Global Nomad Travel

China to Nepal

03/12/10

Many travelers had them. Most did not know why. There was no real way of knowing its potency, like that of death, the terrifying peace, the eternal sleep that waits for us all. Held so closely to me, it traveled along my side without a shadow. It was my blank canvas, my white pages without words; waiting for my pen, the scars that remind us that the past is real, where new thoughts and forgotten epiphanies traveled together at the speed of light, to be placed together, these little bones, the unspoken verses that slipped through the fierce snap of a tensed jawbone. A person is at their most honest when they write to themselves. My notebook – and there were eventually three - was uniquely mine and came to bring me a sense of belonging no matter where I was in the world.

I can quite confidently say that there were many times on the trip when Boxie-boo did not like my journal. There were only a few times she ever said anything directly about it. Her comfort was always put first before my writing, but maybe, there was a sense of jealously, as I can confidently say there were times I shared more of myself with my notebook than I did with her. No matter how sleep deprived I was, how stressed or uncomfortable, I always took the time to write, not only at night before bed, but during the day – walking, riding an elephant, hiking, off-roading, waiting, listening to the lull of waves, etc. – to ensure moments turned to memories and memories turned into stories.

With her head rested on my shoulder on our eighth airplane, I focused on remembering my thoughts, waiting for her to nod off to sleep. I noticed she smelled of expensive body lotion; something she swore was a necessity for the trip. Perhaps, she was right. With her eyes opening and closing, she scrolled through my researched notes with photographs and ideas of things to see and do in Nepal. Turning the pages, she sketched her excitement with her hands. Through my imagination, I could see the energy, the flip and turning, her sudden excitement moving towards me. No matter how tired we ever were, there is something to be said about flying to a country you have never visited, to feeling exposed and alive, naked and reborn, vulnerable and free, where your bravery battles your fear, especially when you know you are to land at night, overcome with uncertainty and that ever-present, pure sense of adventure.

As Boxie-boo nodded off, I pulled out my notebook and thought hard about where we had been and where we were going, not only on this trip but in a greater sense. One of the biggest benefits of travel is the ability to take the time to reflect fully, honestly and openly with yourself and yourself alone. I realized what I was doing was more than traveling, but saving myself from myself.

If I knew I would regret not doing something, I would do it before it was too late, giving me a sense of peace for that horrifying end, the sweet oblivion. Then instead of crying towards my death, I knew I could smile at the memories, while allowing the air to lighten around me, so gently that my life could no longer exist within it, leading me to find my pathway away from the seasons, taken in by the spell of music, the song and dance of days spent in full control of my life. In death, I believe those that accomplished their dreams are sheltered by them, warmed, consoled, loved, who need nothing more than the release of one last relaxing exhale. It was easy to think of death both before and during Nepal, a country where bodies were burned publicly and death has its blinds broken and doors wide open for all to see.

Before I left Canada, if someone had asked me what I would do if I knew my time on this planet was limited, I would say, travel the world. The truth is our time is limited. I believe it is only when you accept your mortality that you truly live. I have thought about this often in my life, about what I would say on my deathbed that I wished I would have done. If your answer to that question – possibly one of the most important you can ask yourself – is where you are presently, then you, my dear friend, are living the dream.

If not, be the change you want to become. Nobody is buried with their possessions. And even death, I believe, cannot take away our memories. Discover your dream. Live your dream. Wave goodbye to your fear of death.

I thought about this on our flight from Kunming, China to Kathmandu, Nepal. I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Although, the plane was fireplace hot and served a hard boiled breakfast at night, leaving the cabin smelling of eggs. It was midnight Kunming time. Most passengers slept while one ‘”gentleman” watched a movie with the volume on full blast on his laptop without earphones, with complete disregard for those trying to sleep. Oh China, I thought, it is time to say goodbye.

I was living the dream, yes, but this flight left me damp with sweat, feeling near feverish, exhausted and nauseaus from the food. I was glad I went to China - an unforgettable and exciting experience - but the often rude, pushy and selfish nature of the Chinese culture had gotten to me and it was time to move on. The worst part of China, in my opinion, was in many major cities it was hard to spot someone happy, their faces almost all sad, while the sky beyond them was constantly overcast and depressed with pollution.

After three hours, we arrived at the same time we left, 10 p.m., due to the time difference. I was excited to enter this country in classic third world fashion – by walking across the concrete runway, passed parked airplanes, into an old building of red brick. Inside, a smiling custom’s official, the first friendly I had seen in over a month, showed me where to fill out my visa application. The cost was $25 U.S. per person and I received my visa within two minutes of filling out my application. This was the fastest visa on the trip. Boxie-boo and I were smart, leaving Canada with money for visas, job letters and paystubs for employment proof and the necessary passport photos.

After receiving our bags, we walked up to the x-ray machine for luggage scanning. A custom’s official gestured to us to not bother. We skipped the scan, looking back at the line-up of Chinese being examined. We had no idea where we were headed and how we were getting there, just that we had paid a small deposit online for a cheap guest house with great reviews in what we believed to be the heart of Kathmandu.

Outside in the darkness, we could see only the passing lights of scooters and hear the random honking of cars. There were no streetlights on, no police in sight and no sense of direction. A tense silence loomed beyond the horns. Boxie-boo asked tentatively with her eyes for a connection and I quickly grabbed her hand. I had seen this look before - vanished, frightened, frozen and fretful – looking out at a world so bizarre I’d swear the universe was upside down. In this half-lit glance, seen only in the spray of moving vehicles, I pulled her in close, while she stepped more than into my embrace, but towards what was familiar and understood. I lifted her hand to mouth, smelled the lotion once more and gave her palm a kiss. Our hands joined and uncontrollably gripping, were all we needed to know, while the unseen depth of Nepal waited, whirling this clasp alive as we moved together finding a way through the darkness, as if letting go would release a curse held from within. With no options available beyond a transit booth, we pre-paid a taxi for 600 Rupees (less than $8 U.S./Canadian) for our ride to the International Guest House.

Our taxi was a tiny van covered in giant Suzuki stickers, a late-70’s model at best, sounding broken in its own roots and weakening, twig by twig, like some shattering tree in a storm. Liam, Boxie-boo and I sat in a tight row. The roof was covered in dotted green, red and blue lights that were cheaply sewn and taped into the ceiling, powered by a dangling wire into the ashtray lighter plug. The van had one working headlight, causing us to drive half in darkness in the unlit streets of Kathmandu. There were few buildings with lights on, only those with generators as the power was out and there were no street signs in a city without names. We drove down the left side of the road, dodging the dips and occasionally bottoming out, scraping the battered metal against the pothole dissolved concrete.

I looked out the window above the tightly-fitted buildings, like blasted mountain trails for trains, blackened by the night, scanning upwards to the sky to see the stars for the first time in over a month. Finally, freedom from China’s pollution, I thought. The poke-a-dotted sky overwhelmed me, as if I saw the constellations that were guiding us on our long way home, and I knew Boxie-boo saw the same thing, where like glowing crystals the stars exploded in the reflection of her eyes, proof to me of their passing. I saw them as she looked into me for support, while the van reared and bucked, the metals turning and cracking with the sound of breaking ice, as if the engine gently cried over top of hard fought tears. She stayed still like a slim cat under my right arm, my left hand massaging her right, and I saw her fight that flicker under her eyelid, the twilight state between the current of adventure and the blood rush of fear.

This whole time, I ignored the driver’s colleague, who was trying to convince Boxie-boo and Liam that our hotel was attached to a loud disco in the party district. He told them he will show us another one on the way. At one point, I intervened and said aggressively and politely, “No thank you. We will go to the guest house we reserved.”

He persisted, showing Boxie-boo a catalog. “It’s on the way. Look at the rooms,” he demanded.

“No thank you. We hired you to take us to this hotel. We will make no stops,” I replied firmly. This time I raised my voice, folded up the catalogue and passed it back to him. It was safest to go to a hostel that received strong reviews online and not to go exploring our first night in the darkness with a driver we just met and his forceful companion. In many third world countries, taxi and tuk tuk drivers earn a commission by taking you to a colleague’s establishment.

He tried to show me the catalog. I felt I had to give him some sense of victory and saw business cards in his cup holder. I then asked him for his card in case we were unsatisfied with our hotel. He agreed, finally, to take us to the International Guesthouse, seemingly upset. Five minutes later, we arrived at our graveyard silent hotel with no disco in sight.

In our room, the ceilings were pink, lined with spray-painted gold crown moldings and hardwood creaky floors. It had two single beds. The next day I lied to hotel staff, stating we were married, a necessity, in order to switch us to a room with a large enough bed for us to share. Boxie-boo got scared, sometimes, sleeping on her own in foreign countries, especially in Nepal, where power outages often left us in the uncertainty of darkness.

We discovered that Boxie-boo’s backpack was damp. Her hair mouse exploded inside her bag. Luckily, she remembered to place the bottle in a plastic bag so most of her clothes were dry. It was near 3 a.m. and after hanging up her clothes to dry, we pushed the two single beds together, and prepared for much needed rest.

I loved and hated this common exhaustion we battled on the trip. Ironically, it was something I longed for at home, where in my day-to-day life my adrenaline ran thin and in my future all I saw was more of the same dull routine. The thought of what I had left seemed so abstract, even more so than this city without power. It came to me, suddenly, that I was in exile.

I made my way back to my notebook, using a small flashlight to illuminate the page as to not to disturb Boxie-boo’s slumber. I felt a sense of conquering my own dare – to travel around the world – as although I was organized and well-researched, nothing could have prepared me for where we were presently, without power in a city where we could not see the surroundings we were living in. The faces I had met in the building were unacquainted, but also open. The unaccustomed, the openness, the hunger to understand: That was who I had become. I held little knowledge of each country we visited, Nepal included, but I was willing and enthusiastic to soak it up, the same as the blank pages of my notebook.

The room faltered in the expanse of the narrow flashlight. I pulled the pen from my pocket – always wet-tipped and dripping – and I was stuck with myself and this peculiar place. I fought to figure out how to describe the experience.

I reached into our small carry-on bag and took out Boxie-boo’s lotion, spreading it evenly over my hands that had been dried by China’s winter. I was sure to use very little, as Boxie-boo always did, to see how long we could make it last. I would not find the same kind for her for some time. She was always very sentimental of these little things, of tiny pieces of home she brought with her around the world – the stuffed turtle, Ipod with family photos, her favourite lotion. My hands begin to smell of her hands, and in writing, my notebook began to smell one in the same. It seemed as though my pen was about to write, but I placed the words elsewhere.

I wrote in lotion on both my forearms and felt reminded, suddenly, that though different, we both had our own ways to connect with where we were from and where we were going. Perhaps, this is why she was always so helpful when I searched for new pens and why without realizing it, I too, felt it was important to hand her the stuffed turtle when she was feeling ill in Shanghai. Placing her Body Shop cream back in her bag, I aimed to find her a replacement, which came later when needed most; a welcomed surprise on a day when Boxie-boo was most homesick after a long tiring safari in Africa. It may have been that which brought her a sense of belonging, no matter where we were in the world.

That’s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Gambling in Kunming

03/11/10

When I returned home to Canada months later, the trip itself had become a muddled dream, a mixing of memories, notebook dribbles and poorly written blog entries, a distance yet distinguishable sound behind me, like the clattering of chains, somersaulting my mind between my past and the present. It was a book with no title, hidden behind my puzzled eyes and wounded expressions, causing my fingers to feel compressed, craving to type, needing to hiss out steam, a crushing feeling to my own soul, upon which, it felt, nothing had been written.

I had entered my 28th year, looking still in my mid-20s according to new people I had come across. The need to pay my mortgage by no longer having tenants in my condo caused me to return to work, to the real world I felt so distinctively separate from. I lived near the bottom of the Burrard Inlet’s waters, along a road that overlooked the expanse of the City of Vancouver, where at night, a black sky was studded with stars and the expanse of gleaming skyscrapers, creating a mirror-glass reflection that connected across to the open ocean, where in the morning the water held a shimmering vapor of dawn, wistfully carefree with gentle waves, often fine gripped by rainbows deceived by spouts of rain; the broken clouds extending the touch of the early morning sun, casting light and glorious shadows over the city. Behind me were the mountains, with their snow-dotted peaks and an unending expanse of massive green foliage. It was beautiful, but for the first few months I was home, it had no meaning for me.

I was very bored and ill-at-ease with even the closest of friends and family, even with Boxie-boo. I politely, and unintentionally, stayed silent in their company, without feeling at all awkward or unwelcomed, but without a sense of belonging. With a new look of long hair, a beard, my skinny build, there was a mysterious magnetism that lured people to me, this so-called well-traveled man, a writer, bringing forth the same questions, over and over again, and it seemed the more they asked, the more I feared I had forgotten about the experience. I felt lost in the woods chasing echoes, found my eyes closing and mind looking skyward often, where Vancouver’s wind and rain broke the clouds into pieces, spreading these lost thoughts from star to star, beaming its usual light where I found myself lost at sea.

My former enjoyments of lifting weights and playing sports, even hiking and snowboarding, no longer held their charm, their zest, the graceful escapade of mountain trails and the thrill of facing competition. When I sat down to write, the yearning for life heaved into me, and forgot about my responsibilities and the return to this regular life I somehow once loved and then despised, and my existence seemed instantly unobstructed and boundless at the keyboard. With each typed word, I felt the return of my blood, a declawed beast with growing nails, eager to be sharpened.

Sometimes, Boxie-boo and I would even eat in silence, after I had talked about where we could visit next, already arranging planned trips to other mysterious places on the globe. It was only in writing about the past and dreaming to travel again when I was at peace; the only time I was without any worry. Had the pre-world traveler met this man, I would have said I had become someone else. She urged me to be satisfied, while I tried to encourage her that there was more to life than what we were doing. She often took her eyes off her plate and looked at me, mostly in silence. I had a feeling she did not like what she saw. I tried to hold it in, these thoughts, but we are like water: We are emotions. We can only try to hold things in. But everything, after a while, floats to the surface. With her thrilled to be home and myself looking forward to leaving again, we felt connected by the table and a world apart. I remember thinking, she ought to be as alone with me as she needs to be. It was taking a toll on our relationship more than I realized.

One day, writing in my apartment after work as I often did, I thought back to our last day in China. I recalled our walk in the night of Kunming, the slender street lamps, darting lights from oversized billboards, the movement of headlights in the ugly blackened concrete, of the sky without stars. We were caught in a smoky pathway through an arcade, leading into a dim-lit room of gamblers, hidden in the back corner of an old concrete building. There was a lingering of muffled conversations when eyes caught the bizarre sight of foreigners inside such a place, a vagueness between mumbling to oneself and talking aloud, the voices resembling those of the dead, where the smoke slowly dwarfed the foreseeable path, leaving each face unrecognizable and elusive; where these eyes, the voices, came towards us like drafts from a forgotten open door.

There was a feeling of pitifulness in spending so much time recollecting these memories, to concentrate through the dribbles and photographs, where my memory prowled over these same footsteps, as my imagination and the experience, once more, became the master of all my senses. I felt the atmosphere of it all, the glazed eyes we found around a bizarre roulette-like table, feeling away from home and everything I knew, while it all rushed back with sickening vividness, a place where no one blinked. There, in that open room, we found a place without a word to be spoken. I communicated with gestures before exchanging 30 RMB for tokens, while we took a position beside a young girl who spat sunflower seeds at the table.

It took us sometime to figure out the game. The table was a large circle. On the outside were square control panels with red, green and yellow buttons, corresponding with the faces of animals that spun inside the giant circle. Yellow picks had the best odds and the least pay, while red had the worst odds and highest payout. Green was in the middle.

The game began in the center of the table with a golf-sized ball spinning around a circle with coloured triangles: One red, two green and three yellow, thus the odds. The triangles picked the coloured betting column that will win. The odds were obviously in yellow’s favour. After this, a small ball spun around picking the winning animal - male bear, female bear, monkey and rabbit. The male bear had the worst odds and highest payout, while the rabbit was the most likely winner. The female bear and monkey were in the middle. Therefore, the best odds were with the yellow rabbit with the lowest payout and the red male bear had the highest payout with the worst odds.

I remembered the happy-go-lucky feeling of no responsibility, of no real thought or feeling of the future, of being exhilarated by something simple and grateful for the small thrill of gambling a trivial amount of money in an unfamiliar place. When I first came home, at similar events my enjoyment felt dishonest, agitated, fused with what felt to be a lot of unnecessary talk, and my appearance seemed to say that it was just empty communication, with no purpose to my life, yet I knew it was somehow significant; a hidden voracious expression in my hollow words, a betrayal to myself, forgetting how I once wrung everything out of life, through travel, more than it could give, a young man entering his second youth, erratic, absurd and imaginative, and when I thought back to the table, of placing bets with tokens, I heard the bitter timbre of a middle-aged voice, my future self, telling me to be careful, as while it was important to travel to grasp my understanding of the world, holding onto this alone, would age me far too fast. Returning home was a harder adjustment than I knew it would be at that roulette table in Kunming.

Writing about this late at night in my apartment, there was a nervous and awkward sense to doing so, as if I feared someone would walk in the door. The unnamed book, the strange foreigner I once was, seemed to feel as though I was having an affair with my past, as if I had become a madman, an oddity and disconcerting fellow, the person I found myself to be, quiet amongst friends and family, for the first couple months upon my return home. I kept writing, sometimes during the day and often at night, assuming a pose of dreary musing, like a criminal’s last expression before his face is covered in a mask. My friend Kahveh later told when I first arrived home, I was oddly quiet and seemed out of place, a shell of my former loud and outgoing self, almost like a zombie.

One RMB equaled two tokens and two bets at the table. Having never backpacked before, Boxie-boo had this purity about her; an outward look at the cultures we mixed into is as if seeing the world new for the first time. To see her months later as an ordinary woman who goes to work and returns home each night was more odd that seeing her as bizarre stranger, as some foreign woman noticed by each Chinese person as we stood, side by side, gambling and unable to communicate: The laowai couple.

In the quiet apartment, not one voice stirred at night, there were no parties down the hostel hallways that often annoyed us and kept us awake, only the monotonous hollow thump of the building’s old pipes, speaking of comfort and warmth, of this regular life I was slowly beginning to understand once more. My bedroom fan would go on whistling the sheets, just as indifferently and hollowly as any on the trip, with a slight deviation in sound. It may have been this stability I was hearing, which may in fact, just be that which drives all of us, of the continuation of the fast beating heart and slow-breathing lungs, the opposition with us, the rhythm of life that seeks to make sense of it all: I, a world traveler turned regular citizen.

The Chinese gamblers would laugh, smiling at Boxie-boo, amused by her excitement when the large ball picked the coloured column she was betting on, giving her a chance to win. After 30 minutes of entertainment, we had won some bets and lost most. With one bet remaining each, we picked the two bears in the unlikely red column, preparing to walk away empty handed. The golf-sized ball spun around, seeming magnetized towards one of the yellow triangle catchers. Just before it entered the pocket, the ball bounced and was swallowed whole by the lone red.

While I wrote, my mind steamed rapidly out of the apartment, away from the coastal mountains and the city lights, and within minutes, even the sound of my building’s old pipes were silenced, as if everything was collaborating to bring me back to that excitement, the affair, remembering how to wring every last morsel out of life, to feel that second entry into my youth. Sitting alone at my desk, I gazed into my computer screen and watched it turn into a blackened, smoke-hazed ceiling, where below the icons turned into small animal prints, where each typed word bounced before me like roulette ball.

“Oh my God, baby!” Boxie-boo yelled, jumping and clapping. The locals laughed. We had two of the four red animals picked and had the potential to win back more than we had spent - 33 RMB for the female bear and 66 RMB for the male.

I felt as though I had just awakened. I hoped this daydream was more than it seemed to be; that it could become a foreshadowing reflection; that I could become who I once was before I left Canada while appreciating how I had grown from seeing the world. I felt moved and sad, almost slightly remorseful for letting the present pass me by for the first couple months I was home.

I watched, once more, Boxie-boo’s eyes circle with the small ball. She stood swaying back and forth between her toes and heals giggling. “Give me a bear, give me a bear,” she kept repeating, smiling and twiddling her fingers. The ball had found its pace between the male bear and a rabbit. It circled the table halfway between them, slowly getting close enough to enter a pocket. From two inches. One. Two centimeters, almost falling into a bear’s hole we had focused our last bets towards. Boxie-boo was losing her mind as the ball slowed even more. There it hovered between a rabbit and a bear, vibrating back and forth, then slipped, falling into the rabbit hole, causing Boxie-boo to instantly collapse on the table, forgetful of the seeds. I always loved her enthusiasm, something she was able to dip into whether she was exploring mystical lands or the menu at a local restaurant. Perhaps, this was the secret.

I had always loved living in North Vancouver. A few months after adjusting to being home, I found my appreciation again for playing soccer at Ambleside Park in the dark green grass, with the ocean to my left and the mountains to my right; a city at my doorstep and the wilderness in my backyard. When I heard the whistle of trees on my morning runs in the forest, my journey and the places I had visited lost their control over my life. I again became immersed in the Vancouver lifestyle, networking for my business, beginning to freelance write for newspapers and magazines, continuing with my book, getting fit like I once was before I left.

This was the beauty I had found. The more I lived my life, the more my recollections of travel grew even more persevering. When the voices of friends hit me on the phone in the evening stillness, when the metal pipes howled in my walls, when I heard certain songs, watched certain movies, it all came back to me: The muscles in Boxie-boo’s cheeks twitching with excitement, her goblin-shaped grin growing to the point that it appeared painful, the clenching of our hands together, while she spoke with the sound of a young boy after crying hard and trying to re-establish a normal rhythm of breathing; the hysterical brilliance of playing a Chinese game; the way each day was atmospheric in nature, the whirlwind wave of it all, to be carried out, lost, away from myself and all that I knew and understood. When I wrote and when explored my own town, my nerves again hanged loose, while the tides of these emotions washed over me, cleansing my soul.

Somehow, traveling had a stronger effect on me than I had ever realized or expected. Knowing how hard most of the world lives, I felt I needed to find something, a significance to the quiet chain of events that had to be connected, some abstract meaning that required defining, that everything was important, fascinating, vital, each memory sincere and at the same time deceiving of the return to real life, as if these worlds, these strange lands, exist in secret, leaving a falsehood within my memory and the truth was somewhere to be found – in the dribbles, the photographs, the poorly written blog – yet the truth the entire time was on the surface. The most important thing I learned traveling was how it taught me to be a child, to see the world, both locally and abroad, beautiful and new again.

Leaving the roulette table in Kunming for our last night in a Chinese hostel, I knew the end was still far, far away, and that the toughest, the most difficult section was only just beginning – the poverty of Nepal, India and the struggles of Africa and the language barrier of South America.

By the time I finished writing, I felt an autumnal feeling in the air, a breeze from the window, and I realized the evening was chilly. I left my apartment and from the street I saw the beaming lights of the city and thought to myself, how beautiful, for the first time since having been home for a few months. Behind me were ancient trees and towering mountains that I could not see, white with fresh snow, the natural look of a coastal city skyline that blends towards nature’s peaks, and beneath the branches and the towering buildings, below the point where the inlet’s currents meet the sea, I felt no longer haunted by the memory of where I had once been, but happy to have been there.

Anyone who has backpacked is truly blessed. Anyone who dreams knows the truth of where they have been and where they should be headed. The secret of successful travel is to never stop, to carry the enthusiasm home with you, to maintain those child eyes and to never forget that the world is a playground. My last dream was to travel around the world. My new dream is here, shared with you, dear reader, and it finally has a title. Perhaps, in my mind’s eye, I never stopped traveling completely.

That’s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Kunming Old Town and Haigeng Park

03/10/10

“The great thing about writing a book is you can use quotations and completely make up the source,” said Albert Einstein, 1995. The other great thing about writing a book is you get a chance to really contemplate where a story should begin. Back in Canada playing soccer, I was contemplating my writing and also wondering why the ball kept getting bigger. Then it hit me: Start where all days begin, in the bathroom.

As I entered the public men’s room, I had to lift my legs up at the knees to de-stick them from the urine-soaked concrete located outside the Kunming Ethnic Village. It smelled as though people just walked in, discovered the toilets were an extra 10 steps too far, and instead, immediately pissed and pooped directly on the floor. The walls were stained in brown smoke-like strands, appearing like rust had been melting from the ceiling. Cigarette smoke trailed along the roof line, while the fear of slipping in urine puddles was so strong, I would not have run inside even if I came across any half-naked men. And I did.

It was another moment in my travels where I thought long and hard about how to describe a place, which was probably the worst place to think long and hard. I slowly realized this when I tried to find an open stall, passing locals taking a dump over the squatting holes with their doors wide open, some casually smoking cigarettes. I had to look at the stalls to find a free one. I had too! This resulted in constant eye contact with half-nude pooping men, which would have only been more awkward if one of them asked me for a light. Imagine a fart overloaded with methane. Imagine I had died. Imagine the autopsy report read to my parents by the Canadian Consulate: “Your son engulfed into flames. His body was found in a bathroom stall next to that of an elderly Chinese man, whose pants were around his ankles.”

I never, ever got used to squatting holes, even after spending more than a month in China. Boxie-boo had an even worse experience, giving me a description so horrendous I choose not to write it. In summary, women’s bathrooms were worse due to their monthly visit from Mother Nature. While she vented, she danced on her toes and flapped her arms outwards, as if a mating dance would remove the memory from her body. She appeared to trying to slap the top of the heads of two invisible children. Leaving the parking lot, we passed a government health’s inspector’s vehicle parked outside the bathroom. Had the job been to actually sanitize these bathrooms, step one would have been to light the dynamite. Step two would had been to run, perhaps speed walk out quickly instead to avoid slipping on the urine, albeit, very carefully.

Before the bathroom visit, Boxie-boo, Liam and I entered Haigeng Park the only logical way possible: We rented a tiny, two-person electric vehicle, half the size of a golf cart that looked like something from the Jetson’s cartoon – a lime green little spaceship with tires the size of saucers. Boxie-boo drove while Liam sat shot gun and I hanged off the back with my arms rested over the roof. We took turns driving the speed-walk pace, struggling up the tiniest sidewalk hills, which at times, was so slow locals walked passed us, pointing and laughing, while I jumped off the back and to push the cart over the small inclines.

The roads were lined with Eucalyptus trees on the left, grown together like the passion of couples, sexy couples doing sexy things to be specific, with a field of pink cherry blossoms on the right. The park was built in front of a large lake, with giant ponds on the right, while we cruised in the middle, barely passing those walking. Elderly men fished with long poles easily over 10-feet long. The ponds were lined with temples and small arched bridges decorated with carved flying seagulls. We came across a young couple, posing together under the blooming cherry blossoms, who seemed madly, carelessly in love. I wondered if they were posing for wedding photographs.

Our relaxed park tour ended with me crashing into a wall of tires to the sound of Liam laughing insanely. Since our golf cart was too slow, we decided to race go-carts. Boxie-boo started this go-cart race a half lap ahead of the boys. When I finally caught up and passed her, Liam smashed into me from the side, sliding us both into the tires. Boxie-boo drifted by casually and won the race.

After the gross bathroom visit, we entered the Kunming Ethnic Village walking along the red carpet over an arched bridge. It was a village of ancient-style temples lined with red lanterns. Large boulders were carved with Chinese characters. As beautiful as it was, we had seen hundreds of temples in China and they had already started to blend together as one. It came clear to us that already, hovering around two-and-half months away, it took a lot for us to be impressed.

Back in the parking lot, I helped Liam talk barter down a street vendor purchase from 380 RMB to 100 RMB.

“Start at 30 RMB,” I said to Liam, who seemed a bit nervous to start 350 less than the first price. But this is a necessity to show you are not a “Ben Laowai” (stupid foreigner). In most countries, the starting bartering price is always ridiculous. Step two was to laugh, which I did when she dropped from 380 to 360. “There’s no way that is even reasonable,” I said, having bought two similar products in Xi’an for 100 RMB.

Liam followed suit and stuck to his guns even after the price was dropped in half. Getting halfway, in my opinion, means a backpacker is bartering pretty well. Reaching below 50 per cent, I feel brings a traveler closer to a local’s price. For 10 minutes, Liam and the saleswoman battled with a calculator - typing in numbers over the language barrier’s wall.

After they agreed to 100 RMB, 280 RMB less than the original price, an old man walked by cackling with laughter. It made me wonder if the 100 RMB was still a rip-off. For Liam, the cost translated to about $16 Canadian - a good deal for him and an excellent gift of an instrument for his musical brother, even if he over paid by a few RMB. At the end of the day, only ex-patriots and locals have a full sense of the price. All you can is barter hard, pay what you are willing to pay and not worry too much about what is out of your hands to some degree.

Back at the hostel, Liam and I played table tennis while Boxie-boo watched a movie with fellow backpackers. Outside, a couple from small town near Edmonton we met in Chengdu walked by ignoring us. A week earlier, they refused to join our planned tour to Tibet because of a special connection they made at store. They had paid a deposit for “black market” Tibetan visa permits. I warned them it was a con and to come with us before the border was closed again to foreigners. Their shameful walk proved my premonition was true. They obviously never made it to Tibet with their black market connection.

“Poor guys,” I said to Liam, who knew exactly what I was referencing.

“I hope they didn’t get ripped off too badly,” Liam responded.

The worst part was had they joined us at the get-go, we would have all potentially been in Tibet at that moment. We had met them before the border was closed again and we were keen to add a couple more to our tour to make it affordable on our tight budget.

That’s all for now.

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The Stone Forest

03/09/10

After two hours on three crammed public buses, we made it to the Kunming Eastern Bus Station. While signs warned people not to spit or smoke inside the terminal, these were ignored, leaving a horrid smell and sticky floors. Thankfully for me, I was sitting close to Boxie-boo whose hair smelt of flowers thanks to the hostel room we paid extra for with the fancy showerhead, which she was sure to remind me about. It was an interesting day that started with us walking passed locals practicing Tai Chi in a park and ended with a violent assault from two middle-aged women. The main culprit in this attack, King Hippo, was the kind of big woman I would fear seeing in an elevator: What if she saw me glance at the weight limit sign? Or clear my throat and point at it?

The three of us were quiet at the bus station. I suppose it might have been due to the cold weather and the sky’s return to the hazy grey of polluted China. The aroma therapy of pollution brought back my runny nose. A day earlier, I woke shorts and a t-shirt. On this day, I wore pants, a sweater, winter jacket and shivered. Both days, I wore my homemade underwear.

Our fourth bus cost 25 RMB each, foreshadowing an expensive day. Once seated, I heard plastic vibrations behind me to discover the back shelf was covered in garbage. In front, local girls worked on their makeup while aimlessly spitting sunflower seeds on the floor. Half feminin. Half woodsmen. Woody the Woodpecker’s dream. Their harking sounds flew backwards in our direction. Thankfully the spit did not, but leaky pop cans did cause the back of my jacket to stick to my seat like Velcro.

I realize now that I have not told you where we were going or given any explanation as to why we were on our fourth bus of the day. I did tell you that my girlfriend had nice smelling hair and that I was wearing homemade underwear. Perhaps, just maybe, that is not enough information.

We were traveling to check out the infamous Stone Forest, called “Shilin” in Mandarin, which featured a notable set of karst formations - a geologic creation shaped by the dissolution of a layer or layers of soluble bedrock, usually carbonate rock such as limestone or dolomite - located about 120 kilometers outside Kunming. The resulting tall rocks were known to appear like petrified trees, thereby creating the illusion of a forest made out of stone; this, I was very curious to see.

I am sure all this talk of homemade underwear and rock formations might have you guys hot and heavy, but rest assured, the day was not necessarily a sexy one. Forty-five minutes into our fourth bus ride, a battle began between artificial intelligence and natural stupidity. Someone started playing a videogame with the volume on full blast. Locals sent mean-spirited looks in the man’s direction. He either was or acted oblivious. Nobody said anything, while others continued spitting their seeds on the floor. This passiveness has never existed within my being. I began yelling, “Beep! Beep! Beep!” mimicking the loud game. The locals laughed. A minute later, the videogame was either turned off or muted.

While this left me feeling shamefully victorious, I had no choice. It was driving everybody loony. Besides, his game was interrupting my busy work and my sense of purpose. I was sitting down. I was doing a lot of glancing about, adding the occasional crotch adjustment. It was tough to concentrate on how good it felt to be wearing pants. I knew my readers needed to know these things, about what it was like to scratch myself in China and the importance of using your pocket, casually and sly, to regulate homemade underwear. You are welcome.

I have often felt there is a lot of romanticism associated with travel writing. When I returned home, sometimes people would ask about the trip or how the book was coming. Their eyes would light up as if each day was spent receiving flowers from locals, making out with presidents and dancing underneath the stars at night with wild animals. I began to avoid these conversations. Even though I had just gone around the world, was finishing my first book and had a couple new pairs of homemade underwear, I still answered the question of “What’s new?” with “Same old.” I could have just had a sex change and I would have said, “Same old.”

Why?

While people loved hearing the good stories about diving with sharks or walking across the Great Wall, I found myself almost getting upset, wanting to shake them and say, “Well it wasn’t like that. Backpacking wasn’t like a vacation.” This never sunk in for people. I would try to add in a sense of challenge. “Traveling around the world was more tiring than working – sleep deprivation, culture shock, illness, battles, con-artists, sore bodies from massive backpacks, upset stomach, etc.” Then they would say, “What a lovely adventure!” almost giving the story another romantic angle that I felt did not truly describe backpacking on a tight budget. This is how I hoped my book would be different: This is why you already know about visiting a hospital, the racism, the attempted cons, the nights without sleep, the squatting holes, my rage at times and Boxie-boo’s hair scent. This is why you will soon learn about King Hippo.

Don’t you hate when you’re on a bus in China and you can’t remember what you’re doing with your life? Where was I going with this? Right. You are attractive. Secondly, the bus ride was not something you will read about in a travel magazine. For two hours, the bus struggled uphill, jerking, and at times stalling, as if fighting a curse from within. This resulted in us constantly bumping into each other, while spit-soaked seeds glued to the bottom of our pants and garbage from behind our back bench fell over our shoulders, some even leaking sticky pop down the back of my neck. So there I was writing, inhaling the scent of gone-bad food and hearing plastic knock back and forth behind me, while my shoulders were bashed, knees knocking together, head jerking forward and snapping back against the seat, for two hours for the barely functioning engine, while listening to the sound of locals clearing their throats before watching them spit aimlessly and clear their noses onto the floor before me.

By the time we arrived at the Stone Forest, I was drowsy, mildly motion sick and almost unaware of the world, feeling disordered by it all. It was a moment I wouldn’t have minded having an extra hole in my body that fireworks came out of it when I got confused. I was disgusted. I was frustrated and tired. If people could read my mind, I would have been punched in the face. A lot. For in moments like these – nostrils cleared; snot, garbage and spit flying everywhere – I really wondered whether anybody respected anything. I tried to remain sensitive to cultural differences, but found myself changing the pages in my notebook with the same intensity Hulk Hogan had for ripping off his yellow tank tops.

We walked slowly passed a group of Chinese using a small fire to warm themselves by the park’s entrance. These were small shop owners, who’s outdoor establishments did not have heat. Reality set in, and I knew, I was the lucky one. As always, I choose to get excited and focus on how cool it was to be in such a foreign place, and did my best, though not always easy, to forget about the horrid bus ride.

The park was expensive. Boxie-boo and I got in for a discount using our International Student Identification Cards. Beyond the entrance, narrow and tall stones sprouted from a nearby lake’s waters. The sky was so white with fog and possibly pollution that it matched the rocks, which outlined along the viewable horizon creating a landmass and sky without color, appearing connected. Beside the small lake, pink cherry blossoms grew near dark green grass. The universe was blocked and the water reflected nothing.

Since the park was huge and we wanted to see it all before the last bus left towards our hostel in Kunming, we hired a driver in a golf cart. The drive began beside the lake and small markets, then opened up over a large elevating hill. Tall stones spread as far as we could see. It looked like the remains of a fallen mountain or a massive graveyard filled with giant-sized tombstones. I nicknamed it the Valley of Phallic Symbols. Some of the rock structures had recognizable shapes, some clearer than others: Illusions and rock. One appeared like a rock elephant, another could have been a large cat. Our driver pointed to one that looked near identical to the Olympic torch. We saw shapes everywhere imbedded into the stone, pointing to them the same way children do at shaped clouds.

I left our giant golf cart to take a brief tour. Liam and Boxie-boo did not want to come. Walking through the pathway in between the stone pillars felt like I was exploring a natural version of Angkor Wat. At times, the path narrowed, causing me to walk sideways with my body pinned against the rocks. When the path darkened, where no plants grew, the only colour was of shades of grey. The stones were random in shape, from large and wide, to narrow and tall. Most surfaces were smooth, making it appear as if it was made from the freezing of smoke.

At another location, Liam and Boxie-boo joined me for a hike. At times, we walked single file out of necessity when the pathway narrowed, warning each other to watch our heads when the ceiling lowered. It felt like walking through an ancient community of caves after a great storm. I had never seen anything like this and was curious to know how it all began.

Before the stone pillars rose out of the soil, surface water concentrated and poured down through this areafunnel-like creating a pothole, a sign stated, next to small, green-coloured pond beside tall, thin rock walls. The vertical grooves on the wall were made by the falling water, and the horizontal corroded flute was made by ground water. We later learned we were walking around fossils over 27 million years old.

In open sections, locals danced in bright, multi-coloured costumes; the men playing large, three-stringed instruments. Their shoulder straps were yellow, red and green, holding up what appeared to be a large guitar attached to a bongo drum. Boxie-boo said they looked like homemade banjos. They sounded like out of tune, loose, elastic bangs vibrating over a drum. Dancing around with them was a short-lived fun, until we had to leave, preparing for our over three-hour commute home, battling from bus to bus.

Waiting to board a bus, from behind Boxie-boo, I put my arms straight out passed her shoulders in a sturdy position. This was my arm blocking tactic – with muscles stiff and inflexible – that allowed Boxie-boo and I to board together, without having her knocked aside. People in many countries, we learned, do not cue in a line the way they do back home. We had no choice, but to battle on ourselves, even if we were first in line, people would try to cut from the sides. I would not allow that to happen. My strategy was taken a step further near the door frame, which I gripped to block the Chinese keen to skip the line from the side. You cannot let this happen. Buses fill up quick in China. This was also a way for me to protect Boxie-boo from the bashing of all angles. I had done this in China, many times before, as always in this country, to avoid being trampled. This is when we met King Hippo.

She did not like my blocking tactic and attempted to skip the line from the side. I don’t want to be mean, but she was a big lady, not to call her fat or anything, but if she rolled over twice, she would have ended up in Chicago. She had proven to me that anything is pocket sized if your ass is big enough. She could have turned my entire body pocket sized, so I knew I was in for a battle. She gripped my wrist and I did not move. At first, I shook her hand off, somewhat aggressively, which got a good fat bounce going. Her face looked oddly intrigued amongst the crowded chaos, while she screamed at me in Mandarin. I realized this expression was from plucking one eyebrow and being too lazy to pluck the other. She began to close fist punch down on my left arm, while Boxie-boo learned towards my right, trying to avoid the blows. With each smash, I gained an unbelievable skill - I was able to determine her IQ just by hearing her grunt. She was, after all, banging downwards the way a monkey does to open a coconut. Behind me, Liam was receiving double-fist blows directly to his back by King Hippo’s friend. We had done nothing wrong. We were simply holding our position. They were not offended by any locals who boarded doing the same thing, only us.

Nearing the front, I gripped the door with both hands, while King Hippo pulled at my shoulders, trying to throttle me onto the concrete. I nudged my butt towards her, moving her back. Turning around to see her, she caught her balance, while her eyes seemed confused. I had done more than defend myself now, I had battled back. She had this chaotic look on her face, the same I have seen on a dog when I leave a room by one door and return by another. Like a dog, her confusion was strong enough to power cities. King Hippo began screaming as we entered, while we noticed other patrons, whom were seated near the entrance, begin to laugh. I looked back at her intimidating frame and verocious facial expression. As pumpkin-shaped as she was, I knew she should never wear a bright orange dress and a brown beret, as that would have made my entire life worth living.

Finally onboard, other local women found it funny and returned my high-fives when I mimicked for them. Shortly after, King Hippo entered. You do not have to be in China long to learn how to translate “Stupid foreigner.” It sounds like “Ben Laowai.” I made a point of smiling at her after she insulted me, but realized later that smiling at someone who called you stupid might actually prove their point. I, again, battled back with what little I could. I wanted to say, we all paid for one bus fare, lady. You don’t get two seats because you love pizza. However, my translations were limited.

“Laowai!” I yelled, pointing at myself. “Zhu!” I screamed, pointing at her and calling her a pig. Our newfound friends found this inexplicably hilarious. They seemed to be making fun of their grumpy, racist and rude fellow citizen. Liam and I followed suit with guided laughs, although we were not certain what they were saying. They could have been saying, “Let’s kill the foreigners” and we would have laughed supportively. King Hippo yelled what I presume were more insults in Mandarin, while our newfound friends imitated her violent thrusts.

The bus slowly became extremely packed, filled with locals who looked more Burmese than Chinese, with darker skin and Southeast Asian features. I suppose this was no surprise as the Yunnan Province is located North of Burman. Although King Hippo had assaulted me, Liam and I did not take any seats to allow the older patrons to rest their legs.

Shoulder to shoulder and butt to crotch, each time the driver broke hard, we did a large thrusting hump in unison. When I felt a young man’s hip bone dig into my bootae, I realized I would not do well as a homosexual man. The bus was so packed, we could barely see out the window, were unable to move and felt every known body part. This resulted in us circling the city after missing our stop.

After a day that contained eight hours of busing, multiple battles to get from one transport to another, plus three hours of hiking, we were exhausted. We relaxed in the hostel’s communal T.V. room, while Liam and I massaged our bruises – and giggled. I ended the night by scrubbing off the sticky pop from my jacket in the sink.

That’s all for now.

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Arrival in Kunming

03/08/10

It was 4:30 a.m. when I had given up on sleeping. Snorty had about a dozen pittbulls in each nostril, which seemed to bark each time oxygen entered. His travel companion, The Fart Whisperer, joined him in snoring, and you guessed it, farting. Loudly. Boxie-boo can normally sleep through anything, but this symphony of farting out both ends had an orchestra-like appeal.

I decided to start a band with these gentlemen. They snored and farted while I ate rice crackers. It’s an indie band, you wouldn’t get it. The result of being still drunk did turn this event into one of more amusement than anger, at least for the first couple hours. Had there been a tornado warning outside, it wouldn’t have matter, as I was quite confidently drunk enough to fight a tornado, with my bare hands.

I knew that even if no one in the world understood our music, it did not matter. These two musicians belong to our group. Our band. My mates and my friends. Of course, we hadn’t spoken one word to each other in the same language, and for all I knew, they might not have enjoyed my rice cracker solo, but I had a strong hunch these two guys already loved me. After all, I had already given them nicknames. I was already affectionately calling them Snorty and The Fart Whisperer.

Boxie-boo was really into the music. She showed this by plowing her face into the wall. She even pulled on the curtains, banged the bed and walls, before opening the door to fill the room with light. Perhaps, she was adding much needed percussion. Of course, I would have had to confirm with my new mates if she could join first, before allowing her to become a member of our indie group. Either that, or maybe, just maybe, she was losing her mind and trying to wake them. Since their sleep could not be interrupted without smacking them in the face, I decided to pull out my notebook. Here is what they said about Boxie-boo’s performance:

“Snort caaaw blaaah snort hooork snort,” said Snorty, possibly in reference the pace of Boxie-boo’s percussion rhythm.

A slow wheezing fart was released from the Whisperer. I nodded in response. I then added two quick jaw naps on the rice crackers, trying to communicate through our music. It was a moment remembered for its intimacy and tenderness. We were bonding. Had I donated blood after this ride, some patient in China would have woken up from surgery drunk, with an uncontrollable urge to snort and fart directly into a microphone while eating crackers.

Boxie-boo plugged her ears and began massaging her temples.

“Oink! Kkawwook smack smack snort sna snort,” The Fart Whisperer added, which I believed meant she could only join the band if she wore a golden bikini top and a massive wig made out of a skunk’s pelt. Since he was speaking so slowly, my brain was able to translate his sentences in all sorts of ways that made him interesting for a moment.

The sounds continuously changed. Sometimes their nostrils were choking, then almost coughing out trombone-pitched notes. Other times, I imagined their sound was similar to an elderly grizzly bear during hibernation, one with loose dentures. Before the chorus began, the snoring was wet tuned, sliding passed snot adding a rubbery pitch, like dragging a squeegee over an almost dry window. I was totally feeling the music.

If Miss Piggy was in our cabin, she would have cheated on Kermit the Frog for sure. These guys were speaking her language and sounded ready to make piglets. Oink oink, baby.

“Yeah buddy!” I yelled, literally, when their nostrils began growling in beautiful unison. Boxie-boo laughed. I looked over at her cute smile lodged between her pillow. A second later, she shook her head, which appeared as though her face had been imprinted on Frosty the Snowman’s head. In classic Chinese fashion, people walked down the hallway outside yelling, showing a complete disregard for everyone trying to sleep, which did add a choir addition to our song.

When I began to sober up, my amusement switched my default emotion from happiness to irrational rage. Since slapping my notebook against my forehead did nothing to help, I attempted to suffocate myself with my pillow. Looking out through white covers, I saw Boxie-boo smile at me through the half-light. Her copper, brown bronzed eyes were the only sight of colour. Below, the darkness cloaked the snort twins into shadows that released Miss Piggy’s orgasm sounds, while the train began passing through a defiant landscape of tunnels. By morning, the windows expanded into a be-stilled country side of farming fields and small mountains – and we had not slept at all.

We came up for air in Kunming after over 20 hours on the train. The landscape was blue around us. We breathed in the aroma therapy of cleaner air. Blue skies. Fresh breaths. Our happiness was drawn from the atmosphere directly. It was the first time we had seen blue skies in China and were able to retire our winter coats momentarily.

We caught a taxi to the Cloudland Youth Hostel. Boxie-boo checked out the Deluxe Room - much larger, with the addition of a private bathroom - and came back with her puppy dog look, eyes upwards and wide, smiling with her eyelashes dancing. I was 60 RMB more, which is less than $10 Canadian, but I suppose the extra money was worth it. “Okay, sweetheart,” I said, as she pulled my hand and dragged me to check out the fancy, rain-like shower head. “Look! Look!” she said. With my hangover engaged, I was hoping she spotted a cheeseburger dispenser.

The bathroom did have three light switches labeled top light, mirror light and fun. I pressed the fun button, was disappointed again, as it did not remove Boxie-boo’s clothing or open a secret compartment containing remote control cars. It only turned on a light, a lame one. To amuse myself, I did something we have all done at least once in our life: I tried to balance the light switch in between the on and off position. To my surprise, this was only slightly more fun in China than it ever was in Canada.

Tired from the train, we were content to chill on the balcony’s couches and watch locals play table tennis outdoors below. In time, I changed into shorts and a t-shirt as this Southwestern town was heating up. If you just pictured me changing, keep in mind that I had recently trimmed my armpit hair. I was looking fly, homies.

Liam, Boxie-boo and I explored the town, starting with a walk along a river. We checked out a few markets and watched local teenagers bust out some impressive moves at the roller rink on old school roller-skates. After relaxing and sharing smiles with some friendly locals, we were brought back to the reality of China when a mother held her baby over the river to pee. If it wasn’t for her smile towards me as she shook her baby’s little penis, I may never had known nearly as much about what the top of my shoes looked like.

Back at hostel, I walked along the walls covered in notes and drawings from travellers, who had left their strange and sometimes offensive signatures behind. I dug the hostel for their free table tennis and the friendly vibe. My first complaint about the hostel was they did not offer towels. To me that is just being cheap. My second complaint was they advertised tours that were not offered anymore, making many tourists confused. When I asked why they kept the tours up that they could not sell, I was told: “It’s good for business.”

That’s all for now.

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Chengdu to Kunming Train

03/07/10

Head locked against one wall, feet pinned against the other, I rolled on my side in the hopes of finding some uneasy slumber on the train. I rubbed the breath-misted window glass with my hand, drawing what I had forgotten, a smiling face, and peered out. The wind was spiraling in twisting dust clouds from the tracks, the brown bottom land, and the drifts moved along fields across the edge of darkened mountains, while here and there long dead fences, dried old homes and limbless trees protruded black above it all. I began to have an honest talk with myself and I learned I was not such a bad fellow. Even knew a lot about myself. And I aimed to consult with myself more often. After all, it was a long day of traveling, ending on an overnight train in a small room with a loud snorer.

We were glad to make it on the train. Liam, Boxie-boo and I had a brutal day, which started with over 20 minutes of empty taxis ignoring our foreign faces. When one cab finally stopped, I was so relieved that I was tempted to do a cartwheel into the taxi. I felt the urge to share this enthusiasm somehow and I decided to smile at the driver, while gesturing for a high five. He glared back mean-spirited, then turned away, continuing to fill the cab with his cigarette smoke. At least he stopped. Most cabs never did.

In China, you quickly learn that, unlike Western countries, pedestrians do not have the ability to confuse “Right of way” with “Immortality”. We had to run, stop, dodge cars, run and stop between vehicles flying on on either side of us, just to cross the street into the train station where we found a further sense of formality and disorder. The government had stepped up its policing, causing us to have to show our passports, over and over again, to various officials before boarding. Once on the train, the result of increased policing left an official examining the details of my Cambodian Visa nervously. She ignored me when I tried to explain my Chinese Visa was on a different page, holding her hand up aggressively to block my finger point, while she continued to examine.

“If she cannot read it, why look at it?” I asked Boxie-boo. “I don’t know,” she replied laughing, while the official began taking down information from my Cambodian Visa. Her colleague came in, changed the page, then he pointed to my passport number. This girl was out to lunch. I could have handed her my library card. When more officials came, it seemed clear to me that had her colleague never come, I may have been escorted off the train for having an expired Cambodian Visa.

In our train’s sleeper room with two bunk beds, twin nostrils were flared open like bazookas. One of our bottom bunk neighbors was already snoring and it was only 3:30 p.m. It was a sound borrowed from an animal, possibly the mating call of a wild boar. His outburst loudened, penetrating my ear plugs and banging my eardrums with screaming nostril hairs. I figured I could use him for self-defense by placing beans in his nose and using his snorts to fire them off like bullets. With my head wrapped in a pillow, I looked back at the window, holding my head stiff against the wall in the hopes the vibrations would block the sound. I again saw the smile.

Behind the face I had drawn, a quick gust of wind brought leaves and small twigs against the train with sudden vehemence, and I found that we were barely beyond the slush of Chengdu’s snow and had a long way to go on this 20-hour ride. My pants felt sticky from sitting on train station seats likely spat on; my shoe bottoms were lined with seeds and chewing tobacco; even the lights in the city were blurred by pollution and the pattering of plants against the train seemed suicidal, as if killing themselves on purpose the moment they neared our sleeper room and heard the sound nostrils would make if directly connected to a cow’s anus. Behind the mocking spirit of the room stood the door, and, as the twigs turned to scraping branches, I wondered how best to survive this night, looking out the window for an answer.

The constant sound, the open mouth oblivion, left a sort of apprehension of dread that, of each drowning snort, as the growling nostrils closed in around me, had been pulling the muscles of my body tighter and restraining me to the point of being unable to move. I did not realize how the more I tried to ignore the snoring, the more I dreaded the sound. Even when I was close to sleep, it was always there – behind me, in front, over top. It held its own shadowed corner, the dark place into which my ears shot a constant light, where I dared not look; from where something was always watching me from a dark corner – perhaps, the ghost of a pig.

Liam entered our sleeper room, talking loudly over the sound of head banging nostril hairs. The three of us decided to head to a different cart to see if we could eat our noodle soup together. Trains always had free boiling water in China. We saved money by buying our food ahead of time, then simply added the water onboard. Stepping down from the top bunk, the sound of my foot caused Snorty to wake up momentarily. His forehead wrinkled, drawing an invisible middle finger, while his eyes scowled me. Oh so sorry, I thought, sarcastically. I then smiled. Within 10 seconds he was snorting away again.

I walked, reluctantly following, towards the onboard café. My feet in borrowed train slippers passed the horrible dirtied carpet, sections covered in spit, the thrown garbage from doors and chewed up sunflower seeds. The walls creaked along the window lines - greasy, browned and yellowing - sounding of twisting plastic.

We found an entire cart three quarters empty. We sat and relaxed, waving to all the passerby locals who seemed extremely interested in us. None waved back. Instead they kept watching us, turning their heads back to ensure they could scan us as much as possible as they walked by. Some almost seemed like they were doing the limbo by bending their bodies backwards to watch us as much as possible while we passed. Without any smiles or reactions to our gestures, we felt completely unwelcome. We sat, feeling it all, the ink of this story soaking into our skin and poisoning us.

Above, about, everywhere, within it all was the growl and the grumble, the hurry and toss of people trying to find comfort, and on every side of me, towered this glaring affirmation that we were not welcome. The laowais. I felt the scowls. We all did. It drew my shoulders inwards in a spasm of uncaused pain; the plot of the racism to this story, the text of prejudice, the nerves of us stuffed, leaving our sensations ready to burst from our own veins. The eyes burned on us, especially the table closest to us, where a group of businessmen watched our every move. I found myself hating them, hating everyone.

The bodies shifted in our direction, the Mandarin chattering, open mouths stuffed with food, the bewildering jumble of lights flashing from behind the windows, the train rushing through small villages – had created, for a few moments, the feeling of being greatly weighed down by own being. For in this moment, I felt that parachute jump of being sucked from my own dreams, pulled away from the Earth, yet stills stranded; a wall being built around us, brick by brick, crumbling into sharpened stones, pinching my neck. I could not smile and waited for something bad to happen. I knew it would, somehow.

I allowed theses surroundings, unknowingly, to define me. I did not feel abashed or lonely. I held absolutely no desire to meet or to know anyone on this train; all I demanded was to be unwatched and ignored, to rid myself of the aggression that grew, which I failed to accept. I was impossible to humiliate, impervious to empathy, dignified in my objectionable status. This gave me a sense of power, shameful in its vocation: A feeling of being at peace with only oneself is no peace at all, but rather, it creates a self-inflicted ostracism within oneself; a depression formed by confusing one’s proud difference with wanting to be alone. It is the elastic power of living outside of the moment, yet fighting the pull towards it, not because one could not enjoy it, but because it is feared for its unknown potency - the eyes, drawing the shoulders in and pinching the neck - until the elastic stretches, snaps and shatters, leaving only the rage behind.

“Go! Go!” a train official began to yell, pointing us towards the exit of this cart. I felt the businessmen watching, feeling ridiculed and judged by them. I refused to acknowledge them. Without fully looking at them, I felt their racism, their support for us being kicked out of the only cart with tables.

We ate our noodle meal quietly, listening to the sleepy rhythm of the train, ignoring the shouts for us to leave at first, pretending we did not understand. Chinese boy band music left the crackling speakers. The train continuously stopped, making me feel as though we were only treading water. Our relaxation fluttered away, unfortunately. This official would not stop. He had decided no foreigners were allowed on this cart even though it was near empty and there were many free tables. Boxie-boo gripped my hand, mimicked her eyes towards the direction of the exit and I followed suit, though without her presence, Liam and I would have had to have been physically forced out of this cart. We were beyond enraged.

Leaving the cart, I became aware of how numb my feet were from the train’s one-size-fits-all sandals, leaving no feeling in my toes; no feeling in me anywhere, except discomfort and the weight of the prejudice. I walked with a skeletal strut, and when the official turned, we sat quickly at another table. After 15 minutes, more staff began yelling “Go! Go!” again in English. This time there were three of them. We again had to leave, while Chinese relaxed and played cards on other tables, this time no longer watching us, ignoring our troubles. We passed two empty tables on the way out of the eating cart, pointed at them and shook our heads in disgust. My toes were still bent over my sandals, mimicking my hunched forward, body language of frustration.

Just when China was getting me down, one of the businessmen yelled at Liam. I turned back, ready to let out as many curse words as I had memorized in Mandarin. Shockingly, instead of what we were used to – being laughed at, scolded and pushed aside – he mimicked for us to join them at their table. I suddenly felt bad for becoming what I disliked most about China - the feeling of being judged for the color of my skin instead of the content of my character. Boxie-boo did not like the smoke and left to read. But I had to stay. The curiousity overcame any fear of the officials. The four Chinese men offered Liam and I rice wine, beer and chicken feet. They yelled at the officials to leave us alone. Since we were set for at least 18hours left, I avoided the feet at first, as nobody wants the runs over a squatting hole toilet. I stuck with the booze. Lots of booze.

The more rice bottles we finished, the more they wanted us to eat the feet. We had no choice. At least we knew what we were putting our my mouths, unlike street food we had consumed on this trip to date. I had committed myself. Anesthetising ourselves, for medicinal purposes, we continued to take the sensible precaution of drinking rice wine before, during and after eating the chicken feet. I was simply doing one of those things that seemed like a good idea at the time.

“I’m too deep in the game now to stop,” Liam said, spreading the toes apart before ripping apart the flesh. I followed suit, sliding my tongue into dried chicken toe jam. It tasted like nothing I had experienced before. The moment I spread the flesh and felt my tongue against the chicken’s inner toes, I breathed freely like a man who had just taken his first steps from a prison, and I felt within myself the ability to do something pleasant, to bond with Chinese culture, in some brilliant, poetic way, beyond the suckling of a dead animal’s feet.

The chicken feet had a jelly texture of stretchy skin, salty and rubbery. It tasted like meat that had gone bad or how an elastic band would taste dipped in fat tissue. While I continued eating pure cartilage, my cup was constantly filled up with beer by the men. They kept asking us to take gulps of rice wine, directly from the mickeys, followed by shots of beer. I scanned across the table and counted eight empty mickeys. I knew we were in for some serious boozing, while the locals at other tables laughed each time we were asked to pound down our glasses. We were the night’s entertainment. We were, for the first time on the trip outside of a hostel, welcomed foreigners.

“You notice nobody is trying to make us leave now that we’re with these guys?” Liam asked. It was true. We were one with the Chinese. We discussed how this situation was common for backpackers in China. Just as the racism and rudeness was about to bring us down, we met some super friendly locals that made up for all the pricks. This was a usual theme in China and worth noting - the good people, those without business interests, were, at times, truly welcoming. We spent the night passing Liam’s translation book, making small talk and laughing when we all attempted to speak in foreign tongues.

Back in the sleeper room, drunk and looking out the window, I tried recall the day new again, from a better perspective. I remembered every feature of our driver’s taxi, including a photo of his wife taped to his dashboard. I recalled the uneasy smile of the young woman, her attempt to comfort me for a second, while she checked my passport; the train official who scanned my ticket with confused eyes, perhaps wondering why a Canadian was traveling to Kunming; and all the passengers, looking at me without smiling, but maybe with the same intrigue or perhaps, fear of the unknown world beyond their borders that their government is quick to censor in the media. Perhaps, they were simply very shy. I tried to make sense of these images, the bright gloominess of China, like the lights that spread through the pollution, of the ugliness of a world with little freedom, of the bitter burning of my tongue from shots of burning rice and drying chicken feet. I cracked open a soda water, but that, too, seemed hot on my palate.

Below I felt the tracks cut through the mountains, the metal scraping across China. It occurred to me that everything I had done and experienced, remembered and forgotten, came and left from my own body. My breath had, in spite of the bursting heat in the stuffy room, left a mark on the glass when I first boarded, a revolt against the way my world was running: An expression, a smile I had forgotten but was reintroduced to by local businessmen. The locomotive’s grip was reflected by my finger markings, the light almost moving like chattering teeth along the loosely-drawn lips, then up to the finger-poked eyes, moving like a soul from behind this face I had drawn, watching me. As my drunken vision fell into the glass, into the vastness of what was finished and never completed on this trip, I saw myself. Flashed before me, without warning, was the lined nose, the ropes of the parachute, gripping from behind. I sliced them with my pinky, leaving yet another mark on the window. I felt cut loose and free.

I felt something stab through my chest, as if pulled from behind, my lungs compressed of air instantly, flying hard and uncontrolled, while my muscles relaxed and I focused on the loosening of my limbs. I stood up and realized I had become what I most dreaded being, a man I hoped to have left at home, a man of routine, the monotonous repetition of looking away from the blank stares that made me so uncomfortable. To stay alive as a true backpacker, I needed to stay irrational, to stay foolish enough to believe I could belong anywhere. I left my logic aside, in the madness of the finger-poked eyes, looking chaotic and mad, and stumbled down the hall, ready to drink some more and eat more chicken feet, forgetful of the squatting holes.

That’s all for now.

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The Sichuan Theater House

03/06/10

So many things happened during the beginning of the night in Chengdu. The agitated grocery shoppers, the terrified horns in over packed intersections, the scared pedestrians, lost tourists, the furious commuters, the brave, the insane, the reckless drivers and exhausted professionals, men of routine, all punished together by a cramped city, a settlement of involuntary opposition. For us, the streets grew darker and darker as we walked away from our parked taxi, the loudness of traffic making it feel as though someone was always behind us. We dealt with the familiar people, the shoulder nudges and dodging scooters. Then the road narrowed. A few meters ahead was the theatre. Small plants on the left. Men leaned against walls smoking cigarettes on the right, their expressions blocked by the smoke.

On this evening, there were no more faces and the road ahead was peculiarly empty. Entering the theater, I felt myself disappear down into myself, no longer feeling anyone behind me. I have always loved a quiet theater, a place where blood, sweat and tears are left behind, to be consumed again. In the new silence, I desired to become nothing at all, just an ambient presence, smoke illuminated by light. Away from the city, yet still within it, a part of me felt I had found the warm pool of blood within the heart of the beast, where everything I touched – the chair, the carpet floor, the wooden armrests – felt alive, wounded and healing. I wanted to feel this for myself: A theater.

A middle-aged Chinese man walked across the stage towards a lonely and plain chair, holding his erhu, a Chinese violin with two strings, in one hand, his bow in the other. Although his face was held in a spotlight, the stage grew darker and darker as he walked. With polished black shoes, his feet seemed to exist in further darkness. Into another realm. His art. As he sat, the light slowly dwarfed across his face, then down his black suit, revealing a golden dragon on his chest. Behind him, I saw the smoke I wished to become, rising up from the back of the stage in blue light. At first, he appeared shy and surprised, yet still confident, as if we were watching him at his most alone and intimate.

With his shoulders hunched forward, his persona almost suggested a different man completely, a man both stagnant and deskbound. Perhaps like many of us, the routine of his life had assembled a storm within him. The occasional tear may release some of this tension, but what about the lightning and thunder, the fire and the wind? Unreleased energy is that of grey clouds – expanding, hovering and shadowing over our world. We all want to discover gravity, to free fall, to drop to the ground without ever leaving our feet, to feel freedom from every muscle, blindfolding us from the world, forgetting everything, even if just for a moment. I waited and watched intently, waiting for his transformation. There was something about him, something I wished to understand. To feel the summer rain after the storm.

When the music began, I felt no movement anywhere, only his finger slide between notes on the neck, which at times, appeared yellow in the light, a thin line of gold varnish, where all sounds around it vanished. In a precise focus of thought, he began to follow the musical accompaniment of the speakers by playing long, drawn out notes. His body language softened. With each slide of his bow, the sound became warmer and more fragrant, the smoke dusty from his lungs, exhaled over the crowd with his music. His eyes closed. He began to play louder. He was alone again. We were forgotten. The entire room was filled with thick waves, the rolling of colliding clouds, where the music and smoke wept together, to escape the blue light. Everything in this moment felt fragile, fluttering, fumbling. I started to feel wounded and healing, alive and a part of the theater.

This musician played the music, not the instrument - it was there solely to pass on his emotions to our eardrums. He left the routine of his work, his bills, his pain and happiness, his memory and his dreams behind. He looked alive and afraid, and in the shadows of his closed eyes, I knew he had disappeared and forgot himself. He no longer held his erhu. He held the audience in his hands. I watched him as he moved from side to side gently, as if each note was a pure as a first kiss. Poetry fell into the darkness of the theatre. Building up and increasing his rhythm, the music became louder. No one moved in the crowd. I breathed as quietly as possible to not allow my lungs to interrupt one note.

Italians have a word in music I have always loved called crescendo. It is a term for increasing the volume of a song, causing a sound to grow and rise, build and expand, adding a plot to the story of a song. Bethoven and Mozart knew this word well.

The orchestrated pulse entered me in a subliminal way. The theatre completely disappeared, leaving behind nothing more than an expanding cloud that I felt in my own lungs, like a held-in breath before the plunge. My vision became useless in this communication. I followed his direction and closed my eyes, playing the instrument with him. Behind my locked shut eyelids, I saw nature in the notes. I saw dry leaves circling upwards, wrapping around a man made only of a shadow, a druid in a broken beam of sunlight, an apparition blurred by the wind: His eyes now opened, blending it one. The eye of a storm.

Then he was invisible to himself and invisible to me, while the storm grew, becoming a plant breaking from the earth, a glimpse of life. The notes began to increase in speed, sucking up the dry leaves into the sky. I felt my bones lighten to twigs, light enough to be carried by a breeze. His fingers continued speeding up, heading higher and higher up the neck of his violin. I felt the music lose itself in some unseen madness, where the drumming slammed, the cymbals banged, almost painfully, against him, against the theater, against all of us together, jolting my shoulders inwards, against the bitter-sweet section of the tongue that connected with the inhale of smoke, fighting the consumed and spat out rage of the city, of this love story. I began to feel wounded and in need of healing, both alive and afraid, while everything disappeared - where I was from, this trip, the family and friends I had left behind, the culture shock of China, was all gone and forgotten: Smoke and light released into nothingness.

His instrument wept, piercing my eardrums with a sound that could send an army willingly into a field of flames. A lover’s howl. An enemy’s grin. I felt the thunder rattle my muscle and the lighting ignite my bones. This dance, the exhaustion, the urge to hold my breath and scream, to melt into the sun and free fall into the wind. With my eyes clenched closed like twin fists, my entire body tensed as if being entered by an apparition. The eye of the storm. Then it happened. The free fall. A beam of light destroying the darkness of the earth. The song was interrupted by a pure outburst, a lonely, high-pitched note, while the accompaniment faded behind him, this magician with a bow, drawing me back to the theater with a long, singular note on one string.

The Italians call this Crescendo. It is the moment in music when all the passion swells up to the point of combustion. I could hardly move and before I opened my eyes, I envisioned one singular leaf float down, before lying to rest below the sound. If was as if this one note lighted a candle in the dark and reintroduced us to the world. I heard my breaths again. I felt the carpet of the theatre. I remembered where I was from and where I was going. I felt healed and at peace: A storm cloud turned into softening, summer rain.

This was only part of the performance.

The theater also featured a percussion band playing a few simple tunes. Later, two female and one male actor performed a love story about a man torn between his admirations for two sisters. A professional puppeteer later manipulated an inanimate object – the puppet – to create an illusion of life. Beautiful Chinese women followed the puppeteer’s performance, dancing with large feathers on their head on a stage surrounded by bubbles.

Boxie-boo’s favourite act was the talented comedians. Although we could not understand the words, the story seemed to revolve around a husband who was trying to convince his wife it would be easy to be a woman. He wore bright, clown-like make up, similar to what you would picture a five-year-old girl wearing had she been left alone with mommy’s makeup.

Boxie-boo chirruped with laughter when the wife discovered the husband’s makeup. His wife then pulled away his monk-like gown to discover he was dressed in a woman’s shirt. She seemed to challenge his attempt of feminism by seeing if he could walk smooth as a lady, while balancing a lit candle on his head. Each time he attempted to impress her, she secretly blew out his candle, amusing the crowd as he shrieked in disappointed after seeing his reflection in the mirror, then re-lighting the candle.

It was hilarious to watch a grown man spin in circles in his rage. At times he appeared to have tripped over an invisible plant and walked in a circle around it giving it an angry look because he was unsure where its eyes were. Plus, he was wearing women’s clothing, while balancing a candle on his make-up covered head. His high-pitched voice was over the top, adding to the humor even though I had no idea what he was saying.

The next performance - a hand puppet show - was equally entertaining. I had never seen one in person before and it was amazing to witness an artist make life from simply light and shadow, from flying eagles to flirting lovers. The kitten was Boxie-boo’s favourite; its little tail wagged and legs kicked, the way a cat moves to stretch into a position of comfort.

There is one reason the Sichuan Opera cannot be missed - the infamous Chinese tradition of “face changing.” It began with four performers on stage, blocking each other quickly. Within a blink of an eye, they revealed that their faces had changed into a different mask. Even the puppet was able to change its face instantly and blow fire. It left the crowd fearfully entertained by the seemingly inhuman and magical ability to do this.

The performers later stepped up their skill level by changing masks without covering their face, allowing us to watch in real time. One actor entered the crowd towards the three of us and shook our hands. He leaned right up to Boxie-boo’s face. His eyes wide into her eyes. Without blinking or using his hands, his mask changed instantly, causing Boxie-boo to gasp for air and laugh in relief.

And just when we thought the best was over, one actor hide behind a flag for less than a second, later removed to show his entire costume had been completely changed.

Liam, Boxie-boo and I later came up with our own theories on how this was accomplished. While writing this entry, I was tempted to look the secret up online to see if my theory - the use of hidden strings on a pulley system within the costume - was correct, but decided not to. Not knowing how they did it was part of the fun for me.

There were times in China where I felt their culture only appeared in marital arts movies, history books and heritage sites. The country didseem to be changing towards a western lifestyle, but during the Sichuan Opera, we got a rare glimpse into an experience uniquely Chinese. It was unforgettable.

Leaving the theater, I thought of the lone violinist. I was always felt there is something powerful when witnessing another person’s passion. There is something extra invoked out of our spirits, communicating things that cannot be expressed with words. Our minds are freed from our woes, falling into the space between what we know and wish to understand. It is in these moments that we drift away from our beliefs and realize we know nothing. I suppose this is the wisdom of the artistic world, of art, literature, music and dance. It is a moment of cleansing oneself with the inspiration to view the world new once more. I left the theater hearing music in all things, a silk echo between the buildings of the city: The blood pumping through the heart of the beast.

That’s all for now.

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Attack of Tibetan Politics

03/05/10

I received such wonderful news that I was overcome with excitement. You should know that I show my excitement by listening to soft rock music and uncontrollably crying for 30 minutes. Okay, fine, the truth: I was so upset that I needed comfort food. For lunch, I hoped to eat a quilt and a duvet cover. The unfortunate thing is I cannot fully express how much I hated this moment because I also hate exclamation points. I also cannot show how much I hate exclamation points without being a complete hypocrite. Instead, I will express my rage with a question mark and a smiley face? :-). You are welcome.

We finally had everything figured out. We had a second flight reserved into Tibet, as our first flight was cancelled for unknown reasons. We had made arrangements to use a tour company recommended by our hostel. Liam had come back from Leshan after extending his Chinese Visa. He had taken the time to ensure his Visa’s expiry was far enough away for a planned overland tour from Lhasa, Tibet to Kathmandu, Nepal. We were only waiting to pay for our Tibetan permits after days of waiting, planning and research. I was stoked! (Okay fine, sometimes exclamation points are okay). I had always wanted to go to Tibet and this dream seemed on route to become a reality.

But then the politics shifted. Again.

March 5 was a day of disappointment for us, leaving Boxie-boo upset and a little homesick. Liam joked that he planned to get the hell out of this country, jump on plane and then flip China the bird from his window. When I learned what happened, I reacted by grunting towards the floor while sitting at the internet café’s computer. I may have appeared to have been yelling at my genitals; either that, or maybe my red shirt made me freak out momentarily, tricking me into thinking I was on fire. In summary, I was too disappointed to even comprehend what had happened, after spending days waiting, researching and planning in Chengdu to organize this trip. My time and effort was all for nothing. China had again banned foreigners from entering Tibet. The result – Lhasa (Beijing) was no longer issuing permits. We could not go.

We were not alone in this. Many travelers at the hostel were very disappointed. There were some people in this hostel trying to get into Tibet for the second time. Some backpackers had prepaid and were out money on travel expenses. Luckily for us, we did not lose any money, just time, as our second plane flight was also reimbursed. Hostel staff told us that we could wait, as sometimes these closures are short-lived and blow over. But we were low on time. We had other places we were set to visit on our around the world trip and a plane to catch from Nepal to India.

Every news source available online with Tibet updates was blocked by the Great Firewall of China. I tried to access various news sources through the usual ways to get around the Net Nanny - proxy servers, cached-version of sites, portals, etc. I could only speculate that this was a result of nearing the March 10th anniversary date of the 1959 uprising in Tibet against Chinese rule. Before I gave up on researching, my 30th attempt at finding news through a proxy worked, after I then viewed the cached-version of the website through another portal.

On March 5, 2010 the Asian Tribune reported that Nepali authorities had adopted a new policy to send Tibetans illegally entering into Nepali territory back to their homes from the border point or hand them over to Chinese authorities. This newspaper stated that right activists had expressed worry over the new policy, fearing that this could make such Tibetans face severe punishment back home. This decision came in the wake of increasing number of Tibetans illegally sneaking into Nepali territory with the objective to reach to Dharmashala, India, where their spiritual leader Dalai Lama has been taking shelter for decades, the article stated.

Chinese officials in Kathmandu had recently lodged their displeasure with Nepali authorities over handling of Tibetans illegally entered into Nepal. China fears that exiled leaders could brainwash the Tibetans to create instability in the Tibetan Autonomous Region similar to the one made in Lhasa in 2008, the Asian Tribune reported.

This information caused me to understand that even Nepal was flexing its muscle on Tibet, leaving our Plan B entrance to become null and void. I realized we were not going to Tibet. We decided to make plans to enter Nepal anyways and instead began researching what we will do in this country landlocked between the world’s two biggest populations – China and India.

If you ever plan to go to Tibet, we have learned the best time to go is in September. The politics tends to stabilize, it is less expensive than the summer months and I have been told that there are no sensitive anniversary dates. I may try again one day, but many people have tried before and failed on second attempts.

In the end, even comfort food would not cheer me up, unless, perhaps, I was able to find myself a tasty milkshake that could only be consumed by being sucked out of a boob.

That’s all for now.

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Chinese Massage

03/04/10

We entered a room of masseuses dressed in white doctor’s gowns. The windows were squared off with metal bars making the light drowsy. There was no sign of an afterlife, just death. One masseuse had such an impressive hour-glass frame I presumed she did not need to wear a watch. Sections of the walls were covered in holes from where the concrete had broken off in painful tears. We later learned why the walls were crying. They had witnessed too much agony. Unable to communicate with us, the manager handed Liam a phone.

“Back and shoulders,” I heard Liam say, telling the English-speaker what areas needed attention. Behind him, a masseuse ran her fingers along the indents in the wall, finding her way towards a massage table. Although it only took me 15 minutes to figure it out, I quickly (well, not really that quick) realized she was completely blind, every masseuse was, except the manager.

I placed my camera inside a cupboard below my massage table and laid down waiting. My masseuse felt her way along the table’s edge, then onto my shoulders and back. Intuitively, she grabbed the side of my head and placed it inside the open hole pillow. I looked down on the white floor, stained in sections with brown circles. I became blind to her actions. We were no different, but she was in control.

The massage began with what felt like knuckle and brick. She seemed to be trying to tattoo her elbow permanently into my back. With a throbbing headache and a stomach churning acid and water over leftover booze, I knew I was far too hungover for this. Liam looked over to me for support, as the manager pulled him upwards by his traps, pinching painfully, before slamming him back into his pillow. I watched in fear, wondering what might be happening to me that I could not witness. Liam gently laughed, probably trying to cover up hard tears.

I felt like a dog. I had entered room and forgot why I walked in. I thought I was there for a massage? The only difference between myself and a dog was I was not afraid of a vacuum cleaner, but I was afraid of a blind person. If only in this moment my senses could have gone on strike. My hands began to grip the mattress, while my face clenched in pain.

“Oh sweet merciful glory,” I yelped, while her elbow continued twisting into my back. Liam tried to laugh beside me, but it sounded like a trombone over top of his painful moans. Beside Liam, Boxie-boo abandoned her words, yelping like an injured Beluga whale, as we heard loud clapping sounds from her side of the room. We could not see what was happening to her.

“What is she doing?” I asked.

“She’s slapping my ass,” Boxie-boo replied. I presumed I heard this wrong. After all, women are like ostriches. I often, but no always, have no idea what they are talking about.

I tried to fight the pain and communicate with body language, arching my back slightly in an attempt to communicate “You are killing me, dear woman!” It made as much sense as shooting myself in the groin to overcome a headache. It only made things worse. She seemed to think this meant I wanted her to be more aggressive. She dug in harder and I imagined her thinking, “How do you like me now, foreigner?” Not very much. I continued to submissively let dig for eternal organs in my back with her elbow. Within minutes, I lost my sense of time.

“How long has it been?” I yelled, laughing. There was some safety in speaking in English after being handed a phone to communicate before our massage began. “I don’t think I can take it anymore.”

“I have no idea,” Liam said. “This guy is going to work. He is just attacking my back.”

“I wish she would also use her hands and not just elbows,” Boxie-boo yelled.

It is hard to say how long we laid facedown. I wondered if this was a tactic to make us unable to witness the atrocities that were being done to each other’s bodies. In time, we were switched onto our sides where we witnessed each other’s agony. Liam’s face was a portrait of discomfort, as if he had just awoken up from a bizarre nightmare about having sex with a garden gnome. He gazed nakedly in my direction, eyes seemingly unable to focus. His hair was messed: The look on a face after a hard night of drinking. He looked to me for support and I nodded, as if to stay, “Hang in there soldier.”

The poor guy, I thought. He had the only male and the only person who had full vision, allowing his masseuse to feel for pain with both his eyes and hands. In this moment, I think I spoke for the majority of mute people when I said nothing at all. Yes, we were paying for this service. At least it was cheap, only 25 RMB ($4 U.S./Canadian) for an hour of physical abuse.

I leaned up to look at Boxie-boo and to make sure her purse was still in sight. Her face looked equally confused. The slapping of her butt left her in a dream state, as if she thinking about charging her hair and brushing her Ipod. On our sides, we could watch the tactics of our assailants.

“Is he digging his fist into my thigh?” Liam asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “He has his body weight on one hand. Feels good right?”

“I think she is punching my foot,” Boxie-boo said. I could not see passed Liam.

For some twisted version of fate, the massage ended with us on our backs, being treated to small fingers concentrated on the pressure points of our faces. My masseuse gently ran her hands through my hair, pressed her thumbs into my eyebrows and forehead ever so peacefully. She massaged my cheeks, released the pain of a headache she added to earlier through digging her elbow in her neck, by hitting a pressure point between my eyebrows. This left me in a drowsy, half-dreamt state when the massage was over. The others felt the same way, and for some reason, the ending was so good we all agreed to tip. The owner would not accept it, though.

I suppose he knew the truth. The massage tactic in China was to make it so horrible, a gentle punch in the nuts in the end would feel pleasant.

That’s all for now.

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Sending off Friends

03/03/10

Suddenly, the ceiling dulled up before me with a slippery glassiness, my neck tensed forward towards my collar bone, my eyes protruded and my stomach somersaulted into my throat. I jolted frontward, felt short of breath, attempted to swallow enough oxygen to float in mid-air and began to get terribly dizzy; while my lower jaw dropped uncontrollably, so much so that my tongue flopped out of my mouth and onto my chin feebly. Moving my feet off the bed, I slide down to the floor, squirming and kicking off the shoes I forgot I was wearing. My head jerked from side to side, rolling my eyes drunkenly to try to restart my vision.

It seemed my bladder, as always, knew the moment I had found the most comfortable position in bed. But something else was wrong, I was drunker than I remembered and I was too dizzy to see. I would have given my baby toe for a poutine. Nostalgia wasn’t what it used to be, I thought, re-counting my thoughts from the booze-induced send-off to the friends we had made at Sim’s Cozy Guesthouse, while I sat on the floor, unable to see and thinking about poutine.

I knew after 1am that I could sit back and relax because all my bad decisions would pretty much take care of themselves. This started early on when I was offered one of two drink choices. A drunken man will almost always pick the first because he stopped listening and didn’t hear the second. I ended up so hammered I locked myself out of our hostel room twice, if any of you readers are in search of a responsible adult. Dancing like a man afraid of his own shadow and having hip hop battles with Sebastian, I spent the entire night feeling about as smart as the time I thought someone was waving at me, but realized they were waving at the guy behind me. I did, however, learn something interesting about myself – when I enter a bar already intoxicated, I have no idea how I arrived and no idea how I was going to leave. Perhaps, this is why I found myself, hours later, contemplating a night of boozing, hoping I did not piss my pants while I waited for my dizziness to pass and my vision to restart.

Boxie-boo and I had stayed at this hostel much longer than planned, trying to figure out our Nepal/Tibet travel plans, while possibly rounding up more backpackers to save money on a Tibet to Nepal overland tour. The result was having short-lived friendships – people we spent a few days with, had a blast, leaving us all with full intentions of meeting again. In my experience traveling, unfortunately, this rarely happens. Everybody knows this, deep down, and this is the reason we got ridiculously drunk to spend one last, fun-filled night together, before the relationship built became mere memories.

I hope to invoke the power of the great Dionysus – the Greek god of wine and song – to enter Sim’s. In my time on this planet, I have realized that if a god or gods exist, they do not work in this way, on-call like pizza delivery boys. So instead of asking for a blessed party, I got hammered, then asked for forgiveness the next day – the Catholic way. If the gods are watching us, we may as well be entertaining. And we were. But no forgiveness was given. Sebastian, for example, woke up lost and confused on a couch in the communal TV room. Most of us were hungover and some of us woke up with random bruises from falling of chairs and other tricks of the mind caused by booze. Sometimes, when drunk, there is that awkward moment when I lean in to hug someone sexy, then bump my head against the mirror.

The night started off with Sebastian, Hana, Boxie-boo and I sharing a 15 RMB cab to the center of the city for some dumplings. Our meal cost us a total of 60 RMB (only $10 U.S./Canadian), leaving us stuffed and ready to continue the bowel war between Chinese food and Chinese beer. The winner was beer. It had most people in a headlock, falling of their bar stools and laughing on the floor.

Back at Sim’s, the devil sat in the corner of the room laughing. Smoke hovered across the ceiling, while empty bottles quickly piled on each table. Everybody left their inhibitions behind, cracking jokes, singing, dancing and telling embarrassing stories from their travels to date. I have learned there is really no point in worry much about what people think of you, as especially when drinking, people are not thinking much anyways to begin with.

I shared my story of giving myself a golden shower by mistake on a Thai train. Sebastian shared his story about making out with a beautiful Chinese girl at a bar, then later found out she was a prostitute trying to earn some income. Hana talked about how she has had trouble making Chinese friends since moving here. Everybody shared stories about getting used to the pushy and discourteous culture of the country. Most conversations were forgotten.

Like the news, it began with “Good Evening” and ended by explaining why it wasn’t, at least in my case in the middle of the night. And there I was, covered in sweat, dizzy and unable to see clearly. My heart was racing for no apparent reason, unless kicking off my shoes was the equivalent of running a marathon. I could feel the ceiling fan move back and forth, appearing like a shaking head of distaste. Perhaps, it was Dionysus. I rolled along the floor towards the fan knowing it was the pathway to the bathroom, stood up and fell into the walls.

Reaching the bathroom, I pulled myself into the doorway and called to Boxie-boo to wake up. She helped me sit down. On a toilet. It was embarrassing, but a necessity, like the assless chaps on babies. Twenty minutes of my mind spinning in circles around the toilet, while I remained motionless, I was able to relieve myself, to put it politely. No, I did not throw up and oddly enough I only had to pee. It was some other bizarre sickness. I did, however, learn that even if I don’t have to poop, a bathroom is still a nice place to take my pants off and sit for a while.

I went back to bed and an hour later woke up mid-dream and was surprised. I was completely fine. It was very strange. I was full on sick, but only for one hour. The next day, telling this story to amused Sebastian, he said he had experienced this himself, something he nicknamed hitting the “Travel Wall of China.” It was a bit scary, especially since I had no poutine, so I hoped it did not happen again.

That’s all for now.

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