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! 

an Oasis in Thailand

Immediately when I crossed the border from Lao into Thailand, the first thing I noticed were how nice the roads were: wide, smooth, not under construction.  Traffic flowed effortlessly and I think for the first time since I have been in Southeast Asia, I was able to fall asleep in a moving vehicle without the help of sleeping aids, constant honking, or being thrown 2 feet in the air from my seat and hitting my head against the ceiling.  From the border into Thailand from Lao to the town of Chiang Mai in northern Thailand, it is about a 6 hour journey.  In Viet Nam, the journey would of taken 10 hours, and in Lao, it would of taken 13.  About 3 hours into the journey to Chiang Mai, the bus makes a rest stop.  Usually, I am very annoyed with these stops because it takes up so much time and it forces everyone to get out into the hot and humid weather again.  As the bus pulls to a stop, I slowly open my eyes.  It was then that I saw the green, orange and white stripes, and a big, bold, number 7 .  7-Eleven...literally a lone beacon in the darkness that from the first moment I laid my eyes on it during the bus ride mentioned above, to the border crossing from Thailand into Malaysia, has been forever sealed in my memory as a saving grace.  I will attempt to express my love for 7-Eleven:

Let me begin with giving some context to the situation.  The temperature in Thailand hovers around the mid to high 90s with extreme humidity.  At night, it cools off to the mid-80s/low 90s.  In Bangkok, there is very little breeze, which makes it seem even hotter.  From a backpacker's viewpoint, it can often be extremely frustrating in Thailand (and in Vietnam, Lao, etc...), as vendors often see you as a walking dollar sign, so prices are quoted sometimes 100-200% higher than what they actually are.  There is always a price haggling game to be played, but after a couple of months, it gets really old and exhausting.  Also, because Thailand sees so many tourist, many have actually just paid the higher prices, which then makes it extremely difficult for budget backpackers like myself to try and negotiate down to a fair and reasonable price.  Often times, the vendors just simply won't sell their products, which means having to walk 2 blocks to find another vendor that will.  That means, walking 2 blocks in the hot sun with sweat dripping everywhere, desperately looking for something, and then finding it, having it not be exactly what you want (the old "same-same, but different" situation), and then having to negotiate down the price.  Some friends have asked what I do with all of the "free time" that I have, since I cannot sight see and/or be traveling every day...well, the process above takes up a lot of time.  I am trying trying to get sympathy points from anyone...I am just painting a situation to explain my love for 7-Eleven.

I walk into a 7-Eleven.  The air-conditioning greets me, surrounding my entire body, as I go through its sliding glass doors.  Within 5 minutes in the mini-market, my sweat pores close, the sweat/stickyness on my body "dries-up" and I feel somewhat "clean."  This is the physical reaction that I get from a 7-Eleven.  From a psychological/emotional view point, it is comforting and exciting at the same time.  I go to buy a chocolate bar.  The options are presented right in front of me:  I can either get the imported Snickers OR the generic Thai brand.  The prices are labeled and no price negotiation is involved.  I can pick up the chocolate bar, touch the wrapper, smell it, hold it in my hand, etc... and not be afraid of a vendor yelling at me. I then wander around the mini-market a bit longer, trying to prolong my time in the air-conditioning, thinking of other foods/items that I might need/want.  Perhaps an ice-cold Coca-Cola to go with my Thai-generic brand snickers bar?  Amazing!  I don't even need to go to another vendor to purchase the drink!  It is right here in front of me.  I wander a bit more, up and down the clean, bright aisles, looking at the various products and their prices.  I then take my items and go to the cash register where the nice man/woman behind the counter totals up my purchases, I give the money, and s/he gives me the correct change!  The other thing that is amazing about 7-Eleven is that EVERY ONE that I go into, I can expect the same thing; and if I want to change it up the next day and have some M&Ms with a 7-UP, I can, and know the approximate price.  Therefore, because of this, I give thanks to 7-Eleven for being EVERYWHERE in Thailand.  I am proud to say that there is rarely a 7-Eleven that I pass that I do not go into--mostly never to buy anything, but to escape the heat. :)  7-Eleven, I love you.  Thank you for having air-conditioning, constant pricing, lots of selection, and a logo that can be recognized from blocks away!

Tour de Lao 2010

This is a long post, but I promise that it is well worth it!  ENJOY!

I am standing on a 15 seater bus, crammed with 38 people, their luggage, 8 boxes of ramen, a motor bike strapped to the roof, and a box of Choco-pies (Chocolate covered marshmellow cakes--remember the Chocopies, it becomes important later on!).  The road is a dirt road that is still being built as we are on it.  This bus is taking me and 37 other people to from the Lao-Vietnam border to Oudoxai, a large town close to the border.  This is the town where we transfer to get to Luang Prabang, the old capital of Lao.  Let me back up and say why I am on this bus to begin with.

I decided to cross over-land into Lao from Vietnam at the Dien Bien Phu (DBP) border, which is in northern Viet Nam.  There is another easier route, which has direct connections from Hanoi to Luang Prabang via Vientiene (Central Border); however, on the map, this route looked about 200km longer than the DBP route, not as scenic and is a grueling 30 hours.  I also figured that since it route was 200km shorter, it would take less time and be cheaper--I was wrong with both assumptions!

The journey started in Hanoi, where I boarded an extremely comfortable coach which took me on a 13 hour journey winding up and down mountains to DBP.  When I got to DBP at 8:00am, I went to the bus station to transfer onto the bus which would take me into Lao.
1st Road block: I was informed that the bus from DBP left for Lao at 5:30am.
My Solution: Hop on a motor-bike taxi for a 45 min ride to the Border. 
Once I got to the border, I went through Vietnamese immigration.  On the other side, the immigration officer asked me how I was going to get into Lao. 
-I was kind of baffled and asked in response, "Isn't Lao outside of these gates?"
-He laughed and said, "No, Lao is 6km from this gate" (2nd Road Block)
-Trying to control my bewilderment, I asked, "Is there a shuttle?"
-He responds, "The shuttle left at 5:45am"
With my one time entry Vietnamese visa stamped "USED" and an exit stamp already on my passport, I had no choice but to continue on.  [My Solution] So I picked up with 40L green backpack and started my 6km (3.5 mile) trek, litterally OVERLAND to Lao.  At roughly 1/2 way to the Lao Border, I found a sign that said I was leaving Vietnam and entering Lao--as I said goodbye to Vietnam, I also said goodbye to paved roads.  As the dust picked up on my trek to the Lao gate, the thought of this "do it yourself border crossing might of not been such a good idea" creeped into my head.  Finally, after about an hour of dust and heat, I round the corner and saw the "Welcome to Lao" sign and with it, the immigration building.  As I walked a bit closer, I saw PEOPLE...and not just any people, but WHITE PEOPLE!  I got so so so excited!  I started to run towards the immigration building...in my mind, I thought, "Yes!  These people probally are on a private tour with their bus, and I can try to beg my way on to their bus to get to Luang Prabang!  This isn't so bad after all!!!" WRONG!
-I ran up to the first white person, and asked, "are you going to Lao?" 
-He said, "Yes"
-I then asked, "how are you getting there?"
and he pointed to a bus that already looked over-packed with things.  Then a Vietnamese man, who I later found out was the driver, ran to me and asked if I needed a spot on the bus, to which I responded, "YES!" and he led me through immigration and onto the bus.  Getting on the bus, the 30 White people started yelling at him, "NO MORE PEOPLE!!!" Feeling very unwelcomed, I stood at the door, hung on for dear life as the bus started to roll down the mountain on the dirt road.  I later discovered that this is the same bus that left DBP at 5:30am!!!!  Apparently, the people on it also had to get out and trek to to the Lao immigration building from Vietnam because the "road" was so bad.

The journey from the Lao border to Oudoxai is roughly about 100km (60 miles); however, it took us 13 hours to complete, due to the fact that the road was still being constructed as we were on it.  There were many parts that I felt like we were going to roll off the road into the valley below us because the bus was so top heavy.  About 3 hours into the trip, the bus makes a stop in front of what is a Meth/Heroine Rehab center.  The driver tells me that the road ahead is still being constructed and they won't move the pile of dirt for another 4 hours, so we have to get out and wait.  I then translate this to the 30 White people, and by doing so, instantly put myself in the position of translator/tour-guide.  Getting off the bus, there were two places for us to "hang out"--1. Sit on the dirt in the sun next to the hot bus, OR, 2. Walk up the hill to the rehab huts and sit in the shade.  I walked to the rehab huts.  By this time, hunger is setting in and there is no food or water to buy in sight.  People start pulling out little snacks and sharing it with everyone, and as we ate the little food we had, those in rehab looked on...

About 2 hours later, the bus honks and we all run down from the Rehab center and pile on.  The driver tells me we need to go quickly because they just cleared the mountain of dirt in front of us, but will soon put another mountain of dirt in its place.  He presses the gas, and we are off.  Once we get onto the other side, we realize that there are only 36 people on the bus now, and 2 White people have gone missing [Problem 3].  Well, our choices were either to go back by foot and look for them, or drive on.  [Solution] We waited for 10 minutes in the hot sun, and then DRIVE ON (so there could possibly be two random white people wandering the villages of Lao at this very moment!).  The journey continues, pretty uneventful, other than the bumps, dust, and constant getting out and getting back onto the bus because piles of dirt have to be cleared on the road.  At about 8 hours into the journey, everyone starts getting really hungry.  One of the girl then started to comment on how there is a box of Choco-pies and wonders out-loud, that if we take and eat it, if anyone would really notice.  I then get pulled in and am asked to negotiate with the driver to buy the box of Choco-pies for everyone.  Before I start haggling, all of the White people and myself agree that we would be willing to pay as much as $3/pie (this is extremely expensive considering in Hanoi, the entire box wouldn't be more than $3...however, desparate times call for desparate measures!).  So I ask the driver, who then shouts to the Vietnamese person in charge of the supplies. 
-He asks, "What box of Choco-pies?"
-I responded, "the one that is right above your head,"
-He saids, "there are no Choco-pies"
(I am simulaneously trying to translate from Vietnamese to English the conversation, as well as trying to point to the Vietnamese man the box of Choco-pies).  So as I point to him the box of Choco-pies, the White people around me are also turning, pointing and shouting at the box of Choco-pies.  The Vietnamese man then says, "oh, that box....it IS NOT Choco-Pies, it is just the box."  Such disappointment!  Our stomachs continue to growl as we continue on.

Around the 13th hour, our bus stops at a big river.  The driver says to me, "Everyone out, the bridge is closed, this is where the journey ends!"  I am hesitant to translate for fear of the back-lash from the White people (sometimes, people really do kill the messenger!).  So I just get out and look around.  Finally, I quietly tell one person, who then shouts it to the rest.  We wait for awhile at the river, then a wooden canoe comes and says that it can ferry us over to the other side.  We all pile in and once on the other side, we neogotiate that we want to go to Oduoxai.  A pick-up truck then arrives and we again pile again, all 28 of us, onto the back and continue our journey for another 3 hours to sleep before hopping on a bus for another 6 hours to Luang Prabang the next day. 

So when it was all said and done, a journey that was suppose to take, in my mind 13 hours from Ha Noi to DBP, and another 6 hours to Luang Prabang (19 hour total), ended up being:
Ha Noi to Dien Bien Phu (DBP): 13 hours
DBP to Lao Border: 2 hours
Lao Border to River: 13 hours
River to Oduoxai: 3 Hours
Oduoxai to Luang Prabang: 6 hours
Total: 37 Hours to cover 700km or about 430 miles.

Looking back, although I wouldn't say that the trip was worth it, a lot of memories were made, I met some really cool people, it was a very rural part of Lao that we got to cross, and the story of the trip makes a good laugh.

Fansipan Scramble

I made it to the summitt of Mt. Fansipan, the highest peak in Southeast Asia (3143m)!.  I started the climb at 7:00am at 1900m, summitted at 12:10pm, had lunch on top, which was extremely freezing, and then headed back down to 2200m to camp for the night.  The next day, woke up, and trekked down to 1200m through H'mong and Zay villages.  The trek ended with a traditional Red Zao foot soak and an all body massage back at the guest house!  Not to bad!

My knees are extremely shot right now and I am still sore all over...but the trek was definitely worth it!  Climbing through bamboo forest, scrambling over rock walls, swimming in cold and re-freshing swimming holes, and the view from the top of Fansipan were amazing!  Below are some pictures, enjoy!

Alley eating

Vietnam's national dish is considered Pho (Beef Noodle Soup), however, let me introduce to you "Bun Dau" or Rice Noodles with Tofu.

Alleyways in Ha Noi are my favorite place to seek out cheap and extremely tasty food.  There is an alley way right off of my front entrance in Ha Noi, where at 11:00am, vendors set up their food, little plastic tables and chairs.  As the vendors begin to cook, the aroma of their specialty fills the air: smells of lemon-grass, mint, and ginger mix with the odors of shrimp paste and fish sauce, creating a perfect balance of smells that welcomes the hungry to sit down.  By noon, the alley is packed with office workers, house-makers and other Hanoians, squatting on the plastic chairs, hovering over low multi-colored plastic tables, eating Bun Dau.  This image is set against a back-drop of colonial yellow colored walls remaining from the French era.  The branches of trees from the courtyards behind the walls create a canopy on top, sheltering patrons from the hot sun.

I take a seat and ask the lady selling for one order of Bun Dau.  Within 5 minutes, the food comes out on the tray: a plate full of mint, basil and other herbs, another plate of fried tofu that is crispy golden on the outside and warm and soft on the inside, a third plate full of round rice noodles, and a small bowl of purple shrimp paste mixed with kumquat juice and chili-peppers.  My mouth salivates as I look at the food.  I take up my chopsticks, get a piece of tofu and some noodles, dip it in the shrimp paste and put it in my mouth.  The mixture of the hot tofu with the salty-spicy-sour shrimp paste is countered by the cold noddles.  I then eat some mint and basil leaves to wash away the salty-spicy-sour taste and start the process over again.

After I finish the savory meal, it is time to move onto dessert!  The next vendor over sells "che," a sweet Vietnamese dessert consisting of condensed milk, coconut milk, sweet bananas, peanuts and tapioca balls, all mixed in with crushed ice.  It is the perfect way to erase the pungent shrimp paste taste from my mouth.

Main Course "Bun Dau:" 15,000VND
Dessert "Che:" 16,000VND
Total: 31,000VND

At 20,000VND to $1, the total meal comes to be around $1.50!

It is moments like these that I wish I could freeze in time: the amazing balance of favors created from such simple, amazing food, combined with the environment of alley-way eating.  In my opinion, this has to be one of the best kept secrets of Ha Noi.

China Beach: Erasing Footprints in the Sand

In front of me, white sand beaches stretches as far as the eye can see.  Waves are crashing against my feet, erasing my foot-prints behind me.    I am walking along China Beach on Viet Nam's central coast, between the sleepy town of Hoi An, and the bustling port of Da Nang. 

Over 40 years ago, this was the site where American Marines first landed in Viet Nam:  Battleships docked off the coast, tanks rolling onto Vietnamese soil.  My American history books label this as the Viet Nam War;  In Viet Nam, it is called the American War.  To the American government, the war was fought to protect liberty and democracy in the world;  to the North Vietnamese, the war was fought to create an independent Viet Nam, free of Western colonization.  To come to present day Viet Nam and not experience the legacy of war is impossible.  Still exists are American hangers at Tan Son Nhat International Airport, the gateway to Viet Nam;  Army bunkers still dot rice paddies in Central Viet Nam; children born with mental handicaps and limbs because of agent orange still exist throughout the country; children of American GIs, those with brownish hair and hazel eyes still walk through the streets, hawking their wares; craters made from bombs still exist, now used as duck ponds; and walls sprayed with bullets still stand in the Imperial City of Hue.

It is ironic that the North Vietnamese, the present day power in Viet Nam, fought long and hard to get rid of the Americans and its influences over Viet Nam, only to welcome them back with open arms 30 years later; only this time, instead of American soliders, guns, missles and artillery coming to Viet Nam, it is Nike, Ford, Hyatt, Hilton, Calvin Klein, and the list goes on.  To the majority Vietnamese today, there are no hard feelings about America or Americans for that matter, rather, there is an opening of arms, a welcoming in, and a desire to put the past behind in order to step forward towards a future, with one another.

My walk along China Beach is a perfect reflection of this irony.  Along this beach where the Americans first landed over 40 years ago now stand billboards advertising the newest resorts to be built within the next year.  Those resorts are the Hyatt, Sheraton, Hilton and Crowne Plaza.  The biggest and most recognized American names, coming back to Viet Nam and claiming a piece of this beautiful country.  Just as the waves erase the footprints behind me, so too does Viet Nam try to forget about the sorrows of the past to look forward to the future.

Sunday Afternoon in Da Lat

It is Sunday afternoon. The air is crisp and cool. New year celebrations are over and life for members of my family are slowly returning to the rhythm of reality. Gone are the customary three days of New Year feasting, handing out of Li Xi (lucky money), and days spent carrying New Year wishes to different households. I am sitting at a cafe in Da Lat, slowly drinking my tea as I write this entry. Below me is Da Lat, the city of eternal spring, le petit Pari, the city of flowers. A city where cafes compete with towering pines, to see which one can proliferate faster.

The French founded this little hill-station to escape the tropic heat of South East Asia back during the colonial era. During the Viet Nam War, American, Vietnamese and Viet Cong generals used the city as a retreat--enemies down in the battle fields, but neighbours in Da Lat. The French have left Da Lat, however, their legacy of warm baguettes, slow-drip coffee and wine have not.

Below me, I see a sea of motorbike traffic. With the road acting as a stream, the motor-bikes are like minnows, moving effortlessly through the road. Every once-in-a-while, a car, SUV or truck moves into the road, and the stream of motor-bikes change their shape to accommodate the bigger fish on the road. The bigger vehicle moves out of the way, and the minnows again re-conform to their shape. There is an unspoken law or rule that the drivers know and follow, and yet, to the novice eye, traffic seems like a naturally flowing mess.

Surrounding my table are families, lovers, friends--all enjoying their Sunday afternoon. In front of them, tall glasses of slow-drip coffee are placed--the coffee slowing dripping down to the white milk at the bottom of the glass, a stark contrast from the fast traffic below. There is a young group of friends sitting and chatting at the table directly across from me. They are pulling out their mobile phones, taking pictures, texting, etc... Their clothes are decorated with Gucci, Armani, Prada--real or fake, I do not know. This image of Viet Nam causes conflict in my mind. As family and personal incomes increase, is this the image of a developed Viet Nam? Clothes decorated with Western brands, and motor-bikes racing below...racing to the next destination, racing onwards to the future, a brighter future?

Editor's Note: Shawn will be posting for David when he is unable to access the blog to post himself.

Chung Mung Nam Moi!!!

Chung Mung Nam Moi (Happy New Year)!!!

It is spring time in Viet Nam.  The country is in a festive mood as people usher in the Year of the Tiger.  After leaving the monastery, I was immediately thrown into activities: spring cleaning, making Banh Chung (see previous post), finding the perfect branch of peach blossoms to display at home, visiting ancestral graves, and making lots of food for the traditional three days of feasting after the New Year.  I was guided through each of the activities above by relatives showing me the proper direction to sweep so bad luck does not leave the house, how many times to bow to show respect at the ancestral graves, and how to trim the branches of peach blossoms to ensure a balance and sense of harmony.  Every action is guided by traditions passed down from generation to generation, ensuring not only that these traditions are kept, but providing a space for inter-generational interaction.  During these activities, I have not only learned how to properly sweep a house, or trim a peach branch, but I have learned the life stories and experiences of my grandmother, grandfather, aunts and uncles.  As I take a moment to reflect, I am beginning to see the importance of traditions, rites and rituals--whether it be in Japan at a tea ceremony, the way in which languages have little nuisances, monastic daily life, or the direction in which one sweeps, traditions anchor us to our past, and act as guideposts for our future.  I am excited to see how my eyes will be furthered opened and my experiences enhanced through tradition as my travels continue.

Below are some pictures of Da Lat during the Tet season:

Eating to Remember

Legend has it that the ancient Vietnamese King Hung Vung called together his three sons and said, "I would like each of you to provide for me a dish of food, you must search for the ingredients and make the dish and serve it to me on the last day of this Lunar Month, and on the basis of this dish I will decide who is to be the ruler of our Kingdom."

His sons searched near and far for the ingredients to make their dish.  The first son took to the sea and brought back a bounty of delicious seafood for his father.  The second son went up to the forest and brought back to his father rare meats, mushrooms and fruits from the forest.  The third, and youngest son, went outside of the palace gates and to the rice paddies.  He brought back a simple dish consisting of pork, mung beans and sticky rice wrapped with banana leaves.  He told his father, "Rice is the most precious and valuable of all food found in this Kingdom, yet it is also the most abundant. I have prepared a dish that represents my love for you and our beautiful Vietnam...I have cooked a square rice cake, stuffed it with cooked bean paste and ground meat in the middle and called it Banh Chung. This will symbolize the earth we live on."

Noticing the wisdom behind his youngest son's dish, he named his youngest son the King of Viet Nam.  Continuing with this tradition, every year during Tet (Lunar New Year), Vietnamese at home and abroad cook and eat Banh Cung in order to remember their connection to Viet Nam.  This year, my uncles, cousins and I gathered at my grandmothers house 2 days before Tet to cook Banh Chung.  Continuing our family tradition, I stayed up all night with my uncles to tend to the fire as the Banh Chung cooked.  As we sat around the fire, a bottle of Johnny Walker was passed around along with Beer Saigons.  We shared stories, caught up on life, and talked about old family memories.  At 3am, we tasted the first Banh Chung of the season to see if it was ready!  We all gathered around my eldest uncle present as he peeled back the banana leaves and cut the Banh Chung into small pieces.  Then using our chopsticks, we all took up the pieces, dipped it in fish sauce, and savored the first bite.  It was an unforgettable experience to know that I was participating in an event that has been passed down the generations, eating to remember the land of my birth.

Bells and Incense

Daily Schedule of Truc Lam Zen Monastery:

Morning
3:15am    Wake Up Bell (3)
3:30am     Sitting Meditation Begins (Chanting Bells)
5:30am     End of Meditation, Light Exercises and Morning Cleaning (1)
6:15am     Breakfast Time (3)
7:30am     Beginning of Daily Tasks (3)
9:00am     Morning Snack
10:30am   End of Daily Tasks, Free Time (1)
11:30am   Lunch Time (3)

Afternoon & Evening
1:00pm     Afternoon Rest (3)
2:00pm     Wake Up Bell (1)
2:30pm     Sitting Meditation
4:30pm     End of Meditation (1)
6:00pm     Inviting of the Bells & Drum to Sound, Repentance Time (3)
7:30pm     Sitting Meditation Begings (Chanting Bells)
9:30pm     End of Meditation (1)
10:00pm   Sleep Time

**number in parenteses denotes the number of bells**

The monastic life is guided by the sounds of bells reasonating through the air, announcing a beginning or an end.  Three bells tells me when to begin an activity, one bell tells me to finish the activity.  When I first arrived, I was asked to change out of my shirt, jeans and shoes into a gray tunic, matching pants, and a pair of sandals.  By changing my clothes, I was entering a life dictated by 100s of years of traditions, rites and rituals; I was entering a world that lingered somewhere in between the physical and the spiritual; A world where silence is the norm, not the exception.  I followed behind saffron cloaked monks into and out of meditations and repentance sessions, often times going into temple under a heavenly blankets of stars and exiting the temple just as the sun is breaking through the mist of the lakes and mountains surrounding me.  My reflections after a week of living this lifestyle--following the rigorous schedule above--slowed me, calmed me, and allowed my mind to look inward as my eyes looked outward at God's glorious creation. The rigid schedule envoked a deep sense of spiritually in me, while simultaneously took away my sense of personal freedom--to do what I wanted, when I wanted.  I lost my freedom of access to information, being connected through the internet, the mobile phone, through talking to friends and family; I was told that personal freedoms are taken away in order to make way for my soul, buried deep beneath wants, desires and distractions, to become free.  I felt this feeling of lightness and emptiness a couple of times during meditation sessions, but it was soon dissolved by a thought entering my mind.  My parting words from a senior Zen monk is that meditation and listening to the silence of one's being is a practice that will take a life-time. 

Aside from bells being my constant guide through the day, I also noticed the smell of incese permeating the air.  During my week at the monastery, whether it be cleaning up after a meal, in meditation sessions, or sweeping up the monastery grounds, the sight of incense rising up to the air envokes a feeling of prayers being lifted up to heaven; its lingering smell served as a constant reminder that the world, our world, the world that I am going to see, is always in need of prayers.

Relations and Pre-Monastery

Maternal aunt older than mother, paternal aunt older than father, maternal uncle younger than mother, paternal uncle younger than father, paternal aunt-in-law older than father, maternal uncle-in-law younger than mother, paternal father's older cousin, maternal mother's aunt, paternal father's aunt's younger female child, and on, and on and on....

In Vietnamese, there are different words for each of the persons above, each form of address denotes how you are in relation to them, and how they are in relation to you.  Everyone is indeed, family.  My first two days in Viet Nam have been a furry of visiting relatives and trying to remember these forms of address.  I have had to address new born babies the american equivalent as "aunt" and older men of my grandfather's generation as "cousin."  There have been mishaps, which were met with a stern eye from my grandfather and a gentle excuse from my grandmother saying the phrase, "you must forgive this grandson, he is from America (followed by nervous chuckles from both sides and me sitting there with an akward smile sipping tea from what would be considered shot glass).  For some reason, the Viet Nam in my mind does not consist of these memories.  The nostalgia of smells and sound over take memories of these akward moments. I did smell Pho lingering in the air this morning, the baugette boys did wake me up with their cries, and I did, more than once, fear for my life as my 85 year old grandfather whizzed through town on the back of the motor-bike with me in tow.

Tomorrow, I leave all of this behind as I enter into a Buddhist monastery for 6 days.  I do not know what to expect from this experience.  Maybe it wil serve as a chance to "escape" everything, or a time to reflect, slow down and concentrate on the present; maybe it will serve as an opprotunity to think, or have the absence of thought, without distractions, or maybe it will be a time for me to try and remember how to correctly address all of my relatives.  All I know is that I am only allowed to carry in two change of under garments, a journal, and my passport to register with the local authorities--everything else will be provided for.  (below is a picture of Thien Vien Truc Lam monastery, where I will be staying)

Also, I would like to take this opprotunity to thank Shawn, Kevin and Drew for your help in the design and coding of this blog.  Also, I am giving credit to my former co-worker Michelle for her quote, "You cannot have a beginning without an end."

Ancestral Words Calling Me Home

Location: Hong Kong
Local Time: 3:40pm
Status: In-Transit to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), Viet Nam

As I am waiting for my flight to Viet Nam, my mind is filled with her images, sights and sounds.  When I think to myself that I am going to Viet Nam, I say, "ve Viet Nam."  This phrase is interesting because of its meaning and implications.  In Vietnamese, some words can only be used with other words and while it might make perfect sense to use them in another word, that just does not happen.  For example, lets take the phrase, "going to Viet Nam":  I would say, "ve Viet Nam," whereas if I was going to say, "going to the United States [or anyplace other than Viet Nam]," I would say, "sang My (US)."  The difference between the words "ve" and "sang" is that "ve" conjures up feelings of and implies that one is going home, going to a place of origin, of a return; whereas the word "sang" implies going to a foreign place for a temporary period of time with the intention of leaving to return home.  The catch, or interesting part, is that the words "sang" and "Viet Nam" would very rarely be used together--Vietnamese peoples would almost always say, "ve Viet Nam."  This is especially strange for me, and others who are Vietnamese located outside of Viet Nam, because we still say (translated), "going home to Viet Nam," and "visiting the US," even though my home is actually in the US.

As I pondered on the use of language during my plane ride from Tokyo to Hong Kong, I thought: maybe by using the word "ve" or '"going home" with Viet Nam, I am unconsiously reminding myself that whatever place I am at, my home is still in Viet Nam.  In a land rooted in 1000s of years of traditions, rituals and beliefs, it only makes sense that through the use of language, my ancestry reminds me that I indeed belong to, Viet Nam. Prehaps that is why even though it has been 2.5 years since I was last in Viet Nam, every time I close my eyes and think about the country, my country, my senses become flooded with smells, sights and sounds.  I can hear young boys shouting "hot baguettes" in the early morning hours, taste the sweetness of slow-drip Vietnamese coffee, and smell the aroma of Pho mingling in the air.  I can feel the hot humidity weighing on my skin, hear the noise of traffic in Saigon, and see images school girls in white tunics (ao dais) biking to class.  Viet Nam, land of my birth, I am indeed, coming home...

Japan 1: Balance

I arrived in Tokyo on February 1st, after 16 hours of traveling from Boston. No delays or unexpected travel mishaps. I am staying with my friend Sachi and her family in Western Tokyo. The air outside is cold (30s and 40s), and on the first night I was here, Tokyo experienced her first snow of the winter. However, spring promises to be around the corner as plum trees are blooming, painting shades of pink and red against a brown back-drop. My last two days have been filled with Shinto Shrines, Buddhist Temples, the Edo-Tokyo Museum, gardens, a tea ceremony, an early morning visit to the fish market which sells tuna weighing in at approximately 100s of pounds going for 10s and even 100s of thousands of dollars, AND, lots and lots of food: Sushi, Udon, Ramen, plum wine, rice balls, mochi, the list goes on...Although the last two days have been filled with activity, I have taken a moment to reflect on my sights and experiences-which I share a piece below:

While touring the calligraphy section of the Edo-Tokyo museum, my volunteer guide says, "...you use to be able to tell a lot about a person from there hand-writing, but these days with the computer (he does the hand motion of typing), everyone is the same." My first impressions of Japan echos exactly this same sentiment-an extremely homogeneous society that is seemingly addicted to incorporating technology into every aspect of life, right down to toilet seats consisting of options such as "butt-spray," "woman-wash," "dryer," "high-water pressure," "low-water pressure," "water temperature," and the list goes on. On the surface, Japanese society seems to expect conformity to the extent that those who refuse are pushed to the peripheral; and with that conformity comes a set of mechanized actions such as an automatic formation of double lines while waiting for the trains and subways, and having mobile phones always on vibrate while on public transportation. I wonder, where does this adherence to unspoken societal rules come from? Perhaps it can be linked to the deep reverence for traditions and customs that are so ingrained in the Japanese collective mindset-the deep respect for the intricate movements of pouring tea in a tea ceremony, or the practice of self-discipline which carefully manicures bonsai trees and rake rock gardens, not reaping immediate benefits but rather, having to wait months, even years down the road. Perhaps the desire to conform is due to the fact that you do not want to do anything that will throw society "off balance," to negatively disrupt the fluid, consistent motions of everyday life that carries not only yourself, but others, through the day. Even during my short two days here, I have been able to witness this sense of maintaining balance: arranging a "dead" branch in with leaves and flowers to give balance to a floral arrangement, or eating warming foods with cooling foods to give a balance nourishment to the body. On a macroscopic level, it is amazing to me how this culture has balanced the incorporation of different influences while still maintaining a distinct Japanese-ness. As we were walking through Inari Shrine in Ueno park, my friend Sachiko informed me that the Japanese have a saying, "Birth by Shintoism, Marriage by Christianity, and Death by Buddhism."

(Pictures from top to bottom and left to right: １．Ｍｏｄｅｒｎ　ｍｅｅｔｓ　Ｔｒａｄｉｔｉｏｎａｌ：　Ｓｈｉｎｔｏ　Ｓｈｒｉｎｅ　ｉｎ　Ｃｏｍｍｅｒｃｉａｌ　Ｃｅｎｔｅｒ ;２. Signs of Spring: Plum Blosooms; 3. Homogenity: Shibuya Square; 4. NOW: Vending Machines; 5&6. Food; 7. Tuna at Fish Market; 8. 1000 paper cranes for Nagasaki and Hiroshima; 10: Prayers to Heaven: prayer notes at a Buddhist temple)

Goodbye::Hello

I have four hours left before I fly from Boston to Japan, on a one-way ticket, beginning the first segment of my six month journey. This past week, I have been busy "closing down" life in Boston, saying "good-byes" to close friends, and experiencing what could be considered many "lasts." You cannot have a beginning, without an end; last week, I said goodbye to a job where walking into work meant walking in to be greeted by friends; I said goodbye to a church which a mere year-and-a-half ago opened its doors and welcomed me in; I said goodbye to close friends--my new found family. You cannot have a beginning without an end. I said "goodbye" in order to say "hello" to a journey which has been at the back of my mind for a long time...a journey which I often found myself daydreaming about, a journey which has kept me awake countless nights.

Four hours, and I get to start this journey. I embark on this journey to see the world, to experience humanity, to become closer to God. I travel without a destination in mind, without a set route, or an itinerary. It is the journey itself that I am excited about--the plane rides, the train rides, the bus rides, the ferry rides; the opportunity to start in Asia, and make my way to Europe, seeing the landscape and the people slowly change as the environment changes. I travel to reflect on all of this change with hopes that I too will be changed.

Prehaps Rosalia de Castro put it best when she says: "I see my path, but I don't know where it leads.  Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it." 

Best of Boston

As my time in Boston comes to a close, I want to take a moment to share my personal version of the “Best of Boston” (in no particular order of preference):

1.  Gourmet Dumplings (Chinatown-52 Beach Street)

Offering mouth-watering delicious cheap food, this small restaurant in Boston’s Chinatown is a gem! Whether you sit in the back corner right next to the fish tank where waiters will carefully reach over you to net up live fish to bring into the kitchen; or you sit towards the drafty and often crowded front of the room, your food will be amazing!  First timers, I recommend the pan fried dumplings, scallion pancakes, and julienne chicken wonton soup.   Split the meal by two people, and it comes under $10/person!  

2. South End Buttery (South End-314 Shawmut Ave)

A neighborhood coffee shop that offers great place to sit and unwind.  I have spent many Sunday afternoons at the Buttery reading, people watching, and chatting with friends

 

3. Franklin Cafe (South End-278 Shawmut Ave)

Simply put—a neighborhood bar that offers amazing gourmet food, a great beer selection and a wonderful atmosphere!  It usually gets crowded by 7:30 each night

4. Formaggio (South End-268 Shawmut Ave)

I like to browse the different cheeses, cured meats and other gourmet foods.  The staff are very generous when giving out samples and extremely helpful in sharing cheese recommendations. 

5. Boston Public Library (Back Bay-700 Boylston)

I have spent many many hours in here studying for the MCAT exam; however, aside from the great studying environment, the library is architecturally amazing! I often find myself taking study breaks and walking around the old library in awe.

 

 6. Old South Church (Back Bay-645 Boylston)

Come experience the majesty of God through the beautiful Sunday service at Old South!  The music is awesome, the people are amazing, and the church is extremely welcoming.  There is no better way to describe Old South than to say that it is an open church—open to people from all walks of life, open to a spirit of service to the world, open to a philosophy of social justice—it is a church that promotes that the love of God not be confined within church walls, but rather, be open to the world.

7. Commonwealth Books (Downtown Crossing-9 Spring Lane)

One of the oldest bookstores in Boston, this used book shop offers three levels of fun browsing and guaranteed good finds

     8. Jacob Wirths (Theater District-31-37 Stuart Street)

Friday nights, Mel plays the piano while you and 50 of your new best friends sing along to the music from songbooks--while drinking beer!