Great Wall, Ill Winds and Character

(Simati Section of the Great Wall.)

From zero gravity, it is visible to the unassisted human eye. It is the only man made structure visible from outer space. Traversing more than 4,000 miles, the Great Wall in China has stood for more than 2,000 years. Standing on it and following its meandering line across ridgeline after ridgeline as far as the eye can see brings home the mangnitude of such a feat. Unfortunately, in the process, it costs tens of thousands of slaves their lives, at times working in freezing conditions hauling heavy stones up steep mountains.

From afar the Great Wall still looks pretty great as its outline is visible along the mountains tops for miles. Upon closer inspection, however, the Simatai section of the Wall where I visited was dilapidated and even closed off in some hazardous sections. At the tip of many former visitors, I left Beijing for the Wall at 5 a.m., getting snarled in some nasty traffic delaying my arrival until just after 8 a.m. when the ticketing office opened. First to arrive, I hurriedly began walking to the top, eager to beat the daytime crowds. After ten minutes, with no breakfast fuel in the tank, I began to tire. The ascent was not on treacherous ground or in poor temperatures, in fact it was a beautiful day, but it was steep. Huffing and puffing my way to the top, I imagined what it must have been like for the slaves involuntarily summoned to work in the heat of the hot summer days, hauling heavy stones behind them.

Reaching the top I was rewarded with spectacular 360 degree views around the Wall. It was afterall, a strategic defense point for the Emperor's army. No one else was on the wall so I spent a few moments taking it all in, using my mind's eye to restore the deteriorated portions to their former glory.

There are other areas of the wall open to visitors as well, and I hear they have been restored, but traveling the extra distance to the Simatai section was worth the effort. Sometimes, it's nice to see some of history untouched by modern reconstruction, other times it is a necessity. And with Olympic fever taking Beijing by storm, many parts of the city are getting an overhaul.

Unfortunately, what needs an overhaul in Beijing is not really being addressed on the critical scale that is required. Like the Great Wall, the environment in and around Beijing is severly degraded, only in the environment's case, the degradation has taken place in twenty years, since China's own Industrial Revolution. Beijing residents are paying a big price. On warmer days, the air is a thick gray haze, instinctively choking your throat as your eyes strain to see a full city block. For cities all over China this is a familiar scene. Known to be home to the most polluted city in the world, China is writing checks against Mother Nature that it can't cash.

The impact from its disregard for environmental harm is no longer relegated to its borders. Air from China is being found in tradewinds across the globe, including over the US. Minimal pressure has been exerted to effect real change as mass production facilities are quick to keep Wal Mart and Target shelves stocked with cheap imported goods. In a short time, no doubt the human health factor will catch up, if it hasn't already. While it is hard to get accurate details from the Chinese government, current numbers show there are 300,000 to 500,000 deaths each year attributed to pollution.

In all fairness, China is not alone in its poor global stewardship. Europe and the US were first to tax the planet's resources and natural air filter (rain forests) during their own Industrial Revolutions. And with President Bush's withdrawal from the Kyoto Protocol, China has little incentive to alter its behavior. All of it boils down to big economics. There is a lot of money at stake for a few at the top who stand to bring home big salaries from larger corporate profits. There is little difference between China and the US on that point. But who really picks up the price tag? You, me and the 6.6 billion other people on this third rock from the sun. And we are not going to get a second planet anytime soon. Once the sale is over, it's over for good.

Returning home, each time I hear about the Bush administration's attempts to repeal portions of the Clean Air Act, I will remember my tour of Beijing and washing my hair at the end of the day, only to see black water go down the drain. Clean air and water are something I take for granted at home, but the next time a politician moves to weaken environmental legislation protecting our resources, I'm going to buy him/her a one-way ticket to Beijing. They can buy their own bottled water because they are going to need it.

Character

OK, so enough ranting about the environment. What else do I take away from my trip to China? The American character is truly unique and special. A self-serving statement to be sure, but I lend support to my observation. I wrote about it briefly from India and I've witnessed it again in China, the "can do" attitude of the American character. China has a thriving manufacturing base, turning out millions of "things" one after the other. The Chinese people are a powerful world labor force with a deep connection to their history and a sense of national pride. Their differences from the West are immediately apparent, but their similarities are more striking and surprising.
(A common scene around cities in China as workers stand at attention before starting their shifts.)

They want peace, love and freedom like most. They are passionate about music, movies, fashion, Pizza Hut, KFC and spending time with family and friends. And I get the sense that the new twenty-something and younger generations will eventually bring about a gradual change in the government, much like what happened when a younger Gorbachev took the helm in the former Soviet Union. For their sake and happiness, I hope they get what they are looking for because only they can make it happen. It is not a path without resistance.

Why are the Chinese so crazy about everything Americana? In my estimation, it is due to the magnetic draw of the American character. Many Chinese with whom I spoke thought I was crazy within ten minutes of meeting me (perhaps they are a good judge of character?). Assuming they are not, what did they find so crazy? It was my uninhibited nature to say or do whatever I was thinking or feeling. Few at home would have taken note, but in China, there is a tendency toward more of a group mentality. There are fewer filters through which Americans show their character (sometimes to our demise).

Generally as a culture, Americans are gregarious, open hearted and expressive, at least compared to the Chinese culture. Freedom from the time of birth leaves the reigns of expression loose and free to develop more naturally. That is not the case for many Chinese citizens. And the bland city streets, mechanical architecture and willingness to copy anything from abroad reflect the absence of creativity.

Americana is almost an intangible, but it's effects are apparent worldwide. Perhaps our last export, it produces music, movies and fashion adopted across the globe. Americana is the fruit borne of creativity from a free mind. Once again, my travels have reminded me that while in God's eyes all people are created equally, not all are treated equally here on earth.

N'Oubliez Pas Day

Ironically, "N'oubliez pas" is about all I remember from six years of French in elementary, middle and high school. It means "do not forget", or otherwise stated, remember. As I am halfway around the world from most of you reading this, I can almost smell the charcoals firing on the barbeque, feel the warm summer breeze and taste the freshest of fruit salads on this nationally recognized US holiday. It is a beautiful time of year as spring showers fade to a trickle, new hatchlings begin to fly and a feeling of "the good times are here again" pervades at poolside gatherings with drink in hand and sunglasses shielding the eyes from the long day's sunlight.

Being in Beijing, I will miss those gatherings this year, but it will not slip by unnoticed. And in fact, this year the holiday stands out more starkly than recent years. In the heart of the largest communist country in the world, my appreciation for the liberties I enjoy at home is more profound and appreciated than ever. In my private conversations with many people in China, especially the younger twenty-something generation, they too would like complete freedom of expression, speech and the press, none of which exist today.
(Mao's picture at the Heavenly Gate at the West end of Tian Square.)

We all know about the Chinese government's violent suppression of mass protests at Tiananmen Square in 1989. CNN played the looped video of the lone student, putting his life in harm's way, standing in front of three tanks as they tried to maneuver forward. Thousands of protesters were killed and thousands more injured. The protestors were seeking democracy, government reform and an end to corruption, but thousands of troops and tanks silenced their voices.

For the past two hundred and thirty years, US citizens have enjoyed liberties heralded by the world, not in spite of its troops, but because of them. A country by the people, for the people is rhetoric that you might even find in Mao's "Little Red Book", the difference being that in one country the military is used to keep the government in power and in the other, it is historically used to protect the people from outside harm (one exception being the Civil War). The American Revolution, Spanish American War, World Wars I and II, Korea, Vietnam, Persian Gulfs I and II are the major conflicts (but no means the only) in which the US military defended/protected/preserved the liberties I enjoy today. And in some cases, US troops were sent to far away shores to the aid of allies, suffering tremendous casualties in the process, never to return home again.

Touring Vietnam in April, I was faced with the miserable reality of where many US troops were stationed, deep in the humid mosquito infested jungle with little or no support and bullets and mortar screaming toward them from out of nowhere. For the most part, there is no good place to die. For the soldiers that died at Khe Sanh, you can be sure it was pure hell. Saving Private Ryan gave one of the best dramatizations of the insanity and massive loss of life during the Normandy landing in WWII followed closely by A Thin Red Line providing an up close look of the horrors of fighting in Guadalcanal.

War has been around since the beginning of civilization, but it wasn't until the United States that a major world power used its military for primarily defensive purposes instead of conquering other nations. Because of that restraint and the world reknowned "American Dream" people on every continent look to the United States as a model for freedom and opportunity. The very existence of the United States and its Constitution gives hope to those not yet enjoying the same freedoms. Perhaps one day, their government will also be by the people for the people.

The above is not blindly condoning US foregin policy, but remembering the men and women who sacrificed their lives or their quality of life, the families who lost their loved ones and the men and women standing watch today. In fact, there have been military actions with which I disagree, most notably, the present Iraq War. But there are also men and women serving in the US armed forces who disagree with the war, but they still carry out their duties. For that I am thankful as it makes it possible for me (indirectly) to write this entry disagreeing with the government's decision to go to war. Does that make me unpatriotic?

I don't think so, but some in Washington D.C. have suggested such in their sound bite messages. Didn't the armed service personnel sacrifice their lives or limbs or mental health in the pursuit of preserving the freedom to debate openly? Isn't that truly patriotic? Isn't that what the Framers intended when they wrote the Constitution? It's a bit scary when career politicians begin to identify who is and who is not a patriot by a person's support or lack of support for a war. If competing opinions cannot be shared because it is "unpatriotic", well, then you might as well move to China because that is the same party line here, only the party is the Communist Party of the People's Republic.

Our democracy is not perfect, but it is still hanging on as the beacon of hope for those less fortunate living under oppressive regimes across the globe. And today, more than most, let us not forget those that sacrificed everything, those receiving Purple Hearts and the veterans who live with the horrors of war in their mind's eye each day. It is incumbent upon every citizen to preserve our most valued treasure, our god given, inalienable right to liberty. We must never forget from where we came and ensure that we do not stray too far off course as we may not find our way back. N'oubliez pas.

God Bless the men and women now serving in Afghanistan and Iraq, far from their families, in their fourth year of active duty in what looks to be a long drawn out engagement.

You Can't Take It With You, Or Can You?

What do Zhou, Qin, Tang, Yuan, Shang, Han and Ming all have in common? For starters, I cannot pronounce any of the names correctly. But aside from that familiar hurdle for westerners, the listed names belong to dynastyic families who ruled China as early as the 10th century B.C., that's one thousand years before Christmas even existed (imagine those poor b.c. kids with no tree or Santa Claus). And another link between the dynasties for this unacademic entry is that none of them exist today, but not without leaving their respective marks.

Yes, China's thriving tourism industry owes many thanks to its dynastic families of the past as bus, boat and plane loads of tourists flock to the ancient relics throughout the country. Fortunatley, Mao's Cultural Revolution did not destroy every artifact connected with China's long, tattered history. Today, the State Bureau of Cultural Relics manages the remaining sites of historic significance.

Ranked the second most popular tourist sight in China, the terracotta soldiers found in Xi'an (pronounced "Shee An") draw thousands of visitors each day. Before buddhism existed, it was widely believed (similar to the Egyptians) that the deceased would be able to those items (money, jewelery, books, clothes, etc) with which they were buried. During the early Qin Dynasty, the concept was taken one step further, and the servants, concubines and slaves were buried alive with the corpse (hold your breath, the trip to heaven may take awhile, we're not really sure how long at this point).

Three hundred years later (209 B.C.), Emperor Qin would modify this dramatic and some would say, breathtaking practice. More than 7,000 strong, a terracotta replica of his army was fabricated by hand, including horses and chariots (short on skilled assembly line workers in those days). Mind you, each and every one of these soldiers is made identical to an actual live soldier at the time. There were no molds. The statutes vary in height, width, hair style, military rank, weapon and facial features. All in all an amazing feat performed at the behest of an Emperor's superstitious belief.

After his death in 210 B.C., the clay infantry soldiers were placed below ground, facing East, 1.5 kilometers from his tomb. Generals and other officers were given separate sub-surface chambers nearby. You might be asking, "Why all the pomp, cicumstance and fuss?" To protect the emperor in the after life of course.
(The new massive undertaking, putting 7,000 "Humpty Dumpty's" back together again is expected to take as long as 100 years - guess my grandkids can compare my pictures when it is completed. Each night at 8 p.m., the arduous process of reassembling the soldiers resumes through the night)

From where did these after death beliefs come? Why were they similar to the Egyptian's beliefs, a vastly different culture thousands of miles away? Why is the Emperor's tomb buried in a pyramid-like mound of dirt? Was there a shooter on the grassy knoll? Those are the questions my inquiring mind wants to know.

We may never know the answers to such questions, but today, the Chinese culture is brimming with what might be characterized as "superstitious" beliefs. In each temple you visit, there is a lion, dragon or phoenix to rub for good luck or health or fortune or long life or happiness. Superstitions don't stop at the temple doors either. (Rubbing each part of this dragon brings a specific benefit. I rubbed them all just to cover my bases.) From drinking Oolong Tea for a healthy mind to Black Tea for a warm stomach, there is a laundry list of each food's benefit beyond culinary delight and sustenance. Ironically, many of the men smoke like chimneys, drink heavily and eat fried food virtually every meal, but take great care to rub a statute or two for longevity or good health.

So it goes that the foreign companies who sell successfully in China will be those that best learn to adapt their marketing and advertising strategies to the cultural appetite for deeper long lasting benefits to an individual's overall well being and/or success. You might sell a Mustang to an American based on performance and speed, but in China, there is a different hot button perhaps involving renaming the car to "Phoenix" (symbol of power and virtue for Chinese) and changing the hood ornament to a symbol for "Happiness" or "Strength". The companies that do not tune into the cultural nuances might as well bury their heads and join the Qin Dynasty's terracotta soldiers. Nevertheless, if for someone reason you should be around for my burial, please include lots of dark chocolate! (Even cremation because then I would be closer to Smores than ever.)

In the Land of Fake Rolexes and Only Children

(Right: Oriental Pearl Tower, Shanghai.)

Barely a day goes by without a story or bit featuring China in the news. Thirty years ago, the country infrequently made headlines as the West focused on the rising sun, Japan, and China remained shrouded behind the veil of Mao's Cultural Revolution. Twenty years ago, the West was still locked in an arms race with the Soviet Union as the threat of mutually assured nuclear destruction took center stage in the foreign policy arena. But while Japan’s economy boomed, overheated and busted and the Cold War thawed, a sleeping giant was rising from a deep slumber in the Far East.

With millennia of history, comprised of dynasties, wars, occupation, famine, drought and communist (really totalitarian) rule, the most populous country on earth is at its most advanced point in modern history and has ambitions to be number one on the world stage. Many scholars suggest that five thousand years ago, China was home to the most developed ancient civilization with advanced medicine, metal works, agriculture and art.

If the dates of the Jade and Bronze exhibits at the Shanghai Museum are correct, the Chinese were weaving silk, casting bronze, growing wheat, millet and rice; and recording events in a written language with thousands of characters in the fifteenth century B.C.. A thousand years before the English Industrial Revolution, China had advanced coke ovens and steel blast furnaces. Some contend that it was the Chinese who laid the foundation for the modern world as information from the East reached Europe.

But enduring repeated attacks and sometimes occupation from the likes of the Mongols (Genghis Khan), the British, Portuguese and Japanese, China’s early progress was retarded. Europe and the U.S. flourished while China’s largely peasant population suffered from famine and a failing economy. After WWII and the downfall of the Japanese Empire coupled with the rise of the Soviet Union, China was ripe for the communist figure who would position himself as the father of the nation. In the footsteps of Lenin, Mao Tse-Tung’s “Cultural Revolution” amounted to a brutal regime, stripping the country’s intellectuals, writers, artists and private entrepreneurs of their dignity and wealth, sending some to work in labor camps and others to their death. From 1965 to 1976, the Chinese suffered their last major setback before their bid to return to greatness.

A visit to Shanghai today leaves little doubt in the eye of the beholder that China is an economic whirlwind turning typhoon. High rises litter the city skyline of the home to more than eighteen million, the second most populous city in the world, behind only Bombay. And the urban population continues to swell as peasants in rural areas move to the big cities in search of jobs and a better quality of life, neither of which they usually find. With the hot economy receiving world press, the reality behind the numbers is that while tens of millions of Chinese are attaining greater wealth, more than a billion are being left in the dust. Demonstrations by disenfranchised Chinese are a regular occurrence, but never make the news and are quickly supressed.

Pushing Shanghai to surpass Hong Kong as the country’s financial and commerce center, the Chinese Communist Party wants the world to see what China can accomplish without the aid of “imperialist” powers. A day on the popular “Bund” in Shanghai offers a view of a thriving port operating seven days a week, the Oriental Pearl Tower (higest TV tower in Asia, third tallest in the world), the Jin Mao Tower (5th tallest building in the world, tallest in mainland China) and shopping malls as far as the eyes can see, not the images one generally associates with communism. For every foreign tourist there are three Chinese tourists visiting the same sights. The Chinese that are accumulating wealth are fast at work seeing the sights, but mostly hitting the malls at a feverish pace.

At night, it is little wonder why China’s demand for electricity and oil are growing. Neon lights illuminate and flash on every block of the downtown and then many blocks for miles around. Two days ago, the government news agency repeatedly celebrated the completion of the Three Gorges Dam project on the Yangzi River. It is heralded as the biggest dam and hydroelectric plant on earth. After displacing more than 1.5 people from ancient villages in the surrounding valleys, the government announced that the major construction phases of the project have been completed. Looped footage of a celebration plays almost hourly on CCP channel 9, the only English news channel in China.

After years of oppression during the Cultural Revolution, the Chinese people keep two lives, their public life and their private life. The foreigner has little chance to get any real insight into the people’s thoughts and daily life. In this regard I was fortunate as I had kept in touch with a friend from the states. Nick Marsick worked for a company consulting to Nextel during the days when there was a Nextel and new cell sites were in demand. If you wanted to close a deal, Nick was your man.

(Nick and family.)


Occasionally Nick would share stories from his many lifetimes as a real estate speculator, oil and gas man, Amway sales distributor, Professor of Physical Education (he has a PhD in the subject) and teaching English in China. Listening to his stories, you knew Nick was never at a loss for words or a good story, even the ones where he lost his shirt. By the time I met Nick, he was married to his second wife, Yixin, and they had one child, Nicholas and before he left the company, they had a baby girl, Anna (now a huge flirt as you can see).

Since then, Nick and I e-mailed a few times a year touching base and catching up. When the opportunity for this trip presented itself, Nick was on the top of my list for a visit. At the time, he was living in the Anji province four hours east of Shanghai, but by the time I left the states, he had moved to Madras, India. A bit disappointed, I planned to meet Nick and family in Madras, but once again before I could make my way to see him, the family had relocated, this time to Shanghai, fitting perfectly into my plan.

Arriving Friday afternoon, my name was being paged over the baggage claim speakers, “Mr. Tod Rajio, Mr. Tod Rajio, please call 132798424865 . . .”. My name had been marred enough in life that I knew to give some latitude to the pronunciation, especially for a native Chinese tongue. Only problem was I couldn’t write down the 13 digit phone number quickly enough, didn’t have a phone and couldn’t speak Chinese to the man tending the information booth. So I reverted to the age old game of Charades. In the middle of the Departure Terminal, I stood in a crowd of hundreds before a Chinese man in his young twenty’s pointing toward the ceiling, then my ear, then me, then pretending to hold an invisible phone to my ear. What was I trying to say? Translated into my language it meant, the operator just called my name over the loudspeaker and I want to call the number that she read outloud. What did the young Chinese man in the information booth think I meant, “I heard voices from God talking to me and I urgently need to call him back”. I guess my Charades skills need more work, but the third time was a charm as I practically reached over the counter to call the operator myself.

With number in hand, I bought a phone card and reached Nick with a lot of wind noise blowing in the background. “Hey Todd, it’s Nick, Yixin and I are in a cab now on our way to the airport. Where are you? Stay put.” As I had realized on the plane, Nick had given me directions to reach him from a different airport so now he was en route to pick me up personally. Fifteen minutes later, we found each other and began a fast paced exchange of catch-up as we bobbed and weaved through the crowds to find the right bus back to his apartment. Cell phone in hand, Yixin seemed to be calling the operator from the Matrix, “I need a way out,” she said in Chinese (my take). Who was she calling? The city transportation bureau has phone lines dedicated to helping callers determine the fastest public transit route from point A to B.

On the bus, the conversation continued covering topics from the state of world affairs, the rise of commodity prices to the weather. (Left: My apartment building.) Nick was still Nick and it was a joy catching up and exchanging views as if no time had passed. Two buses later, we arrived near the family apartment, but before heading upstairs, Nick and Yixin took me to my apartment. Resourceful as usual, they found me a fully furnished two bedroom, one bath apartment on the 20th floor of a building half a block from their place. We rode the elevator to the 20th floor of the six year old building where Mrs. Yan, a lady with a warm smiling face in her early 60s met us at the front door of unit 2007.

The apartment was great, and for twenty dollars a night, one of few Shanghai bargains. Nick had offered her more money, but she actually refused. Both she and her husband were retired educators and owned a few apartments and some land southwest of Shanghai (as I would learn later). Mrs. Yan showed me around the apartment, asking me in Chinese if it was o.k. as Yixin translated between us. The views from the living room and bedroom overlooked many miles of the city. As in the U.S., many Chinese were speculating on a booming real estate market so units, such as my temporary abode, were sitting empty until buyers could be found.

If you’re wondering if the Chinese economy is really thriving as we read regularly, the answer is yes, but if I had to make a lay guess, Todd’s economic forecast would say it is overheating and will experience a dramatic slowdown, if only for a period of months or years. Driving through the city center and beyond, high rises serve as homes only to ghosts as drapeless windows leave thirty story buildings transaparent as Casper. Moving outside of the city center, single family homes are being built by the hundreds of thousands, but they too remain vacant years after construction is completed. Shanghai and the burbs around it are overbuilt for the time being. It may take five years or a decade for demand to catch up with supply. Most Chinese simply do not have the money to afford $80K condos and $120K homes . . . yet.

On top of the flooded housing market, the cost of living is beginning to increase for city dwellers. Base rates for taxi fares recently increased to 11 yuan from 10 yuan (current conversion 8 yuan = 1 dollar). Seemingly an insignificant increase to many outsiders, it is a sign of rising costs for locals. Ironically as costs increase in China, the Chinese and Taiwanese are beginning to look to other foreign markets (namely Vietnam and Thailand) for new factory locations.

This morning when I walked into the family’s apartment, Nick started in, “Yixin talked to Mrs. Yan, and her husband is going to drive us to Jiashan in the Zhejiang province to look at some factories and real estate developments.” His statement caught me off guard as I had come dressed for the Shanghai museum in cargo shorts and a worn t-shirt (at this point I don't have any other kind). But there was no stopping Nick when he had an idea so we piled into Mr. Yan’s VW Passat and headed an hour and a half outside of Shanghai.

Entering Jiashan, the scenery looked similar to any industrial area of Oakland, Hayward or Emeryville. Factory after factory lined the streets making everything from paper products to electronics to machinery. This was the China I wondered about. Where were all of the things I buy daily in the U.S. made? And was it as bad as Kathy Lee Gifford’s factories? With a clear conscience, I can report that the answer is “no”. The factories were clean inside and out. How do I know this to be true you might ask? Because Nick arranged for my first conference table business meeting in 4 months. That’s right, today was a work day.

Within minutes of passing through security, Nick, Yixin and I were seated at a solid dark wood conference table with a black leather strip down the middle on the third floor of a paper products plant. We were joined by a local government official, the Chairman of the Board, the plant operations manager and Mr. Yan. About now you are asking yourself, “What were we doing there?” Call it a little detective work, although not as dangerous as Magnum P.I. and with less sex appeal than Charlie’s Angels. Within a minute of being seated, we were presented with everyone’s business cards and tea was served by a woman waiting in the background.

“Oops, I seemed to have forgotten the business cards I don’t have, please excuse me. Want me to sign your yearbook?,” was running through my mind as I stared at each of their cards for an extended period of time as appropriate in the Chinese business culture. Back to business, I listened intently to Yixin translate the company’s platform of products. The meeting was fascinating as Nick and I tag teamed, volleying questions about volume, production capability, shipping times and existing international clientele. Questioning completed, we were handed badges to be worn at all times during our plant tour, no photos please. As tours go, there was a high rate of return, no line, no admission fee and an interesting inside education. By all accounts the meeting was a success and followed by a feast for lunch.

The group drove a few miles to the nicest restaurant in town where dish after dish was served. Fortunately, as the real delicacies began flowing I was full, however, my loud moans about being overstuffed did not have the desired effect as soon the eyeball of the fish from a “Thousand Islands” was being scooped out and walked over to the plate before me. God was calling my bluff. “You want to do business in China? Eat up pledge.” Yes, what would be hazing in a fraternity in the U.S. is an honor in China. In this instance, unfortunately the honor was mine. I looked to Yixin across the table for help. The expression on her face told me I needed to eat the cornea on my plate, but my stomach was requesting a gut check. Did I do it?

Of course not, are you kidding me? This wasn’t Survivor or Fear Factor. There were no cameras, no money was on the line and my need to save face left when I hit thirty, plus the fish probably had three eyes if he grew up anywhere near the factory (In fact, I think I saw a three fingered hand instead of a fin). Sorry Charlie. My Virgo stomach drew a big fat line in the sand, no eyeballs, heads, throats, hooves, tongues, noses, tail or other innards, period. After an uncomfortable thirty seconds (seemed like an hour), Yixin extended her plate across the table and told me to give her the eyeball. International incident averted. (Later Nick would tell me that Yixin enjoyed eyeballs so everything worked out for the best.)

Post gorge, we said goodbye to our new comrades and headed out to look at the rapidly developing real estate market in the countryside. If you drugged me and drove me thirty miles from my house in the U.S., when I woke in the neighborhood we visited, I could have been convinced I was in anywhere small town, USA. With neighborhood names like Bellagio, Santa Fe and Mediterranne, China was busy copying more than DVDs and watches. Mile after mile along the highway, single family home and apartment developments lined the countryside, with Mediterranean, French, Spanish and Craftsman style architecture. Suffering from the same high vacancy rate of the city center, rows of houses stood vacant waiting to be legitimized as a home. (Don't blink, this isn't Kansas, it's suburban China.)

Returning from our excursion to “factory land”, giant tour buses jockeyed for position on the highway close to town. (Below: Yixin and Nicholas make homemade won-tons. Yum!) From the back seat I peered up at the passengers, knowing that their view was more advantageous for seeing the city scape over the highway median. But for me, the best view was that of the locals, living in an apartment tucked away far from the popular attractions, tasting the local dishes at local prices, shopping for food in the local markets and taking public transportation around the city. Nick and Yixin gave me a glimpse of daily life in for Shanghai residents and the Chinese frame of mind.

Caveat Emptor: Since Nick speaks five words of Chinese, Yixin translates for him on a regular basis. Yixin explains that often when negotiating for Nick, the local vendor offers Yixin a kickback for closing the deal (believing that Yixin is Nick’s translator, not his wife). Nick and Yixin do nothing to dispel that belief, but after a good game of good cop/bad cop, they get their price. Sometimes Yixin takes Nick out of the equation entirely as prices quoted to him are often four to five times higher than those quoted to locals and it is easier to cut out the westerner. For example, the other night before attending the Shanghai acrobatics show, Nick was offered a price of $362 dollars for five tickets. Away from us, Yixin obtained the same number of tickets for 260 yuan or $32 US. Moral of the story: bargain hard and you'll still probably pay too much.

A Fisherman's Tale

If you just renewed your membership to the WWF or PETA, this enty may go against your grain, but it details a fascinating practice used for centuries on the Lijang and Yulong Rivers (and in Japan). On the eve before Jerry arranged my escort out of town, I went to watch the local fishermen in action. Sort of like watching paint dry, watching people fish was not my cup of Chinese tea, however, this excursion promised to be unlike any I had seen. On that basis alone, I signed up for the nighttime venture.

Around 8 p.m. I boarded a small outboard boat with Benny and we navigated our way up river where we were joined by a fisherman on a bamboo boat with six Cormorants. What is a Corcormant you ask? My question exactly. For the villagers living along the river, the Cormorant is a fisherman’s best friend. There’s no need for a fishing pole, bait and a motor boat to reel in your catch of the day, rather the Cormorant will deliver the catch straight to your waiting basket.

The Cormorant comes fully equipped with a natural instinct for plucking fish out of the river, usually for its meal. As we sat off the stern of the raft, the birds jumped off the raft into the water and began diving immediately as if performing in a trained circus act. Head first, tail feathers last and swimming up river, the Cormorants dove for twenty minutes as we motored alongside the bamboo raft closely pursuing the fishing fowl. Surfacing about every thirty seconds, many times the birds would appear with fish, three or four inches in length halfway in their beaks. Following the catch, the fish were quickly inhaled and diving resumed.

After twenty minutes of watching the Cormorants dive and surface, dive and surface, dive and surface, all while swimming upstream against a mighty current, I was tired. Finally, the fisherman brought his raft to a rocky beach where we disembarked for a closer look at the birds. What followed was totally unexpected.

Grabbing each bird individually, he held the bird’s mouth over a basket and somehow forced the birds to regurgitate the fish it captured during its exhausting swim. Into the basket four or five fish flowed from each of their mouths. Generations of villagers had figured a way to cheat at fishing. This wasn’t Vegas and the stakes were small fish, but the game was still rigged.

How did they rig it? The secret to their success is difficult to see in the dark. First, the river fish are attracted to bright lights on the raft's bow making it easier for the Cormorants to dine. Next, a tiny ring is placed around the base of the bird’s neck so when the bird catches and swallows a fish, it is not “swallowed” all the way into the digestive system. At the end of the swim, the fisherman empties the bird’s neck contents into his basket and presto, dinner is served.

Whether you’re watching it or just reading about it, it seems cruel, but if it’s any consolation, the birds look well fed and in fact, it is in the fisherman’s best interest to keep their birds healthy. Cruel or not, my appetite for fish was greatly diminished as we headed back to shore. (I guess you could say I was a bit choked up.) I just hope that fish can't get the bird flu, then we're really in for a doozy with chicken carrying the avian flu, fish right behind them with the feverish sickness (already sacked with mercury) and bovine running around mad (mad cow disease). Soon we'll all be vegetarians whether we like it or not. Perhaps it is Mother Nature's way of trying to tell us something?

(I'm pretty sure having my photo taken with this chap qualifies me for 6 months of quarantine in at least 40 countries.)

Ni hao (pronounced “knee how”) from Yangshuo

It’s not often your plane lands in a 300 million year old sea bed. But that is exactly what I did on Monday arriving in Guilin, China. A cross between Ha Long Bay (Vietnam) and Yosemite, limestone karsts jut thousands of feet skyward. Meandering rivers flow through the valleys below, the main waterway being the Lijang River.

Less than a minute into my taxi ride from the airport, the driver handed me his mobile phone. On the other end of the line, was “Jerry”, a travel agent for CITS, China International Travel Service. Jerry spoke English well and asked to meet me at my hotel. Figuring I had nothing to lose by meeting with him, I agreed.

True to his word, forty minutes later, Jerry was waiting for me in the hotel lobby. At the time, I was thinking that free market competition had this guy cleverly in cahoots with taxi drivers phoning him when independent travelers arrived, but later I would see it differently. Jerry asked me what I planned to do and if he could help arrange outings for me during my stay. I explained that I did not want to do the tourist circuit which he said he understood. In the next breath he booked me on the Lijang River cruise for the following morning as he said there would be good weather. As it was only a half day, the river cruise was a popular tourist attraction and undeniably one of the best ways to see the geological magic of the area.

But Jerry was interested in much more than what I was doing the following morning, he wanted to know where I would be for my entire stay in the region and when I would be leaving. His eagerness to help began to show through more as an extension of the tracking my whereabouts and discovering my intentions. He strongly encouraged me to book several different tours and when I inquired about hiking trails by myself, he explained it was not a good idea in China.

Resisting Jerry’s plans for my entire stay, he gave me his card and asked that I call him each evening to plan the next day. And when I didn’t call, Jerry called me. Apparently, the hotel let him know when I arrived back in the lobby as moments after I entered the room (even after switching to a hotel 70 kilometers away), my phone rang and it was you know who, Jerry. He wanted to know what I had done, was doing and wanted to do under the guise of whether he could be of any help. I began to get the feeling Jerry was assigned to me, more than trying to woo my business.

Jerry aside, the following day I cruised the Lijang with about 40-50 other tourists, once again confirming my desire to steer clear of tour groups. The cruise was a good way to understand the terrain, but it was not the on hands experience for which I was searching. After the cruise docked in Yangshuo, the plan was for a van to return the group to Guilin an hour later. However, I spent my first hour in town finding an independent unofficial guide who would take me into the surrounding hills. When it came time for the van to leave, I waved them off and decided to remain in the smaller, scenic and character filled town of Yangshuo.

Renting a mountain bike, resisting many guides offering to ride with me, I set course for a trail head just on the edge of town. After a few wrong turns and a quick map check, I found the trail and rode off into the countryside. Just a few kilometers outside of town, the landscape reflected the agrarian lifestyle of old China, with rice fields as far as the eyes could see. Almost always, it was women, not men, who were hard at work in the fields, hoeing, weeding and planting. It is hard, back straining work, day in and day out.

A familiar sense of freedom set in as I rode my bike through small villages dotting the countryside. Kids laughed and played with each other, adults sat in small groups playing mah jong, dogs scratched themselves in the yard, pigs slept in pens and chickens pecked at the ground. Ten kilometers from Yangshuo I came across a man that flagged me down. His English was as good (or as bad) as my Chinese, but I knew what he was offering, a bamboo raft trip down the Yulong (Dragon-Encountering) River, a branch of Lijang sans the parade of big tourist boats. As daylight was fading, we quickly settled on a price, strapped the bike to the raft and headed down river.

As it was late in the day, the river was virtually empty with just a few locals doing laundry or fishing on the banks. The lack of tourists, serene sounds of the river and stunning landscape made for a leisurely cruise. I snapped photos and grabbed the rafts edge when the fisherman yelled “hey” alerting me to the steep levy drop ahead.

Given my late start down the river however, meant that I was cutting it close to return my bike, due back at 7 p.m. Before arriving at our destination, I asked the fisherman to let me off so I could start pedaling toward town. I’m not sure he fully understood why I got off, but within minutes I was pedaling like Lance (I wish, but in all fairness I was passing mopeds) to find the bike rental tent since I was several kilometers down river from town. Rotating the pedals as fast as I could, it was ten minutes to seven when a sign came into view giving me a sense of direction. But after a few too many insect aperitifs I forgot which way to go when I came to the roundabout, leading me off course.

Pedaling hard in the wrong direction for fifteen minutes left me a bit tired, but even more frustrated as my watch read 7:05. The most frustrating mistakes are those caused by yourself, and this was one of those instances. Almost 70 kilometers from my hotel, I would now be stuck with this bike, at least overnight, perhaps losing my deposit in the process. Feeling a bit defeated, I quickly rededicated myself to returning to where I had just come from, knowing that in this instance, stopping for directions would yield little information (plus there were no gas stations) unless I gained an instant understanding of Mandarin.

Just after 7:15, I pulled onto West Street, the main avenue in town from where I rented the bike. The bike tent was no where to be found and a jewelry tent now stood in its stead. Riding up to the jewelry tent, a woman emerged from the crowd looking as relieved as I felt. It appears she wanted her bike back as much as I wanted to give it back. She was very kind given my tardiness and returned my 200 Yuan deposit.

With enough free living for the day, I hopped on a local bus back to Guilin. Every bus had a driver of course, but also a money collector/highly vocal bus advertiser, screaming the destination of the bus at the top of his/her lungs. They were bus hustlers dredging up business to fill the mini-bus before departing. Twenty minutes later, the bus slowly rolled out of the parking lot, as the hustler leaned out the door yelling, “last chance” or something like that in Chinese.

Back in Guilin, the next morning I met my free lance guide in the lobby, backpacks in tow. The day before I had settled on a forty kilometer hike from Yangdi to Xingping (pronounced Chingping). For the first two hours, twenty-three year old “Benny” navigated our way through the local bus system, identifying our bus (all signs were in Chinese), deciding where to disembark and transfer. Off the beaten path, the local bus trip was by no means intuitive. Arriving in Yangdi, I said goodbye to my luggage, including my laptop, as I paid the bus’ “hustler” 5 Yuan to deliver my luggage to Yangshuo where Benny had arranged a pick up.

Our final mini-bus wound its way down into the Yangdi Valley with panoramas around each curve. Opening my window, I turned my baseball cap backward and leaned out the window taking in the greenery and magnitude of the beautiful countryside. The sunshine left no spot of earth untouched challenging even the winter weather lover’s commitment to the clouds. Trying to capture the landscape in a frame was fruitless as mother nature refused to be confined to one simple shot. Only the naked eye could appreciate the full scope of nature’s artistic masterpiece in the Guangxi Province.

Under the mid-day sun, Benny led me through small riverside villages, traversing the river by local ferry three times. Standing unsupported for millions of years, the karsts, covered with green foliage framing their sheer limestone faces, inspire all who lay eyes upon them. In a futile effort to capture their grace, I snapped photo after photo, refusing to acknowledge that such beauty would evade capture except at the hands of a few skilled and patient professionals.

Entering Xingping, our final destination for the hike, the town was frozen in the 1950s. A small village without tourist facilities, but with characteristically old Chinese architecture, it gave a legitimate local feel. Benny and I walked into town without fanfare. No one tried to sell us t-shirts or machine carved figures by blurting out “hello”, the call sign of the Chinese tourist sales pitch. At first it is hard to resist responding to “hello”, but soon one learns that any response only increases the fervor with which the sale is pursued.

One more crowded local bus ride from Xingping into Yangshuo and it was time to shower up for what was to be a surprisingly fantastic evening show. Jerry had arranged my ticket, my ride and a comrade of his to join me. Set in an outdoor theatre overlooking the river with the surrounding karsts lit in the background, the show, known as Liu San Jie – Immortal Queen of Folk Songs, involves more than five hundred local villagers who work during the day and arrive after dinner to perform on their rafts. And their performance results in a visual delight unlike any I have ever seen. Using torches, smoke, red curtains rising out of the water and colored lighting, the villagers push their rafts with precision in the dark surprising the audience at every turn. No visit to Yangshuo would be complete without seeing the spectacular hour long spectacle.

At night, Yangshuo is alive with shops and vendor tents lining the streets selling their wares, neon signs flashing brightly over night spots, and local singers belting out American and Chinese tunes in numerous bars. The town streets are quaint, and West Street is pedestrian friendly as it is closed to cars and bikes. Tourists are young and old, Chinese and western. The younger crowd comes for the town’s laid back feel and the wide variety of adventure activities within a stone’s throw. From kayaking, rafting, rock climbing, horseback riding, mountain biking, fishing and hiking, it’s all here for the taking at prices significantly lower than in the U.S.. Yangshuo welcomes all and inspires many to extend their stay beyond their original plans.

Determined to get a birds eye view of the area, I tried to arrange a sunrise hike to the top of Xianggong Hill, but was unable to rally a guide to show me the way. So the next best alternative was to go over the karsts at sunrise. My alarm went off at 5:30 a.m., as light was beginning to break outside my window. I uncharacteristically hopped out of bed, throwing on my clothes, grabbing my camera and heading out the door. Engine running, the truck was waiting for me outside the lobby. The driver was unusually tall for a Chinese man, had a thin Fu Man Shu beard and was wearing a pilot’s suit with yellow Chinese characters on the back.

The truck drove a kilometer and parked in front of another hotel where we waited until 6 a.m. for the others who were joining me on the morning flight. At the direction of the driver, the four of us signed an “insurance” form, entirely in Chinese. Somehow, not being able to read it made it less daunting. The truck sputtered its way to the take-off site, lurching forward as the driver feathered the failing clutch. I only hoped that the truck’s performance was not indicative of the maintenance of our flight vehicle.

A few minutes drive down a dirt road and we rode into a horseshoe of karsts circling a lake. There before us, stood two giant colorful balloons ready for flight. Flames shot up into the balloons as the pilot’s maintained the balance between collapse and take-off waiting for us to board. There was no check-in counter, security check-point, tickets or boarding calls. The rules were straightforward, two persons per basket and bend your knees when you land. Akko, a 26 year old Dutch guy was my balloon partner. He was also traveling solo, having just come from northern China.

Three, two, one, lift off, our balloon began to rise quickly as gravity loosened its grip on us. Instantly I began to wonder how the whole ballooning scheme even worked, much like my continued amazement at airplanes. (Word of advice, do not begin questioning physics and mechanics when you are two thousand feet above the ground.) A minute into our flight and my mild fear was thrown into a tailspin as an alarm began to sound. Akko and I nervously laughed at the alarm as we were unable to communicate with the young pilot, who on a good day looked like he could be twenty years old.

“Beep, beep, beep, beeeeep, beeeeeeeep, beeeeeeeep,” the alarm sounded with increasing urgency as the pilot spoke into his two way radio. “What is going on?,” I shouted in my head, trying to maintain composure. If the pilot could have said that it was normal or an altimeter, I would have relaxed, but floating within twenty feet of the top of three thousand foot karsts was not giving me the comfort my knees required to stop wobbling. Akko was equally shaken as the alarm literally sounded like a bomb was going to go off. We joked that at least our photos would survive so our loved ones would know what we were doing in our last minutes (call it a balloon’s black box recorder) and that we would actually go out on top of the world and/or go out with a bang (choose your metaphor).


Trying to settle into the flight and stay focused on the stunning scenery from the vantage point normally reserved exclusively for birds, I simultaneously snapped photos and prayed. The weather was perfect as we floated between, above and below the natural karst obstacle course. Thoughts of, “how are we going to land this thing?” ran through my mind as I looked for an open space large enough to give us some margin for error in case of an unexpected wind. None in sight, I returned to faith that all would work how it was supposed to. There was no going back, and in fact, it was the most beautiful flight of my life. Physics and lack of flight controls aside, I was literally on top of the world.


When the fire was not heating the balloon, not even the whisper of the wind could be heard. And since I am writing this entry now, we obviously landed safely and with surprising precision. If only I could have known it was not my pilot’s maiden voyage or that the alarm was only a normal indicator of ascent instead of impending doom, I would have been more relaxed. Looking back, just hours after the flight, the alarm and cropping the tops of karsts was all part of the experience. It is afterall those moments in life that take on a palpable sense of truly living in the moment.

Buddhaful Bengals

(Nap time in the mid-day heat.)

Walking into Tiger Canyon, my senses were on high alert, relying mostly on my eyes and ears to determine if I was being watched or worse yet, stalked. Ten minutes earlier I signed the liability release, waiving all rights to complain of an impromptu mauling. An hour past mid-day, I felt like I was under god's magnifying glass, the recipient of extra powerful sun rays compounded by oppressive humidity. Even if the tigers didn't get me, the sun and heat would.

With no tree cover in sight for the entire walk into the canyon, the end of the jaunt provided a welcome visual for relief, a large pond. Only problem was, there were already swimmers using the pool and the two of them combined weighed over 1,000 pounds with skin piercing claws and razor sharp teeth. Proceeding with caution, I moved in for a closer look. No fence or cage between me and the Bengals, I relied solely on the confidence of the monk seemingly in command of the big cats. 200 kilometers outside of Bangkok, I was a long way from advanced medical care.

If you're scratching your head wondering why wild tigers were under the command of a monk, you are not alone. Tiger Temple, as it is commonly referred, is a buddhist monastery in central Thailand whose adopted purpose is intent on rescuing injured or orphaned wild animals, the most notorious being 18 Bengal tigers. Some of the tigers were rescued from the black market, others were injured by poachers and some were orphaned as cubs when their mothers were murdered by poachers.

Run by four monks and 15 staff members to assist their growing number of feline residents, visitors have the rare opportunity to get up close and personal with the 400-800 pound magnificent cats. Started by circumstance more than design, the first tiger, rescued from the black market, arrived at the temple in 1999. Chao Phayu ("Thunderstorm") was ordered to be stuffed by a Bangkok resident, but a boatched taxidermy procedure gave Thunderstorm another chance. Since then, the monastery has earned widespread acclaim, including a spot on Animal Planet, for its work not only on rescuing, but managing the lifetime care for the animal, no small feat when working with a cat whose swift paw swipe could shred a man in a second (just ask Roy of Siegfried & Roy).

Tigers receive medical attention and/or nursing upon arrival at the monastery, but after receiving such care and interacting with humans, they are no longer capable of survival in the wild. This has resulted in the need for more space with the growing number of rescuees so the monks now plan to build a larger reserve suitable for porper caring and housing of the tigers, water buffalo, antelope, peacocks and numerous other animals in need of a place to crash out of harm's way. Presently, there is a fundraising effort underway to raise money for a new home for the tigers establishing a more natural forest environment and a rehabilitation facility.

Early on, the monks had a steep learning curve, determining how to care for and handle the wild cats. Seven years later, the monastery has developed a regimen that balances the need to control the tigers yet not quash the animal's true nature. An intricate dance of dominance, not showing fear, knowing when to walk away permitting the tiger to save face and feeding the tigers cooked food so they do not taste blood (helpful if the monks want to keep their blood) keeps the tigers in check. It is a case of strange bed fellows to be sure, peaceful non-violent monks caring for wild animals whose instincts are to kill large mammals for food.

Add to the mix that the monks have opened the monastery to visitors for four hours a day. Without sticks, guns, knives, poles or any other disciplinary tools, the main monk, assisted by the staff, carefully navigate animal lovers amongst the tigers. Gripped by the forearm, my guide moved slowly but steadily into the field of tigers lazing about and frolicking in the pond. Before entering the monastery, I was given a dark blue shirt to cover my redish/orange t-shirt in an abundance of caution to avoid provoking the cats (I guess this means they are not color blind).

On approach to my first tiger, the heat, oppressive and stifling before, vanished. My sole focus was on the cat panting before me. Not immune to the heat himself, a warm mid-day nap in the shade of an umbrella was on his agenda. I knelt beside him and placed my hand on his side, stroking his fur lightly so as not to disturb his rest, the consequences of which had the potential for a grumpy tiger and although I did not know what that would entail, I didn't want to find out.

After just a few minutes with the tigers, I was escorted out of the immediate tiger vicinity. But my thirst for interaction with cats was not quenched. Round two began with my request to have a picture with the lead monk who was surveying the tigers. I'm not sure what was translated to him, but moments later he pointed for me to kneel beside a tiger. He knelt on the other side of the tiger's head and placed the tiger's head in my hands. Petting the back of the tiger's neck felt surreal, but even more surreal was where his head found a place to rest, on my lap. As he drifted off to sleep I couldn't stop smiling in awe of the cats peacefulness, all the while mindful of his awesome strength.

Sadly, the Bengal tigers, like the other remaining five species of tiger are greatly endangered. There are fewer than 2,000 left in the wild and poaching still takes place in the remote regions of Burma, Laos and Thailand. The tiger's body parts are purportedly used in Chinese medicine ranging from painkillers to aphrodisiacs. Already, three tiger species were lost in the 20th century to poaching. Tiger Temple is hoping to prevent a similar fate for the Bengal.
(Shhh. Tiger sleeping.)
(For more information on how to visit or donate to the Tiger Temple project, visit www.tigertemple.org or www.tigertemple.com, be sure to click on the "English" version unless your Thai is up to par.)

Roopa Update: I receive almost daily inquiries about Roopa's health from many well-wishers. I am happy to report that thus far, treatment is going very well. In addition, Roopa has a lot to be excited about as her daughter, Simran, has recently been engaged to a family friend. The wedding date is set for January 23, 2007 so it looks like I'll be going back to India. Keep up the prayers and positive energy, it all seems to be moving Roopa in a healthy direction.

Happy Mother's Day to my Mom and all the Mom's in the world. A mother is the endless fountain of love from which the river of a child's soul can flow freely. The older I get, the more I appreciate the challenges of motherhood, requiring tireless patience and energy to raise good people. In large part, the fate of the world depends on good mothers raising mindful, conscious, loving, compassionate and respectful children.

(Note: On Monday, May 15, I am heading into China. I have been told that internet access is unreliable and heavily blocked so I will add new entries as permitted. My initial itinerary sets course for Guilin, in southern China.)

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Elephant

On a stopover from Hong Kong to Guilin, China, I ran into a newly discovered animal in Thailand, the Elephant Tiger. Take a look, his tusks are bigger than his bite.

(The baby elephant tiger strikes a pose.)

Apparently, the animals were hidden deep in the Thai jungles until recently when deforestation led to their move from the lowlands into more populated areas. Once discovered, man was quick to captialize on the animals' lack of fear since the herds had never seen people before. The total number of elephant tigers is not yet known, but their numbers are likely to dwindle quickly as industry pushes into their habitat. Please be sure not to purchase items made from elephant tigers.

(Me and the Baby.)

(Papa tiger elephant hangs in the back when the baby is in the spotlight.)

Chilling in the Teflon City

(Zero degrees celsius at the Russian Ice Bar in Lan Kwai Fong (the fur is fake, of course)).

They're all here: Rolls-Royce, Mercedes, BMW, Burberry, Bvlgari, Louis Vutton, Armani, Rolex, Gucci, Fendi, Zegna, Hermes, you name it, the list of who's who in the high end auto, accessory, perfume and fashion industry can be found lining the malls and sidewalks of Hong Kong. And for every store selling legitimate astronomically priced bling, there are a thousand small vendors selling you the real "fake" (except for autos) on every street corner (Note: On the day Mission Impossible III was released, I was offered a high quality DVD for $5 US). Hong Kong is a shopper's paradise, even more so than KL and Singapore. The malls are more orderly, more comprehensive of top designer names and easy to get to via public transport, taxi or limo. For the wealthy, the finest name brands of the world are at your fingertips.

And right behind the wealthy is a tremendously influential and influenced middle class, spending and maxing credit limits to keep up with the Jones, Zhangs and Wangs. When the British returned Hong Kong to China, the world wondered what would happen to the thriving port and financial center. Fear not, with a fifty year agreement in place where China deemed Hong Kong a special administrative zone (at least until 2047), China is not getting in front of the economic steamroller perched on its southern border. In fact, it appears that it is perhaps Hong Kong which may be pulling (or pushing) the rest of China toward a free market economy.

Fostering a mindset that "the poorer the better", Mao Zedong's "Cultural Revolution", left China in the dark ages until the mid-1970s after Mao died. Education was virtually non-existent and items such as jewelry, new clothes, and art were shunned. But Hong Kong was not subjected to Mao's influence, escaping the oppressive downward spiral of the revolution. After Mao's death, Deng Xiao Ping returned to power and Mao's revolution, already the source of famine and mass abject poverty was reversed as a new slogan, "to get rich is glorious", was subsituted in its stead. and thus, the awakening of a sleeping giant began.

China's history is checkered and marred by invaders from the East, West and North. It suffered (sometimes brutally) at the hands of the British, the Japanese and Mongols to name a few invaders. Understanding this history has provides insight into the Chinese psyche and the subsurface historical scars. Fears of "imperialist" aggressors, often identified today as the US, are tied closely to their 5,000 year history and not infrequent enslavement by occupying armies. The Chinese are proud of their heritage and the significant contributions derived therefrom, but are mindful of darker periods experiencing brutality at the hands of Genghis Khan (13th-14th centuries) and the brutal Japanese occupation of Manchuria in the 1930s.

With that backdrop in mind, China seems to like what Hong Kong has to offer and is perhaps even learning from it. On the efficient and clean MTR (metro), people move about the heavily populated metro area with ease. Most Hong Kongese are echno auditory addicts, incessantly globbing on to a cell phone, iPod or the latest PDA. Walking amongst the rush hour crowds, everyone is talking, but not to each other, to people elsewhere in the city, country and world. In fact, in China, it is rude not to answer your phone. Whether you're in the middle of a romantic dinner for two, catching a movie or god forbid, in the restroom, not answering your phone is poor etiquette. The electrified city is always on, and so too must be its residents.

Hong Kong is sexy, with glitz, glamour and neon drawing in super models, fashion designers and artists from all over the world. It is hard not to find some appeal in the mecca of capitalism. And so it goes for the People's Republic. Equally susceptible to the lure of Hong Kong's high profile glam image, the nation of 1.20 billion people is following the city of slightly more than 6 million down the road to free market heaven. Whether being ruled by the British or the Chinese, Hong Kong has barely slowed to notice (hence my term "Teflon City").

On Monday, I met with another couchsurfing contact, Stephen, who gave me a tailored local itinerary for my time in town. That same day, I also met Charlie, the friend of a friend from home, working in HK for one month. The three of us went to dinner at a local restaurant, since Stephen was fluent in Cantonese and therefore, could read the menu and order for us.

(Dinner with Charlie and Stephen.)

Despite his fluency in Cantonese, Stephen was born and raised in NY and educated at the University of Texas. He moved to Hong Kong in 2000 with his mother and sister when his mother was diagnosed with cancer. While treatment in the US could have dwindled the family savings, Hong Kong residents receive excellent care that equates to about $9 US per day for hospital stays and less than $20 US for ER visits no matter what services are provided (Cat scan, x-rays, etc).

And the people in Hong Kong are going to need healthcare with their current lifestyle. Non-stop smoking and long hours at work lead to a fast paced lifestyle. The epicenter for multi-national corporations in Asia, expats and Hong Kongese alike are burning the wick at both ends. Competition is ever present in this appendage to China. Government regulation is comparatively minimal and the rule of law is closely heeded and enforced, attracting international corporations looking to break into the massive emerging Chinese middle class market, a task with more hurdles/barriers in mainland China.

Stephen invited me to visit Park Island where he tutors students in english a few days a week. He explained that Park Island was in transition as old fishing villages were being swapped for forty story condo buildings (dozens of them). Looking to break away from mainstream Hong Kong, I accepted his offer and took the ferry across Hong Kong harbor to the island. (Picture below: Ghostown fishing village waiting for the bulldozer.) No cars are permitted on the island (and there are no parking facilities), but for those who need to bring a car, the daily fees are steep. As an added bonus for island residents, they are permitted to keep dogs and cats, often not allowed in other areas of the city.

Stepping off the ferry I was greeted by three sales agents working for the developer of the high rise condos. Since I had time to spare before Stephen was done with his first tutoring session, I embarked on an information gathering mission into the Hong Kong real estate market. While there were some communication issues (mostly b/c I didn't speak Cantonese), the agents did their best answering my questions about square footage, cost, financing and management fees. The biggest surprise was the seemingly too good to be true financing which I later confirmed with Stephen's interpretation. A buyer who puts five percent of the purchase price down today, would not have to make another mortgage payment for 2 years. That's right, no principal and no interest payment. Sound too good to be true? It may be, but a spin around the buildings suggested another alternative reason.

(New condo units replace fishing village.)

You can't breathe these days without hearing about the red hot Chinese economy. And the developer of these condos are betting that it will continue. But for now, Park Island might as well be Ghost Island as vacant units in the completed multi-phase project appear to far outnumber those inhabited. Compounding the developer's dilemma will no doubt be the fifteen additional forty-story buildings presently under construction.

(Remainder of fishing village in the water with high rise replacements in the background.)

The silver lining of Park Island development belongs to the villagers. In exchange for leaving their modest homes on the island, they were given three brand new units specially built for them (not to the high standard of the condos, but still pleasant). Effectively, this made most of the villagers millionaires (in Hong Kong dollars) overnight (that is a lot of fish). Many of them, and their families, will not have to work for the rest of their lives should they so choose. Chalk one up for the old man and the sea!

My First Brush with the Tsunami

(First greeters I met in George Town while exploring.)

Intrigued by its description as the "Pearl of the Orient", I decided to make the multi-hour trip to Pulau Penang. I figured such an esteemed and widely known reputation must be deserved and should not be missed. Plus my new couchsurfing friends, Lu Yen and Devid, had just spent two days in Penang for a weekend getaway. Since I was in the neighborhood, I made an impromptu adjustment to my schedule making the island as my next destination.

Positioned at the opening to the Straits of Malacca, Pulau Penang (literally translated Betel Nut Island) was first used by the British India Company as a trading post, but today is home to a "Free Trade Zone" where international companies such as Advanced Micro Devices (AMD), Agilent Technologies, Dell and Intel get significant tax breaks while carrying on their operations in the zone. First impression driving into the island left me wishing I spent my money on pearls instead of transportation and lodging on the island. Both sides of the road were lined with industrial buildings/warehouses. Hazy views across the water to the mainland revealed a large port with tall white shipping cranes stripping container ships of their cargo.

First impressions aside, I knew Penang was home to many kilometers of coastline leading into the Indian Ocean so my hopes were not dashed. I spent my first two days in George Town (not D.C., even though they have monkeys here too). Sights to see included Lebuh Pitt of Masjid Kapitan Kipling, a street where four houses of worship can be found on one block, each belonging to a different religion demonstrative of Malaysia's diversity.

(Funicular at the top of Penang Hill.)

A trip to Penang Hill involved a cramped thirty minute funicular ride up to 2,700 feet above sea level, the highest point in the region. From there, sweeping views of the island vied for attention. A former hill station (the first in Asia, including India) during the British reign, the area was used by British officers and families seeking respite from the heat and humidity as it is generally several degrees cooler than the lowlands. The top of Pengang Hill also includes an ornate Hindu temple and mosque side by side.

In both Singapore and Malaysia, afternoon thunderstorms are the norm so I returned to town and firmed up dinner plans with my second couchsurfing contact, Ee Xyan Teow. A native to Penang, Ee Xyan responded to my e-mail requesting a local perspective on the sights to see in Penang. She gave me a great list and offered to meet me for dinner after work. Ee Xyan gave me her license plate number as I waited in the hotel lobby scanning the front bumpers of the approaching vehicles. Ee Xyan and I had actually never spoken and she had listed her English skill as intermediate so I was unsure if conversation would be a struggle.

When her car approached, I moved out of the air conditioned lobby to greet her. Waving to ensure I wasn't about to get into an unsuspecting woman's car, I was relieved when she waved back. Opening the passenger car door, I thought how strange it was these days to get into a complete strangers car, a modern cyber-twist to the lost art of hitchiking. Of course, for Ee Xyan it was an even bigger risk, being a woman. But couchsurfing.com has safeguards in place providing some comfort with personal references. Of course, using my Mom as a reference probably doesn't go over so well, but the fact that my Dad hasn't vouched for me yet may be even a bigger statement, one I hope no one discovers (so keep it a secret between you and me).


Ee Xyan took me to a local Chinese restaurant, The Junction, where everything was Chinese to me. I left the gastronomic selection to her as I could not read the menu and had the feeling that even if I could, confusion would still reign. Waiting for our meal, we talked about Penang, her family, job, the world and my travels. It was only then that I first learned that Penang was hit by the 2004 tsunami claiming more than fifty-two lives and causing millions of dollars in damage. Ee Xyan was lucky, only two hours earlier, her car was parked on Gurney Drive, an area hit hard by the massive wall of water. Many local fisherman and villagers were not so lucky, those that didn't lose their lives, lost their homes and possessions.

Already booked, and still searching for the "pearl", the following day I toured Batu Ferringhi, a beach area hit by the tsunami. Most hotels and resorts were back in full swing, catering to a large Japanese and Chinese tourist audience. The villages and local people seemed to have recovered too, at least on the surface. The Malay government created a recovery program for its citizen victims of the nautral disaster.

Despite claims that Penang is the "Pearl of the Orient", it has lost much of its former luster. With the advent of industry, heavy pollution and overuseage, the muddy waters off the island's coast are less than inviting. Probably the most redeeming aspect of this former pearl, is the large and diverse selection of food, enjoyed by locals and tourists alike. A better alternative for the independent traveler might be Kota Bharu on the eastern coast still clinging to traditions and not on the tourist circuit . . . yet.

During the afternoon thunderstorms today, I laid my head down for a brief nap. When I awoke an hour later, I realized that in fact, I was not heading home as I had just dreamt. It was an uneasy, curious feeling. On the road now for more than two months, an ordinary day has transformed to anything, but ordinary. I've heard before that it takes forty-five to ninety days to foster a new habit. Now I wonder if traveling is becoming a new habit? Day in and day out, the main goal is to explore, discover, learn and figure out how to get from point A to B. Routine is in absentia.

After dinner this evening, I decided to walk along the beach to digest dinner. Nights are less humid than the days making outdoor exursions more appealing. The ocean gently crashed onto the damp sand, its white surf creating the only color in the darkness. I asked myself, God or whomever might be listening, if I was on the right path. Was I getting what I was supposed to out of this trip? Was I missing any signs? Achieving anything of significance? No voices from the heavens answered, but strangely when I looked over my shoulder there was a low flying stark white cloud. It was eery because the other clouds were high in the sky, but this small cloud was 100 feet above me and closing. Catching it out of the corner of my eye, I stopped, wondering if I was about to receive some divine inspiration (have a Moses moment).

Voices did not sound, lighting did not strike (me at least) and no angels appeared, but I felt a presence. Maybe it is always there, accessible by all of us, but few of us stop long enough to feel it? Or maybe I was just imagining the presence on the heels of my internal questioning? Whatever the case, it was a good feeling, reassuring me to keep plugging along. As I stared at the cloud, drops began to fall from the higher clouds drenching me in a matter of minutes. I headed off the sands for cover, stumbling into the fun night market scene of Penang, leaving behind the white cloud and my questions, at least for now.

Getting High

(KL Tower)
If I didn't know better, I'd say Malaysia has a "little country" complex. It seems like many states in the country have the tallest, or almost tallest, this or that in the world. You already know about the Petronas Towers from my last entry. But then there's KL Tower, the fourth largest telecommunications tower in the world and Mega Mall, SE Asia's largest mall. There's also the tallest Murugan Statue in the world at the Batu Caves and the world's largest toy museum. Finally, don't forget the tallest flag pole in the world at Merdeka Square. So what can we conclude with this national aim for highest/tallest/biggest. I have no idea, I just ask the questions, I don't answer them.

On Monday night, Labor Day in much of SE Asia, I had a romantic dinner for one atop the KL Tower at 968 feet (the total tower height is 1403 ft). Dinner didn't revolve so much around the food as it did a 360 degree view of KL. Three buffets stood stationary in the center of the room, while the red carpeted seating platform rotated clockwise delivering panoramic views across the Klang Valley below. Thankfully, the views made up for the shortcomings in the buffet.

Does the flag to the right look familiar? It's flying atop the tallest flagpole in the world. If you blink quickly, you may think you're seeing Old Glory and you wouldn't be far off. When Malaysia declared its independence in 1957, a search for a new flag was underway. Interestingly, Jalur Gemilang, the name of Malaysia's flag, was modeled after the US flag, for its principles of liberty and independence. Malaysia ultimately selected it's present day flag, with fourteen stripes and fourteen points of the star representing the number of states in the country. The crescent and star are symbolic of the dominant religion, Islam.

And despite the fact that Islam is the predominant religion of Malaysia there is a larger number of Hindus and Buddhists as the Malay people are a mix of peoples from China, India and Arabia. It is not uncommon to find mosques and Hindu temples on the same street, and in some cases buddhist temples and christian churches nearby. There are a few striking similarities and differences between Malaysia and the US. Both countries obtained their indpendence from the British, both share a similar flag and both are a melting pot of many nations. The differences lie in the dominance of Islam and the subtropical climate.

Thirteen kilometers outside of KL, I visited the bat caves, or rather the Batu caves. The caves were "discovered" by an American in 1878 despite the fact their existence was known by the local people long before (I call it the Christopher Columbus effect). The caves would later be adopted by Hindu pilgrams and today serve as the location of an elaborate Hindu temple inside the cave. The site sees hundreds of thousands of visitors each year. (Murukan Statue = "God of Tamil", state in Southern India). It also happens to be home to hundreds of monkey thieves and pigeons so visitors should be careful of organic droppings from the sky, and if looking up to check overhead, be sure to keep your mouth closed.