CENSORED

in China

 

 

You always hear about censorship in China, but you can never really understand what it means until you live there. I lived in Hong Kong for years and never noticed anything. My dad, who works in Shenzhen (a “special economic zone” just within the border of China – yes you have to pass immigration to go from Hong Kong to “real” China) would occasionally mention that a news story on TV was censored, but I never really got what he meant. However, for the past few weeks I’ve been working with him and living in Shenzhen during the week, returning to Hong Kong on the weekends. Suddenly I understand the phenomenon of censorship.

 

            Yesterday evening after work, I was watching the English news on a TV station broadcast from Hong Kong. The reporter started a new story with “Around the world, celebrations were held to mark Human Rights Day. In Beijing –” Suddenly the program cut to an infomercial with a beaming housewife demonstrating the use of a fancy rice cooker in Mandarin. I stared blankly for a minute before I realized what happened – we had just been CENSORED! I started laughing hysterically as I witnessed my first example of real Chinese censorship. In the middle of the next commercial they cut back into the news, mid-sports report.

 

            Yes, they really do pay people to sit in a tower somewhere in the city and manually censor television. Somewhere out there, looking over us – or perhaps looking up at us from a basement, who knows – a guy is sitting in a dark room, watching your TV, hand poised over the red button to censor seditious or creative broadcasting. All the stations that come in from Hong Kong are under heavy monitoring. Whenever the commercial break starts, they quickly switch it to their own government-approved string of commercials (oddly enough, they are all Hong Kong public service announcements from three years ago). Then they cut back in when the show starts again, always an infuriating two seconds into the show.

 

            About half of the internet is blocked. But not the things you think – I can find dozens of articles criticizing the Chinese government, but random websites for travel magazines or English learning materials are inaccessible. It’s frustrating since I am here teaching English, and I can’t access half of the websites I usually use for worksheets or listening samples. And my own blog is censored – not because it contains blasphemous material, simply because it’s on some list that’s automatically blocked. It seems like every new website created goes into a huge processing list, waiting to be checked by a massive machine or a really bored public servant. Small websites must spend years waiting for approval, if they ever get it at all. I would be interested to find out the method behind the seeming madness of the web-blocking. For now I can only imagine something out of a Kafka novel.

 

For me the censorship is merely annoying and sometimes amusing. I just have to wait until the weekend when I can access it from Hong Kong. (I do all my blog updates here.) But for Chinese citizens, for whom it is very difficult to leave the country, the concept of uncensored news and internet must be as unimaginable as censorship was to me before I saw it with my own eyes.

Laos, Take Two

          I had been living in Chiang Mai, Thailand for almost a year. Unfortunately, planning ahead is not my forte, so I didn’t think of getting a year-long visa from my home country before I went. So that meant my only option (aside from miraculously convincing the school where I worked to obtain proper working papers for me) was to undertake a visa run to another country every three months. Since I couldn’t afford to fly regularly on my English teachers’ salary, my only choice for a quick trip was the grueling overnight bus to neighboring Laos. That also meant hanging out in Vientiane for three days, which I had already done once and didn’t plan to ever do again. So this time I planned my trip over a weekend so I would have enough extra time to take a bus to Vang Vien.

Going to Vang Vien

I’ll spare you the nasty details of the long trip and the longer visa application line. Suffice to say, I dropped off my application on Friday morning, and would pick it up on Monday afternoon. So I headed to the bus station to board the four-hour tourist bus to Vang Vien. (By now I’d discovered that busses are incredibly cheap while tuk-tuks are incredibly expensive in Vientiane – so my tuk-tuk from the embassy to the bus station was almost the same price as the bus itself!) The bus ride was not as bad as I had read online, aside from the Canadian guys in front of me who kept singing the Canadian version of “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” and the scenery was breathtaking in places. When we arrived, I found a guesthouse with small cheap rooms and dropped off my stuff so I could wander around the town. After almost two days of sitting on busses, I was desperate to do something physical, and wanted to fill my short time here with as much adventure as possible. Most of the people from my bus were heading straight for the river tubing that gives Vang Vien its fame among young backpackers, but sitting in a rubber tube getting drunk just wasn’t enough for me today. So I asked around at several tour agencies for something I could do for the rest of the afternoon, and came up with a half-day rock climbing trip. Half my afternoon was already gone, so I overpaid a bit, but they were happy to send a personal guide with me for the extra money. My guide was really friendly and interesting, and when I said I lived in Thailand we were mutually delighted that we could practice our Thai language skills. It turned out that he had been a rock-climbing guide in Krabi, Thailand a few years ago, but had to return to Laos due to family problems. He actually used to work at the same climbing company that I had used when I last visited Krabi, and knew the guy who had been my guide there!

            By the time we finished this conversation, we had left the tiny tourist town behind and were now in the “real” village. We veered off the dirt road into someone’s rice paddy, for a half-hour walk through the field and the jungle beyond. Eventually, the landscape turned to rocks. By now I was out of breath and struggling through the rough terrain, almost twisting my ankle several times. My small but wiry guide, loaded with a backpack full of climbing gear, was bounding ahead and calling back impatiently, “Are you ok?” When I finally arrived at the base of the climbing wall, the guide had already pulled out the equipment and was waiting for me. We tied our rope and he started up the wall first. There was already another group there, with about eight young travelers from various European countries. I started chatting with some of them, and before I knew it the guide had finished the route. After belaying him back to the ground, I tied in and started up the wall. This first two routes were quite easy, and I was proud to impress the less-experienced climbers in the other group with my (rudimentary) skills. So we moved to a harder one on the other side. I watched the guide climb up the jagged rock face and up under a long stalactite thing that draped gracefully off the overhanging rock above. I couldn’t see the top of the route, but he shouted that he was finished. Next it was my turn. This one was significantly more difficult, and I was a bit worried. Sure enough, within a few meters my fingers were scraped and bleeding from the sharp rocks on this face, which was protected from the eroding wind that had smoothed the stone on the other side. Wincing, I carried on through a few difficult moves and reached the hanging stalactite. Wedged between the wall and the stalactite, I shimmied my way desperately upward. Unable to move my head to look up, I was glad that the guide had made me wear a helmet. The space was rapidly narrowing and I frequently bumped my head as I awkwardly contorted my body to push myself up to the anchor. I breathed a sigh of relief when I suddenly came to the top. With bleeding knees, elbows and hands, I returned to earth, trembling from the exertion. The guide told me we could squeeze in one more climb before dark, but I was shaken from the last one and didn’t think my swollen fingers would stand another go at the sharp rock.

The guide hurriedly packed our gear and rushed down the path, saying that if we caught up with the other group we could get a ride back into town. This sounded good to me, so I ran to keep up with him. After my encounter with the rocks, I was unphased by the uneven path that had given me so much trouble on the way there. We managed to catch up and hop into a somewhat motorized vehicle that looked a bit like those things that they raced on in Star Wars. It was the Lao version of a tractor: a two-wheeled wooden platform attached by two long metal rods to a third wheel far in front. Between these rods was a loud motor that looked like it had been stripped from a lawnmower. It made a lot of noise, and the guide explained that it was called a “tak-tak” after the sound that it made (just as a tuk-tuk is named after its sound, apparently). My guide casually invited me to smoke opium with him later, but I declined graciously, explaining that I was already booked on a trek for the next day and wanted to get some sleep.

After a cold shower, I felt refreshed and headed out to dinner. I shied away from the row of “happy pizza” shops showing old episodes of Friends on projector screens, and opted for a place that looked like it served more authentic Lao food. With a book, a beer and a bowl of noodles, I settled in for a quiet but satisfying meal. As soon as I finished, though, the group I had been climbing with showed up. They invited me to join them, and soon my quiet meal turned into a night of barhopping and guzzling “rum”-and-cokes. In accordance with Lao law, however, the bars shut down at midnight, and drunken teenagers took to the streets looking for the after-party. Watching groups of loud college kids stumbling down the street, running into people they knew and instructing them to meet outside their guesthouse, I felt a sense of déjà-vue. This scene was strangely familiar, and suddenly I placed it – I had somehow been transported to a campus frat party at my university! A girl stumbled over the curb and threw up a few feet away from me, and I jumped up in disgust. The guy holding her up bragged to his friend that he was totally gonna bang her tonight, if she ever stopped puking. “Ugh!” I was unable to contain my horror at this unexpected reminder of the worst people I had known in university.

I looked around desperately and located someone from the group I’d been hanging out with. They were standing around with an old, tanned hippy who had the grizzled look of a guy hiding from something. He invited us to come to his bungalow for a few drinks, so we followed him down a precarious stairway and across a narrow walkway to a small group of bungalows that were literally sunk into the side of the tall riverbank. The faint light from a Lao-populated nightclub on the opposite bank, combined with the bright moon, created just enough reflection on the water to silhouette the bridge and the trees hanging over the slow but powerful river. The stars were breathtaking, and there was absolute silence apart from the sound of flowing water. In awe of this mighty yet peaceful display of nature, we huddled in hushed conversation around our bottles of Beer Lao. After a few hours, I was startled out of my reverie when I remembered that I was hiking early in the morning. I said my goodbyes and hurried back to my room, miraculously managing not to fall or get lost along the way.

 

Don’t Panic

The next morning I woke bright and early for my trek. After a few painkillers and a good breakfast I felt surprisingly fresh and ready for adventure. My guide, unfortunately, was not nearly as friendly as the one from the day before, and the only other people were a nice but quiet Danish couple, so our trek proceeded mostly in silence. We started with a short drive to an unremarkable spot in the road, where we got off the truck and walked through, you guessed it, a rice field. We passed a few farmers on the way, who greeted our guide but ignored us. Eventually we came to a hillside, which dropped dramatically to a wide river. The water was fast and deep, with small ripples and crests betraying logs or rocks below the surface. Across the wide expanse, high above the water, stretched a thin white string. This footbridge started directly in front of us, supported by the top of a tree a few meters in front of us, and beyond that flew unsupported across the water and into a clump of trees on the other side. Eight small pieces of bamboo made up the beginning of the bridge, but it narrowed in the middle, and the other end was too far away to see. It was supported by two long pieces of cable, along with one more as a handrail. This is when the Danish woman revealed that she was scared of heights.

The guide slowly crossed the bridge to demonstrate that it was safe, but when it swayed back and forth and he nearly lost his footing, we were not very reassured. He shouted when he reached the other side and told us to come across. The Danish couple graciously allowed me to go first. I took a deep breath, gripped the side cable, and stepped onto the bamboo. It creaked and gave as I walked across, bouncing as my weight bent the tree branch it rested on. I made it to the branch, enjoying the stability of something solid beneath me, then reluctantly ventured out over the river. The bridge swayed slowly back and forth with my steps, throwing off my balance and making me cling tighter to the flimsy hand cable. The bamboo sticks supporting me narrowed to four, then three, then two, their less robust brothers having given out under the feet of previous crossers. I swallowed nervously every time I passed a broken stub of bamboo and my foot space shrank. When I got toward the middle of the bridge, I was on two uneven poles, and the two cables that stabilized the bridge had converged into one, meaning there was no stability. The poles twisted from side to side like a bottle bobbing in a stormy sea, and my feet could find no hold on the slippery near-vertical ramp. One foot slipped off and my right leg swung over nothingness. My heart stopped as I slid, and one thought flitted through my suddenly blank mind: I’m going to die. Then my left hand instinctively tightened on the hand cable and stopped me from falling off. I desperately gripped the lifeline with both hands and pulled myself to a semi-standing position. I switched to scooting sideways, balancing on the bamboo surfer-style with two hands on the cable. I rationalized that even if I slipped off, which I did a couple times, my firm grip on the cable would save me from a watery grave. With this dark thought I accidentally looked down to the river, a million miles below me, and my heart started pounding, sending blood rushing to my head. I looked back and saw that I was more than half-way across – but the half ahead might conceal unknown dangers, while the half behind was at least familiar territory. Refusing to turn back, I pushed away these thoughts and concentrated on inching my way sideways across the crevasse. I turned all my focus on delicately shifting pressure between my heels and my toes to keep the bamboo from flipping and throwing me off. After what felt like an hour, I saw salvation: a new bamboo stick appeared and the bridge widened from two to three. Emboldened, I shuffled faster, and soon the bridge was four sticks wide and the cables underneath separated to two sides, making the bridge stable enough to walk normally. When I approached the riverbank, a supporting tree trunk came up to meet the bridge, and another hand cable appeared to support my right side. I practically skipped the last few meters.

With a huge grin on my face, I jumped down to join the guide on solid ground. “I just survived a near-death experience!” I thought giddily. The guide shouted at the couple to come across, and I gave them a thumbs-up. But even from across the river, the woman’s fear was visible. With her husband’s encouragement, she started across, but she stopped at the tree and fled back to collapse into his arms. Unable to communicate across the river, the guide decided to head back across and see what was happening. After a few minutes of talking, he shouted something to me across the river, and motioned me to come back. Are you kidding me?! No way I’m going across the death bridge again! But the guide was insistent and kept shouting about kayaks. So I repeated the terrifying ordeal, at least armed with the experience of crossing once before.

“We walk down the river and find truck with kayaks,” the guide explained. Instead of doing the kayaking later like we planned, we would walk now to a part that was good for kayaking, then walk on a different route back to the finish point. But first he had to agree where to meet the truck. He pulled out his cellphone and wandered around looking for signal. When he was satisfied he pressed call and had a heated conversation with the person on the other end. Finally he hung up and announced that there was only one kayak available now, so someone would kayak downriver to us and we could use it to cross. We waited about twenty minutes, then saw a tiny yellow form swooshing down the river. The kayaker deftly maneuvered to the bank and stopped. It was a one-man kayak. It became unclear how we were going to all get across in it. There was an argument in Lao, then our guide asked if we were all good kayakers. “Uhhhh…” was the general reply. The Danish guy got in the boat to see if he could go across by himself, but the river was so swift that he couldn’t even get off the bank without losing control and being swept downstream.

“Ok,” announced the guide definitively. “He kayak, you hold boat,” he instructed the couple. “You walk,” he said to me, and pointed to the bridge. Great. Resigned to my fate, I started across the bridge. It was much easier the third time around, and this time I had the distracting entertainment of the strange scene unfolding below me. The kayaker got into his vessel and the couple waded into the water, clinging to the boat and each other. For a few meters the kayaker managed to steer across the river, but before long they hit a current and the kayak swung out of control. The couple lost hold of the boat and splashed frantically. The woman clung to her husband and he swam desperately for shore. They were swept a hundred meters downstream but managed to get to shore, where the kayaker, already beached, ran to meet them. Our guide came across the bridge to meet me, and said with conviction that everything was fine and we should wait for them to walk back to us.

While we waited, I heard laughter and conversation floating through the jungle. Out of the mass of trees emerged five young children, chattering happily, laden with baskets full of some nut or root. They looked at me and laughed, then pranced across the bamboo bridge as if they were skipping down the sidewalk. They even passed two other kids coming the other way across the bridge. I stared in astonishment and stopped mentally congratulating myself for having crossed three times. Shortly after, the Danish couple appeared with the kayaker, seemingly recovered from their river scare. The guide thanked the kayaker, who disappeared back into the jungle, and told us that since we had wasted so much time (glaring at the woman), we wouldn’t be able to go kayaking at all. I personally wasn’t sure if it was the time or the fact that there was only one kayak that was the problem. The woman was embarrassed and apologized repeatedly to me. I gave her a look of sympathy and told her not to worry – the bridge was really scary and dangerous (and their river crossing wasn’t any better!).

We walked the rest of the morning and arrived in a beautiful valley for lunch. The valley was quiet and peaceful; bees hovered over the flowers, water buffalo lay motionless in puddles of mud, a small creek bubbled by. We all forgot our morning woes as we lay under a straw roof, made as lazy as the buffalo by the mind-dulling heat. But there was no time for afternoon naps, so we threw cold water from the stream onto our faces to prepare for the hot trek ahead. After two hours of hiking through sunny fields and humid jungle, we were all drenched in sweat and ecstatic to reach a waterfall. We bathed in the cooling water for a while, then continued on, walking in the rocky stream at the mouth of the pool. We sloshed through the shallow water for some time before the stream converged with the main river. Swift dark waters blocked our path, possibly from the same river we had already crossed once. I had a feeling that this was where we were meant to be kayaking.

The guide instructed us to put all our valuables in his dry-pack, although he assured us that the water was no more than waist deep and we could wade across easily. Cameras, wallets and phones were piled into the plastic sack and sealed tightly. The couple, already experienced in dangerous river crossings, held hands and ventured in bravely. The guide started in and I followed close to him. The bottom was made of smooth, fist-size rocks like the stream we had been walking in. They gave way slightly when I stepped on them, and became more slippery as the water got deeper. It quickly rose above my knees, and I was having trouble keeping my footing while the powerful current pulled at my legs. When the water reached waist high, I started to panic, knowing I would lose my footing at any time. The guide continued ahead of me, still upright even though the water was up to his chest. My feet slipped and the ground was gone, and I was rushing downriver, spinning and tumbling through the turbulent water. I opened my eyes to see a huge rock sticking out of the water, coming straight for me. I dove into the water, struggling vainly to swim away from it, then the mighty river parted around it, carrying me safely past. But by now I was upside-down underwater, thrashing wildly, trying to impose my will against the water and regain control of my path. My lungs contracted and again my mind went completely blank, except for one thought: I’m drowning. My limbs stopped moving of their own accord, and suddenly the water broke and my head bobbed above the surface. I was still rushing downstream, but I was breathing and I wasn’t panicking. I saw my guide not far ahead of me, closer to the shore, doing a frantic doggy-paddle. I followed his example and suddenly the light clicked on – I don’t have to walk across, I can swim! I moved easily through the water, still going swiftly downstream but now moving diagonally toward shore. The current weakened as the water got shallower, and soon enough I could stand. The guide had already reached shore and walked down to meet me, giving me a hand up the muddy bank. “Ok?” he grinned. “Yeah, fine,” I said, not too enthusiastically. That was NOT the easy crossing that he told us it would be. “Rain a lot,” he said to explain the high water level. A few meters downstream the other couple had already scrambled up the riverbank to the path and were waiting for us.

Drenched from head to toe, we continued walking, picking up a light coating of dirt as we walked down the dusty trail. The sun was low in the sky and we were no longer hot. We came to a vast expanse of green rice patties and started through them, following the narrow raised path between the swampy puddles of rice plants. Several farmers were visible in the distance, hunched over their crops with triangle hats shading their heads. A large shadow overtook us and I turned around to look for the sun. It was sinking behind some small mountains that I hadn’t even noticed before, its rays filtering through the thick summer air and illuminating the lush bright green of the rice. Smoke rose from a small bungalow in the distance, bringing with it the smell of someone’s dinner. This scene made the exhausting trek worth it. 

Later, at dinner, I was reviewing the day’s adventures in my head. At first I felt exhilarated that I had tried some dangerous things and overcome my fear, coming out unscathed on the other side. But then I remembered the woman and her fear of heights, and started to get a little angry – no one had warned us of the stuff we would face on this trek; there had been no mention of “strong swimming skills required” or “will include crossing a high bridge.” And our guide hadn’t been very concerned about our fears or our wellbeing during these experiences. What if someone less adventurous or less physically capable had come on the trek? Sure, I had been panicking in the heat of the moment when I thought I would die, but in reality someone could easily have died. Sipping a beer and reflecting on these thoughts, I looked out at the vast river that the restaurant overlooked. I now knew first-hand how the swift water felt. My attention was drawn to a silhouetted figure on a sandbar extending into the river. The man threw a fishing line into the river and waited patiently. Two young boys were playing at the water’s edge near him. How many kids learn to swim by falling into the rushing water? I wondered. I recalled the kids that went bounding across the terrifying bamboo bridge. No more than twelve years old, they were merely returning from the morning’s work, crossing the same bridge they took every day. Tourism in Laos is undeveloped and unregulated; how can tour guides anticipate all the trouble that Westerners will experience in completing the tasks that are commonplace for them? I decided to keep my negative judgments to myself, and cherish the beautiful photos and great stories that I had to show for my trip.

Memories from Laos

My first impression of Laos was, well, quite bad. I had travelled there from Thailand for a visa run by the cheapest available option: overnight bus. After twelve hours in a tiny upright seat on the swerving bus, occasionally nodding off only to smack my head on the window at the next turn, I was not in a good mood. (A little side note: people often praise those travel neck pillows, but those are no help on this kind of trip. Why haven’t they invented an inflatable head cocoon which insulates your entire skull from bumps and hard surfaces? Then I would be able to sleep anywhere…) I arrived in Nong Khai only to board another bus, and then a tuk-tuk, to reach the border. Two agonisingly slow lines, thirty-five US dollars, and a short shuttle ride later, I finally found myself crossing into Laos. One more overpriced tuk-tuk took me into the city of Vientiane.

            Vientiane is a strange town. The main part of the city runs along the river, and it’s about four streets deep and ten long. There’s also a more commercial area behind, running up Avenue Lane Xang, where NGO’s, embassies and expat residents seem to cluster. The downtown area (the four-by-ten streets) is almost exclusively dominated by tourism, like a strange island inhabited only by bored-looking visitors and grudging tourism workers who commute in and out of the area each day. There is little evidence of local Laotian life. It’s hot, dirty, and not particularly attractive or interesting. Besides which, it’s very expensive compared to Thailand. The other foreigners I met were spectacularly uninteresting (maybe I was just unlucky?) – some exhausted and pissed-off backpackers who were too uptight to be any fun, a few bored businessmen, and several sexist, bitter old men who lived there with their young Laotian wives. Disdainful of tourists, they knew everything there was to know about Laos and were proud to tell you so. Not my kind of people.

            Unable to stand the thought of sitting around Vientiane for two more days, and having already exhausted the list of tourist attractions in the guidebook, I struggled to find some kind of activity or tour that would take me out of town. One tour agency after another told me that the only way to trek or see any nature was to take a four-hour bus to Vang Vien, or better yet a much longer one to Luang Prabang. (I visited Vang Vien on a later trip and can wholeheartedly recommend it for getting away from the droves of tourists. Mind you, the town isn’t much, although it’s way more friendly and laid-back than Vientiane; but from there I found a real into-the-wild trek, complete with scary bamboo bridge crossings and white-water river wading. You can also do rock climbing and tubing and rafting. I’ve never seen Luang Prabang personally, but I’ve been told it’s much the same as Vientiane, except you can escape the city on the beautiful but well-travelled trekking and adventure tours.) Since I didn’t have enough time for a long bus ride on this trip, I decided to go exploring by myself. So I grabbed a map, rented a scooter, ignored protests from tour agents that I would certainly get lost, and headed out of town.

            The star attraction of Laos, the thing that made it worth visiting and distinguished it from the rest of Southeast Asia, was the countryside. It seems most tourists stick to the beaten track and don’t really get outside the usual towns and treks, so travelling through the countryside felt like a real adventure. I saw no other foreigners on my trip, and lots of friendly locals who smiled and waved delightedly. And price scales dropped to normal as I got outside the tourist area. With little idea where I was going, just hoping to find the national park which I had been told by different people was three, six, or ten hours out of town, I followed the vague heading I was pointed on by the tour agent. My map bore no similarities to the roads in front of me, so I put it away and decided to go by instinct. Within twenty minutes I was well out of the city limits and on a rural one-lane highway. This part was still well-populated, and there was no shortage of stores, temples and villages along the road – and even a Shell gas station, which I was a bit shocked to see (but happy at the time because I needed to refill). I drove on for a few hours, realising that since I had started in the late afternoon, I probably wouldn’t find the park tonight and would need to find a place to stay. As the buildings started to get scarcer, I made a mental note of two guesthouses I noticed. Soon after, I came to a river with a big metal bridge. There was a guard post at the crossing, so I stopped my bike and read out the name of the park in what I’m sure was a gross mispronunciation. The guard seemed to get it though, because he laughed and pointed me across the bridge, nodding reassuringly. The sun would be setting soon, so I drove for half an hour on the other side of the river and, unable to find any indication of a place to stay, turned around and went back to the place I had noticed on the way in.

            As I drove back into the town at dusk, still wearing my sunglasses to protect from the dust, locals started to notice me. Adults stopped and stared in astonishment, sometimes waving or returning my smile, and kids shouted and waved frantically, and dogs ran alongside me. I felt a little like Elvis returning from the dead. With a self-conscious smile still plastered on my face, I pulled into the building marked “Guesthouse” and looked around for someone who worked there. It was a dirt courtyard full of chickens and puppies, but with no sign of people. I tentatively walked around saying “Hello?” to dark doorways, not wanting to accidentally walk into someone’s bedroom or toilet, and finally found the kitchen. A woman was busy inside, but emerged after a couple of minutes. She stopped and gave me a second look when she realised I was white. I pointed at a row of doors with numbers on them and asked for a room. She gave me a key and showed me to one. It was what can best be described as “basic” accommodation: four concrete walls, a hard mattress, and a small room with a hole in the floor and a bucket full of water. Fresh water seemed to run from the hose only in the morning, so a bucket of cold stagnant water over my head had to suffice for now. However, I got a good meal from the kitchen, a good night’s sleep, and only a few mosquito bites (all for the price of what would buy you a pretty decent room in a guesthouse in Chiang Mai…).

The next morning I headed off bright and early for breakfast by the river, delighted to finally discover that some of my Thai worked here – the woman at the restaurant understood the words for black coffee and fried egg. (I’ve been told that because Thai pop culture has spread extensively through Laos, most Lao people can understand some Thai.) After I crossed the bridge, the landscape became much more rural. I drove through some mountains, passing a few villages along the way. When the road turned to dirt I started to get a bit worried. I had no idea where I was, and was just hoping that by some miracle or Buddha’s goodwill I would stumble upon the park. I came to a fork in the road, with signs in Lao pointing in either direction. I pulled out my map and tried to match the Lao writing of the name of the park with the writing on the signs. I followed the one that looked more similar, and reasoned that even if I didn’t find the park I could just drive until I got tired, then follow the same road back to town. With my worries allayed and my spirits high, I zoomed down the red dusty road. I crossed a little canal full of children splashing in the water, and waved hello. They smiled and shouted, jumping up and down and waving their arms. Further on, a couple of guys in army outfits on a motorbike passed me, and I took a picture of the out-of-place looking pair in front of me. A few minutes later they stopped and turned around to stare at me. I wondered if I had done something wrong. But then they pulled out a digital camera and took a photo of me as I passed. After all, who was the stranger here?

“Where did those guys come from?” I wondered. I hadn’t seen anything around me that would lead me to expect army guys, or people who could afford digital cameras. Maybe they were tourists too. While I was thinking this, I realised the terrain had changed. Suddenly I was in a forest, with tall trees lining either side of the road. A gate blocked the road ahead, with a small booth at the side. The park! I thought excitedly. I paid a small fee to two confused-looking guys, also in army uniform. I guess they were the park rangers. They took my money reluctantly but gave me a look like I wasn’t supposed to be there. Soon I realised why. The road quickly transformed into a steep uphill rut, full of sand and large rocks. My little Honda Dream was no match for this. I parked it off the side of the road, being sure to lock everything up tightly, and continued on foot. But it wasn’t looking good. Half an hour of uphill trekking later, with no sign of the lush jungle trails and breathtaking waterfalls that I was optimistically hoping for, I decided to abandon my quest. The tour agency was right about one thing, I needed a guide to see anything of interest in the national park. Suddenly I heard a loud rustling in the trees behind me. I whirled around, panicked, realising that I was in the middle of nowhere, alone, with no one looking for me. Something was coming out of the jungle. A large monkey? An elephant? A tiger?! It was… a man. Three, in fact, carrying pieces of wood collected from the jungle. I was startled and caught off-guard, thinking I was alone for miles in every direction and suddenly confronted with a stranger. They were equally surprised. We stared warily at each other before slowly starting awkwardly down the hill in the same direction. I was walking in front, uncomfortably aware that they were watching me. I soon arrived at my motorbike, and now that the shock had worn off, I decided I should be friendly. I turned around to say hi, but they were already disappearing back into the jungle.

Emerging from the park unvictorious, about an hour after I had entered, and a little shaky from my descent down the dirt path, I gave a wry smile to the bemused guards as I exited. By now it was lunchtime and my paltry fried egg breakfast was not enough to get me through the day. I decided it was time to head back to civilization. I stopped at the first store I could find and found a dusty, suspicious-looking pastry thing (luckily it wasn’t filled with string pork or anything) and a bottle of soy milk (a lifesaver when you’re needing nutrition and can’t find anything familiar). After that, a gruelling five-hour non-stop drive brought me back to Vientiane, where I stumbled off my bike and checked back into my guesthouse, immediately indulging in a soothing hot shower to wash off the film of dust and relax my stiff muscles. One extremely expensive but delicious French meal later, I was feeling slightly more charitable about Vientiane. Luckily I was out of there the next afternoon before my good mood could wear off.

HK style

Everyone has style in Hong Kong. It’s rare to see someone not looking smart and fashionable – except for construction workers and old people… But even the elderly have a style. The older Chinese women are always dressed in these hideous floral-patterned silk blouses that seem to have been salvaged from the ‘80’s, perhaps found in a dusty corner of a flea market. Yet they are worn by every old lady in the city, so they must still be manufactured at some factory in China. Then there’s the Hong Kong business uniform – suit, tie, shoes, briefcase and Blackberry, always striding down the street with somewhere important to be. Chinese businessmen visiting from the mainland can be identified by their polo shirts and a slight leering swagger, which I’m not sure the meaning of, perhaps it’s an unconscious assertion that “I have money and power.” Then there are the peacocks of the Hong Kong flock, the young Westernised Chinese and expat teens, clad to the teeth in designer gear – heels, skirt, shirt, jacket, sunglasses, purse and cellphone all bearing the mark of a luxury brand name (but only the pros can tell which are real and which are fake). On the slightly edgier side of this are the young Chinese who sport a more Asian style, flaunting the complicated mismatched fashion of Hong Kong locals – big shirts covered in streamers, chains, or giant felt flowers, pushing the boundaries of fashion with what is undoubtedly a very difficult outfit to put on in the morning. Whenever I browse the shops of local designers in Causeway Bay or Tsim Sha Tsui, I always end up embarrassingly trying on outfits upside-down or backwards. I almost never buy because I find myself worrying that one of the offshoots from my dress will get caught in an escalator (that actually happened to me once). Sometimes odd but never boring, the Hong Konger’s fashion sense makes it an always entertaining city for people-watching and trend-spotting.

Hong Kong vs Thailand

Now that I’ve lived in two Asian cities, possibly the two most opposite cities in Asia, I keep being amazed at the huge differences between them. Here are some examples…

 

Hong Kong                             vs.                        Chiang Mai

 

PROS:

            really nice nightclubs                                                  really nice people

            any kind of food you want                                         lots of cheap Thai food

            cheap wine                                                                  cheap SangSom

            beautiful mountains                                                    beautiful mountains

            beautiful harbour                                                         beautiful countryside

            great fashion sense                                                      no fashion sense

            lots of stuff to do                                                        really relaxed attitude

            good public transport                                                  motorbike!

            good newspapers                                                        good soap operas

            entertaining politicians                                                entertaining politicians

            lots of rules which aren’t followed                             no rules about anything

           

CONS:

            disgruntled old expats                                                 disgruntled old farangs

            really hectic big-city lifestyle                                      boring small-town lifestyle

            expensive things                                                          low-quality things

 

So, you can see, some things are the same after all. The winner? Undecided…

Ko Tao, Thailand, Oct 2008

First Impressions and Later Reflections

I’m sitting on an idyllic beach at Taa Toh Bay on Ko Tao, sipping a Singha and listening to classic rock and reggae tunes from the bar. The beautiful afternoon sun is glistening on the water of this quiet, palm-lined bay. Free of the prosperous resorts, pushy dive shops and noisy longboats prevalent at Sairee Beach, this peaceful cove provides a relaxing getaway from the crowds. Surprisingly few people line the beach, mostly couples enjoying a private swim or kayak outing. I spent the day exploring the island by motorbike (only 150 baht per day), searching in vain for the “viewpoints” and tourist attractions advertised on the map. After hiking up and down too many steep dirt roads (afraid to attempt them on the bike, I opted to toil by foot), I’ve concluded that “viewpoint” does not indicate a high rock or cliff from which you can enjoy a panoramic view of the island, as I was expecting. Instead I was met by construction sites, ominous “private property” signs threatening trespassers, and at best a collection of bungalows which would have decent views if you were staying there. It seems every meter of Ko Tao is privately owned, and if there’s not already a resort or private mansion, one is being built. Within a couple of years, I expect every inch of Ko Tao will be covered with bungalows and villas, much like the other popular islands in the area. But for now, it is possible to find small beaches like this one which retain the quiet mystery of this paradise island.

 

In spite of the rapid tourism expansion, Ko Tao has an inviting flavour not found on other islands like Ko Chang or Ko Samui. I think it’s born of the fact that many visitors stay here for a few weeks or even months at a time to complete diving courses. Unlike other islands which expect stays of a week or less, Ko Tao has to cater to a semi-residential crowd. That means they have to have restaurants with food and service good enough to keep customers coming back; prices for food, services and accommodation are a bit more competitive because people have time to search for the best prices; and night-life has to be varied and interesting enough to entertain people who return night after night. There are food markets and basic goods stores for those who stay in an apartment for a while, giving the area a sort of homey air – there is a sense of permanence and reality that you don’t get in the purely tourist towns. The Thai staff who live and work on the island tend to be friendlier and easier to get to know than those on other islands who see higher tourist turnover.

 

All in all, Ko Tao is probably the most beautiful and friendly island I’ve visited in Thailand. The water is literally transparent, the sand is white and soft, the weather is perfect, and the island is easily accessible. It’s definitely worth renting a motorbike (even better, a dirt bike) to explore the island – lots of quiet, picturesque beaches await. But beware the very dangerous dirt roads, and be sure that your bike has good brakes and the tires have good treads. In the evening, enjoy the sunset on Sairee Beach and sit on the sand to watch a fire show after dark. Go scuba diving, and make friends with your dive instructor – they can tell you the coolest places to go and the best things to see. Above all, relax and take in the laid-back vibe that permeates southern Thailand.

Halong Bay, Vietnam, Oct 2008

Vietnam tourism is a harsh industry. This is a country which makes me very negative about travelling. I met not a single soul in the tourism sector who was honest or friendly – everyone was trying to rip me off. Every price must be negotiated, every worst case scenario must be feared. You must be on your guard all the time, never back down or give in on something you’re sure about, and expect the worst for what you pay. Play the game as well as you can and swallow your losses with a smile. If you stay angry, you’ll never enjoy yourself. But once I got used to being suspicious of every situation and once my expectations had hit rock bottom, I started to enjoy my trip. Unscrupulous salesmen aside, Vietnam is a beautiful country.

 

Understanding the Industry

The Vietnamese economy – at least the part that I saw as a foreign tourist – is an ironic specimen of pure, unbridled capitalism. It supports exactly what the market can bear. A salesman (of anything) will ask you for the highest price he thinks you will pay, regardless of its actual value or the price that the last customer paid for it. For example, I ended up on a boat tour with a rather mixed group of tourists: myself and my dad, one Vietnamese-French couple, and a French family. The latter two had booked at the same time at the same place, one right after the other. The Vietnamese-French couple paid the “local discount” price – ten US dollars each. The French group, being in close proximity to the other couple, paid twelve dollars a person. A couple of last-minute travellers desperate for a tour and booking the morning of (that was me and my dad) paid sixteen each. During the course of the day, the boat brought us to about half of the attractions promised – mostly the ones which we had to pay extra for (and therefore brought a kick-back to the boat operators). Later we found out the boat operators got nine dollars a head for their services; the rest went into the pockets of our travel agents. It pays to be a good middleman in Vietnam. Similarly, we booked a cab to the airport through our hotel because they told us we would only pay $12 instead of the usual $15 (which is what we paid coming from the airport). The cab driver later asked how much we had paid the hotel, and revealed that he was given only $7. When we arrived, he insisted on another $5 to make up for his lost revenue, which we refused to pay (by now we were well-experienced). It ended with my dad opening the driver’s door and popping the trunk himself to retrieve our bags, leaving the driver fuming. But the real loser in this scheme was the cab driver, at the bottom, doing all the work.

 

Adventures in Wonderland

The highlights of our trip were the ones done off the beaten track. This is difficult in Vietnam as everyone seems to travel on packaged group tours, and the tourist agents like it that way. Even if you try to book something on your own, you will usually end up overpaying to be put on the tourist boat with the rest of the group, but without getting any of the fun stuff because you’re only along for the ride. However, once we got to Cat Ba Island in Halong Bay, we did our best to strike out on our own. We found a somewhat independent-minded climbing and adventure shop which promised unique experiences, owned by ex-pats of mixed nationalities (which didn’t stop them absorbing a bit of the Vietnam business mentality, however). Having our hearts set on a lot of rock climbing, we set out with the tour group that was going climbing that day (once again, along for the ride). The presence of so many people sort of ruined our fun though, as we had to wait for the group to finish before we could try our hand at the routes, and we were tied to their schedule since we needed to be on the boat when it left. So much for day one.

 

The next day we decided a bit of light trekking was in order, to allow our (or at least my) aching hands a day of recovery. We arranged it with the same company, happy to hear that it would be only the two of us, and the length of time was at our discretion. Being a hot day, and having been informed that there were no waterfalls to stop at (“this is not a ‘destination’ hike, its just going out and exploring the jungle” said the guide), we opted for only two hours. So we were driven out to the middle of nowhere on two motorbikes, and dropped at a quiet rural farm, greeted by a grizzled but happy Vietnamese farmer and his quiet but friendly wife. These were the nicest Vietnamese we met on the whole trip. The rock shop we booked through had apparently been exploring the island for climbing areas for some years; and somehow had befriended this man who owned the land that they wanted to climb on. A long and majestic limestone wall could be seen towering behind his fields, which was the wall that they set up routes on. They now had a nice arrangement where they paid him some sort of rent and he allowed them to climb and bring customers to his land. They also paid him to lead treks. (His qualifications for this were that he owned the land and knew most of the jungle like the back of his hand – at least I hope he did). So, with the promise of a nice, home-cooked lunch when we returned, we set out on our walk.

After making our way through the fields, dazzlingly quiet and peaceful after the constant horn-honking and bustle of every city in Vietnam, we arrived at the edge of the jungle. We first followed a brisk uphill path which was used by the loggers to collect trees and bring them down (we ran into some on the way – they were panting and sweating as much as we were, although to be fair they were carrying three-meter-long tree trunks on their shoulders). We arrived at a strange sort of stone field at the top, a collection of sharp jutting rocks on which we stopped to rest and enjoy the cool breeze. When we continued on, it soon became clear that we had left the logging path and were no longer on any path at all. With the guide hacking his way through vines and bushes, we followed carefully behind along the often perilous route. The jutting stones that we had stopped to rest on were now what we walked on. Balancing on sharp pinnacles of rock, trying not to notice the darkness below them that hinted at deep caverns filled with unknown creatures… I slowly advanced. Holding my breath to cross narrow stone bridges with long falls below, and with the help of the guide who graciously offered me his hand, we finally arrived at the next rest stop. We carefully arranged ourselves on the small outcrop of rock, barely big enough to hold the three of us. Once I stopped looking at the long drop below us and thinking about what would happen if I fell, I caught my breath, tried to relax and looked up. My breath left me again as I saw the sweeping panorama of hills and valleys, the peaceful yet dramatic farmland that made up the secret heart of this island. Suddenly miles away from the bustle of tourists and salespeople and motorbikes in the town, I saw the Vietnamese countryside as it must have looked a hundred years ago. This was a sight I would keep with me in my memories of the country.

Short break over, we started our return descent. About fifteen more minutes on the dangerous rocky terrain, we came to a more comfortable dirt floor. A steep descent brought us back to level fields. While our guide cut a route through the thick, tall grasses, I focused on trying to find somewhere to step among all the undergrowth, trying not to feel claustrophobic in the suffocating greenery. Soon enough the vegetation changed again to dryer farmland, covered in loose slippery dirt and small wiry bushes. Our guide explained (somehow) in Vietnamese and sign language that we were taking a short cut because we were running late. No complaints from me and my grumbling stomach. We started up a small hill covered in shrubs and dry grass. Suddenly I heard the guide shouting in a panicked voice. I looked up to see him dashing ahead, pointing at something on the ground and motioning for us to get away from it. I could make out “No! No!” among his shouted Vietnamese commands. Confused and sluggish from the hot sun, I started moving backwards as I looked for the source of the problem – a snake perhaps? Obviously it must be dangerous to frighten our seasoned and experienced leader. My dad turned to me and asked what was going on. Suddenly I saw it – large heavy shapes swarming up from the ground, as if in slow motion – and heard the low droning sound of large wings bearing heavy bodies. Our guide had stepped in a hornet nest. “Bees!” I yelled, wide-eyed, and turned to stumble blindly down the hill. I felt something in my hair and tried to brush it away, before I was hit in the head with a baseball bat. I fell to the ground, blind, and rolled a bit down the hill. What the hell was that?! With my head pounding and the blood pumping behind my eyes, I got up and struggled to keep running. Another strike, just above the ear, knocked me down again. I ran a few more meters and stopped to catch my breath. My chest was heaving and I felt dizzy and nauseous. I’m not allergic to bees, and I’ve been stung before, but it was nothing like this. We all regrouped and the guide came to me, concerned. I indicated that I’d been stung twice and he brought out a container of Tiger Balm to rub on the throbbing wounds. Suddenly my dad yelped and started dancing around. “It’s in my pants!” he screamed. He had been stung on the thigh. The offending creature was shaken out and flew away without causing any more damage. The guide grabbed my hand and told us to move quickly to get back home. A little panicked and very dizzy, I stumbled along, half dragged behind him. Luckily we were only ten minutes from the house. He brought us chairs and cold Cokes to put on our stings. The food came shortly; unfortunately I was feeling too sick to eat it, although it was delicious.

By the time we got back to the hotel, we were both still aching from the stings. I had the worst migraine I’ve ever had, plus tiny jackhammers drilling at the two sites of impact. Nothing could alleviate this ailing; it was the worst pain I’ve ever had to endure without morphine. The rest of the day was spent lying in bed, except for twenty minutes when the cleaning staff came (for the first and only time), when we sat out on the balcony. Later I realised that fifty dollars which I had left lying on the table had mysteriously disappeared. Figures – we would never have left valuables in the room while we were out, but the one time when we were both there but too dazed to think about possible theft, was the time that they decided to clean the room. This money was never found, of course, and the confrontation with the manager led to awkward relations between us and the staff for the rest of our stay. In the end, though, we got half of our money back by dashing out of town without paying our bill (an exciting and unexpected feat of law-breaking on our father-daughter trip).

 

Not to be put off by one bad experience, we returned to the area the next day for some climbing. The climbing shop wanted us to pay a small fee for using the area, which my dad balked at – he believes you should never charge someone to use a wall. Unsure where the money would go or why we had to pay, we skipped the fee out of principle. We approached a motorcycle taxi and asked to rent his bike for the day, and managed to haggle it down to five dollars – a great price by anyone’s standards. I was driving, being more experienced on a motorbike, but with my dad’s weight and all the climbing gear on the back it was a bit awkward. Still skittish about steep hills after a terrifying road accident a year ago, I drove like a grandma up and down the winding road. Eventually we found the place, with minimal detours and backtracking, and greeted our guide from the previous day’s hike. He was surprised to see us, not having been warned beforehand since we didn’t go through the climbing shop. He was a bit hesitant at first out of loyalty to his partners at the shop, but when we offered to pay the fee directly to him he consented. (It seemed from his reaction that there was no funny business going on and most or all of the shop’s fee was going into his pocket, so the next day we just made things simple and bought our access ticket from the shop.) We set a time for lunch and made our way through the fields to the wall. What followed was a great day of climbing, including an amazing traditional Vietnamese lunch (today we even managed to communicate that we were vegetarian). We were so engrossed in our activities that we didn’t even notice the sun setting, and had to drive back in complete darkness. This meant me hunching over the front of the bike, straining to see with my deficient night vision, squinting my eyes and pursing my mouth to block out bugs, and zooming along the road at about thirty kilometers an hour. We made it back without any mishaps, though. All-in-all, the trip made the previous day worth it just to have discovered that gem hidden in the backcountry of Cat Ba Island.

Returning to Hong Kong

Hong Kong is unlike any city I’ve ever experienced. It lives, it breathes, it has a vitality that energises everything and everyone in it – from the sleepiest remote village in Lantau Island to the fastest, loudest fashion party in central. There is something dark and desperate underneath the surface, as if an epic battle were being fought. Man and nature are eternally fighting for space in its dramatic terrain; East and West and rich and poor struggle to live side by side in its disparate society; while tradition and modernism battle for its cultural soul. The pace of the city is sometimes overwhelmingly fast, other times astonishingly tranquil. The suit-clad businessman speeds down the sidewalk, cell phone attached to his ear like a bionic extension of his ear canal; while an ancient woman pushes a cart at a turtle’s pace in the opposite direction, hunched over as if withered by age and exhaustion, oblivious of anything around her. Everyone in the city walks to their own beat, creating a multitude of competing rhythms which explode in a cacophony of life. It is a land of violent contrasts, which somehow come together like abstract art to create a beautiful, if incomprehensible picture. Most cities are described as melting pots, where all the elements meld together into a homogenous soup; Hong Kong is more like oil and vinegar. When you pour balsamic vinegar into a cup of olive oil, they remain separate and cling to themselves. If you whisk them together, small black bubbles mingle through the oil, mixed but still struggling to remain intact – this is Hong Kong.

On Travelling

Travelling does something for the soul. I am reminded of what’s important, of the possibilities of the future, of my goals, of myself. I remember that some things remain constant no matter where I am: the facets of myself that come out when I’m alone; the similarities between all people of all cultures; the vulnerability of every human being. When I stay in the same place, doing the same things, with the same people for too long, the problems in my life seem enormous and unconquerable. Only when I get out of my life, out of my head, do I see that my concerns are not that big and every trouble will be resolved in time. A mountain viewed from the bottom seems insurmountable, but when seen from a distance it becomes only part of a range of mountains; so my toils find their place in the world when I step away to see the bigger picture.