*NB: I'm omitting last names of people I met in Myanmar... there's no knowing if things they said to me could get them in trouble with the government.
Unmissable and unmistakable as one taxis around the scuffling low-rise urban sprawl of Yangon: the jewel-encrusted spire rises from a golden bell and a forest of lesser spires. The Shwedagon Paya is Yangon's most ancient symbol, and Myanmar's most holy place. This was the crowning jewel of our second day in Myanmar, but I get ahead of myself.
Our night's sleep plagued by the blackouts that periodically sweep the city (and the country). What better introduction to the criminal lack of public infrastructure (not) developed under the current regime? The problem for sleeping was less that the lights went out, but more that when the lights went out one would reconcile oneself to an early night's sleep... but forget to make sure that all the room's light switches had been turned to the off position, only to be wakened in the middle of the night when the lamps blinked on again.
We awoke fresh, with aspirations to blend--as well as tourists can--into the hubbub of Myanmar's main metropolis. We walked past the Sule Paya, at the center of the city, into the Chinese Quarter. This part of town marks the importance of economic migrants from China and India, when Myanmar was under British rule. The British rulers encouraged Indian civil servants to fill a gap in educated labor and Chinese merchants to bring international commerce into Myanmar. Both minorities were faced with racial pogroms, however, as power was handed back to the Burmese, and thousands of Chinese and Indians fled the country at that time. Quite striking compared to post-colonial Malaysia, wherein harmony is maintained by Malaysian domination of civil service and Indian/Chinese domination of the private professions.
Today's Myanmar, however, sees a resurgence in business-immigration from China and India. I'm told that the boom in Chinese business and investment is much more evident in Mandalay (further up the Irrawaddy river, and thus closer to China) as well as the regions bordering China, but that day in Yangon's Chinatown, we saw much more evidence of Indian investment and business-migrants. On a side road dotted by electric generators we met a middle-aged Indian businessman from Calcutta. His first name was *Haji Mohamed. Mohamed's import business was thriving--having the right to add 'Haji' to one's name signifies that a Muslim has made his pilgrimage (or Hajj) to Mecca... not a cheap trip to make from India! Mohamed's business was mostly concerned with bathroom fixtures and other necessities for home decoration, but Myanmar's economic isolation meant that even this simple business could be quite profitable. Mohamed's English was basic, "Bush BAD, Bush just knows WAR; I don't know politics, don't know war, just know BUSINESS!" In this fashion (and through his son who was completely fluent and articulate in English) we learned that he didn't like the Myanmar government (whom he referred to as Communists, which at one point they loosely were), disliked the Chinese government for similar reasons, but liked the Chinese people just fine (he sometimes did business with a Chinese furniture/bathroom fixtures company), and liked Obama quite a a lot. As we had this stilted conversation in the cool recesses of his office, his son was on Skype with a business contact located in Bankok, Thailand who overheard our discussion of the current US president. "You like Obama?" It turned out that all of us there, from the US, from China, from India, from Myanmar, and from Thailand could agree on that. No matter what other political discussions may be ongoing in the States these days, anyone who steps beyond the US borders will quickly understand the difference Obama has made on foreign perception of the US.
Outside, mosque cupolas were obscured by the shifting flocks of pigeons; another pigeon perched upon the head of a Hindu god; street sellers of myriad goods called out their wares. A pervasive street good was betel nut: a reddish, mild narcotic quite popular throughout parts of India and SE Asia. This SE Asian equivalent of a cigarette called for elaborate preparations: the nut of the Areca palm is laid upon the leaf of the Betel tree, squirted with a liquid made up of dissolved mineral lime (to catalyze the narcotic chemical), cut with tobacco or flavorings, and wrapped up into a neat little package that can be tucked into the mouth and chewed. The eventual remains of that chewing can be seen streaking the gutters of the city, and a lifetime of chewing Betel leaves one's teeth burnished dark red.
Just north of the famed Aung San Bogyoke Market (named after Aung San Suu Kyi's father, one of Myanmar's liberators from colonial rule), we had lunch. Fried butter fish lived up to their name, melting in our mouths. The Burmese cuisine, we found, was not very spicy at all--quite strange considering that it is surrounded by SW China, Thailand, and India. A centerpiece of the meal is a salad of random fruits and greens (uncooked Thai eggplants were quite common) soaked in fermented fish sauce. Kiera wasn't really a fan, but then she (like most Chinese) doesn't much appreciate the taste of uncooked vegetables.
Given Myanmar's aforementioned economic isolation, imagine my shock to find A&W root beer sold in a department store in the midst of the Chinese quarter!
After our wanderings and meanderings under the hot, tropical sun, we both felt ready to catch a taxi north to the Shwedagon. Feel free to skip the following paragraph which is certain to be a history lesson if you don't have the patience!
This is the story of Buddha's hairs, a subject of much concern as Buddhism spread beyond the confines of the Indian subcontinent, and newly Buddhist (formerly pantheistic or animist) faithful sought pilgrimage sites that were closer to home and more cost-effective than trekking all the way to the Bodhi tree. These particularly Buddha hairs made their way to the site of what is now Yangon, having lost several of their brethren (hair brethren, that is) to the manifold perils that a journey from India held in those days. The total number of hairs had been depleted to just four, but when the King of these parts opened the holy package he discovered the full number of eight Buddha hairs. Then a special sort of chaos ensued involving rays of light, dumb people speaking, blind people perceiving the hairs, etc. The hairs themselves were laid to rest in a golden stupa, then encased in silver, in turn encased in tin, copper, lead, marble, and finally bricks of iron. Despite all the shock and awe produced by these hairs, or the glorious monument raised above them, the site eventually was lost in the jungle, only to be rediscovered by the great Buddhist emperor, Ashoka, and reclaimed from its ruin. Eventually, the Burmese kings of old encased the shrine in gold, adorned its upper spires with saphires, emeralds, rubies, and diamonds... and the rest is (yet more) history.
More recently, the Shwedagon has suffered from Portuguese pirates (who carried off one of its bells), wars with the British, fires, and several earthquakes. And yet it stands today amidst an impoverished and isolated country and has lost none of its gilded luster. The plaza below is a place of peace and quiet (when not used as a gathering place for political dissenters as it has done most recently in the monk's uprising of 2007) where tourists snap pictures, the faithful pray, and monks stroll. A couple young monks beckoned me to join them. As their English was excellent, I had a good conversation with them... only having to pretend I was not conversing when some government minders strolled past. One of the monks was twenty-two years old, possessing an impish grin and an unquenchable thirst for information. He asked me much about American politics (particularly my thoughts on the present president and the recently departed one), noting that he'd read about them both on the internet. He seemed to have a preference for Bush *gasp!*. Perhaps this young fellow approved more of Bush's hard line stance on the Myanmar junta rather than Obama's offer of detente, or perhaps his online readings had been partisan in source. Given that he thought that Bush had fought in Vietnam and wasn't sure if Obama was originally from Africa, I would say that partisan sources were at least part of that puzzle.
We had a good discussion, nonetheless, of Hurricane Nargis, Hurricane Katrina, life in China and the States, and an earthquake he had experienced as a boy. He told me he was training to be a missionary monk, in explanation of his efforts to learn English. The monk told me he came from a town near the famed ruins of Mrauk U, in the far western province of Arakan that borders Bangladesh. He also joked that the darker-skinned monk who sat on my other flank had come from Africa. If anything, my clearest impression of these young monks was just how normal they were, no different really than any inquisitive young men would be, whether in China or Europe or the US. There was little mysticism or abstraction in their words or actions--they seemed quite grounded in the practicalities of the life they had chosen and the sacrifices or benefits that life path might bring.
In parting, the young monk gave me some advice: go to the back corner of the Shwedagon and search for markings among the marble paving stones. Wait there until the sun falls, and you will see light refracting through the largest diamond at the pagoda's apex. The color of that light changes as you move from position, to position: yellow-gold to bluish-green.
Kiera had waited patiently for my conversation with the monks to finish, and we strolled around the vast base of the pagoda and its many spires as we waited for dusk to fall upon the sacred ensemble. We came upon intricate carvings of teak, Buddhas reclining in the shade, golden Buddhas being bathed in water, vast bells, mythical beasts to represent the eight days of the Buddhist week, and paintings representing events in the life of Buddha or the history of the pagoda. The sun fell, and spotlights enveloped the golden spire in an inferno of ruddy hue. As everything became dark beyond the pagoda, the contrast of its blazing warmth was magnificent. Finally, we sought out the semi-secret markings and hopped from spot to spot to see the light glowed first topaz then teal through the bulk of a 76 carat diamond some 300 feet above us. The other 4351 diamonds surrounding it were blind and dumb against the night sky... perhaps in awe of their brother.
As we descended the hill, one of Buddhism's great landmarks at our back, I wondered how to describe the place to my friends and family. The blog posting I conjured in my mind just couldn't do it justice. Three hundred feet of gold plate, precious gems, and above all the untold hours of artistry and care made this the heart of Myanmar--never mind in the bandit villas and never-dimming lights of the general's new capital upon the barren plains at Nay Pyi Daw--the true heart of Myanmar.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Rat Soup (In China)
I seem to recall that some sort of field rat is considered a delicacy in the tourist playground that is Guilin, in southern China. I've never had the pleasure of eating it, so I can't be sure whether this is just tourist trappings or a rather minor example of the Cantonese tendency to eat, well... everything.
Unfortunately, last night Kiera and I came quite a bit closer to inadvertently dining upon rat than we had intended.
The scene: Eating in one of our favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurants across the street from our apartment. The time is late, perhaps 9 pm. Kiera works late some nights, so we eat late. All the other customers have cleared out. The family that runs the place is cleaning up; some of the older members are relaxing at another table to chat until their last two customers finish. Our food is a vast pot of stewed chicken, potato, and other veggies. The preponderance of cumin betrays the origins of the dish as coming from the Turkic western frontiers of China. A rat falls from the ceiling onto the table directly behind Kiera.
Kiera naturally stands and screams. Not the full-throated wail of a horror movie vixen, but a frantic warble that also somehow communicates her embarrassment to be making such a commotion. She also jigs about as if she's caught the tarantella. The rat scurries as fast as its little legs will take it, back towards the back of the restaurant. The staff saw us, and the rat, but they didn't seem very bothered by it--mostly just amused at our reaction to the unwelcome intruder from above.
The rat had fallen from a crevice (an unused light well, perhaps?) that ran around the edge of the restaurant's ceiling. We'd seen it scurry by earlier that evening, but hadn't worried too much. As long as it wasn't near the food, I was willing to be sanguine about the whole experience. In countries like China (not to mention in Myanmar and Africa and other places I've traveled to) you just have to accept that such critters are everywhere... or spend all your time cloistered in decadent 5-star hotels. We were even joking that at least the rat hadn't jumped into our pot of food, when it did in fact jump. Just not into the pot.
So, I still haven't had rat. But I've certainly come a bit closer to that culinary milestone. I was thinking that in the US, such an event would get a restaurant shut down permanently. In China, owner and patron alike just shrug and get along with their everyday concerns. I'm a bit torn as to which is the better reaction.
Unfortunately, last night Kiera and I came quite a bit closer to inadvertently dining upon rat than we had intended.
The scene: Eating in one of our favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurants across the street from our apartment. The time is late, perhaps 9 pm. Kiera works late some nights, so we eat late. All the other customers have cleared out. The family that runs the place is cleaning up; some of the older members are relaxing at another table to chat until their last two customers finish. Our food is a vast pot of stewed chicken, potato, and other veggies. The preponderance of cumin betrays the origins of the dish as coming from the Turkic western frontiers of China. A rat falls from the ceiling onto the table directly behind Kiera.
Kiera naturally stands and screams. Not the full-throated wail of a horror movie vixen, but a frantic warble that also somehow communicates her embarrassment to be making such a commotion. She also jigs about as if she's caught the tarantella. The rat scurries as fast as its little legs will take it, back towards the back of the restaurant. The staff saw us, and the rat, but they didn't seem very bothered by it--mostly just amused at our reaction to the unwelcome intruder from above.
The rat had fallen from a crevice (an unused light well, perhaps?) that ran around the edge of the restaurant's ceiling. We'd seen it scurry by earlier that evening, but hadn't worried too much. As long as it wasn't near the food, I was willing to be sanguine about the whole experience. In countries like China (not to mention in Myanmar and Africa and other places I've traveled to) you just have to accept that such critters are everywhere... or spend all your time cloistered in decadent 5-star hotels. We were even joking that at least the rat hadn't jumped into our pot of food, when it did in fact jump. Just not into the pot.
So, I still haven't had rat. But I've certainly come a bit closer to that culinary milestone. I was thinking that in the US, such an event would get a restaurant shut down permanently. In China, owner and patron alike just shrug and get along with their everyday concerns. I'm a bit torn as to which is the better reaction.
My Burmese Days (1): Yangon, Not Rangoon
The British had a liking for renaming the distant corners of the world that they ruled. Local names in obscure languages often didn't sit well on a public-schooled tongues of officers and government workers, much less upon the palates of the Irish, Scottish, or Cockney laborers and seamen doing the dirty work wherever Her Majesties shadow fell upon the globe. They had difficulty enough with standard English, much less towns like Pyay whose names changed pronunciation depending on which Burmese who happened to be speaking with. Thus there were the city of Rangoon (Yangon), the Irrawaddy River (Ayeyarwaddy), Prome (Pyay), Moulmein (Mawlamyine), The Mergui Archipelago (Myeik), and Burma itself (named after the majority Bamar ethnicity) where the ancient kingdoms of Myanma once stood. The names thus composed still evoked exotic destinations, but without spraining the average British tongue in the process.
The names have been changed back in recent years. Like regimes everywhere in the recently decolonized developing world, de-anglicization was a good opportunity to wave the bloody flag of nationalism. Historical names brought pride to the average Burmese--the colonial overlords were well and truly gone. I sympathize much more now that I know the names do have a historical basis and weren't just cooked up by the junta. But unfortunately for Myanmar, names are not the only historical trend that has returned to the living. Myanma of old was a place where cruel, war-like kings forced serfs to build grand monuments to themselves and the gods. These lords have seemingly returned to flesh, dressed in camo rather than golden raiments, but just as capricious and cruel of temperament, just as unwilling to consider the fate of their peasants as they lavish themselves with proceeds from sales of Myanmar's wealth of resources. This is the aspect of Myanmar for which it is famous today: an isolated totalitarian state ruled by a military junta who have used conscript labor to build infrastructure for themselves and live in luxury as the rest of the country molders in abject poverty. There is more complexity to the story, of course, but the basic idea is correct. Myanmar is a totalitarian, impoverished pariah of a country.
* * *
Day 1
Arriving at Mingaladon Airport in the northern suburbs of Yangon, there was nothing particularly shocking for us to see. A modern airport with all the conveniences. The security apparatus and immigration control procedures gave us no hint of the draconian regime. Even the touts waiting outside seemed relaxed and diffident about the newest batch of tourists to arrive. Our fellow foreign arrivals seemed largely of the elderly, wealthy persuasion. I had expected to see more backpackers--this being one of the last frontiers of travel--but I suppose the necessity of flying in and out of the country (as well as the general higher cost of travel) keeps most of the shoestring budget types out. Other parts of SE Asia (and China) can be traveled on as little as $10 - $14 a day. We averaged more like $25 a day per person, in country.
Our hotel sent a van to pick us up--free service and much appreciated after the ordeal at Bangkok Airport--and we sped away. The appearance of Myanmar was much like the Philippines: low-rise architecture of impermanent mien, palms and banyans sprouting like weeds, decrepit architecture, the occasional grand, rotting colonial edifice. We spotted the great Shwedagon Pagoda rising high above the city like a vast golden bell set to rest upon a molding tablecloth. Its alien architecture was the most clear signal to our sleep-fogged brains that we had arrived in Myanmar, a place like no other.
Exchanging money is the first of many hurdles for the traveler who reaches Myanmar. Dollars are accepted, as are Euros. Yuan might be accepted, at least in some parts of the country--business with China and Chinese tourism are one of Myanmar's few relatively open windows on the world. The first catch is that none of this exchange is done under official auspices. The official dollar exchange rate for kyat (sounds like the word chat spoken in the Cockney form of English) is about 6 kyat per dollar. The black market exchange rate is more like 1,000 kyat per dollar. Thus, no one exchanges at banks or the airport. The second catch is that only pristine new dollar bills will be accepted. A microscopic tear or wear or fold upon the dollar will render it worthless as far as the Burmese are concerned. Larger bills (100s preferred) get a better exchange rate. I exchanged some money at the hotel and some money with street changers (not a mistake I intend to repeat in future).
Errands attended to (and nap had--I hadn't slept for more than a couple hours in the previous 24 spent traveling from China), we headed down to the center of town: the Sule Pagoda. Squatting upon a roundabout amongst the dressed up colonial buildings, the newer constructions of glass and steel, and innumerable hawkers, the Sule Pagoda is a gleaming bell of gold and incense. Salary men on their way home from work, children just off school, and housewives stopping by to take a hiatus from their shopping errands all congregate in that patch of serenity. A little boy and his father washed an image of Buddha (and what appeared to be Buddha's pet dragon-lion-monster). In Myanmar, Buddhism is not just the facade of millennial culture dressed up for tourism and giggles--as it generally is in mainland China. Buddhism is a way of life, and we could see that common people both rich and poor made a space for worship, meditation, and solemn contemplation. Even young people who sat along the cool marble courtyard facing the inner spire of gold were subdued, giving way to the spiritual impulse. For our part, Kiera and I shed our shoes and socks and strolled a circuit through the worshipers. I could see that while religion is a more common and serious duty in Burmese life than it is in China, there are some great similarities in its incarnation. First, the love of gaudy baubles. Diamonds and gold encrusted the upper surfaces of the pagoda. The Buddha images had been (recently, I guess) adorned with halos of scintillating, multihued neon electrified and set to dance and shimmer like the lights of Las Vegas. Second, the commercialization of hallowed ground. Temples, pagodas, and other religious shrines were often preceded by government tourist toll booths as well as hawkers. Thirdly, the overlay of Buddhism onto older regional pantheons. But more on that later.
Outside the pagoda, with the sun's last light withering into tropical gloom, we decided on our first meal in Myanmar. An elderly Burmese woman with haunting blue eyes had advised us that the street side woks of biryani (Indian fried rice) were a good choice, and certainly cheaper than some of the nicer restaurants touted in guide books. The biryani stalls, unfortunately, were tapped out. Clearly the hoi polloi also favored this form of dinner. Perhaps that was fortune, however. I had other plans for our valentine's/spring festival dinner in Myanmar.
It was in the upper stories of the well-to-do--and romantically dimmed--restaurant, Monsoon, that I proposed to Kiera. She was dutifully scribing the names of our dishes in her pocket notebook. She handed the booklet over to me so that I could advise on spelling. I did so, and then wrote my proposal and handed in back. The answer was affirmative. A good note on which to end our first day of adventures in Myanmar.
The names have been changed back in recent years. Like regimes everywhere in the recently decolonized developing world, de-anglicization was a good opportunity to wave the bloody flag of nationalism. Historical names brought pride to the average Burmese--the colonial overlords were well and truly gone. I sympathize much more now that I know the names do have a historical basis and weren't just cooked up by the junta. But unfortunately for Myanmar, names are not the only historical trend that has returned to the living. Myanma of old was a place where cruel, war-like kings forced serfs to build grand monuments to themselves and the gods. These lords have seemingly returned to flesh, dressed in camo rather than golden raiments, but just as capricious and cruel of temperament, just as unwilling to consider the fate of their peasants as they lavish themselves with proceeds from sales of Myanmar's wealth of resources. This is the aspect of Myanmar for which it is famous today: an isolated totalitarian state ruled by a military junta who have used conscript labor to build infrastructure for themselves and live in luxury as the rest of the country molders in abject poverty. There is more complexity to the story, of course, but the basic idea is correct. Myanmar is a totalitarian, impoverished pariah of a country.
* * *
Day 1
Arriving at Mingaladon Airport in the northern suburbs of Yangon, there was nothing particularly shocking for us to see. A modern airport with all the conveniences. The security apparatus and immigration control procedures gave us no hint of the draconian regime. Even the touts waiting outside seemed relaxed and diffident about the newest batch of tourists to arrive. Our fellow foreign arrivals seemed largely of the elderly, wealthy persuasion. I had expected to see more backpackers--this being one of the last frontiers of travel--but I suppose the necessity of flying in and out of the country (as well as the general higher cost of travel) keeps most of the shoestring budget types out. Other parts of SE Asia (and China) can be traveled on as little as $10 - $14 a day. We averaged more like $25 a day per person, in country.
Our hotel sent a van to pick us up--free service and much appreciated after the ordeal at Bangkok Airport--and we sped away. The appearance of Myanmar was much like the Philippines: low-rise architecture of impermanent mien, palms and banyans sprouting like weeds, decrepit architecture, the occasional grand, rotting colonial edifice. We spotted the great Shwedagon Pagoda rising high above the city like a vast golden bell set to rest upon a molding tablecloth. Its alien architecture was the most clear signal to our sleep-fogged brains that we had arrived in Myanmar, a place like no other.
Exchanging money is the first of many hurdles for the traveler who reaches Myanmar. Dollars are accepted, as are Euros. Yuan might be accepted, at least in some parts of the country--business with China and Chinese tourism are one of Myanmar's few relatively open windows on the world. The first catch is that none of this exchange is done under official auspices. The official dollar exchange rate for kyat (sounds like the word chat spoken in the Cockney form of English) is about 6 kyat per dollar. The black market exchange rate is more like 1,000 kyat per dollar. Thus, no one exchanges at banks or the airport. The second catch is that only pristine new dollar bills will be accepted. A microscopic tear or wear or fold upon the dollar will render it worthless as far as the Burmese are concerned. Larger bills (100s preferred) get a better exchange rate. I exchanged some money at the hotel and some money with street changers (not a mistake I intend to repeat in future).
Errands attended to (and nap had--I hadn't slept for more than a couple hours in the previous 24 spent traveling from China), we headed down to the center of town: the Sule Pagoda. Squatting upon a roundabout amongst the dressed up colonial buildings, the newer constructions of glass and steel, and innumerable hawkers, the Sule Pagoda is a gleaming bell of gold and incense. Salary men on their way home from work, children just off school, and housewives stopping by to take a hiatus from their shopping errands all congregate in that patch of serenity. A little boy and his father washed an image of Buddha (and what appeared to be Buddha's pet dragon-lion-monster). In Myanmar, Buddhism is not just the facade of millennial culture dressed up for tourism and giggles--as it generally is in mainland China. Buddhism is a way of life, and we could see that common people both rich and poor made a space for worship, meditation, and solemn contemplation. Even young people who sat along the cool marble courtyard facing the inner spire of gold were subdued, giving way to the spiritual impulse. For our part, Kiera and I shed our shoes and socks and strolled a circuit through the worshipers. I could see that while religion is a more common and serious duty in Burmese life than it is in China, there are some great similarities in its incarnation. First, the love of gaudy baubles. Diamonds and gold encrusted the upper surfaces of the pagoda. The Buddha images had been (recently, I guess) adorned with halos of scintillating, multihued neon electrified and set to dance and shimmer like the lights of Las Vegas. Second, the commercialization of hallowed ground. Temples, pagodas, and other religious shrines were often preceded by government tourist toll booths as well as hawkers. Thirdly, the overlay of Buddhism onto older regional pantheons. But more on that later.
Outside the pagoda, with the sun's last light withering into tropical gloom, we decided on our first meal in Myanmar. An elderly Burmese woman with haunting blue eyes had advised us that the street side woks of biryani (Indian fried rice) were a good choice, and certainly cheaper than some of the nicer restaurants touted in guide books. The biryani stalls, unfortunately, were tapped out. Clearly the hoi polloi also favored this form of dinner. Perhaps that was fortune, however. I had other plans for our valentine's/spring festival dinner in Myanmar.
It was in the upper stories of the well-to-do--and romantically dimmed--restaurant, Monsoon, that I proposed to Kiera. She was dutifully scribing the names of our dishes in her pocket notebook. She handed the booklet over to me so that I could advise on spelling. I did so, and then wrote my proposal and handed in back. The answer was affirmative. A good note on which to end our first day of adventures in Myanmar.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Tidings, on Return from Myanmar
First: Kiera and I are both safe and sound, returned to the urban hubbub of Nanjing. We were not shot or imprisoned by the infamous junta; we did not fall ill with malaria or break-bone fever; we were not bitten by any of Myanmar's many venomous snakes.
However....
Our trip was not without obstacles, trials, and tribulations. This was Kiera's first trip abroad from China, and she certainly got a taste of the challenges as well as the rewards that easily make travel one of the most worthwhile pursuits in life. In fact, the first problem hit us before we even got to Myanmar. Having booked three sets of flights (Nanjing to Guanzhou, Guanzhou to Bangkok, Bangkok to Yangon), we arrived at 1:00 AM in Suvarnabhumi airport (Bangkok) for a night of uneasy snoozing. Our flight for Yangon was set to take off at 8 AM that same morning. What we learned, upon waking around 5:30 AM, was that our budget carrier (Air Asia) did not have an agreement for in-airport transit. With only a couple hours til our flight, we learned that Kiera would have to apply for and successfully receive a visa-on-arrival for Thailand, and only then could we make our way through immigration control, customs, get our tickets, back through security, and run for our gate of departure. Guts churning, fearing for this trip we had already spent so much time and money preparing for, we raced through each hazard as quickly as we could. The short of it is that God, airport security, and fellow travelers all had mercy on us. We made it to our gate with only a few minutes to spare.
Yangon is one of those romantic destinations that have nothing to do with sunsets on sandy beaches, hip clubs, royal hotels, or any other lap of luxury you could care to name. Yangon is old-school romance: the smells of curries, voracious plant life, and sun-baked spoilage; crumbling colonial architecture succumbing to vines; giant banyan trees festooned with hanging shrines to the Nats (pre-Buddhist Burmese deities); golden bell-curved pagodas towering over a ground-hugging cityscape of old British manors, Chinese temples, Indian mosques, tenements, bamboo huts. Arguably, even the great democracy advocate, Aung San Suu Kyi--imprisoned within her home upon the shores of an urban lake--only adds to the romance of that city. A genuine damsel in distress guarded by thuggish warlords! Yangon, in shorter and less baroque description, is the romance of a world less globalized, less sanitized, less homogenized. And we arrived on February 14th: Valentines Day as well as Chinese New Years Day by the lunar calendar. The stars had aligned.
So, on February 14th, 2010, I asked Liang Li Li (Kiera Liang is her chosen English name) to marry me. She said yes.
How's that for heart-stopping news? I assure you, it was heart-stopping for us, too. Are we really that old, to have stumbled upon this particular milestone? Kiera lamented--even as she smiled and cried tears of joy--that she was no longer a young girl. I feel the same way, but at least if we are to give in to that human condition of aging until we become dust, we will have good company for the durance.
The rest of the story may seem anti-climactic following this *big* news. However, I will soon post the stories of our adventures in depth. Myanmar is a beautiful, if isolated, country that will remain an important and memorable one for both Kiera and myself.
However....
Our trip was not without obstacles, trials, and tribulations. This was Kiera's first trip abroad from China, and she certainly got a taste of the challenges as well as the rewards that easily make travel one of the most worthwhile pursuits in life. In fact, the first problem hit us before we even got to Myanmar. Having booked three sets of flights (Nanjing to Guanzhou, Guanzhou to Bangkok, Bangkok to Yangon), we arrived at 1:00 AM in Suvarnabhumi airport (Bangkok) for a night of uneasy snoozing. Our flight for Yangon was set to take off at 8 AM that same morning. What we learned, upon waking around 5:30 AM, was that our budget carrier (Air Asia) did not have an agreement for in-airport transit. With only a couple hours til our flight, we learned that Kiera would have to apply for and successfully receive a visa-on-arrival for Thailand, and only then could we make our way through immigration control, customs, get our tickets, back through security, and run for our gate of departure. Guts churning, fearing for this trip we had already spent so much time and money preparing for, we raced through each hazard as quickly as we could. The short of it is that God, airport security, and fellow travelers all had mercy on us. We made it to our gate with only a few minutes to spare.
Yangon is one of those romantic destinations that have nothing to do with sunsets on sandy beaches, hip clubs, royal hotels, or any other lap of luxury you could care to name. Yangon is old-school romance: the smells of curries, voracious plant life, and sun-baked spoilage; crumbling colonial architecture succumbing to vines; giant banyan trees festooned with hanging shrines to the Nats (pre-Buddhist Burmese deities); golden bell-curved pagodas towering over a ground-hugging cityscape of old British manors, Chinese temples, Indian mosques, tenements, bamboo huts. Arguably, even the great democracy advocate, Aung San Suu Kyi--imprisoned within her home upon the shores of an urban lake--only adds to the romance of that city. A genuine damsel in distress guarded by thuggish warlords! Yangon, in shorter and less baroque description, is the romance of a world less globalized, less sanitized, less homogenized. And we arrived on February 14th: Valentines Day as well as Chinese New Years Day by the lunar calendar. The stars had aligned.
So, on February 14th, 2010, I asked Liang Li Li (Kiera Liang is her chosen English name) to marry me. She said yes.
How's that for heart-stopping news? I assure you, it was heart-stopping for us, too. Are we really that old, to have stumbled upon this particular milestone? Kiera lamented--even as she smiled and cried tears of joy--that she was no longer a young girl. I feel the same way, but at least if we are to give in to that human condition of aging until we become dust, we will have good company for the durance.
The rest of the story may seem anti-climactic following this *big* news. However, I will soon post the stories of our adventures in depth. Myanmar is a beautiful, if isolated, country that will remain an important and memorable one for both Kiera and myself.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Myanmar's Eve
Also Chinese New Year's Eve, and Valentine's Eve. Quite a conjunction of events, don't you say? And when Kiera and I finally arrive in the former capital city of Yangon, on the Irrawaddy Delta, we'll have missed their 'Union Day' celebrations by a mere two days. Supposedly some of the events will be ongoing. But that's getting ahead of the story.
Three flights--Nanjing to Guangzhou (formerly Canton), Guangzhou to Bangkok, Bangkok to Yangon (formerly Rangoon)--and two days are the cost of getting to Myanmar (former Burma). And what could be worth such costs? A country, isolated under a despised and despotic government, where magic realism is reality. This the guidebooks assure us. Boulders perch in peril upon holy peaks, encrusted in gold dust brought by countless pilgrims. A plain studded with over 4,000 temples, emerging from the fields in various states of dishabille. And, well, beaches. A beach without any sunburned tourists studding its modest brown sands or guzzling the juice of its blowsy palm trees. Myanmar is a good place to find such beaches. Kiera hasn't yet in her life met the ocean; I was introduced with its rough play at the age of three; I feel well able to make the necessary introductions. Most importantly, Myanmar has--so it is said--many kindly, curious people. Sanctions on the luxurious lifestyles of their military junta shouldn't be allowed to cut contact between the country's common people and the world.
So here's hoping for a good Chinese New Year and Valentine's spent in a remote and fascinating corner of the world. I'll let you know how it went.
Three flights--Nanjing to Guangzhou (formerly Canton), Guangzhou to Bangkok, Bangkok to Yangon (formerly Rangoon)--and two days are the cost of getting to Myanmar (former Burma). And what could be worth such costs? A country, isolated under a despised and despotic government, where magic realism is reality. This the guidebooks assure us. Boulders perch in peril upon holy peaks, encrusted in gold dust brought by countless pilgrims. A plain studded with over 4,000 temples, emerging from the fields in various states of dishabille. And, well, beaches. A beach without any sunburned tourists studding its modest brown sands or guzzling the juice of its blowsy palm trees. Myanmar is a good place to find such beaches. Kiera hasn't yet in her life met the ocean; I was introduced with its rough play at the age of three; I feel well able to make the necessary introductions. Most importantly, Myanmar has--so it is said--many kindly, curious people. Sanctions on the luxurious lifestyles of their military junta shouldn't be allowed to cut contact between the country's common people and the world.
So here's hoping for a good Chinese New Year and Valentine's spent in a remote and fascinating corner of the world. I'll let you know how it went.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Mongolian Adventures (6): Swans and Horses
August 5th:
We said 'Bayartai' (goodbye) to the children of the nomads. As a parting gift, I left them with some Disney stickers I had bought for the purpose of distributing just so. That seemed to break the ice a bit, so one young boy decided to practice his English with me. I showed him my notebook with its sketches of ruined monasteries, dunes, wastelands, and the sour mare's milk contraption I'd shared the ger with that previous night. Amusingly, the boy told me his tow-headed little sister was really a Russian, and her name was "Jenny". His father was less amused with the jest. As it turns out, many Mongolian children have blond hair which gradually darkens to hickory as they get older. I suppose this is a remnant strain of Caucasian blood from the days when the horde raided Russia and Europe, bringing back concubines for the Khans.
The grasses were again green and thick by this point in our journey. But as the day progressed, the land around us stretched itself, shrugging up mountains from the rolling hillsides. Pine forests hugged the southward faces of the higher slopes. Yaks and yak-cow hybrids grazed the lower meadows.
We stopped for lunch on a steep hillside overlooking a broad valley, and the river winding through it. A couple Kazakh men had arranged a ger at the roadside, with a golden eagle and bows to entice any tourists who happened along. Although later we did try the bows (I didn't do too badly with mine--thank you Camp Au Sable!), for the moment we were more interested in our bowls of stir-fry with pasta. So was a hungry goat who wandered away from his herd and across the asphalt to join us. More welcome to join us in our prandial gorging, an orange butterfly. The goat was discouraged after we shoved him away from our food a few times. The butterfly, meanwhile, alighted on a cup of our heavily-sugared tea. Tea had become something of an indulgence, with our small traveling group devouring box after box of the stuff each day.
That afternoon we journeyed half the length of a broad valley. Ragged upthrusts of volcanic stone bespoke a violent past for serene valley. Our encampment sat on an embankment; the stream below wound through a gorge engraved into the valley floor. A pair of swans swam circles in stately grace within its rocky parenthesis. Periodically, yaks nudged the side of our ger, calling us outside to play.
August 6th:
Mongolian horses are half-wild, so our Mongolian horsemen tell us just before we jump up into the saddle. They look it--with their shaggy hair, angry eyes, and the way the Mongolian horses will buck their heads rapidly up and down when tethered as if they are headbanging at a rock concert.
Our quest is for the Orkhon Khukhree, a waterfall somewhere in the valley not far from our encampment. The guide then lets me (or more specifically, my horse) guide the way. I don't know the way, and my horse seems more intent on finding himself a nice grassy lunch. My companions, however, are having even more trouble with their half-wild mounts.
Eagles, vultures, falcons and hawks have spotted prey, somewhere ahead of us. The usual description is to say that these raptors "circle", but when these hungry birds form a certain density, what they really become is a cyclone. The waterfall is somewhere beneath them, and we dismount accordingly. Forsaking the waterfall for a moment, however, we search for the fount of these carrion birds and find a cow, its ribs picked clean.
The Orkhon Khukhree waterfall was formed--like the valley itself--by volcanic action. A pit falls in the middle of an otherwise flat valley floor, then trails off downstream in the shape of a comma. The water thunders down over the edge of this hole. Forest grows thick within the rift. We descend via a treacherous crack in the rift's wall, dodging a never ending stream of ascending tourists wearing their florescent tour-caps. When the noon-day tumult of tourists depart, we have the thundering falls, the icy pool beneath it, and the tranquil forest to ourselves. I sketch the mossy forest floor as the sun sketches ruddy fire onto my skin.
After leaving the waterfall, I was ready to nurse my badly sun-burned arms in the cool depths of our ger; our guide had one last surprise in store for us, however. Upstream from the waterfall, a small waterfall (more properly a rapids) sent spray up towards the blue Mongolian skies. What was our purpose in being here? we wondered. The guide pointed to the falls and told us to look more carefully.
Then I saw it. A dark shape darting amid the falling water. And another. And downstream my eyes suddenly perceived differences of depth amongst what had previously seemed nothing but stony shallows. Fish were jumping upstream. Taimen, perhaps?
Later, I found my island of solitude further away from camp. Upstream. I explored an ancient sandbar with rocky margins. A pine tree, scarred from fire or lightning, stood sentinel. Although I wasn't really very far from camp, I could feel the silence and tranquility of nature. But then nature called with its forceful urgency, reminding me that tranquility is just a title we bestow upon it out of nostalgia or misconception. I had a choice. Did I wish to return to the encampment with its smelly outhouse--nothing but a hut placed over a pit of piss and shit, a few boards and a gap between them functioning as the commode? Or should I find a more natural solution? I have to come clean, the main argument in my mind against the latter was the issue of how to come clean. Leaves are never satisfactory. But there is this pristine, crystal clear stream....
* * *
I looked around me and saw none to see; clothes were lain upon the bleached river boulders; I jumped into icy waters that scoured my skin. I've never felt cleaner in my life than when I emerged from that Mongolian creek.
Later, returning to camp, I would tell my companions that the waters were warm enough to swim in. Was that mischief on my part?
We said 'Bayartai' (goodbye) to the children of the nomads. As a parting gift, I left them with some Disney stickers I had bought for the purpose of distributing just so. That seemed to break the ice a bit, so one young boy decided to practice his English with me. I showed him my notebook with its sketches of ruined monasteries, dunes, wastelands, and the sour mare's milk contraption I'd shared the ger with that previous night. Amusingly, the boy told me his tow-headed little sister was really a Russian, and her name was "Jenny". His father was less amused with the jest. As it turns out, many Mongolian children have blond hair which gradually darkens to hickory as they get older. I suppose this is a remnant strain of Caucasian blood from the days when the horde raided Russia and Europe, bringing back concubines for the Khans.
The grasses were again green and thick by this point in our journey. But as the day progressed, the land around us stretched itself, shrugging up mountains from the rolling hillsides. Pine forests hugged the southward faces of the higher slopes. Yaks and yak-cow hybrids grazed the lower meadows.
We stopped for lunch on a steep hillside overlooking a broad valley, and the river winding through it. A couple Kazakh men had arranged a ger at the roadside, with a golden eagle and bows to entice any tourists who happened along. Although later we did try the bows (I didn't do too badly with mine--thank you Camp Au Sable!), for the moment we were more interested in our bowls of stir-fry with pasta. So was a hungry goat who wandered away from his herd and across the asphalt to join us. More welcome to join us in our prandial gorging, an orange butterfly. The goat was discouraged after we shoved him away from our food a few times. The butterfly, meanwhile, alighted on a cup of our heavily-sugared tea. Tea had become something of an indulgence, with our small traveling group devouring box after box of the stuff each day.
That afternoon we journeyed half the length of a broad valley. Ragged upthrusts of volcanic stone bespoke a violent past for serene valley. Our encampment sat on an embankment; the stream below wound through a gorge engraved into the valley floor. A pair of swans swam circles in stately grace within its rocky parenthesis. Periodically, yaks nudged the side of our ger, calling us outside to play.
August 6th:
Mongolian horses are half-wild, so our Mongolian horsemen tell us just before we jump up into the saddle. They look it--with their shaggy hair, angry eyes, and the way the Mongolian horses will buck their heads rapidly up and down when tethered as if they are headbanging at a rock concert.
Our quest is for the Orkhon Khukhree, a waterfall somewhere in the valley not far from our encampment. The guide then lets me (or more specifically, my horse) guide the way. I don't know the way, and my horse seems more intent on finding himself a nice grassy lunch. My companions, however, are having even more trouble with their half-wild mounts.
Eagles, vultures, falcons and hawks have spotted prey, somewhere ahead of us. The usual description is to say that these raptors "circle", but when these hungry birds form a certain density, what they really become is a cyclone. The waterfall is somewhere beneath them, and we dismount accordingly. Forsaking the waterfall for a moment, however, we search for the fount of these carrion birds and find a cow, its ribs picked clean.
The Orkhon Khukhree waterfall was formed--like the valley itself--by volcanic action. A pit falls in the middle of an otherwise flat valley floor, then trails off downstream in the shape of a comma. The water thunders down over the edge of this hole. Forest grows thick within the rift. We descend via a treacherous crack in the rift's wall, dodging a never ending stream of ascending tourists wearing their florescent tour-caps. When the noon-day tumult of tourists depart, we have the thundering falls, the icy pool beneath it, and the tranquil forest to ourselves. I sketch the mossy forest floor as the sun sketches ruddy fire onto my skin.
After leaving the waterfall, I was ready to nurse my badly sun-burned arms in the cool depths of our ger; our guide had one last surprise in store for us, however. Upstream from the waterfall, a small waterfall (more properly a rapids) sent spray up towards the blue Mongolian skies. What was our purpose in being here? we wondered. The guide pointed to the falls and told us to look more carefully.
Then I saw it. A dark shape darting amid the falling water. And another. And downstream my eyes suddenly perceived differences of depth amongst what had previously seemed nothing but stony shallows. Fish were jumping upstream. Taimen, perhaps?
Later, I found my island of solitude further away from camp. Upstream. I explored an ancient sandbar with rocky margins. A pine tree, scarred from fire or lightning, stood sentinel. Although I wasn't really very far from camp, I could feel the silence and tranquility of nature. But then nature called with its forceful urgency, reminding me that tranquility is just a title we bestow upon it out of nostalgia or misconception. I had a choice. Did I wish to return to the encampment with its smelly outhouse--nothing but a hut placed over a pit of piss and shit, a few boards and a gap between them functioning as the commode? Or should I find a more natural solution? I have to come clean, the main argument in my mind against the latter was the issue of how to come clean. Leaves are never satisfactory. But there is this pristine, crystal clear stream....
* * *
I looked around me and saw none to see; clothes were lain upon the bleached river boulders; I jumped into icy waters that scoured my skin. I've never felt cleaner in my life than when I emerged from that Mongolian creek.
Later, returning to camp, I would tell my companions that the waters were warm enough to swim in. Was that mischief on my part?
Friday, January 1, 2010
Mongolian Adventures (5): Origins of Indiana Jones, Dinosaur Eggs, Lycanthropic Bovines
August 3rd:
We left the Khongoryn Els (the great dune sea) behind us.
Onwards to the site of Roy Chapman Andrews's dinosaur excavations. There, the saxual (not sexual) trees can be be seen growing from the nobbly landscape, hunched and bunched like withered crones gossiping at market. Our guide and driver must have grown weary of us by this point, as Zoola merely pointed vaguely in the general direction of an escarpment of livid sandstone on the horizon. 'There', she said, 'You'll find the dinosaurs. Maybe 1 or 2 kilometers. Dinner and hot showers will be ready when you come back."
Oh, but we three remaining travelers (one of the Danish girls had to fly back from Dalanzagad due to her inner-ear problems and the bumpiness of our journey into the Gobi) swear... we SWEAR that the round trip that day was at least 10 kilometers! Straight into a biting gale of sand! Uphill both ways! Without feet!
Okay, well maybe the last part is an exaggeration on my part. I did have some problems with my shoes, however. My shoes, which I had bought a couple years earlier in Chongqing (China), finally gave up the ghost that day. I had already had the sole's attachment reinforced with stitching, but the stitching gave way. Rocks and sand migrated deep under my feet as I trudged across a rolling, barren expanse of gravel towards the cliffs which never seemed to get much closer. I watched as poofs of sand spurted from the newly-gaping mouths of my shoes, each forward stride producing an arc of sand or gravel. Not good.
We did eventually reach those eroded, blazing cliffs where Roy Chapman Andrews--often cited as the inspiration for the movie character, Indiana Jones--withdrew the bones and eggs of a mighty dinosaur trove. The Protoceratops (a smaller and less viciously-horned version of the famous Triceratops) was one of the main finds of this particular dig. Of particular importance was a Velociraptor and Protoceratops found locked in deadly combat, the the Protoceratops's beak-like mouth locked on the Velociraptor's leg and the raptor digging his claws into the Protoceratops's underbelly. This particular specimen is the one of the great prizes at the contemporary Mongolian Museum of Natural History in UB which I saw later in the trip.
But for now we were in the wasteland realm of dinosaurs, not polished halls of learning. This was the desolate region that Andrews, explorer extraordinaire, fought through pirates, bandits, an angry and wounded whale, typhoons, wild dogs, illness and "mad lama priests" to reach. The aforementioned calamities conspired at his death, but merely managed to kill off ten of his expedition members. Of course his contemporaries claimed that the man was given to tall tales: "The water that was up to our ankles was always up to Roy's neck". Tales of great height or not, the man certainly provided plenty of fodder for the modern-day tale of an adventurer/archaeologist.
August 4th:
We headed north from the burial grounds of the 'terrible lizards' of yore. The lands grew greener by the mile as our van chugged along. Before we had reached the proper steppe, however, we stopped to explore the vast ruins of a once-great monastery city, Ongiin Khiid. A long-since dessicated riverbed separates the two parts of this complex. One side housed the master monks and a series of temples upon the rocky slopes of a ridge, the other, flatter side housed their disciples. Neither is much more than a chest-high labyrinth of foundations and walls--like the remains of the far more ancient Greek city of Mycenae--sprouting from the dusty ground. A couple stupas and one small rebuilt temple are all that remain. The temple is merely two rooms about two stories high, containing the usual assortment of Tibetan Buddhist relics and a few photographs of the Dalai Lama. I believe the holy fellow may have even visited the place, sometime in the 90's. The monastery was razed and the monks slaughtered in Mongolia's communist purge of 1937. Apparently the communists promised the monks they would be allowed life if they brought a herd of cows as a tribute... but of course they weren't spared. Our guide, Zolaa's grandfather was a monk (evidently not the celibate sort, at least during some portion of his life) who perished at that time. Apparently he hid the family treasures before he died, but the family has only be able to retrieve a part of those valuables.
Later, we saw a double rainbow cast over a herd of horses and and yaks upon the steppe.
We made several stops at nomad encampments not able to give us succor (often the city-dwelling cousins of nomad families come back out to visit and enjoy the fresh steppe air and traditional lifestyle). Eventually, towards evening, we found one that could. A gaggle of children played upon the threshold of our ger. More ominously for my ability to sleep well that night, a stench of sour milk permeated the air of our ger. The famous Mongolian fermented mare's milk, or airag, was being fermented in a large leather sack suspended at the foot of my bed. A wooden frame carries the weight of this bag; a wooden paddle is thrust into its depths. Every so often, the nomads came within the ger and thumped the paddle down into the sudsy fermented milk. Apparently it is considered good luck to give the bag a few thumps every time one enters a ger that has an airag bag (called a khokhuur). The tradition is a practical one, as the concoction needs to be thumped at least 1,000 times before it is considered fit to drink. And if it is extremely sour to whiff, the drink is tongue-curdling to taste. I fell to sleep, lulled by the fizzing of the fermented mares milk and (I kid you not) the cows howling at the full moon that rose above our ger. Were-cows?
We left the Khongoryn Els (the great dune sea) behind us.
Onwards to the site of Roy Chapman Andrews's dinosaur excavations. There, the saxual (not sexual) trees can be be seen growing from the nobbly landscape, hunched and bunched like withered crones gossiping at market. Our guide and driver must have grown weary of us by this point, as Zoola merely pointed vaguely in the general direction of an escarpment of livid sandstone on the horizon. 'There', she said, 'You'll find the dinosaurs. Maybe 1 or 2 kilometers. Dinner and hot showers will be ready when you come back."
Oh, but we three remaining travelers (one of the Danish girls had to fly back from Dalanzagad due to her inner-ear problems and the bumpiness of our journey into the Gobi) swear... we SWEAR that the round trip that day was at least 10 kilometers! Straight into a biting gale of sand! Uphill both ways! Without feet!
Okay, well maybe the last part is an exaggeration on my part. I did have some problems with my shoes, however. My shoes, which I had bought a couple years earlier in Chongqing (China), finally gave up the ghost that day. I had already had the sole's attachment reinforced with stitching, but the stitching gave way. Rocks and sand migrated deep under my feet as I trudged across a rolling, barren expanse of gravel towards the cliffs which never seemed to get much closer. I watched as poofs of sand spurted from the newly-gaping mouths of my shoes, each forward stride producing an arc of sand or gravel. Not good.
We did eventually reach those eroded, blazing cliffs where Roy Chapman Andrews--often cited as the inspiration for the movie character, Indiana Jones--withdrew the bones and eggs of a mighty dinosaur trove. The Protoceratops (a smaller and less viciously-horned version of the famous Triceratops) was one of the main finds of this particular dig. Of particular importance was a Velociraptor and Protoceratops found locked in deadly combat, the the Protoceratops's beak-like mouth locked on the Velociraptor's leg and the raptor digging his claws into the Protoceratops's underbelly. This particular specimen is the one of the great prizes at the contemporary Mongolian Museum of Natural History in UB which I saw later in the trip.
But for now we were in the wasteland realm of dinosaurs, not polished halls of learning. This was the desolate region that Andrews, explorer extraordinaire, fought through pirates, bandits, an angry and wounded whale, typhoons, wild dogs, illness and "mad lama priests" to reach. The aforementioned calamities conspired at his death, but merely managed to kill off ten of his expedition members. Of course his contemporaries claimed that the man was given to tall tales: "The water that was up to our ankles was always up to Roy's neck". Tales of great height or not, the man certainly provided plenty of fodder for the modern-day tale of an adventurer/archaeologist.
August 4th:
We headed north from the burial grounds of the 'terrible lizards' of yore. The lands grew greener by the mile as our van chugged along. Before we had reached the proper steppe, however, we stopped to explore the vast ruins of a once-great monastery city, Ongiin Khiid. A long-since dessicated riverbed separates the two parts of this complex. One side housed the master monks and a series of temples upon the rocky slopes of a ridge, the other, flatter side housed their disciples. Neither is much more than a chest-high labyrinth of foundations and walls--like the remains of the far more ancient Greek city of Mycenae--sprouting from the dusty ground. A couple stupas and one small rebuilt temple are all that remain. The temple is merely two rooms about two stories high, containing the usual assortment of Tibetan Buddhist relics and a few photographs of the Dalai Lama. I believe the holy fellow may have even visited the place, sometime in the 90's. The monastery was razed and the monks slaughtered in Mongolia's communist purge of 1937. Apparently the communists promised the monks they would be allowed life if they brought a herd of cows as a tribute... but of course they weren't spared. Our guide, Zolaa's grandfather was a monk (evidently not the celibate sort, at least during some portion of his life) who perished at that time. Apparently he hid the family treasures before he died, but the family has only be able to retrieve a part of those valuables.
Later, we saw a double rainbow cast over a herd of horses and and yaks upon the steppe.
We made several stops at nomad encampments not able to give us succor (often the city-dwelling cousins of nomad families come back out to visit and enjoy the fresh steppe air and traditional lifestyle). Eventually, towards evening, we found one that could. A gaggle of children played upon the threshold of our ger. More ominously for my ability to sleep well that night, a stench of sour milk permeated the air of our ger. The famous Mongolian fermented mare's milk, or airag, was being fermented in a large leather sack suspended at the foot of my bed. A wooden frame carries the weight of this bag; a wooden paddle is thrust into its depths. Every so often, the nomads came within the ger and thumped the paddle down into the sudsy fermented milk. Apparently it is considered good luck to give the bag a few thumps every time one enters a ger that has an airag bag (called a khokhuur). The tradition is a practical one, as the concoction needs to be thumped at least 1,000 times before it is considered fit to drink. And if it is extremely sour to whiff, the drink is tongue-curdling to taste. I fell to sleep, lulled by the fizzing of the fermented mares milk and (I kid you not) the cows howling at the full moon that rose above our ger. Were-cows?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
