So, I've arrived in Nujiang Valley, and I've ceased to be sick (hopefully) although I'm still subsisting basically on a diet of Sprite, water, rice, bananas, and various biscuits/breads. Slowly, slowly become better and better as they say here (that sounds weird, but I'm not the only one whose grammar is deteriorating. Yesterday Tania was guilty of uttering both the phrases "one children" and "I am happy to see her when I get back.")
Anyway, when we left off I was getting pickpocketed by adorable but terrifying monkeys. The next day we spent most of our time hiking down Shibaoshan (the name of both the temple and the mountain the temple was on.) First we hiked through an area of considerable repute, which has old and very cool stone grottoes carved into the side of it. These date back to the Tang Dynasty a thousand years ago and are notable because they show Western faces with curly hair, denoting trade with countries in the West. They also have a cool story that's more modern-- during the Cultural Revolution, a time when China was against anything that had come before Communism basically and was destroying all sorts of cultural history, the Red Guard came to try and destroy the grottoes as well. But the head monk living at the temple there was friends with Yunnan's governor, and together they created a ragtag army and defended the temple with cannons. Because of that, the grottoes are some of the only remaining cultural relics of their caliber.
We passed through the grottoes as a short cut and spent the next two hours hiking down the mountain. It was absolutely beautiful, clear weather with the Shaxi valley spread out before me, green hills/small mountains emerging from the mist and a checkerboard of farmland, fallow fields, and small villages. I took longer than everyone else to get down: it was all stairs and at times extremely steep. Twice I fell and twisted may ankle-- anyone who has walked anywhere with me will know this is not an uncommon occurrence. The second time I could feel that my ankle was sprained, but I had to keep going. Lu Laoshi kept me company, chatting with me about her life before her time with SIT (she was a journalist with Xinhua, the Communist newspaper but left after the Tiananmen incident-- something to discuss during my Lijiang entry, I think) and calling me "hen bang" (really excellent) for persevering instead of giving up. My quads have never been so sore as they were after we went down the mountain, but the view and the experience, looking back up at where we had been, were worth it.
After lunch we were introduced to the village of Sideng, the main town in the Shaxi valley. It's historically important because it is the only surviving town on the ancient (and I mean REALLY ancient, thousands of years) Tibetan Tea and Horse Caravan Trail. The Caravan would come through a few times every year with provisions from Tibet and would collect supplies unavailable at higher elevations. Because of its historical significance, a Swiss company has taken an interest in Sideng and has put a great deal of money into rebuilding it responsibly and accurately, promoting public health and economic welfare. The town is pretty exquisite, very traditional with cobbled streets and lots of old courtyard-and-house compounds the way Beijing was once. But it's also very rural, and that's why we were there-- to get an idea of the rural lifestyle. My homestay, however, wasn't quite "rural"-- I stayed with a husband and wife, retired, who now run the only classy inn in town. I was basically an inn patron and, to be honest, the inn was nicer than my homestay in Kunming. We had a big screen TV, DVD player, majiang table, beautiful courtyard, shower, bathroom. I had my own room. Other people had varying accomodations-- Tania's house was nice but had cows and ducks running around. Ali's house had only mud floors and a hole in the ground. Lee's house had no bathroom at all-- he had to go in the fields.
After I got settled in in my homestay, I went with my homestay father on a house call-- he was a doctor before he retired but still ministers to a few older people in the community. He just had to give an old woman a shot. Afterward, he took a look at my ankle, which was puffed up, sore, and definitely sprained. Before I could ask what he was doing, he had gone and gotten a bottle of bai jiu (the hard rice wine, if you'll recall) and was lighting it on fire, dipping is fingers in the flaming alcohol, and rubbing it on the swollen area. It didn't hurt, surprisingly, because the flame was self-limited, but it certainly felt (and looked) a little strange. Afterwards, he applied suction cups which are a specialty of Traditional Chinese Medicine, and left them on for 20 minutes while I watched Korean soap operas dubbed into Chinese. I don't know if it helped, but it certainly didn't hurt. I asked him if he had any ice and he insisted on scraping the freezer burn off of the sides of his refrigerator. Between the two of us my ankle was much better within the next few days.
Next time: I do 15 minutes of farm work and get endless amusement from it (sample conversation: John: You's a ho! Me: I used a hoe this morning!); Shaxi life; a wonderful market
Monday, April 30, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Argus Article 4
About a month ago on a tropical night, steamy and close, I sat in a small, dimly-lit tree house in the heart of a southern Chinese jungle and listened to a familiar song (“Aqueous Transmission” by the alternative rock band, Incubus, for those who might wonder) on my iPod. This particular song was one I had listened to countless times before, mostly because of its calming effect. Whether I was in the library studying for finals or in a sleeping bag on the Montana Plains, the quiet refrains of the chorus fading into a full two minutes of the sounds of frogs never failed to help me stop and take a breath.
On that particular night as I listened, something thrilling happened: as the song drew to a close and the chirping of frogs filled my ears I had the sensation of amphibious harmony, a depth of sound I had never before noticed. It was then that I realized that the frogs chirping in the jungle surrounding me were mingling with the comforting, familiar sounds at the end of the song. It was a moment of sublime cooperation between the old culture I had left behind and the profoundly new settings with which I had surrounded myself. I’ve written in this column before about the frustrations of cultural difference, but such bridges over the cross-cultural gap are also notable and, indeed, essential in the life of a person living in an alien place.
Not all moments of cultural cooperation have settings as seemingly mystical as a tree house in the middle of pristine jungle. In my home stay in Kunming I often experienced fleeting moments of such cultural symphony, mundane but still powerful: my home stay mother would call her daughter for dinner, and the daughter would reply “Coming!” When the exchange was repeated again thirty seconds later, I would hear echoes of home. And when I would forget to turn out the lights to my room, the bathroom, or the kitchen, I would often find my home stay mother trailing behind me, shutting them off in my wake. Then I would feel the sides of the gap between my idea of home and my experiences abroad closing, coming together, straining to touch.
We all strive, I think, to reach across that void, to feel the other that we perceive as so different from ourselves—in anthropology we call this “exotification,”; abroad, I call it the desire to connect, to feel that sublime cultural symphony for at least an instant. And it isn’t just we, the visitors, who feel this pull toward connection. I catch a glimpse of it manifested in the embroidered shoes my Bai minority (one of 56 minority groups in China) homestay family insisted on giving me after three days of awkward but well-intentioned exchanges. I see it in the note my friend’s homestay father gave her after three similar days of silence, with the words “If you ever come back to China, welcome to Shaxi [the village we stayed in] and our home, I am very glad to have met you” written in painstaking English. I feel it in the quick and embarrassed but earnest hugs given by those unaccustomed to such contact.
And so, in a way, we are united by that pull for sublime connection, reaching across the void to face the other and, perhaps, unexpectedly, see ourselves. At a rural market in that same Bai Minority Prefecture I found myself mesmerized by Yi people (another minority in the area) who came down from the hills to buy supplies. Their colorful vests, intricately embroidered with spirals; their brightly striped skirts; their octagonal headdresses draped with black velvet—in them I saw something profoundly Other and found myself simultaneously compelled, and ashamed at my compulsion, to take pictures. As I wandered the market, inspecting corn and trying on Chairman Mao-style hats, a young Yi girl approached me, watching me with a look of friendly but potent curiosity. Reaching across the veritable rift between my blue jeans and her mountain life, I donned a cap and asked “Hao kan ma?” (“Does it look good?”) She giggled and assented, dallying to watch me wander and pack up my things, shooting me a series of shy smiles that reminded me of the things we might have in common.
It is this spark in the face of the vacuum that I think drives us to take pictures as I was, to buy souvenirs as my tripmates have as we’ve traveled around Yunnan province this past month. No doubt the Communist government would say that our woven bags, wall hangings, and photos of snow-capped mountains are indicators of our capitalist culture—and no doubt as well that this opinion would have some merit. But lately I’ve been thinking that really, behind the materialism is that same human urge, to be able to say “I was there, I felt things, I saw things-- I faced the void, and here I stand.”
On that particular night as I listened, something thrilling happened: as the song drew to a close and the chirping of frogs filled my ears I had the sensation of amphibious harmony, a depth of sound I had never before noticed. It was then that I realized that the frogs chirping in the jungle surrounding me were mingling with the comforting, familiar sounds at the end of the song. It was a moment of sublime cooperation between the old culture I had left behind and the profoundly new settings with which I had surrounded myself. I’ve written in this column before about the frustrations of cultural difference, but such bridges over the cross-cultural gap are also notable and, indeed, essential in the life of a person living in an alien place.
Not all moments of cultural cooperation have settings as seemingly mystical as a tree house in the middle of pristine jungle. In my home stay in Kunming I often experienced fleeting moments of such cultural symphony, mundane but still powerful: my home stay mother would call her daughter for dinner, and the daughter would reply “Coming!” When the exchange was repeated again thirty seconds later, I would hear echoes of home. And when I would forget to turn out the lights to my room, the bathroom, or the kitchen, I would often find my home stay mother trailing behind me, shutting them off in my wake. Then I would feel the sides of the gap between my idea of home and my experiences abroad closing, coming together, straining to touch.
We all strive, I think, to reach across that void, to feel the other that we perceive as so different from ourselves—in anthropology we call this “exotification,”; abroad, I call it the desire to connect, to feel that sublime cultural symphony for at least an instant. And it isn’t just we, the visitors, who feel this pull toward connection. I catch a glimpse of it manifested in the embroidered shoes my Bai minority (one of 56 minority groups in China) homestay family insisted on giving me after three days of awkward but well-intentioned exchanges. I see it in the note my friend’s homestay father gave her after three similar days of silence, with the words “If you ever come back to China, welcome to Shaxi [the village we stayed in] and our home, I am very glad to have met you” written in painstaking English. I feel it in the quick and embarrassed but earnest hugs given by those unaccustomed to such contact.
And so, in a way, we are united by that pull for sublime connection, reaching across the void to face the other and, perhaps, unexpectedly, see ourselves. At a rural market in that same Bai Minority Prefecture I found myself mesmerized by Yi people (another minority in the area) who came down from the hills to buy supplies. Their colorful vests, intricately embroidered with spirals; their brightly striped skirts; their octagonal headdresses draped with black velvet—in them I saw something profoundly Other and found myself simultaneously compelled, and ashamed at my compulsion, to take pictures. As I wandered the market, inspecting corn and trying on Chairman Mao-style hats, a young Yi girl approached me, watching me with a look of friendly but potent curiosity. Reaching across the veritable rift between my blue jeans and her mountain life, I donned a cap and asked “Hao kan ma?” (“Does it look good?”) She giggled and assented, dallying to watch me wander and pack up my things, shooting me a series of shy smiles that reminded me of the things we might have in common.
It is this spark in the face of the vacuum that I think drives us to take pictures as I was, to buy souvenirs as my tripmates have as we’ve traveled around Yunnan province this past month. No doubt the Communist government would say that our woven bags, wall hangings, and photos of snow-capped mountains are indicators of our capitalist culture—and no doubt as well that this opinion would have some merit. But lately I’ve been thinking that really, behind the materialism is that same human urge, to be able to say “I was there, I felt things, I saw things-- I faced the void, and here I stand.”
Now for Something Completely Different
I know you are all expecting a new recounting of our Provincial adventures, but I'm afraid that will have to wait. I've been out for the last 36 hours with horrendous food poisoning, the worst stomach sickness I've ever had. As my mother pointed out, I was able to stave it off for 10 weeks, which is great, but it was hard to remember that when at times the night before last I had both ends working simultaneously, if you get my drift. I'm exhausted and, to be honest, a little bit daunted: we were supposed to begin our month-long independent study project today but me, Ashley, and Lisa (who are also sick) stayed an extra night here in Lijiang to recover. Unfortunately, I've had so much to get done that there hasn't been a whole lot of time to rest. Tomorrow I will head to Nujiang Valley (on the 9:30 bus... I really should have opted to go later)-- hopefully there will be internet there, but I'm unsure. I'll be able to give you the full story of our field trip then. Until then, I'll leave you with my newest Argus column.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Ring Around the Province, Part 2: Won't You Take Me To Monkey Town
Day Three of our trip around the province brought us to Dali, a small city that has been well-touristed for nigh on thirty years now, a very well-established backpacker stop. Four years ago when my family and I went to Lijiang (which is, incidentally, where I am now) the picture that was painted of Dali for me was pretty negative, and so I didn't have high expectations. Dali was indeed full of foreigners, but it gave off an air of being well-adjusted with its new identity as a sort of city-wide backpacker cafe. Very comfortable, very funky and colorful. There may be basically nothing left of the Bai culture that once reigned there, but the entity that has taken its place is tasteful and lacking the hoards of Chinese tourists I'm now finding in Lijiang.
Tania and I set out to see the famous Dali pagodas first. We took a taxi there but were informed that the fee for entrance was an exorbitant Y120, Y60 with our student IDs. Lu Laoshi had told us that it was pretty easy to get close to the pagodas without paying, and so we experimented, exploring the complex. It was fairly easy, indeed-- I went up to the ticket kiosks and pretended to look at a map while surreptiously taking pictures around the side of the divider. There was also a fair view of the pagodas from above the walls-- they are hundreds of feet tall and stand gorgeously formidable against a backdrop of dramatically lush mountains. It's strange to think that they've been standing that way for 1000 years. The view was powerful enough in the modernized valley. I can't imagine how they looked to travellers during the Nanzhao Kingdom era, when Dali was a major trading post. We spent the rest of the evening in Dali window/regular shopping (I got a fantastically Chinglished shirt), experimenting with Bai cuisine for dinner, and having dessert while a rain squall came through.
From Dali we drove about 5 hours to Jianchuan, through countryside dotted with lakes, traditional Bai settlements, and rolling hills. After a quick lunch, we set off up Shibaoshan, a Buddhist/Daoist mountain. The hike was only about a half an hour but it was pretty tough, as we were at yet higher elevation. The monastery was beautiful but very, very simple-- all the girls plus Mike and John slept in one room (much to the faux shock of Lu and Chen Laoshis) on simple cots and it was the first place I've ever been where people permanently live and there is no running water. There were two major distinguishing characteristics of Shibaoshan: 1) the grottos and 2) the monkeys. The entire temple complex is set on a set of cliffs, looking out on virgin-forested hills, and I spent some time with John and Tania exploring the grottos, filled with altars-- some of them very old and high up, some interestingly influenced with Indian iconography. The monkeys also added quite a bit of spice to the situation. Around dusk one showed up on the roof of the monastery and we were all very excited. Then another came, and then there was a veritable parade past the entrance to the monastery. We bought some feed for them and got quite up close and personal-- these are NOT shy monkeys. Case in point: on the way to dinner, I was walking down the stairs and suddenly felt something fly and land on the back of my thigh. My slowed-down brain registered that it was a monkey, interested in the contents of my pocket. I didn't have food in my pockets-- just a package of kleenex, but my pickpocket seemed happy to shred the contents, regardless. Lu Laoshi and John couldn't stop laughing at the face I had made when I realized there was a wild monkey hanging from my thigh.
The adventure with the monkeys went downhill from there. The monkeys got bolder and bolder-- when John, Keera, and Theresa hiked down the mountain to buy snacks they only came back with half of their purchase-- the rest had been looted by monkeys. We were all a little nervous about going to the bathroom, a small building past a path full of sleeping monkeys. John established himself as official Monkey Officer and carried a big stick and flashlight, leading group envoys to pee.
The next morning, after a very Chinese breakfast we drove to a separate part of the mountain to begin a long hike down to Shaxi valley. The hike was gorgeous, with incredible views of the verdant farmland and misty hills, but it was really hard. I fell twice, spraining one ankle, and had to go very slow-- my quads have never been so sore. But it was a very rewarding walk, regardless, and Lu Laoshi called me "Hen bang" (really excellent) for persevering, rather than giving up.
Next time: My "rural" homestay; I get flaming bai jiu (rice wine) rubbed on one body part-- guess which on!; an amazing Market
Tania and I set out to see the famous Dali pagodas first. We took a taxi there but were informed that the fee for entrance was an exorbitant Y120, Y60 with our student IDs. Lu Laoshi had told us that it was pretty easy to get close to the pagodas without paying, and so we experimented, exploring the complex. It was fairly easy, indeed-- I went up to the ticket kiosks and pretended to look at a map while surreptiously taking pictures around the side of the divider. There was also a fair view of the pagodas from above the walls-- they are hundreds of feet tall and stand gorgeously formidable against a backdrop of dramatically lush mountains. It's strange to think that they've been standing that way for 1000 years. The view was powerful enough in the modernized valley. I can't imagine how they looked to travellers during the Nanzhao Kingdom era, when Dali was a major trading post. We spent the rest of the evening in Dali window/regular shopping (I got a fantastically Chinglished shirt), experimenting with Bai cuisine for dinner, and having dessert while a rain squall came through.
From Dali we drove about 5 hours to Jianchuan, through countryside dotted with lakes, traditional Bai settlements, and rolling hills. After a quick lunch, we set off up Shibaoshan, a Buddhist/Daoist mountain. The hike was only about a half an hour but it was pretty tough, as we were at yet higher elevation. The monastery was beautiful but very, very simple-- all the girls plus Mike and John slept in one room (much to the faux shock of Lu and Chen Laoshis) on simple cots and it was the first place I've ever been where people permanently live and there is no running water. There were two major distinguishing characteristics of Shibaoshan: 1) the grottos and 2) the monkeys. The entire temple complex is set on a set of cliffs, looking out on virgin-forested hills, and I spent some time with John and Tania exploring the grottos, filled with altars-- some of them very old and high up, some interestingly influenced with Indian iconography. The monkeys also added quite a bit of spice to the situation. Around dusk one showed up on the roof of the monastery and we were all very excited. Then another came, and then there was a veritable parade past the entrance to the monastery. We bought some feed for them and got quite up close and personal-- these are NOT shy monkeys. Case in point: on the way to dinner, I was walking down the stairs and suddenly felt something fly and land on the back of my thigh. My slowed-down brain registered that it was a monkey, interested in the contents of my pocket. I didn't have food in my pockets-- just a package of kleenex, but my pickpocket seemed happy to shred the contents, regardless. Lu Laoshi and John couldn't stop laughing at the face I had made when I realized there was a wild monkey hanging from my thigh.
The adventure with the monkeys went downhill from there. The monkeys got bolder and bolder-- when John, Keera, and Theresa hiked down the mountain to buy snacks they only came back with half of their purchase-- the rest had been looted by monkeys. We were all a little nervous about going to the bathroom, a small building past a path full of sleeping monkeys. John established himself as official Monkey Officer and carried a big stick and flashlight, leading group envoys to pee.
The next morning, after a very Chinese breakfast we drove to a separate part of the mountain to begin a long hike down to Shaxi valley. The hike was gorgeous, with incredible views of the verdant farmland and misty hills, but it was really hard. I fell twice, spraining one ankle, and had to go very slow-- my quads have never been so sore. But it was a very rewarding walk, regardless, and Lu Laoshi called me "Hen bang" (really excellent) for persevering, rather than giving up.
Next time: My "rural" homestay; I get flaming bai jiu (rice wine) rubbed on one body part-- guess which on!; an amazing Market
Monday, April 23, 2007
Ring Around the Province, Part 1: Weishan and Weibaoshan
It's difficult for me to start at the beginning like this, being where I am both in body and completely in mind-- Zhongdian/Gyelthang, the beginning of the Tibetan world, has consumed me almost completely. But I still feel it's important to go in chronological order.
Our first day of travel was the longest, almost 7 hours, but I didn't mind. I passed the time listening to my iPod (what a godsend in terms of culturesickness), watching the scenery change, and teaching John car games. At long last we reached Weishan, the capital of the ancient Nanzhao kingdom (which used to cover parts of Yunnan and Gansu provinces as well as Burma and Laos). Weishan is a lovingly restored village in the heart of a Bai-Hui Autonomous Prefecture (that means that, at least in theory, the Bai and Hui minority people there get some power over their own affairs). It's been around for a thousand years looking about the same way and we had a great time exploring the cobbled streets and ancient teahouses. At night, John, Tania and I went exploring and ended up in a kind of city square. There, at least 50 children played on a large monument to dead Communist soldiers and elder Bai women danced in the warm evening air for exercise.
Tania and I joined in the dancing, learning the steps as we went along, but quickly found ourselves winded-- the elevation was taking its toll even then. Emerging from our dancing bubble we discovered that John had become the object of some attention, and he was running around the square being trailed by all 50 children of all ages. Ultimately we quelled their hunt with promise of songs and spent the next few hours teaching them to dance (the chicken dance and macarena), singing them songs (from Disney to the Beatles) and watching them dance and sing in return. When we finally decided we'd had enough, it took a full half an hour to detach ourselves, whereupon we met up with some other programmates at a hole-in-the-wall bar with a 200-year-old well in the middle. I enjoyed picturing this well in use, the source of peoples' water, long before even the Civil War.
Up bright and early the next morning, we piled into the van for the short ride to Weibaoshan, a Daoist mountain in the area. The mountain is positioned on a land drop off so that even though one feels one hasn't ascended too dramatically, the view from the road is at times akin to one out of a plane window. Weibaoshan was very peaceful. We spent our time there exploring the temples-- a Daoist Master gave us an amazing Taiji demonstration-- and hiking around enjoying the arrestingly gorgeous views (although again the elevation took its toll.) After dinner we took some cookies and sat on the steps of the temple entrance, watching the sun set magnificently over the trees and surrounding mountains. A few hours later, Ali, Tania, John, and I sat on those same steps looking at a fantastic display of stars-- the first Chinese stars I've ever seen.
Next time: Dali-- the world's first and only city-wide backpacker cafe and Shibaoshan, where a monkey picked my pocket.
Our first day of travel was the longest, almost 7 hours, but I didn't mind. I passed the time listening to my iPod (what a godsend in terms of culturesickness), watching the scenery change, and teaching John car games. At long last we reached Weishan, the capital of the ancient Nanzhao kingdom (which used to cover parts of Yunnan and Gansu provinces as well as Burma and Laos). Weishan is a lovingly restored village in the heart of a Bai-Hui Autonomous Prefecture (that means that, at least in theory, the Bai and Hui minority people there get some power over their own affairs). It's been around for a thousand years looking about the same way and we had a great time exploring the cobbled streets and ancient teahouses. At night, John, Tania and I went exploring and ended up in a kind of city square. There, at least 50 children played on a large monument to dead Communist soldiers and elder Bai women danced in the warm evening air for exercise.
Tania and I joined in the dancing, learning the steps as we went along, but quickly found ourselves winded-- the elevation was taking its toll even then. Emerging from our dancing bubble we discovered that John had become the object of some attention, and he was running around the square being trailed by all 50 children of all ages. Ultimately we quelled their hunt with promise of songs and spent the next few hours teaching them to dance (the chicken dance and macarena), singing them songs (from Disney to the Beatles) and watching them dance and sing in return. When we finally decided we'd had enough, it took a full half an hour to detach ourselves, whereupon we met up with some other programmates at a hole-in-the-wall bar with a 200-year-old well in the middle. I enjoyed picturing this well in use, the source of peoples' water, long before even the Civil War.
Up bright and early the next morning, we piled into the van for the short ride to Weibaoshan, a Daoist mountain in the area. The mountain is positioned on a land drop off so that even though one feels one hasn't ascended too dramatically, the view from the road is at times akin to one out of a plane window. Weibaoshan was very peaceful. We spent our time there exploring the temples-- a Daoist Master gave us an amazing Taiji demonstration-- and hiking around enjoying the arrestingly gorgeous views (although again the elevation took its toll.) After dinner we took some cookies and sat on the steps of the temple entrance, watching the sun set magnificently over the trees and surrounding mountains. A few hours later, Ali, Tania, John, and I sat on those same steps looking at a fantastic display of stars-- the first Chinese stars I've ever seen.
Next time: Dali-- the world's first and only city-wide backpacker cafe and Shibaoshan, where a monkey picked my pocket.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
On top of the world
Guess where I am! I bet you can't. The answer is Tibet. Well, it's not what China says is Tibet (here referred to as the Tibetan Autonomous Region or TAR) but the people here are vastly ethnic Tibetan, there's Tibetan on a lot of the signs, there are yaks everywhere, and big effing mountains. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...
We're headed to have a tour of the city we're in, Zhongdian (also known in Tibetan as Gyelthang or in horrible tourist as Shangrila) but we'll be here three days and there's internet! So you can expect a full update soon.
We're headed to have a tour of the city we're in, Zhongdian (also known in Tibetan as Gyelthang or in horrible tourist as Shangrila) but we'll be here three days and there's internet! So you can expect a full update soon.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Wild Wild East
We've been on the road three days now, to Weishan, Weibaoshan, and today to Dali. Rural Yunnan is amazing. Really beautiful. I've already had some great times, playing with many many small children, learning to dance with old Chinese ladies, watching the sunset on a Taoist mountain. I have about 30 seconds left in this internet bar and I don't know what I'll have internet access again-- we leave tomorrow morning for a remote Buddhist monastery and then move in for a 4-day rural homestay. But I promise an update soon.
To everyone who's been emailing me-- please don't think your letters and notes go unnoticed. They often make my day, and when I have more time I promise to write you back. Thank you all and much love.
To everyone who's been emailing me-- please don't think your letters and notes go unnoticed. They often make my day, and when I have more time I promise to write you back. Thank you all and much love.
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