's a different world from when I started traveling. I can't believe that just happened." David's voice faded back into stillness.

They began boarding. We silently watched the line of people form, watched it flow, watched it fade. As the last of the people disappeared through the doors we stood up, collected our bags, and walked towards the attendant. She scanned our tickets, smiled, and wished us a nice flight.

"Well" Dave said, breaking the silence as we walked down the loading bridge, "At least we have a good story to tell. And it only cost us $960 in air fare and a few years off our lives."

I laughed. We clasped hands and walked through the plane door. 

We had a nice flight.

*For the record, we arrived safely in Taiwan and never had to show anyone our frantically purchased exit itineraries.

February 17, 2013: Antarctica's Warmth

We are leaving Antarctica. Heading north. Going home. Back to a hospitable land full of loved ones, fruits and vegetables, a setting sun, and humidity--back to life. This is what many of us wait for--counting down the days, or the months (some start calculating the moment they arrive) until our names appear on that holy north-bound flight manifest. I, myself, have been looking forward to this day for some weeks. This environment, the biting winds and the dry skin-cracking air has a way of making you feel unwelcome, even despised. This detestation is especially felt in moments when you are fiddling with some small component, holding a wrench in your dry prematurely-aged hands, which are stiff with cold, and the wind is whipping itself at you with combat force--laden with snow and volcanic grit. It is in these moments when you know Antarctica is not exactly the nurturing, maternal type. In fact, she’s a bitch.

How many times have I cursed her? On mornings when I leave the warmth of my bed and step outside only to get slapped, hard, in the face by a strong, bitter hand. On walks to job sites, when the wind attacks me relentlessly, making my eyes water from distress and compressing my lungs--literally stealing the breath from my body and leaving me gulping and gasping for air. Or when the exhaustion kicks in from lack of sleep--a common side effect from living in a land of constant daylight. These are the moments when I feel the most dissension. And at these times I find myself bitter, like a dejected child, wondering why I even bother to come to Antarctica.

It’s funny, how many times have I spat unkind words at the wind while being punished for daring to trespass on Antarctica's secret domain? Yet now, on the brink of freedom, she shows me her heart. Why now when I can just about see my mother-land, North America, living and breathing, with open arms beckoning me home? 

Don’t mistake Antarctica’s heart with her beauty. I have seen her beguiling loveliness. I have looked upon her magnificence, upon her elegance and her grandeur. I have felt her power and I am always left shocked and in awe. When this happens my heart warms and I hold out my arms ready to be embraced; but, of course, that is just about the time when I get back-handed in the face once again. I have never, until now, upon my exit, felt the warmth from her heart. 

--------------------------------

We are passengers on a big, bulky, awkward machine called a Terra-bus. Slowly we crawl the fourteen miles from McMurdo Station to Pegasus airfield, taking over an hour to arrive (nothing moves quickly in Antarctica). This is step one on our long journey home. There is a high vantage point from the road as it crescendos abruptly along the side of Ob Hill, just before it winds down, slowly and gently, towards the sea’s edge and the doorstep of the Kiwi base. It is easy to see the airfield from this elevation. Located on perma-ice, the runway is shockingly close to the sea’s edge--a mere mile away. We could have sailed to our C-130 from McMurdo. 

The ice shelf, since the beginning of the summer, has thawed, broken into pieces, and proceeded to liquify into open water--attracting all sorts of wildlife. Orcas and Minkes patrol the shore-line, serial killers stalking their victims, while penguins and seals loll and lounge apathetically on the land’s edge--unconcerned with the predators and their deviant plans. 

It was during this long, fourteen-mile drive that I decided to take a moment to say good-bye to Antarctica. She may not be a sweet, loving, providing Continent, but she is still my Continent, my first adventure, my first love.

I slowly lifted my eyes, half expecting them to be stung by a cruel wind or to have my lungs stripped of air. I winced in anticipation for that spiteful blow--a knee-jerk reaction--but it, of course, did not come. My dry, functioning, eyes instead, slowly, sentimentally, beheld my home of four months. 

The northern and western skies were deep, dark and ominous--threatening snow. The smoky clouds gave the appearance of night--a premonition of what was to come in the following months. As the clouds stretched south they lost their dark hugh and their menacing breadth, and the sun dropped its rays through holes in the mantle--highlighting the mountains in bright, blazing patches. The first signs of sunset were exhibited in blushing pastels. Blue, orange, pink, and red splashed the sky as if placed by the tip of an artist’s brush. I studied the sky and the earth, but my vision soon became fixed on the inhabitants. As if cued, dozens of skuas took flight at that moment, acrobatically pitching left and right, plunging their hawk-like bodies into free-falling dives, and recovering themselves at the last possible second. They are masters in the air. On the ground, seals speckled the ice with their black, slug-like bodies and a handful of penguins, dressed in their formal attire, could be seen standing smartly at attention. The Ross Sea swelled. The rhythm of the tides heaved up and down like inhaling lungs and ice bergs floated stoically in the dark and deep waters.  

Panoramically I took in all these striking scenes and, suddenly, unexpectantly, my eyes weren’t so dry. I have always held warmth and endearment in my heart for this bitter, harsh continent; Although, at times, the desolation and rejecting cold makes it hard. But at that moment I felt Antarctica’s heart beat. I was, for an instant, plugged in to her pulse and I was a witness as the warm, life-blood flowed. I felt a pang of homesickness for what I was leaving behind. I suddenly wanted to turn around, to stay. To grab on to the warmth I had just felt and let it swaddle me. Surely it would carry me through a long, cold Antarctic winter. She could turn on me once again. Lead attack, after attack, of frigid violence, but I would hold onto what I had just felt--that beautiful pulse, that thumping heartbeat.

There are probably many incentives for why people keep returning to Antarctica. I can tell you that it isn’t the bureaucratic bull-shit that comes with working for a government-contracted company. And it definitely is not the food. Perhaps this heartbeat is felt deep down in all of us. It’s that little bit of warmth found in a cold, frozen place. It’s the experiences. The remoteness. The adventure. The secrets that she chooses to share. The mysteries that she keeps. It’s her magic. Her beauty. Her cruelty and her power. Her bitterness and her warmth. It’s all these things and more. 

Antarctica, you will be on my mind and in my dreams until I see you again.