Mount Bromo-other worldly

July 4, 2009

Pounding headache. Lack of caffeine, water, food, sleep--it could be due to any of these factors. I'm at Toto in Probolingo and doing what I do best, waiting. I just got back from the internet cafe. It was a 2km walk from the bus terminal. During my walk I was repeatedly screamed at, mostly by children, "Hello, Miss!" they called. One 3-year-old even yelled, "Hello, tourist!" I saw some baby goats and got calls from men in passing trucks and buses. It was 5:15pm and the sun was already setting. I was a little relieved to make it back to the skeezy bus terminal. So here I wait.

But I'm leaving out the best part of the day--Mount Bromo. I woke up at 3:45am to catch my jeep at 4am. A guy on a motorbike came to pick me up as I sat waiting, freezing, outside my guesthouse. I was bundled up in my new hat and scarf, as well as a blanket I snatched off my bed. The guy took me over to a jeep that was filled with a group of friendly Spainards who, apparently, all lived in Singapore. Together we endured the bumpiest ride of my life. I should have worn a helmet.

We arrived at the viewpoint before 5am. Our driver parked the jeep on the mountainside, a ways down from the viewpoint. We hiked up, surrounded by hoards of Indonesians. I felt like I was part of a religious pilgrimage. Once I made it to the viewpoint, I realized there was no way to actually view anything through the masses, not to mention it was still dark out.

I managed to find a bench to sit on where me and my blanket could wait. The sun began to rise, but I refused to move. After about half an hour, I saw a small break in the crowd. I maneuvered through the people and made it to the viewpoint. The sight was spectacular--definitely worth all the trouble and completely unlike anything I've ever seen before. There, in front of me, was a smoke-belching active volcano. After 20 minutes of staring mesmerized at the thing, I decided I'd better make way for other people to look.

As I began walking down the mountain towards the jeep, I realized I had no idea what jeep I took--I didn't even know the color. It seemed like everyone was returning to the jeep they originally came with. There had to be a couple hundred jeeps parked down the mountain. How was I going to figure this out?

I continued my descent, hoping I'd spot the Smiling Spainards. I saw that I was nearing the end of parked jeeps and still nothing or no one looked familiar. It had been pitch black when I had gotten out of the car. As panic started to creep in, a guy ran over to me. "Are you in a jeep with Spanish people?" the man said with a European accent.

"Yes!" I exclaimed and followed him to the car. The Smiling Spainards had recognized my blanket when I had walked passed them and our jeep. What a relief! I wasn't going to have to beg a ride off someone else, or worse, walk back.

Next on the agenda was to go to Bromo and look the beast in the mouth. After 20 minutes of hitting my head on the roof of the jeep and falling all over this poor Spanish woman, we made it to the base of the volcano. Now all we had to do was climb it. There were horses available for hire, but the S.S. weren't interested--they'd hike it. I didn't want to appear to be the lazy, weak-willed American that I usually am, so I decided to climb on my own too.l

With the volcanic sand swirling in the air, I felt like I was in the desert. The sand went into my eys, nose, and shoes. Horses trotted past me and a steep climb loomed ahead. The last part of the ascent included stairs. I huffed and puffed my way to the top until I finally made it. I tiptoed over to the crater's edge and looked down into the smoking volcano, Wow. My reveried was soon interupted.

"Excuse me, Miss? Can we ask you a few questions?" a sweet faced, young Indonesian girl asked me, her two young male counterparts gazing up at me. They were all wearing matching blue polos with the name of their English school written across the breast. I eyed them suspiciously.

"Um, okay."

"We are from _____ English College and we are here to practice our English with tourists," the girl explained as one of the boys took out a camera phone to record this momentous event.

She asked me The Six Questions, plus a few more for good measure. We then posed for pictures and they went on their way, hunting down their next English speaking victim.

I made my way down from Bromo but not before being questioned by three more groups from _____ English College. I managed to find the jeep and S.S. with no trouble. After a 10 minute ride we were back into town. Now on to Yogyakart, Java's cultural center.

Phase Two-Java

Friday, July 3, 2009

What a difference a day makes. Cici is gone. She is on a plane back to China as I write this.

Right after I finished writing my last entry, she came back to our room. She told me she had some bad news. When she opened her email inbox she found 21 messages from her frantic brother. Her younger sister was having some health issues, something she'd been dealing with for awhile. Cici immediately called her dad. He had called her dozens of times the previous day and couldn't understand why her phone was off. Cici, refusing to admit she was traveling outside the country, told her dad that her phone was broken and she was in the process of getting a new one. She told him she would get some business settled in Beijing and return to her home in two days. Cici lives in rural Hebei Province, the province that surrounds Beijing, a hours drive from the capital.

"Why did you lie to him?" I asked. "Why didn't you just tell him where you are?"

"I don't want my parents to worry about me," Cici explained.

"What are you going to tell them when you don't actually come home in two days?" I probed.

"I will be home in two days. I have to leave Indonesia tomorrow," Cici told me. Then it hit me. She would actually go home to take care of her sister, as she had been busy doing the month prior to our vacation. Wow. The thought hadn't occured to me.

Yesterday, the day of our flight to Surabaya, Java, we woke up at 4:30 and took our taxi to the airport with Mathes, who had a flight to Medan. Cici and I went to Surabaya, the smoggy capital of East Java. From there she took a flight to KL and this morning she flew direct from KL to Beijing.

As for my day yesterday, it was very long. I thought Trip to Gili Meno Day was long. That was just a warm-up. Yesterday was considerably worse and without a cool ocean breeze. I had hung out at the airport with Cici until 9am. I then took the airport bus to Surabaya's main bus terminal to get a bus to Probolingo, from there I would arrange onward transport to Mount Bromo, my next destination. At the bus terminal the men were on me like vultures. One smiling man asked me if I was headed to Mount Bromo. "Yes," I answered and he pointed me in the right direction. I headed to where all the buses were parked. A man from the information desk waved me over.

"Where are you going?"

"Probolingo," I answered suspiciously. I'm suspicious of everyone in bus terminals.

"Express or economy?" He asked.

"It doesn't matter to me; economy is okay," I replied, my first mistake of the day.

He ushered me over to the buses as men called to me, motioned, yelled, and smiled. Info Desk Guy grabbed my hand and waved them off, depositing me in front of the appropriate bus but not before asking me The Six Questions All Indonesians Love to Ask. The Six Questions are as follows:

1.) What's your name?
2.) Where do you come from?**
3.) You married?
4.) You have son?
5.) Where you going?
6.) You speak Indonesian?

**To which I answer, "American." They then shout, "A-MER-I-CA! OBAMA!!" It took me awhile to realize why they showed so much love for our President. It slipped my mind that he lived in Indonesian while he was in grade school.

Now that you are educated about the Six Questions, we can return to the matter at hand-Hell Day. If you ever find yourself in Indonesian, take my advice and never take the economy bus. It is not comfortable, however it is probably more interesting the express bus, I will give it that. There is, of course, no air-con on the economy bus. The window is in two sections; the top section can slide open to let some air in, the bottom part does not. There is a drape on the bottom window that helps block the scortching sun. Unfortunately, the sun was high enough in the sky to beat down on me through the top section of the window. Selecting which side of the bus to sit on is a very important consideration when traveling in Southeast Asia.

The bus never managed to pick up much speed, thanks to "this country's fucking traffic" (that's a direct quote from my tour agent in Probolingo). Little speed equals little breeze, so it was just me and 60 Indonesians stuck on a bus moving at 5km/hour in the sweltering heat.

Luckily(?), we did have some entertainment, first from the TV at the front of the bus that blasted Indonesian karoke songs and second from the peddlers that were allowed on the bus as we sat in a parking lot of traffic. These guys sold everything--nuts, spring rolls, cigarettes, homemade popsicles, stuffed animal key chains, and coloring books. They also had soda in a bag. Soda in a bag is wildly popular in SEAsia. It's quite easy to make: add one 200ml glass(!) bottle of coke or fanta (comes in a variety of flavors including blueberry) into a small bag of ice and throw in a straw. In addition to all these tantalizing treats, we were also serenaded by a three-man band, then a banjo player, followed by a particularly bored sounding teenage singer, then another guitar player. After their performance the musicians came around with a bag asking for money. Finally, they jumped off our bus and moved on to the next.

Following the latter string of musicians, my favorite act came on the bus. An old man who's trade was puppeteering. He manipulated his homemade cardboard puppets for nearly 15 minutes in hopes of collecting a few coins from us, his audience. His puppets included a hunched old lady with a hand colored head scarf and matching sarong, as well as a younger, bustier woman. This hip young lady puppet featured real hoop earrings and neon green mobile phone. A real go-getter this puppet was. As an added bonus, and in true puppet fashion, their limbs could be moved by a stick controlled by their puppetmaster.

Since my Bahasa Indonesian is zilch, I couldn't understand the dialogue or songs the old man performed, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with the tragic demise of traditional values and the encroachment of Western consumerism and ideals on young Indonesians. The again, maybe it was just about two women doing laundry. In any case, I was satisfied with the act, though the old man didn't get any coin from me.

My patience eventually ran thin, especially with puppeteer gone. After three hours on the bus I was near my breaking point. The traffic, the heat, the constant guitar playing and selling--I was ready to scream or cry or both. But alas we made it to Probolingo. Now I'd just have to get to Cemoro Lewang, the village next to Mount Bromo. According to my sources (a page ripped out of the Lonely Planet), it was a mere two hours by minibus. Piece of cake.

I arrived at Probolingo's bus terminal at 1:00pm and the bus to Cemoro Lewang leaves at. . . 1:00pm. I'd have to wait for the next one, which would leave when full. I parked it at Toto Tour Agency and booked my trip to from Cemoro Lewang to Bromo by jeep, as well as my onward bus to Yogyakarta. I talked to the owner, let's call him Mr. Toto, and his wife, Mrs. Toto, for nearly two hours. Mrs. Toto and I are now facebook friends. Yay.

Mrs. Toto suggested here and I sit outside Toto Tour Agency where there was more of a breeze. As soon as I sat down the hoards descended. First a peddler with a strap around his neck with a box attached to the end of the straps that rested against his abdomen. This peddler only had one arm, on which was only two fingers. He did most things (smoked his cigarette,k showed me his merchandise) with his feet. Two other gentlemen approached, not selling anything but simply wanting to ask me The Six Questions.

Finally, I went over to a shop selling bakso, an Indonesian noodle soup with meatballs. As soon as I finished my meal, Mr. Toto took me on his motorbike over to the minibus for Cemoro Lewang. The bus, as previously mentioned, would leave when full. In this teensy, tiny van, in which you sit with your knees touching your chin, there was somehow room for about 20 people. We currently had eight; it was now 3:30. I spent the next hour repeatedly answering The Six Questions, until finally I had reaching My Breaking Point. Just then our bus pulled out of the lot and my heart did a little dance of joy. Then we stopped. Our bus sat parked, engine running, straddling the lot and the busy road for the next ten minutes while Creepy Guy with Long Hair screamed "Bromo! Bromo!" out the window. Two German girls sate at the front of the bus and didn't seemed phased by any of this. It appreared they were actually enjoying themselves--laughing, smiling, chatting with locals in Indonesian. I hated them. I was about to scream, to cry and then the driver hit the gas. We went 50 meters down the road and stopped again. I closed my eyes ("Serenity now! Serenity now!") and breathed. A minute later we were off again, this time for real.

As we made our way to our destination the bus emptied out. I thought this was a good thing; I could stretch out my legs and take my backpack off my lap. However, these luxaries came at a price. Creepy Guy with Long Hair came over and started with The Six Questions, but then he cleverly manuevered the conversation to the topic of massage. And how he would give me one. I told him I don't like massage and I had to keep telling him, again. . . and again. . . and again. He ignored my attempts to brush him off, even after I put my earphones in and closing my eyes he would not let up. "We friends. Free. You no pay," Creepy promised. I decided to play my trump card and showed him pictures of Ming, "This is my husband. He is in China now, where I live," I explained to Creep.

"China in China. Indonesia in Indonesia. No problem," Creep rationalized.

"Problem," I said sharply, wanting to get my point across but not wanting to get angry.

At last we arrived, but it was after 6:00 and therefore dark. The driver took me directly to a guesthouse and the German girls got off with me. I was hoping Creep would go, but he worked for the bus and took it upon himself to help us check-in to our rooms. The offers of free massage continued, as did my terse rebuffs. Eventually Creep went away and left me with the Germans, Anna and Maria, who invited me to join them for dinner. I no longer hated them, turns out that I quite like them. They have been in Indonesia for nearly a year through their university back home and Anna has actually studied Bahasa Indonesia(n) for five years.

We ate at a local "restaurant" (two tables) and I ordered teh jahe (ginger tea) and tahu telor (rice with veggies, tofu, and peanut sauce) for the bargain price of 7,000 rupiah (70 cents). We returned to our rooms, which are spartan to say the least. I'm definitely overpaying at 65,000 rupiah, if that tells you anything. My room contains a bed, a cigarette butt, a mirror, and two blankets. That's fine. The real problem arises in the toilet, which is shared. That's not really the problem either though.

It is a typical Indonesian toilet, which is squat and accompanied by a tap that fills into a large trough of water (no sink). You dip a large ladel into the trough and dump that water into the toilet to flush. Okay, no problem, I can live with that system. No soap, okay, whatever, I have some of my own. There is, alas, no shower. Problem. If you want to shower you have to dump a ladel of freezing cold water over yourself. If I was in Bali or pretty much anywhere else in Indonesia, this might be okay, but Cemoro Lewang is cold. So cold, in fact, that I had to buy a winter hat and scarf here.

Yes, last night I froze my ass off, waking up repeatedly from sweet dreams that included winter jackets and long underwear. It is indeed very strange to go from dripping sweat to shaking in my boots all in the spanse of 35km.

Today is cold and rainy. I had lunch with Anna and Maria, bought a few postcards, and managed to run into Creep. There's not much to do in this tiny village, but I kinda enjoy being bored and freezing cold. It reminds me of Wisconsin.

Island Time-Life on Meno and then Senggigi

July 1 (continued)

Life at http://www.thesunsetgecko.com/ looked like it would suit me, but anything was better than more time spent on a bus/ferry/long boat. The Sunset Gecko is a small place, with a large open air restaurant, two bungalows, and a two floor loft, as well as a number of open air huts (in which you can eat or just relax) that are right on the beach. Cici and I had reserved a bungalow, inside was a double bed and mosquito net. I was suddenly feeling a little self-conscious about sharing a bed with Cici. I didn't really want to be asked again if she was my lover.

Outside our bungalow where two showers, one with no ceiling so you could shower under the stars/sun and a row of tidy clean toilets. An American woman, Jill, gave me the grand tour. She immediately recognized my accent as being from Chicago (close enough) and I laughed. I'm not very good with accents. I mistake Aussies for Brits, Kiwis for Aussies and generally offend people when I try to guess. I guess Canadians really hate being mistaken for Americans, so much that they trend to wear Canadian flag patches on their backpacks. Lame.

I digress, this American, Jill is a bit of a marvel, though her type is not unusual in Southeast Asia. She has been at the Gecko for three weeks with no plan to leave. She stays there for free by helping out the owner. Not a bad idea if you don't mind living simply. Life on Meno, particularly at Gecko, is a little piece of paradise.

Gecko is run by a middle-aged Japanese man named Hiro. Hiro seems quite environmentally conscious, which is tragically uncommon in this part of the world. I'm not exactly an environmentalist, but it does pain me to see adults throwing their trash off the side of the boat into the ocean and smashing glass soda bottles at the side of the road. Hiro takes things a step further than simply making sure garbage gets into the trash bin. His showers are all fresh (not salt) water which has to be brought over from the main island of Lombok. He recycles all of the water by using it on the plants and flowers found throughout Gecko. In order to recycle it, everyone must use natural soap--he gives everyone a bar for free when they stay with him. There is even a sign warning guests not to pee in the shower because it's not good for the plants.

The first night here I scarfed down two plates of rice and coconut curry. I then laid out and looked at the stars which are very clear here. My first full day on Meno was yesterday. The sea here, which I didn't get to see the previous day, is beautiful. Clear and myriad shades of blue. It is no Koh Tao (Thailand) though, nothing I've seen so far has surpassed my first and best island experience. One aspect where Meno falls short is the complete lack of sea life near the shore. There are no tropical fish nor coral; in fact, the entire beach is made of dead coral. Dead coral is a painful thing to step on and made me long for soft, silky sand. According to Hiro, 90% of the coral died due to El Nino (Spanish for, "The Nino") 10 years ago. It's all been swept to shore. The water is very shallow and standing on a bed of coral is (have I said this already?) quite painful. I didn't, therefore, much enjoy the swimming, not that I'm a huge fan of swimming to begin with.

Basically, it's just about relaxing here. I did manage to continue walking around this tiny island of 600 inhabitants yesterday. It was actually very interesting. First, I cam upon a lake, which was empty except for a few circling birds and rather eerie. I pressed on, passing neighboring Diana's Cafe, past that there was nobody. I literally did not see any people. I walked by a ground filled with nice, though weathered, cottages that stood on concrete bases. The drapes were drawn shut in all of them. Clearly they had not been used for some time. The in ground pool was decaying, filled with algae, water, and a few random fish--forever imprisoned together in this tiny area when they could be in some lake or ocean. How tragic. The hotel restaurant was lined with worn tables and overturned chairs; a lone beer bottle sat on the outdoor bar.

I continued walking and found more ruins. Another hotel with a poolside bar (fancy!) and a restaurant. This pool was empty, but showing signs of age. Further down was an abandoned pizzeria, then a set of decrepit cottages and perhaps what was once a restaurant. It was a ghost town and looked like an excellent place to explore, especially for a child. I walked on and found some nice cottages that were actually in use. In front of them was a long, coral filled beach with just a few occupants. I dipped my feet in the warm water and searched for seashells and pretty pieces of coral.

I then headed back and went for another painful swim. The water is extremely shallow and the waves were bashing me into the ground, the coral cutting my feet and legs. Ten minutes was enough. The rest of my evening was spent relaxing. Today, yet again, I'm doing hardly anything. We have to leave soon, heading for Senggigi, Lombok. Tomorrow morning we have an early flight to Surabaya, Java. I don't want to leave here, but it is time. I wish I was Jill.

July 1, 2009. . . 9pm

Today ended up going quite well. One of the workers, 17-year-old Ari, a worker at Gecko, has malaria. I never would have guessed it because he looked in such good spirits. Anyway, he had to go to Lombok to see the doctor and his dad was going to be our taxi driver (from Bangsal harbor to Senggigi) anyhow, so Ari joined us for the trip.

We left Gecko around one o'clock by horse cart, of course. I asked Hiro what the story was behind the Ghost Town. He said after the first Bali Bombing in 2002 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2002_Bali_bombings tourism slumped dramatically and the owners couldn't afford to sustain the hotels, one of which was 3 stars (must have been the one with the poolside bar). What a shame and such a waste.

We took our horse cart to the harbour and had to wait about an hour and a half for the next public boat (90cents/person) rather than charter one ($17/boat). We arrived at pain-in-the-ass Bangsal with another traveler in tow, Mathes from Germany. He approached me on the long boat and asked if he could split a cab with us. Ari and his dad (our driver), Cici, Mathes, and I all managed to crammed into the air-conditioned taxi and off we went on the windy coastal road (paved, thankfully) to Senggigi. A half an hour and a 65,000 rupiah ($6.50) cab ride later we arrived.

The center of Senggigi isn't much. We are staying at E'len Guesthouse for 75,000 rupiah and it's alright. After checking in, Cici, Mathes, and I walked about 2 km to a temple that's built on an outcrop of volcanic rock that spills directly into the sea. Very cool little temple. There were no other tourists around; however, there were a few dozen Indonesians engaged in prayer and some sort of religious ceremony. We watch them pray, get blessed with some sort of holy water, and then line up for a procession. They carried baskets of food on their head. They walked single file down to the beach and sent their offerings in a little boat out to sea. The makeshift boat quickly sank. Mathes seemed completely absorded in all this while Cici appeared disinterested. I was somewhere in between, but mostly feeling hungry.

The three of us went to a German (!) restaurant for dinner and I had a rather delicious snitzel. Tomorrow morning, 5am, we are all off to the airport to catch our early morning flights.

Island Time-getting to Gili Meno

July 1 (continued)

The day before yesterday: One Long Day. We made the journey from Ubud to Gili Meno. The Gilis are three small islands off the northwest coast of Lombok (the island neighboring Bali to the east). No motorized vehicles are allowed on any of the three islands, nor are there any stray dogs. I decided to go to Meno because it is the quietest of the three and because of the Sunset Gecko, which I will get to later.

The journey to Gili Meno is painfully slow if you do it the cheap way ($16). We were suppose to get picked up at our guesthouse in Ubud at 7am, but that turned into 7:30. Our van took us to Padang Bai, the harbour on Bali's east coast. We arrived there at 8:15 and our (slow) ferry departed at 9am, which naturally turned into 9:30. The ferry ride, which I was assured by the travel agency in Ubud, would only take three hours. It took five. We arrive at Lombok's western harbour at 2:30pm.

There were numerous touts there, aggressively trying to sell us cold drinks and crappy food. We got into the van that would take us to the other harbour, Bangsal (which would take us to the Gilis). Still the vendors came to us, pushing coca-colas and slices of pale watermelon through the windows. Cici ended up making an impulse buy of two small, whitish pineapples for 5,000 rupiah (50 cents). Not a wise investment. They were the most under-ripe, flavorless pineapples I ever did taste. Boo.

A Brit in the back of the van bought a couple of beers for 50,000 rupiah. As soon as he handed his money over for the beers, the vendor upped the price to 60,000 ($6). The Brit was not having it. He refused to pay the extra money and called the vendor a liar. The two went back and forth for a very uncomfortable minute or two, all while everyone in our van was urging our driver (an old man who probably couldn't understand a word of English) to drive. Finally the driver asked the vendor what was going on, at least I can only assume this as the conversation was in Indonesian. At this point, the vendor looked like a rabid dog--he was on the verge of going ballistic over 10,000 rupiah (ONE DOLLAR!!!). Some other mean and muscular Indonesian onlookers began to get involved. One of them exclaimed in English, "Pay him! Your boat to Gili is waiting for you! It will leave soon!" The Brit would not cave.

"No! He is a liar! Everyone saw I paid him! Now he wants more."

The rough and tumble Indonesian onlookers were not happy and started to swagger over to our van. We were surrounded by them and I was beginning to feel a little nervous and a little annoyed. I understand the principle--no one likes to feel cheated, but ONE DOLLAR is not worth a potential foreigner vs. Indonesian throw down. So I turned around from the front seat, with ten pairs of eyes staring at me.

"How much money are we talking here?" I asked.

"It's not the money; this is bullocks!" replied the Brit. I want to laugh. God, I love it when they say things like bullocks, though I can't bring myself to implement it into my venacular.

"I know it's bullshit, but it's us versus them," I reasoned. The Brit threw 10,000 rupiah (ONE DOLLAR) out the window and the driver hit the gas. Off we went again.

We then drove 45 minutes at 30km/hr to Mataram, Lombok's capital. We stopped at the tourist office for nearly half an hour, at which they gave us a ticket for the final boat trip and pushed us to book our return tickets. I refused. I asked him how much longer until we got to the Gilis. "About half an hour drive to Bangsal, maybe 25 minutes depending on traffic and then another 30 minutes by boat to Gili Meno," the filthy liar replied. I looked at my watch, nearly 4pm. I was told I'd be to Gili Meno by this time. Ah well, if we left soon we would make it there by 5 o'clock, I reasoned naively.

We did manage to leave the ticket office by 4pm and we arrived at Bangsal around quarter to five, after what seemed like an endless drive on a mountain drive on which we had to constantly swerve to avoid hitting monkeys (aggressive little beasts).

Bangsal has built itself quite a reputation and it is not described in a good light by any person or guidebook. My experience there seemed to be pretty much on spot. When we arrived we were made to wait in a crappy restaurant for 45 minutes while being harassed to buy necklaces (you know, the kind you thought were cool back in 7th grade), return tickets ("NO! For the millionth time I do not want a return ticket!"), and being asked annoying questions by locals. I'm just glad there were 30 of us, therefore they didn't bother me alone.

Finally, we were told we could go and they seperated us into groups by island. About 20 people were off to Gili Trawangan, 10 to Gili Air, and only 4 of us to Gili Meno, which I was told by one particularly annoying, questioning local was "honeymoon island." Annoying, questioning local followed us over to our boat, at which point he asked if Cici was my girlfriend. I was about to have a caniption. I was tired, hungry, and now a lesbian (not that there's anything wrong with that).

"No! I'm married!" I barked.

"To her?" he aked, gesturing to Cici.

"No, to a man! What a rude question to ask!" I yelled.

"Sorry. I thought she was your girlfriend," he said with a smile.

I wanted to scream, to cry. It was nearly 6 o'clock and the sun was setting--soon it would be dark. Get me to Gili Meno! Get me to the Sunset Gecko!

We took a wooden long boat to Meno, a bit of a scary ride as the waves tossed us around. When we arrived at the harbour it was pretty much devoid of people. There were some horse cart drivers (the only mode of transportation) that were offering to take us the one kilometer to the Sunset Gecko for 50,000 rupiah, 5 bucks; ha, I could get a cab in New York for that price! We therefore took a pass on the horse cart and decided to walk it. The sun was down but we could still follow the path around the small island by twilight. Nearly half an hour later we made it to the Sunset Gecko. It was now dark.

Island Time-Bali

Friday, June 26

I'm in Bali now, watching the waitor and the waitress while I have a coffee at a tiny cafe. The back of the cafe is open and facing a rice paddy. There is also a small shrine at which the waitor and waitress our providing daily offerings to the Gods. The offering consists of a dish made out of a leaf filled with rice, vegetables, bread, flowers, and a stick of incense. This makes me feel guilty. I am here, yet know next to nothing about Balinese culture. I don't even know to which Gods/religion they are offering to. I thought most Indonesians were Muslim, but evidently not on Bali.

So how have things been since my last "journal" (or as Cici would say, "diary") entry? I'm feeling increasingly optomistic. We arrived in Bali last night around 8pm after a two hour flight delay (that's budget airlines for ya). Our taxi took us to Ubud, which is near the center of the island. As we got out of the taxi, our driver motioned a young guy over to us. This guy, Made (pronounced "Ma'day") helped us find a guesthouse and took us to a local joint to eat. I'm always hesitant to have people help me, for fear they are going to ask for a large sum of money at the end.

I asked Made why he was helping us and he said he just wanted to introduce himself to us in case we would need a motorbike driver. We might actually take him up on that offer.

July 1

I've had a chance to do and see a lot in the past few days. On a side note, Cici is not feeling so well as she has been having trouble with one of her ears ever since our last flight. We may need to go to the hospital as soon as we make it to a proper city.

Rewinding to Ubud, it's a very charming place. There's a lot of tourists there, though it's not at all crowded (thanks Global Financial Crisis). Since the economy is in a slump, tourism is down here, just like everywhere else.

Ubud is filled with little shops selling handicrafts (as Made calls it), cafes, restaurants, and guesthouses. My first day there I spent walking around and had a delicious (but salty) tuna steak. In the afternoon I went shopping with CiCi. As I probably previously mentioned, she doesn't exercise a lot of restraint in her purchases. I try to reel her in a bit, but I'm afraid of being too bossy/controlling (which I surely am). Her motto is, and this is a direct quote: "Just buy it." I can't live by that, although I'm sure Cici would get on well living in the U.S. as long as she could secure a Mastercard.

My second day in Ubud. . . for some reason I can't remember very clearly. I went out for some local food with Cici. After lunch, ah, I remember now--I am probably just trying to block the unpleasant experience from my memory!

I went to the Monkey Forest, which is one of Ubud's big attractions. I'm not the biggest fan of monkeys to begin with. I haven't had a lot of positive experiences with them--aggressive, rude little beasts. The monkeys at this park were even worse than expected.

When you enter the park you can buy a bunch of bananas to feed the monkeys with. Most people do, thank God I didn't. The monkeys climb all over people trying to take the food. In fact, two monkeys climbed on me and attempted to steal my water bottle. It was terrifying. I could picture one of them grabbing my camera and wallet and then making a break for it while the other one bit me and gave me rabies. Luckily, I managed to get everything into my purse and zip it up, then walked slowly over to a group of people holding food. The monkeys quickly lost interest in me and jumped off. What a relief.

That evening I went out to dinner with Cici and then we went to see a performance at one of Ubud's many temples. It was strange. Basically a large group of half naked men chanting around a fire with a couple of girls dancing around the middle. A "monster" would then come and kidnap one of the women. This went on for about one hour. Then two very young girls (about eight) came out and danced in unison, pretended to die, and then got up and danced again. Repeat three times. The final five minutes consisted of a fire being made, trampled, and then a man walking over the burning ashes (fire dancing). Not sure if it was woth 75,000 rupiah ($7.50).

The third day, our last day, in Ubud was pretty fantastic. We hired Made and his friend Made (no joke, it's a very common day. I think it means "second son") to be our drivers. We started off at 8:30am and they took us to a cave that is carved like a dragon with an open mouth, though it is called Elephant Cave. We then went to a small temple in a valley that was surrounded by waterfalls and rice terraces. The climb back up to the motorbikes was tiring; I thought Cici might not make it. The next part was really cool. We went to a hot spring that is believed to have magical powers. Numerous locals were bathing in it and the Indonesian president's Balinese home even overlooks this sacred spot. Next to the springs is a temple. It was packed full of people, mostly dressed in white, who were providing offerings and praying. Just as we made our way to leave, a performance began right in front of us. Men dressed ornately in white, carrying sticks did a ritual dance as people around us prayed. The sun beat down, but I didn't really mind.

After that we visited an organic farm which produces coffee, cocoa, tea, and various spices. We got to taste ginger tea, ginseng coffee, cocoa, and Balinese coffee. They were all delicious, but the prices they were asking were a bit outrageous. Cici managed to spend $20 there, after haggling for 15 minutes--something I simply didn't have the energy for.

To wrap up our trip we stopped at a viewpoint overlooking a lake and volcano. We were harassed by touts and I found myself buying a bag full of passion fruit from an old lady with catoracs and a t-shirt from another seller. We then had a very disappointing lunch (fried noodles should not equal Ramen noodles) at a restaurant overlooking the lake. At least it only cost $1.20, not as tragic as the god awful 25 euro meal Ming and I had on Andros Island in Greece. Our last stop was a viewpoint that overlooks a stunning rice terrace near Ubud. Overall, a very good day.

Yes, you can read my diary

Monday, June 22

I'm back in Beijing after three weeks in Europe. It's a little strange. I definitely have to switch to Asia mode. When we got off the airport shuttle at Beijing train station, we were greeted by a pack of touts wanting to give us a ride/or take us to a hotel. That never happened in Europe. That always happens in China.

I'm staying with my Chinese friend, Cici, tonight. We are leaving for Tianjin early tomorrow morning, taking the bullet train. My first bullet train experience. Exciting.

To tell you the truth, I'm not feeling all that excited about the second lag (or is it leg?) of my trip. Mostly I'm feeling tired. I'm also worried about Cici. This might be difficult and scary for her. I know I'll need to be patient, which will be difficult. I'm already a bit burnt out from traveling. I do think our personalities compliement each other fairly well, so things should go fairly smoothly.

Unfortunately, I am pretty much going to Indonesia on nothing, as I left my guidebook back in Chengde and will be mostly winging this trip after all my precise planning in Europe.

Tuesday, June 23

This morning we took the fast train (330km/hr at top speed. Don't ask me what that is in miles) from Beijing to Tianjin. Now we are just killing time as it is to early to go to the airport. Cici, however, doesn't seem to want to do much of anything, which equates to us hanging out at the train station's KFC. Not exactly wanted to do with my day, but that's what happens when you have other people buy train tickets for you. Cici's over cautious boyfriend got us tickets that had us arrive in Tianjin at 8am. Our plane leaves at 4pm.

This is going to be a difficult trip for me; I can sense it. Perhaps that's pessimistic? I wish I were alone, left to my ponderings and crabbiness. I miss Ming and want to go home, but at the same time the thought of slipping back into my former life (living in Chengde, teaching everyday) feels me with dread. It's always so hard for me to adjust when coming back to China. So difficult, in fact, that it makes me question ever leaving in the first place.

Cici, ah, Cici. This is the first time I've traveled with a Chinese person other than Ming. I know she is looking to me to figure things out, but I don't much know what I'm doing. Perhaps a guidebook would help. There's more to say, but Cici is looking over my shoulder.

Wednesday, June 24

Today is a slightly better day for me. I'm excited to be in KL (Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia), our stop over before heading to Bali. I'm most excited by all the delicious food that surrounds me. I still miss Ming and there is a part of me that wishes I was left alone to my grumpy ole self. I'm too serious, yes. And a bit of a loner at times. I definitely take things too personally. I see these weaknesses in myself--can i change them? "You need to change your personality," Ming said to me while in Greece (among other times). If only it were that easy.

As for the time spent in KL. . . we got into the city late last night, around midnight. Our taxi driver was quite nice and chatty, as was our waitor at the Indian restaurant we went to. The locals here, many of them speak English as a native speaker would. In fact, when the Indian waitor didn't hear me clearly he said, "Come again?" I think it might be a bit of a blow to Cici's English speaking confidence. However, the situation is different here than it is for most Chinese. I think people here grow up using English. Thanks British imperialism.

We are staying at Red Palm Hostel, which is where Katalin and I stayed when we were here two years ago. I can't believe it's been two years. I miss Katalin. She is so well-traveled and we really have similar interests. Cici and I share one common interest--food! She is a compulsive buyer. I had to talk her our of buying a $50 pair of shorts (that's two days budget here!) at The Gap (first store we went to) today. She's also not much for walking, which is one exercise I actually enjoy.

It's hot here, of course, but it's the humidity that's killer for me. But it's fairly laid back and the people are friendly. I love the open-air restaurants and air-conditioned 7/11's.

Today we took the monorail to the Petronas Towers (which are twin towers that are among the tallest buildings in the world). I got scolded by Cici for crossing the street on a "Do Not Walk." I let her have it. I'm just a bitch. Why am I so crabby? It may be the lack of sleep, which I'm hopefully caught up on now?

We also visited Chinatown and ate Chinese food (CiCi didn't believe me when I told her it was Chinese food). We walked to Sentral Market and Merdaka Square. She seemed pretty underwhelmed by all of it. Then the sky became heavy with grey clouds and we could hear thunder, so we made our way toward the monorail. Right after we got in, it began to pour. We eventually made it back to the hostel. I passed out for four hours and then we went next door for dinner. Naan bread with curry, Tom Yam soup, and a Chai tea for 6.7 ringgit ($2). I'm in heaven, but tomorrow we are off to Bali which will be another kind of heaven.

Happiness

I wanted to get an early start in Beijing, so I did something I've never done before-I took an overnight sleeper train from Chengde to Beijing. The train, leaving Chengde at 11pm, arrived in Beijing at the ever-so-convenient hour of 4am. I wasn't thrilled to be woken up at 3:30 by the turning on of my compartment's lights, but it was a relieft to know I'd be escaping the stinky, filthy train. A 62RMB (US$9) train ticket got me an upper berth bunk, however cleanliness and freshness were not included. The bed sheets were grease stained and my pillow covered in hair. The blanket was thick, the kind you know is too big to be washed often. The smell. . .how to describe it? A combination of garbage, dragon's breath, and discount soap. Perhaps the most difficult aspect of the stench was determining its source. Was there garbage stowed under the lower bunks? Was it the body odor of the elderly man in the bunk under me? Could it be me? Sniff, sniff. Nope, not me. A good sign and one which allowed me to bury my nose deep in my collar, choosing to breath in thick, stuffy air over the nauseating stink.



I was happy to arrive in Beijing, despite the hour. What's it like to arrive in another city so early? Many of you may know the discomfort of being newly arrived somewhere in the morning. Judgement impaired by the fogginess of your waking brain. The cluelessness. The slight fear of being in a strange place at a dangerous hour. Luckily, these are feelings I never have to experience in Beijing. For a city of it's size, it is remarkably safe. And I know the city well-as well as can be expected of a constantly changing city of 17 million inhabitants that I no longer reside in. All I feel in Beijing is happiness. Happiness at the prospect that the only thing that stands between me and a Mocha Frappae is time (cafe opens at 7am) and not distance (distance from Chengde to nearest Starbucks=190 miles). The happiness of knowing that just about any food option is little more than a subway ride away. Tunisian, Kosher, Burmese, organic-the Beijing dining scene has much on Chengde's (McDonalds, KFC). Only problem is that I have a few hours to kill before I can begin to indulge on all Beijing has to offer.



The Beijing train station. . .at 4am it is uncharacteristically calm. It's still about as busy as most American train stations would be during the day, but that's a far cry from the usual pushing and chaos. Throughout the train station people are sprawled out on mats, soundly sleeping. I tiptoe past them and make way to the exit, moving about freely. Normally I am just part of the herd. Outside, touts are resilient as ever, pushing the newly published 2009 Beijing City Map.



"Yi kuai, yi kuai, yi kuai, yi kuai!" they cry, shoving a copy in my face. Only 15 cents. Still, I'll pass.



I successfully pass the first wave only to be greeted by the second.



"Lady! Hotel! Lady!" they yell, despite my diverted eye contact. Second wave gone. Third wave.



"Taxi! Taxi!" cries one man persistently, "Taxi! Ni qu na'r? Shuo hua!" "Where are you going? Talk!" he demands.

I turn, smile, point to the hostel across the street, and reply, "I'm going across the street."

His jaw drops. He abandons his annoying tout act and opts for treating me like an actual person.

"You should use the stairs over there," he directs me.

"I know, thank you!" I reply while walking away.

"Your Chinese is very good!!!" he screams after me. I almost believe him. Though I can't see him, I'm almost certain he is giving me a thumbs up.

I head over to the 24 hour McDonald's. It's packed with Chinese, most of them napping, others sipping tea. I look up at the menu board and to my disappointement they aren't serving breakfast. It's too early. At least I can get a coffee. I plop down and before long an interesting duo walks in. These two men clearly aren't a Chinese McDonald's typical patrons. One is wearing a large green coat that is commonly worn among migrant workers and young soldiers. The man has a wild look in his eyes and walks with a limp. His friend is poorly dressed and disabled, reliant on a make-shift set of wooden crutches. I am silently rooting for them to go to the counter and order a Big Mac, to prove all my assumptions wrong.

The man in the coat approaches the counter, making unintelligable demands. His friend approaches and the first man backs away from the counter, nearing me. He grabs at a stool that is firmly attached to the ground. Looking troubled, his eyes survey the room. At last he locates an unattached chair and brings it over to the counter for his friend to sit. The second man slumps into the chair, dropping his crutches to the floor, and pulls out a plastic bag. From the bag he extracts several large piles of 1 RMB (15 cent) and 1 jiao (7 cent) bills. The cashiers begrudgingly begin counting them. Meanwhile, his green-coated comrade leaves the counter. He casually picks up a cup of coffee someone left behind before he sits down. Though I know how this will play out, a part of me still hopes. Though the chances are small, the disabled man could his change to purchase extra value meals for him and his buddy. My hope is lost, however, when he leaves the counter the proud owner of large denomination bills.

The sun is finally starting to creep up and I can see the first signs of light outside. It's been a fairly interesting morning thus far and it's only 7am. I leave McDonald's and happily make my way towards my first indulgence-a Toffee Nut Latte.

an auspicious number

Numbers are important in China.  The unluckiest of them being four, pronounced si (like the sound a snake makes).  The word death shares this same pronunciation, though with a different tone.  

The most auspicious number in Chinese is eight.  You want an eight in your phone number?  You pay more money.  You want to get married?  Best to do it in August, preferably on the eighth.  You want to host the Olympic games?  You schedule the opening ceremony for August 8, 2008 at 8:08pm.  Eight is a number that represents wealth and good fortune; the Chinese take these things very seriously.

My August 8th of 2008 went quite well.  I managed to find myself at a wedding, not surprisingly.  The number of people getting married skyrocketed that day.  Lots of eights and the opening of the Olympics. . .a day that lucky only comes around once in a lifetime.  

This was the third time I've attended a Chinese wedding.  This time I was attending the wedding of one of Ming's high school classmates.  Don't ask me his name, I forgot, as I usually do with Chinese names.  The whole ordeal lasted less than two hours.  Definitely not as fun as an American wedding-no Chicken Dance.  No Holky Polky.  And definitely no YMCA.  There was, however, plenty of alcohol.

We arrived at the hotel banquet hall just before noon and seated ourselves at a dinner table in front of a small stage at the front of the room.  On the table there was already a spread of appetizers, a plate of candy and nuts, a plate (?!) of cigarettes, two bottles of baijiu (vile tasting Chinese liquor), and a few 2 liter bottles of soda.  Mama cracked open the liquor and poured us a couple of glasses.  That woman doesn't waste any time.

A few minutes later the happy couple entered the back of the room.  Confetti and bubbles filled the air as they walked down the makeshift aisle on each side of which were half a dozen tables.  A short speech was made.  The couples parents were seated on the stage.  After the speech the couples took turns bowing to each others parents.  Then they bowed to each other.  Rings were exchanged.  Unity candle lit.  I don't think there was even a kiss. . . and waaa-BAM.  It was over.  All that was left to do was eat.  And drink.

The couples came around to toast us (as well as some annoying man with a camcorder.  I hate those people with camcorders).  The groom's mother also toasted us, but drank Apple Fanta out of a wine glass, which I consider cheating.  I toasted Mama and Mama toasted me, with biajiu, several times.  I began to feel a little woosy, thus switching to beer.  I stuffed my face with fried shrimp, meatballs, stewed beef and potatoes, fish, and fresh fruit.  The food at Chinese weddings definitely trumps American ones.  But there is no cutting of the wedding cake because there is no wedding cake.  No bouquet tossing.  None of the embarrassment of the groom trying to remove the guarder.  No sappy sweet father-daughter wedding dance.  By 1:30pm everything had wrapped up.  Ming had to go to work and I was left stumbling home to await the most awesome opening ceremony ever.  The Chinese may have got it right with the Olympics, but they still have a lot to learn about throwing a good wedding.

Potato Chip Gallery

I am truly amazed at the variety of Lay's Potato Chips in this country.   I've made it my mission to try all the odd flavored Lays I've been avoiding for years now.  I will be reporting in back to you.  

This all began with my discovery of Blueberry Lays a couple weeks ago.  Today I stumbled upon Mango, a true gold mine.  If you want to try any of these delectable flavors yourself, you're going to have to come for a visit.

Blueberry I opened the bag and smelt blueberry deliciousness.  The chips weren't blue or purple as I expected, however; just their normal golden potato color.  The flavor was strange, but manageable.  I have to admit that I'm pretty open minded to tasting new flavors-it's become a means to survive here.  To describe the blueberry chip, well, it tasted blueberry, much like blueberry flavored gum or candy.  It also tasty distinctly potato chipy, like a crunchy, salty potato chip.  The combination of these two separately delicious flavors was ok.  But salt and blueberry don't mix together all that well.  I don't really care much for salt with my fruits.  I do like that there is no aftertaste.  I give it three stars (out of five).  I'd rather stick to "American Flavor Lays" (plain, salted).  

Mango  Has an unidentifiable fruity smell and tastes a bit like a salty peach.  Also, no aftertaste.  I prefer the blueberry.  Two stars.

Cucumber  All this potato chip tasting has made me realize I need to start hitting the gym again.  But for Cucumber flavored Lays, the calories are worth it.  Delicious.  Other than Original American Salt Flavor, these are my favorite.  A little salty, a little vegetably, and no aftertaste.  Four and a half stars.

Lychee  What is a lychee? you might ask.  It is a Chinese fruit that tastes how a grandmother's house smells.  That is, it tastes like stale potpourri and death.  Not one of my favorite fruits.  And it's no better as a potato chip flavor.  It sucks.  One star.

Late Night Rendezvous

When your significant other's cell phone begins ringing at 11:30pm, certain things may cross your mind.  The first being, "Who the hell is calling?"  

Is there a crisis at work?  Some kind of family emergency?  Or worse, a call from a distraught secret lover?  

Where I come from, unspoken phone call etiquette exists.  If you think there is a possibility that the person has gone to sleep for the night, or still hasn't woken up in the morning, than don't call.  Of course there are exceptions to this-for example, all that 4am drunk dialing you did Freshman year of college was probably acceptable at the time.  But now that we are adults, there are certain codes of phone call conduct we must adhere to.  In America.  

In China, things are, as always, different.  For example, it is perfectly acceptable for one of my husband's coworkers to call at 1am asking for advice.  I realize he is the head manager at the hotel he is working at, but I don't think I'll ever find it reasonable for someone to call in the wee hours of the morning to ask, "Can Mr. Wang be given a 20% discount?"  When Ming answers with a furious no, it is not uncommon for a follow up call to occur two minutes later.  "Can we give Mr. Wang a 15% discount?"  To this Ming replies with a long string of Chinese curse words which I usually find highly amusing.  Though it's not so amusing after midnight.

While these calls are a little troubling, they are not as bad as the ones the require Ming to leave in the middle of the night.  Sometimes there's a problem at work that must be attended to, other times there is KTV.

"What is KTV?" you ask.  I'll tell you.  It's a phenomenon that has been sweeping Asia since it started in Japan in the 1970s.  It hit the American scene in the 1990s.  You and I know of it as karaoke.  To us, it's a fun and annoying past time that includes singing while intoxicated to songs like Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back" in a cheesy corner bar full of strangers.  To the Chinese, it is something entirely different.

First, the Chinese don't sing in front of a bar of strangers.  KTV is found in what looks like a hotel.  A huge building filled with rooms of various sizes.  When you enter the lobby, you go to the front desk and request a room.  You can get a larger room if you have a big party or if you are a monied Chinese hoping to show off to friends or business associates.  Larger rooms are more expensive.  Rooms are rented by the hour and rates are usually more expensive on the weekends and at night.

Once in your room you will find a TV, a computer for selecting songs, two microphones, a couch or two, a table, and (if it's a nice room) a bar.  A waitress will come to take drink and snack orders.  Drinking beer is essential to KTVing.  So is chain smoking.

You might be wondering if I can even participate in such an activity.  I'm not much for chain smoking and certainly singing in Chinese is not easy.  Are English songs even available?  I'll have you know, they most certainly are.  The selection, however, leaves much to be desired.  What's on the menu?  A little Madonna circa 1985, classic Britney and MJ.  Oh, and The Carpenters.  Who are they?  Yeah, I don't really know.  I usually stick to "Baby, Hit Me One More Time" and "Smooth Criminal."

What's most different from American karaoke is not the venue, but rather the nature of karaoking itself.  While it can be enjoyed during a drunken night with friends, it is most often used as a way to form business relationships.  Meeting new people and establishing a relationship is key to survival in China, especially for men.  With such fierce competition in the job market, who you know is everything.  And what better way to introduce and meet new people than through a night at KTV?

Last week, I found myself without my husband late into the night after an 11pm phone call requesting him to go karaoke.  This happened twice.  I think most American women would find this somewhat infuriating, especially considering that Ming did not return home until 5am on Thursday morning and then went out again the following night.  But I just try to grin and bare it.  This KTV culture is a part of China that's unavoidable.  Often time I do get invited along, but I rather miss the endless hours of painful Chinese singing and ongoing requests for me to sing Mariah Carey's "Hero" or Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On."  My time is better spend at home in the comfort of my bed. 

Parenting in Tongues

It's 6pm on a Sunday night.  Ming's boss's son, Kai is here in our apartment.  He a seemingly well-behaved boy of seven.  Ping, Ming's daughter, age four, is also here.  And then there's me; that makes three.

I've never been afraid of kids, just like I've never been afraid of adults (meaning, people my parents' age) because I feel at ease around people who aren't my peers.  But living in China puts a new twist on things, as always.  Suddenly, I'm a bit terrified of both little and big people.  

These two munchkins have been perched in front of the TV since 2 o'clock.  Sitting a child in front of the TV has never been my style.  Even as a nanny I always tried to keep it to a minimum of an hour or so during the day.  But there's no arguing, TV gives baby-sitters and parents a great break from responsibility-clearly, or I wouldn't be writing this blog right now.  It's not a break I'm looking for, however; my downfall is my lack of words.

My Chinese has progressed to the point of being able to tell Ping to pick out a DVD, get dressed so we can go outside, and stop eating junk food because she's gonna have a tummy ache.  While being able to express such things is a great help, my inability to explain or reason with her still remains.  While I'd like to ask Kai what else he'd like to do besides watch TV, I'm scared he won't understand me.  Or I won't understand his reply.  Or I will understand his reply but won't be able to explain why that choice is unacceptable.  This leaves me mostly silent and it's a problem that plagues me on a daily level.  To get over the fear and to just speak is key to language learning.  I know that, but putting it into practice is difficult.

I don't always give myself enough credit.  When Kai came over he asked Ping (in Chinese, of course), "Can your mom speak Chinese?"  I was not looking forward to Ping's answer.  Ping, like most young children, is brutally honest.  She was gonna tell it like it is.  She was going to out me for what I really am, a wannabe-Chinese-speaker.  Afterall, whenever Ming speaks English Ping often cuts in, "Let mom say it.  You say it wrong.  You can't speak English."  Girl is way harsh; that's why her reply surprised me.

"Yeah, my mom can speak Chinese.  She can speak English too.  She can speak both."  A shining moment.  A burst of confidence.  Little good it's done.  I've been mostly keeping quiet this afternoon.  But the shyness isn't the worst of it.  The worst is the frustration.  And frustration hit me hard earlier in the week.  

It was about dinnertime and Ming's mom came over to cook.  She told me to go downstairs and watch Ping, who was playing in our apartment complex's playground.  She'd have Ming call me when he got home from work and dinner was ready.  

When I arrived at the playground, Ping was being watched by an elderly lady.  She pushed Ping and two other girls in a tire swing.  

"My mom's here," Ping exclaimed, waving at me.  A minute or two passed as I watched the group play.  

"Where's your mommy?" the elderly lady asked Ping.  

"She's right there!" Ping replied, again pointing at me.  

"Impossible!"  The old lady exclaimed.  

"Really, that's my mom!"  Ping insisted while pointing.  I began to wave.  

"Really?"  the old bag asked skeptically.  I looked her in the eye and began nodding. 

At this point, a whole posse of old ladies, waving their Chinese fans, began eyeing me.  Me, the impostor.  Me, the infiltrator.  Me, the foreigner.  But I held my head up high.

Ping got nearly a good full hour of playtime in when my phone rang and it was time to go.  She was playing with a few girls in a gazebo while one girl's father looked on.  I approached them.  I called Ping's name, praying she'd go without a fight.  She ignored me.  

"You're mother's calling you," the father told her.

She looked at me casually.  Then looked away and continued singing with the other girls.

"Ping," I said again, keeping my voice level.  No response.

"Ok, bye-bye!" I said, walking away.  It's a good trick.  If they think you're leaving, they're bound to follow you.  Well, it usually works.  When I looked back, she wasn't behind me.  She was still singing happily away.

"PING!!" 

Now she came running.  I grabbed her hand forcefully.  Everyone was looking at us.  We walked quickly.  I wanted to tell her that it was important to come when I called.  That grandma and daddy where waiting for us.  I wanted to tell her so many things.  And I probably could.  But my fear and anger silenced me.  

I'm not sure how to get over my silence.  Then again, maybe I don't have to.  It is now 6:45 and they have grown tired of TV.  They are playing make believe (school, and Ping is the teacher).  They are doing exactly what I want without me even telling them.  I only had to wait a few hours for it to happen.

Beijing 2008

Beijing Olympic Stadium, aka "The Bird's Nest," April 08

The final stretch is here, only 30 days left to go.  I remember standing in front of the Olympic Countdown by Tiananmen Square and there being well over 1000 days between me and the big event.  The anticipation is mounting.  The Chinese people have been waiting for their day in the spotlight; they have been waiting for nearly seven years-if not forever.   In July 2001, the International Olympic Committee announced that Beijing had been elected to host the 2008 Summer Olympics, beating Osaka, Istanbul, Paris, and Toronto.

But I don't even live in Beijing anymore.  Which is too bad, considering my blog address and name is Rosie in BJ.  Currently, it's Rosie in CD (that's Chengde, for those of you unaware of my current location).  On second thought though, I'm quite relieved to be living outside of Beijing.  It's a city hectic enough on it's own and with added pressure with the upcoming Olympics the place is utter pandemonium.  Everything too old is being demolished and rebuilt.  Everything semi-old is being repainted.  Every sidewalk is being redone.  Every sidewalk peddler is getting chased away by the police.  Where is the old Beijing that I had grown to love?  Everything is so sanitary and boring now.  It's nearly impossible to find pirated DVDs.  I hardly see the point in going to visit.  And I won't be, at least not next month.  I couldn't afford it.  My old stand-by, City Central Youth Hostel, currently charges 45RMB ($7) for a bed in a 6 bed dorm.  Next month they will be charging 270RMB ($42) for a dorm bed.  Just a bed!  And they are one of the most reasonably priced hostels in the city.

The price gorging of hostels, hotels, transportation, food, beverage, and entrance fees annoys me.  Yes.  But it is manageable, especially since I'm living nearly 200 miles outside of Beijing.  My most serious problem, a problem faced by all foreigners living and visiting China, is that of the visa.  The visa.  How this word has plagued me in my life!  First with Zhao Ming trying to get an American visa and now we me.  Me.  In the past the Chinese government has issued visa quite willy-nilly.  Never was there too much fuss over getting one.  I was even able to buy a new one without ever having to leave the country (I don't know if this is allowed in any other country in the entire world).  Things are different now.  Thank you Olympics.  Thank you for causing so much trouble in my life.

My initial freak out was back in April when I heard that the government was putting restrictions on visas.  It would be near impossible to buy a new visa in-country.  (I would latter find it was possible.  A one year business visa would set a person back $1500, probably about 8 times what it cost a year ago).  For most people, one would have to go back to her homeland and apply for a Chinese visa.  Visas were only going to be issued for one month stays and proof of accommodation (aka hotel booking confirmation) and onward travel (aka a roundtrip plane ticket) were required.  No extensions would be given on visas.  Would the Chinese government have mercy on me, given that I was married to one of there own??? I was afraid they wouldn't. 

The good news, they do make exceptions for us married couples.  Phew!  What a relief to know I wouldn't have to leave my home and husband behind for the summer.  Now I could focus on the next issue at hand, finding a job.  

Usually landing a job in China is easy for a girl like me.  I'm highly marketable.  Being female, Caucasian, and American usually scores me major points.  Since this is China, there are no regulations regarding hiring based on sex, gender, or ethnicity.  Not that I'm advocating this practice in any way, it just happens to work to my advantage.  Unfortunately, I currently have one major disadvantage, a definite strike against me.  I have a 6 month tourist visa.  I do not have a work visa.  Prior to these new Olympic visa policies, this probably wouldn't have been much of an issue.  Even if it had been, arranging the correct visa would have been easy.  Those days are gone.  The only way I can now arrange a work visa is by returning to America and getting the correct visa at a Chinese embassy or consulate there.  Would you care to guess the current cost of a roundtrip ticket from Beijing to Chicago?  Would you further care to guess how many months salary that would be for me?  (answers at end of blog).

I know many of my friends and family would love for me to come home for a visit, whatever the reason.  Considering, however, that I was just home four months ago, I will not be returning this soon.  I will try working from home and earn money through tutoring, writing, and editing.  I think this is a logical and happy solution, but I'll still be relieved when the Olympics are over.  I hope then things will go back to normal then, whatever normal means for China, I'm still not entirely sure.

Answers: Roundtrip from Beijing to Chicago this summer=$1495.  This equals about 2.5 months salary for the flight alone.

cramping my style

So what's it like to live with my future mother-in-law in a one bedroom apartment in a small northeastern Chinese city? It's funny you should ask because I'd be more than happy to tell you.

As of September 30th, Ming and I could no longer consider ourselves Beijingers. It was time to leave our home of a year and a half. Our landlord wanted us out and it was time to go anyways. Off we went to Ming's hometown, the place where we first meet, Chengde.

I may have said this before, but I'll say it again. Chengde is very small by Chinese standards. It has a population roughly the same as my fairly large sized hometown of Milwaukee, Wisconsin (population: 700,000), but that's a small town in a country of 1,300,000,000 people (America: just 300,000,000 people). Here, I can't find the everyday luxuaries that I can find in Beijing. No venti Cafe Americanos, no pepperoni pizza, no dental floss. I have to rough it here and I must do so with a smile because my in-laws are never more than 10 feet away from me.

Though things have been challenging this past month, I must point out that life here is not without its advantages. A taxi ride anywhere in the city isn't more than a dollar. The air is cleaner and the streets slightly less crowded than Beijing. But perhaps one of the best perks is that I'm not allowed near any cooking or cleaning supplies. Everything is done for me and mama (as I refer to Ming's mother) appears more than happy to do these things for me. I can understand why. Since being forced to retire (as all Chinese are) last year at the tender age of 52, mama has a lot of time on her hands.

But this kindness has a way of knawing away at the independent American inside of me. I am 24-years-old and capable of making a bed and washing my own clothes. Cooking on the other hand. . .well, I'm not great with a wok. I certainly can't complain about the 5 course meals served to me every lunch and dinner, although I do have something to say about the manner in which they are served. . . .

To the distress of every dietician and anorexic out there, at the Chinese dining table people never believe you've eaten enough. Perhaps this is why one of the first Chinese phrases a foreigner learns is "Chi bao le" ("I'm full.") and also why "How are you?" is often mistranslated into Chinese as "Ni chi le ma?" ("Did you eat?"). Here, the state of your well-being is based on whether or not you recently ate a meal.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Before one can achieve fullness, naturally she must try everything on the table. Right? It is insisted that I try everything-stinky eggs, liver, congealed blood, chunks of pork fat. There are just some things a girl will never find appetizing, but try them I do. The problem then arises, since I have eaten the food it is therefore assumed that I like it and that an additional serving must be heaped on top of my rice. I now have two options: be rude and admit to not liking it or pretend to like it and be subjected to eating it for the rest of my life. I chose the former. Luckily I'm not as picky as I once was. I'll eat my way through seaweed, sprouts, unidentifiable pickled vegetables, donkey, goat, fish heads, and every flavor and texture of tofu. Miraculously, I have not put on any weight.

Once I've navigated my way through an entire meal, feeling all bloated and lethargic, I wish to retire away in a cozy corner of the house. But I can't. This is no house. This is a small one bedroom apartment with a 2x2 foot bathroom. The only privacy I have is when I'm taking a shower (over the squatty potty) and that's only on sunny days. The water is heated by solar power. Unfortunately, it's been pretty gloomy and cold in Chengde these days. You don't want to know how long it's been since I last took a shower.

My Hungarian friend, Katalin, so kindly reminded me that this is, indeed, how most of the world lives. Elbow to elbow with their overbearing relatives, everyday, in cramped apartments. But if this is what my future holds, all I ask is to be able to have a decent bathroom to hideaway in.

The Visa

For those who don't know, the word visa has been on my mind for the last 14 months. In order for Ming to come home with me, he needs one of these little things. 14 months of waiting for a 3x4inch sticker. But what exactly is a visa? Since many people don't know, I will explain. First, however, I must admit that I don't fully understand what it is, but I do know it is a huge pain in the ass to get one to the United States.

A visa is usually a sticket that goes inside one's passport and allows that person to enter the country from which the visa is issued from. Usually people get them at that country's embassy, but some are granted it on arrival at customs. There are different kinds of visas (working, student, tourist, etc.) for different periods of time (30 days, 90 days, indefinite). What kind of visa a person can get depends on many factors, but the most important probably being one's nationality.

Americans, for example, can go to most European countries for 3 months, no visa needed. For a Chinese person it usually takes a lot of hoop-jumping and months of waiting to get such a visa, and many people don't even get it. In fact, the only country Chinese people can go to without a visa is Burma. Burma, that's it. It is not easy for the Chinese to travel abroad and it's even more difficult for them to live abroad.

Even for Americans it's tough get the appropriate visa that allows them to live in foreign countires. If it's your dream to live in Paris, than I suggest you find yourself a French husband (or wife), because otherwise, forget it. I'm lucky because (until recently) staying in China has been pretty easy. Previously, either I or my work would pay a few hundred bucks and I could get a new 6 month visa without even leaving the country. But with the Olympics just around the corner (Beijing 2008), the Chinese government has decided to make things a bit more difficult.

The past few months I've been a bit of an emotional wreck, having little control over Ming and my future. If he didn't get a visa to America I would have to find a way to stay in China legally. I would most likely have to return to teaching English, not my profession of choice. Not to mention I'm China'd-out. I think I've nearly reached my breaking point with the the air pollution, squatty potties, spitting, and over-crowding.

When we went to Ming's first interview in August, I was nervous. I was butterflies in my stomach, want to throw up, nervous. We couldn't even go through the ordeal in Beijing. Ming applied for a K-1 immigrant visa and the interviews for those are strictly held in Guangzhou (pronounced "Goo-wong Joe"). The trip from Beijing to Guangzhou takes almost a full day on a train. In terms of distance it's probably comparable to Chicago-New Orleans. Normally I find it exciting to travel to new cities, but on the eve of a life altering decision I would prefer to sleep in my own bed.

The result of the first interview was not as we hoped, but pretty much what I had expected it to be. He didn't get the visa. We were instructed to come back to Guangzhou in a month to submit additional documents to 'prove our relationship.' Prove our relationship. That's the whole point of the interview, yet they wouldn't even let me go into the interview with him. Next to an explicit video, isn't that some of the best proof out there? Here we were, together, in Guangzhou, hundreds and hundreds of miles from Ming's hometown and several thousand from mine. But they would only talk with him.

This past weekend we went back to Guangzhou and on Monday Ming went to his second interview. He submitted his passport and the requested documents and he was told to come back on Wednesday. But come back for what? That wasn't made clear and there's no one to ask. This is the ever-so-mysterious American government we are talking about. Was he getting the visa? We came back at the designated time, 2:30 on Wednesday. We actually arrived 40 minutes early, but there was already a sizable line forming outside the door. A little panic set in. Our train for Beijing was departing at 5:25. How long was this going to take? Of course, there was no way of knowing.

I left Ming and grabbed a coffee and I waited. . .and waited. . .and waited. 4:10 came around and I couldn't wait any longer or I'd miss the train. It would take me at least 30 minutes to take the subway to the train station, plus I'd have to try and return his ticket for a refund. This barely left me with enough time to board the train.

It was time to hussle, which is never fun in 95 degree weather. I must give credit to Guangzhou metro for being air-conditioned and surprisingly uncrowded for a large Chinese city. About every other second I looked at my cell. This was truly one of those why-isn't-he-calling-me moments. There was no point in calling him though. His phone was surely left with Operation Homeland Security outside of the American Embassy. 4:40 and finally, finally, finally my phone rang. At that moment, I hardly cared if he got the visa. I just wanted to know where he was.

"I GOT IT!" He exclaimed. Well, I guess I did care, because relief swept over me.

"Great. Where are you? Can you get a taxi to the station? Meet me in the ticket hall." I barked.

"Ok. But I have to pick up my passport on Friday. I can't leave Guangzhou now." He explained.

Nearly 5:00 and I arrived at the station, completely saturated in my own perspiration. The place was, in typical Chinese train station fashion, swarming with people. Imagine, if you will, a funnel with an extremely narrow neck. That was the situation I was looking at to get through security. Two doors, one person at a time, over a thousand people pushing, trying to get through those doors. But first thing was first, I'd have to get a refund for his ticket.

The ticket hall in most Chinese train stations is huge and also packed full of people. There are often over 30 ticketing windows and the Guangzhou station is no exception. I was going to have to figure out which window was designated for ticket return. I made an educated guess, which turned out to be wrong. But no worries, as Ming had arrived and could sort it all out.

There was no time for us to share in our joy. Only time for me to wipe the sweat off my face, give him his ticket, and dash out of there. I did make it on the train with several minutes to spare.

So tomorrow Ming will get his passport back and inside will be that sacred little sticker that will allow him to come to America to live. The only catch, we must get married within 90 days of his arrival. Come mid-Novermber we will go, together, to a great and wonderful place called the United States of America. Soon after, we will get married.

My Celebrity Status

After living in Beijing for a year and a half, I've nearly forgotten what it feels like to be a celebrity. Since residing in a district of Beijing that includes some of China's best and most popular univerisites, the area near my home is densely packed with foreigners. Most native Beijingers don't give us "laowei" (slightly deragatory Chinese word often used to describe foreigners like myself) a second glance. Besides the occasional migrant worker, me and my fellow laowei don't get much attention. But this in not the case in most parts of China where it is not uncommon to be gawked at, photographed, and even followed. Call it a curse or call it a huge burst to the self-esteem (I'm still trying to decide), it happens constantly. It helps having a big (we're talking in relative terms here) and stong Chinese man at my side. This usually prevents any annoying or rude remarks, but when I'm on my own I'm left to my own defenses.

Currently I am not alone, but with my big, strong Chinese man. We are away from Beijing and in southern China, awaiting the approval of his visa which will allow him to travel to America. Being here is almost like being in another country. The language is different (Cantonese rather than standard Mandarin), the food is different (sweet and light vs. Beijing's salty and greasy eats), and the people even look and are shaped different. In fact, this is a great area of the world for those who are vertical challenged. Standing at a mere 5'4" I am taller than nearly everyone, men included. The only downfall is I have a good 50 pounds on the majority of people down here. My big butt alone is probably getting loads of attention. Luckily I can't understand a word of Cantonese, so I can't hear what anyone is saying about me and my behind. But they are definitely looking, that I know for sure.

A classic case of my celebrity status occured tonight. We went rollerskating (haven't done that since 6th grade Special Event) at the local rink. This was one happening place-9pm on a Tuesday night and it was packed with teens. . .and then there was us. As I sat down to put on my skates I couldn't help but notice a young girl staring at me and waving vigurously as she walked by. It was one of those awkward let-me-look-around-to-see-if-she-is-actually-waving-at-me moments. With no other potential targets within close range it was clear that she was waving at me. She was so intensely focused in her wave that she ran into a guy and nearly fell down. A minute later she walked past again and continued to wave. I couldn't help but think: Wow, I am really special.

It was then time to try out my rollerskating skills. It's been 12 years, but it's definitely like riding a bike. A skill that you never quite lose, but then again it was never a skill that I mastered in the first place. As I wobbled to the rink I could feel the teenage boys eyes baring into me. I got the usual chorus of snide "hello's." This is a time when I would prefer people weren't staring at me. It really puts the pressure on and I said a little prayer that I wouldn't fall flat on my ass. I also noticed, that on top of being the only foreigner in the place, I was also wearing the most scandelous attire. My built-in-bra tank top was alone in a place filled with young girls conservatively dressed in short sleeved tops and school uniforms. Hmm.

I showed no fear, however, and got out there and skated. The sad truth is, it's just not that exciting anymore. It's pretty lame. It turns out things have changed since sixth grade. Although I was rather bored, I did manage to put some excitement into the life of one high school girl. While taking a break at the side of the rink, I felt her looking at me. I knew it was coming. . .I always do. She was trying to work up the nerve to talk to me. A real, live foreigner in her presence. She knew she had to seize this rare opportunity to practice her English. And she did. I admire her for this. In a country where saving face means everything, it takes a lot of guts to talk to a stranger in a language that one only has ever heard in movies and in the classroom.

But her English was bad. Really bad. We tried to speak in standard Chinese, but her pronounciation was incomprehensible to me. That left only one option-rollerskating. She grabbed my hand (hand holding was everywhere at the rink, even guys were holding hands) and off we went. When we finished skating she asked for my number and asked me to promise to never forget her. A priceless moment, but one I've strangely experienced many times. I will surely miss this place when I return to America. I will also miss my celebrity status.

a change in season

The rain as finally descended on Beijing. After several hot, dry months, it is here. I haven't experienced a daytime temperature below 85 degrees since mid-April, but today I've found myself outside shivering in my long-sleeved shirt. I love it. Although the rain itself can be a bit of a burden. . .


Imagine, if you will, a city of 17 million people. 17 million. Yes, that's how many people are now living in Beijing. It's no easy task walking around on an average day. I'm constantly getting bumped into, pushed off the sidewalk, and nearly sideswiped by bicyclists and cars. China is a crowded place and Beijing is one of its most populated cities. There isn't always a lot of room for movement. Now try to add umbrellas to the equation. It adds a whole new dimension of insanity.

At first, I usually try to to be the kind and considerate American that I am. I try not to run into other people with my umbrella, nor do I run my umbrella into other umbrellas. In fact, I will lift it high over my head or move it from side to side in order to avoid other umbrellas. But this gets tiring after awhile. Plus, nobody else seems to care. They just allow their umbrella to run into me at full force. And sometimes their little pointy umbrellas poke me in the face and of course I receive no apology. But I've lived here long enough, I no longer expect an apology for anything. Burn me with your cigarette, ride over my toes with your bike, sneeze on me without batting an eyelash, and then just walk away with out recognizing your bad. Thanks.

So after awhile I just run into everyone and get bounced around like a pinball. Eventually, as I get further away from the subway station and nearer to my apartment, the crowd thins out. But now I must deal more directly with the cars. It always lovely when a car comes whizzing through a huge puddle at 40 miles and hour and you're standing in close proximity. When there's a large group of people around, if you're smart, you can use others as a type of shield to avoid the nasty spray. Not so easy in less crowded areas. And it must also be noted that the puddles in Beijing are a special breed of puddle. They are not the clean, fresh, fun to jump in puddles that you find in rural Wisconsin. No. These puddles are filled with weeks and weeks of dirt, grim, and whatever else has been hanging around in the air and on the roadside. These are toxic puddles.

But eventually I make it home, thoroughly wet despite having an umbrella. Useless thing. I find that the rain has come in through the screen window and soaked my entire patio and all the clothes I had hanging out to dry in it. Lovely. But I'll take this over a Beijing summer any day.