Where is my Welcome?

Since landing in Vietnam, I have been on the look out for that quintessential "Vietnamese Experience," one of those heart warming, soul tugging, old-woman-taking-me-by-the-hand-and-navigating-me-across-Hanoi-motorbike-traffic-welcome-to-Vietnam experience, or, getting-splashed-by-an-SUV-while-on-a-motorbike-caught-in-a-tropical-heavy-downpour-o-m-g-why-did-I-leave-the-US experience.

Neither have happened, or perhaps, they have happened, but to a lesser degree, and my mind just does not process these experiences as quintessential-welcome-to-Vietnam anymore.  The excitement of a new discovery, the childlike curiosity that accompanies new environments, and the fresh "outsider" perspective that I once had for Vietnam seem in the distant past.

Perhaps this time in Vietnam, for these next 10 months, it will be the subtleties of Vietnamese culture and lifestyle that I will learn about, and from that, my place in this country.

PHOTO CAPTION: Old Hanoi Alley, behind my apartment in the morning after the rain.

Movement and Progress

One year ago, on this day, I had just arrived in Burma.  Below is a journal excerpt from April 14, 2010:

"...I have to be completely honest and say that I am kinda shocked by this country.  My pre-conceptions of it are a repressive government, subdued people, etc...  I flew in, prepared for a quite airport, men with guns, etc... what I got instead was a beautiful airport--grand and spacious--easy&friendly immigration officials, and the sight of family reunions, tears of joy and choirs of laughter in the arrivals hall.  Walking around later on in the evening, I am again shocked and in awe that this former colonial city, with crumbling British built buildings evidence of former glory days, is so open, lively, energetic..."

"Today, I also started traveling alone again.  I am staying at one of the Lonely Planet's recommended guest houses in the old city, but I am the only backpacker here!  This will get a bit of getting use to since the last month, I have spent with people."

Nostalgia fills me as I re-read my travel journal, and think of how different life was a mere 365 days ago.  Today, in 2011, consisted of leading a case study in which the patient had an inherited autoimmune disorder (similar to HIV, except this in case it was genetic), followed by doing work to plan for my upcoming summer work in Vietnam on nutrition, meeting with a faculty mentor, lunch with classmates where the discussion centered around teenagers having sex at the age of 14 and the cultural and societal reasons for why this is the case, a bit of studying, dinner at school, and then home to continue more work.

Last year, the movement consisted of going between cities, countries and continents; in contrast, this year, movement consists of mentally transitioning from the intricacies of the body's beautifully integrated immune system into the macro level issues of how aid money is being used to address malnutrition among those living with HIV in Vietnam (my summer research project), to the casual conversations questioning whether or not promoting contraceptives in schools will promote or delay the age of first intercourse.  Perhaps the feeling of movement, whether physical or mental, is a necessary function for humans.  Maybe this is why strange, gut wrenching, often uncomfortable feelings arises in us when we sense that we are at a standstill as the world moves around us.  Is it our nature or our nurture that makes us believe and want to be in a constant state of movement?  Are we pre-maturely equating movement to progress?

Action and Inaction

It has been a year since my last post.  Since the Shangri-la of Burma, my travels took me to to witness the fragile humanity of India, up to the highest elevations of the world in Nepal and then to the lowest points on earth at the Dead sea in Jordan; I walked the paths of Jesus, Mohammad, and Abraham from Israel to Egypt; re-enacted the Mediterranean sea journeys of Odysseus, Achilles, and Helen that initially made its way into my mind from college Latin courses; satisfied and refined my gastronomic tastes in Paris, reflected on the "re-awakening" and enlightenment of man in the grand cathedrals and art museums of Europe and finally ended my journey on my parents deck in Michigan over tea with mom and dad, reflecting on the previous 6 months and expressing to them the comfort and security of being with family.

In the middle of August, I started Harvard Medical School.  I came to school with many fears: fears of being able to handle the course work, fears of adjusting back to a routine and schedule, but most of all, fears of making friends and close relationships.  If I learned anything from graduate school, I needed to form a community--a support network--in order to survive.  My strong desire to form relationships with classmates manifested itself into a deep fear of judgment from my peers; insecurities re-emerged, and I felt that I was regressing back to freshman year of high school.  Self doubt about my abilities and intelligence, questions regarding my acceptance and worthiness, deep fears about being likable and wanted--all of these thoughts crept out of the wood-work, and for months, I felt that I was engulfed by them, constantly thinking about them, and trying to control them.  Reflecting back on the last 8 months, it amazes me to realize how ridiculous my thought-processes were, and yet I am comforted by the fact that many in my class had the same thoughts permeating their minds.  Perhaps it is human nature to have these emotions when entering a new social environment, and that these processes are normal, even innate.  Therefore, next time, maybe it would be better to embrace these feelings rather than fear them.

Fast forward 8 months, and I find myself quite settled into a routine with school, and finding the group of friends that I let myself worry about?  I definitely have that.  It is interesting that I have known these friends for less than a year, but it feels that through our collective shared experience of medical school--cutting the cadaver, interviewing patients, witnessing someone at the end of their life, and the hundreds of hours spent together in lecture, lab, and studying--I feel like these friends have witness a change in me and I in them, and because of that, it feels like we have known each other for more than the 8 months that we have been together.

With spring finally here, I feel the itch to re-new myself, to re-awaken, and to re-vitalize my monotonous routine.  An unsettling feeling weighs at the pit of my stomach and at times paralyzes my movements, making each morning a physical and mental struggle to get out from under the covers.  I desire inspiration, but sense that I am looking in the wrong places.  What then, I ask, should be done?  Perhaps the act of inaction is the action itself.  The urge to "be on the move" both physically and mentally is being repressed by a deeper desire to be sit, contemplate and reflect.  Such contrast from this time last year when "being on the move" was both a necessity and my modus operandi.

Part 2 of 4: Tea Time and Trade Embargoes

I suspect that every traveller who comes to Burma soon realizes the legacy of British colonial rule.  Victorian mansions, stately government buildings with symmetric facades, wide tree lined streets, and the constant drinking of tea.  Tea shops dot every corner in this country--from the corner of grand boulevards in Yangoon to the hut-side teashop in villages, drinking tea, according to Aung San Suu Kyi in her book, Letters from Burma, "is a national past time."  She continues, "tea shops are where people gather, exchange stories, news, events and, in better political times, discuss politics."  It is with this knowledge in mind that I set out during my last day in Yangoon to find a tea shop to sit and observe.

Walking down the wide boulevards of central Yangoon, I noticed the dilapidated state of the colonial buildings, and tried to imagine what they could of looked like during their period of grandeur.  The name of buildings,  "Standard Chartered Bank" or "National British-Burmese Railways" carved into the front facades, told of the former purposes of these buildings.  On the contrary, the current dilapidated state perhaps represents the present day situation that Burma is in--a country ruled by military dictators, full of human rights abuses, and is economically sanctioned by the Western world.

I noticed a busy tea shop with low level tables down a small alleyway and proceeded to walk in.  Sitting down, the owner approaches me and speaks to me in Burmese.  I look at him confused and shrugged my shoulders; he then realized I was NOT Burmese.  I pointed at the tea at the next table over, he understood and five minutes later, came out with a pot of tea for me.  I sat there watching the men at the the tables around me, all engaged in what looked like deep or intense conversations.  It reminded me of coffee shops back home--a gathering place for friends to meet and talk.  I guess every culture shares similar characteristics which satisfies the need for people to interact and converse together.  It was nice to  feel this sense of familiarity in such a foreign environment.

After about 20 or so minutes sitting by myself, a man from the table next to me casually asked me what I was doing in Myanmar.  This question soon led to an hour discussion that ended up on the roof-top of the teashop.  Htut is a rugged looking 52 years old--a head full of salt and pepper hair and wrinkles around his face which is a physical testimate to the many difficult experiences he has been through.  Htut is a Burmese teak exporter who lives in Yangoon with his family.  He considers his family middle class. Our conversation revolved around the West's economic/trade embargo on Myanmar.   Htut exports his teak (logged in Myanmar) to countries like Thailand, Malaysia and Vietnam, which then in turn put their own country labels on it and sell it to countries in the European Union and the US.  Therefore, according to Htut, the trade embargo really helps the other Southeast Asian countries and China, creating middle men for Burmese products.  I told Htut that my understanding of trade/economic embargoes were to put pressure on the government, making it difficult for them to conduct business so that they would secede to the Western demands of democracy and human rights.  Htut had a chuckle to himself when I said this and told me that he does not think that the government is suffering much.  "So they do not trade directly with Europe or America, but I think that trade from the ASEAN (Association of Southeast Asian Nations) and China lines their pockets very nicely.  There is no need for them to change.  It is the people that suffers from the trade embargo, not our military dictator government."  Htut continues, "The trade embargo does not isolate the military dictators, but rather, isolates the average Burmese people.  It makes it harder for us to conduct business with foreign firms and severely limits our business opportunities.  We [the Burmese] would like to be "free" and interact and conduct business with whomever we choose, but right now, it is the Western governments that is hindering our freedom to do that with these economic sanctions."  Can it really be that the West, so called promoters of freedom and democracy, be inhibiting the development of Burma's freedom by isolating it through trade and economic embargoes?

**Names have been changed to protect individuals discussed above**

Part 1 of 4: An Opaque Shangri-La, Myanmar or Burma?

As the plane made its descent into Yangoon International Airport, I saw that the earth below had been sectioned off into perfect rectangles, similar to those in Viet Nam and Thailand-however, unlike the vibrant lush green rectangular rice paddies of its neighbors in Southeast Asia, these were brown and dry. Some days later, I learned that it was coming to the end of the dry season in Myanmar, and my arrival coincided with the entire was preparing for the monsoon rains to come. When thinking of Myanmar, or Burma, as the country is more commonly known, thoughts of crimson cloaked monks effortlessly floating pass golden gilded stupas comes to my mind. The country evokes images of old an Asia-a one where rickshaws still outnumber automobiles, where men still prefer the traditional longyi sarong over western pants; a country where children still bathe in the Irrawaddy river, and people still get up at the break of dawn to walk pass colonial-era buildings towards temples to offer morning prayers. Burma, in my mind, it is a mystical place, a Shangri-La of sorts. On the contrary, Burma's evil twin, Myanmar evokes thoughts an Orwellian state combining both 1984 and Animal Farm --of human rights abuses, a military dictator government which refused international help in the aftermath of Cyclone Nagris in 2007; images of Aung Sang Suu Kyi, the rightful democratically elected leader under house arrest, and thousands of Buddhist Monks marching down the wide boulevards of Yangoon, soaked by monsoon rains, demanding a return of democracy and freedom. I ask myself, how can one country, one nation, evoke such drastically different responses? Human rights abuses in Shangri-La? Surely one of these images is not exactly as I understand it.

My first three days in Yangoon, the former capital of Myanmar (Burma) were a complete shock. I expected to fly into a dilapitated airport welcomed by soilders carrying rifles. What I got instead was an ultramodern big airport, smiling immigration officers with cheerful greetings, and an Arrivals Hall high in emotions of families and friends reuniting. For my ride into central Yangoon, I expected a quite and fast journey, passing wide tree-lined boulevards, colonial buildings, and people, sparsely spread out, going about their daily activities. Instead, 10 minutes into the journey, the driver instructed to roll up my windows and that he was going to turn on the air-conditioning. Having previous experience with the term, "air-conditioning" in developing countries to mean nothing else but warm air blowing through the vents, I politely told the driver it was okay and I did not need the air-con. He remain firm and insisted that I roll up my windows. I obliged, rolled up my windows and sat back, preparing myself for the sweating about to begin. Five minutes later, it became clear why the windows needed be be rolled up. The day that I landed was the start of Thingyan, or the Water Festival, which is 3 days before the Burmese New Year. As the end of the dry season is marked by the beginnings of the monsoon rains settling the dust, washing the earth clean and re-vitalizing the land, Thingyan welcomes the Burmese new year by "washing" everyone of their sins and impurities to become clean for a fresh start in the new year. Traditionally, this "washing" was done by sprinkling people with perfumed water. Nowadays, during Thingyan, the streets are lined on both sides with people and high-powered hoses, blasting jets of water at passerbys and automobiles. Pick-up trucks packed with young adults, dressed in black with blue, green, purple, red hair made their way into the jets of water, soaking these partiers from head to toe as they dance to the beats of Lady Gaga, Bon Jovi, Brittney Spears. Where am I? This is neither the Shangri-La or the Orwellian State that I was expecting. Rather, it was a scene directly out of Madri Gras in New Orleans, Carnival in Rio or Fantasy Fest in Key West. I was beyond shocked as I watched, with my windows rolled up, as my taxi weaved in and out of the traffic.

My preconceptions about Myanmar (Burma) were blown out of the water within the first three hours. I have to cast aside my fabricated images of this country and start from a blank surface. Journey with me to this land as I spend 14 days, traveling through it on buses, trains and boats. I have conversations with a business man, a Buddhist Monk, and a Burmese Indian, in an attempt to see and understand their Myanmar (Burma).

Malaysia, a plurastic society

My apologies for the delay in posting.  Myanmar blocked all things affiliated with Google (Blogger being one of them) therefore, I could not post.

I posed a question in my last posting, asking if whether or not different religious groups could live  peacefully next to each other.  In contrast to the religious fighting, rioting and upheaval between Buddhist and Muslims in Southern Thailland that I experienced,  roughly 50 miles across the border in Malaysia, Hindus, Muslims, Christians and Buddhist all live peacefully next to each other.  It is a truly amazing sight to witness girls in head coverings walking out of school with their friends in plain western style clothes, chattering and giggling away at what I am assuming to be the lastest gossip or love interest ; or prehaps more striking is the image of Buddhist monks leaving their monestaries and walking pass a Muslim mosque.   I think that it is the historical significance and geographical position of Malaysia that makes it quite unique in acceptance of differences.  Being  at the cross roads of sea routes , the gate way for ships from China to go to Europe and/or the Middle East, and vice-versa, I would conjure that the peoples of Malaysia are accustomed to welcoming in « strangers » and making them into « friends. » In my short time in Malaysia,  I have noticed that differences seem to be the norm rather than the exception.

A perfect example of this blend of cultures is the port city of Melaka, right on the Straights of Melacca.  Preceeding colonization in the 14th century, the Sultans of Melaka developed strong diplomatic relationships with China and India, welcoming trade and persons from those civilizations to Melaka.  After the 14th century, Melala was first colonized by the Portugese, followed by the Dutch, then the British, and finally the Japanese.  During a three day stay in Melaka, I witnessed through food, architechure, and personal interaction this beautiful blending of different cultures.  Street stall sell Chinese egg noodles tossed in curries from India with a kick of tart lime and chili peppers from Thailand.  I stayed at a 200 year old guest house, built during the Portugese era on a street where a Chinese Buddhist temple exists next to a Muslim mosque, next to a Hindu temple.  The experience of being woken up by the sound of the call to prayer at the mosque, which was followed by buddhist monks chanting their morning prayers is like listening to different parts of similar chouruses, all blending together to create a beautiful harmony.  Prehaps this is why the street that my guest house and these places of religious worship are located on is called Harmony Street. 

The day before I left Melala, I had the opprotunity to sit down for a Chinese Tea ceremony with one of the daughters of the Chen family—one of the first Chinese families which came to Melaka during the Ming dynasty.  Over tea, I expressed to her my facination with Melaka, Malaysia and the culture of openness and acceptance.  She smiled at me and responded simply, « when you grow up in a diverse environment as this, you learn that to live happily, respect for one another is the key. »

Crossing Borders (and Religions)

My journey to Malaysia from Thailand starts with a 9 hour overnight boat ride from the island of Koh Tao on the Gulf of Thailand back to the town of Surat Thani on the mainland.  The Lonely Planet (LP) Guidebook describes the overnight boat ride as, "let the boat and ocean gently rock you to sleep as the ocean night air cools you off from the day's heat."  The LP leaves out the part of being crammed onto the boat with about 50 other travelers (some of them who have not showered in what smells like days), and "sleeping" on mats that measure no more than 38 inches wide.  The "gentle rocking" of the ocean is a flat out lie, and as for the cool air part, the air is indeed cool, however, it is still extremely humid. 

Myself and the 49 other backpackers and some Thai's arrive on the mainland around 4:40am the next morning.  I am then ushered onto a bus and start another 10 hour journey to the border town of Su-Ngai Kolok, the southern-most part of Thailand.  There is a warning in the LP saying that this border crossing "may be" unsafe due to frequent and spontaneous religious clashes between the Muslims and Buddhist populations.  Well, the LP was published in 2008, which means the research was done in 2007; it is 2010 and I have not heard any news of violence, so I decide to make this border crossing...

The journey via road is beautiful.  We ride along side the beach almost the entire way.  As the bus rolls along, I reflect on my trip throughout the rest of Thailand.  From the mountain terrain of Northern Thailand, to the densely populated Bangkok and central Thailand, I am now traveling in almost flat and sparsely populated land with the ocean on one side and coconut groves on the other side.  Along the way, Buddhist Wats dot the landscape, with the roofs peaking out behind tall trees and villages, pointing directly above, as if designed to send the thoughts and prayers of its peoples to the celestial skies. 

Once we reach the Southern most province in Thailand, I immediately notice a change.  Saffron cloaked monks gives way to women in burkas and head-scarves.  Along side the Thai script on buildings and road signs is Arabic script.  Mosques now dot the landscape with their crescent moon and star.  Along with this sudden change in religion comes barbed wires, check-points every 10 miles, soldiers carrying guns, sand-bag trenches, and tanks along the road side.  I am in complete awe.  I ask myself, is this all really necessary?  Can the violence really be that bad?  Apparently so.  Since the 2005, over 5,000 Muslims and Buddhist have been killed as both sides have fought for "control" of this Southern Province.  Major fighting has stopped in 2008, but the area is still tense--hence, all of the army and artillery in the area.  Even the 7-Eleven that my bus makes a rest stop at is crowded with soldiers and guns.  I think to myself that this must be some sort of representation of the Middle East, specifically Israel.  Are two, three, four, etc... religions not able to co-exist side by side?  Apart of me wants to jump off the bus and spend one day in this region and talk with some locals about the situation and their thoughts; however, the better part of my judgment kicks in and I get back on the bus after the 7-Eleven stop and continue on to the border.

The border crossing itself is uneventful.  Like crossing from Viet Nam into Lao, I also had to walk with my bag across the border, only instead of 6km, it was only 500 meters.  Hello Malaysia!