Despite our best efforts, we’ve once again fallen into a pattern of not writing any new posts. This is due both to the fact that we’ve been spending all our times on boats—hence, no internet—and a more fundamental shift in our lifestyle. When we first set off some eighteen months ago, it was for the trip of a lifetime. And while this has turned out to be just that and more, after so long on the road, we’ve stopped looking at this as a mere trip, and more our new life.
And yet, we’ve had dozens of emails asking for updates. The reality is we’ve spent the better part of the past few months underwater. It’s hard to write about diving while making it sound interesting and non-repetitive. Most of you would use my pictures and stories of diving as sleep therapy—like yoga or walking in the woods, diving is an entirely personal experience and one that is hard to describe adequately in words. I can be having the worst day of my life but the moment my head submerges under the water all my stress is gone. There are few things more pleasurable for me than the sound of bubbles and swimming through sea looking at rare and exotic marine creatures. The colors are amazing, as is observing the behavior: watching a Hawksbill turtle use it’s beaked mouth to tear off a tasty piece of sponge; a frogfish perfectly camouflage itself in it’s environment; a grey reef shark circling it’s prey.
Teaching in Semporna
After the Philippines I headed back to Semporna to get some much needed certifications and experience working as a dive instructor. Kai took a brief detour and met up with his Dad in Bali before meeting me back in Semporna.
When traveling, you tend to look for patterns—some measure of sameness amidst the constant changing of the environment and people around you. For me, Semporna has become a safety net—a wild west town stuck in the far east that is simply perfect in all it’s imperfections. Despite the less-than-stellar food and mangy dogs, Semporna has become to feel like home. It was lovely to return to our friends, who are now really more like family. Of course, it’s still Scuba Junkie, so I wasn’t surprised to step out of the airport and discover that the shuttle bus hadn’t arrived. No matter, I managed to hitch a ride on a competing dive shop’s shuttle for free. Once I actually made it to Scuba Junkie, Ric sensing my eagerness, had two courses lined up for me and I began teaching within hours of my arrival.
Taking the Instructor Development Course and actually teaching people how to dive are two very different things. Being responsible for the safety and well-being of people underwater for the very first time was completely overwhelming. Yet, I received some great help from the other instructors at Scuba Junkie—especially my dearest friend Mike—and with every course teaching became easier. Of course, when your office is comprised of white sand beaches, palm tree, bright blue sky, and warm, tropical water, it’s hard to call your life stressful. It’s not sheer hedonism though; diving has given me a new-found sense of wonder in the world, and an inner-confidence that has been lacking for some time now. Teaching diving, in particular, places you in a position of leadership. All in all, during the two months I spent back in Semporna, I certified 50 people, including two divemasters and three rescue divers.
I have to say we had a lot of fun out of the water in Semporna as well. A lot of this was due to Dan—an instructor at Scuba Junkie—and his amazing ability to throw a good party. I don’t know what it is, but the only time I’ve ever dressed up in America is for Halloween. Europeans it seems need little excuse for a dress-up party, and we had weekly “fancy dress” parties. Themes ranged from 1980’s/1990’s power ballads to night’s of terror. Semporna isn’t exactly a shopping mecca, so the theme parties pushed or creativity and ability to do more with less. It’s amazing what you one can do with nothing more than safety pins and three meters of fabric. And did you know that Rose Cordial is an amazing substitute for fake blood? My particular favorites were Kai and Mike dressed up as Slash and Axle Rose (respectively) on Power Ballads Night performing a rendition of Knocking on Heaven’s Door as well our infamous rave party. Our Night of Horror was pretty good too!
Some of the wacky costumes we made to entertain ourselves in Semporna.
What a silly bunch we are.
Kai and Mike were the best Guns n’ Roses!
Back in Bali…again
We only planned to stay a short time in Semporna, and this was made easier by our friend Mike’s invitation to join him in Bali for some R&R and diving in the famous black sands of Bali. (Yes you do need a holiday even when you are in paradise—mostly to get decent food).
Kai and Mike left for Bali a week before me as I had decided to stay on at Scuba Junkie an extra week because they were short-handed. Sticking around Semporna worked out well for me because we ended up having plenty of staff with the arrival of several new instructors, and I was able to get in some fun diving (diving without guiding other people, which is a luxury for instructors whom often spend entire days kneeling in shallow water teaching people to clear a mask). Ric, one of the owners of Scuba Junkie, took me on my deepest dive to date at 52 meters (170 fet), and on another dive I saw my first scalloped hammerhead shark.
Our underwater camera—a Canon S-80 with waterhousing—had been out of commission for a few months, but with the help of Kai’s Mom (thanks Dianne!) we finally got it back and were finally able to take some underwater pictures again.
Sipadan’s Famous Baracuda, Barracuda Point.
Besides being the location of the first Survivor TV series Mataking has an underwater postbox.
Sibuan’s resident sea slugs.
Kai found this guy on a rare day of diving together at Mataking.
Yawning Scorpionfish at Mataking.
These massive endangered fish are common at Sipadan. Some are even a meter long.
Turtles Having Sex. The girl does all the swimming while the males chase her about, increadable to see!
Black Coral bush at Sibuan
Flying Gurnard, Mabul.
I snuck into the interior and took some jungle images.
By the time I arrived in Bali, Mike and Kai had already explored the north of Bali, around the area of Lovina. They were both gloating over having found a mimic octopus in the black sands of Puri Jati, and I was eager to get back in the water. First things first, and that was a trip to Lombok and to a small set of islands off the Northwest coast called the Gilis (_gili_, in Bahahsa Indonesia, simply means “small island”). The Gilis have long been a stop on the backpacker trail, noted mainly for there laid back lifestyle and abundance of young travelers. For me, the beauty of the Gilis (there are several, we stayed on Gili Trawangan) is that there are no cars or motorbikes. Living in Asia, you almost become immune to the constant hum of motorbikes an scooters around you, and it’s not until you get away from them that you realize just how loud they really are. Even though there is diving in the Gilis, it’s not world class, and we opted to spend our days swinging in hammocks, playing cards, and eating at the many cafes dotted along the white-sand beaches.
Mola-mola and Black Sand Diving
Mike was dying to see a mola-mola (known as Sunfish in the western world), a prehistoric fish that is actually related to puffer fish except about a thousand time larger. Though not as big as manta rays, mola-mola can get up 3 meter wingspans, and swim in what looks like a sideways fashion (to my eyes, they look like at any moment they should tip over). Fortunately, Bali is one of the few places in the world where sightings are possible, and even more fortunately, it was mola-mola season. We headed to Padang Bai on the east coast of Bali to secure a trip to Nusa Penida—a small island off the east cost of bali where they are particularly prevalent. In Padang Bai we met up Che, another instructor from Scuba Junkie who also happened to be in Bali, and three of us became four. Our dives took place at Crystal Bay. The channel between Bali and Lombok is famous for what is known as the Wallace Line, a boundary that largely separates the zoogeographical regions of Asia and Australasia. In practical terms, deep beneath the channel separating Bali and Lombok is a giant confluence of continental shelves; for divers, this means some of the strongest currents in the world (on the ferry ride from Lombok to Bali, we witness actual whirlpools in the water). Crystal Bay is a relatively protected sanctity amidst the currents that lies off Nusa Pendia; the mola-mola come in to rest and be cleaned here. Mola-mola also like colder water, and the currents and thermoclines in this area provide it, with temperatures dropping to 19 degree celsius. The cold temperatures and hoods were worth it though, as we managed to see six mola-mola in two dives. It isn’t often you get to see such an ancient creature up close and perosnal—let alone six—so we were all buzzing after our dives.
From Padang Bai, we headed farther north and settled in Tulamben to do some diving at the U.S.S Liberty wreck, as well as to explore the famous black sands for weird macro creatures. In Tulamben we met up wit Katarin and Peter, two more divers from Scuba Junkie. The beauty of Tulabmen is that nearly all the diving is accessible from shore. As we were all instructors and divemasters, we were able to rent tanks for $3 a piece and do our own dives, which was a real luxury and gave us ample time (usually 70 or 80 minute dives) to explore. We found all sorts of interesting creatures—many that we’d never seen before—including myriad harlequin ghost pipefish, loads of nudibranchs, harlequin shrimp, tiger shrimp, juvenile frogfish, and many others. More than anything, it was just a blast to go diving with friends with no responsibility to customers!
Not a great shot. They were definitely better in up close!
Mike really has a knack for finding these tiny guys.
Near the liberty wreck, Bali.
These guys were some of the funniest critters I have met.
What a shot!
Horses and bicycles were the only vehicles on the Gillis.
Enjoying a Gilli sunset.
From Bali, Kai and departed ways with Mike, heading up to Singapore for a visa run. We’ve once again settled in Bali. Kai is working a few freelance web projecs, and I’ll be hunting for some freelance dive instructor gigs here in Bali for the next month or so. That’s it for now!
What seems like a long time ago, though really only four or five years, I made a trip to Maui with Kai’s family—a family vacation of sorts. During that trip, we drove north along the island for a few hours to visit a place called Honalua Bay for a bit of snorkeling.
It was the first time I had gone snorkeling since I was a kid and, though I was enchanted by all the wonderful colors below me, I was terrified. Kai was like a fish—diving down below the surface and swimming along the bottom for what seemed an eternity. I was very content sticking on the surface and holding the hand of George, Kai’s step-dad.
Fast forward a few years and once again I found myself in Hawai’i, though this time on the Big Island visiting my long-time friend Denise, who had promised to teach Kai and I how to Scuba Dive over the Thanksgiving holiday. The first few breaths I took off a regulator while underwater in the swimming pool in Denise’s backyard were the most terrified I’ve ever been while diving, and it took several times of shooting to the surface for a breath of fresh air before I could relax enough to even begin doing some of the exercises required to learn how to safely dive.
Though humble, these first experiences underwater lit an ember that has since turned into flame. I love diving. As many of you know, diving has been a central role in our travels through Asia—we have literally dived in every country we have been to except for China. We were just PADI Open Water divers when left for this trip, but over the course of the past year we completed our Advanced Open Water certification in Bali; our Rescue and Divemaster courses in Borneo; and now, I can happily say, I have just completed my PADI Open Water Instructor (OWSI) in the Philippines.
Asia Divers & iDAP College
After Dianne and Katie left Bali Kai and I looked for a place to come and take an Instructor Development Course, or IDC as it’s called in the dive industry. This is typically a 10-14 day intensive course that prepares you for the Instructor’s Exam (IE) that is administered by a representative from PADI. For those that don’t know, PADI stands for the Professional Association of Diving Instructors, and is the largest certifying dive agency in the world (PADI certifies more divers than every other dive agency combined).
Though relatively short, the IDC is an intensive course covering all aspects of diving. If one is to teach other’s to dive, a deep understanding of the dive theories and principles is paramount, as are exceptional underwater skills. To become a dive instructor, one must be well versed in physics, physiology, decompression theory, equipment, and more. As such, it is important to find a dive center with a solid IDC program.
After doing some research on the internet, I narrowed down my choices to a dive center in Thailand and one in the Philippines. Since Kai was coming with me but was not going to be participating in the IDC, we both wanted to find a nice place to stay and one that would allow Kai to do some sight-seeing while I was in the classroom. We had already been to Thailand, so after a bit of debate, we settled on coming to the Philippines, which was a new country for the both of us and had well-reputed program. With that, we booked our tickets and set off to Puerto Galera, located on the north part of Mindoro island. It was an exhausting trip, spending yet another night in Kuala Lumpur airport (that makes three times now), and a 5 hour nausea-inducing mini-bus ride to meetup with an hour long ferry, which ultimately dropped us off on Sabang Beach. We were tired but had arrived relatively unscathed. We found accommodations—a home-stay for about $200 US per month—and I started the IDC two days later with a company called iDAP College.
Our room in Sabang.
iDAP College is an affiliate of one of the longest-standing dive centers in Puerto Galera: Asia Divers. Although iDAP College and Asia Divers are technically separate business, they share the same facilities and to the casual visitor are one-in-the-same. IDC’s are run by Course Directors—individuals certified by PADI to teach other divers how to become Instructors. Unlike most other courses through PADI, one must be accepted in order to become a Course Director, so at this level you’re generally looking at the best working Instructor’s in the business. There are several Course Directors at Asia Divers, though iDAP College is headed up by Warren Dixon, probably the best-known Course Director in the Philippines.
IDC’s are generally kept small in class-size so students can have as much time as necessary with the Course Director and Staff Instructors. I was happy to learn there was only one other student in the IDC—a strong and quick-witted 6’4” former Navy fighter pilot (as he so eloquently explained to me as I was trying to understand what he did: I’m Goose). Having Victor in the class was both a blessing and a challenge. Let’s all be honest here—I have an art degree and things like organization and delivering lectures have never been my strong point. Victor is used to giving briefings to top gun fighter pilots, so many of the practice lessons we had to give came quickly and easily to him, a little less so to me. With only two students in the classroom, Victor was the only point of comparison, which was intimidating and a challenge, but a good experience in the end.
Contrary to what most people would think, the majority of time spent in an IDC is not in the water, but in the classroom. Repeatedly reviewing physics topics such as Charle’s Law and Boyle’s Law, developing a deep understanding of the structure of the ear and how it relates to equalization, diving first-aid and more. Since I have not been in a classroom for some time and have spent the majority of the past year outdoors, having to sit still and be indoors for the majority of the day was a big change in my routine. We had long days and I was exhausted by the end. But after 3 weeks I was very prepared for the IE thanks to Warren and the two assisting Staff Instructors—Magne and Sabine—who all worked hard to make sure Victor and I passed. In addition to my OWSI, I received certification as a specialty instructor for Enriched Air Nitrox (diving with oxygen content higher than the standard 21%). Finally, I completed my certification as an Emergency First Response Instructor, which includes Primary and Secondary Care for both adults and children. In short, I’m certified to teach CPR to others.
IDC instructors and students after completion of the IE. From left: Victor, Sabine, Warren, Me, Jimmy, and Magnas
The Diving
Kai and I were both not expecting much out the diving here in Puerto Galera. Spending five months diving at one of the best dive sites in the world tends to spoil you that way. Fortunately, we’ve been pleasantly surprised. While Puerto Galera isn’t as good for big pelagics like sharks and turtles, the macro-diving is fantastic here and at least as good as Borneo. Kai has been happy to find several ornate ghost pipefish—a specie he was hunting for in Borneo but never found. Thorny seahorses are quite common here as well, and I’ve added a whole new list of nudibranchs to my collection (Sorry that we don’t have any underwater pictures but unfortunately our little camera has finally died). Most of the clientele here are experienced divers who come with expectations to see the rare species that the area is famous for. Tech diving is popular here as well, as the reefs off the island offer ample opportunity for dives deeper than is possible on plain air, as well as wrecks and caves for those who like overhead environments.
Puerto Galera is also known for getting very strong currents. I didn’t give too much thought to this as diving in Sipadan you’re exposed to currents constantly, but here it’s different. Whereas Sipadan is a lateral current that simply sweeps you along the reef in a given direction, Puerto Galera has erratic currents that at any moment can push you shooting to the surface or suck you back down deep again. The currents here are much more like a washing machine than a nice relaxing escalator ride. I had one dive here which I refer to as the Swirling Vortex of Death. Three of us went out to a site called Canyons that is known to have strong current, but also lots of big fish. After about 20 minutes of crawling along the bottom (current was to strong to kick against) and tucking ourselves in coves away from the current, the reef ended in about 32 meters of water and it was time to ascend. We let go of the floor and began ascending slowly to the surface but we were met by an intense down current that was so strong it prevented us and our bubbles from ascending. We were surrounded by our own bubbles and soon we realized they were actually being pulled down below us. I inflated my BCD held on to my buddies and kicked like hell. We fought the current for what seemed like forever, but in-fact was only a few minutes. Needless to say the diving here can be intense. The ocean can be humbling. Don’t worry Mom I wont do that dive again!
The Philippines
Sabang Beach, Puerto Galera, Philippines
The Philippines is lovely, although I have seen only a very small portion due to the busy schedule of all of my training. Having a large Christian population means the food is packed with pork and other non-Halal foods that we were sorely missing in Semporna. I also love the Spanish influence on the culture. However the prices in the Philippines are significantly more than another places we have been in Asia. I think part of this is because Puerto Galera is by all accounts a resort area and partly because the Philippines, being an archipelago, is more isolated than other parts of Asia.
Puerto Galera is an established weekend getaway for many Manila residents and expats. In all honesty, there isn’t much to do here besides eat, sleep, dive, and enjoy some of the most stunning sunsets I’ve seen yet. Sabang—the beach that we stay at—has a small downtown area with a few grocery stores selling Western food, as well as a few bakeries with fresh bread and decent coffee. Ironically, there isn’t an ATM anywhere to be found in Puerto Galera—despite it being primarily a resort destination—so Kai has had to make several trips back to the mainland to bring more cash to cover our daily expenses. The one thing that is in abundance here is bars—many feature salty divers who have clearly stayed several decades too long, while still others feature underage girls dancing late into the nights—the most popular bars feature both.
Sabang Discos
I have erased a long feminist rant on these bars, but I do feel a short one is necessary. Throughout our travels in Asia I’ve seen too many young Asian women draped along the side of middle-age, overweight western men. Clearly, the men the get a rush out of the fact that, here in Asia, they can be big fish, and enjoy the power that comes with the territory. The truth is, young women—and boys—are exploited here, and nowhere have I see this more than in the Philippines (though Thailand is certainly close). What is tough for me is the fact that this simply seems to be accepted. If anything, you get the impression that many young women are hoping for this to happen; if they fulfill some carnal desire, they’ll be taken care of, and possibly even their families. I know at some level this is just the way it is—and always has been—but it’s still a sad reality to witness first-hand. It would be one thing if these girls had chosen this lifestyle, but they are far too young to fully realize the choices they are making, and it’s sad to see so much unrealized potential—like a caterpillar that never quite became a butterfly.
On that note I do have to mention what is hands down my favorite thing about the Philippines: Jeepneys. At the end of WWII a giant surplus of US military jeeps were left in the Philippines. WWII had completely destroyed the public transportation infrastructure in the Philippines, so enterprising locals stripped down the old jeeps and converted them into public transportation vehicles. Today, Jeepney’s are one of the most common modes of public transport in the country. Of course, few are made from original military jeeps anymore, but all of them begin with a jeep or similar front-end, and then have as much chrome bolted on as is possible and finally outfitted with ridiculous horns, loud paint jobs, and blaring speakers. Jeepney owners take a lot of pride in the look of their vehicle and it’s little surprise that the most outrageous ones are often the most popular on any given route. It’s safe to say that Jeepneys are worth a trip to the Philippines alone.
Jeepney
We’ve fallen absurdly behind on our blog. It would be fruitless to try and recount in any relevant detail entirely what we’ve been up to or the past few months, but we’ve had numerous calls for updates, so I’ll try recap the past few months and humbly promise to move forward more frequently from here.
Saying Goodbye to Malaysia
It’s funny that Malaysia, a country neither of us knew much about—or were particularly interested in—has become the country we’ve spent the most amount of time in thus far. I personally have a love-hate relationship with the country; in a very real sense, we have had some of our best and some of our worst experiences here. Our visit to the Borneo Highlands remains a highlight on our trip, and our time at Scuba Junkie will undoubtedly go down as one of the best times of our life. And yet, it’s been in Malaysia that both of our robberies on this trip have occurred, the latest involving me being struck with a metal pipe by a drunk man on Chinese New Year’s and our laptop being stolen. You can write this off to coincidence, but there seems to be an underlying tension to Malaysia that I’ve not felt in other countries in Southeast Asia. I’ve struggled to come to terms with Malaysia and the more that I’ve thought about it, the more I realize Malaysia is struggling to to come to terms with itself.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in the social fabric, and here I must point the finger at religion. Islam is the official religion of Malaysia, but it certainly hasn’t always been. While Islamic facets have existed since at least the 10th century, it was not until the 1950s—when the Constitution of Malaysia was enacted—that Islam became the official religion. This was done largely because Islam promotes large families and the powers that were reforming the country felt they needed to balance the economic power held by the Chinese with a larger population (voter base) of Malays. Most significantly, it was written into the constitution that Malays must be Muslim, regardless of their ethnic heritage; otherwise, legally, they are not Malay. Thus, while there is freedom of religion in Malaysia, muslims are the only ones that enjoy full rights and receive numerous benefits such as priority in academic enrollment and discounts on real estate. Hence, in the past 50 years a large majority of Malaysians have dropped previous belief systems—from Animism to Buddhism to Christianity—in order to be recognized as full citizens. Thus, the problem that I see is that while Islam is the official religion of Malaysia, it is not necessarily the culture of Malaysia.
Ultimately, it’s difficult to summarize Malaysia, at least in terms of way I have experienced it. It’s a growing tourist destination with a wealth of natural attractions including some of the best diving to be had, one of the largest cave systems in the world, and the jungles of Borneo—though dwindling—remain the very definition of what one envisions when one thinks exotic. And yet, what can you say about Malaysia? Compared with other places we’ve visited—Bali, land of celebrations; Tibet, shrouded in mysticism; China, and it’s history; Thailand, it’s food and culture—Malaysia somehow feels lacking.
But for all this talk of Malaysia, we came for the diving and stayed for the people. And the people we’ve met at Scuba Junkie have become friends for life: Sarah, the best divemaster in Borneo; Dr. Dave, the dirty Scottish dive instructor; Bjorn, Captain of Team Sweden and royal video game ass-kicker; Flemming, always ready for sun cream; Che from South Africa who gives one hell of a stress test and a comforting shoulder when needed along with his girlfriend Sandrine; Ric, who somehow manages to keep the shop running on a daily basis and sees hammerheads every time he goes diving; Tino, the German (“zeeee German!”) who routinely finds rare marine life no larger than a gnat; and, of course, our dear friend and certifying instructor, Mike, who we shared many nights of Karaoke with, singing endless renditions of Lemon Tree and Words.
Karaoke
Snorkel Test
Before leaving Malaysia, we completed our Divemaster certification, which we celebrated by undergoing the famed “snorkel test”. Completely unsanctioned by all diving organizations, but a long-standing tradition within the dive industry, a snorkel test consists of a recently certified Divemaster (or Dive Instructor) donning a snorkel and mask and having upwards of a liter of alcohol poured into the snorkel and henceforth forced down one’s throat. It’s a barbaric, fraternizing act, and rare is the snorkel test that does not end in vomiting. Humiliation—along with a night of good, drunken fun among friends—is the real point of the snorkel test; an initiation rite of sorts, made all the better by the fact that everyone standing around cheering and laughing has undergone the same treatment at some point in the past.
Snorkel Test
Post Snorkel Test
One final thing to mention before wrapping up our chapter on Malaysia is that our good friend Christian, from back home in the Bay Area, came to Semporna to visit us for a few days. Christian was on a holiday to Thailand and flew down to see us and learn to dive. It was wonderful seeing a friendly face from home, and the look on his face after coming up from his first dive at Sipadan with sharks and turtles was priceless (Christian also partook in an epic evening of Karaoke as well! And yes, we hold the evidence…).
Us and Christian on the dive boat during his visit.
As a final word, we want to thank everyone at Scuba Junkie for opening their home to us and making our time in Borneo so much fun and for being there when things got a little rough. We’ll see you soon.
The Scuba Junkie crew at our going-away party.
Bali
We returned to the place this trip really began in order to meet some more faces from home, namely our friend Katie from Santa Cruz and my Mom who endured the long flight to see us. We largely retraced our steps from the last time we were here, though admittedly on a shortened timeline. We spent a few days surfing near Uluwatu (sorry about the reef cuts, you did great Katie!), before heading over to the east coast to revisit our friends Jan and Brian, as well as spend some time hanging out by the beach, snorkeling and reveling in long-conversations and sunsets. We also visited the traditional Balinese village of Tenganan, which both Katie and my Mom seemed to like (especially if you’re counting their sarong purchases). We spent a bit of time in Ubud as well, taking some wonderful drives out to see the rice fields, visiting the recently completed Ubud Botanical Gardens, shopping, eating in our favorite restaurant the Dragonfly cafe, and an odd story of Julie bargaining with a farmer north of Kuta for a wooden cowbell. It was a blast getting to show them parts of the island that so enchanted us on our first visit. Both of their visits were not long enough, and it was tough saying goodbye, but seeing them was a treat.
Julie and Katie in Bali
Mom and I.
Katie surfing at Medewi
Forward
And so after our hiatus in Malaysia and our stop-over in Bali, we’re finally hitting the road again. And it feels great to have the open road ahead of us once more. Our priorities have shifted since we first left on this trip—pure wanderlust no longer moves us forward so much as a determination to find a sustainable lifestyle that doesn’t involve sitting behind a desk and commuting long hours. To that aim, we’re heading to the Philippines, where Julie will be doing her PADI Dive Instructor certification. As for me, I’ve picked up a few small contract jobs again, which will keep me busy at least part of the time. Of course, the wanderlust hasn’t completely left my system, so I’ll be doing a bit of that too.
One more thing…
As many have alluded to—and as most people know by now—Julie and I did finally get engaged after nearly 9 years of being a couple. Why it took so long to ask her is difficult to explain, so I’ll just say that I am beyond lucky to have met her and I can’t thank her enough for her patience in waiting for me. We don’t have any plans for a wedding yet, but marriage is definitely in the near future. But first, we’ve still got a bit of traveling to do…
The Ring
Since we’re not traveling, our day-to-day routine has become pretty consistent. As such, we haven’t had much to say on our blog as we are diving everyday and our routine doesn’t change much, not to mention we’re pretty tired at the end of the day so working up the energy to write a new blog post seems a gargantuan feat.
Our days go something like this:
- 6AM wake up
- 7AM load the dive boats with gear
- 7:30AM eat breakfast and drink tea
- 8AM boat leaves for the day
- 9:30AM first dive of day
- Noon second dive of day
- 1:30PM eat lunch (friend rice and fried noodles, everyday)
- 2:30PM third and final dive
- 5PM return to dive shop
- 5:30PM veg on couch, drink tea, watch Simpsons re-runs
- 7PM equipment check-in for divers diving following day
- 7:30PM logbooks
- 8PM dinner (chicken curry with french fries or pizza)
- 9PM beers (Tiger or Carlsberg)
- 10PM bed
Rinse and repeat…
All of this being said, we’re each averaging three hours of diving a day, submerged in the beautiful Celebes Sea, surrounded by sharks, turtles, barracuda, manta rays, nudibranchs, frog fish, and more. Most of our dives involve guiding customers, which doesn’t give us much time for photography, but we’re gaining more diving experience than we could have ever hoped for.
Since there’s not much more to report, we though it’d be fun to give everyone a description of the different islands we visit daily. So, without further ado…
Sibuan
Besides Sipidan, we spend more time at Sibuan than any other island. Sibuan is your classic tropical island paradise with white sand, palm tree, and warm tropical water. Philippine Sea Gypsies inhabit the island, so most of the day we have little naked children running about and if you ask nice enough, they will climb the palm trees and give you coconuts. . Sibuan is ideal for teaching people to dive as it has nice clear water and good patches of sand for Open Water students to practice their skills in. Since we have Open Water courses nearly everyday, we spend a good amount of time here.
Ilva, Mike and Kai at Christmas.
Sea Gypsies houses.
Paradise of Sibuan.
My favorite dive off Sibuan is called Left Shoulder. It’s a shore dive, since we usually park the boat on the beach. I start in one metre of water and visit a pair of porcelain crabs, then some squat shrimp. Next, I visit Shaniquia, the resident Giatn Frogfish, black in color. Shaniquia is very sweet and sometime she lets me hold her hand if I put my finger under her webbed foot/hand. If you haven’t held hands with a frogfish, it’s like having a baby wrap their hand around your finger. There is also a tan frogfish and a rust one, but for some reason they blend too well with the surrounding environment and I can’t always spot them, but Kai finds them almost every time. (Guess he was good at playing Where’s Waldo). The dive ends with a hunt in the sand for Devil Scorpion Fish and Snake Eels, but some times we get lucky and find baby frog fish, which are even cuter than the adults, if that’s possile.
There are other dive sites at Sibuan, Froggie’s Boulevard, with it’s beautiful hard and soft coral, and a chance to see eagle rays, ghost shrimp living on fire coral, not to mention huge cuddlefish which look like the aliens have landed. The Drop Off is where I had my deepest dive to 41.1 meters, and also where I saw my biggest nudibranch at 6 inches. We usually see a Hawksbill turtle or two happily scratching their tummies on the sand or on coral at all the dive sites. At Mandarin Bay and Mandarin Point we look for Mandarin fish. The live in the black Sea Urchins and are quite shy which makes them hard to spot. If you do find them, they look like candy, with cutely pursed lips like they are blowing you kisses.
Yes Sibuan is Paradise.
Mabul
Mabul is my second favorite island, because everytime I go there I see something that I have never seen before. The visibility is usually bad—10-15 meters—but that’s ok when you’re muck diving because you swim along with your nose close to the rocks anyway. There have been a few times where I was looking at nudibranchs and almost put my hand down on a stonefish or a turtle, because I was too busy focusing on some cute little bugger . Fortunately I do always look before I touch anything, and have managed to avoid sleeping turtles and poisonous fish. My two favorite dive sites at Mabul are Artificial Reef and Lobster Wall. The Artificial Reef has many sunken structures from 10 to 22 meters that have the feeling of a playground for divers. A huge school of Jackfish circles the sponge and soft coral structures which are home to a wide variety of animals including frogfish (yes there is a theme here) Scorpion Fish, Stone fish, Lion Fish, Banded Pipefish, a plethora of Nudibranches and Flatworms, Flying Gurnards, not to mention all of the common reef fish that make Mabul home.
You can stay on the island with accommodation ranging from 50 RM to 1900RM for a deluxe resort. Hopefully we will stay there someday, but for now Ping Ping’s is perfect.
Mantabuan
Known for it’s black coral forest that looks like white fairy bushes, Mantabuan is one of the few small islands that doesn’t have extensive damage from past and present dynamite fishing. As such, Mantabuan has some of the most beautiful hard and soft coral in the area.
Dynamite fish was once pretty common here. Sadly, it’s still practiced by some, but the situation is improving. The difficulty is in teaching the locals about sustainable fishing practice. A fisherman can go out to sea, work all day, and maybe bring home a half-dozen to a dozen fish with traditional fishing practice and barely make enough money in the market to feed his family. Or, he can go out, drop some dynamite off the side of his boat, and watch as dozens of stunned fish float up to the surface. If you didn’t know better, which method would you use? It’s quite shocking to be diving and hear a dynamite explosion underwater. Since sound travels 4 time faster underwater than in air, you never know which direction the dynamite is coming from. Hearing dynamite underwater reminds us there is still much work to be done towards protecting these beautiful reefs.
Sipadan
We can’t rave about Sipidan enough. When the visibility is good it simply dwarfs every other dive site we’ve been too. Imagine diving at Yosemite Valley, and having all of El Capitan to explore underwater. Once you drop over the ledge, you are simply overwhelmed by sheer size of the wall and the amount of sealife that makes it their home. The beauty of Sipidan is that you can see everything, and lot’s of it. At other dive sites, you can see a few barracudas. At Sipidan, you can see a few thousand on a single dive, as well as giant schools of jackfish, bumphead parrotfish, napolean wrasse, batfish, yellowback fusiliers, and more. Of course, you have sharks, ranging from smallish white tip reef sharks to full blown hammerheads. The right of year it’s not uncommon to see a few Manta Rays. A few weeks ago we saw six four meter long grey reef sharks, a leopard shark, two manta rays, and a school of barracuda…all at the same time.
On my first time guiding at a dive site called the Drop Off, we went inside Turtle Cave, a giant cave that goes straight through the island and let’s out on the other side. The cave is quite dangerous to dive in it’s entirety as it’s easy to become lost. Some of the first people to dive the cave found turtle skeletons resting on the silty bottom. The romantic version of the story says that Turtle Cave is where turtles go when it’s their time to die. The real version of the story is that turtles have become lost in the cave and drowned before finding their way out. On our dives, we only enter 5-10 meters into the cave, and then turn around to admire the panoramic view. Anyhow, on my first time there as a guide we swam in a bit and I turned around to see a two meter white tip shark circling around us inside the cave. It’s a strange feeling to be in an enclosed space with a shark, and I had to keep telling myself that they prefer to eat fish than divers. Needless to say we didn’t stay long, but it was a thrilling experience! Nearly everyday at Sipidan something remarkable like that happens.
Semporna: Philippine children—homeless refugees—begging for food; too-loud karaoke machines; stray dogs in the streets, not all of them living; a fish-odored wet market; muslim women with heads hidden in scarves; monitor lizards lurking in the pond-cum-trash-dump out back the main street; and, of course, world class diving.
After nearly eight months of continuous travel both Kai and I felt it was time to take a break from constantly moving to new places and settle in one place for a while. Particularly, I wanted to find somewhere I could focus on diving and enroll in the PADI Divemaster course, something I had talked about doing since before leaving on this trip. Our dream was to find a nice bungalow along a quiet beach with world-class diving close by, high-speed wireless internet available, cheap massages, great food, and all for little money. Bali was close to this—it lacked the high speed internet—but it is currently the rainy season. We gave Thailand an honest look, but were too turned off by the rampant tourism resulting in over-pushy touts and jacked up prices. We considered the Philippines, but didn’t feel like dealing with the hassle of extending visas. Alas, we found ourselves considering Semporna, a place we had visited in July and remarked on leaving then what a shame it was that the town wasn’t nicer, otherwise it would be the perfect place spend a few months. But having searched fruitlessly, the appeal of Semporna began revealing itself.
First, Semporna is on the island of Borneo, the side owned by Malaysia. This means that, as Americans, we get a free three month visa on arrival, which can be renewed or extended quite easily (not that we plan on being here for a full three months.). Second, there is relatively high-speed wireless internet freely available, provided by Scuba Junkie, the dive shop we dove with last time we were here and who we’ll be doing the Divemaster course through this time around. Third, prices are cheap, extremely cheap, though more on that later. There are really only two downsides to Semporna: the town is about as appealing as a planter wart and the food is about as tasty.
To be fair, Semporna isn’t all that bad, it’s just that it’s not all that good either. As alluded to earlier, it has a few problems, none the least of which are begging children who make you feel like scum for coming to a third-world town only to spend your greenbacks on self-indulgent endeavors like diving rather than putting your money towards ending starvation or saving the rainforests. One day of diving here costs 300RM, which is roughly the average monthly wage here. The dogs are particularly rampant and particularly mangy. The monitor lizards—well, the monitor lizards can actually be quite comical.
In all actuality, there isn’t much to Semporna. A few main streets with the usual Asian shops selling miscellaneous gadgets, cell phones, clothes, hardware, and restaurants with all more or less the same menu: fried rice, fried noodles, curry, etc. Besides the main street, there is one largish outside market selling various fruits and vegetables, as well as a wet-portion that regrettably sells blue-spotted stingrays and blacktip sharks along with the usual cod-like fish. There’s one mosque in town, lest we forget that Malaysia is a decidedly Muslim country.
Divemaster Course
The one and only reason we are back in Semporna is because of the diving. To put it simply: One bad day of diving here is better than all the diving I have done in Bali, Thailand, Hawaii, and California.
Pulau Sipadan is the most noteworthy and well known, offering some of the most dramatic and awe-inspiring diving in the world. Sipadan is a volcanic island in the middle of the Celebes sea. It’s top is the only part of the volcano sticking out of the ocean. Indeed, you can walk the entirety of the island in less than fifteen minutes. Step off it’s shores however, kick out a few meters and look down, and you’ll realize the walls of the volcano drop six hundred meters straight down below you. Currents push in from all sides of Sipadan bringing in plankton, which act as the the fertilizer for an overwhelming diversity of sealife, going all the way up the food chain: hard and soft corals; nudibranchs; crabs and shrimp; reef fish of every variety; tornadoes of thousands of barracuda; large schools of bumphead parrotfish; trevally and tuna; blacktip and whitetip sharks; grey reef sharks; leopard sharks; hammerheads lurking at 40 meters and deeper; whale sharks in January and February. Did I mention Sipadan is a turtle nesting ground? Green and Hawksbill turtles come here in thousands to lay eggs. On our first dive back in Sipadan, the Divemaster, Sarah, promised the entire dive group a round of beers if we didn’t see at least twenty turtles on each dive. There’s little reason to wonder why Sipadan makes it on nearly every top-ten-places-to-dive-in-the-world list.
As if Sipadan weren’t enough, there are other islands slightly less dramatic in topography but equally fascinating in sealife: Mabul, where the term “muck” diving was invented by Jacques Cousteau Sibuan, where you can find dozens of nudibranchs and almost always spot rare frogfish; Kapalai where small sunken boats have created an artificial reef teaming with weird things like crocodile fish and scorpion fish; Mantabuan with it’s black coral. The list goes on but the point is simple: the diving at Sipadan is as good as it gets…
...which is exactly what I wanted in choosing a place to do my Divemaster course. If I’m going to bother, why bother with anything but the best?
Choosing a dive shop was easy; I went straight back to Scuba Junkie. We talked about Scuba Junkie before, but to reiterate the main points, Scuba Junkie is the only PADI licensed and insured dive operator in Semporna. The company was started by Ric, who is from Scotland, and Tino, who is from Germany. Both Ric and Tino are PADI certified instructors and extremely experienced divers—Tino has more than 3,500 logged dives here alone—despite the fact that they are both only in their 20s. In addition to Ric and Tino, there are several other instructors, all of whom we will be learning under, as well as a handful of Divemasters and other Divemaster students such as ourselves.
The Divemaster course at Scuba Junkie is what is called an internship program. Basically, they cut the rate of the course to 1,800RM ($500US, compared to more than $1000US most other places) in exchange for help in running the shop. This includes helping customers get fitted for equipment, setting up the boats in the morning and, the best part, guiding customers on dives once you’ve been properly trained. The beauty of the Scuba Junkie course is that for one price, you can quite literally dive as long and as often as you like, whereas many other places put a time limit on the course. Most people doing the course at Scuba Junkie take 1-3 months to complete it, racking up 200 or more dives in the process.
Kai couldn’t stand the thought of hanging in Semporna while I did my Divemaster course, so even though he hadn’t planned on doing it originally, he has gone ahead and joined me in the class. Now, everyday, we wake up together at 6AM, arrive at the dive shop by 7AM, get the boats setup by 8AM, and then set off for one of the many islands for a day of diving. We don’t get to guide at Sipadan yet—the shop only allows more experienced Divemaster there due to the dangerous currents—but we’ve been doing a lot of diving at the other islands. We’ve already done more than twenty dives a piece and we’ve only been here for a week. That will pretty much be our life for the next month or so.
Our New House
Ric from Scuba Junkie helped set us up with a bit longer term housing for our stay in Semporna. He introduced us to a lovely woman from the Philippines named Ping Ping, who has a house within walking distance to the dive shop. The house is beautiful with tile and hardwood floors and grounds containing fruit trees ripe for the picking, beautiful orchids, and any number of other tropical plants. Ping Ping is extremely sweet, always cooking for us and sending us off each morning with fresh fruit for the boat. She even does our laundry. We’ve got our own room in the house—air-conditioned—and share a bathroom with one guy, an instructor from South Africa who also works at Scuba Junkie. Oh. The price? 300RM per month, or about $80US.
Ping Ping’s Garden
Kai in our room
Best of all for me is the fact that I now have access to a kitchen. One of the things I have missed most while traveling is cooking. Now I have access to a market with all kinds of fruit and vegetables, as well as a kitchen to play in. I’ve already made ceviche as well as some home-style pasta. That ought to help a bit with the food situation. Since July, Scuba Junkie has opened a restaurant with surprisingly good pizza and they do a chicken-roast every Sunday night for those missing home.
Ping Ping’s Kitchen
More later….
In an amazing display of procrastination, we’ve managed to be in Thailand for an entire month without writing a single word about it. This is due to several factors, including wanting to finish our story about Melie Snow Mountain before moving on to Thailand and a deep sense of apathy induced by too many Thai massages.
Thailand has been quite a change from China. Though practically neighbors, the countries are worlds apart in culture: where China is loud and in your face, Thailand is quiet and passive; in China ordering a simple meal can be a test of one’s merit, whereas Thailand is filled with english-speaking touts pushing smoothies, tailor-made suits, tuk-tuks, and more. In all honesty, we’ve had a hard time adjusting to Thailand. It’s a beautiful country filled with friendly people, and yet you can’t help but feel that the onslaught of tourists has overshadowed the Thai culture. Before coming to Thailand, a friend we met in China, who lived in Thailand for two years working as a teacher, told us that “Thailand isn’t real”. We thought this was a cynical way of looking at things, but now that we’ve been here for a while, we understand his point. Somehow, Thailand hasn’t yet felt genuine. You begin to feel like a commodity—a dollar sign with legs—and every Thai person you meet will invariably try to sell you a product or service. You become distrustful, and try to avoid engaging Thai people in conversation so you don’t have to repeatedly decline their offers. This is, of course, a gross over-generalization, and certainly more meaningful encounters can be had by simply leaving the heavily-touristed areas, of which there are many. The hard part, of course, is leaving behind the umbrella drinks and thai massages. Tired from eight months of near continual travel, we’ve barely managed to do so.
Bangkok
Julie and her Mom.
We’ve also picked up a new traveling companion: Julie’s Mom, Marty, who decided to fly out and see us. We arrived in Bangkok on a flight from Kunming one day before the scheduled arrival of her mom from San Francisco. We settled into the Atlanta Hotel for a night, and the next day move to the Grande Majestic. As of recent, Marty has developed arthritis in her hips, so she had a few requests in a hotel room: elevator and a bathtub. We warned her that once we got out of Bangkok these would be tall orders, but she told us she wanted to ease into Asia. We weren’t complaining though: in addition to elevators and a bathtub, we had a big-screen television complete with cable TV (man watching CNN is an ugly experience), breakfast buffet (french toast, on the other hand, isn’t), and room service.
Once Marty recuperated from the long flight, we set off to explore Bangkok in the usual tourist manner. We started with the Grand Palace, which was built in 1782 both to mark the founding of Thailand’s new capital (Bangkok) and to house the revered Emerald Buddha, which is still kept their today (no pictures allowed). The palace is undoubtedly beautiful—a collection of buildings, each with a specific purpose (one houses a piece of the breastbone of the Buddha) and ornately decorated with cracked tile, glimmering glass, and gold-leaf. We also visited the house of Jim Thompson—the best remaining example of traditional Thai architecture. Jim Thompson was an American who came to Bangkok after the second World War as the head of the OSS—a predecessor to the mondern-day CIA. He is credited with having revived the dwindling Thai silk industry, and in doing so became something a celebrity in Thailand. When he was alive, you could address a letter to “Jim Thompson-Bangkok”, and it would find it’s way to him. Mysteriously, Jim Thompson disappeared on a trip south to the Cameron Highlands in Malaysia in 1967, and has never been seen or heard from since. I find it ironic that the best example of traditional Thai architecture is exemplified in a house owned by an American.
Grand Palace, Bangkok
The highlight of Bangkok for me was going to see a Muay Thai Kickboxing fight, something I’ve long wanted to do. As luck would have it, the night we decided to go see a fight, two champion kickboxers were scheduled to be in the ring. I was, however, disappointed to learn that foreigners (namely, white people) must pay three times that of locals for the same seats even—1000 baht for the nosebleed seats, or, close to $30US. Upon this realization, Julie and Marty decided to pass on the fight and treat themselves to Thai massages, which average a much more affordable 150 baht, or about $4US. Nevertheless, it was a great show, with much bloodshed and gallantry.
Truthfully, I couldn’t get out of Bangkok fast enough. Some places you have a strong, visceral reaction to; perhaps I was slave here in another life, perhaps not, but every atom in my body wanted to leave Bangkok the moment I stepped foot outside the airport.
Bangkok is a huge, sprawling city, a prime example of uncontrolled urban expansion. It has ten million residents, half of whom own cars, creating traffic and smog to match the western City of Angels: Los Angeles (it is no coincidence that three days is my max in L.A. before needing to leave, it is the same for me in Bangkok). Like so many Asian cities in pursuit of modernity, gigantic steel buildings have been erected in all parts of Bangkok, and concrete roads put in place of old canals that once were navigated by boats.
On my arrival in Bangkok, I happened to be reading a book called hi
. ...dirty, chaotic, stinking, where the water is polluted and the air lead-poisoned, where one in five has no proper home, one in sixty, including newborns, is HIV positive, one woman in thirty works as a prostitute, and someone commits suicide every hour.
To me, nowhere is Bangkok better exemplified than in Khao San Rd, the fabled street known to all backpackers as a cheap place for beer, rooms, and sex. Khao San Road represents what I hate most about the current travel scene: young westerners looking for a cheap place to party. The street is lined with seedy hotels, myriad cafes, innumerable stalls hawking knock-off clothes and cheap jewelry, tattoo parlors, girlie-boys looking to confuse already confused men, and an overwhelming barrage of travel agents selling the same packages: OVERLAND TO CAMBODIA, ELEPHANT TOURS, LAOS, etc. The irony is that few who roam Khao San Rd. will ever venture further than Koh Pha Ngan for the next full moon party.
Chiang Mai
And so we turned our attention North, first to the infinitely more inviting Chiang Mai, once a stopping point on the old Hippie Trail coming out of India in the 1960s. Chiang Mai is Bangkok’s second largest city, yet has managed to retain the charm that Bangkok could not. There are few—if any—tall buildings in Chiang Mai. The city is really just a collection of neighborhoods that have grown into each other and been connected by roads as needed. The center of the city is still surrounded by an old moat and old wall, though the wall was heavily damaged from bombing during WWII. Inside the walls, at the heart of the city, lies a surprisingly quiet neigborhood comprised of narrow old streets and comfortable guesthouses to match nearly any budget. We settled on a place called C.M. Bluehouse.
Our first full day in Chiang Mai we hire a driver to take us outside the city to the outlying villages of Bo Sang and San Kamphaeng, famous for producing Thai silk, paper umbrellas, and more. These villages are well on the beaten path and extremely touristy, but it’s neat nonetheless taking a tour of the thai silk factories, where they show you how the silk is made, from silk worm to finished piece. Between the three of us, we manage to purchase more than a dozen umbrellas, and several pieces of Thai silk.
A highlight for Marty is visiting the hardware stores of Chiang Mai, and she purchases an on-demand hot water heater to go with her collection of umbrellas and Thai silk, which surely must be the oddest souvenir ever purchased in Thailand.
Back at our guesthouse we meet a man named Dennis who quickly becomes the fourth member of our traveling group. Dennis is from the Pacific Northwest, sixty years old, and most impressively a cancer survivor of five years. He moved to Thailand full-time a year ago, and now makes his home in a small town further north called Pai. He’s in Chiang Mai making purchases for the restaurant he is starting, which will be called American in Pai. He’s eager for us to join him when he returns to Pai so he can show us around.
First things first though, and namely my birthday. Even though time slows on the road, it doesn’t stop, and we celebrate my 28th birthday dining along the Ping River that runs along the eastern edge of the city. Marty wants to do something nice for my birthday, so, in addition to dinner, she treats me to a custom-tailored suit.
Tailors in Thailand are world-renowned, namely for their ability to recreate any suit for a fraction of the cost. We go to a place recommended by Dennis named Bruno’s, and settle in for a few hours browsing through catalogs, looking at fabric, and getting measured (I’m disappointed they don’t ask me which way I dress). We settle on a three-button suit made from a very slightly brown fabric. We also purchase some silk in the nearby market to have them make a few dress shirts: one raw silk, one light pink, and one seafoam green. All said, we order one suit, an extra pair of pants (pants typically wear out before the jacket), and three silk shirts with French cuffs. The grand total: $150US.
With the suit ordered, we join Dennis on a three hour bus ride further north to Pai.
Pai
Pai is that rarest of towns: a place that actually lives up to what is promised. It’s a quaint town nestled deep into a valley in the far north of Thailand, right near the border with Burma. As with most towns near borders, Pai has a healthy mix of cultures, including Lisu and Lahu hill tribes people, Muslims from Burma, Yunnanese from China, and Westerners looking for a quiet place to escape.
Despite it’s small size, Pai is a bustling little town. The bus from Chiang Mai drops us in the center of town, and Dennis walks us across the street to a bright green building, which is where his pending restaurant will open. He used to own three business in the green building including an all Apple internet shop, a cafe, and movie house. He sold the internet shop and movie house and kept the cafe, which he is now renovating into a breakfast only restaurant. He has come to Pai to retire and slow his life down, and wants nothing more than to cook some good old-fashioned American breakfast for a few hours each morning, before retiring in the afternoon to whatever catches his fancy.
Small villages lie all around Pai in the outlying hills, and the small country roads just beg to be explored. So, we rent some scooters to do just that. I haven’t ridden a scooter since being in Bali, and it feels wonderful to have transportation again without having deal with buses and cab drivers. Marty has never ridden a scooter before—and is convinced it’s a plan to kill her—so we give her some practice driving the side streets of Pai before setting off into the open country.
Marty in scooter training.
Dennis doesn’t drive, so I take him on the back of my scooter, and Julie and Marty follow on their respective scooters. There are many outlying villages around Pai, and we spend several afternoons driving the small country roads, stopping frequently to look at verdant landscapes, small villages, and the occasional elephant.
Elephants on the side of the road outside of Pai.
Pai has a healthy community of expats and, on our second to last night in Pai, Dennis organizes a small party for us at a guesthouse in the hills above Pai near his home. It’s a beautiful night, and we dine on barbecue pork ribs and potato salad (compliments of Dennis) on a blanket spread beneath a towering teak tree. The moon and stars are resplendent and occasionally accented by fireworks shot off from a distant hillside where locals are holding a cremation ceremony.
After four very peaceful days in Pai the three of us, along with Dennis who has more errands to run for his restaurant, decide to return to Chiang Mai. Julie is eager to get to the beach and go diving. For myself, I’ve been away from the ocean for over two months, by far the longest stretch of my life, and am just as eager. The journey back to Chiang Mai is a bit more eventful than the journey to. Only twenty kilometers outside of Pai, our van begins making a horrible noise out of the left wheel. I’m not much of a mechanic, but I’m pretty quickly able to tell that the van has a bad wheel bearing. We’re too far from Pai to walk back, and the journey ahead is a steep, winding road, and none of us want to risk it with a wheel bearing that could seize at any minute. The driver leaves us on the side of the road and goes for help.
We spread out on the side of the road and make ourselves as comfortable as possible in rising heat of the late morning. The van is parked on a slight incline, and for some reason (probably too many bus rides in China) I get the idea in my head that it might be a good idea to block the wheels with a rock so the vehicle can’t start rolling. I approach the vehicle to look in. As I lean in the vehicle it begins rolling. This is a bit of a problem as our entire group is spread out in front of the van, lying in various states of discomfort, the closest being Julie’s Mom who is fully reclined with her head head facing the van. I quickly turn the steering wheel and am able to direct the van off the the side of the road before it runs anyone over (except myself, as the van rolls over my Teva-clad foot). Unfortunately, the vehicle comes to a stop with two wheels stuck in wet grass on a steep shoulder. Now it’s not only broken down, but also stuck. I’m feeling pretty embarrassed by this point, thinking I’ve done something stupid. But then I poke my head inside the van and realize what happened: the driver had left the van in neutral and failed to put on the parking brake. Genius! Feeling fortunate no one was hurt, Marty jokes that since the scooters had failed, this had been Plan B to kill her off, which we all got a good laugh from.
Shortly thereafter, the driver returns and is absolutely flabbergasted to see his van lying in a ditch. He calls his boss, who arrives thirty minutes later fuming. He accuses all of us of tampering with the vehicle, and actually has the temerity to say that it would have been impossible for the vehicle to just roll of the side of the road all by itself. I point out the simple law of physics, namely gravity, I tell him had the vehicle started rolling and had I not been able to turn the wheel, the van would have ended up in far worse shape as I pointed down the road. I also tell him that had the van run over one of us, we’d be having a very different conversation. At about this point, a local bus pulls up and Julie, Marty, Dennis, and myself grab our bags and board it, looking back at the boss and driver scratching their heads staring at the van.
Back in Chiang Mai, we spend one more evening with Dennis at CM Bluehouse, and the next day board a flight bound for Phuket and then a two hour ferry Koh Phi Phi.
Khaolak Scuba Adventures
In Koh Phi Phi, we have one thing in mind: diving. After hanging around Phi Phi for a while, we decided the best diving for the money is available on the numerous liveaboard dive boats. After walking around and talking to all the diveshops, we settle on going with a company called Khaolak Scuba Adventures. The package is an all-inclusive 4 night/4 day trip to the Similan Islands aboard a 90 foot boat powered by twin Hino 350hp engines.
The basic itinerary is as thus: board a boat at 5pm, eat dinner, go to bed. The next morning, wake up, realize you are now three hours from the mainland in the Similan Islands, eat a light breakfast, go diving, come back and eat a full breakfast, nap, go diving, eat lunch, nap again, go diving, relax, go diving, eat dinner, go to bed. The next day, the same thing, and the next day, so forth. In total, you get fourteen dives over four days.
14 dives = very happy!
Marty, who used to scuba dive when she lived in Hawaii in the 1970s is amazed at how easy and catered everything is. Indeed, so are we. The staff do everything for you, right down to putting on your fins so you don’t have to bend over with your tank on. After every dive fresh fruit is waiting for you, and there is an endless supply of coffee, hot chocolate, and water. Nevertheless, Marty is content just hanging around on the boat—though she’s convinced since Plan A and B failed, this must be Plan C—and she spends a good deal of time on the sun deck listening to the first three books in the Harry Potter series on our iPod.
As for the diving, it’s excellent. I had hoped to see a whale shark, but it’s still early in the season and not quite enough plankton have entered the waters to draw them in. Still, the diving is first-class. The Similan Island are world-renowned dive destinations, and we have an excellent Ship Coordinator—a passionate diver named Gerardo from Mexico. The Similan’s consist of nine small islands, each commonly known by their number, and Gerardo makes sure we see all of the highlights on each. On the list of spotted creatures: multiple leopard sharks including a pregnant female, banded sea snakes, blue razor wrasse fish, octopus, scorpion fish, lion fish, cuddle fish, oriental sweetlips, ghost pipefish, many-banded pipefish, and the myriad types of reef fish that populate the waters.
Our third day is the best day of diving, as we wake in the morning to learn the ship has been driven further north to a dive location called Richelieu Rock, a splintered rock pinnacle in the middle of the Andaman Sea. The dive site is shaped like a horseshoe, with one primary rock that at low tide juts out of the water, and several smaller rocks around it’s edges. The rocks are covered with anemones, sea fans, barrel sponges and soft corals of all kinds. We get three dives in at Richelieu Rock, and highlights include a bright yellow pregnant sea horse as well as a clown frog fish.
Clown Frogfish – Richelieu Rock, Thailand.
Pregnant Seahorse – Richelieu Rock, Thailand.
Exhausted from fourteen dives and enough nitrogen in our bloodstream to pressurize many kegs of beer, we return to Phuket just in time to see Julie’s Mom off to Bangkok and for us to make a visa-run to Burma. We now have a fresh 30-day visa in Thailand, and not a clue as to what we’re going to do with ourselves. Julie is thinking of getting her Divemaster certification, but other than that we have no plans. We still plan on hitting Cambodia, Vietnam, and Laos, but want to settle down for a bit and recuperate from eight months of near continuous travel. So, if you had a month in Thailand, what would you want to do?
Note: We’ll be adding images related to this post to Flickr in the coming days once we get a decent internet connection. Please check back soon!
They say never judge a man until you’ve walked in his shoes. Well, I’m walking in a pair of Chinaman shoes and all I can tell you is that it’s damn cold. That may have more to do with the fact that I don’t have any socks on though.
Actually, the shoes aren’t half-bad. They’re a far cry from the dual density molded foam, waterproof $200 wonders we Americans like to purchase for that one weekend of hiking per year. But still…not bad. They’re camo-green hightops—if you can call a piece of fabric tied around your ankle with some string hightops. The sole is hard, black plastic and features the only logo visible on the shoes—some stamp from a Chinese rubber company. Best of all, though, they’re lined with synthetic wool, which is the only thing keeping the circulation going in my feet.
I purchased the shoes in a small street-side store that, besides shoes, sold everything from cheap, plastic thermoses to Tibetan fur hats. The woman drove a hard bargain at ¥25, or about two bucks, but seeing as I was bargaining in flip-flops and it was nearly zero degree outside, I think she had the upper hand.
The funny thing is, I was just put to shame by a group of Tibetans wearing these exact shoes. They just hiked 20 kilometers more or less straight up and then straight down a mountain—in the rain, mind you—while I sat coldly perched on a mule that one such Tibetan was leading with one hand while smoking a cigarette with the other. But now we’re getting ahead of ourselves.
Golden Week
Kunming is as a good of place as any to start recounting this story, for it’s there that we got the idea come to the place where we find ourselves now.
We had just spent an enlightening week in Kunming wandering around the wholesale tea market, being shown around by our friend Scott who lives and works there. A thousand cups of tea later, Julie and I began looking—as we always must—to the next location. Knowing both that we had just a few weeks left in China and that one of those weeks happened to coincide with National Week, or Golden Week as it’s referred to here in China, we once again had to get moving.
Golden Week is heaven for the Chinese and hell for the foreign traveler. Golden Week coincides with National Day, which celebrates the formation of the People’s Republic of China on October 1, 1949. In 1999, in an effort to expand domestic tourism and improve the national standard of living, the Chinese government turned the National Day into a Golden Week. Essentially, Chinese employees are given three paid holidays, and weekends are rearranged so that seven consecutive days off are given to workers across the country.
Needless to say, the Chinese are not complaining. Golden Week is the time that millions of Chinese take-off in all directions of their country, armed with new backpacks, still-plastic-smelling hiking boots, and let’s not forget the trekking poles. Mind you, most Chinese stick to cities and shopping, but that doesn’t stop them from buying the gear. Like the REI yuppie back home, the emerging Chinese middle-class is hungry for adventure, or at least their wardrobe says so.
One of the joys of Golden Week is that prices across the country more than double. Rooms that can be had ¥70 are over ¥200 for Golden Week—and that’s if you can find one that isn’t already booked.
Now, I’ve had my share of run-ins with Chinese tourists at Yosemite, and I can tell you it’s not pretty. The anticipation of having to deal with millions of Chinese tourists—plus the price shock—was more than both Julie and I wanted to deal with. Thus, we consulted our friend Scott—a well-traveled guy, especially within Southwest China—and asked him where he would recommend going to escape the droves. He unfolded our large map of the country, scanned it for a few minutes with the tip of his finger, and stopped it on a small point somewhere near the border of (Myanmar) Bhurma and Tibet. Here!, he proclaimed.
The place he was pointing to was a tiny town called Deqin. You could go here and trek around the famous Melie Mountain. Once you get past Zhongdian you won’t see anybody_.
Some trekking sounded good. Five weeks of traveling in China—almost entirely in cities—had left both of us yearning to get away from the ceaseless noise and commotion and experience some wilderness and solitude. I had been especially sad when we left Chengdu without having had a proper mountain experience, as the Himalayas lie in Chengdu’s backyard.
Zhongdian
Zhongdian, with Old Town in the forefront.
The journey to Deqin from Kunming is long—over twenty hours by bus. The first leg of the journey is getting to the mountain town of Zhongdian. An airport now services Zhongdian but, of course, we were going the cheap route, which meant an overnight ride on a sleeper bus.
The term sleeper bus is a bit deceiving. These buses, rather than seats, have bunk beds. Through engineering prowess—or maybe just sheer determination—they’ve managed to squeeze three bunk beds per row, sleeping six in a space that should barely be able to seat four. The beds are so narrow that my left shoulder overhangs from the bed several inches. Grateful for the bottle of Baijou purchased just before boarding the bus, we each throw back a few shots and settle in for a night of sleepless dozing.
Twelve hours later our bus drops us off at the long distance bus station in Zhongdian. It’s a clear, crisp morning, and I can see my breath as I step off the bus. Being a stranger here, even I can tell that change is in the air. It’s that time of year when nature hasn’t quite decided which season it wants to be—summer or fall. The temperature is noticeably cool here, which it should be as we are at an elevation over 3300 meters.
Feeling wrecked from lack of sleep, stiff muscles, baijou-induced headaches, and altitude, we grab a taxi and head for Old Town, where we grab a room, close the curtains, and grab a few hours sleep.
Shangri-La
In 1933, James Hilton wrote Lost Horizon. More memorable than any character in the book is the setting in which the heart of the story takes place: Shangri-La the mythical utopia lying in the Himalayas where residents live in peace of mind and learned hearts. Four years later, Frank Kapra’s film took the mountain utopia to the big screen, forever cementing the mythical paradise in the imagination of westerners and spiritual wanderers.
Shangri-la, of course, is based on the Tibetan belief of Shambhala mystical kingdom hidden somewhere beyond the snowpeaks of the Himalayas. Here, perfect and semiperfect beings live out their lives while simultaneously guiding the evolution of humankind. Shambhala is thought to be where the Kalacakra comes from, which is the highest and most esoteric branch of Tibetan mysticism.
Shambhala is a tough place to reach. Not only is it located somewhere between the Gobi Desert and the Himalayas, but it is protected by a cognitive force that prevents anyone from finding the kingdom that isn’t meant to. For 900 years Tibetans have studied the Kalacakra, and much of a Tibetan lamas life is dedicated to preparing himself for the journey to Shambhala.
So it is with some surprise and a lot of amusement that I learn, upon waking in the early afternoon from a restful nap, that I now find myself in Shangri-La. I guess I should have tipped the cab driver better.
In the late 1990s China sponsored a group of experts in different fields to conduct research into the actual location of Hilton’s famous Shangri-La. An group comprised of archaeologists, botanists, literary experts, religous scholars, and more concluded that Shangri-La is the valley wherein Zhongdian lies.
The evidence is circumstantial but convincing nonetheless: The local dialect of Yunnan has the only known translation of Shangri-La; the ancient Tibetan name of Zhongdian literally translates to “city of the sun and the moon of my heart”, which is the known meaning of Shangri-La; topographic features are strikingly similar to the ones described by Hilton; a multitude of religions and cultures exist in the area, including a French-built church. There was even a plane crash in the area around the time that Hilton’s story takes place, as described in the book.
There’s just one problem: Hilton never visited China, much less Shangri-La. Nevertheless, China is convinced Zhongdian is the real Shangri-La—or at least the inspiration. Both the town and the county of Zhongdian have been renamed to Shangri-La. The reality is that the discovery of Shangri-La is a huge a tourist magnet—one with the potential to bring in millions of tourist dollars.
Up on a hill on the outskirts of town is a huge prayer wheel, glimmering gold and spinning slowly in the afternoon sun. At twenty four meters high, it’s the tallest prayer wheel in the world. This prayer wheel was put in as part of the Shangri-La renovation efforts, and beside it a new monastery is still in construction. Below the hill the prayer wheel rests upon lies the real beauty of Zhongdian: Old Town. Here exists a collection of houses and storefronts that appear as though they have been untouched since they were first erected. They are mostly constructed of raw earth and protected from the elements by rough wooden shingles with large rocks placed on top to prevent them from blowing away when the high winds come. Elaborate wood carvings decorate the homes, and the cloud motifs remind Julie and I of the ones we saw back in Bali. The streets are made of cobblestone, and deep canals run parallel on the sides. The residents use the water transported in these canals for brushing their teeth and washing their hands, hair, and dishes. Woolly, scraggly Yak and small, spotted cows walk unfettered in the streets. Locals in brightly colored headdresses walk with woven baskets hanging from from shoulder-yoks filled with fruits and dried corn. Small horses in bright halters are led by their owners. Testament to the rugged landscape, horses were the main form of transportation here until the 1950s. Even today, far more people own horses than cars.
Zhongdian was once a stopover point for horse caravans carrying tea from the fields of Yunnan into heights of Lhasa. This could be the very route that Pu-erh tea originated on—fermenting on the backs of horses and mules as it was transported over the misty mountains many centuries ago.
Tibetan man with horses.
Songzanlin Monastery
Songzanlin Monastery
Just a few kilometers outside of town lies what many guidebooks call the best reason for coming to Zhongdian: Songzanlin Monastery.
The monastery was built under the direction of the fifth Dalai Lama, who himself chose the location through divination. The monastery is built in the style of Potala Palace in Lhasa, it’s many buildings and staircases rising up the slopes of a steep hill. It was nearly destroyed during the Cultural Revolution, but has since been rebuilt and today stands as the most important Tibetan monastery in Yunnan.
146 steps lead to the main prayer hall, and at this altitude, you feel everyone of them. I’m in a bad mood after learning that there is a ¥30 entry fee and that we’re not allowed to take pictures in certain halls after being scolded by a monk for doing so. Who gets scolded by a monk? It doesn’t help that the Chinese tourist invasion has made it to the monastery on the same day as us. Apparently, Shangri-La is a nice place to visit during Golden Week.
The monastery takes care of itself though, and once you leave the main rooms, you can loose yourself and the crowd in the narrow hallways and small, dark rooms illuminated only by window light and yak oil candles. Each room carries the calming fragrance of burning incense, and large mats and wool blankets lie piled in most rooms—extra supplies for long winters of quiet contemplation. I open the door to one small room and find a monk sitting in the nook of a large window. He is deep in meditation and unaware of my presence. Respecting the wishes of the monastery, I close the door without taking a photo.
Perhaps my favorite scene, and one I’m able to photograph, is on the roof of the main prayer hall, where I find a clothesline strung with various bright orange, silk robes blowing lightly in the breeze. Apparently, even Tibetan monks have dirty laundry to deal with. The bright, mid-morning sun gives the cloth a golden glow. I touch one, and realize it’s the softest silk I’ve ever felt
Dirty Laundry
Young Tibetan monk runs through the monastery courtyard.
Tibetan Prayer Wheels
After over an hour of wandering, Julie and I emerge into the bright sunlight. We wander off down a narrow alleyway that leads to more buildings. We come across a group of young monks, sitting on the the doorstep of an old building. I offer them some honey-glazed rice snacks, which they take with a guilty smile, and they allow me to snap a few photos.
Young Monks
Further down, the alley turns to dirt and I see an old man working on the porch of his home, tending to some potted flowers. Over 700 monks make this monastery their home. This particular monk seems curious in us, as Julie catches him staring between two plants as we walk by. He smiles, disappears into his home, and we hear footsteps descending to the street level. A worn, red door opens, and out steps the monk, dressed in maroon robes and black-rim glasses, which I note are taped together at nearly ever joint.
Tibetan monk leads us to his home.
He leads us through the door and down an old stone pathway. Sunflowers and yellow and orange marigolds line it’s path. He takes us up a set of steep, rickety stairs that lead to the upper-level of his house. Inside is dark, and he flicks on a single light switch that turns on the dimmest light bulb I’ve ever seen and does little to dispel the darkness.
He brings us to the kitchen, which has large, built-in cupboards along the walls made of a wood I’m not familiar with. The cupboards appear even larger than they are due to the fact that nearly every shelf is empty—a few bowls and cups placed haphazardly are all that is held.
On the opposite end of the room is a small window that illuminates a small, pot-belly stove that rests on the cold, stone floor. Smoke rises, backlit by the window. The monk invites us to sit around the stove, and he sets about pulling down glasses from those bare cupboards.
After dusting out the glasses with an old rag, he fills two of them with hot water and offers them to us. He then pulls a plastic jar down full of raw sugar, and motions for us to add some to the water. He takes none.
Hanging above the stove is a basket, that has a few large pieces of what I assume to be extremely moldy bread, until I look closer and realize that it is cheese. I’ve seen this same cheese in the markets back in town, and know it to be Yak cheese, which is the sourest tasting cheese I have ever tried.
The monk sits in front of the window, so that he is backlit and I can’t see his face. I can see that he is smiling though, and the years have claimed quite a few of his teeth.
He speaks Tibetan, and we only have a Mandarin phrasebook, so we literally can’t say a word to each other. He seems a lot more comfortable sitting in silence than Julie and I, which really shouldn’t be surprising. After a while, I get the idea to turn on my iPod and see if he likes listening to music. I hand him one of my earbuds, which he sticks in his right ear, indicating he can’t hear anything in his left. He’s lukewarm about Coltrane, but is quite fond of Baka Beyond, and listens to several songs—laughing occasionally—before handing me back the earbud.
After we finish our hot sugar water, he insists we take more. This cycle happens several times, before Julie and I, overfilled with sugar water, take our leave.
Onward
After a few days in Zhongdian, Julie and I are feeling acclimated and ready to move on. There are really only two options for heading deeper into the mountains: a long bus ride or a hired car. We opt for the latter, as we have heard that the scenery on the drive is spectacular, and buses don’t make stops for tourists to take pictures.
We let our hotel know we are looking for a driver, and they put us in touch with a group of Chinese tourists who are also heading to Dequin and have already hired out two vehicles to do so.
There are eight of them in total, Julie and I make ten, so we have two very filled vans. To our relief, none of the eight smoke, which is almost unheard of in China.
In our van is a man who calls himself Rick—his Western name—and we’re happy to find he speaks very good English. We learn they are from Suzhou, and members of an internet travel group. One of their members, who is riding in the other van, has recently completed a trip from Beijing to Lhasa via bicycle.
Our vans climb up and out of Zhongdian, and begin the long wind through the mountains that will drop us in Felai. In the few days that have passed since arriving in Zhongdian, the season seems to have resolutely decided to be fall; autumn colors of red and yellow pepper the green slopes of the mountainsides.
Melie Snow Mountain
Prayer Flags at Feilei
The Tibetans believe that once all the snow is gone from their mountains, the world will end. There may be more truth to this than they know, and it’s hard not believe them, especially when gazing upon Melie Snow Mountain for the first time—it’s main peak rising like a white cathedral into the thin atmosphere above.
Melie Snow Mountain is located just West of Deqin. The peak—known as Kagebo—ascends to 6,470 meters, making it the highest peak in Yunnan.
For the people that live here, the mountain is a dominating and omnipresent force, and they hold the mountain in great reverence, referring to it as the “Virgin Mountain”. Indeed, it’s peak has never been set upon by the foot of man. While each year hundreds of climbers reach the summit of Mt. Everest at over 29,000 feet, Kagebo is unconquered. This, however, is not for lack of trying. Many climbers have attempted to reach it’s peak, but all have been rejected. The most ill-fated attempt occurred in 1991 when a Sino-Japan joint climbing team attempted to summit the mountain. Details are unknown, but all of them—six Chinese and eleven Japanese—died in the attempt.
Melie Snow Mountain is part of the Hengduan Mountain region, which lies at the eastern end of the Himalayan range. These mountains are still being created, as the Indian continent collides into the Eurasian plate. The mountains rise steeply out of arid canyons and valleys, the extreme change in elevation creating seven distinct climactic zones and a tremendous amount of bio-diversity. Over nine thousand species of plants exist here, including a quarter of the world’s known rhododendron species. Asiatic black bears and red pandas roam the countryside, and even Chatwin’s elusive Snow Leopard
In short, this is a special place and none know it better than the Tibetans: Melie Snow Mountain is the holiest of their eight holy mountains. Every year, Buddhists that live near and far make a pilgrimage here. Over the course of a week, sometimes two, pilgrims walk around the base of the mountain, leaving offerings in the many holy spots along the way, and stopping to gaze up at Kagebo Peak whenever it makes an appearance through mist and clouds.
Yubeng
The caravan from Zhongdian delivers all ten of us—our eight Chinese friends and Julie and I—in the small town of Felai, which is really just a collection of guesthouses West of Deqin with unobstructed views of Melie. As the peak is often shrouded in clouds, visitors are considered lucky to see it. Dusk is falling as we gather our bags from the roof of our minivan, and a storm seems to be brewing as evidence by the clouds gathering around the base of the mountain. The peak, for now, remains hidden.
Our friends already have reservations—Chinese travelers always plan ahead—so Julie and I wander until we find a guesthouse with a vacancy. Even here, Golden Week has brought an influx of Chinese tourists and rooms are scarce and overpriced.
After getting settled, our Chinese friends join us at our guesthouse for dinner. It’s a small restaurant with a dark interior but large windows facing West towards the mountain. A warm fire crackles in a large pot-belly stove as an enormous kettle of water steams from it’s spout on the hot, iron surface. There is a mixed scent of smoke and acrid yak butter.
We grab a table in the corner of the restaurant. Night has nearly fallen, but I can just make out the blue hue and dark cracks of a glacier descending the lower slopes of the mountain. It may be an illusion, but I swear through the window I see a large chunk of ice break off the glacier and crash down the mountainside. Rick orders dinner for everyone, and we are treated to Yak hotpot.
Yak Hot Pot
The next day we meet up with our friends once again for breakfast. They inform us they will be leaving Felai that morning, and heading for Yubeng, which is a small village that lies closer to the base of the mountain. There are no roads leading to the village, so we must hike or take horses. Julie and I had thought we might spend a day longer in Felai, but as the view of the mountain is still obstructed by clouds, and we really have no idea what we’re doing here besides escaping, we decide to join them.
Two hours later, after descending several thousand feet down from Felai on a steep, windy road, we find ourselves crossing a bridge across the Lancang river. After following a gravel road through a small village, we pull into a makeshift parking lot filled with Chinese tourists.
Now, back in Zhongdian, I had nearly laughed myself into hysterics when I saw a Chinese tourist wearing a bright yellow North Face Gore-Tex® jacket, insulated waterproof hiking pants, gators, and cramp-on ready hiking boots while walking through the cobblestone streets of Old Town. Best of all, he had been donning a pair trekking poles. For a brief moment I thought he had just returned from a hike out in the countryside, until I looked down at his boots and saw they didn’t have a scuff on them, and then watched as he entered a jewelry store. A few minutes later, he emerged from the shop, set his trekking poles into the worn grooves of the cobblestone, and set forth, to the next jewelry shop five feet up the road.
Here, I believe, I found his brethren. To their credit, at least they are standing in a dirt parking lot and not a cobblestone street, but spread before me is a kaleidoscope of brightly colored jackets and backpacks fresh off the rack, several with tags still hanging from the zippers; leather hiking boots with shiny black soles; insulated rain paints that would leave me sweating were it twenty degrees colder; and, of course, trekking poles.
The local Tibetans are having a field day, offering guide services and pack mules to the barrage of tourists. Rick informs me the price for a mule to Yubeng is usually ¥120, but in honor of Golden Week the Tibetans have raised the price up to ¥200. Buddhist or not, business is business. The Chinese don’t seem to mind, as is apparent by all the smiles—Golden Week only occurs once a year and in many respects its a source of pride among the Chinese to be able to pay for a trip such as this.
Basecamp
The overwhelming amount of Chinese tourists huddled in groups, speaking loudly, and smoking cigarettes, combined with the chaos of the Tibetans hoisting heavy packs on the backs of donkeys and mules becomes a bit much for Julie and I. We’ve come all this way to escape the crowds of the cities and insanity of Golden Week, and here we find ourselves at ground zero for a caravan of tourists with more gear than an Everest expedition.
We talk with Rick—the only one we know that speaks english—to try and get a better understanding of what we’ve gotten ourselves into. He confirms that all of these people are heading to Yubeng, and says he’s a bit surprised at how many people there are as well.
One thing about your average Chinese tourist is that they don’t go anywhere without due diligence and planning. Rick and his group aren’t any different in this respect. Each member of the group literally has a printed itinerary of their entire trip, down to where they’ll eat, sleep, and shit. A few extra tourists aren’t going to change plans that have been months in the making. For Julie and I, we aren’t so certain.
To make matters worse, it appears we’ve grossly underestimated the hike we are about to undertake. We expected a few kilometer hike to the next village down the river. Instead, Rick informs us we’re looking at a 22 kilometer hike—14 kilometers up, and 8 kilometers down into the next valley. I look down at my Keen walking shoes, and begin looking a bit differently at the myriad hiking boots collecting their first coating of dust on the Chinese tourists around me. The Chinese are always prepared.
After conferring together for a few minutes, however, we decide we don’t have any other option than to continue forward. An expensive minivan—as there are no other passengers to share the ride costs with—could take us back to Yubeng, but then we’ll be just be sitting in restaurants looking up at a mountain we can’t see. There’s no way we’re hopping an eight hour bus ride back to Zhongdian after just arriving the night before. And from analyzing a crappy hand-drawn map we picked up in Felai, we don’t see any other options for hiking, and we don’t have the proper gear for camping anyway.
So we join the caravan of Chinese tourists and set out for Yubeng. Rick and his group have rented several mules to carry their packs and several more that a few of them will ride. There’s room for one extra bag on one of the pack mules, so we place Julie’s on it, which has gained weight since Zhongdian in the form of a large, handmade copper and brass tea kettle she couldn’t say no to. I’m stuck with an 18 kilo pack, which has slowly accrued weight as we have traveled through China as well. Rick suggests hiring another mule, but at this point I’m feeling both arrogant and stubborn, and don’t feel like dropping twenty bucks on a floppy eared mule. Screw it, I tell myself, _I’ll show them hiking is more than Gore-Tex and Vibram. A kilometer later, I’m bent over on the side of the trail, sucking in air from the 12,000 foot alitutude. A happy Chinese man passes me on a mule, singing a song and waving as he goes. A few kilometers later, it starts raining, and doesn’t stop for three days.
Lower Yubeng
We reach Yubeng an hour before nightfall. Over the course of the six hour hike, our group has grown greatly disbanded. Six have already reached the village, including the five who took mules plus the guy who rode his bike from Beijing to Lhasa. Rick and his girlfriend are a ways behind us on the trail.
Yubeng is not large, but it’s separated into upper and lower villages. Lower Yubeng is nestled into a deep valley that glows gold in the dusk. Mist swirls out of green valley floor, and meets the raindrops on their descent from the heavens. Upper Yuben, which we reach first on the trail, is a collection of homes built into the steep hillsides that ascend out of the valley.
Most of the villagers have made makeshift guesthouses out of their homes, so beds are easy to find, but we have no idea which guesthouse our group intends to bed at that night. The big decision to make is whether to stay in the upper or lower village. Julie and I are both tired enough where if we descend to the lower village, we know there’s not way we’ll ascend back to the upper village should we realize the rest of our group is not there. None of this would really matter, except for the fact that Julie’s backpack is with the members of the group that have already arrived. If we don’t find them, we don’t find her backpack.
With night falling, we decide to descend to Lower Yubeng, which turns to be the right decision. Shortly before crossing the river that stands between the two villages, we come to a lean-to structure where local Tibetans and Chinese tourists have congregated, most drinking baijou, beer, or both. Here, we see one of the more gregarious members of our group—he calls himself Tiger—who offers us a large grin and points to Julie’s backpack lying at his feet.
Exhausted, we finish the remaining fifteen minute hike, and grab a room at a family’s house called the An Zhui Guesthouse.
The Waterfall
The next morning, stiff and sore, we manage to pull ourselves out of bed shortly after sunrise. Pulling on our clothes, we can see our breath. Our room has two beds, and in between the two beds is a window. We pull back a piece of fabric hung by line of tie-wire to discover there is no glass in the window. I poke my head out and see several chickens running down a narrow, dirt alley.
Once again, we join our friends for breakfast, this time at their guesthouse, which is several homes down a muddy road full of hoof prints. They inform us they’ll be ascending to Upper Yubeng that day, and then hiring horses to take them to a place called Ice Lake. There is a waterfall in the valley we are in now; they had hoped to go their yesterday, but underestimated the time it would take to reach the village so have decided to cross it off their itinerary. Julie and I are in less of a hurry than they are, so we decide to hang back and tell them we’ll try to meet them that night in Upper Yubeng.
Our Chinese Traveling Companions.
After breakfast, we set out to explore Lower Yubeng village. The village is simply comprised of several intersecting dirt roads—now muddy from yesterday’s rain and torn up from hooves—and a collection of small homes. The homes have stone foundations and rough, hand-cut wooden shingles. As in Zhongdian, large rocks have been placed on the shingles to keep them in one place. Large wood doors break-up white earthen walls, stained with motley splatters of mud. Most homes are separated by large expanses of pasture, segmented by fences constructed of tree branches. These are presumably for animals, but they seem fairly ineffective as small cows, yak, pigs, and chickens run freely through the streets.
In the yard of one such home, we see a Tibetan woman hobbling the hind-legs of a cow. She’s wearing a bright pink headdress and smiles us at us when we wave to her. She’s milking the cow into a wooden bucket. In one corner of the yard, a black yak eyes us uneasily. In another, a group of pigs are making a racket, and we look over to see one of the males mount the lone female. Julie and I are amused by this, as is the Tibetan woman, as she knows more pork is on the way. When the male pig is finished, another takes his place.
Old Woman Milking Her Cow
We had biology lessons as well.
Dri is a female Yak for milking.
As the morning grows late, I convince Julie to make the hike with me to the waterfall further up the valley. It’s still raining, and she’s tired from yesterday’s hike, but comes along nonetheless.
On the outskirts of town, just as we’re crossing a small bridge over a small creek, we meet a Chinese man who introduces himself as Albert. He speaks very good english, and we learn he’s from Tonghai, where he runs a cafe and teaches english. He’s been in the middle of a debate with himself over whether to go the waterfall himself or not. At the prospect of company, he decides to join us. As we hike, he tell us he has son back in Tonghai, and he wants to make it back there for the Moon Festival in a few days.
A quick post trail picture after our trip to the waterfall. Our friend Albert in the center.
The trail is wide, easy to follow, and for the most part flat. It leads through a pine forest peppered with deciduous trees and follows the contour of the creek we crossed setting out of town. Oak-like trees, far smaller in diameter than the ones I’m used to back, have bright green moss growing on the trunks and branches. The rain and canopy of tree is comforting to me as I walk—reminding of walks in the redwoods where I once lived for a spell—and I note the percussion of the raindrops as they land on the hood of rainjacket.
Several kilometers up the trail, we come to a clearing in the trees. On the banks of the creek, which has grown wider as we walk, thousands of rock ducks stand piled. I ask Albert if he knows about them, and he tells me the Tibetans build them as offerings. On the other side of the trail is a large rock covered with various offerings from Tibetans: coins, wood beads, pieces of fruit, and various strips of fabric and prayer flags. This is one of many holy places in the area, and pilgrims make these offerings as they walk the base of the mountain. I look up, hoping for a glimpse of Kagebo—this as yet unseen presence that draws so many to it’s base—but all I can see are dark rain clouds and green, yellow, and red trees disappearing into the mist on the steep slopes ascending out of the valley.
Stone ducks made as offerings by the Tibetans.
Further along the trail, we cross a group of Tibetan women. They wear brightly colored headdresses and carry umbrellas. Through Albert, we learn these women, not one of them younger than forty, have been walking for ten days around the mountain. They expect they have another four days to go. I watch them as they set out, and see one, easily in her sixties, jump spryly from rock to rock, so as not to get mud on her shoes.
Albert talks with a group of Tibetan women we meet walking the base of the mountain.
Shortly after noon, we reach the waterfall. It’s actually two waterfalls, each cascading hundreds of feet off a steep cliff, the streams of water turning to mist as they fall. Thousands of Tibetan prayer flags are strewn at the base, and they make loud cracking sounds in the wind. We have essentially come to the end of the valley, which is shaped somewhat like the inside of U, and the waterfall lies where the valley curves. There’s a low-altitude glacier here, the end of which lies below the waterfall. Water gushes out from underneath the glacier, clear evidence that this glacier is receding, and I realize the stream we followed for most of the trail is created from the melt-off.
Waterfall
The high winds and cool air at this high point in the valley chase us down from the waterfall before long. We descend back down the trail. It’s early afternoon, and we’re all hungry, so we stop at a makeshift shed along the trail several kilometers down. Sheds such as this are setup at various points along the trail, providing a place for tourists and pilgrims alike to warm themselves over an open-fire and refuel on hot tea and soup.
Albert greets the man there, and makes arrangements for us to have noodle soup. Albert informs us that in these places, it’s best to cook the food yourself, or you never know what you’ll end up with. Albert is eager to cook for us, as he’s been telling us about his cafe for much of the walk. He slices up some bacon that is un-refrigerated, but the temperature is cool enough where it’s not necessary. He also throws in some chopped green onions, a few eggs and, of course, noodles. Julie and I sit inside the shack while Albert cooks the meal just outside the door over a wood-stove. Inside the tent, a giant maroon liver lies on a wooden table, steaming from the warmth it still holds. Whatever animal donated this liver was breathing just a few hours ago.
Lunch is warm and delicious. Simple food takes on new properties when consumed while wet and cold. When we’re finished eating, we pay the man for the ingredients, and head off down the trail.
Arriving back in Lower Yubeng, the three of us decide to grab our main packs and continue to Upper Yubeng. All three of us are tired from the day’s hike and aren’t looking forward to another forty-five minutes up a steep trail while burdened by heavy packs. Albert, however, is eager to get to Upper Yubeng so he can set off easily for home the next day, and I feel we should meet our other Chinese friends as promised, as they have gone so out of their way to help us during the past few days.
We arrive in Upper Yubeng as night falls, and take up residence in the agreed upon guesthouse.
As I’m standing outside my room, I notice three chickens roosting in for the night on a woven basket that has been haphazardly placed against a wall. The three birds are in a sort of struggle for prime real estate, as the basket is only wide enough for two birds. The odd bird out balances on the back of the other two birds, attempting to force itself into the position of one of the other two birds. The positions rotate for several minutes—always one bird on top and two on the bottom—and the pattern reminds me of those Chinese health balls—known as Baoding—that you rotate in your hand to ease tension. Just as the positions change once again, a Tibetan man comes out from the kitchen, and grabs a chicken by the legs that happens to at the top of the pile that moment. Thirty seconds later, the chicken’s neck is broken and is floating in a large pot of boiling water over an open-fire outside the kitchen.
I’m not sure what it is that strikes me about this sight. Here are three chickens, simply attempting to settle in for the night, and one is suddenly dead in less than thirty seconds. Perhaps I’m just startled by swiftness, or by the nonchalance displayed by the Tibetan, who does the whole thing as casually as picking a carrot out of the ground. It makes me realize how separate we Westerners have become from our food source. Meat is simply something we see at our local grocery store or butcher, neatly packaged and wrapped in plastic. A commodity. Sure, many of us have small gardens where we grow various herbs and vegetables, but I would wager that the vast majority of us rarely, if ever, kill the food we eat. The only time I have ever done so is when fishing with my Dad as a kid. But even then I only caught the fish—my dad did the killing and cleaning. As I watch the man snatch the boiled chicken out of the water and begin plucking it’s feathers, I wonder whether I would be a vegetarian or not if I had to perform the same ritual each time I craved a bit of protein.
Thirty minutes later, I’m eating the chicken, which has been sauteed in oil along with green bell peppers and chillies. We’re in the kitchen of the guesthouse, which is filled with smoke as there are several open fires burning but no chimney. The whole kitchen is just a wood structure with a dirt floor. In one corner is a table setup as a chopping block, along with two giant woks fueled by a wood-fed open flame rising out of a stone stove. Various tables and benches are strewn about the room, and another open fire roars in the middle of the room, which everyone is using to dry various garments over—pants, socks, and so forth—that have become wet and soggy from the day’s rain. The only thing in the room that seems to have any planning is the Buddhist shrine in a corner opposite the cooking area: it has various small statues of Buddha, myriad pictures of different monks and lamas, and small offerings like those we saw back on the trail to the waterfall.
It’s a packed house: in addition to Julie and I, Albert, and our other eight Chinese friends, another group of Chinese tourists has called this guesthouse home for the night. There’s also half-a-dozen Tibetans in the room, assumed friends and family of the people that run the guesthouse. By this point in the evening, everyone has had their share of food, beer, and baijou. A lamb roasted on a spit outside kitchen is brought in. Singing ensues, initiated by a young Tibetan who’s had a bit more to drink than everyone else. He teaches everyone a Tibetan drinking song, and soon the whole kitchen is singing along. This is followed by two other Tibetans who bring out a pair of Erhus two-string fiddles—and play us several Tibetan songs, with quite a bit more beauty and harmony than the drinking song. Soon, the Chinese are taking turns singing various nationalist songs—Alber tells us most of them are leftovers from the Communist days of Mao. Julie and I don’t escape, and give them several performances of American songs, ranging from Christmas carols (which the Chinese love) to John Denver and Woodie Guthrie.
Tibetan Drinking Songs
The Ice Lake
The following day we say goodbye to Albert, Rick, Tiger, and the rest of our Chinese friends, all of whom are taking the long twenty-two kilometer trail back to the next village where they can then get minivans to their respective destinations.
Julie and I are both feeling a bit worn out from two days of heavy hiking and now a night filled with drinking. The rain, which has not stopped in three days, is beginning to wear us down as well. We simply don’t have the clothes we need for this weather. Last night’s events haven’t helped: during the festivities, Julie’s shoes, which were drying by the fire, got a little too close and one of the soles melted.
Nevertheless, I’m antsy to go and see the Ice Lake. It’s one of the holiest locations on the mountain and I know we’ll be leaving Yubeng the next day—so it’s today or never. After quite a bit of prodding, I convince Julie to follow me—melted shoes and all—and we set out.
What was a bit of mud the first two days has transformed into soup that is ankle deep in most places along the trail. The heavy amount of horse traffic of recent has added to the mess. We’re able to dodge most of the it as the trail starts out flat, walking along the edge and through the moss-covered trees. As the trail steepens, however, we’re forced to converge on the main trail. It gets slippery enough that we both cut pieces of bamboo growing beside the trail to use as walking sticks. The rain increases.
Several hours of climbing up a steep trail, often using our hands to pull ourselves up with tree roots, we reach the top of a ridge that provides a saddle between two steeper peaks. Looking due west, a large valley spreads out before us, and further out, a large glacier clings to the slopes of Melie Mountain. By our estimates, we’re at the midway point. We follow a trail down, this one steeper than the we used to climb up. Fortunately, rocks have been placed along the trail, which act as steps and eliminate the mud. Reaching the valley floor, we cross a gurgling stream via a makeshift bridge of fallen trees. From here we set out along the valley, winding through trees and pulling away from the stream. A short while later, we come to a small collection of wood shacks, which signal that we’ve reached a place known as Basecamp. We step into one of the shacks, and are greeted to a warm, roaring fire and two Tibetans crouching around it. We take off our wet out clothes and dry them by the fire. The Tibetans offer us small benches, handmade and no taller than our kneecaps, which we accept gladly. A small cat is near the fire, lulled by the heat. Julie scoops her up and places her in her lap.
Julie Stayed and enjoyed the comforts of a warm cat and soup while Kai Hiked to the Ice Lake.
I check my watch and note that it’s two o’clock. The Ice Lake is reportedly another hour hike from Basecamp. That leaves plenty of time to make it there, but cuts the return to our guesthouse close as night falls around six. I tell Julie we should get going, but a warm fire and a purring cat in her lap have taken any motivation out of her. I can tell by the look in her eyes she’s done, and she tells me as much.
I throw on my wet rainjacket and gloves and tell her I’ll be back in no more than two hours.
Setting off from the the shack at an ambitious pace, the rain is steady and I weave paths around the various mudholes along the way. I can squeeze water out of my gloves if I clench my walking stick. I check a thermometer I have attached to a zipper on my jacket, which reads 8 degrees centigrade.
The trail meets up with and crosses the stream once again. I pass a few tourists returning from the Ice Lake. Farther along, I come to a group of Tibetans loading Chinese tourists onto mules. From looking at the trail, I gather this is as far as the mules go, as it begins to get quite a bit steeper and narrow as the trail rises over a small ridge. An Italian tourist tells me the Ice Lake is just on the other side. As I walk past, one mule snorts a cloud of mist as it accepts the weight of it’s new burden. I give it a sympathetic look and continue up the trail.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing on a high ridge looking down at a bright blue reservoir collected at the base of the glacier: Ice Lake. Checking my watch, I note I made it in forty minutes, which leaves me with time to spare. The rain and clouds, combined with the high winds at this altitude, make the lake difficult to see even though it’s just a hundred meters off. The weather gives the lake an ethereal quality. To my joy, I’m the only one there.
I scramble down the ridge, making my way carefully as the terrain now is just a giant collection of loose, football size rocks. This is known as an end moraine: a loose collection of sediment and rocks that is deposited by glaciers are their slow and powerful slide down a mountain. As I approach the edge of the lake, I notice that hundreds of these rocks have been stacked into ducks, similar to those i saw along the stream that lead to the waterfall.
Under better conditions, I can tell the lake would be a shimmering display of green and blue. In this grey light, it’s a subdued turquoise. I remove my glove and put my hand in the lake. Even though my hand is wet and cold, I can’t resist touching something so pure. Looking up, I’m overwhelmed at how steep the glacier is, rising almost vertically above me. In places it appears as if it is arching over me. The glacier is a tangled mess of cracked ice and trapped rocks, and myriad small streams flow down the mountainside.
As I’m looking up, a car-size chunk of ice breaks off the glacier a thousand feet up, and shatters as it careens down the mountain. Small pieces of ice land in the far side of the lake, creating ripples in the water that reach me where I stand on the opposite shore. Some ten thousand feet up, above the ice, mist, and clouds, Kagebo peak stands directly above me. I wonder to myself if somewhere beyond that lies Shambhala, waiting for the next one worthy of finding it.
Whether simple curiousity, biology, or pure carnal instinct, there is a wanderer in all of us: Shambhala is the reason. We need the idea of Shambhala more than Shambhala itself; it represents the most simple yet most powerful idea that should we strive for it, there is a life better than this one. What unseen force propelled me into the series of random events that led me to this moment, I do not know—all I know is that it feels right to be here, and yet I’ve never felt farther from home. I make a small duck out of loose stones around my feet—a gesture I don’t fully understand but one that feels required—and turn back to reach Julie at Basecamp.
Ice lake and ducks (note the rain drops on the lens)
I find Julie exactly where I left her. From the smile on her face, I can tell she feels no regret at not having gone farther. She informs me that the kitty has not left her lap since I departed.
A Chinese man is drying his socks over the fire—he is one of the tourists I had passed on his way down as I ascended the trail. He has a Tibetan guide—one dressed in all black—and says they’re heading back to Upper Yubeng. Julie and I join them.
Ascending the first ridge is quick and uneventful. We look back at the glacier before descending to the next valley. A hole in the clouds reveals a large area of the glacier, I know the Ice Lake rests at point blocked from our view. At the sight, the Tibetan guide presses his hands together in prayer form and gazes until the clouds have filled in the hole. The four of us turn, and descend into Upper Yubeng valley.
If possible, the trail is even worse than earlier in the day. The final caravan of mules has further turned up the earth, and enough rain has fallen that standing water now runs down the trail. In places, the mud is up to our knees and, despite our best efforts, we all find ourselves slipping and sliding at down the trail. Even the Tibetan finds himself face down in the mud eventually. I can tell Julie is cold and tired, but hurrying just isn’t possible as every step has the potential to send you sliding ten feet downhill, or losing your shoe in a deep vacuum of mud. Ultimately, she gives up on grace and simply sits down in the mud and begins sliding downhill back to our guesthouse. Before long, I’m doing the same.
The following morning, we hire two mules to take us out of Yubeng and back to where we were dropped four days before. Gone is any pride about hiking out under our own steam: all of our clothes are wet, as are our shoes, and Julie’s is missing a sole. We each put on every layer we have, knowing our body heat will dry the clothes, and fours hours on the back of a mule will be bone-chilling in this weather with little blood-flow to warm us.
Taking mules out of Yubeng.
From the outer village, we meet two fellow traveler’s who have also just made it out of Yubeng, and split a minivan with them back to Deqin. It’s here I find myself standing in a pair of Chinaman shoes, recently purchased at a store down the street from our hotel to replace the muddy and wet one’s I’ve worn for four days straight. Julie has on a pair of knock-off One Star’s, and we set off down the street to look for a pair of socks.
The following day, we board a dank and crowded bus to take us on the long, winding road back to Zhongdian. As we rise up and out of Deqin, the sun breaks through the clouds—the first appearance it’s made in five days—and, for the first time, we catch an unobstructed view of Melie Snow Mountain.
Melie Snow Mountain
More than half-way through our time in China, we realize we still have a lot to see. The pace quickens: Nanjing; Xi’an; Chengdu; You know how the saying goes: What a long, strange trip it’s been…
Nanjing
A bus ride from Yixing delivers us to Nanjing, really just a stop-over point for us as we head for Xi’an. We hope for a train ticket for the same day we enter Nanjing, but find they are all sold until the next, so we find a nice backpacker and settle in. I know little about Nanjing, except for the infamous Japanese slaughter in the 1930s known as the Rape of Nanking. Regrettably, one night and half a day doesn’t tell me much more. The city definitely has a hip vibe—it’s a college town—and old streets that surely once peddled goods from the country now have vendors selling rip-off DVDs, live turtles, cheap jewelry, and jade of questionable quality. Of course, any one of these vendors happens to be standing in front of a building that’s centuries old. We enter one of these buildings—a six hundred year old structure that now serves as a teahouse.
Xi’an
Full disclosure: the only reason we come to Xi’an is to see the Terracotta Warriors. It’s an obligatory tourist stop, and one we feel necessary as we’re gonna miss the other quintessential Chinese postcard sights of Beijing, the Forbidden City, and the Great Wall. You know what? It’s worth it. The warriors happen to be one of those touristy things that are actually pretty cool. Really cool in fact.
The warriors were made under the direction of Qin Shi Huang. Besides standardizing Chinese script and small construction projects like the Great Wall, Qin Shi Huang was the first emperor to unite all of China—a unification that has lasted over two millennia. Unfortunately, he accomplished the unification by attacking every state not under his control. Because of this, he had many enemies and narrowly escaped several famous assassination attempts (the 2002 movie Hero is a fictitious account of such an assassination)
Besides having many enemies—or perhaps, because—Qin Shi Huang was tremendously fearful of death. So much so that he spent the greater portion of his life in search of the Islands of the Immortals, a fabled location on the East coast of China that promised the elixir of life and, thus, immortality. The Emperor actually died in search of the elixir, aided in no small part by the drinking of mercury, which his advisors assured him would help to extend his life.
Qin Shi Huang was especially fearful of all the enemies that he would encounter in the afterlife—those who had died either directly or indirectly from his actions. In short, he knew he had pissed off a lot of people and they would be waiting. So what did he do? He built an army. The Terracotta Warriors to be exact. Other emperors had done this before, but these had just been doll size characters placed in their tomb. Qin Shi Huang wasn’t content with that. He amassed an army of over 7,000 soldiers, each built by hand, and every one unique in appearance. Each one is a work of art—there are infantry men, captains, generals, and horse-drawn chariots. Basically, he built an army for some serious afterlife ass-kicking.
Terracotta Warriors—standing guard for over 2,000 years.
The warriors are not inside the tomb—they stand guard over it, facing east. The tomb is sandwiched between Mt. Li, the Wei river, and the Terracotta army. The mausoleum is well-protected—so much so that until recently it was believed to simply be a local hill. Of course, this is not surprising as many of the artisans most closely tied to the construction project were sealed inside the tomb—alive I should add—with emperor so as to protect it’s secrets.
Today the mausoleum stands 45 meters high, believed to be half it’s original height due to erosion. The circumference is 13 kilometers, and the tomb consists of an inner city, an outer city, intricate gardens, gates and more—all underground.
Most amazing of all is the inner tomb, the actual resting place of the emperor. Here, ancient documents describe a room with pearls inlayed into the ceiling in the pattern of constellations, rivers of mercury, and, of course, piles of treasure. Archaeological digs are time-consuming under the best circumstances. Here, not only do archaeologists have to contend with the sheer size of the tomb, but also with the fact that Qin Shi Huang set booby-traps at all entrances—both inner and outer. After thirty years of tedious digging and endless head-scratching, the tomb still remains sealed.
The city of Xi’an itself is nice, though it has a coarseness we haven’t felt previously—particularly at the train station where hundreds of Chinese families sleep on the cement waiting for standing-only tickets on an 18 hour train ride to who knows where. Julie is particularly amused by a naked 10 year boy with an unrivaled ability to piss fifteen feet in any direction at will—usually wherever people happen to be walking.
We also spend a glorious afternoon riding a rented tandem bike around the Ming dynasty wall that to this day encircles the center of the city.
Encampment outside the train station.
Looking cool on a tandem bike. Ming Dynasty wall.
Chengdu
Chengdu greets us with a chill in the air—the first we’ve felt since leaving home six months ago (unless you count the overzealous air-conditioning in Malaysia). We warm ourselves with the famous Sichuan hotpot. My favorite is the pig heart, though Julie is a bit grossed out by it and suffers nightmares Indiana Jones style later that evening. Of course, the hotpot is spicy, but it’s all the oils that really get you. Beer becomes like water, and 1000ml of it later you realize you’re drunk, but your belly is warm. The next day, you realize it’s a lot better going in than going out.
Sichuan Hotpot.
Chengdu has half the population of Shanghai but the same number of tea houses. This is a tea city. Some of the best tea houses are nothing more than a collection of tables and chairs in some beautiful garden in the middle of a park, and we spend several afternoons drinking tea amidst the bamboo forest and riverside pagodas, sipping Bamboo Green Tea and some delicious oolongs.
Of course, if you come to Chengdu you must see the Panda bears, which we do. Luck is with us and we make it to the Wolong Panda Research Facility to find that a half-dozen baby pandas have been born, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. We don’t get to hold them, but watching them being fed inside an incubator is enough to make you smile. Of course, the adults and young adults are pretty cute to look at as well.
Panda Bear at the Wolong Panda Research Facility.
Bamboo Snack
Chengdu, which is the capital of the Sichuan provence, is also home to the famous Sichuan Opera House. The production is entirely for tourists, but gives a wonderful glimpse into the wit, humor, and beauty of this art. Face-changing—or Bian Lian—is what is most known about the Sichuan Opera, wherein a performer can change his or her mask in the blink of an eye before the audience. The technique began over three hundred years ago, and to this day remains a close-guarded secret. We see Bian Lian and are definitely amazed, as well by the shadow puppets and fire-breathers that perform. The performance is a tad expensive, but something we definitely cannot see at home, so well worth the price of admission.
Sichuan Opera
Moving On
Up next is another long train ride to Kunming—a 6,000 foot high city nestled into the Tibetan plateau. What brings us here? You guessed it…tea. Kunming is the trading hub for the local tea of the area—pu-erh—hands down our favorite tea in China.
→ More photos for this post can be found on our Flickr account:
The bus comes to a sudden stop along the side of the freeway and the driver motions for us to get off. Confused, we look around and, not seeing anything, remain seated. After more prodding, however, the driver convinces us to grab our packs and get off the bus.
Pots and Bikes
Standing on the side of highway, cars whizzing past, we’re still confused. This isn’t where we expected to be dropped. A grungy bus station perhaps, but the side of the road? The bus conductor gets off with us and leads us to a smaller bus that is coming to a stop behind ours. The conductor motions for us to board, which we do, somewhat hesitantly. On board, this bus is filled with people who appear to be coming home from work. Stares ensue, and lots of them. No matter though—after three weeks traveling through China, we’ve gotten used to being stared at like we have a third eye in our forehead. You just have to learn to accept the stares for what they are: curiosity, not animosity. Besides, the stares are usually accompanied with smile.
As the bus pulls back onto the highway, we settle back into our seats, resigned to accept whatever comes next. Outside the window, large sculptural rocks lie on the side of the road for sale—an essential in any Chinese garden. Red clay roof tiles and oversized ceramic pots of dark purple and yellow pass by as well. And, of course, what catches my eyes the most: teapots, and thousands of them. Teapots are a good thing. With teapots in sight, we know we can’t be far from our destination.
Yixing
Yixing is pretty far off of the tourist trail, and for good reason. There are no awe-inspring temples to look at, famous local dishes to try, or breathtaking landscapes to marvel at. True, it’s nestled up to the shores of Taihu Lake, but what charm this affords is currently lost to a thick layer of grime from incessant demolition and rebuilding. As you pull into town, canals that run through the city—ones that would feature old men maneuvering boats with tourists lovingly gazing into each other’s eyes were this Italy—are lined with rubbish piles and the only thing floating are plastic bags and other…well, you get the point. In truth, Yixing has very little interest for the general traveler. In fact, Yixing barely draws Chinese visitors. Half of the people in China we told we were coming here, didn’t even know where here was.
So what’s in Yixing? Simple. Clay. Yixing is home to the famous Purple Clay, or zisha, as it’s called in China. The clay is used for all sorts of commercial goods, from roof tiles to oversized planters. Where the clay really shines though, and what has given it it’s reputation, is in it’s use for making teapots.
Purple Clay Teapots
Yixing clay is a bit of a wonder material. It comes from an ore found near Huanglong Mountain, which lies just outside of Yixing. The crude clay is made by breaking down the ore into powder and mixing it with water. The clay is unique in that it has an incredible ability to maintain heat while simultaneously being able to breath—think of it as the Gore-Tex of clay. Heat retention is due to the fact that the clay is a relatively slow conductor of heat; breathability is due to the firing technique. The resulting teapot is one that maintains heat over a long-period of time—ideal for brewing high temperature teas such black, oolong, or pu-erh—-that also absorbs the flavor of the tea into the pores, which acts to season the teapot. In a very real sense, each pot of tea only gets better. The best Yixing teapots are the ones that have been through many steepings, and one of the great joys of tea drinking is watching a teapot season with time. The seasoning also gives a teapot a rich patina, something that must see with your own eyes and touch with your own hands to truly be appreciated. It’s not all just for looks though; well-seasoned teapots unequivocally brew better tea than unseasoned ones.
For tea enthusiasts, collecting Yixing teapots can be a bit of a love affair. Even at the time of their origin, noblemen and aristocrats spent small fortunes building a personal collection. Today, little has changed. While each brew of tea is ephemeral, a teapot can last a lifetime. Through use, they become like an old friend and yet, great joy comes in collecting new ones. The most highly desirable teapots are those made by master potters, skilled artists who have spent their entire lifetime perfecting their craft. These teapots cost thousands of dollars at the low end of the spectrum. And yet, great joy can be had from brewing tea in a pot that costs as little as $10. Indeed, each teapot is a piece of art—a miniature sculpture. And what is so appealing, and so unlike most other art, is that you are encouraged to interact with it—to hold it, to touch it, to do something with it. That is the most wonderful point: they have a purpose. They are meant to be used—a perfect blend of form and function. No self-respecting artist would create a teapot that wasn’t completely functional. A finely crafted teapot comes down to precision—minute adjustments that create a teapot that is greater than the sum of its parts. A well-made teapot fits together so well that, should you hold your finger over the air-hole on the lid and tip a teapot full of water upside down, not a drop of water will spill from its spout. Remove your finger from the air-hole, and hence comes a perfect stream. Replace your finger over the hole, and the stream stops without a dribble.
And so, we find ourselves in Yixing…
...standing on the side of the road once again to be exact. We got off our second bus when we saw a large sign that read “hotel” in bold, sans-serif letters. Regrettably, arriving at the hotel we saw that it was still under construction and most definitely not open for business. We tried a smaller hotel we found around the corner, but after 10 minutes of pantomiming and referencing our seemingly useless phrasebook, were informed they would not accept foreigners as guests. It doesn’t help that night is falling.
Fortunately, help never seems to be far away for the lost traveler. Standing on the side of road, contemplating a bus sign that would make a lovely piece of calligraphy on our wall but at present time is about as helpful to us as reading tea leaves in order to find a bus that can take us to another hotel, a friendly Chinese man approaches us on the street (no doubt chuckling at the site of two lost westerners). He is dressed in classic Chinese casual business attire: dark slacks, tucked in collared shirt, and a cell phone tucked inside a holster attached horizontally to his leather belt. The cell phone holster can be forgiven though, because the cell phone he has is damn cool—it can actually translate English to Chinese and vice versa. Through this modern-day wonder, we tell the man we need a hotel that accepts foreigners and before we know it he’s whistled down a cab, given the driver instructions, and we are being whisked off down the street with barely a chance to say thanks. A few minutes later we pull up to a gigantic hotel complete with a circular driveway and a bellman to greet us. As we enter the lobby, we almost turn around; the marble floors and grand piano suggest a price range beyond ours. Fortunately, Julie is good in such situations, and she marches right up to the reception counter and asks for a room. The prices start high—around ¥600––but comes down to just ¥200 without us even having to bargain. A very special rate, they tell us, which just means the hotel is low on guests and they’ll even accept scraggly travelers such as ourselves because of it. Which is just fine with us, for entering our room, we are treated to a bathtub (Julie is in heaven), cute little toiletries, and even a proper sitting area complete with tables and chairs. A far cry from some of the places we’ve stayed in to date. Needless to say, we settle in for the night.
Note, the remainder of this article is written from Julie’s point of view. Having an actual background in ceramics, this portion of the experience is far more interesting through her eyes…
Dingshan
Ironically, in recent decades the artistry of Yixing teapots has been most attributed to artists working in Taiwan rather than Yixing. The teapot masters working in Taiwan import the Yixing clay, electing to work from the comfort of their own homes rather than here (I don’t really blame them). Some of this can be attributed to the fact that most Yixing clay teapots are designed gungfu style—a style well-suited for oolong tea preparation. Oolong tea is extremely popular in Taiwan, in no small part because it is grown there, as well as in the neighboring mainland of China in the Fujian provence. Thus, Yixing teapots are quite often used there, so it seems like a logical transition (this is, of course, just speculation).
As if to add insult to injury though, even the teapots from Yixing aren’t actually made in Yixing; they are, in fact, made in a small village twenty minutes outside of Yixing called Dingshan.
To call Dingshan a village is a bit of a falsity. Today, it’s hard to tell where Yixing ends and Dingshan begins—they just sort of blend into each other in a monochromatic drab of concrete and roadside stores. Nevertheless, Dingshan is it’s own place, and one with tremendous ceramics history—5,000 years according to neolithic records. Testament to the ceramic skill here, the the only other foreigners we meet here are two Germans seeking expertise in manufacturing a ceramic heating element for an engine they are designing.
And it’s to Dingshan we come on our first proper day in Yixing. From our hotel, we board the same local bus from the previous evening, though not without it’s own set of challenges. The staff at our hotel are unaccustomed to having guests use the bus. They suggest we hire a driver for ¥100 instead of the ¥5 a bus costs to get to the same location. Fortunately, an especially helpful lady at the front desk is kind enough to walk us to the proper location to be picked up for the bus.
Before coming to Yixing, we were unsure as to how up-close and personal we would be able to get with the Yixing teapot industry. Buying teapots, we were sure, would be very easy, and the roadside stands we saw on our way into town verifies this. Yet, we are equally hoping to get some first hand knowledge about how the teapots are made. In the Western world, it’s not common for unannounced visitors to show just show up at an artisan’s studio and expect to be welcomed. We needn’t have worried though, for less than five minutes after getting off the bus, we find ourselves standing in a studio watching three such artists fastidious at work.
As we learn, this particular studio is owned by a husband of and wife, both of which are at work before us now. The wife is fashioning the body of a teapot, while the husband is working in excruciating detail on a spout. The third person is a young guy, who appears our age, and to our surprise, speaks a little bit of english. He tells us he is a student, working under the tutelage of the husband and wife. His name is Wu Jiang Jian and, since he speaks english, we take the opportunity to enquire more into the making of the teapots.
Contrary to what I thought before, Yixing teapots are not thrown on a wheel; they are actually built by hand. The artists do use a wheel, but it is an incredibly small, hand-turned one that mainly allows the potter to work without having to pick up and turn the teapot manually. To help form the teapot, artists use a variety of self-made tools to shape each element of the pot—lid, spout, handle, body, etc.—and every step is accompanied by extensive polishing and smoothing. The tools are made from a variety of materials include bone, bamboo, hardwood, chopsticks, and pieces of flexible plastic.
Tools of the Trade
Wu Jiang Jian practicing his craft.
Catching our eye in particular is a series of teapots—all of the same design—sitting on a shelf behind Wu Jiang Jian. We ask him about them, and he says they are teapots he has been practicing making. Both Kai and I really like the teapots so, curiously, I ask how much they are. This seems to make him a bit uncomfortable. It’s only a few days later than we learn why.
The art education system in China is very different than what I have been exposed to back home. In my education as an artist, I have always been taught with an emphasis on individualism and creativity. In short, we are encouraged to develop our creativity, and through that creativity, to hone our technical skills. In China it is quite the opposite. Students are taught the technical skills first, often through mind-numbing repetition. Beginning students—and here I mean students who have been studying for several years—are forced to recreate established forms over and over again. They start with the classic teapot shapes, and fashion thousands of them before they are allowed to move on to the next one. Only after years of careful refinement and technical mastery are students encouraged to pursue their own designs. Many students will apprentice with a master for four or more years, only after to attend college for a formal art degree.
Having seen both sides, I think there is incredible merit to each. The technical mastery Chinese students achieve in their chosen art can make Western work look sloppy in comparison. Alternately, art in it’s truest sense is a form of expression, and to suppress that for the sake of technique seems counter-intuitive to it’s purpose. And yet, while the Chinese method may stifle initial creativity, the skill among students is very high at a relatively young age.
Wu Jiang Jian has only been working under his teacher for one year. The teapots sitting on the shelf behind him—which we gathered were his own design, though this may have been lost in translation—are more what he considers exercises than finished teapots. Additionally, asking the price of his teapots before his teacher may have superseded authority a little bit. At the time, I did not know this. I feel it’s important to support student artwork, for too many artists are discouraged from pursuing their art due to the whole can’t-make-a-living reality. In my own work, I have been encouraged tremendously by people like Diane Tempest, who runs Galeria Tempest and makes it a point to showcase young, emerging artists. In my own way, I was just trying to do the same.
Wu Jiang Jian consults his teacher over what to do. After some deliberation, he pulls down a few of the teapots and begins analyzing them. After careful scrutiny, he selects what feels to be the best one, offers it to me, and says “I would like to give this to you”. I protest, saying I’m happy to pay for the teapot, but he refuses any money. He finds a box on a shelf, gingerly places the teapot inside, and hands it to me. The gesture literally brings tears to my eyes—he is concerned the teapot, which is extremely well-made, is unfit to sell, and is instead offering it to me as a gift. In this day an age, especially while traveling, we so often encountered people so willing to take advantage of us to make an extra buck. Kai and I both feel awful we have nothing else to give him in exchange. Nevertheless, we accept the gift, thank him profusely, and exchange contact info.
We watch the three work a bit longer and, just after 11AM, they tell us they are closing for lunch (nice work schedule!). We ask them if they can recommend a restaurant nearby, the owner says he knows one, and offers to drive us there. We are happy for the offer, both because it shows there are no hard feelings with the teacher, plus the fact that, as we step outside, it is absolutely pouring with rain.
Getting Our Hands Dirty
After lunch, we find ourselves walking beneath the canopy of buildings along the street, peaking into shop windows filled with teapots—many of which are still closed for lunch. In one shop with the lights off, a woman notices us and, after turning on the lights, opens the door and invites us in. As is customary in this China, she offers us some oolong tea, which we gladly accept as we’re both a bit cold and soggy.
After sipping some tea and drying off, we get up to look at the teapots on display. The work is interesting, with many unique designs. Quite often, even masters who have been working for many years return to the same tried and true forms; it’s refreshing to see a bit of variety. Soon, another boy enters the store, who looks to be our age and, again to our surprise, speaks a bit of english. After making introductions, we learn that this boy is another student, who studies under the shop-owners father. After a bit of conversation, the show-owner mentions that, if we are interested, we are welcome to have a go at making a teapot in the back of the shop. When we enquire about the price of such an offer, she says it’s free.
Free sounds good, so I eagerly seize the opportunity to make something. I haven’t had my hands dirty since before leaving on this trip (besides our little porcelain experiment back in Bako National Park), and it feels absolutely wonderful to get my hands covered in clay.
We begin by watching another young student, who has recently emerged from a back room, apparently from a nap. He starts by rolling small amounts of clay—using the palm of his hand—into in cylindrical tubes. The tubes taper at one end, and after they are rolled, he bends the tapered end of the cylinder into the shape of a handle. He has us do the same. Kai and I both repeat his steps, though with less success. My cylinders turn out too long and pointy, whereas Kai’s aren’t quite round. After an hour doing this, we both create a few handles that are decent enough that the student—reluctantly—let’s us move on. I have no doubt he has spent many months working on the same exercise.
We move next to spouts. These are also fashioned by a rolling a tapered cylinder, though they are thicker in diameter and more squat. After an another hour of rolling spout after spout, the student signals us to stop. He takes all of crude-shaped handles and spouts, and sticks them in a styrofoam cooler to prevent them from over-drying.
Next, we watch the student make the body of a teapot. He begins by cutting two perfect circles out of a piece of flattened clay using a compass-like tool. The clay is flattened using a wooden mallet that is flat on one side and round on the other. He then makes another flat piece of clay, this one about 12 inches long by 3 inches wide. After trimming the edges to make them straight, he turns this piece into a perfect cylinder by wrapping it around a separate piece of circular clay. Once the piece of clay is in a cylinder shape, he smoothes the side, at the same time pushing the clay inward at the top to narrow the opening (this will become the bottom of the pot). Using some slip, he attaches one of the circular pieces of clay we cut to the opening. He then repeats the exact same process to make the bottom of the pot.
Our Lopsided Beauties
As the day winds to a close, the shop-owner invites us to join them in their house, which turns out to be directly behind their street-side shop. We enter the house into a foyer of sorts, which is lined with elegant white pillars showcasing more teapots—these one’s covered in glass and far more beautiful than the ones for sale in the shop. We haven’t seen anything yet, for the women leads us into a room adjacent to the foyer, where we are greeted by even more teapots.
The room is like a small gallery, with glass displays on three sides, and inside the displays are some of the most beautiful teapots we have ever seen: some are shaped like real soccer balls (one has to be taken out of the case to convince me than it’s not, in fact, real); another is a mini-sculpture of a mountain scene, complete with small monkeys roaming the cliffs and boulder-shaped teacups; one features a honeycomb design complete with a bee adorning the lid of the teapot; even a beautifully sculpted pumpkin. All are vastly different than any teapot I’ve ever seen—each a unique piece of art. Many of the pieces displayed have framed photos and plaques placed nearby, indicating the many expos they have attended and many awards that have been won. We began to realize, these people really knew what they were doing. While many of these teapots are obviously for show, it’s worth pointing out that—no matter how intricate—everyone is perfectly functional, as is demonstrated to us.
Cross Section of the Honeycomb Teapot
That’s not a real soccer ball she’s holding—it’s made of clay. Jun Lin Gao.
Mountain and Boulders teapot set. We were shown how well this teapot pours.
At about this time, we get to meet the master potter responsible for this work. I should say potters, for in walks, not only the shop-owner’s father, but also the father’s wife, who it turns out is a master potter herself.
The man’s name is Wang Xiao and woman’s name is Jun Lin Gao. Both are very kind—ever smiling—and happy to show us their work, though neither speaks a word of english. We are also joined by the student we met earlier in the day—the one who speaks english—who helps facilitate conversation. We learn that both of them have been working for roughly fifty years as potters. The grandfather comes from a family of potters, and points to a photo on the wall of his grandfather sculpting a teapot in a studio.
Everyone is interested in what Kai and I are doing in China. We explain to them we love Chinese tea, and are here to learn more about it. This seems to delight them, and they invite us to come back the following day for more lessons, which we gladly accept.
Okra
Day two is little different from day one. The same student has us continue making spouts and handles, suggesting we need the practice. This is fine, and we’re happy just to have the experience, but I’m wanting to see how a teapot is made, from start to finish, so I can go home and make them myself—however crudely.
This is counter-intuitive to the way our student-teacher has been taught, and he insists we continue perfecting our handles and spouts. After we’ve made several dozen, I have to admit even I am feeling bored. Absent-mindedly, I begin making a piece of okra out of an extra piece of clay. The clay is beautiful to touch—like porcelin, it is smooth and without grit or sand, making it easy to shape and smooth. At about the time I’m working on my okra, the grandma comes, looks at with a smile, and gives me the thumbs up. I figure, with a thumbs up from Grandma, I should keep going.
As the day comes to a close, having done little more than fashion spouts and handles all day, both Kai and I are feeling a little frustrated. It’s a tough position, as we are so grateful for the kindness the family has shown us; yet, with our limited time, I’m concerned we won’t get to see the whole picture. Before going home, we ask Wang Yung if will be possible to see the remaining steps involved the next, telling her it will need to be our last day before moving on in our travels. She says yes, and promises us we’ll see the finished product before we leave.
In the Hands of a Master
Day three, we arrive early at the studio, eating dumplings for breakfast on the bus ride from our hotel. When we enter, shortly before 8AM, we are greeted by everyone already in the studio, including Jun Lin Gao and Wang Xiao Long, the master potters.
In the back of the store, tools are being arranged on the work bench we have been using by students, and we soon realize we are going to be treated to a demonstration by the master potters.
Wang Xiao Long begins, and he does so by repairing the body of the teapot I had fashioned two days before. This is accomplished by placing the body on the small hand-wheel and spinning it consistently, while adding slip to build up the areas that aren’t quite round. Watching him work is mesmerizing; there’s something to be said for fifty years of experience.
Next he assembles the lid by forming a dome over a rounded wooden block. He attaches the finished dome to a round circle using slip. He attaches a flat, tapered piece of clay—no more than 1/2 inch wide—to the dome, which serves to prevent the lid from falling of the body when it is poured.
Before, during, and after each step, tremendous time is spent smoothing and polishing the clay, mainly using thin, pliable pieces of horn. (I should also say that Wang Xiao Long usually works in his own studio. He is working here as a demonstration, and more than once tosses aside a tool he deems unfit for use.)
Artist’s Hands. Wang Xiao Long
When Wang Xiao Long if finished with the body, Jun Lin Gao shows us how to create a spout and handle. We are, of course, familiar with these steps, but watching her gives a much better sense of how it should be done.
And so the process goes. We watch both Jun Lin Gao and Wang Xiao Long bring the teapot near to completion over the course of a few hours (they both repeatedly mention it is being far too quickly, only to humor us.) When the teapot is nearly finished, Wang Xiao Long looks for a small, round piece of clay which he will attach to the lid—this is part that is used to pick up the lid. Jokingly, I pull out the piece of okra I had fashioned the day before, and hand it to him. He laughs and, considering it, takes it from and begins examining. He cuts a groove into the okra—to allow steam to escape—and then attaches it to the lid. Everyone laughs, including Jun Lin Gao, who says the pot is now finished and, in our honor, will be painted green. I can’t help but notice how surprised Wang Xiao’s students look. I think they are used to a much more formal teacher. Apparently, however, I’ve lightened him up, and proved I can honkify even a chinese master’s teapot.
Wang Xiao Long, Julie, and the finished Okra Teapot.
Note…
More work from the potters we met can be seen online, unfortunately the text is only in Chinese. The pictures of the teapots are worth a visit however: Wang Xiao Long and Jun Lin Gao
→ More photos for this post can be found on our Flickr account:
From Hangzhou, our next destination is Yixing. From a tip on another website, however, we decide to stop in the city of Anji, which lies in between Hangzhou and Yixing.
Anji is not in the guidebooks—not ours anyway. It should be, for just outside of Anji is the largest bamboo forest in China, known as Da Zhu Hai. It has reached notoriety in recent years with film buffs as the location where the epic martial arts battle in the bamboo treetops takes place in the film Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon.
Anji is also home to a tea with it’s own namesake: Anji White Tea. Even though it’s called a white tea, it is actually a green tea due to it’s pan-fired processing. White is used to refer to the light color of the tea, which is due to low chlorophyl and polyphenol content. The tea is also extremely high in theanine—or, amino acid—up to four times that of other green teas.
A one and a half hour bus ride fro Hangzhou drops us in the city of Anji. Another thirty minutes on a local bus brings us outside the city and to the entrance of the park. An old man who gets off the bus with us signals for us to follow him. We’re always a bit apprehensive of such an offer, as usually a request for money comes shortly after. With no idea of where we’re going to stay that night, and no buildings in obvious site, we consent. Fortunately, the man is genuine, and he leads us up a paved road that juts to the side of the park which, after a short incline, ends in a small cluster of building. He takes us into one of them, which has a small restaurant on the ground floor and some rooms for rent upstairs. The establishment turns our to be run by his daughter (or daughter-in-law, we never got it right). The rooms they show us are clean, the beds look comfortable, and have a nice price tag of only ¥65 for a double room with en-suite bathroom. With no one else staying at the guesthouse we also have our pick of the rooms and select one on the upper floor with a wide-open view of the bamboo fields out the window.
We get settled in our room and head down to the restaurant for some lunch. After the usual pantomiming, we are served a delicious meal of sauteed bamboo shoots with pork and steamed white rice. After serving us lunch, the woman returns to a table she was seated at before we entered and resumes playing mahjong with a young man and woman. She seems to be pretty good for, by the time our lunch is finished, her stack of money is by far the tallest.
We notice that there are some canisters of tea for sale, which, we learn, are filled with Anji White Tea. It smells fresh, the leaves taste good and have a nice green color. After sampling some, we purchase a small canister for the road, wishing we could purchase more, but green tea depends on freshness and shipping some home to sit and wait our return doesn’t make sense.
After lunch we enquire as to the best place to walk through the bamboo forest. Our guesthouse matron calls over a boy from next door who volunteers to act as our guide. He’s twenty year’s old—a university student home for the weekend—and wants to practice his english. He leads us back down the road we walked up from the bus station, taking us to the park entrance. As we walk, he tells us each family here owns a plot in the forest. We ask him where his family’s plot is, and he points up into the hills behind us. He points out bamboo trees on the side of the road, indicating their age simply by looking at them, and tells us they generally only cut tree that are at least three years old.
The park isn’t so much a park as an entrance to the bamboo forest. Just inside the entrance, is a large rock with blue painted Chinese characters on it. Our guide tells us the rock commemorates the filming of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, and indicates to a building just to the left of it. The martial arts scene was filmed just behind the building, which they constructed to facilitate the work. We make our way up a small, paved road that ahead soon peters out into several small trails jutting up into the bamboo-covered hillsides. As we walk, we pass a man leading an ox-drawn carriage with two Chinese tourists seated comfortably in it. Further up, we pass a group of men lazing in the shade. Beside them are those things you see emperors and empresses being carried in by hulking men in your classic Chinese period flick. Apparently, for a price, you can be carried up the hill instead of walking.
Happy Ox Man
The road we follow finally ends and turns into a smallish footpath winding up and into the bamboo. The bamboo is beautiful, and makes a whistling sounds as wind blows through it when you stop and listen. The type of bamboo here is Giant Bamboo, and it truly is giant arching high into the air with stalks I can’t even begin to get my hands around. I’m amazed to learn from Julie that all bamboo is just a type of grass.
Looking up at the bamboo from inside the forest.
Our guide continues leading us up the path. Coming down, we cross paths with more Chinese men, these one’s actually carrying a Chinese tourist down the trail in one of those lazy-tourist-carrying-contraptions. The trail is relatively steep—though short—and our guide seems to be more winded than we are as we near the top. He says he almost never comes to the park—he prefers basketball. At the top of the hill lies a wooden outlook tower. We climb the tower, which provides for a spectacular view of the bamboo. It’s an overcast day—though still hot—and the bamboo disappears into the gray horizon in every direction we look. Perched in the tower, watching the wind-blown treetops, you understand why the locals refer to it as a sea of bamboo. Looking down the valley, we can see our guesthouse.
Looking back towards the valley. Our guesthouse is in the small cluster of buildings on the right.
Sea of Bamboo.
Later that afternoon, awakening from a short nap, I realize Julie is nowhere to be found. I walk outside of the guesthouse and look around but still don’t see her. Walking around for a minutes, still not finding her, I head back down the hill towards the park, thinking maybe she’s headed in that direction. As I walk, a man riding up the hill on a motorcycle—one I had seen earlier at our guesthouse—slows to a stop and indicates for me to get on. He’s smiling knowingly, which I take to be a sign that he knows where Julie is (we are, after all, the only white people to be seen). It’s only after I’ve gotten on the motorcycle and we’ve started heading back up the hill that I remember this is the same man I saw riding down the hill earlier in the day at about a hundred miles an hour with no helmet. Too late.
I’ve spent my fare share of time on the back of motorcycles—dirtbikes to be specific. Before I left for this trip, one of my responsibilities at the design firm I helped found was that of photographer. Most of our clients being in the outdoor sports industry, I photographed a healthy amount of professional athletes—dirtbike riders in particular. I spent many days on the back of a dirtbike, holding several thousands dollars worth of unprotected camera equipment in one hand while holding on for dear life in the other. Then, I took solace in the fact that they were professional athletes. This man, I tried to push out of my mind, most certainly was not.
The man steers the motorcycle up the hill and well past our guesthouse. A smaller, unpaved road nears us on the right, climbing sharply up a hill. I pray it’s not our destination but, of course, it is. The going is smooth at first, but soon the road gets fairly muddy and rocky. More than once the man stalls the motorcycle slowing for a particuarly nasty rut or large collection of loose rocks. As the road really begins to get steep—just about the time I’m deliberating whether or not to jump off—I see Julie walking down the hill. She’s smiling in that way only she can, and is accompanied by an older woman and another girl far younger. I’m relieved to see her, though more for my sake than hers.
Turns out that, while I was napping, Julie met the young girl in the restaurant of our hotel. The girl, who is sixteen, is the daughter of the woman who runs the guesthouse and, by extension, the grandaughter of the man who led us from the bus station earlier in the day. Julie told the young girl that she wanted to go for a walk. The young girl speaks just enough english to understand, and she lead Julie up a small trail from the guesthouse. Shortly up the trail they came to the girl’s grandparents house, where they picked up her grandma.
By the looks of it, Grandma is a pretty cool lady. She’s a sturdy and strong woman, armed with a monstrous flashlight in one hand, and a bamboo stick in the other, which I later learn she uses to dispel any misfortunate rock or plant that stands in her path. She’s also wearing a woven bamboo hat that has a lit mosquito coil sticking out from the top of it. Julie informs me that she has given the lady the nickname of Grandma Billygoat, and that she is seventy years old.
Grandma and granddaughter.
I ask them what’s further up the hill, but Julie won’t tell me, and only indicates it’s worth checking out. Together, the four of us begin climbing the remainder of hill. Julie tells me this is the third time today Grandma Billygoat has done so.
At the top of the hill I discover why Grandma Billygoat carries a flashlight: there is an old cave. Standing before it, the cavern is dark, and cold air emanates out of it and reaches us where we stand. I ask if we’re going to enter, which is kind of silly as Grandma Billygoat is already leading the way. We slowly enter the cave—unsure of our footing—and soon are deep enough so that, looking back, we can no longer see the entrance. Grandma Billygoat shines the flashlight on the walls, and I realize it’s an old coal mine.
We spend a few minutes checking out the mine before returning outside. The day is getting late, and the mosquitos particularly nasty, so we decide to head back down the hill.
They lead Julie and I back to the grandparents house, which lies off a small footpath deeper in the bamboo forest. From the outside, the house is old and decrepit. From the design, it seems like the house has been built over many years, as if additions have been made to the original foundation due to need and without a lot of rhyme or reason. Inside the house is dark and all light comes from the open doors and windows. Grandma Billygoat leads us through the house and into the backyard, where there is a small, natural spring fed via a bamboo pipe into a wooden bucket on one level and a ceramic pot below it. It’s a simple but perfectly functional—and sanitary—design. The ceramic pot, which is higher than the wooden bucket, is used to store drinking water from the spring. The water that overflows from the ceramic pot falls into the wooden bucket below, which is used for cleaning. Grandma Billygoat hands us each a clean towel and indicated for us clean and refresh ourselves. The water is fresh and cooling. I’m tempted to try the spring water—one of the first time’s I’ve had the desire to try un-bottled or un-boiled water in six months of traveling—but decide otherwise.
Back inside the home, my eyes have adjusted and begun picking out all the details: A beautiful, old armoire made of bamboo lies against one wall; hand made bamboo baskets filled with gourds we saw growing in the garden outside off in a corner; piles of corn drying in a small, storage room adjacent to the main room in which we are standing. To our left is an open kitchen with a large wok—perhaps a half meter in diameter—with a huge, wood-burning fire beneath it. The kitchen is attached to an open sitting room with a doorway that leads out into the garden. Near a doorway, are two hand-crafted chairs made from a wood we don’t recognize. They are curiously small, and Grandma Billygoat motions for use to sit in them and serves us a bamboo basket filled with tiny, bite-size apples.
It’s a beautiful scene. There’s a feeling to the air that reminds of the time we spent back in Borneo staying with a family in the highlands. The scene could easily be a movie set—only, it’s real—and I long for an SLR camera and full-size tripod. The late afternoon sun casts beautiful light and shadows throughout the house. I do my best with the Canon G6 camera and REI Ultra-Pod II tripod I am carrying, and manage to capture a few still-life.
Little Chairs in the Doorway.
Grandma Billygoat’s Mosquito Coil Hat.
As evening falls the family begins preparing dinner. Julie and I take our cue to say goodnight, grateful for such a wonderful and intimate experience. When traveling, it’s the small moments that stick with you the longest—passing gestures from strangers you meet along the way. Rarely do the postcard destinations and guidebook locales lead to your best memories. Anji is not, and likely never will be, a top-destination. China has the Great Wall and Terra-cotta Warriors for that. Nevertheless, it’s a beautiful spot, and one we are thankful to have visited. We head back to our hotel, have some dinner of our own, and return to our room in preparation for the next day’s bus ride to Yixing.
→ More photos for this post can be found on our Flickr account:
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