Intrepidations

Release the Hounds!

randalbennett — Tue, 7 Nov 2006 14:06:00 GMT

He came seeking enlightenment. He found a cow. Well, that's not the exact truth of it. He began by wanting to get away from town. Lhasa is a unique city built on a high, high plain surrounded by mountains. Tolkien wrote fantasy stories about cities like this where, except this city is modern and one has to look for the fantastic.

So, to escape the chinese clothing shops, buses, rickshaws and street hawkers, he took the number 503 5km north to Sera Monastary. This monastary complesx was like all the others, perhaps a bit smaller and perhaps a bit more work-a-day. Maybe five hundred red and orange robed monks lived here among the college buildings, triple storied houses and argued every day at the main assembly hall. The complex had the same sloppy white-washed walls with paint splashed all over and the monks lit the same yak-butter oil candles in prayer. But this place was tucked into the elbow of two hills that would qualify as mountains anywhere else. High above the Sera, built precariously on the edge of the northern hill there was another building. Its yellow walls stood out against the scrub brush of the hillside while the blue and white curtains could be faintly seen flapping in the breeze. He decided it would be his days adventure to reach this building.

He began on what seemed to be the only path leading from the valley to the north and up the hillside. As he wound his way up he passed cairns and prayer flags strung across the gullies washed out by seasonal rain. The path became fainter and eventually disappeared altogether. Looking down, he was at least 1000 feet about the valley. He decided the safest way lie up where there must be a path leading back down from the blue curtained monastary. Another hour of climbing, he picked his route to connect the prayer flags. This hill reminded him of the hills in Zion park in Utah. Easy to climb up, but dangerously steep and slick to descend. He was near a ridge about halfway up the hill. His path had led him to the western edge of the hill where he could view both sides of the valley that the hills divided. The way became steeper and he began to use his hands to climb. One last rock outcropping and he raised his head to the flattened ridge. A cow peered back at him cooly. He had climbed at least 2000 feet above the valley and this cow thought this nothing more than an afternoon stroll.

None the less relieved to find the pathway, he traversed the hillside to the east until the yellow walled building loomed above him. He called out, "Hello! Tashe-Dele!" He picked his way over crumbling rock walls that once housed a garden and climbed a small set of stone steps that led past the toilet area and to the foot of the building. Up a flight of irregular steps obviously laid by hand there was a door. He knocked and called out again. The wind fluttered the curtains in response. Then a small noise caught his ear. Looking up, a flat metal gutter jutted out of the wall of the second floor. A trickle of water came streaming out just then and pattered in the dry dust a few feet from him. No other sounds escaped the building. This gutter was not from the roof and it had not rained, there must be someone inside. He decided the rules of hospitality must be obeyed! He made his way to the back where the slope of the hill had been carved flat divided into stalls and gardens by the same crumbling rock walls. Before he could get a clear view or find a door, the stillness was shattered by the high pitched yap of monastic picanese. Startled, but undeterred, he continued forth. The unseen but continuous yapping was then interrupted by the low, throaty bellow of a tibetan mastiff. Deciding that the quest to find rabies immunoglobulin in Tibet was unappealing, he hot-footed it back to the front of the silent monastary.

He had come seeking adventure, enlightment on the mountain top, hot buttered yak tea with a true holy man. They had sicked the dogs on him.

40 hours by train

randalbennett — Tue, 24 Oct 2006 14:37:00 GMT

He had never hated smokers until this train ride. His hard sleeper was the top bunk of three. That meant six sleepers per compartment. His had seven. He was slotted into the very top. With only enough room to prop up his head on his elbow, he tried to sleep mostly. But the constant smoke kept his throat dry and clothes stinking. It was even worse when the train went through a tunnel. The smokers congregated between cars and when the train tunnelled into the mountain, the smoke forced its way through the rest of the carriage.

The one bright spot in the train was the seventh companion. She was all of 5 years old and stood 3 foot nuthin', but had the stoutest heart of them all. She was travelling with mom and dad to Chengdu. He found out later that she was being taken to visit family she had not yet met. The 40 hour train ride meant two nights of sleeping on the train, yet he had only heard her cry for a moment on the first night. He had wanted to cry bitterly by the 3rd hour.

He had been told the journey was 25 hours. A few hours into the ride he met some english speaking travellers. They informed him of the extra 15 hours and broke his heart. His seventh companion was all smiles and joy the entire ride. She had adopted a surrogate auntie after a few hours on board and was shy but curious towards him, the only westerner. Eventually she would quietly sit next to him and provided better company than the human chimneys at the end of the car.

The Lotus Eaters

randalbennett — Tue, 24 Oct 2006 14:11:00 GMT

George had been good enough to invite him to eat dinner with them. They were a group of three. Perfect for dim sum. Roberto was the 2nd and he was the third. This was Guanzhou, the heart of old Canton. They left the youth hostel and began walking to the restaurant. This was not like Hong Kong. The streets were closing down at 9pm, there were dogs asleep on the sidewalk and not a westerner to be seen except for Roberto and him.

George was half Cantonese and half Australian. All he seemed to think about was food. This was evident after an hour. He began to wonder if he had been invited only to round out the third person for the meal. Either way, a local guide to interpret dinner was welcome. It had been a hard day of missed trains and unhelpful agents. The hotel had been difficult to find. He had finally gotten on the metro and guessed at the stop. He had emerged from the station in a polluted maze of construction, freeway and elevated walkways. At this moment he hated China. He hated the Chinese and he hated travelling. Finally arriving at the hotel, he found that the price had tripled, just for one night. Just for the night that he would be staying.

Finding George and Roberto as roommates for the evening helped. Roberto, from Brazil, spoke no Chinese and was dealing with larger problems. A stolen wallet and credit card had nearly ruined him. But he was savvy and managed well enough. George spoke good Cantonese and worked in Guangzhou just so he could stay and eat. So after showering the hard day away, they decided to go eat.

The dim sum menu was the best he had ever seen. Each little pot held a different treasure to eat. But the Chinese were raucous and the gaudy restaurant was half price that evening. A packed house of chain smoking, food smacking China-men was enough for the day. All he wanted was a bed or, better yet, an opiate. He recalled the story of the Lotus-eaters. And here, under the lid of another dim sum pot, was lotus plant. Cooked until soft and spongy and covered with a sweet syrup, he speared it mercilously with a chopstick.

George began to speak as he heaped cold chicken feet onto his plate, "America has best chicken feet, ha ha," as he slapped his back, "so thick and juicy, import six million dollars per year to Guangzhou... ...so thick and juicy!!" Unnerved, he piled more lotus onto his plate.

A day at the market.

randalbennett — Mon, 16 Oct 2006 14:38:00 GMT

He knew what he wanted done with his body after dying. It wasn't something he had ever thought about, but now he knew. Under the flourescent hum of lights in this shopping center restaurant on the second floor he had decided.

The place was a chinese version of the food court in a U.S. mall. Dividers carved in an oriental style seperated the diners, mostly working Chinese on their way home for the evening, from the mingling shoppers. Next to McDonalds and caddy-corner from Starbucks, the shop served rice bowls and noodle soups on brown plastic trays with a blue plastic cup full of hot water to wash your utensils with. He was more thirsty than anything but decided upon a bowl of noodles with a "bbq variety" which meant some bits of chicken leg and neck (or maybe it was duck) sausages and beef brisquet (Ox according the english menu).

Waiting for the hot water to cool enough, he drank it down and started in on dinner. Everything tasted like salt. Deciding the salted egg was the best option, he tried removing it from the shell with chopsticks, then his fingers, then the chopsticks again. "it's amazing what these people will eat," he thought as he mixed the mutilated remnants of his egg in the rice then poured his soup over the whole affair.

Reflecting back on the day, the contents of the shops he had visited began to scroll through is memory. Bird's nest and shark's fin were in the medicinal shop. He remembered talking to an ex-pat in baja a few months ago about sea slugs and the Chinese. Here they were on the other end of the supply chain. Rare now in that stretch of the Sea of Cortez, they were common to see dried and pulverized in glass jars next to the bird's nests. Then there had been the salted fish and the salted pork, salted eggs and all manner of chicken parts in the food stalls...

It was then, in a moment of clarity, that he realized, the only fitting end for any human really, was to be salted, fermented in lime ash, ground into a powder and sold to the Chinese.

She tolls for thee...

randalbennett — Thu, 12 Oct 2006 12:21:00 GMT

"Wow, that sound must stop instantly" he thought. But no, there it was again, a sound like stirring the cheese into a fresh boiled pot of macaroni. Only this was sharper, and drawn out half a painful second longer.

He had just sat down to breakfast, wrapped his hands around the tea cup and began the early morning duty of staring into the light yellowish liquid through cracked eyelids. The sound of a light plastic chair being taken from atop the table and set upright on the linoleum floor had momentarily caught his attention. She had sat down to begin her own breakfast and haunt his morning nightmare.

Gaa!! There it was again, like ten thousand nightcrawlers slithering through his ears. His thought was that he must breathe. His next thought was that the source of that sound must be atomized. He turned his head to the left just enough to see.

She was there in blue, cotton/poly blended slacks and a clean white blouse. Like all the rest he thought, dark straight hair, petite, narrow eyes. She's probably come to Hong Kong to study, most likely an internship or short term course he thought. One doesn't stay in these hostels as a permanent resident. Especially ones like this.

She sat down the table from him, as Asian as all the rest only more malevolently so. She was slender except her face. Like two creamy hemispheres, her body had stored all it's fat in her cheeks. She, this innocent panda bear in bow-tied high heels was the source. In the time he had taken to make a single cup of tea, she had filled her bowl heavy with noodles, red beans and some other indistinguishable bits and pieces. And somehow, impossibly, this fat-faced little pork chop could slurp her noodles with chopsticks. A continuous vaccum-like suction must have allowed her to eat and chew beans with a wide open maw. Never spilling, never staining her perfectly pressed blouse.

Introduction

randalbennett — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 10:09:00 GMT

So this is my attempt at keeping folks up to date on where I'm at, etc.

So far I've been in Hong Kong all of 3 days and am not so sure about all of this yet. Hence the title of the journal. I already have a list of things (and people) that I miss (especially my roadbike) Right now I'm debating on signing up for language classes in Beijing or just doing a package tour for a couple of weeks hitting the Chinese highlights then on to S.E. Asia.

I've been thinking about this journal thing, and I don't know how to really convey my impressions over to you all, nor do I have the time/energy to keep a comprehensive list on where all I've been, what it's been like, who I've met, etc. etc. So I think I'll just have fun with this thing. Goof around, ya know? I'm thinking I'll try writing about small, very specific instances when I can and hopefully, if I can put enough together, it'll form a kind of mosaic picture of my trip. Kinda like an impressionistic painting. Except not Monet, or was it Manet? Or maybe more like one of those magic 3-D posters that used to be really popular, but I digress.

Anyway, that's what I'll do unless I change my mind and come home, and you can always email me.